An Invitation To Sin

JO BEVERLEY

VANESSA KELLY

SALLY MACKENZIE

KAITLIN O’RILEY

The Naked Baron

SALLY MACKENZIE

When His Kiss is Wicked

KAITLIN O’RILEY

Mastering The Marquess

VANESSA KELLY

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

An Invitation To Sin

The Naked Baron

When His Kiss is Wicked

Mastering The Marquess

An Invitation

To Sin

JO BEVERLEY

VANESSA KELLY

SALLY MACKENZIE

KAITLIN O’RILEY

Praise

Praise for Jo Beverley

“The name Jo Beverley will be on every fan’s lips after reading this splendid love story of a young woman forced to wed a handsome rake…. This immensely appealing pair of lovers will utterly captivate readers, while Ms. Beverley’s commanding ease with the regency period provides a veritable feast of delight for the true connoisseur.”

Romantic Times on An Arranged Marriage

Praise for Vanessa Kelly

“Vanessa Kelly is an amazing talent who will capture the hearts of romance readers everywhere.”

Julianne MacLean, USA Today best-selling author on Mastering the Marquess

“Successfully marrying the tart wit of a traditional Regency romance with the steamy passion of today’s Regency historicals isn’t easy, but Kelly proves to be more than capable in her latest impeccably crafted romance.

Booklist on Sex and the Single Earl

Praise for Sally MacKenzie

“Brimming with sex, schemes, and sass, MacKenzie’s books… are so addictive they should come with a warning label.”

Booklist (starred review) on The Naked Viscount

“Naked, noble, and irresistible—who could resist one of Sally MacKenzie’s heroes?”

Eloisa James on The Naked Earl

“The Naked Marquis is the romance equivalent of chocolate cake … every page is an irresistible delight!”

Lisa Kleypas, New York Times best-selling author

Praise for Kaitlin O’Riley

“O’Riley’s believable charismatic characters and fast-paced plotlines set this novel well apart from the usual romance fare.”

Publishers Weekly (starred review) on When His Kiss Is Wicked

“O’Riley’s tale of love reverberates with lighthearted humor, witty repartee and endearing characters that capture the era to the enchantment of readers.”

Romantic Times on One Sinful Night

Books by Authors

Books by Jo Beverley

AN ARRANGED MARRIAGE

AN UNWILLING BRIDE

DANGEROUS JOY

FORBIDDEN

TEMPTING FORTUNE

THE SHATTERED ROSE

CHRISTMASANGEL

Books by Vanessa Kelly

MASTERINGTHE MARQUESS SEXANDTHE SINGLE EARL

Books by Sally MacKenzie

THE NAKED GENTLEMAN

THE NAKED MARQUIS

THE NAKED DUKE

THE NAKED EARL

THE NAKED BARON

LORDS OF DESIRE

THE NAKEDVISCOUNT

Books by Kaitlin O’Riley

SECRETS OFA DUCHESS

ONE SINFUL NIGHT

WHEN HIS KISS ISWICKED

DESIRE IN HIS EYES

YOURS FOR ETERNITY

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

Contents

Praise

Books by Authors

Forbidden Affections JO BEVERLEY

Chapter 1

The Pleasure of a Younger Lover VANESSA KELLY

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

The Naked Prince SALLY MACKENZIE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

A Summer Love Affair KAITLIN O’RILEY

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Forbidden

Affections

JO BEVERLEY

Chapter 1

Anna Featherstone sat up in bed and fumbled urgently for her candlestick. Grasping it, she slipped out of bed to light it at the night lamp on the mantelpiece, then held it high and turned to study her peculiar new bedroom.

Her sleepy thoughts had been right. The Gothic monstrosity was exactly like Dulcinea’s prison in the novel,Forbidden Affections! When the notion had come to her at a point between sleep and waking she had been sure she must have been mistaken, but now she wandered the room, convinced she was correct.

It was a wonderful discovery, but also very puzzling.

Anna had spent her sixteen years in the Derbyshire countryside and knew she was not au fait with the latest fashions, but even if dark, heavily carved Gothic furniture was the rage in London, surely such morbid motifs as deadly nightshade and coffins were not. In the novel, Dulcinea’s cruel uncle had caused her room to be decorated with symbols of death to remind her of her probable fate if she did not surrender to his evil passions.

Anna was not the least alarmed by the grinning skeletons and contorted gargoyles in the carvings. She was sadly lacking in sensibility. When her sister Maria had once demanded to know what Anna would do if actually confronted by a skeleton in a monk’s robe, Anna had replied that she’d inspect it to find out how it held its bones together without ligaments or muscles.

Smiling at the memory of Maria’s shudders, Anna wandered the room, appreciating the fine attention to detail. The heavy armoire boasted ivory knobs carved as skulls, and the rather pretty design in the wallpaper turned out to be a coffin shape. As best she could remember, it was exactly as in Forbidden Affections.

She wished she had the novel with her so she could check each detail, but she had not been permitted to bring many books on this trip to London. Allowed only five, she would never choose Forbidden Affections over, for example, Cruel Matrimony, an earlier novel by Mrs. Jamison. Anna had always thought there was something unsatisfactory about Forbidden Affections, which had apparently been the lady’s last work. Perhaps she had been ill.

Anna longed to know the history of this room for it must have been created by a wealthy and devoted admirer of the novel, and not that long ago. Forbidden Affections had first been published less than ten years ago, though Anna had only read it last year. After all, at the time of publication she had scarce been out of the nursery.

Would the servants know the house’s history?

Number 9, Carne Terrace was just a house hired for the spring Season—part of a handsome row of houses in an excellent part of London. Her parents and sister had been delighted with it until this bedroom had been discovered. At that point, they had almost left to stay at an inn. The Gothic marvel was clearly the master bedroom, but Lady Feather-stone had declared most absolutely that nothing would persuade her to sleep beneath a canopy of gargoyles.

Maria, who always copied Mama, had declared the same, adding that she could never even open a drawer if it involved touching a skull. She had gone so far as to collapse into a convenient chair to make her point, and had required a sniff of laudanum to overcome the shock.

Since there were only three good bedrooms in the house, and Maria and Anna hated to share a bed, there was only one solution. Anna and her father had shared an ironic glance and Anna had made the noble sacrifice, secretly delighted to have such a room.

Now she was even more so. Imagine having Dulcinea’s chamber all to herself. Heavens, it might even turn her into a romantic heroine!

Anna caught sight of herself in a mirror surrounded by grotesque carved heads and laughed. Dulcinea she was not. Dulcinea—like all Mrs. Jamison’s heroines—was slender as a willow-wand, had a complexion of pearly hue, and silky golden tresses. Anna possessed thick, dark hair which always fought the constraint of her plait, full rosy cheeks, and a round body that was the despair of her fashionable mama.

She remembered then that when Dulcinea had first seen her reflection surrounded by gargoyles she had screamed and fainted. Dulcinea—again like all Mrs. Jamison’s heroines—tended to faint quite often. Anna had never fainted in her life.

She had always wanted to, and had tried various tricks to achieve it, including putting scraps of silk in her shoes, but she had never achieved so much as a slight sensation of dizziness.

With a grimace at her robust reflection, she hoped that sturdy nerves and common sense didn’t rule out all possibility of a handsome hero one day sweeping her off her feet.

Still delighted by the room, Anna began to return to bed, but then she turned back to contemplate the huge carved stone fireplace guarded by armored skeletons on either side.

Surely not!

In the book, evil Count Nacre had constructed a secret doorway in the fireplace so that he could sneak into Dulcinea’s room at night. One of the things about the book that irritated Anna was that Dulcinea’s escape from his wicked plans was not of her own doing. Anna could think of any number of ways the silly creature could have escaped, but of course Dulcinea had waited for handsome Roland to find the secret door and rescue her.

Just before ancient, rat-infested Castle Nacre crumbled to the ground during an earthquake.

Now Anna eyed the ridiculous fireplace, refusing to believe that anyone had actually gone so far as to construct a secret door in a modern London town house. Where could it go, after all? Number 9, Carne Terrace was solidly bounded by number 8 and number 10.

But she could not resist trying.

The lever, if it was there, would be the spear of the skeleton to the right of the grate. The spear was held across his body and extended into the chimney so that it wouldn’t be accidentally moved by a servant.

In the book.

This was real life. This wasn’t a book.

Anna seized the spear and pulled it toward her. At first—as she expected—nothing happened. Then it began to move.

Anna snatched her hands away and stared at the spear as if it had come to life. This was taking replication to extremes! After all, on the other side of this fireplace there assuredly was not an abandoned, rat-infested, ivy-covered tower.

Was there?

Her heart began to thump.

For the first time, Anna’s very practical mind was toying with the fantastic.

On the other side of this fireplace, she told herself firmly, was number 10, Carne Terrace, a respectable modern house.

Well, not precisely respectable.

That had been another shock for her parents—to realize that Carne Terrace was named after the Earl of Carne, who had built it, and that number 10, the large end house next door, belonged to the notorious fourth earl.

Their housekeeper had revealed that fact when asked who their neighbors were. Mrs. Postle had hastened to explain that the house stood empty and had done so for over eight years—ever since the incident.

Those two words had been said with the sort of meaningful glance that Anna knew all too well. It meant that young ladies were not to hear about it, and of course that had left Anna in a ferment of curiosity. What on earth had the earl done? It was probably to do with carnal relations. Incidents always were.

She’d followed the subsequent conversations very closely, but all she had learned was that after the incident the earl had left England and had not been seen since.

Anna was surprised. She’d heard of a number of young ladies who had traveled abroad as a result of incidents. Gentlemen, on the other hand, never seemed to suffer the full consequences of their follies.

She had been delighted by this hint of murky mystery, however. Though her parents had brought both their daughters to London, only Maria was to make her curtsy this year, and Anna had expected to be a little bored. Digging out the whole story of the incident would definitely enliven her stay.

Now it seemed she had other amusements—if she dared pull the lever fully.

Was it truly possible that it would open a door into the house of the wicked Earl of Carne?

Curiosity was Anna’s greatest weakness, and she knew it. She generally kept it under control, but she could never return to bed and sleep without finding out if the door was there or not. After all, if Count Nacre could creep into Dulcinea’s chamber, perhaps the wicked Earl of Carne could creep into hers!

She might be in danger …

But that was sophistry, and she knew it. She wanted to try the lever just because it was there.

She grasped it and pulled it all the way. It made only a slight grinding sound, but it clearly had done something. She took a deep breath, went to the right-hand part of the fireplace, and pushed.

Just as in the book, the panel swiveled slightly.

Anna stopped to consider. No, she was not dreaming. No, she had not been plunged into the pages of a novel. But there was, assuredly, a secret door.

Even Anna’s prosaic heart was beating high and fast as she pushed the panel fully open. She told herself it had to open the way into number 10 …

But a small, less rational part of her brain was prepared for it to open into a rat-infested, crumbling castle.

Anna, therefore, was prepared to scream.

Once the door was open she cautiously peeped through. She laughed shakily and her heart rate began to steady. The room beyond was a perfectly ordinary bedroom shrouded in Holland covers.

The secret door, as expected, simply led into number 10, Carne Terrace.

Of course, that meant that it led into the home of the wicked earl. A proper young lady, assuming that she hadn’t already fallen into the vapors, would at this point have run to Papa to have the door firmly nailed shut. Anna Featherstone, fairly bubbling with excitement, walked through to explore.

After all, the earl was not here, and had not been here for years. In confirmation, this room—which was probably the master bedroom—had the feel of a place long unused.

Anna turned to look at the fireplace and found it to be much more normal than the one on her side, though rather ornate for a bedchamber. It was of carved wood and had the heavy side panels necessary to disguise the moving parts.

Whatever the reason for this construction, there had obviously been a conspiracy by the residents of both houses, and she’d go odds it was all to do with the incident. Anna was not naive, and secretly connected bedchambers told their own story. Although she still wanted to know why the bedchamber in number 9 was so peculiar.

Being a careful person, Anna checked the mechanism before moving away from the door. Once she was sure she could return at will, she prepared to enjoy herself.

She was wickedly at large in someone else’s house, and it was an adventure impossible to resist, especially when the risk was so small. Since the house was unused it was unlikely that she would be found out. And if she did meet anyone, she would hardly be thrown into prison. A young lady of sixteen in her nightgown could not be mistaken for a housebreaker.

Anna crept barefooted across the carpet and gingerly turned the knob. It made no sound. She eased the door open and peeped out into a corridor rather wider than the one in number 9. This corner house, a nobleman’s residence, was at least twice the size of the other houses in the terrace.

She was struck by the silence.

It took Anna a moment to think why this was so strange, and then she realized that there was not even the ticking of a clock. She’d never before been in a house which did not have a clock ticking somewhere.

She detected no smell of decay or mold, though. The house might be unused but it was not neglected. In fact, now that she searched for it, there was the faint smell of polish in the air. This meant there had to be some servants and so she must be careful.

It did not mean she would give up her exploration, though. This was like having an enormous playhouse all to herself.

She walked the corridor, shielding her candle and glancing at the pictures on the walls. They were not particularly interesting—mostly rather nondescript landscapes with no indication of the places they represented.

She peeped into the various rooms along the hall, but they were not interesting, either—some bedchambers and dressing rooms and a moderately sized drawing room.

Then, in a large sitting room or boudoir, she caught sight of an intriguing painting. She wasn’t sure at first why it had caught her eye, as it was only half-lit by the flickering candle. When she went closer, she decided it was a simple matter of quality. She did not know a great deal about art but surely this portrait had been painted by a master.

Even in the candlelight the young man’s skin tones glowed with vitality and his dark curls sprang crisply from his brow. His expression was quite sober and yet she could feel that he desperately wanted to laugh. Perhaps it was the way his bright blue eyes were crinkled slightly with the humor he was trying to suppress. Was he trying to appear older than he was? She didn’t think he was a great deal older than her own sixteen years. He reminded her in many ways of her brother James and his friends, full of the joy of life and ready for mischief.

Of course, she reminded herself, by now this young man could be ancient.

She didn’t think so, though. The high collar and plain cravat fitted recent fashion.

Anna realized she had been staring at the portrait as if expecting him to move and speak, so skillfully had the fleeting expression been captured. With a smile of farewell, she made herself leave the room, feeling rather as if she abandoned someone to dark neglect.

When she had looked in every room on this floor, she came to her Rubicon, the stairs to the lower floor. A prudent miss would now return to her room and forget about this place. Anna had to admit as well that it was probably morally wrong to creep about someone’s house like this, peeping and prying. It was almost like reading a private journal.

On the other hand, there were no secrets here. It was just an empty house and she wanted to see all of it.

She went cautiously down the stairs to the main floor.

All the windows she had seen had been curtained, presumably to keep the sun off the unused rooms, but here a handsome fan light over the door spilled moonlight into the hall, making it seem more alive, more as if someone might suddenly appear.

She stood still, her feet chilling on the tiled floor, listening for any sound.

She heard only silence. Any servants were fast asleep.

All the same, Anna decided to hurry through the rest of her exploration and get back to her bed.

A breakfast room, shrouded. A reception room, the same. A dining room, a library …

Anna halted, faced temptation, and succumbed.

Anna loved books. She loved novels, but they were not her only reading. Her father said she would read anything, even a sporting journal if desperate, and he had always encouraged her. He had not, however, allowed her to bring more than a small box of books with her and to her dismay the library in number 9 was a skeleton of a room with empty shelves. She supposed no one would want to leave books for unpredictable tenants, but she had been disappointed. After all, her consumption of books was so large that trips to the lending libraries were going to take most of her days!

Here, however, was a supply, to hand and neglected. The books seemed to call to her, begging to be read.

No, no, her conscience argued. To borrow without permission would be like stealing.

Yet Anna was soon cruising the glass-fronted shelves almost without thought, drawn like iron to a magnet. Rows and rows of matched volumes—bound magazines, philosophical classics, eminent sermons. But also rows and rows of mismatched books likely to have been bought for love.

And organized. Here was travel. Here was science. And here were novels.

Just one row.

In fact, just the novels of Mrs. Jamison. That was intriguing, to be sure.

She opened the case and ran her fingers over the glossy leather covers, pausing at the three volumes that comprised Forbidden Affections. She wanted to read it again in Dul-cinea’s room to check the accuracy of the simulation. She wanted it so much it was agony to resist.

But Anna knew that if she took the books she would have gone beyond an intrusion of privacy to theft. She found the strength to close the bookcase doors and leave the chamber of temptation.

Frightened that she would weaken, Anna ran up the stairs and back to the secret door. Her candle blew out, but she knew the way. She groped toward the fireplace and squeezed through the door, easing it shut behind her. Then she was back in her own room again with that door firmly closed.

She jumped into bed and pulled up the covers, then lay there, wondering if what she had just done had been real. But she knew it had, and she knew she desperately wanted to explore again another day.

Anna awoke the next morning when Martha, middle-aged maid to the Featherstone daughters, drew back the curtains to let in sunlight. Anna’s first thought was that she had had the most interesting dream.

It took only seconds to realize that it had actually happened.

The room was still the same, and in daylight assuredly Dulcinea’s chamber.

“What a room this is!” declared Martha, setting the jug of hot water on the washstand. “You’re a braver lass than I am, Miss Anna, to sleep here so sound.”

Anna sat up to hug her knees. “I don’t mind. I like it.”

Martha just shook her head. “Up with you, miss. I’ll be back in a little while to button you up and fix your hair.”

Anna popped out of bed and washed, then put on her stockings and petticoat. She was just working into her light stays when Martha returned to help her.

“How do you like it here, Martha?” Anna asked, holding her long plait away from the buttons down her back.

“Seems a decent enough house, miss. Sit you down now. Breakfast’ll be ready in a moment.”

Anna sat in front of the gargoyle-guarded mirror. “Have you found out anything about this place?”

“About it?” Martha was quickly unraveling the plait and brushing it out. “What do you mean, miss?”

“Well, about this room. It is a little strange.”

“Who knows what they do in Lunnon, miss? The regular staff haven’t said anything, but then, by the time we were here and unpacked, it were pretty well time for bed.”

“I suppose so.”

The Featherstones had arrived at nearly eight in the evening and had only taken time for supper before retiring. They were here until June, however. Time enough for Anna to unravel the mystery this room presented, and to find out all about the wicked Earl of Carne’s incident.

As soon as Martha was finished, Anna ran down to the breakfast parlor and kissed her parents. Lady Featherstone, slender and blond, smiled in a slightly pained way at her younger daughter’s high spirits. Sir Jeffrey hugged her warmly.

“Sleep well, Pippin, in your Gothic chamber?”

Anna had to suppress a giggle. “Very well, Papa.”

Lady Featherstone shuddered. “Anna, you have no sensibility.”

“Which is as well, my dear,” said her husband, “or the girls would have had to sleep together, and you know they hate that.” Sir Jeffrey was ruddy-faced and robust. It was from him that Anna got her looks and temperament.

“Maria tosses and turns all night,” said Anna.

“Only in a strange bed,” said Maria, drifting in wanly. “I declare I have not had a moment’s rest! The mattress is decidedly hard.”

If Maria was poorly rested, it had not affected her looks. She, like Dulcinea, was a pale blond beauty with pearly skin and a slender, elegant figure. Lady Featherstone fussed over her, commiserating on her sensitive nature and plying her with tea.

Sir Jeffrey grinned at Anna. “Well, what plans for today, Pippin? Let me guess. An attack on the book emporiums of the Metropolis?”

Anna grinned back as she helped herself to eggs. “Most certainly. I am hoping you will direct me to the best lending libraries in town, Papa.”

Since Sir Jeffrey was a Member of Parliament, he knew London quite well and obligingly wrote out a list of the best book suppliers while his wife and older daughter planned their assault on modistes and haberdashers.

Folding the list, Anna asked casually, “What was Mrs. Postle referring to when she mentioned an incident concerning our neighbor, Papa?” She had reason to hope that her liberal-minded father would give her a straight answer.

However, his only response was, “Never you mind, Pippin. London isn’t like the country. It is quite possible to ignore neighbors.”

“But Papa, the doors are only feet apart. What if we encounter people coming and going?”

Her mother had picked up on the conversation and now a look flashed between her parents. Anna’s curiosity expanded to a bursting point. What had the earl done?

“Anna,” said her mother, “if you should happen to encounter any of our neighbors, a distant nod will suffice until you have been formally introduced. Which is unlikely since you are not here to be introduced.”

It was Maria who let the cat out of the bag. “Martha said that number 10 had a murder there some years back. Can you imagine? It makes me feel quite faint to think of it!”

Lady Featherstone began to say something sharp about the maid, but her husband overruled her. “It is perhaps as well, my dear, that the girls be prepared. Maria, Anna, it is true that an irregular death occurred at the Earl of Carne’s house some years ago, but it was suicide, not murder. It is an old matter and need not disturb you at all, but you should know that the earl, despite his rank, is not the sort of man who is introduced to young ladies. I am assured that he lives abroad, but if you should encounter him, you will ignore him entirely.”

Anna stared. “Cut an earl?”

“If the man has a scrap of decency that will not be necessary. But if he should turn up and approach you in any way, yes, you must refuse to acknowledge him.”

This was hardly the sort of talk to calm Anna’s bubbling curiosity, but she could see she would get nothing more out of her parents. She would have to hope the servants would be more forthcoming. It was typical, though, that Martha had told more to Maria than she had to Anna. It was so tedious being a schoolroom miss.

Immediately after breakfast Maria and Lady Feather-stone embarked on matters to do with Society. Sir Jeffrey warned Anna to go nowhere without both maid and footman, then went out to Parliament. Anna obediently summoned Martha and a footman and set out for the best lending library in London, her main intent being to bring home a copy of Forbidden Affections.

As they walked, Arthur, the footman, pointed out the sights, and the occasional famous person passing by.

Anna was interested in London, but she could not stop puzzling over the matter of number 10. “London seems so crowded,” she said at one point. “I’m surprised the house next door to us is allowed to stay empty.”

“Criminal waste of a house, I ’d say,” Martha remarked with a sniff.

Arthur shrugged. “It’s the earl’s to waste, Miss Anna, and he’s rich enough not to care.”

“But there must be servants,” Anna probed.

“Just a couple who keep the place up. The Murchisons have got it easy, and that’s the truth. The whole place is under covers, they say.”

Anna waited, hoping for more, but it became clear that if she wanted more information, she’d have to dig for it. “And no one has lived in it for years?”

“That’s right, miss. Ever since the earl’s ladybird was found dead there.”

“Arthur!” exclaimed Martha. “I’ll thank you to remember that Miss Anna is still a schoolroom miss!”

Anna could have strangled Martha. Just as the conversation was becoming interesting!

The earl’s ladybird? That meant lover. So the earl’s lover had committed suicide in number 10? Embarrassing, certainly, but enough to send a peer of the realm into exile?

Hardly.

And why had Maria reported it as murder?

These thoughts tumbled around in Anna’s head as she gathered an armful of books at Hatchards. She did not find a copy of Forbidden Affections so asked a clerk for assistance. He consulted the large book which served as their catalogue. “I’m afraid we no longer have a copy, miss.”

“What? Why on earth not?”

At her sharp tone he looked rather harried. “It is eight years old, miss. Possibly one of the volumes was lost or damaged … May I recommend this one?”

Anna listened politely as he recommended a number of the latest romantic novels, and even took one to allay suspicion. She knew it was irrational to think that Martha and Arthur, who were standing by chatting, would read anything into her desire for a copy of Forbidden Affections, but she felt compelled to disguise her feelings.

She wanted no one to discover her secret until she had solved the mysteries of Carne Terrace. And she wanted to solve them on her own.

She would have liked to go to another library to continue her search for the novel, but how could she with Arthur already burdened with at least two days’ reading? Seething at the stupidity of a library that didn’t have multiple copies of every one of Mrs. Jamison’s novels, Anna returned home.

Releasing Martha and Arthur to their other duties, she sat down to read. The books she had selected were interesting, but she could not concentrate on any of them. Her mind was full of Lord Carne, his dead lover, and the Gothic chamber of Dulcinea. In fact, Anna knew she was merely passing time until that night when she could explore again.

By mid-afternoon she could restrain her curiosity no longer and wandered into the kitchen where the cook, Mrs. Jones, and two maids were preparing dinner.

“Hungry, miss?” asked the wiry woman pleasantly enough. “There’s maids-of-honor there that could do with testing.”

Anna grinned at the cook and sat at the table to nibble an almond tart. “They’re delicious,” she said honestly. “Alas, I don’t think my stay here will increase my chances of becoming thin and interesting.”

“Let’s not have any of that nonsense, miss. Some healthy padding serves a woman well. And there’s many a gentleman likes an armful.” Mrs. Jones pushed another cake over to Anna.

Anna did not actually want another one, but she took it with a smile. “I certainly hope so, since I am to have your cooking. I’m sure they should charge extra for this house if you come with it.”

The cook preened. “Been here nigh on ten years, miss, and there’s been no complaints. Maggie, stop beating those eggs now and put the water on.”

A rather slack-faced maid put aside a big bowl of eggs and went to haul a copper pot onto the stove.

Anna decided on a direct approach to one part of the puzzle. “Were you here when my bedroom was made?”

The woman rolled her eyes. “That Chamber of Horrors? Aye. It was a fancy of the mistress of the time, Lady De-labury …” The woman broke off what she was about to say. “Maggie, the big pan!”

With a clatter, one pan was put down and another picked up.

“She must have been very fond of novels,” Anna prompted.

The cook looked at her in surprise and with a touch of suspicion. “How did you know that, miss?”

“Oh, there are rooms like that in many novels.” Anna dropped her voice and made it sound mysterious. “Usually in the less-frequented parts of moldering castles, hung with cobwebs and infested by rats …”

Both the cook and the two maids were staring at her.

“Well, there’s no rats in this house!” declared Mrs. Jones. “It makes a bit of sense, though,” she added more moderately, “since Lady Delabury wrote those sorts of books.”

“Wrote them?” Anna almost choked on a pastry crumb.

“Not under her own name, of course. Mrs. Jamison, that was the name she used, even when she were a single lady … All right, Maggie, stop gawking and add those bones … ! She was a lovely lady, miss, very like your sister. Lord Delabury would have done anything for her, so when she wanted that room he had it made. Dreadful upset, he was, about her death.”

A Dulcinea, in other words. No wonder Mrs. Jamison’s heroines were always of that type. But then why the doorway into the other house? Lady Delabury had her Roland.

Perhaps. Perhaps the poor lady had been married to Count Nacre and had dreamed of escape.

“What was Lord Delabury like?” Anna asked.

“Oh, a very handsome young man and a good employer. He gave up living here, though, after the death, and stays at his estate in the north nearly all the time. A sad tale … Maggie, come cut up these turnips … Look, miss, we’ve got to get on with dinner now.”

Anna took the hint, but instead of returning to the house, she chose to wander out into the garden, her mind churning with speculation. For Lady Delabury to have a room made in the image of a chamber in one of her books was eccentric but understandable. For her to incorporate a secret doorway into the house next door was another matter entirely. For one thing, it would surely require the consent of the owners of both properties.

And if the secret door was part of the incident, and Arthur had been right in what he said, then Lady Delabury had been the Earl of Carne’s ladybird even though she was quite recently married to a pleasant young man who adored her. And she had killed herself.

It was all deliciously intriguing.

Anna played with ideas as she wandered the uninspired garden, pulling up a weed here or there. At the limit of the garden she turned to look back at the row of houses. They told her nothing, however. Number 10, with its blinds drawn, was particularly uncommunicative.

There was a gate in the back of the garden and Anna saw that it opened onto the mews. There was a gate from the mews into the garden of number 10, too. She resisted the temptation to explore. The garden was unlikely to hold the key to the mystery.

She returned to the house and her unsatisfactory books, and waited for night.

To Anna’s frustration, her family was no longer tired from the journey, and they would never believe it if she claimed to be. If she tried to go to bed early, they’d send for the doctor.

It was very pleasant to play whist and read a little, but she was desperate to go adventuring.

The only progress she made with her mystery came from one comment by her father.

“I don’t think we need worry about the earl. The general opinion seems to be that he died on one of his wild adventures. In fact his heir, a cousin, has started a court case to have him declared dead.”

“I think that’s rather horrid,” Anna said, thinking of the young man in the portrait, for she suspected he might be the earl.

“It’s practical, Pippin. Servants are all very well, but a large estate should not be left unsupervised for so many years.”

Conversation turned then to another case of neglect and Anna learned nothing more.

At half-past ten, Lady Featherstone declared that it was time for her daughters to get their beauty sleep and they obligingly went to their bedrooms.

Martha came and went, Anna was officially in bed, and at last the adventure could begin. Even if the earl were dead, there was a mystery to be solved. She needed to do some research, and the library of number 10 was the place to do it. Anna had persuaded her conscience that if she didn’t take the books away it was not very naughty, and so she slipped through into the next house. Once there, she crept quickly, carefully, down the stairs to the library.

Safely behind the closed door, she placed her candle on the marquetry table and surveyed the bound copies of magazines and journals. Somewhere among them would be mention of the incident.

She looked first at the yearly report called The Annual Register. It did not take her long to find a reference, though it was frustratingly brief.

May 25, 1809. On this night a great uproar was heard in the handsome environs of Carne Terrace, when a lady of gentle birth and fine family was found to have done away with herself by means of laudanum. This tragic event was made bewildering because the lady, wife of Viscount D******y, died not in her own bed, but in the bed of her neighbor, the Earl of C****.

Heavens! That certainly would have set the cat among the pigeons.

The noble earl, however, was not in residence at the time, being at his estate in Norfolk.

And that must certainly have saddened the scandal mongers. Still, many had clearly deduced that the lady was his mistress.

Unless it had been well-known before.

The circumstances were made yet more mysterious by the fact that the earl’s heir, Lord M********le, was hosting a bachelor party on a lower floor. Neither he, his well-born guests, nor the servants saw the lady enter in her nightgown. A doctor was summoned, but life had long since departed.

Anna stopped to ponder that. Who was the present earl? The one whose bed the lady had chosen to die in, or the heir carousing downstairs? She suspected the latter, and a glance at Burke’s confirmed it. The current earl was now thirty years old and there was no Lord Manderville. What was more startling was that the earl had acceded to the title in May 1809, only days after Lady Delabury’s death.

Anna returned the Burke’s to the shelf and searched other publications for more details. She had almost given up when she found more in the London Report.

The account of the event was similar to that in The Annual Register, but this one continued to cover the inquest.

… a doctor brought in by the lady’s grieving husband stated that certain bruises on the arms suggested that the lady could have been compelled to consume the cause of her death, but since it was equally impossible that a murderer sneak into the house, and as Lord M********le and his friends all vouched for one another, that none had left the room during the evening, and in view of the fact that the lady was found clutching a farewell note to her poor bereaved husband, a judgment of suicide was made.

Anna closed the book. No wonder people thought the worst of the current earl, the then Lord Manderville. The death had been suspicious, and it was more than likely that he and his cronies would stick together.

What puzzled her was that no one seemed to know about the secret door or they would not wonder how Lady Delabury gained access to this house. It was particularly strange that Lord Delabury not know of it. Could he, in fact, have been the murderer?

She would dearly like to know what was in that note. What reason had the beautiful, talented young woman given for taking her life? Guilt because she was Lord Manderville’s mistress?

But why had a recently married woman sought a lover? Anna assumed Lord Manderville was the young man of the portrait, so she could see the appeal, but it did seem strange behavior, even for London. It suggested that her husband must have been a monster beneath his charming exterior.

But what of Lord Manderville, the prime suspect? Anna could believe that the young man of the portrait—a few years older—would have taken a neighbor’s wife as lover. She could believe he had spent an evening carousing with his friends. She could not believe that he would have callously forced his mistress to drink laudanum.

She sat at the table, chin on hands, to ponder it all. What else might have happened? If Lady Delabury had been Lord Manderville’s mistress, then she might have been at his party. Had it been some kind of orgy? Anna had read enough ancient history to know about orgies. She understood that quite sensible people could be carried into extremes of vice and passion.

Perhaps the young man had gone into exile out of grief and guilt because his wild party had turned into fatal disaster—especially if the events had led to the death of his father, perhaps from shame …

The candle was shrinking and it was time for Anna to return to her own room. She replaced the books thoughtfully, informed but dissatisfied. There was surely a great deal more to the incident but she was no longer sure what questions to ask.

Before leaving, she turned to the shelf of novels, wondering if there might be answers there. There clearly was some connection between Forbidden Affections and the unfortunate death, since the author had caused that room to be made.

Anna opened the glass door and hesitated. She would have to take the volumes back to her room to study them, and that was the line she had drawn for herself—she would not remove anything from the house.

But she needed to know the truth. She reached out for the first volume of Forbidden Affections—

With a click, the door behind her opened.

Anna froze, wondering in wild irrationality whether staying very still would make her invisible. But it wouldn’t, so she turned slowly to stare, appalled, at the man staring back at her.

She was caught.

And surely she was caught by the wicked earl himself. Tall, dark, and authoritative, it was the young man in the picture some ten or more years older.

The astonished silence stretched, and then the earl closed the door and approached. “I was not aware that the Murchi-sons had hired staff. You do know you are likely to be on the street in the morning, girl?”

He thought her a servant intruding where she had no business to be. “Beg pardon, sir,” Anna mumbled, thinking furiously. If she could just get out of this room without revealing her identity, he might never know who she was.

She was going to die of embarrassment if this got back to her parents!

He came closer, and her heart raced with even more immediate fears. Gracious, but he was tall and broad. Of course, that could be the effect of his heavily caped greatcoat. But then he shrugged it off and dropped it on a chair and was still tall and broad. His dark jacket and leather riding breeches did not soften him one bit.

She remembered the portrait wistfully. That young man had seemed a friend, but this person was entirely different. There was no laughter in those blue eyes now and the lines of his face spoke of experience and ruthless ways. He even bore a scar down one cheek. Wicked or not, Anna feared the earl was most certainly a dangerous man.

Was he a murderer, though?

If he discovered that she had been looking into the death of Lady Delabury, would he kill again?

Anna was not of a nervous temperament, but she liked to think she knew when it was reasonable to be afraid.

She was afraid now.

He sat in a winged chair, stretched his legs as if he owned the place, and eyed her thoughtfully.

He does own the place! Anna told her mind, which was turning giddy with fear. Think. Think. We have to get out of here!

She considered running for the door but had no doubt that he could stop her. If she was to conceal her identity, she had to persuade him to let her leave peaceably.

He slowly pulled off his black leather gloves, watching her every minute. “Since you’re here, girl, you can make yourself useful. Pour me some brandy.” When she did not move, he added, “I suppose it’s to your credit that you don’t know where it is. In that table there. Raise the lid and there should be glasses and a full decanter unless my orders have been ignored.”

Anna swallowed and went to the table to do as he said. Other reasons for fear were occurring to her. She was here alone with a gentleman—a wicked gentleman—in her nightgown. With not a stitch under it! Even though it was of thick cotton, high-necked and long-sleeved, she felt as if he must feel her nakedness as she did, open to the breeze of her movements across the room. He would know from her bare feet that she wore no stockings.

Just see what a bramble-patch your curiosity has led you to, Anna Featherstone! And you knew all along it was wrong and foolish.

Anna’s hands shook as she opened the table to lift the heavy-based tumbler and the cut-glass decanter. She managed to pour the brandy without spilling any, then put the decanter down and turned.

His brows were raised. “Do you think you’re serving a dowager? Fill it up, girl!”

Anna looked at the glass, at the modest amount she had poured, the amount her father would drink. A full glass would surely deprive a man of his wits. But that might be good. She filled it almost to the brim.

Then she had to take it to him. She wished her arms would suddenly become ten feet long, but they didn’t and so she had to walk over to stand by his chair.

She waited, but he made no attempt to reach for the glass, and so she had to press against his stretched legs to put it in his right hand. His boots rubbed against her calves through the cotton and something—almost an emanation—set her nerves jumping with panic. As soon as he took the glass she stepped back but his left hand shot out to seize the front of her nightdress.

“Oh, no, you don’t. What’s your name?”

Anna leaned back, desperate that his hand not brush her body. “Maggie!” she gasped, plucking the first name that came to mind.

He gathered in more of the cotton, pulling her closer, bringing her body close to his fist. “Well, Maggie, were you going to steal the books, or can you actually read?”

“I can read, sir!”

He drank from the glass in his right hand. “My lord,” he corrected. A glint in his eye told her he knew just how uncomfortable she was.

“Sorry, milord,” she muttered, though she wanted to do the wretch a very painful physical injury. What right had he to tease a poor maid this way, even if he had found her in his library? And more to the point, what were his true intentions? Anna knew how the wicked part of the world behaved.

“You’ll have to prove it,” he said.

Anna jumped. “Prove what, milord?”

He abruptly released her. “That you can read. Choose one of those revolting novels and read me a passage.”

Anna thought again of running, but knew it was pointless. Instead she accepted the test. Once he saw she was in here in search of reading material, perhaps he would let her go even if he did intend to dismiss her in the morning. Once she was out of this room unescorted, she could be back in her bed in moments.

She returned to the shelf. Avoiding Forbidden Affections, she chose Cruel Matrimony.

When she opened it, she realized with surprise that it had never been read. The pages weren’t even cut. She could read the first page, however.

“Was any woman so profoundly miserable as beautiful Melisande de La Fleur when the dreadful news descended upon her? She was to wed the dread lord of Breadalbane? Never!”

“Enough,” said the earl disdainfully, swallowing more brandy. “So you can read, and with an educated accent, too. Who the devil are you?”

Anna cursed her carelessness in letting her servant’s tones drop, and knew she was turning red with guilt. “I was raised gently, yes, my lord, but have no choice now but service.”

“Plunged into dire poverty, are you?” His voice gentled as he said, “Perhaps we can find you an alternative to base service, my dear. Loose your hair.”

It took a moment for Anna to guess his meaning, but then her breath caught. “No. Please, my lord—”

“Obey me.” It was said without great emphasis, yet it chilled her protests.

Anna heard a whimper, and knew it was her own. She should scream, but who would hear?

What would happen if she told him who she was? Would the wicked Earl of Carne continue his vile seduction when he knew she was the gently bred daughter of his neighbor?

If he did, said the logical part of her, then he’d care as much later as now. Perhaps he was just playing with her and would let her go in a little while. After all, she was hardly the sort of girl to drive men wild, especially a man like this.

So Anna took off her ribbon and fingered her dark hair loose, knowing her naturally rosy cheeks were apple red.

He eyed her over the rim of the glass, studying her dispassionately from tousled head to naked toes. “Very pretty. How old are you?”

“But sixteen, milord.”

“There’s no use putting on that servant’s burr again, sweetheart. Sixteen’s a good age.” He drained the glass and placed it on a table by his elbow. “Come here.”

The slight slur in his voice alarmed her. She suspected he’d not been entirely sober when he came in, and was now worse. Any belief that he would be rational was weakening and she glanced around in search of a weapon. There wasn’t so much as a penknife.

“Please, my lord, let me go. I’m sorry for having intruded—”

“But having done so, you must pay the toll.” His eyes were hooded. “A kiss,” he said with wicked softness. “No more, Maggie, or not yet. My word on it. Come here.”

Anna discovered that her feet simply wouldn’t carry her over to him. “I can’t …”

He raised his brows. “I could threaten to dismiss you tomorrow. Yet why do I feel that wouldn’t sway you? So, I’ll make another threat. If you don’t come here and be kissed, my sweet mysterious Maggie, I’ll come to you and do much worse. And you have my word on that, too.”

After a moment, he added, “That trembling innocence, the hands over the mouth, the eyes wide with panic, will not sway me. It’s actually quite arousing, you know. We men are such perverse creatures. You’d do better to appear bold and willing. I ’d probably dismiss you on the instant.”

Anna realized she was reacting exactly as he said, but she was a trembling innocent. “I wouldn’t kn … know how to act bold, m … my lord,” she stammered. “Have mercy.”

“Damnation, girl,” he said without heat, “it’s a kiss I’m demanding, not a life of sin. You’ll be the better for getting over these nervous tremors. Come here.”

The snapped authority in the last words had Anna walking toward him before she thought. He caught her nightgown before she could retreat and pulled her onto his lap. She did scream then, and struggled, but it did no good. He just laughed. “Squirm away, Maggie. It’s quite interesting, and in moments your legs will be naked as the day you were born.”

Anna went very, very still.

“Wise girl,” he said, and even smoothed her nightgown back around her legs—a touch that sent a jolt right through her.

He ignored it, and spoke soothingly. “There, see, the heavens haven’t fallen. Satan hasn’t appeared to drag you off to hell. Kissing is not a cardinal sin. You might even enjoy it. I suspect I will.” He caught her chin, smiling as a thumb rubbed along her jaw.

Anna twitched. “My lord!”

“Oh, do stop my lording me, girl! If we’re to share a kiss I’ll make you free of my name for a while. It’s Roland.”

“Roland?” Astonishment temporarily overwhelmed even fear.

He continued to rub along her jaw, gently, confusingly. “Why the amazement, sweetheart? Perhaps my parents had high hopes of me.”

“It … it’s an unusual name, my lord. You are called for Charlemagne’s hero?”

He grinned. “No. I’m called for a rich great-uncle who obligingly left me his all.” His finger was tracing the edge of her lips now, as if learning of them.

Or perhaps he knew the extraordinary effect it could have on a woman …

“Roland was a noble character, though, my lord,” Anna said desperately. In a moment she was going to have to tell him who she was. “Roland est preux …”

“She speaks French, too! Chérie, you are wasted in the kitchens. Let us proceed with your metamorphosis to a higher order.” He deftly moved her more intimately to his body and dropped a light kiss on her tingling lips. “You’re as tasty as a rosy apple, sweetheart. I think I’ll call you Pippin.”

At that use of her father’s pet name, it was as if he were here, witness to her shame.

Anna burst into tears.

The earl froze, but did not let her go. To her astonishment, after a moment he held her closer and even rocked her a little. “Hush, Pippin. What the devil’s the matter with you? We’re talking a kiss here. It’ll go no further today if you’re not of a mind to it. I’m no rapist and we’ve plenty of time …”

His very reasonable and rather bemused tone calmed Anna’s worst fears. She peeped up at him cautiously, sniffing.

But perhaps seducers always behaved like this …

“That’s better,” he said soothingly, thumbing tears from beneath her eyes and stroking strands of hair off her face. “Just a kiss, a taste, Pippin. And then I’ll let you leave. This time.”

Heart pounding, Anna held on to that. One kiss and she could go.

And she would never come back here again!

But when his lips brushed over hers—a gentle, brandy-flavored roughness—she flinched away instinctively. He was ready for it and trapped her head, preventing all effort to avoid the deepening of the kiss.

Anna tried to protest, but since her mouth was now covered by his, it came out as only a mewling sound. Her hands were trapped against his body and she truly feared that if she squirmed she would reveal all.

God help her, what would happen if her parents ever found out about this?

He ignored her struggles and protests, but released her mouth long enough to say, “You’ve the sweetest-tasting mouth I’ve known in a long time, Pippin.”

“My lord, please—”

But then he was kissing her again, pushing her mouth open, touching her tongue with his so she squeaked and struggled violently. But then, abruptly, like a wave crashing over her, Anna realized there was pleasure in it.

There couldn’t be.

But there was.

It was like the first time she had eaten oysters. She hadn’t liked the thought of it at all, and hadn’t liked the first attempt much. But then, somehow, she had overcome the thought that the shellfish were alive, and that they were a little slimy, and had discovered they were delicious.

She had never liked the idea of this kind of kissing, and hadn’t liked the first mingling of his mouth with hers, but now she found that he, too, was delicious—sweet and spicy beneath the tang of brandy.

In moments the moist heat of his tongue seemed as natural as her own, and that acceptance spread downward through her body, relaxing her …

He released her mouth with slow, parting kisses, smiling more warmly now, more like the youth in the portrait. “That’s it, Pippin, my rosy, juicy little apple. You see what’s in store? You needn’t fear I’ll mistreat you. I’ll take care of you …”

Anna suddenly realized that his hand was sliding under her nightdress and took in the meaning of his words.

She kicked against his touch. “No, my lord! Truly, I cannot be your mistress!”

Despite her squirming, his hand ventured slightly higher, up to her knee. “You didn’t think you’d like kissing, Maggie. Let’s see how you like this …”

“No … Help!” Anna tried to put the full force of her healthy lungs behind it but he clapped a hand over her mouth and laughed at her struggles.

So much for his promises!

As he looked down with interest at the leg her struggle was exposing, Anna saw the glint of the glass he had set down. She stretched out, seized it, and swung it with all her strength to crash against her ravisher’s head.

With a cry, he relaxed his hold.

Anna tore herself free.

He was cursing now and holding his head. Anna was dreadfully afraid that she’d done him some terrible injury, but that was even more reason to flee.

She raced into the hall and up the steps, her heart thundering, her breath mere gasps of panic. In moments she was through the door and back in her bedroom.

She slid to the floor in limp relief, offering earnest prayers of thanks to the deity who watched over foolish virgins.

Which made her think of lamps.

Which made her realize a terrible thing.

She’d left the candlestick!

At that moment, Anna Featherstone nearly fainted.

She wanted to huddle under her covers and pretend none of the recent events had happened but if she didn’t retrieve the candlestick, it would be obvious she’d been there. Quite apart from the fact that she would be short a candlestick, it was probably identifiable as from this house.

What on earth would happen to her? What if she’d done some terrible injury to the earl? What if he was lying on his library floor breathing his last?

Would they hang her?

At least, said a voice, if he’s dead he can’t identify his assailant.

But the candlestick could.

There was only one thing to do.

Anna’s legs felt weak as wet paper, but she forced herself to her feet. Still shaking and struggling not to sob, she opened the secret door again to re-enter the Earl of Carne’s cursed house.

She staggered out onto the landing, listening carefully for any hint of what was happening. She heard a voice. It was the earl, apparently calling for a servant.

Anna almost collapsed with relief again. He didn’t sound at all dead. But in that case, how was she to retrieve the evidence?

Then she realized that he was heading for the lower floor, shouting for his servants. She leaned over the stair rail and saw him, holding a white cloth to his head, disappear in that direction.

It almost demanded too much courage, but Anna forced herself. She ran down the stairs, tracking that distant voice all the time, dashed into the library, grabbed the candlestick, and raced back to her own room.

Once there, she flung herself into bed, pulled the covers over her head, and swore that she would never, ever, give in to curiosity again!

“Miss Anna! Miss Anna! Wake up.”

Anna stirred, resisting the call to wake. She’d been sleepless half the night worrying over the consequences of her actions.

“Miss Anna! Are you all right?”

Anna forced her eyes open. “Yes, Martha. Of course I’m all right.”

Martha frowned at her in grave concern. “I’ve never known you to be a slugabed. Are you sure you’re not sickening or something?

Anna struggled up, trying to appear her usual cheery self. “Of course I’m not! I must have just stayed up reading longer than I intended.”

“The state of the candle tells that story, miss,” said Martha with a glance at the candlestick.

Full memory rushed back and Anna winced at the thought of the story that candlestick could tell. Along with memory came anxiety. What would Lord Carne have done when he couldn’t find Maggie? Had he called in the Bow Street Runners?

One thing was certain, Anna must make sure the man never set eyes on her. She leaned back against her pillows. “Perhaps I might be catching a cold,” she said in a suffering tone. “My head aches a little …”

Martha came back to the bed and studied her. “You don’t look yourself, Miss Anna, and that’s the truth. Why, you’ve even taken off your ribbon and got your hair in a tangle. You must have been fevered in the night.” She shook her head. “You’d best stay in bed for now. I’ll bring you breakfast here and tell Lady Featherstone.”

Martha left and Anna groaned. Her hair ribbon. She’d left evidence after all!

It wasn’t a disaster, though. A candlestick was one thing, but a plain white hair ribbon could belong to anyone. It fretted her, though, so she was in danger of becoming truly ill through anxiety.

She took refuge in planning. The first thing was to stay out of sight for as long as possible, and being sick was an excellent excuse. It would be tedious, but far better than bumping into Lord Carne on the doorstep!

What was she going to do, though, if he intended more than a brief visit to his London house?

She rubbed her hands over her face. She should have known her mad behavior would lead to disaster. At the thought of what might have been, she shuddered. If that glass hadn’t been to hand, she might have been ruined beyond all repair!

To a young lady raised in the country, known by all and well-guarded, it scarce seemed credible that a chance encounter—no matter how peculiar—could have ruined her life, but it was so.

Lord Carne could have stolen her virtue by brute strength. Truth obliged her to admit that he might have managed to steal it by clever seductions.

Anna stared sightlessly at a grinning gargoyle and absorbed the fact that she had almost been seduced by a stranger.

Lady Featherstone was no believer in innocence as defense against ruin. She had informed her daughters about carnal matters, and warned them that the perils of the flesh sometimes included the temptations of pleasure. Her instruction was to avoid occasions of intimacy in case their consciences turned weak on them.

“And that frequently happens,” she had said. “Not many unfortunate girls intend their ruin. They are caught unawares and either forced, tricked, or seduced into depravity. And seduction means that they succumbed to pleasure. So be on your guard and avoid the very occasions of sin, girls. Prudent, well-behaved young ladies do not come to grief.”

Anna had never really believed that she could be forced, tricked, or seduced into ruin, but then she’d never anticipated anyone like the Earl of Carne. Cautiously, she allowed her memory to bring to mind the man she had met last night, trying to decide what made him so dangerous. Handsome, yes. But not in a smooth, gentle way. He was lean, hard, and had proved to be alarmingly strong.

Anna shuddered at the memory of being as helpless as a struggling toddler.

Perhaps, however, that very strength was part of the seductive appeal that lingered even now as a spicy sweetness beneath anxiety. Certainly something about him had speeded her pulse and weakened her knees in a way she had never experienced before, and it hadn’t entirely been fear.

Unless it was fear of the wantonness he had so easily summoned in her.

Yet another reason to avoid the earl. Anna was no fool.

Sometimes it was best not to put one’s willpower to the test.

She sat up straighter and turned her mind to assessing her situation and making plans.

With luck and caution, Anna decided, she might escape the consequences of her folly. She was not ruined, and it did not seem Lord Carne was seriously injured. He was doubtless puzzled as to the identity of Maggie, but if Anna stayed concealed for a day or two, all could be well. The earl would surely move on, either to travel again or to inspect his neglected estates.

Martha returned with a breakfast tray and Lady Feather-stone, who laid a cool hand on Anna’s brow. “You do not seem fevered, my dear. Are you in pain?”

“Just the headache, Mama.”

Anna’s mother studied her with intent concern and Anna felt sure she would read every secret. But eventually Lady Featherstone said, “I don’t think there is anything much amiss. Perhaps it is just the excitement of the city. Or this horrid room. Do you want to share Maria’s room?”

“No, Mama!”

With a shake of her head, Lady Featherstone dropped the subject. “Rest today, then, and I am sure you will soon be more the thing. But if you feel the need we will send for the doctor.”

When her mother had left, Anna settled to her breakfast, then asked Martha to help her dress, saying she would sit quietly on a chaise by the window. It was true that she had no desire to spend the day in bed, but she had other reasons. Her room looked out onto the street, and she wanted to be able to observe the comings and goings at number 10.

Preferably the goings.

What she hoped to see was the Earl of Carne entering a well-piled coach, clearly headed for foreign lands, or at least for the provinces. What she actually saw were two fashionable gentlemen stroll up and be admitted. Since they stayed about an hour, and neither looked like a doctor, Anna felt able to assume that the earl was not on his deathbed.

When two coaches arrived, Anna experienced a moment of hope, but then the chests and boxes were taken into the house. “Oh, no,” she muttered. “The wretch is taking up residence!”

Anna looked at the fireplace in alarm, then hurried over to push a solid bench in front of the secret door. It might not prevent a forcible entry, but it would prevent a silent one.

But how was she to avoid a meeting if the earl was to stay next door?

When Martha came to offer her lunch, Anna said, “There seems to be some activity at number 10. Has the earl leased the house after all?”

Martha put her tray on the table and started to lay out the meal. “Nay, miss. Believe it or not, his lordship’s come back. Arrived in the night without warning! And,” she added in a whisper, “it’s to be feared he’s mad.”

“Mad?” Dear heaven. Had her blow deprived him of his wits?

Martha looked around as if expecting an angel to come and silence her, then leaned closer. “He came knocking at the kitchen door this morning, miss.”

“The earl?” Anna’s heart started to flutter with panic. He knew! How did he know?

Martha leaned even closer. “The wicked earl himself! And the Lord knows what wickedness he’d been up to, Miss Anna, for he’d a mighty wound on his temple, all swollen and bruised-like. I tell you true, miss, none of us thought we were safe!”

“Whatever did he want?” Anna whispered back, wondering why the heavens had not already fallen on her.

“You’ll never believe it …”

“What?”

“He wanted Maggie! Poor little Maggie, who might be a bit slow, but hasn’t a scrap of bad in her!”

Anna didn’t know what to say.

“Mind you,” said Martha, straightening to rearrange a mustard pot on the small table, “the earl did come to his senses after a fashion. As soon as he clapped eyes on her he looked right bewildered. Apologized for disturbing us and took himself off.

“Sad, really,” she said with a shake of her head. “Mrs. Postle says he was a right promising young man once, before … well, before. Certain it is though, Miss Anna, that you must keep out of that man’s way. I’m sure your parents are going to be very concerned to know that he’s settling in next door.”

Lord and Lady Featherstone certainly were concerned, the lady rather more than the lord. Over dinner that evening she said, “You must be very careful, girls. Very careful. He has already shown his true flags.”

Lady Featherstone left it there, so Anna decided to stimulate discussion. “You mean him crashing into the kitchen covered with blood demanding Maggie?”

Unfortunately, Maria had not heard the story. She shrieked and assumed her ready-to-faint posture, hand to heart.

Anna’s father frowned. “Don’t exaggerate, Pippin. And Maria, don’t get into a taking. I am assured he knocked at the door and inquired after her in a fairly normal manner.”

“Normal?” demanded Maria. “Papa, how can it be normal for an earl to turn up at the kitchen door asking after the scullery maid? He must be mad. We’ll be murdered in our beds like that other woman!”

“Nonsense,” said Sir Jeffrey. “I will not have such exaggerations, girls. Lady Delabury took too much laudanum and it was years ago. As for Maggie, though I did not like to do it, I called on the earl and asked an explanation. It appears he surprised an intruder in his house last night, a young woman who called herself Maggie. When he attempted to apprehend her, she hit him on the head, which accounts for his wound. When his servants told him a maid called Maggie served next door, he naturally assumed she would be the same.”

“Then an honest man,” said Lady Featherstone, “would have sent for a Runner!”

“A charitable man might not, my dear. I did not expect it, but I gained the impression that the earl was motivated by compassion. He admitted that he had frightened the girl into attacking him, and he thought she might have been lacking her wits …”

Anna almost choked on a piece of chicken. The wretch!

“So he decided to discover her,” her father continued, “and speak to her superiors on the matter. Of course, since our scullery maid turned out not to be his quarry, he is no further forward in solving the mystery. And he did apologize for any upset he might have caused.”

“So I should think!” Lady Featherstone declared.

“I must confess, my dear, that I was pleasantly surprised by the earl. He seems a man of sense. We know he indulged in some youthful follies, but time can heal. I gather he has spent his recent years in the Eastern Mediterranean and he speaks intelligently of matters there. I suspect he may have been engaged on the King’s business.”

Her father might be quite in charity with their neighbor; Anna was not. She did not believe for one moment that Lord Carne had been moved by compassion. He either wanted revenge, or wished to continue his wicked plan to set “Maggie” up as his mistress.

Perhaps both.

Perhaps he had been intending to blackmail the poor, powerless maid into surrendering to his vile lust.

“Is the earl to stay in London, Papa?” she asked.

“It would appear so, my dear. His cousin’s efforts to have him declared dead have obliged him to return and prove his existence. It seems that he intends to stay for some time.”

“I cannot like it,” said Lady Featherstone. “It will stir all those old stories, and since there is a connection to this house, it will cause the kind of attention I cannot like.”

Anna was hard put not to roll her eyes at the word “connection.” If her mother only knew!

“Nonsense, my love,” said Sir Jeffrey with a twinkling grin. “The earl’s presence and those old stories will assure you an excellent attendance at any entertainments you care to give.”

And so it proved. When Lady Featherstone held a small, informal musical evening a few days later, her rooms were grat-ifyingly full, and it was astonishing how often conversation turned to neighbors, past and present.

As it was an informal affair, Anna had been allowed to attend in her one good silk gown to listen to the music. She knew she was not to put herself forward in any way, and was quite content to sit quietly, watching people and keeping her ears pricked for any snippets of information about the wicked Earl of Carne.

Unfortunately, no one seemed to know more than she. In fact she could, if she wished, give them a clearer story than they had.

She heard one person murmur that he was crippled by debauchery, and another report that she had been reliably informed that he was hideously scarred.

It was clear, however, that the ton was fascinated, and Anna suspected that the supposed wickedness of his past would easily be whitewashed by curiosity about his present. Add to that his status as a wealthy, unmarried peer of the realm and she had the sinking feeling that the dreaded earl would soon be accepted everywhere.

That was the last thing Anna wanted. Sitting in her corner listening to Mozart, she seriously considered taking up her investigations again in order to prove that Lord Carne really had murdered his inconvenient mistress. It would serve the wretch right …

“Miss Anna Featherstone, I believe?”

Anna looked up to see a young man bowing before her. She glanced at her mother, unsure how to handle this, but Lady Featherstone was deep in conversation with another guest.

Anna took refuge in good manners, smiled, and admitted her identity.

The pleasant-looking, brown-haired young gentleman took a seat beside her. “I know I am being a little bold, Miss Anna. My name is Liddell, by the way, David Liddell, and I am completely respectable.”

Anna met his eyes. “You would be bound to say so, though, wouldn’t you, Mr. Liddell? However, since I cannot imagine being the victim of seizure and rapine in my mother’s drawing room, I will not have the vapors just yet.”

After a startled moment, he laughed. “What a shame you are not making your curtsy, too, Miss Anna. You would set London by the ears.”

Anna twinkled at him. “I think that is what my mother fears.”

She held her smile even as her amusement faded. Her mother was clearly wise, for Anna had almost created disaster already. Perhaps bandying words with Mr. Liddell was a mistake, too.

He patted her hand. “Don’t grow nervous with me. Truth to tell, I wish to speak to you about your sister.”

“Ah,” said Anna, relaxing. This was familiar ground. “Have you fallen in love with her so quickly?”

He blushed. “Hardly that. We have only met a few times. But I would like to know her better.”

“Then I suggest you speak to her, not me, Mr. Liddell.”

“But I am being cunning, Miss Anna. If you will tell me the subjects that most interest Miss Featherstone, then I will be able to use my precious time with her to greatest effect.”

Anna considered him approvingly. “Initiative should certainly be rewarded, sir. Maria is interested in fashion, Keats’ poetry, and, on a more serious note, slavery. She is, of course, opposed to it. But I must warn you that we Featherstones are distressingly practical. Maria will not marry solely for money and title, but she is very unlikely to marry for love in a cottage. I do hope you have a comfortable situation.”

His face rippled under a revealing flash of pique before he controlled it. “I have expectations,” he said vaguely as he rose. “I must thank you, Miss Anna, and hope that perhaps one day we may be closer.”

Anna watched him cross to where Maria held court, feeling mildly sorry for him. He seemed pleasant and intelligent, but she feared his expectations were not equal to the occasion.

Then Lady Featherstone swished to Anna’s side. “And what, pray, were you doing conversing with a gentleman?”

“I could not avoid it, Mama. He introduced himself.”

“Gentlemen do not introduce themselves!”

Anna grinned. “They do when they want to know the way to Maria’s heart.”

“Ah.” Lady Featherstone frowned, but not at Anna. “It is unlikely to do, for all Maria seems to look kindly upon him.”

“Why? What is wrong with him?”

“He’s a Liddell. Which means he’s related to the Earl of Carne. That cannot be to his favor.”

Anna stared at Mr. Liddell with new interest. In her examination of Burke’s, she had scarcely noted the earl’s family name. “Is he the cousin, then?” she asked. “The heir?”

“Yes. Which now means he is a gentleman of limited means. ’Tis a shame, perhaps, that Lord Carne resurfaced, for as an earl Mr. Liddell would make an eligible parti. Without the title he is too small a fish.”

“But if Maria favors him, Mama?”

Lady Featherstone patted Anna’s head. “I will not force either of you to marry against your inclinations, dear, but nor will I permit you to follow some romantic fancy into hardship. It will be easy enough for a girl as pretty as Maria to find a husband who is both congenial and comfortable. Off to bed with you now, Anna. And tomorrow you are to cease this moping about the house or I will assuredly send for the doctor.”

Anna considered David Liddell before she left. Any resemblance between him and the earl was very slight, though he was handsome enough in his own way. She was surprised by the fact that she had not the slightest wish for the earl to die so Mr. Liddell could be earl in his place.

Not the slightest.

Not even if Maria did favor him.

Not even if the earl had committed murder.

Anna feared she was a sad case.

She was finding it impossible to forget her encounter with Lord Carne, who was not marked by debauchery, and whose scar enhanced rather than diminished his appeal. Nor could she forget the feel of being in his arms, of his thumbs gently wiping away her tears, of his mouth exploring hers.

These were not suitable thoughts for a sixteen-year-old schoolroom miss. Anna was painfully aware that her parents would be appalled if they could read her mind, and that saddened her for she loved them very much.

For she now knew she was wicked.

Every night when she went to her room she had to fight the temptation to open the secret door and venture once more into the territory of the wicked Earl of Carne.

The next day Anna did venture outdoors, for otherwise her mother would send for a doctor and it was Anna’s experience that doctors never admitted that a patient was healthy—there was no money in that. They always prescribed some medicine or treatment, invariably unpleasant. She had no mind to be dosed with tonic or worse, blistered, purged, or have blood let.

What Anna wanted to do was to attack the lending libraries again. She had long since finished the books from her last trip, and more than ever she wanted a copy of Forbidden Affections. She quailed, however, at the thought of walking down fashionable streets where she might come face-to-face with the Earl of Carne.

Instead, she gathered Martha and Arthur and announced a walk in the park. She was sure wicked noblemen did not walk in the park at this unfashionable hour. The dangerous moment would be leaving the house when there was the slight possibility that the earl might be doing the same thing. All Anna could do to lessen that hazard was to wear her deepest-brimmed bonnet.

As it happened, her precaution was unnecessary and she and her escort left the house with no incident at all.

Anna delighted in the brisk walk in the summer sun after so many days of idleness. It was almost like the country. Trees were in heavy leaf and bright splashes of blossom broke the smoothness of daisy-speckled grass. Ducks and swans cruised the small lake, while at the edges children pushed out toy boats. She also had Arthur’s gossip to enliven the day.

“Setting in for a regular stay,” Arthur said. “New staff and all. The Murchisons don’t much care for it if you ask me, Miss Anna. They’ve had an easy life all these years, living in comfort with no one breathing down their neck.

“Not but what they haven’t done a good job,” he added quickly. “And what a business about that young woman! Had a word with Jack Murchison myself, I did, and every word is true. They did think, as we did, that perhaps the earl had had a bit too much and imagined it, but Jack said he had clearly been hit a mighty blow on the head. And what’s more, there was a ribbon. A female’s hair ribbon!”

“Heavens!” gasped Anna, thinking such a response appropriate. In truth, she’d hoped that scrap of silk had been overlooked.

“No way to tell whose, of course. It’ll be a mystery till Domesday, if you ask me, for she was doubtless just a sneak thief, thinking the house was empty. For all we know, she’d been in the habit of prowling the house, snitching things, for years …”

Anna stopped listening at that point because she was pondering the fact that the earl did not appear to have told anyone that the intruder was in her nightgown. It was true the weather was warm, but it was hard to imagine any woman going thieving dressed like that.

She wondered uneasily what the earl was imagining.

Then, as if summoned by her thoughts, she saw Lord Carne, elegant in blue jacket, buff breeches, and tall beaver, strolling along the path toward them.

Chilled by panic, Anna swung away from the path to stare at some trees. “Look, a kingfisher. How peculiar to see one here in town!”

“A kingfisher, Miss Anna?” asked Martha, shielding her eyes. “You must be mistaken.”

“Oh, I could have sworn … Are there other birds of such bright color? It was a flash of the most remarkable blue! What other bright birds are there? Parakeets? Might one have escaped …?”

She maintained this ridiculous chatter as long as possible, but eventually was forced to turn back to the path. With a wash of relief, she saw that the earl had passed them and was well ahead on the path.

She wished the wretched man in Hades. What possible business had a gazetted rake to be in the park at this time of day when only doddering ancients and nursemaids with children were supposed to use it?

And why did he have to look so very elegant …

“Miss Anna! Are you all right?”

Anna snapped her wits together. “Yes, Martha. I just had a thought, that’s all. But it is doubtless time to return home.”

By the time they arrived at Carne Terrace, Anna was well into the blue devils. She could not go on like this, afraid to step outside the door, gabbling about kingfishers in Green Park! Perhaps it would be best to confess all to Papa and have done with it. She wouldn’t have to confess to that kiss, after all, for surely the earl must be as ashamed of it as anyone.

But her courage failed her.

Her parents would be so shocked by the fact that she had invaded someone’s home, never mind her brutal attack. And how was she to justify the attack without revealing the kiss?

No, she told herself, the chances of meeting the earl again were really quite slight since she didn’t move in fashionable circles. Her mother had assured her that now the Season was well underway, the hours kept by the ton would not be those of ordinary people. The fashionable throng rose at midday and returned to bed in the early hours of the morning.

If Anna kept her outings to the morning, she should be safe.

It was most irritating that the Earl of Carne did not keep fashionable hours.

At least, as far as Anna knew, he danced the night away with the rest of Society, but it seemed he often rose at an early hour as well. Her careful observation of the front door of number 10 showed him leaving to walk or ride at nine or ten of the morning.

She was beginning to wonder if her mind were disordered, for it did seem to her that no matter what time she chose to leave the house, the earl was likely to appear, forcing her to hurry in or out to avoid giving him a clear view of her face.

And she was extremely tired of wearing her coal-scuttle bonnet.

She was also concerned for her sanity because she had a disturbing tendency to study the man when she could do so secretly.

At first, she had tried to persuade herself that she was merely studying the enemy, but she was not in the habit of deceiving herself. The truth was, she liked to look at him.

There was a presence to Lord Carne, an unconscious authority in every movement. He moved with remarkable grace, and she had the impression that at any moment he could respond to danger if need be.

From behind her curtains, Anna studied his features and was forced to conclude that they were completely perfect. Not perhaps as smooth as some gentlemen’s, and there was that scar, but in her opinion they were everything a man’s features ought to be. His bones were excellent, his nose straight, his lips well-shaped and neither thin nor pouty …

She was inclined to linger on the thought of those lips and how they had felt against hers. She very much wanted that sensation again.

But not, she told herself firmly, at the danger of exposure or ruin!

Her obsession was not improved by the fact that she now had a copy of Forbidden Affections to study. There could be no doubt that Roland—Lady Delabury had even used his first name!—was the earl. Or Lord Manderville, as he had then been. If Anna took the youth in the picture and merged him with the man living next door, she had an exact representation of Roland of Toulaine, Dulcinea’s gallant lover.

That this merely confirmed the fact that Lady Delabury and Lord Manderville had been lovers was depressing indeed, especially when it suggested that the earl might have caused the lady’s death, even if only by driving her to suicide.

There was nothing in Forbidden Affections to cast light on Lady Delabury’s death, however, and Anna returned the book to the library and read Mrs. Jamison’s other five novels. The rereading confirmed that she enjoyed them more, and it puzzled her.

The heroine was always the same—a variety, Anna supposed, of Lady Delabury herself, or Miss Skelton as she had been before her marriage. The heroes, however, were varied. Anna thought them a rather unrealistic lot. She had never known men to be so inclined to protest their extreme unworthiness to even touch a lady’s hand, or to weep with grief at having dared to steal a kiss.

All this did rather incline Anna to remember a gentleman who would never weep over that stolen kiss, and would never for a moment imagine himself unworthy. She touched her own lips, remembering another touch, and was alarmingly aware that it would not take much for her to say to the Earl of Carne, “Kiss me again, please.”

Lady Featherstone was not always right. Sometimes young ladies did plot their own downfall.

Perhaps it was just that the constant avoidance of the earl was so wearing, or perhaps it was a secret wish for ruin. One day, when Anna returned home and encountered the earl leaving his house, as close to face-to-face as two people twelve feet away could be, she did not duck her head and scurry. Instead, she stared at him, chin up, daring him to summon the constables.

He was startled, then a slight smile moved his lips before, with the slightest nod of acknowledgment, he went on his way.

Anna went into the house in a daze of horror and relief.

He knew!

It was as if he’d spoken to her and told her that he knew, and had known all along.

She was horrified that anyone knew what Anna Feather-stone had done. At the same time there was tremendous relief. Clearly he was not going to call in the law, was not even going to inform her parents. And she didn’t think the composed gentleman she had encountered today was going to lie in wait to have his wicked way with her.

She was just the tiniest bit disappointed about that.

By the time Anna had her bonnet and spencer off, reaction had set in, threatening tears. The great drama of her life had proved to be as substantial as a … a soap bubble! Rather than spending the past weeks searching for a mysterious, dangerous intruder, the Earl of Carne had known all along that it had been a mere schoolgirl neighbor, and had been amused.

It was intensely mortifying.

Anna would have liked to flee to the country or fall into a convenient fatal decline, but this being reality rather than a novel, she had to go on with life and try to put the whole matter out of her mind.

When she began to pay attention to events around her, she found that the wicked earl was being received everywhere. No one seemed to care anymore about the incident, and Lady Delabury’s death was being politely ignored.

Maria was a great success, and though she had not made her choice, it was likely that she would accept an offer within weeks. Mr. Liddell was still a constant attendant, but his chances of success seemed slim. Now that Lord Carne was back, his heir had no prospects beyond a small estate and a government post.

Anna returned to spending her time as originally planned, visiting historic places and educational exhibitions. In fact, she should perhaps have acted this way all along, for she never encountered the earl in these activities.

Then he began to show a marked interest in Maria, causing a great fluttering in the Featherstone nest.

“I have grave reservations,” said Lady Featherstone at luncheon one day. “For all that the earl behaves quite properly, I cannot forget his past.”

“Time heals,” said Sir Jeffrey. “Morals as well as hearts. Since there is no evidence of anything but wildness in his past, I think Lord Carne should be judged on his present behavior. What do you feel, Maria?”

Maria raised a hand to her head as if dizzy. “I must be sensible of the honor, Papa. But I am not sure I can forget his past. Mr. Liddell has told me such things …”

“Mr. Liddell has his own ax to grind,” Anna pointed out.

“I know that,” said Maria, her expression a blend of irritation and complacency. She did enjoy being fought over. “But it is generally accepted that he … that the earl had an improper relationship with the woman who died. I cannot overlook that in a man.”

“Then you’d best get yourself to a nunnery,” Anna muttered.

Maria gasped, and even her father raised his brows in surprise.

“Anna!” exclaimed Lady Featherstone. “Go to your room at once, and study Bishop Stortford’s sermon on unclean thoughts.”

Anna flushed with mortification as she rose and curtsied. What had possessed her to say such a thing? “Yes, Mama. I beg pardon, Mama.”

In her room, however, Anna didn’t study the sermon—which she knew almost by heart—but contemplated the terrible reason for her outburst.

Jealousy.

She was jealous of Maria, and could not endure the thought of the Earl of Carne being her brother-in-law.

Which led to the next incredible step.

She wanted him for herself.

Anna laughed out loud. It was impossible, and exactly the sort of silly infatuation girls seemed prone to, but that did not make it any the less powerful at the moment. She ached with the loss of something she had never had, or had hope of.

She was honestly convinced, however, that Lord Carne and Maria would not suit. There was nothing wrong with Maria, but she needed a husband who appreciated sensibility and delicate feelings. The Wicked Earl would find Maria’s airs a dead bore inside a month.

There was nothing a schoolroom miss could do about this, however, except be miserable and intensify her efforts to avoid the man. It would be the last straw if she made a fool of herself by acting like a lovesick moonling over him.

Anna thought avoiding the earl would be easy, but she hadn’t considered the consequences of his interest in Maria. He now had the entrée to number 9.

In fact, he appeared at a small tea party Lady Feather-stone gave two days later. It appeared he had been invited, though no one had expected him to attend. After all, it was an informal affair, so much so that Anna was in attendance.

When Anna heard him announced her heart began to pound, blood rushed to her head, and though she focused all her attention on old Lord Threpton, who was droning on about his problems with poachers, she didn’t hear a word he was saying.

Once again she had this longing to become invisible, and that carried her thoughts straight back to a night in the Wicked Earl’s library, and the things he had done to her then.

She knew color was flooding her face.

She wanted to die.

The mere sound of Lord Carne’s voice—the first time she had heard it since that night—was interfering with her breathing, causing a perilous light-headedness.

Lord Threpton peered at her. “Hey, missie, I didn’t mean to upset you with these matters!” He patted her knee. “You’re a good girl to listen to an old man rambling on.”

Anna kept her eyes fixed on his rheumy ones. “I don’t mind, my lord. You are very interesting.”

He pinched her cheek. “Some man’s going to be very lucky in you, my dear. Now, why not go and find that plate of jam tarts and offer me another one. Very good, they are.”

Thus Anna was forced out of hiding and set to walk across the room on unsteady legs. Which meant that her mother had to introduce her to the earl. “My youngest daughter, Anna, my lord. She is not yet out.”

He bowed with his typical grace. “Miss Anna. Charmed to make your acquaintance.” He acted as if she was a total stranger, but Anna shivered as if he had stroked her back.

She wanted not to look to him, but couldn’t help herself. He was even more perfect up close than he was at a distance. And what an actor he was. There was no hint of anything untoward about him except perhaps for a hint of intimate humor in his blue eyes, humor fighting to escape, just as it had in the portrait.

Anna wished desperately that he wouldn’t look at her like that. It touched her heart and made her think of kisses.

Then she realized she was standing there red-faced and speechless, a picture of a schoolgirl gaucherie. She hastily dropped a curtsy and he moved on to be introduced elsewhere.

Maria came over to hiss, “For goodness sake, Anna, there’s no need for you to look at him as if you thought he’d eat you! You were the one defending him before!”

“I didn’t!”

“Yes, you did. Oh well,” she said with a superior smile. “I suppose you are unaccustomed to meeting earls. Don’t worry, dearest, he won’t expect much from a schoolroom miss.”

Maria switched on a warmer smile and went off to greet new guests. Anna marched on in search of jam tarts, wishing fiercely that she were at least out and able to compete on equal terms.

Compete? she thought, as she picked up the plate. It was hard not to laugh like the madwoman in Mrs. Jamison’s Lord of the Dark Tower.

Maria was a diamond of the first water, and Anna was a … mildly pretty pebble! Crossing the room with the plate, she flickered a glance at the earl. He caught her at it. Almost imperceptibly, he winked, and his mouth moved in a secret smile.

Anna jerked her gaze away, and hurried back to Lord Threpton. If she didn’t know better, she’d think the Earl of Carne was flirting with her!

Nonsense, she told herself firmly. What he was doing was playing a rather cruel teasing game just to make her uncomfortable. Perhaps it was his way to pay her back for her assault.

Anna found herself busy handing out tea and passing plates of cake, and was glad of it, but inevitably this led to her offering a plate to Lord Carne. She had to stand quite close and was sharply reminded of the time she had brought him that glass of brandy.

And of all that had followed.

She watched him warily and prayed her hand wouldn’t shake.

Again he met her eyes, but with no special expression. “Thank you, Miss Anna. I am spoiled for choice. Which cake would you recommend?”

Anna’s throat went dry as if he had asked something private and significant. She swallowed. “The lady-cakes are very good, my lord.”

He studied the plate, and Anna saw it start to tremble slightly with her nerves. “I wonder if a lady-cake would meet with me …” He appeared to trail off as if in thought.

Anna’s heart skipped a beat. Had he really said, “me” rather than “my”? And had he swallowed the word “cake” so that he seemed to say, “I wonder if a lady would meet with me?”

Surely not!

“I doubt it, my lord,” she mumbled. It had to be her imagination. Even the Earl of Carne could not be so bold. She remembered telling Mr. Liddell that she did not fear seizure and rapine in her mother’s drawing room. Now she was not so sure.

He looked up at her rather seriously. “What a shame there are no maids-of-honor here today.”

Anna flushed at the rebuke and the injustice of it. But inside here there was also a spark of delight at the sheer wit and effrontery of the man. He was using the name of the almond cakes and giving it another meaning.

“Perhaps there are maids-of-honor,” she retorted. “Gentlemen-of-honor might be a little harder to find.”

The lady sitting beside the earl tittered. “Miss Anna, you are too young to attempt barbed witticisms!”

Lady Featherstone came over quickly. “My lord, is there a problem?”

“Not at all, Lady Featherstone. I was merely inquiring as to maids-of-honor. I am particularly partial to them.”

“Oh. No, I’m afraid we do not have them today, my lord.”

“Alas. But as I like my maids-of-honor for a late supper, perhaps I can still order some for tonight. At about midnight, I think.” He took a jam tart. “And, Miss Anna, I think you are quite correct. If we have maids-of-honor, we should have gentlemen-of-honor as well. I wonder what sort of cake they would be?”

Taking up his meaning of “cake” as “fool,” Anna replied, “I don’t see how any gentleman of honor could be a cake, my lord.”

“Then it seems unfair that maids-of-honor be cakes, when it clearly is not so.”

“Unless it means that they take the cake, my lord,” said Anna, switching the meaning to that of victory. She was enjoying this clever wordplay immensely, but Lady Feather-stone interrupted.

“You must excuse Anna, my lord. She is bookish.”

As her mother steered her away, Anna heard him say, “I suspected it from the first.”

Anna hated letting him have the last word.

Lady Featherstone drew Anna to the far side of the room. “It is most inappropriate of you to be bandying words with the earl, Anna, and it is fatal for a girl to become known as clever. Moreover, I still fear there is something strange about that man. Going on about his supper, indeed. Keep away from him.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Anna dutifully passed the cakes around the other side of the room, but her mind was running back over that conversation. She had just been invited to a midnight tryst with the wicked earl, and promised that he would behave as a gentleman of honor, and that he held her in the highest regard.

And he’d done it in front of a room full of people!

She couldn’t help but admire a man like that.

She slid a glance over to him, and he smiled in a way that reminded her that she was a foolish, infatuated girl.

But how could a foolish, infatuated girl be expected to refuse such an invitation?

By the time she prepared for bed that night, Anna was still not sure what she would do, and she spent the next two hours pondering it.

Despite that talk of honor, logic said that it was more than likely that the earl was inviting her to a wicked encounter where he would kiss her again and try to do even more.

The alarming thing was that the idea was very attractive.

On the other hand, her instinct told her that the man she had met today had had no such intent, but some other reason for requesting a meeting. It was certainly true that there was little chance of them having a private tête-à-tête in a normal manner.

Of course, a silly little part of Anna’s mind was dreaming that he had fallen desperately in love with her during that one encounter. If that was true, then perhaps he would go on his knees and protest his undying love for her even as he declaimed his extreme unworthiness to so much as touch the hem of her gown, just like a hero in a novel by Mrs. Jamison.

“Fustian!” Anna said out loud as she struggled back into her gown, muttering about buttons that were never designed for a lady to do up by herself. In the end she put on a short spencer jacket to cover the undone buttons at the back.

The mirror assured her that she was covered neck to toe, and decidedly not the sort of apparition likely to drive a man mad with love or lust.

As the clocks in the house struck midnight, she told herself that was how she wanted it and, heart thudding, moved the bench so she could return to number 10.

The lever worked without a sound, and the door opened smoothly. She almost screamed, however, to find the earl awaiting her in the bedroom.

“Ah,” he said, investigating the doorway, “I thought it must be in here, but I couldn’t find the secret to it.”

Anna sidled away from him, shockingly aware of the intimacy of being alone with an unrelated man for only the second time in her life, and certainly for the first time in a bedroom! At least the place was still shrouded in Holland covers, which in some irrational way made it less dangerous.

“Does the room make you nervous?” he asked calmly. “Don’t be. I have no wicked intentions. But there are servants now, and to be wandering around the house would be very dangerous.”

Anna put down her unsteady candlestick, placing it beside his on a bureau. “What if the door had not been in here, my lord? Then I would have had to search the house for you.”

He smiled. “You are charmingly forthright. I gambled, but I also hedged my bets. There is a note in the library asking you to come here. Will you take a seat?” He indicated one of the two chairs bracketing the screened fireplace.

Both relieved and disappointed that there was no sofa, Anna perched on the chair. He relaxed into the other one and stretched his long legs so that his boots came perilously close to her skirts. “Damned uncomfortable, these chairs. I like ones with lots of padding. I see you feel the same.”

“Me?” It came out as a squeak. Anna tried to relax, but it was impossible when this man was sitting so close, making her feel rather breathless. “I am just somewhat apprehensive, my lord. Do you intend to tell my parents?”

His brows rose in surprise. “What! That you sneaked into my house, where I mistook you for a serving maid and did my best to have my wicked way with you? Hardly.”

“Oh. Then I don’t suppose you are going to try and blackmail me, either.”

“Is that what you thought? What was I going to blackmail you into doing? Oh, dear. Not into succumbing to my wicked way. You’ve been reading too much Mrs. Jamison, Pippin.”

Smarting from his tone, Anna snapped, “Don’t call me that! It’s my father’s pet name for me.”

“Ah. I’m sorry then. It does suit you, though. And I have the greatest appreciation for juicy apples.”

Anna could feel herself turning as hot as if there was a roaring fire in the grate. “Are you flirting with me, sir?”

His smile turned wry. “That would be most dishonorable, wouldn’t it, after I ’d given you my parole. Very well, to business. The reason I requested this meeting, Miss Featherstone, is because you clearly know things that I do not. Such as the location of that secret door. I’ve been trying to find a way to speak with you for weeks, and have had to resort to this. Would you explain it, please?”

Anna felt very loath to tell him, loath to share her secret with anyone, but made herself say, “It’s in one of the novels. Forbidden Affections.”

He sat up. “In a novel?” he said blankly. “Read by thousands?”

“Yes. You see, Dulcinea is kept in a room exactly like the one I have—it’s very horrid—and Roland …”

He winced as if in pain. “Did that dreadful woman actually name a hero after me?”

Anna tried to assimilate the word “dreadful.” It seemed to her that no one could refer to a lover as dreadful in quite that tone. “I’m afraid so. Roland of Toulaine.”

“No wonder you reacted to my name the last time we met. And what did the noble Roland look like? Or can I guess?”

She nodded. “Just like you, I’m afraid. Or rather, more like you in that portrait.”

His blue eyes opened wider. “You have been prying, haven’t you, my dishonorable maid.”

Anna was blushing again, this time with mortification. “I do beg your pardon. It was inexcusable.”

“Hardly,” he said, recovering his equanimity. “I doubt I could have resisted the temptation, especially at … How old are you?”

“Sixteen, as I said.”

“I was hoping you’d lied. Hélas. So, are there other aspects of this novel that relate to reality?”

“How should I know, my lord? You might read it for yourself. You do own a copy.”

“The woman gave copies of all her works to my mother, who was too polite to refuse them but has never read a novel in her life.”

“How sad for her,” said Anna militantly.

Humor flickered in his eyes. “She has often declared that they turn young ladies into weaklings, inclined to faint at the slightest thing. I will delight in telling her how wrong she is.”

“She’s still alive?” Anna immediately regretted the question, but she was startled to find that the earl was not alone in the world.

“Yes, though she has not been hearty for years. She resides in Bath. So, come, tell me more about this novel so that we can see what parallels there might be.”

“Why?”

“You are not a particularly biddable girl, are you? Because, Miss Featherstone, I am still suspected of having murdered Lady Delabury, largely because no one ever believed that she could have gained entry to this house in her very revealing nightgown—for, unlike you, she favored diaphanous silk—without me knowing. Since my friends vouched for me, this casts a shadow on their honor, too. I want the matter cleared up.”

“After all these years? And …”

“Yes?”

Anna looked down. “I feel horribly selfish, but how can you tell the world about the door without involving me?”

She looked up to see him smile quite gently. “I’ll find a way. You must trust me.”

And she did. Yet again, relief was tinged with a little disappointment. She trusted him with her reputation, but she feared she could also trust him with her virtue. He wasn’t going to seduce her, after all.

Oh, dear, she was a perilously wicked creature!

“Anna?”

She started at his use of her name.

“Anna, tell me about the book.”

And so she did, not making a great deal of it because it was quite a silly story. She told how Count Nacre had trapped poor Dulcinea on the very eve of her wedding to Roland, and hidden her in the deserted tower of his castle, where he intended to ruin her, thus forcing her to marry him instead.

“And each night he would come to her, intending”—she was blushing again—“intending the worst. But something would always happen to disturb them.” She found the courage to look at him. “It is a little like Scherazade, my lord, except that stupid Dulcinea does nothing to change her fate. She just faints and weeps.”

His lips twitched. “Unlike you.”

Anna’s face was heating again. “I did. Weep.”

“True, and most disconcerting it was, child. But you also smashed me on the head with a heavy glass. I’m sure Dul-cinea could have done the same.”

“Yes, she could. If I ’d been her I would have waited by the door and hit him with a poker as he came in. In fact, I saw nothing in the book to suggest that Dulcinea couldn’t have opened the door from her own side any time she wanted. But you see, she was afraid of the rats.”

He laughed out loud. “Oh, the scorn! Are you not afraid of rats, Anna?”

Something in his manner was causing a new kind of heat, a warmth that came from his relaxed manner and smiling eyes, from his admiration. “I don’t like them, my lord, but if it were rats or Count Nacre, I ’d chance the rats.”

“I’m sure you would. And so the fainting maiden waits patiently for Roland to arrive on his white charger and throw her over his saddlebow.”

“Hardly at the top of a tower, my lord.”

“True. So what did happen?”

Anna settled to telling the story. “Roland confronts Count Nacre in his hall, where they engage mightily with their swords. The contest is equal …”

“How old is Count Nacre?”

“Oh, quite old. At least forty.”

“Ancient,” he remarked dryly. “But then the contest is unlikely to be equal. He probably has the gout.”

“The count is a mighty warrior, my lord, champion of the king. May I continue?”

“I do beg your pardon,” he said unrepentantly. “So they engage mightily with their swords. Do they batter themselves to simultaneous exhaustion?”

“Of course not.”

“Why not? Ah, she frowns at me …”

Anna was indeed frowning, though she was hard-pressed not to giggle. “Because, my lord, the count suddenly comes to a realization of his own wickedness and throws himself upon Roland’s sword.”

He blinked. “How very disconcerting.”

“Hush, my lord!” She bit her lip and pushed gamely on. “Roland races up the tower to Dulcinea …”

“Despite his wounds?”

“Heroes are never wounded. Or not seriously.”

“Then they are hardly very heroic, are they?”

“Have you ever been wounded?” The words popped out before she could control them, fracturing the lighthearted atmosphere. Her eyes fixed on his scar.

“I’m no hero, Anna.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Villains get wounded, too. Proceed with your story or I’ll show you my other wounds, which would move this meeting out of the field of honor, Miss Featherstone.”

Anna was crushingly aware of having been relegated to formality, and swallowed a hint of tears. “Where was I, my lord?”

“Your hero was racing up the tower steps despite his many wounds, and muscles that burned and ached from the mighty battle.”

“So he enters Dulcinea’s chamber, causing her to swoon.”

“Twit. You would have tended his wounds, wouldn’t you?”

“My lord, he wasn’t wounded!”

“How could she tell? He was doubtless covered by the evil count’s blood.”

Anna paused. “That’s true, isn’t it? I didn’t say it was a good story, my lord.”

“Just as well. So, what next? I suppose he has to carry her down the winding stairs. Tricky, that, I should think.”

“Doubtless, especially as an earthquake starts just then …”

“An earthquake? The very earth protesting at the count’s demise? Then he must be the hero, and Roland, vile Roland, a wastrel and a murderer.”

“Nonsense. Roland is the very epitome of a hero. But the stones do begin to tumble around them, and the steps crumble beneath their feet …”

“Whereupon, he slaps her awake and makes her use her feet as they race to safety?”

“Of course not! In fact, she does come out of her swoon …”

“Thank heavens …”

“… But by then they have rats swarming around them, which sends her off again. Please, my lord, don’t make me laugh or I will never finish!”

“There’s more?” he asked, straight-faced, but with eyes full of hilarity. He looked exactly like the portrait.

With difficulty, Anna gathered her wits. “It can hardly end then!”

“I don’t see why not. They can be entombed together as an eternal monument to folly.”

“They manage to survive. Just as they emerge, the tower crumbles, leaving only a heap of stones …”

“And a lot of homeless rats.”

“I don’t think that was mentioned,” she said severely. “The king then arrives …”

“George III?” he queried in astonishment.

“No! King Rudolph of … Oh, I’ve forgotten the country. It’s all made up.”

He raised one brow. “You astonish me, Miss Feather-stone.”

A giggle escaped, but Anna struggled on. “The king has found out that Count Nacre is plotting treason and has come to execute him …”

“How very unlawful. Due process, my dear.”

“… But now he makes Roland Count of Nacre …”

“Whereupon Dulcinea breaks off the match because she refuses to live in a rat-infested castle.”

“The castle wasn’t rat-infested, my lord!”

“It will be now the rats don’t have their cozy tower to live in. Where do you think all those rats went?”

Anna succumbed to laughter. “Oh dear! It is all … all so silly, isn’t it?”

He leaned over and passed her a handkerchief. “Very. Are you truly addicted to these novels, Anna?”

Anna controlled her laughter and wiped her eyes. “Most of them are not as bad as that. Even Mrs. Jamison’s earlier ones were much better, though her heroines did tend to swoon at the drop of a pin.”

“From the little I know of her, Lady Delabury was of much the same temperament.”

Anna made a business of drying her cheeks, considering yet another statement that indicated that the earl and Lady Delabury had not been intimate. Then why on earth had the woman committed suicide in this very room?

He leaned back, sober again and thoughtful, and echoed her thought. “I see nothing in that silly story to explain why the author decided to commit suicide, or why she chose to do so in this room.”

“Perhaps because she’d written such a terrible novel?” Anna clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, how uncharitable!”

He focused his serious features and amused eyes on her. “Quite. And Margaret Delabury thought every word she wrote absolutely perfect. She had just married Delabury, an excellent catch for her, and the poor man was besotted. She had everything.”

He lapsed into thought, and Anna chanced a question. “What was in the note she left, my lord?”

“Some stuff about despair because she could not hold her husband’s affection.”

“He was unfaithful?” Anna asked, knowing she was turning pink at discussing such matters with a gentleman.

“Most unlikely. As I said, he was besotted. One reason I left the country was because fool Delabury was convinced I was his wife’s lover and murderer. Having failed to get me sent to trial, he was intent on calling me out.”

“Oh, my.”

“I did hope that by now he’d found a new bride and no longer felt so keenly on the subject. I have just heard that he is on his way to town with dueling on his mind.”

“Oh, dear!”

“Quite. Which is why I want to solve this mystery.”

“I wish I could help. Truly. But I think I’ve told you all I know.”

He rose to his feet. “I think so, too.” He was suddenly standing quite close to her. “I have enjoyed this, though.”

She looked up at him, delight at their shared amusement still fizzing in her. She had never known an instant bond such as this. “So have I, my lord,” she admitted shyly.

For a moment she thought he had something important to say, but then he turned sharply away. “Would you permit me to glance into your room, Miss Featherstone?”

Anna swallowed her disappointment. “By all means, my lord. I’ve wandered all over your house, so it seems only fair that you should see a little of mine.”

As they went through the door, he said, “It is not at all the same. You should not invite men into your bedroom.”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “For fear that the very sight of my virginal couch will turn them into ravening beasts?”

“Something like that,” he said vaguely, but he was staring around the room. “Good God. The solution is obvious. The woman was mad.”

“A convenient assessment, my lord, but hard to prove.”

“This room is proof.” He poked a finger into the grinning mouth of a gargoyle. “I suppose one could keep small coins and buttons in places like that.”

Anna giggled, but placed her fingers over her lips. “Hush, my lord. I’m not at all sure your voice cannot be heard in other rooms!”

“And that would set the cat among the pigeons, wouldn’t it?” he said softly. He turned to look at her. “Farewell, Anna.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “No more secret meetings?”

“No more secret meetings. It would be very foolish.”

“No one need know …”

“Except us.”

Anna gripped her hands tight together. “I … I like you, my lord.”

There was the merest twitch of his lips, but his eyes looked rather sad. “I like you, too, Anna Featherstone.”

“Well,” said Anna, after swallowing a lump in her throat. “I suppose if you marry Maria, we will meet occasionally.”

“I have no intention of marrying your sister. I’ve only been paying court to her to get access to Maggie.”

“Oh. And that was just because you wanted to know about the secret door.”

“Exactly.”

It was all rather deflating, but that magical time of intimacy and laughter could not be entirely dispelled. Anna gathered her courage and looked up at him. “If you were feeling grateful for my help, you might perhaps … might kiss me once, my lord, with kindness, before you go.”

“Kindness? Was I not kind the other night?”

“It was hard for me to tell. I was very frightened.”

“It may be hard for you to tell now. Why aren’t you frightened?”

Anna considered it. “I trust you.”

“If I were truly kind and trustworthy, Anna, I would leave.” But he held out a hand.

Breath catching in her throat, Anna placed her hand in his, touching him for the first time in weeks. His hand was firm, warm, smooth … All in all, it would be extraordinary if it were anything else, and yet it seemed remarkable to her.

He drew her into his arms and inside she melted into a blend of sadness and wonder.

“It is so unfair,” she said.

He tilted her chin. “What is?”

“That this is wrong.”

She could not read his expression at all. “You do at least know that it is wrong?”

“To be kissing a man in my bedroom? And such a man? I ’d have to be perfectly fluff-witted not to.”

“And fluff-witted is the last description I would put to Anna Featherstone. Too clever by half …”

He kissed her simply on the lips. She was about to protest that the kiss was too brief when he returned to deepen it, teasing her mouth open and bringing the pleasure that had heated her dreams.

When he started to draw away from her, she tightened her arms around him. “Oysters,” she said.

“What?”

“Kissing is like oysters. A bit unpleasant at first, but quite delicious when one is accustomed.”

He laughed then, struggling to be quiet. He rested his head against hers, his shaking running through into her.

She moved her head so her lips found his and swallowed his laughter so that it changed into something else, something even better than before. Her body became involved in the kiss, moving against him as her hands explored—

He pulled away.

When she resisted, he used force.

Anna was abruptly mortified by her behavior, but at least he was none too calm either.

Then his expression became kind, and he brushed some hair from her face. “I do wish you weren’t sixteen, Anna Featherstone.” With that, he slipped back through the doors.

“I will get older,” she whispered, but it was to a closed panel.

Anna undressed, aching with needs she had never imagined but understood perfectly well. He was right, though. The world would be shocked by such a match, and an eligible earl couldn’t be expected to wait years until she was older, and “out.” He would marry someone else, and Anna’s heart would break. But at least it wouldn’t be Maria.

That was cold comfort. Anna sniffed a few tears as she changed into her nightgown and climbed into her chilly, virginal couch.

In the next days, Anna could only be glad that her parents and sister were busily engaged in the height of the Season, for it was beyond her to behave entirely in her normal, prosaic manner.

She was foolishly, idiotically in love. Daydreams filled her head, wild sensations flooded her body, and she could hardly think of anything but the Earl of Carne. She attempted drawings of him, and wrote his name endlessly on pieces of paper—which were hard to dispose of in warm weather when there were no fires except in the kitchen.

She spent entirely too much time sitting by windows hoping to catch a glimpse of him entering or leaving his house. Once or twice he looked thoughtfully at number 9, but she wasn’t sure she could read anything significant into that.

To try to bring some order to her mind, she began again to consider the mystery of Lady Delabury’s death. After all, if Carne was to be believed, the lady’s husband could already be in town looking for an excuse to call the earl out, or perhaps planning to kill him in cold blood!

She was sitting in the drawing room one day scribbling random thoughts on a piece of paper when Maria came in, untying the ribbons of a very fetching blue silk bonnet.

“I confess I am beginning to weary of this constant social round,” she said, with feeling. “We meet the same people everywhere, and everyone talks of the same things.”

“It must grow tiring,” Anna commiserated. “But it will be worth it if you find the ideal husband.”

Maria sighed. “What is an ideal husband? This one is handsome, that one is rich, another is clever, another has exquisite taste …”

“Have you not found anyone to love?” Anna asked. It seemed to her that falling in love was alarmingly easy.

“Oh, love.You are such a romantic, Anna! If you talk of that sort of foolishness, I perhaps favor Mr. Liddell, but he is impossible now his cousin is home, hale and hearty.” She drifted over. “What are you writing?”

Anna said the first thing that came to mind. “A … novel.”

When Maria picked up the piece of paper, Anna almost snatched it back, but she realized in time that to do so would alert her sister to a mystery. She hoped the scattered words would be meaningless. She hadn’t used “Carne” or “De-labury.” In fact, the names she had used had been mainly from Forbidden Affections.

“I’m trying to come up with the plot for one,” she said. Maria did not read novels. She hardly read anything. Surely she wouldn’t recognize the names.

Maria scanned the sheet and suddenly frowned. “It’s not a roman à clef, is it, Anna?”

“No. Why would you think that?”

Maria lost interest and returned the sheet of paper. “Just the name of your hero. Count Nacre. It’s an anagram of Carne. Count Nacre—the Earl of Carne. Since you seemed to take the man in aversion, I thought you might be planning a novel in which he came to a dreadful end. Mother would have the vapors.” With that, she wandered away leaving Anna stunned.

Her brain must have been muddled for weeks not to see that the villain of Forbidden Affections had been the Earl of Carne, the present earl’s father. She wondered if they looked the same, for that would clinch it.

She hurried down to visit the cook, and though it took time to turn the conversation to the old earl, she eventually confirmed her suspicions. The Wicked Earl’s father had been a tall, barrel-chested, dark-visaged man who up to the time of his death had enjoyed hard riding and pugilism. He had been Count Nacre.

She retreated to her room to ponder the implications. Had Lady Delabury been in love with Lord Carne’s son, Roland, and thwarted by the father? Had Forbidden Affections been a novel of revenge?

Or had the lady been trying to reveal to the world that the earl was creeping into her horrid chamber to terrorize her?

But that was nonsense! Lady Delabury herself had ordered the chamber made, and if the earl had come through the secret door—that peculiar secret door—she could easily have complained or nailed it shut.

So what if …

Anna’s mind began to wander strange paths which seemed unlikely but were the only ones to fit the facts.

One thing was clear. She had to discuss this with the earl.

Anna could not be sure of the earl being in his house at any particular hour. She could only plan to take up vigil once her family left for the evening, hoping to see Lord Carne come home before she fell asleep.

A snarl in this plan developed during the afternoon as her family sat together in the drawing room.

Her father addressed Maria. “We are well into June, my dear; and must soon be returning home. Is it not about time I started to encourage one of your eager suitors?”

Maria blushed. “I am undecided, Papa.”

“I can quite see that you’re spoiled for choice,” he teased. “But the old saying is ‘Out of sight, out of mind.’ If we return home with you unspoken-for, they might turn their eyes elsewhere.”

“If I am so easily forgotten, perhaps I should be.”

Anna so heartily agreed with that sentiment that it took her a moment to realize how strangely it sat on Maria’s lips, who thought no one should ever forget her. She looked up from her book and realized that Maria was quite agitated.

“Now, now, my love,” said Lady Featherstone. “We do not intend to pressure you. But you must have some notion of where your favor lies.”

Maria looked down and said nothing so that an awkward silence developed.

It was as much to break that silence as to tease that Anna said, “It seems to me that Maria favors Mr. Liddell if she favors anyone.”

Maria’s delicious color blossomed even as Lady Feath-erstone’s face became pinched. Sir Jeffrey merely looked thoughtful.

“Maria!” exclaimed Lady Featherstone. “You have an earl seeking your hand. Surely you cannot be so foolish …”

“Hush, my dear,” said Sir Jeffrey. “We do not look only at rank, surely. Maria, do you favor Mr. Liddell?”

Maria’s fingers were knotted in the trim of her embroidered tunic. “I truly don’t know, Papa. But … but I cannot seem to find interest in any of the other gentlemen, excellent though they are.”

“Well, really!” snapped Lady Featherstone. “I never thought you to be so … so ungoverned in your affections! I have told you over and over that a girl can fix her affections where she should if she but puts her mind to it. I forbid it! I forbid you to even speak to the man again.”

Maria leapt to her feet. “How can you be so cruel! If his horrid cousin had been dead, you would have been delighted to see me wed to him. How is it different?”

“It is a title and eighty thousand a year different, my girl! Believe me, Maria, you are not cut out to live in a cottage doing your own laundry.”

“It would hardly come to that. David has nearly a thousand pounds a year.”

“David, is it?”

“Hush, my love,” said Sir Jeffrey. “Let us not wrangle over it. This requires thought and calm debate. Maria, I am saddened that you have tried to conceal the state of your feelings.”

Maria was weeping now, very prettily. “Oh, Papa, I have not been deceitful. Truly I haven’t. I thought I could grow fond of Lord Whelksham, or Lord Harlowe. It is only now in talking of it that I realize how I feel about David.”

Her father rose to hug her. “It is well that we know the truth. Now, I’m not saying I will consent, for like your mother I have qualms. But we will all think over it. I am sure it will be wise for us to make our apologies and stay home tonight, and perhaps you and Anna would be better for having a quiet meal in your rooms.”

Anna met her father’s eyes with a quizzical expression, and humor tugged at his lips before being controlled. She dutifully accompanied her sister upstairs.

Maria collapsed into a chair. “Oh, Anna, what will become of me?”

“I suspect you’ll end up married to Mr. Liddell if you truly want it.”

“Mama will oppose it with all her strength!” Maria declared, reminding Anna all too much of Dulcinea in despair.

“Mama will come to see reason once the first shock is past. But have you truly considered the practicalities?”

“I love him!”

Anna felt like Horatio facing overwhelming odds, but she set herself to trying to lead Maria into a logical consideration of her future. “You have always wanted a fine country estate, Maria.”

“I am sure David will have one in time.”

“How?”

Maria’s eyes shifted. “If his cousin should die …”

Anna’s heart tightened painfully. “Lord Carne seems very healthy.”

“Healthy men die. In duels, for example. I understand there may be a duel.”

Anna moved slightly backward. “Maria, you can’t wish for someone’s death. That is wicked!”

Her sister’s lips tightened. “He was supposed to be dead. And he is a murderer.”

“Oh, nonsense.”

“You can’t know that. Why are you so hot in his defense?”

Anna controlled herself. “I feel sure that old story is mostly rumor and exaggeration. Maria, if you marry Mr. Liddell you must accept that you will be marrying him as he is, and as he can be. He seems personable and intelligent. I’m sure he can work his way up to a comfortable situation, perhaps even into being awarded a title one day.”

Anna had not actually intended this to be a daunting speech—it wouldn’t have daunted her—but Maria paled. “That could take years!”

“Yes.”

“Oh, go away! I don’t see that you have any right to lecture me so. You think you are so clever but you know nothing about the way the world works. Nothing!”

Anna saw that her attempts to help could drive Maria into the vapors, so she left and took up her post by her window watching number 10. More than ever she wanted a word with the earl. It clearly was important to try to solve the death of Lady Delabury, but she also wasn’t sure it was beyond Mr. Liddell to plot his cousin’s murder.

Lord Carne must be warned.

Unfortunately, what she saw was the earl leaving his house with a friend, dressed for the evening.

The two men waited at the curb, presumably for his carriage, for the earl wore only light shoes. He must be going to a ball later, perhaps after the theater.

Anna sighed, wishing she were going with him, trying to imagine what it would be like to dance with him. He was very agile and graceful, so he must be a good dancer. She imagined spinning in a waltz with him and then, at the end, being wickedly pulled into his arms and kissed. She was sure he was bold enough to defy convention in that way …

She sank her head in her hands, alarmed at the physical response she felt at the mere thought.

When she looked up, he was gone.

Doubtless he’d be out until the early hours. Anna took her dinner by the window; then when she was ready for bed she sat there to read a book, just on the chance that he would come home.

When he did, she almost missed him. He didn’t return in the carriage, and she was absorbed by Mr. Arnold’s Travels in North Africa. Some sixth sense, perhaps, made her look up just in time to see Lord Carne turn toward his house and go in.

Anna’s heart immediately started to pound and her hands went clammy. There was nothing she wanted more than to be with the earl again, but she feared he wouldn’t be best pleased to see her, and wouldn’t like the subject she wanted to discuss.

She must be resolute, though. She slipped into her gown and spencer, not forgetting the armor of stockings and shoes, and went to open the secret door.

The door did not move.

The other side was blocked!

She pushed harder and the door gave a little but was reinforced by an obstacle. The earl had done as she had once, and placed something against it. What, though? If it was an armoire, she would never get through.

She had blocked her door in fear of her virtue. She stifled a giggle at the thought of the earl barricading the door for the same reason. Then she decided it wasn’t funny. He’d doubtless blocked the door because he did not want her to use it. He would not be pleased to see her.

Anna pushed again, increasing the pressure until the obstacle moved. Ah, not too substantial an object. Probably a very solid chair. As with her bench, its main deterrence would be noise, but unless the earl had moved into this room there was a chance that no one would hear it.

She pushed as hard as she could, and with a trundling noise the chair moved enough to let her through.

“Hah!” she said, and triumphantly moved the chair to another spot farther down the wall. Then, breathing heavily from her exertions, she stopped to listen. She didn’t think that noise would have alerted anyone, and in a moment, peace told her it had not.

Now her only problem was to decide how to find the earl in a house still awake and equipped with servants. She thought of returning to her room to wait for later, but she was afraid that Lord Carne might have only returned home for a short while.

So, she would have to be brave and venturesome.

Anna opened the bedroom door a tiny chink, feeling very different from that first time when it had all seemed like a wonderful game. The dangers were greater now, and she also knew this wasn’t a game. She very much feared she had passed over into a new world, an adult world, where what one did could have grave consequences. With a sigh, she looked out into the corridor.

The landing around the central stairs was completely deserted, but the feel of the house was different. It was inhabited now. She heard the ticking of clocks and, faint in the distance, noise of the servants in the basement. On the end posts of the staircase, oil lamps flickered against the time when the setting sun brought gloom.

This part of the house seemed safe, but the earl was probably in his library, which meant she must go down to the lower floor. Anna crept along the carpet runner, praying that no board creaked. As she passed one door a noise froze her in midstep. Faint, slight, unidentifiable, it told her someone was there.

She let out the breath she had been holding. From her previous exploration she knew this was one of the major bedrooms, and likely to be used by Lord Carne. If someone was in it, it was either the earl or a servant. The chances were that it was the earl, though it easily could be both …

She contemplated the mahogany panels and decided that she must either open this door or return to her own room. No other choice was logical.

She turned the knob and walked in.

“What is it?” asked Lord Carne sharply, and turned.

They stood frozen for a second, he by her unexpected appearance, she by the fact that he was only wearing his tight dark pantaloons.

Then he moved swiftly past her to shut the door. “What the devil are you doing here?”

“I had to speak to you!” Anna swiftly turned her gaze to a still life on the wall, but the image of his body was imprinted in her brain. She’d never seen a real muscular male torso before in her life, and the wonder of it had her dizzy—golden, contoured like the finest classical statue …

“Why?”

She had to turn back. When she did, he had pulled on a shirt. That helped her equanimity, but no one could think he was pleased with her. “I … I’ve been thinking about Lady Delabury, and the novel, and everything …”

“Yes?” Then before she could answer, he said, “Damnation. It’s not much past nine. Surely someone might check on you.”

“Not usually.”

“It would be just our luck.” He grasped her wrist and pulled her toward the door.

“Stop! What—”

“Be quiet and come along.”

Since he’d already towed her into the corridor, Anna had little chance but to be quiet; however, inside she was seething. He was going to throw her back into her room and nail the door shut without giving her a chance to explain her thoughts.

At the secret door he stopped and let her go. “All looks well.”

“I told you so!” she snapped, rubbing her wrist.

“Did I hurt you? I’m sorry. But I’ve no mind to be entangled in another scandal.” His tone was courteous, but merely the courtesy he would give a stranger.

An intrusive stranger.

Anna felt rather sick, but she spoke up. “I do need to talk to you, my lord.”

He leaned back against the wall. “Talk, then. But keep your ears open. If it seems anyone might enter your room, dash in and shut the door. If they see the door you can claim to have just discovered it.”

Though she was still rather cross with him, Anna had to admit that made sense, and moved into her room. “Count Nacre is an anagram of Lord Carne,” she whispered.

“Of course.”

She stared at him. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“It didn’t strike me immediately.”

Anna frowned at him. “And perhaps you didn’t want anyone to know?”

He looked at her sharply, and he may even have colored, though that could just be the setting sun shining through her lace curtains. “You really are too sharp for your own good, Anna.”

She swallowed and said the awful words. “Your father was Lady Delabury’s lover.”

After a moment he said, “Then why did she make him the villain of the book?”

Anna had worked out a rationale. “I think the affair must have been over, and it was a kind of blackmail. She was threatening your father that she had merely to direct her husband’s attention to the novel for him to guess the truth. But she couldn’t make him the hero. He was too old. So she made him the villain. I realized that was what was wrong with the book. Even though Count Nacre is supposed to be the villain, Dulcinea is … is too drawn to him. It’s difficult to believe she truly wants to escape.”

“Too clever by half indeed. How do you come to understand these things?”

“I read a lot.”

“I always knew it was a mistake to allow women to read.” But he smiled slightly and the barriers between them were lower.

“Did your father kill her?”

“It was looked into. He was in Norfolk at the time.”

“Oh.” Anna had forgotten that. Also, she felt she had walked into a wall, the wall of his reticence. She chipped away anyway. “Was it a true suicide, then? There was the note.”

“A dose of laudanum and a note was exactly in Lady De-labury’s style. Suicide wasn’t. She thought herself much too important to leave before her time. Look, Anna, I know this must tantalize you, but I want you to leave it alone.”

“But what of Lord Delabury? He’s going to call you out!”

“He already has. That’s why I came home. He threw a glass of wine at me in White’s.”

Anna gasped and clutched his shirt. “No!”

He touched her cheek fleetingly. “Hush. Our seconds did their appointed duties for once. We managed to have a discussion and it is all sorted out.”

“Oh, thank God. But how? How did you convince him? Did you tell him about your father?”

He sighed and freed his shirt from her grasp. “He knew. Or suspected.” He had not released her hands. “Delabury’s belief that his wife was unfaithful had been a source of contention throughout their marriage, though his suspicions had naturally fallen on younger men such as myself, especially as such types were always the heroes of her novels. It was only after her death that he began to wonder about my father. He didn’t want to accept it. He, too, is a bit of a romantic and he doesn’t much care for the fact that his wife preferred a man twice his age, and … My father was a hard-drinking, hard-riding old rip, if you want the truth. Delabury found a journal of hers. It named no names but made it clear that part of the charm of her lover was his domination and roughness … Good Lord, I should not be speaking of such things to you!”

He began to move away, but Anna held on to his hands and he did not fight free. “Don’t worry, my lord. I have read Greek tragedies. I suppose this explains why she was in your father’s bedchamber. She wanted to frighten him back into the affair. Or perhaps just experience more of his roughness,” she added thoughtfully, causing Lord Carne to raise his brows. “But this still doesn’t explain why she died.”

“Perhaps she simply miscalculated her dose …”

“Or perhaps someone forced her to take more. But who …?”

He switched his grip so he was holding her hands, controlling her. “The main thing is that Delabury accepts that I lacked sufficient reason to kill her.”

“Sufficient? You lacked all reason!”

“Did I? The woman was flirting with me, and generally doing her damnedest to make it look as if we were having an affair. This and possibly other suspicions were upsetting my mother, who was not well even then. That in turn was upsetting my father, for in his own way he cared for my mother. I suspect that was the reason he ended the affair, and that was why Lady Delabury staged her suicide. He was expected back that night and should have found her in his bed. But he took ill just before leaving home. My mother came back alone, since she had commitments in town. It was she who found the body.”

A blinding certainty struck Anna. She stared at him, and even opened her mouth, but then balked at putting it into words.

“Wise Anna,” he murmured.

She remembered the blithe young man of the portrait and wanted to cry. “But you went abroad. For so long!”

“It was no great hardship. In fact,” he added with the ghost of a boyish grin, “I enjoyed it immensely. But you are right. In the beginning I left England to avoid Delabury, who was a lot less rational then than now.”

“Because you knew that in such a case your mother would come forward—”

He laid his fingers over her lips. “Remain wise, Anna. It’s over now. All it will ever be is an unsolved mystery.”

“People will still talk.”

“A fig for gossips.” He moved away then, and began to leave.

“Can I ask just one more question?”

He halted warily. “Yes, though I don’t promise to answer it.”

“How did your father die? It was within days of Lady Delabury’s death.”

His features hardened. “The event killed him. Perhaps his sickness had been more serious than we thought, but I don’t think so. As soon as he had word of Lady Delabury’s death, he rushed to London. His heart gave out on the way.”

“I have another question.”

His lips twitched. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“I don’t understand Lady Delabury. Her husband was apparently young, handsome, and in love with her. Why was she having an affair with an elderly man? And what did she hope to gain from her mock suicide?”

“I’m pleased to see that some human behavior still perplexes you, Anna. My father at the time was only forty-five. That may seem ancient to you, but he was a fine figure of a man. One could ask rather why she married Delabury at all.” He looked into the distance. “She wanted marriage, I think. She wanted a title. I suspect she was rather naive. She lived quietly with her parents before her marriage, then married someone very like the heroes of her novels. I’m sure she thought she would find the blissful happiness that occurred at the end of her stories, but instead was rather disappointed. Then she met my father and discovered she was a woman who finds older men attractive. Moreover, she found adoration boring and challenge stimulating.”

“That seems very strange to me.”

He smiled at her. “So it should. You, of course, have daydreams about handsome young gallants with pure hearts and the most noble of intentions.”

She had daydreams about him, but she muttered, “I suppose so.”

“Is the mystery solved to your satisfaction?”

Anna touched the door. “I’m still not quite sure how they had this made without raising suspicion.”

“Delabury still has no idea about the door, but I asked him about the room. Apparently Lady Delabury asked that such a room be made and he agreed. She even specified the firm to do the work. That firm was the one regularly employed by my father, so it must have been collusion. He was clearly infatuated beyond all sense …”

When he broke off, she feared he would not complete the tale, but he carried on. “At the same time that this room was made, he had renovations done to his house, including his bedroom. I talked to the builder, who still has responsibility for the maintenance of the terrace. It was simply a matter of keeping mouths shut about a little extra detail in the work. Straightforward enough for the builder in return for the job of looking after all the earldom’s property in London.”

“Oh. It is rather disappointing that in the end everything turns out to be so rational and lacking in drama.”

He shook his head, smiling. “There’s been enough drama for me, I assure you. You would rather I be meeting De-labury at dawn?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“I suppose I ’d rather there was a wicked villain to suffer an appropriately grisly fate.”

“But this is life, not a novel, Anna, and there’s trouble enough in the world without looking for more. Certainly no good would be served by dragging my invalid mother before the courts.” He stepped backward. “Now, this time it really is farewell, Anna. I don’t want to risk suspicion by having the builders in to seal this door, but I will if I have to. I want your word that you will not use it again under any circumstances.”

Anna gathered her courage. “I love you, you know.”

He met her eyes. “I hope you don’t. It is—”

“Just infatuation,” she completed bitterly. “A girl of my age is capable of love, you know. In the past, girls were married younger than sixteen!”

He put his hand hard over her mouth. “Hush. Unless it is your plan to have us discovered.”

Anna went hot and red. “How dare you!” she whispered when he released her. “I would never sink to that.”

“No, of course you wouldn’t. My apologies, Anna. But you must recognize that the world would have a collective case of the vapors at the thought of our marriage. I’m fourteen years older than you, theoretically old enough to be your father, and have lived those fourteen years to the full.”

“And do such things matter to you?”

“They would matter to your father, I’m sure.”

“Are you saying you would marry me if my father consented?”

She did not see him move, but it felt as if he had stepped farther away from her. “Anna, stop this. There is no question of marriage between us. Our meetings have been pleasant, but that’s as far as it goes. You will get over your current insanity and in time you will meet a suitable young gentleman and be—”

To salvage some of her pride, Anna stepped back and closed the door in his face. Then she sat down and won a battle with tears. He was doubtless right. In time it would not seem so tragic. Thank heavens that she, unlike Maria, would have a few years to recover from her own forbidden affection.

She got up and blew her nose fiercely. In two years time when she entered Society with marriage in mind she would have entirely forgotten the Earl of Carne. It would be much more sensible anyway to marry a man closer to her own age. When she was in her prime, Lord Carne would be a gouty ancient.

She blew her nose again.

Then she heard the screams.

She dashed out into the corridor, then headed toward the noise coming from downstairs. A servant, she assumed, but in some terrible distress.

It was Maria—a tattered, bruised, hysterical Maria.

Lord and Lady Featherstone were already with her, helping her into the drawing room.

“He hit me!” she gasped between sobs. “He hit me!”

Sir Jeffrey glanced around. “Anna, get some brandy.” He looked back to his older daughter. “Who hit you? Where were you? What have you been doing?”

“Hush, Featherstone,” said his wife, dabbing at Maria’s dirty, bruised face with her lace handkerchief. “Oh, poor darling. Water. We need water. Who did this to you?”

Maria stared at her mother a moment as if lost for words. Then she said, “Lord Carne! It was Lord Carne. I went out into the garden, and he tried to … I fought him … Lord Carne.”

There was a gasp from the hovering servants. Anna gasped, too, then dazedly brought over the glass of brandy. Sir Jeffrey made Maria drink a little.

Anna studied her disheveled sister, wondering what on earth was going on.

Maria coughed as the fiery spirit went down, but it seemed to calm her, so that she could lie back on the sofa. With a chill, Anna saw that one of the sleeves of her sister’s gown was hanging loose, and it seemed someone had slashed the front so that it gaped, almost showing her breasts.

A servant arrived with a bowl of warm water and a cloth and Lady Featherstone began to wipe her face. “Now, Maria, you must tell us exactly what happened to you.”

Maria’s eyes were still wide with what looked like terror. “He attacked me!”

“Lord Carne?”

Maria closed her eyes and nodded.

“When?” Anna demanded urgently. She couldn’t believe he had done such a thing.

“Just now,” Maria said. “What a stupid question!”

Anna had a moment to consider, to contemplate keeping silent. A moment to consider all the consequences. She swallowed. “Then it wasn’t Lord Carne.”

“Oh, do be silent, Anna,” snapped her mother. “You can know nothing of all this.”

“Yes, I can. Because just now Lord Carne was with me.”

Everyone stared at her. Then her father said, “Anna, this is no time for fairy stories.”

“It’s not a fairy story, Papa. He was with me.”

“Where? I do see that you are dressed for the outdoors rather than for bed.”

Anna thought she’d considered the implications, but the avid looks on the faces of the gawking servants made her want to hide.

Her father went swiftly to close the doors. “Where, Anna?”

“In my bedroom,” she whispered.

Lady Featherstone gave a small scream, and Maria said, “To speak of liars! How on earth would the Earl of Carne get into your bedroom, you foolish girl?”

“There’s a secret door.”

Her father shook his head. “Anna, my dear, I fear you are letting your imagination run away with you. This is not a novel but a very serious situation …”

“I’m telling the truth! If you come up to my room, I will show you. As for the earl, you will have to believe me. We did nothing wrong. We were discussing the mystery of Lady Delabury’s death.”

“Discussing …?” Her father rose to his feet. “Very well, miss, I will come and see this secret door. But if it is not there, there will be no more novel-reading for you.”

Anna knew that proving the door was real was the least of her problems, but she led the way through huddled, whispering servants to her room.

Having a man in her bedroom was enough to ruin her. It was enough to force a marriage …

Was her tiny thrill of excitement at that thought very wicked?

Yes, it was. She had never thought to trap the earl like that, and she would not let it happen.

Once in her room, Lady Featherstone shuddered. “Poor Anna. It is this room that has disordered your wits! I knew I should never have allowed you to sleep here.”

“My wits are not disordered, Mama. This room is a replica of one in a novel called Forbidden Affections by Mrs. Jamison, who was also Lady Delabury …”

This summoned fresh exclamations from Lady Feather-stone. Maria, however, was looking paler, and even more frantic.

“Oh, this is such nonsense,” she gasped. “Don’t listen to her …”

“In the novel,” Anna continued, already having some terrible thoughts about her sister, “the heroine’s room had a secret door. I looked to see if this one had the same door.” She went to the fireplace and used the lever, then swung the door open. “And it does.”

“Good Lord!” said her father. “But surely it doesn’t …”

“It opens into the room where Lady Delabury died.” Anna pushed open the door, noting sadly that the earl had trusted her word and not replaced the chair. At least he wasn’t there.

Maria had collapsed onto the chaise, and both she and Lady Featherstone were staring at Anna in horror.

“How long have you known about this?” Anna’s mother demanded.

“Since the first night we were here,” Anna admitted.

“And you have left a way for that man to creep into this house without saying a word? You foolish girl. We could all have been murdered in our beds!”

“He didn’t murder Lady Delabury!”

“Oh, you poor, misguided child. What has he been doing to you?”

“Yes,” said Maria spitefully. “What has he been doing to you, since you seem so eager to lie to protect him.”

“Well, Anna?” asked her father quietly as he closed the door.

“He’s done nothing,” Anna protested, determined to avoid entangling Lord Carne in just the scandal he’d wanted to avoid. “The earl didn’t know about this door himself until I told him. And he didn’t want me to use it. He even put a chair to block it, but I pushed it out of the way tonight because I wanted to talk to him about Lady Delabury’s death. He made me promise never to use the door again.”

“If true, that shows some sense. It would have been rather better, however, if the earl had come to me to tell me of this foolishness.” He turned to Maria. “So, what does this make of your story, miss?”

“I’ve told the truth,” said Maria stubbornly. “It’s clear to me that Anna has been behaving most improperly. She’s become infatuated with the earl and will say anything to protect him from the consequences of his wickedness. I don’t believe for a moment that tonight was their first meeting.”

Sir Jeffrey turned to Anna. “Well?”

Damn Maria. “I never said it was. I … I know it was wrong, Papa, but I couldn’t resist exploring a little. When we first arrived here, number 10 was empty. Then the earl returned and caught me.”

“Maggie!” exclaimed her father. “Did you really hit him with something, Anna?”

Anna hung her head and nodded, praying desperately that no one would ask why she had hit him.

“Why did you do such a thing, Anna?” asked her mother.

Anna tried desperately to think of a clever story that would cover all the elements of the situation, and failed. All she could do was mute the truth. “He … he thought I was a servant, and he was a little foxed. He tried to kiss me …”

“There, see?” said Maria triumphantly. “He is in the habit of attacking defenseless females. When I think on it, I smelled brandy about him tonight.”

“Maria, he wasn’t in the garden tonight,” Anna said.

“So,” said her father, “having escaped, you never went into the house again until tonight?”

Anna tried to pronounce the lie, but couldn’t and knew her color was betraying her.

“Anna. The full story, please. What has been going on?”

Anna sat down, for her legs were beginning to feel rather unsteady. “I did go into number 10 one other time to meet him. He asked me to.”

“How, pray?” demanded Lady Featherstone. “How could you speak to such a man, or receive messages from him?”

“It was at the tea party when he was talking about maids-of-honor.” She could see her mother did not understand at all, and looked at her father. “It was a sort of code, Papa. But I understood.”

“But why would you think of going, Anna, when he had assaulted you?”

“He told me I could trust him.”

Lady Featherstone exclaimed, but Anna saw some understanding in her father’s eyes. “And what happened?” he asked.

“The earl had realized who Maggie must be, and that there was a secret door. He was trying to find out what had happened to Lady Delabury.” Anna meticulously went through their discussion and conclusions.

“And that was all?” her father asked at last.

Anna nodded, but she could feel the betraying heat rise in her cheeks.

“Anna?”

She looked up. “He kissed me.” When her mother exclaimed, she added, “I asked him to!”

“And is that all he did?” her father asked.

“Yes. Truly, Papa!”

He nodded. “I believe you. You have been very foolish, my dear, but the blame goes to him, a man old enough to know better who has taken advantage of your innocence.”

Anna thought this dreadfully unfair, but knew that to say so would make matters worse.

“But you do see, Papa, that Maria must be mistaken, for tonight I was speaking to the earl here, in the doorway, when she thought he was attacking her.”

Sir Jeffrey turned to Maria. “Well?”

“She’s lying,” said Maria mulishly. “She’s lying about everything. He’s probably ruined her.”

Lady Featherstone added to this. “What reason could Maria possibly have for lying? And it is clear that someone assaulted her.”

Anna didn’t want to do it, but she had to speak up. “I think it is something to do with Mr. Liddell.”

Maria’s face gave her away.

“Maria?” asked her father.

Maria sat in silence, hands clasped tight together.

“Maria?” asked her mother, disbelievingly. “Did Mr. Liddell do this to you?”

“It was Lord Carne … It was!” But then Maria took refuge in hysterics, and with an aghast look at her husband, Lady Featherstone led her away.

Sir Jeffrey looked at Anna. “You’ve been playing in deep waters, Pippin.”

His disappointment brought tears to prick at her eyes. “I’m sorry, Papa.”

“Are you really? If you had your time again, would you change your behavior?”

Anna considered it and sighed. “No, Papa.”

“I suspect you fancy yourself in love, Anna.”

Anna blew her nose. “It’s all right, Papa. The earl thinks me every bit as much of a foolish child as you do.”

“I doubt that, Pippin. If he did, he would surely have spoken to me about this.”

Her father turned to leave, and Anna said, “Papa! You won’t say anything to him, will you? It wasn’t his fault!”

“I hardly think Lord Carne needs your protection, Pippin. This is a man’s matter. I certainly will have to speak to him, since you unwisely spoke up in front of the servants. Moreover, I fear he may be in danger of mischief.”

“Oh, yes, do warn him, Papa! And I thought Mr. Liddell quite a sensible sort of man when I met him.”

“Young women like Maria can deprive the wisest men of their senses. It seems you have that power, too.” He opened the door, then turned back, truly stern. “And you are not to use that door, Anna. Not even to warn the frail and sensitive earl of the impending visitation of an irate father. Yes?”

“Yes, Papa.” They shared a smile, since it was ridiculous to think that the earl could not handle her father’s annoyance.

She ran into her father’s arms. “Papa, I do love you so. Many fathers might not have believed my innocence.”

He hugged her back. “I know you, Pippin, and I’m sure you’re a match for any man, no matter how rascally.”

“He’s not a rascal, Papa.”

“We won’t argue about that, if you please. But he is not the man for you, my dear. You must believe that.”

“Very well, Papa.”

As she prepared again for bed, Anna fought against tears. She knew there was no hope that Lord Carne would marry her, but that didn’t stop her heart from bleeding. She also felt as if she had betrayed their secret, no matter how good the reason.

Moreover, she and Lord Carne had parted coolly, with him out of patience with her. This turn of events would hardly improve matters. She did want him to like her at least …

But thankfully he would be warned about his perfidious cousin.

The next day, the Featherstone establishment was as somber as if a death had occurred. Maria remained in her room, attended by her mother and Martha. Sir Jeffrey paid a visit to number 10 and then retreated to his study. Anna attempted to lose herself in reading and failed miserably. A careful watch of the street did not catch Lord Carne leaving his house.

As the hours passed she lost patience and went to knock on her father’s door. At his permission, she entered.

“Did you speak to the earl, Papa?”

Her father appeared abstracted and solemn. “Yes, Anna. He freely admitted his fault in encouraging you to use that door, and he was deeply shocked by his cousin’s behavior.”

“What will he do?”

Her father raised his brows. “He had no need to tell me that, and I no cause to ask. I am sure he is a man capable of handling these matters.”

“Oh, poor Maria.”

“Oh, poor Maria if she were to marry Liddell, Anna. Sit down.”

Not liking his tone, Anna sat gingerly on a hard wooden chair.

“Anna, I have told the servants that you were out in the garden with Maria, and that you ventured into the mews and met the earl there. He agrees to support that story. Your rashness in speaking up before the servants could have caused a scandal, though.”

“I’m sorry, Papa. But I could not let Maria’s accusation stand.”

“I realize that. With a little thought, however, you could have held your tongue until we were private.”

“But then the servants would have believed her.”

Sir Jeffrey shook his head. “The earl’s reputation could bear another dent, I think. And if we continued on good terms, no one would believe the worst.”

“But that wouldn’t be fair, Papa!”

“Oh, Anna … Fighting for justice is very dangerous, you know.”

“Do you say we shouldn’t?”

He smiled. “No, I cannot say that. But any parent wants a smooth path for their children’s feet. However,” he said more briskly, “you need a stern talking-to, young lady. You are too trusting. The earl, had he been a different sort of man, could have abused you quite dreadfully, and your rash behavior would have largely been to blame.”

Anna was inclined to argue on both counts, but decided submissive silence was the wise course.

“Mr. Liddell is a handsome man with a smooth social manner, and thus both you and Maria found him attractive and pleasing. The earl could well have been another of the same stamp.”

“I wouldn’t say Lord Carne had a smooth social manner when I first met him.”

“The less said of that, the better, miss.”

Anna blushed, wondering just what her father knew, or guessed. “I would like to know exactly what happened this morning, Papa.”

“I’m sure you would, Miss Curiosity.” He flashed her an intent look. “The earl expressed a wish to meet with you in more normal circumstances, and he seemed to feel you were entitled to an explanation of it all …”

Anna’s heart began to beat a little faster.

“I have been considering the matter, and cannot see that it will do harm. Do you wish to meet him?”

Anna suppressed a wild yes and said demurely, “I would dearly love to know exactly what went on, Papa.”

Her father was clearly not bamboozled, but he wrote a brief note and rang for a servant to deliver it next door.

In a few minutes, Lord Carne entered the study.

Anna stared at him anxiously, wondering if he would be angry, but he smiled. “I understand I have to thank you for defending my honor, Anna.”

Anna glanced between the two men, feeling the strangeness of the situation. “I’m sorry if it caused trouble.”

“I’m sure it caused less than it saved. Your father was quite forbearing in the circumstances.”

“Largely,” said Sir Jeffrey, “because of my belief in Anna’s good sense. Please be seated, Carne.”

The earl sat quite close to Anna, reminding her of that meeting in the bedroom, when they had shared laughter and a depth of understanding that still lingered in her heart. She lowered her eyes to her clasped hands. Don’t make a fool of yourself, Anna. This is the earl.

She looked up. “So, my lord. You are going to explain it to me?”

“Can anyone explain the insanity of love? My cousin, desperate for your sister, decided to do away with me. His clever plan was to incite poor Delabury to challenge me. When that failed, he rushed over here, where he had arranged a tryst with your sister.”

“Maria had arranged to meet him in the garden? She must have been besotted.”

“How true. He needed some way to re-agitate Delabury, and hit upon the notion of having me supposedly attack Maria. David would inform Delabury, pointing out that my rank would prevent justice being done, but that he could rid the world of a villain. We’ll never know if it would have worked, thanks to you.”

“I could almost feel sorry for your cousin if he hadn’t hit her.”

“It does show a baser side, does it not? But it had a good effect in that it truly shocked your sister. She stuck with her story at first because she could see nothing else to do, but I gather she no longer wants anything to do with my cousin. You’ll be pleased to know he is to leave England. I have some business interests in Morocco and he will take care of them for me. If he does well he could make his fortune. If he tries any tricks, I fear he will come to a sticky end. As he will if he returns to England in the next ten years.”

“You’re ruthless …”

“When I need to be, yes.”

Anna stared at him, storing him in her heart, for she could sense the farewell approaching like a cloud on a summer’s day.

The earl rose. “Any more questions?”

When will I see you again?

Do you care for me at all?

Are you hurting now as I am?

Anna shook her head and stood, too. “No, my lord. I think all is finally explained.”

“As I gather from your father that you will shortly be leaving town, I think this is farewell.”

Anna glanced at her father, who said, “There is no purpose in staying, Anna, and Maria needs the peace of the country, I think.”

Anna turned back to the earl, and despite her watching father said, “We have said farewell before, my lord.”

“This time, it is real.” He took her hand and kissed it lightly. “Good-bye, Anna. One day, a hero is going to be very fortunate in his heroine.” With that he nodded to her father and left.

The next day, as the hired chaise rolled away from number 9, Carne Terrace, Anna refused to look back, but she allowed herself to imagine the Wicked Earl emerging disheveled from number 10 to stare haggardly after the departing vehicle.

It helped Anna’s sanity to be back home. There was nothing to remind her of Lord Carne, and if memories intruded, she could push them back with summertime activities.

She had her friends to visit again, and to tell of the excitements in London. Though it was tempting, she did not tell any of them—not even her closest friend, Harriet Northam—about the secret door and the earl. She did tell her that the house had once belonged to Mrs. Jamison, author of some of their favorite novels, and that was enough of a thrill in itself.

Since it was July, her brothers were home to bother and distract her, and the garden provided work. The Feather-stone children were expected to help there, doing such things as picking fruit and weeding. Long days and good weather bred abundant social activities such as walking, riding, angling, and parties both formal and informal.

Maria soon regained her bloom, and being Maria, soon forgot the less fortunate parts of her London experience. Her spirits revived amazingly when Lord Whelksham contrived a visit to a nearby house, clearly with the sole intention of pursuing his ardent courtship.

Anna believed she had put folly behind her and achieved a return to her pleasant, unadventurous life until she was summoned to her father’s study one morning.

“Yes, Papa?”

He was standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back, in his serious-consideration pose. He turned slowly. “Anna, we have a visitor.”

Anna looked around, but saw no one.

“He is in the garden. It is the Earl of Carne.”

Anna’s heart immediately began a mad dance that threatened to deprive her of her senses. Six weeks of conscientious common sense were wiped away in an instant.

“What does he want?” she asked, compelled to sink into a seat.

Her father laughed and shook his head. “For an intelligent, mature man he was remarkably confused upon the subject. He claims to be only passing by, though I am not clear as to his destination. He wants to speak with you, though I don’t know about what.”

Anna bounced up again. “Then I should go into the garden?”

“I doubt that will do you any harm, my dear.”

“Oh.” Suddenly nervous, Anna straightened her skirts. She wished she were in something better than an ordinary printed muslin. She wished her hair wasn’t in a plait … But her encounters with Lord Carne had not been marked by elegance, and he presumably didn’t care what a schoolroom miss looked like.

She caught a twinkle in her father’s eye and blushed. “What should I say, Papa?”

He frowned as if in heavy thought. “You could try, ‘Good day, Lord Carne. How kind of you to call.’”

Anna giggled. “Papa, what does he want?”

“You’ll have to ask him, Pippin. But if he asks you to marry him, you should know that I will not oppose the match, even though you are so young.”

“Marry …” Anna whispered, her suppressed hopes bubbling wildly and turning abruptly into blind terror.

“You have been very sensible about it all, Anna, but I have no doubt you formed an attachment. The fact that the earl is here—and we are not on the road to anywhere of significance—implies that perhaps he has, too. You are young, but in many ways you are more mature than Maria. I leave the decision up to you. And I may be wrong, Anna. He may not put such a question at all. Off you go, my dear, and find out.”

Anna wandered out of the room in a daze, half-tempted to run and hide under her bed to avoid a meeting for which she was ill-prepared. She didn’t even know anymore if she wanted to marry the earl, who had become an almost dreamlike person in her mind. Perhaps he wasn’t as handsome. Perhaps they didn’t share the same sense of the ridiculous. Perhaps he would seem old …

On such a sunny day, she really should find a bonnet, but a part of her was so anxious to see him again that her feet found wings all of their own and fairly rushed her out into the gardens.

She found him in the rose garden by the sundial, standing quite still and gazing into the distance.

He was dressed very like he had been at their first meeting, without the greatcoat—in dark leather riding breeches and a dark jacket. He wore a beaver on his head and carried a crop. He must have ridden …

Anna was frozen, heart pounding, unable to move closer.

Suddenly, he turned and saw her. He looked rather rueful, but just as wonderful as always, and the feelings she remembered blossomed as freshly as the roses all around them.

At the slightest encouragement she would have run into his arms, but she would not make a fool of herself and walked forward calmly. If he had come, all confused, to ask for more information about Mrs. Jamison’s novels, she would hide her hurt for later.

A few feet away she cleared her throat and cropped a curtsy. “Good day, my lord. How kind of you to call.”

His eyes were intent as they traveled her. “Anna,” he said at last, slowly, as if the word had great meaning. “Sunlight and roses become you.”

She pushed some straying curls out of her eyes. “I should have a bonnet …”

“Do you fear for your complexion?” He looked around. “There is a seat beneath that beech tree, if you would prefer it.”

They walked over to the rustic seat built around the trunk of the spreading tree, and sat in the shade there, a proper few feet apart. Anna’s rainbow exhilaration was fading to grey. He didn’t seem confused. He doubtless was here on a very practical matter.

And there was nothing less practical than a marriage between a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl and a thirty-year-old rake, as both he and her father had so clearly pointed out.

She made herself look calmly into his face. “How can I help you, my lord?”

“I wanted to thank you again for stepping forward to deflect my cousin’s malice. It must have been difficult.”

“Not very. My parents are not ogres.”

“No, they are not. But I am in your debt.” He, too, appeared calm. Even bored. Was that truly why he was here? Obligation?

“Consider the debt forgiven, my lord. I am only sorry that Maria lent herself to such a scheme.”

“My cousin can be a clever cozener.”

“Has he left to take up his punishment?”

“Yes, appearing genuinely shaken by his own villainy. Perhaps he was turned mad by love.”

Anna was beginning to feel rather bitter, and lashed out. “And what of your mother, my lord?”

“What of her?”

“It seems to me that she has avoided the consequences of murder.”

He shook his head. “She suffered. She lost my father far more absolutely than she would have done through his affairs with such as Lady Delabury. It is doubtful he would have died so soon if not for that disaster. And she lost me, both physically when I went abroad, and spiritually when I realized what she had done, and that she never made any attempt to clear my name. Will it distress you if I tell you that my mother has always been a selfish, small-minded woman?”

Something in his tone made Anna reach out to touch his hand. “I wish for your sake it had not been so, my lord.”

“And for your sake?” He turned her hand to hold it. “A selfish mother and a philandering father. What does that make me?”

Anna felt the heat rise in her face, summoned perhaps by the look in his eyes. “I once confessed to … to finding you admirable, my lord.”

“You might have come to your senses.”

“I might,” she said, unwilling to open herself to ridicule.

He released her hand and rose to swing his crop at an innocuous dandelion. “I have argued with myself about this for weeks, Anna. You deserve better. You deserve a young man with the bloom of innocence still on him, someone you can learn about life with, hand in hand. You deserve more years of girlhood before settling into domesticity. You deserve more balls, more parties, a Season in London, and the chance to have dozens of adoring suitors vying for your hand …”

Anna bit her lip. “My lord, are you saying you’re not worthy of me?”

He flashed her a glance. “I suppose I am.”

The laughter escaped. “Oh, I’m sorry, but I remember thinking that you would never act like a hero in one of Mrs. Jamison’s novels. If you would care to get down on your knees and kiss the hem of my garment, the picture would be complete.”

A flash of appreciative humor entered his eyes. “If I get down on my knees and raise your skirt, minx, it will be to enjoy the sight of your lovely legs. I was serious about what I said, though.”

“I know. And it is very kind of you, but …” Anna grasped her courage and placed her heart before him. “It would be a dreadful waste of time to go through all those experiences when I only long for you.”

He stared at her for a moment, then dropped his crop and drew her to her feet. “Are you sure? I am convinced I’m being a selfish brute.”

“I’m sure. Even if you will be gouty when I’m in my prime.”

His brows shot up. “What?”

Anna rested her hands on his chest, delighting in the fact that such intimacies might, perhaps, be no longer improper, and remembering a naked chest she very much wanted to see again. “I have already considered the practicalities, you see,” she teased. “When you are fifty, I will only be thirty-six, and with luck I will still be in full vigor. But I will be most careful not to overexert you, my lord—”

Her mischief was silenced by his demanding lips, and she responded enthusiastically. When he finished, however, she rested against him, clinging to his lapels. “I am not sure I will be in full vigor after twenty years of kisses such as that.”

“I hoped you’d realize that, minx. I will eat moderately and exercise frequently so as not to be a disappointment to you in my dotage.”

“Oh, good.” She ran her hand up over his starched cravat to his neck. “You’re very hot.”

“Quite natural in the circumstances, I assure you. Anna, you do realize that Society will raise its brows at our marriage.”

“A fig for Society. Anyway, I am hoping that you will revive your love of travel and take me to Greece.”

He captured her hand and kissed it. “It will be my delight to take you to Greece, and to Rome …” He turned her hand and kissed her palm. “And to heaven.”

“Heaven?” Her knees were weakening again.

“You will see.”

“Oh, you mean bed.” Anna tried to sound prosaic, but it came out as a squeak.

He nipped the base of her thumb. “Yes, I mean bed, you outrageous child. And though it will be beyond me to deny myself your delights entirely, I will try not to get you with child for a while. I will try to give you some years of freedom.”

Anna stared at him. “I didn’t even know that was possible. How—”

He covered her lips with his fingers. “I will educate you after the wedding.”

When he moved his fingers, Anna said, “But if there are such ways, everyone should know! When I think of the suffering some women experience through unblessed or unwanted babies …”

He was looking rather harried. “Lord, I should have learned to keep my mouth shut with you, Anna. Don’t go babbling of such matters. When you know all, perhaps you can pass the information on, privately. Many men do not approve of women having such knowledge.”

“Many men are villains, too.” But then social issues were swamped by other thoughts. “Are we engaged to marry, then?”

He smiled, and there was a glow to it that warmed her heart. “I consider us to be so.”

“Oh, good.” Anna began to tug him back toward the house. “We must tell my parents. How soon can we wed? I have this great thirst for education.”

He laughed. “Soon, Anna. Very, very soon. I’m afraid that if I hesitate my better nature will resurface and I’ll let you escape.”

“Escape!” Anna halted to frown into his wonderful blue eyes. “If you try to renege, my lord, after raising my hopes so high, I will hunt you down and take terrible revenge upon your body!”

“Now that,” said the Wicked Earl with a mysterious smile, “is almost sufficient enticement …”

The Pleasure

of a Younger Lover

VANESSA KELLY

Chapter 1

The Archer Mansion

London, 1813

“This is the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Clarissa moaned. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into wearing this scandalous gown! I look like a demi-rep on display at Covent Garden.”

Her best friend, Lillian, Lady Montegue, gave an irritated huff. “Nonsense. You look absolutely beautiful. That dress is divine, and your hair and jewels are exquisite. Everything is just as it should be except for that grimace you call a smile.”

Clarissa, better known to the ton as the widow of Captain Jeremy Middleton, felt the muscles in her jaw contract another notch. It seemed like forever since she’d last attended a ball. She’d never been enamored with large crowds and overheated, cavernous rooms, and this particular event was proving to be worse than anticipated. But Lillian had refused to listen to Clarissa’s excuses, roundly declaring that it was time, after a year and a half, to come out of deep mourning.

Clarissa cast her friend a reproachful glance. “You told me to look happy. That’s what I’m trying to do.”

“Well, you certainly don’t look happy,” Lillian replied. “You look ready to murder someone. I wish you would stop it.”

Clarissa gratefully dropped her feeble pretense. If only she could cover her bosom as easily as she could transform her face with a smile—or the lack of one. It would be a miracle if she didn’t pop out of the top of her gown before the evening was over.

Resisting the urge to tug the gauzy muslin up over her breasts, she wondered again how she had allowed Lillian to persuade her to wear so revealing a gown. Or, for that matter, to attend the biggest crush of the Little Season. After all, it wasn’t as if she had to attract a husband. She had a substantial widow’s portion and still had the funds Jeremy had settled on her when they were married. Over a year had passed since her husband’s death, and the initial, searing pangs of grief had finally subsided. But Clarissa couldn’t escape the dull ache that filled her chest every time she thought of Jeremy.

She swallowed hard, forcing down a childish rush of tears. A sea of scarlet uniforms and vibrantly colored gowns swam before her blurred vision, a dazzling display of gaiety and wealth set off to advantage in the splendid ballroom of the Archer family mansion on Brooke Street. But to Clarissa, the red of the soldiers’ uniforms throbbed and pulsed under the blazing chandeliers like a gaping wound—a sickening reminder of all she had lost on the blood-soaked ramparts of a Spanish fort.

Even in the heat of the ballroom, cold prickles raced over her flesh and her heart thudded with a stuttering rhythm. She found it hard to catch her breath.

“What am I doing here, Lillian?” she forced out, barely able to keep her seat. Every muscle in her body urged her to flee to the quiet safety of the town house she shared with her elderly father-in-law, Colonel Middleton. “I’m too old for this kind of thing. It was very kind of you to invite me tonight, but I’m just coming out of mourning. And everyone is staring at me. I’m sure I’m making a complete fool of myself.”

Lillian shook her head in gentle reproof.

“Clarissa, you must stop thinking like that. You’re thirty-two—the same age as me. You don’t see me wearing those wretched gowns you’ve grown so fond of. It’s time to stop dressing like an old widow with one foot in the grave.”

“Sometimes I think I was buried in that grave in Spain,” Clarissa sighed. “Right alongside Jeremy.”

Lillian’s blue eyes grew misty.

“I know you feel that way, darling. But you’re very much alive, and more beautiful than ever. That’s why people are staring. You cast every other woman in this room into a complete shade—especially in that gown.”

Clarissa rolled her eyes, but the tight feeling inside her eased. Her friend rewarded her with a teasing smile.

“Jeremy used to love it when you dressed up,” Lillian said. “Do you remember? He was so proud of you, forever telling me how lucky he was that you chose him over all the fashionable young bucks who vied for your hand.”

Clarissa smiled at that, even though the memory of Jeremy’s ardent admiration brought her as much pain as pleasure. “I remember. He used to tease me about it, and tell me that he could never understand why I fell in love with such an ordinary fellow. But Jeremy was anything but ordinary. I’ve never known such a kind, wise man—before or since.”

Lillian nodded. “If he were here now, he would tell you not to spend the rest of your life pining for him. You’re still a young woman, Clarissa. You deserve to love, and to be loved again. That’s what Jeremy would want for you.”

Clarissa drew in a deep breath, the ache blooming in her chest. “I don’t know if I can love again. Not after what happened to Jeremy.”

Lillian studied her through narrowed eyes. After several considering moments, she seemed to reach a decision. “He would certainly not want you to molder away in that gloomy house, turning yourself into a nurse for his invalid of a father. Colonel Middleton is as rich as Croesus. He could hire ten nurses to attend him, if only you would agree to it.”

Clarissa shook her head. “But—”

Lillian waved away her attempt to protest. “You know it’s true. And you know part of you wants it, too, or you wouldn’t have come here tonight.”

Clarissa let out a grudging laugh. “I never could hide anything from you, could I?”

“Nor can you resist me. I’ve known what’s best for you since the day we met. I was the one who introduced Jeremy to you, wasn’t I? You must trust me to know what you need.”

Clarissa tamped down a flare of irritation. People always claimed to know what was best for her. And they never had any compunction about telling her what to do.

Not that she could blame her friends and family. Always, she’d been painfully shy. A milksop, her father used to call her. Only Jeremy Middleton had made her feel confident and happy. But her husband had gone off to war and to his death, leaving her alone and frightened once more.

Meeting Lillian’s troubled gaze, Clarissa dredged up a brittle smile. She hated it when her friends fussed over her. It made her feel resentful, and that resentment made her feel guilty and ungrateful.

“You’re right, Lillian,” she replied in an apologetic voice. “I’m sorry for being so petulant. Jeremy would be upset to see me sulking in a corner, pouring out my troubles to you. And I’m sure you’re longing to dance with Richard. I see him mooning at you from the other side of the ballroom.”

Lillian scoffed. “He always looks like that. He does it to keep me from flirting with other men.”

Clarissa smiled. “But it never works, does it?”

“Heavens, no!” Lillian said, giving her husband a cheerful wave. “What’s the good of being married if you can’t flirt? It’s just a bit of harmless fun, and Richard knows it.”

Suddenly, Lillian switched her assessing gaze to Clarissa’s face.

“No, Lillian,” Clarissa said firmly, recognizing that look. “Whatever it is, I’m not interested.”

Lillian gave her a sly grin. “You will be, once I’m through with you. I’m agreeing with you, Clarissa. You don’t need a husband—you need a flirtation.”

Clarissa gaped at her, rendered speechless. “Have you lost your senses?” she finally choked out. “I haven’t the faintest idea how to flirt! I never did.”

“For someone who never flirted, you always had a long line of suitors. It practically snaked round the block of your house in St. James’s Square,” Lillian replied dryly.

“It wasn’t because I flirted with them. It was because of Papa’s wealth.”

Lillian batted aside that objection with a wave of the hand. “There were a great many rich girls when you were out, but none held a candle to you. What’s more, you’re the sweetest woman in London.”

Clarissa grimaced. “Sweet, meaning boring.”

“Absolutely not. There are dozens of men in this room who would kill for your notice.”

“But I have no conversation,” Clarissa protested. “Truly, I don’t think I could flirt to save my life.”

“You’ve forgotten how, but it’s like riding a horse,” Lillian replied, scanning the room for likely prospects. “It will come back as soon as you climb into the saddle.”

Clarissa resisted the urge to drop her head into her hands and groan. “Lillian—”

“Oh, look,” her friend exclaimed, jumping up. “Christian’s finally arrived.”

Casting a silent prayer heavenward for the timely interruption, Clarissa rose and shook out her skirts. “Rather late, isn’t he? After all, this ball is in his honor.”

“I know. He’s a dreadful boy. But he was staying with friends in Kent and sent word he would be late. Apparently, he had a bit of an accident with his curricle.”

“Why does that not surprise me?”

Lillian wrinkled her nose at her. “Don’t be like that, darling. The only reason Christian agreed to this ball was to lure you out of that tomb of a house. He knew you couldn’t refuse to see him. Not after all these years. And especially since he’ll be returning to the Peninsula in just a few weeks.”

Clarissa frowned, finding it hard to believe that Lillian’s brother would spend any time thinking of her. Though she had known him all her life, she hadn’t spoken to him in years. Not since he’d joined the army at the age of nineteen. He had returned to England on and off over the years, but she and Jeremy had spent most of their time in Devon, more than happy to avoid the social rigors of the London Season. Their occasional visits to town had never coincided with Christian’s.

“I’m sure Christian rarely thinks of me,” she said.

“You’re wrong.” Her friend seized her hand in a firm clasp. “Chris specifically said to make sure you came. He’s always been very fond of you.”

Clarissa allowed Lillian to tow her through the press of bodies until they reached the edge of the dance floor. “I can’t imagine why. All we ever did was snipe at each other. He was the most rag-mannered boy I ever met. You said it yourself a thousand times.”

“That was years ago. Just look at him—he’s grown into such a handsome man. Doesn’t he look splendid in his uniform? He’s now an aide-de-camp to General Pakenham, you know. One of the youngest ever appointed.” Lillian leaned over, continuing in a confidential voice, “He’s up for a promotion—to Wellington’s command, no less. But don’t say anything. No one’s supposed to know. He expects to find out before he returns to Portugal.”

Clarissa could readily agree to Lillian’s request. The last thing she wanted to do was talk to a soldier about his military career, even if that soldier was Christian Archer. The scarlet-coated officers swirling about the ballroom reminded her far too much of Jeremy, lost forever to the random cruelty of a French bullet. But she bit her tongue and went up on tiptoe, trying to see over the dancers and the cheerful, gabbing mob on the perimeter of the room.

After a few moments of craning her neck, she gave up. Her short stature prevented her from seeing anyone but the guests in front of her. Papa had always called her a sad dab of a female, too small to catch the notice of any man worth his salt. That hadn’t proved to be the case, but the stinging memory of his words retained the power to make her cheeks burn with humiliation.

Lillian voiced a pleased exclamation and waved. The crowd parted in front of them, and a broad-shouldered man in an officer’s uniform appeared in the gap.

Clarissa’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open as she gazed up into eyes the color of sapphires, so striking in a tanned, lean face. She would recognize those eyes anywhere—the eyes of the scrappy hellion five years her junior who had teased her mercilessly when she was a young miss. But the powerful, hard-looking man who loomed over her now was no boy, even though his eyes still glittered with devilment.

Her breath died in her throat as Christian’s gaze roamed leisurely downward, pausing to linger on her low-cut bodice before moving back to her face. His eyes caught and held hers, and her heart kicked into a racing gallop. She watched, dumbfounded, as his sensual mouth curved up in a roguish, devastating grin.

Clarissa had seen the same look on Christian’s face so many times before in the past—a look of unbridled mischief. But now he was a man, and a battle-hardened soldier at that. Whatever his game was, she instinctively knew it would involve a great deal more than pulling on her braids or putting a frog in her jewelry box.

That knowledge made her nervous, indeed.

Chapter 2

Clarissa stared into Christian’s deep-set eyes, unable to utter one sensible word. His smile slid into an amused grin, and she realized her mouth was open—wide enough to catch flies, if the look on his face was any indication.

Clamping her jaw shut, she inwardly cursed the flood of heat rushing to her cheeks. Blushing over Christian? What in the world had come over her?

“There’s no need to pink up on my account, Ladybird,” Christian said. “But I’ll be happy to take the reaction as a compliment.”

His words came out in a masculine rumble, warmed by a hint of laughter. In response, something fizzy shot down her spine. Surprise turned to alarm as she realized her body had turned traitor, responding to Christian on a purely physical level. Not since Jeremy marched off to war had she felt anything remotely similar. She had thought never to feel it again, nor had she any desire to.

Or so she had thought.

Fortunately, before she could do something truly stupid—such as continue to gape at Christian like a bird-wit—Lillian whacked her brother on the arm with her closed fan.

“Why in heaven’s name would you refer to Clarissa by that silly nickname? You know she has always hated it. You really are the most dreadful, annoying boy, Christian.”

He laughed—a rich, entrancing sound. As if by magic, the tumult of the ballroom faded away, and Clarissa found herself transported back to a time when the world was bright and peaceful. To a time when she and Lillian had romped through the woods on the Archer estate with a pack of frolicking spaniels on their heels, and a rambunctious, teasing boy always at hand to make them laugh.

“She hates it?” Christian asked. “She never said anything to me. But if that’s the case, certainly I’ll call her Clarissa from now on.”

“Now you’re being disrespectful,” Lillian scolded, sounding like her mother. “Her proper name is Mrs. Middleton, as well you know. Did you lose all your manners in the Peninsula?”

Christian’s vibrant eyes turned serious, although a shadow of a smile still lingered on his lips. He executed a faultless bow, looking every inch the dashing officer in his regimentals. “Mrs. Middleton, please forgive my shabby ways. I have been too long away from the civilizing influence of the ladies. You may blame my bad manners on the fact that I spend most of my time in the company of soldiers—an uncouth lot at the best of times.”

Clarissa forced herself to rally. It was only Christian. What did it matter that he had turned into perhaps the most handsome man she had ever seen? Besides, it was foolish for a widow to act in so ninny-headed a fashion over a younger man.

“There’s no need to apologize, Captain Archer,” she replied, trying to strike a note of friendly disinterest. “We’re the oldest of friends, are we not? I was simply surprised at how …”

She trailed off, running a quick glance over his tall, impressive physique. How to explain her reaction without sounding like a flustered schoolgirl? Her cheeks began to heat again as she struggled to find the correct response.

Although the devil was back in his eyes, he took pity on her.

“I imagine you’re surprised at how I’ve grown,” he said. “I believe I was little more than a callow youth the last time you saw me.”

Lillian rolled her eyes. “A beanpole, more like it. I never knew a boy as tall and skinny as you were before you joined the army. Father used to say you should have picked the navy, instead. They could have used you as a mast on a frigate.”

Clarissa smiled with relief as brother and sister bantered back and forth, finally understanding her strange reaction. The last time she had seen Christian he’d been a gangly boy, his body giving no hint yet that he would grow into such a powerful man. In his dress uniform, he was a handsome, intimidating giant.

“You certainly are quite large,” she interjected into a pause in the conversation. “I’m sure I ’d have to stand on a chair if I wanted to box your ears again. It was so much easier when you were a little boy.”

Christian’s ready laughter sent a ripple of pleasure humming through her body. Clarissa couldn’t help laughing, too, but more from surprise that she was actually enjoying herself than from the humor of her silly joke. A few nosy guests turned and leveled their quizzing glasses at her, but for once she didn’t care. It had been a long time since she had felt this at ease.

Christian’s eyes gleamed. “If you ever think I need my ears boxed, Mrs. Middleton, I’ll be happy to escort you to a chair and hand you up. I should be most happy to receive a correction from you.”

“Really, Christian, the things you say,” huffed Lillian.

But for all her scolding, Clarissa’s friend was a complete fraud. Lillian gazed at her brother, pride and love shining in her eyes. Clearly, no regrets for Christian’s chosen profession diminished her enjoyment of his company. No fears for his future frayed the edges of her happiness. Lillian and the entire Archer family had sent Christian off to war with their blessings, never doubting that he would cover himself in honor and glory. They seemed happy to make the sacrifice, even as the war dragged on year after year, the casualties mounting ever higher.

One of those casualties had been Jeremy.

At the unbidden thought, Clarissa pressed a hand to her stomach, willing the sick feeling that suddenly tightened her insides to subside. Unlike the Archers, she had begged her husband not to join the army. What were king and country to her if the war meant she might lose the man she loved? But Jeremy had gently but firmly overruled all her objections, telling her that every man must do his duty. She had almost hated him then, as she had in the months that followed his death.

Taking a deep breath, she cast her gaze around, trying to distract herself. But everywhere she looked, she saw only red coats and gold epaulettes. The room overflowed with officers—except for one. The only one who mattered to her, and who was lost forever.

A gentle hand touched her shoulder. She jerked her head up to meet Christian’s gaze. His too perceptive eyes inspected her.

“Mrs. Middleton, are you well? It’s very hot in here. Perhaps you should sit down.”

“Goodness, no,” she replied with a forced laugh. “I’m perfectly well, thank you.”

“You do look rather odd, dear,” said Lillian, peering at her with concern. “It’s no wonder, since it’s a terrible crush in here and getting worse by the minute. Are you sure—oh, blast! There’s Mother waving at me from the door, looking ready to pitch a fit. No doubt some kitchen disaster has struck, or we’re running out of champagne.”

She flashed Clarissa an apologetic smile. “I’d better see what’s wrong. You stay with Christian and catch him up on all the on-dits. I’ll see you both at supper.”

Before Clarissa could even think to object, Lillian slipped away, leaving her alone with a man she felt she no longer knew. And whose presence had thrown her disconcertingly off balance. As she looked into his eyes—so vibrantly blue—the room and the crowds wavered and dimmed, fading away. The strange sensations left her breathless.

Christian’s angular features registered mock alarm. “Good God, Mrs. Middleton. Left to your own devices with the dreadful boy! Shall I take you over to a chair now, so the boxing of my ears can commence? Or would you rather we stroll about the room and make cutting comments about the other guests? Either way, I promise I’ll do my best to entertain you.”

His lighthearted jesting eased her tension, and she cast him a smile. “Captain Archer, you’re under no obligation to entertain me. This is your night, after all. I’m sure you’d much rather spend it in the company of a beautiful young debutante than reminiscing with a quiz of an old widow.”

When he frowned, she inwardly winced. She hadn’t meant the words to come out bitterly, but it had become an old habit. An ugly one, borne of months of anger and grief.

Christian took her elbow and gently steered her to a shallow window alcove.

“Mrs. Middleton,” he said, “you must allow me to offer my condolences on the loss of your husband. He was a good and kind man, and the world is a poorer place without him. I’m sorry I haven’t had the opportunity to express my sentiments in person until now.”

Clarissa shook her head. “You needn’t apologize. I was most grateful for the letter you sent me after we received the news. It was a comfort knowing that you spoke with Jeremy only a few weeks before …” She let her voice trail off.

He slipped easily into the verbal gap. “I was grateful to have had the opportunity to speak to him, and hear the news from home. I’m rarely in one place long enough to receive letters in a timely fashion. Of course, Captain Middleton spoke mostly of you. He was devoted to you, as I’m sure you know.”

A flash of raw anger burned in her chest. “But not devoted enough to stay home with me, where he belonged,” she said in a clipped voice.

He looked startled. Hesitating for a moment, he responded in a gentle voice, pitched so only she could hear.

“Mrs. Middleton … Clarissa … your husband was a man of honor. He did what he believed was right. But it was clear to me, and to everyone who knew him, that his heart remained in England. With you. Why would you ever doubt that?”

Because I begged him not to go, and yet he did.

Out of habit, she swallowed the bitter words that came to her tongue, knowing how selfish she would sound. How could Christian, a battle-tested warrior, ever hope to understand what she felt?

“He should never have gone,” she managed to say in what she hoped was a rational voice. “He was far from strong. Physically, I mean. His doctor told him not to go, but he wouldn’t listen.”

Christian studied her face in silence, his keen eyes thoughtful. That in itself was surprising. She had expected him to deliver a lecture about duty and honor. Everyone else had chastised her when she had tried to stop Jeremy from transferring from the local militia to the regular army. No one had listened to her, or tried to understand.

“I believe Captain Middleton was stronger than you realize. At least in spirit,” he finally answered. “But he loathed every second that the war took him from your side. Whatever you think about his reasons for going, you must never doubt that.”

“Thank … thank you,” she stammered. She looked at him uncertainly, not sure what else to say. The familiar, confusing mix of anger, sorrow, and guilt whirled within her, but it seemed muted, as if the individual emotions had lost some of their power.

Christian waited patiently for her to recover her countenance. Standing with his back to the cheerful mob, he used his body to protect her from the crush. She gazed into his handsome face, and a seductive warmth began to steal through her limbs, along with an oddly familiar sense of something else. Was it belonging?

Clarissa frowned and took a step back. That couldn’t possibly be right. She didn’t belong anywhere. Jeremy’s death had pitched her into an obscure landscape, and she hadn’t yet begun to find her way back to where life had been before.

As she struggled to understand the elusive emotions, Christian moved closer. His muscular thigh, encased in form-fitting white breeches, brushed the skirts of her gown. She shivered, and the soft warmth of only a few moments ago fled, replaced by feelings of both panic and excitement. Sucking in a breath, she willed her racing heart to settle.

She stared at the medals and ribbons on his broad chest as she gave herself a silent scolding. There was nothing to be afraid of or excited about. Not in conversation with an old friend.

But then why was she so tongue-tied?

A mist of perspiration beaded her neck as she searched for a harmless topic of conversation. Christian began to look amused again, and not the least bit awkward. Fortunately for her nerves, he broke the embarrassing silence.

“Lillian tells me you have just come out of deep mourning. I’m honored that you chose this event to grace with your presence.”

She blushed, wondering if he was teasing her.

“Truly, it … it was nothing,” she stammered. Blast! What the devil was wrong with her?

She tried again. “I was happy to come. You know how persuasive Lillian can be. She would have had my head if I refused. Your mamma, as well. She was quite insistent.”

Splendid. Now she was babbling. Anyone would think she was a debutante in her first season, instead of a widow approaching her middle years.

His gaze sharpened. “Clarissa, I’m not teasing you. I am genuinely honored.”

Her face flamed with the belief that she was making a complete fool of herself.

“How did you know I thought—” She broke off. “Oh, never mind. I don’t want to know. Shall we talk about something else besides me?”

“Of course,” he said. “What would you like to talk about?”

“You,” she blurted out.

His eyebrows went up and his grin returned. It took all her willpower to repress a groan. Without a doubt, she had truly forgotten how to make polite conversation.

He leaned back against the curving alcove wall and settled his arms across his chest.

“What would you like to know?”

“Lillian said you were wounded. Shot through the shoulder. Was the wound very bad? Has it healed?”

He shrugged, and the muscles of his upper arms flexed under the smooth fabric of his scarlet coat. The gold epaulette on his uniform shimmered in the light of a nearby wall sconce, drawing her reluctant gaze to his brawny shoulders. The moisture in her mouth evaporated.

“I’ve had worse,” he said. “At least this one gave me an excuse for a furlough. It’s been almost two years since I returned home.”

Clarissa resisted the impulse to lick her parched lips. She would die before she would let Christian see the extent of her nervousness.

“You must be very happy to see your family again,” she said brightly.

His eyes grew dark and knowing as he gave her an appraising inspection. Heat danced across her skin when his gaze fell to her bosom, swelling almost indecently over the edge of her low-cut bodice.

Clarissa bit her lip, trying not to breathe too heavily as she cursed Lillian for persuading her to wear such a scandalous gown. What must Christian think of her?

His next statement made the answer crystal clear.

“There are others I’m just as happy to see,” he murmured in a husky voice. “One of those I ’d like to spend a great deal of time with. Alone, if possible.”

She stifled a gasp. Was Christian actually flirting with her? How could that be possible?

Dumbfounded, she took in the wicked gleam in his eyes and the seductive curve of his mouth. Her mind tried desperately to refute what she sensed with every fiber of her being.

But her mind failed. Christian was flirting with her. Even worse, she feared he was trying to seduce her. Why, she couldn’t begin to fathom. But what she could fathom was that it scared her half to death—for more reasons than she could count, starting with the fact that he was a soldier. She had vowed never to love another soldier.

Not to mention the fact that Christian was five years her junior.

“Well, Clarissa,” he purred. “What do you think? Would you like to spend some time with me, starting with the next dance?”

He moved then, pushing away from the wall to close the distance between them. He loomed over her, forcing her to tilt her head back to look into his face.

Clarissa sucked in a startled breath, both terrified and fascinated by the blatant invitation in his eyes. It made her legs tremble and her body grow weak. His gloved hand moved down the bare flesh of her arm, trailing shivers in its wake. He took her hand in a gentle clasp, weaving their fingers together.

“It’s only a dance, Clarissa,” he murmured. “What’s the harm?”

She let out a sigh—almost a whimper—as some part of her addled brain urged her to give in. To lean into his big, hard body and allow him to sweep her away. He made her feel alive again, full of sparkling energy and heat. Part of her welcomed it with a burning need to escape the cold that had wrapped itself around her heart and soul for so long.

Almost without thought, she returned the pressure of his hand. He smiled, his eyes flaring with something like triumph. His hand closed around hers, hard and possessive.

With a thump, Clarissa fell to earth. A thousand voices in her head urged her to flee before she made an even bigger fool of herself. Christian had no business treating her this way. Like a woman to be desired, not a widow sworn never to love again.

She snatched her hand away. “You must forgive me. I promised Lillian I would help her with something.”

He frowned, puzzlement chasing away some of the heat in his eyes.

“I’m sure Lillian would prefer you to stay here and enjoy yourself. I will be glad to provide any excuse you need to avert her irritation.”

That was exactly what she was afraid of.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said, backing away from him.

She bumped into a stout dowager, who promptly dropped her fan. Rolling his eyes, Christian scooped it up and handed it back to the protesting matron. Clarissa seized the opportunity to escape into the crush of guests.

As she wove her way to the door, she chanced a glance back in Christian’s direction. He stood where she had left him, hands on his lean hips, his stern gaze locked on to her across the room. She froze like a rabbit before a fox, and his mobile eyebrows lifted in enquiry. Then he gave her a slow, satisfied curve of the lips.

With that, she turned and fled. But a quiet, inner voice whispered that whatever his game was, Christian would not let her escape so easily the next time.

Christian eyed Clarissa’s barely restrained dash to freedom. She held her slender back ramrod straight, but her shoulders, hitched up around her ears, spoke of how thoroughly he had unnerved her.

Biting back an oath, he started after her. He’d made several unforgivable blunders, any one of which would have given her ample reason to flee. No wonder, because his first sight of her had knocked him back on his heels, and years of repressed desire had come roaring to the surface. What little caution he’d had—and he’d never had much when it came to her—evaporated like morning mist under a blazing Spanish sun.

Clarissa disappeared behind a group of preening dandies, but a moment later he caught a glimpse of her guinea-gold hair, pulled back in a simple chignon. God, she was lovely. So lovely it made his chest ache with a pain he’d spent years trying to banish. He would never have thought it possible, but she was even more beautiful than she’d been eight years ago. Perhaps her suffering and grief had harrowed her body and spirit down to their perfect, essential elements, for there was no artifice to Clarissa. Everything she was and had ever been could be read in the pure lines of her face, and in the honest clarity of her amber-colored gaze.

He remembered the last time they’d met, on her wedding day. Clarissa had been twenty-three—almost on the shelf, by the standards of the ton. But no one who watched her walk down the aisle could think that. For years, dozens of suitors had vied for her hand, attracted by her pale beauty, her kind nature, and her generous fortune. She had refused them all, including the high-borne lords.

But then she met Jeremy Middleton, a scholarly young gentleman from a good but not particularly fashionable military family. In his own quiet way, Jeremy had swept Clarissa off her feet. They were married two months to the day after Lillian introduced them.

A week later, Christian had persuaded his father to purchase his commission in the regulars, not the militia. Having to remain in England while seeing Clarissa in the arms of another man would have driven him mad. Yes, he was five years her junior and had never stood a chance with her, but he’d adored her since he was a stripling. The gap in their ages hadn’t made a damn bit of difference to him. And not the years, the miles, or the other women in his life had ever fully erased her presence in his heart.

He studied her sweetly rounded figure as she made her way through the ballroom, smiling and nodding to acquaintances, but allowing no one to stop her. She thought to escape him. Perhaps if he were a better man, he would let her go.

But fate had intervened in the form of Jeremy Middle-ton’s tragic death and given him another chance. Not that Christian would have wished that tragedy to befall her. He would have gladly spared Clarissa that terrible loss—even given his own life for Middleton’s—if he could have. But God and Napoleon’s army had deemed otherwise, and Christian wouldn’t turn away from the opportunity presented to him.

Not that it would be easy. He had obstacles to overcome, starting with their age difference. She would see that as an insurmountable difficulty. But eight years in the army—most of it at war—had taught him patience and determination. It had made him a man, and Clarissa’s equal.

She finally managed to reach the wide, arching doorway. Passing through it, she turned left. Christian was tall enough to peer over the heads of the dancers and see Clarissa hurrying toward the marble staircase leading down to the entrance hall.

Perfect.

If he didn’t miss his guess, she would slip downstairs and cut through his father’s study to the back terrace overlooking the garden. He had escaped more than one boring dinner party by slipping out the same way, often to indulge in a solitary cigar.

Christian made his way through the crowd at a leisurely pace. No need to hurry, now that he was sure where his quarry would seek refuge. In fact, it made sense to give Clarissa time to compose herself. The darling girl needed kind and careful handling, and he had every intention of giving her exactly that.

Or so he thought until a few seconds later, when a tall, dark-headed officer adorned with a major’s chevrons emerged from the cluster of guests near the head of the stairs. The man cut through a knot of chattering women, obviously intent on following Clarissa. Even as far back as he was, Christian could see greedy anticipation on the officer’s blunt-featured countenance.

Blundell.

Expelling a frustrated breath, Christian picked up his pace, moving quickly around the perimeter of the ballroom. The last person Clarissa would want to see was Lord Ever-ard Blundell, a major in the same regiment as Jeremy Middleton. But where Jeremy had perished at Badajoz, Blundell had returned home without a scratch. Not surprising, given he had a politician’s talent for avoiding danger to himself.

Years ago, Everard Blundell had been Clarissa’s most persistent suitor. Her father had exerted tremendous pressure on her to marry him—after all, Blundell was the son of a powerful marquess. But Clarissa had firmly resisted. As a consequence, she had incurred her father’s verbal wrath, and probably a slap or two from him in the process. But she had held her ground, convinced, so Lillian had told him, that Blundell was a bully and a cad. Her assessment, as far as Christian was concerned, was dead-on.

Blundell charged down the stairs in Clarissa’s wake. Christian dodged a large, turbaned matron, determined to catch up with the bastard before he could reach Clarissa, alone and vulnerable, on the terrace.

“Captain Archer, hold fast there,” exclaimed a familiar voice from behind him.

Christian bit back a curse so foul his mother would have swooned if she heard it. He halted and turned to see General Sir Arthur Stanton trundling down the hallway toward him. At any other time he would have enjoyed reporting to the old warhorse, but not tonight. Not when Clarissa might be in trouble.

“Well, my boy, I finally track you down,” said the general, planting himself firmly in Christian’s path. “How go things with the First Foot? How is my old friend General Pakenham? Don’t spare me any details. I have all night, and I want to hear everything.”

Chapter 3

Clarissa leaned over the stone balustrade of the terrace and peered at the shadow-filled garden below her. The chill of the October evening made her shiver, but she welcomed the cool air on her overheated skin.

She’d been so eager to escape the ball she hadn’t thought to retrieve her wrap from one of the servants. Flustered, with conflicting thoughts skittering about in her head, she’d been intent only on retreat—mostly from Christian, but also from anyone else who might stop her. She’d always been like that at social functions. Her father had lamented what he called her fatal lack of charm, saying only her looks and his money had made her even passably acceptable. A man wanted a companion, he’d complain. Someone to entertain and amuse him, not some timid mouse of a girl who would bore him to death.

She breathed out an unhappy sigh, resting her forearms on the stone ledge. Jeremy had rescued her from that glittering but nerve-wracking world, but he couldn’t rescue her now. Not from herself and her stupid fears, nor from well-meaning friends determined to push her back into a life she’d never wanted.

Unnerved by the fine tremors coursing through her fingers, Clarissa stood tall and flexed her hands. Blast Christian for flirting with her like she was just another pleasant diversion whilst on furlough. Still, he was young and handsome and would soon return to the front, so why shouldn’t he entertain himself? Any man in his position would. But why did he pick her, for heaven’s sake?

Her cheeks prickled with shameful heat as she acknowledged a possible explanation. Christian was probably taking pity on her, offering a brief flirtation because he felt sorry for the lonely widow uncomfortable in polite society. Perhaps Lillian, so obviously worried about her, had put him up to it. The very notion that her friend might have persuaded Christian to do such a thing—to make Clarissa the recipient of misguided charity—made her stomach churn.

Carefully gathering her skirts, she sat down on one of the wrought iron benches scattered around the terrace. The cold of the metal seat quickly penetrated her gown and chemise, but despite the chill she couldn’t bring herself to return to the house. Not until she could regain at least some semblance of composure.

And certainly not until she understood her own confused reaction to Christian’s attentions. That was the heart of the matter, wasn’t it? Regardless of his intentions, and what it all meant to him, how did she feel about it?

After several useless minutes fidgeting with the lace trim on her fan, Clarissa had to admit the truth. Christian had frightened her, but she’d been flattered by his seductive flirtation. More than flattered. Entranced. She’d actually wanted him to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless.

That impulse had lasted only moments, but those moments had been enough. Enough to forget she had been standing in a crowded room full of chattering gossips. Enough to forget she had vowed never to fall in love again, and certainly never with a man like him.

Even worse, when Christian had stared at her, his gaze so hot and knowing, she had forgotten about Jeremy. What re- spectable woman—a widow, barely out of mourning—would so easily betray the memory of her beloved husband?

With an irritated sigh, she rose. Either she could hide like a coward, or she could go back inside with her head high and act like the sensible person she knew herself to be. Whatever disturbing emotions plagued her right now, their cause would soon take himself back to Portugal. All she had to do was keep Christian at a safe distance until he departed. Then life would return to its quiet, safe routine, exactly as she wanted. She owed that to Jeremy’s memory.

She crossed the terrace toward the study. With a little luck, she could find Lillian and Lady Archer immediately and make her excuses for the night. It wouldn’t be a lie to claim she had a headache, since all this fruitless rumination had indeed set her temples throbbing.

As she reached the French doors to the study, a bulky shape loomed out of the darkness. Surprised, she gasped and took a quick step back, catching her heel on the hem of her gown. A beefy hand shot out and took her by the elbow, squeezing it tightly.

“Careful now, Mrs. Middleton,” said an oddly nasal voice. “We can’t have you tumbling down and cracking your pretty head on the paving stones, can we?”

Clarissa let out an involuntary hiss, jerking her arm away. That voice belonged to a man who never failed to make her skin crawl.

Swallowing hard, she forced herself to appear calm. “Lord Blundell, what a surprise. Have you tired of the party?”

He moved forward into a stream of light from the ballroom windows above them. Her stomach took a sickening flop when she saw a lascivious smile lifting his thick-lipped mouth. Brandy fumes wafted over her as he stepped closer.

“I was following you, my dear. I was certain you saw me as you descended the stairs, and divined my intention to speak with you. Unfortunately, that old blowhard Lord Sobey waylaid me, preventing me from joining you until now.”

She frowned, startled by his impertinent assumptions. “My Lord, I only stepped out for some fresh air, but I find it’s much too cool without a wrap. I’m returning to the ball this very instant.”

The smile congealed on his face, but only for a few seconds. Then a smug look settled on his features as he moved a step closer.

“Ah. You hope to tease me. You always were a minx, Clarissa. I remember your father warning me about that when I first proposed to you. I’ve always regretted that I didn’t take a stronger stand. By the time I realized you needed a firm hand, you had already accepted Middleton’s offer.” He cast her an oily smile. “I assure you, I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

She choked, outrage closing her throat, but he ignored her reaction.

“You wish to punish me just a little for making you wait out here on the terrace, don’t you?” he asked. “But now that I’m here, surely we can dispense with silly games. There’s no need for you to keep me at arm’s length a moment longer, now that you have returned to society.”

He moved forward again, forcing her to retreat to the balustrade. Every nerve in her body shrieked at her to run, but he blocked her only exit. Unfortunately, she was never very good at putting bullies in their place. Still, she tried to muster up a cutting tone.

“You are talking nonsense, sir. Please move aside. It is most improper for us to be out here without a chaperone.”

He crowded her against the parapet, thrusting forward until their bodies almost touched. Even without looking directly down, she could see a bulge in the front of his breeches. She swallowed, willing her dinner to remain in its proper place.

“Ah,” he rasped. “Fortunately, you’re no longer a maiden, but a widow and an experienced woman.”

His queer voice scraped along her nerves. Though a bulky, coarse man, Lord Blundell spoke in a thin tone that seemed to strain his throat. When he courted her years ago, anxiety had slithered through her whenever he opened his mouth. No one had understood how she felt but Lillian. Certainly not her father, whose punishment for refusing Blundell’s suit had left her with painful bruises.

“You offend me, sir,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. “I am the widow of an officer who fought by your side—one of your own men. That alone should be reason enough to treat me with more respect.”

To her surprise, he flinched. Even in the dim light she could see the blood drain from his face. But he soon recovered, staring at her so intently she felt like a cornered animal.

“I do respect you, Clarissa, so much so that I intend to make you my wife.” He inspected her bosom with a lustful gaze. “Now that your period of mourning is over, you must recognize how advantageous it would be for you to marry again. If your father were still alive, he would surely urge you to accept my offer.”

Anger rose in a hot, welcome flare, infusing her with courage. “You honor me, sir,” she said coldly, “but I have no desire to marry. Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to Lady Montegue.”

She attempted to force her way past, but he grabbed her arms. His thick fingers squeezed her in a pinching grip.

“Let go of me,” she gasped.

She tried to yank away but he held fast. His nails dug into her flesh, sending lancing pain down her bare arms. She struggled, but he pulled her close, rubbing himself against her.

Black spots danced in front of her eyes as panic welled in her chest. She clamped down hard, forcing her vision to clear. A scream bubbled up in her throat, but a shred of reason sealed her lips. The scandal if they were found like this would be overwhelming, and there was no predicting the consequences. To be discovered alone together, in so secluded a place, whomever was finally blamed—and Blun-dell might very well accuse her of improper behavior—her reputation would be irreparably damaged.

He bent his face close, leering at her. The reek of alcohol and the disgusting grind of his hips made her want to vomit.

“Don’t play the innocent with me, Clarissa. Not dressed like this. Not when you engage in open flirtation in front of half the ton. I saw you upstairs with Archer,” he sneered. “Why waste your time on a boy when you can have a man? You made that same mistake when you married Middleton. You would be wise not to do it again.”

He might as well have thrown a pitcher of ice water in her face. Her head cleared and her spine straightened.

“Unhand me, Lord Blundell, or I shall scream loud enough to wake the dead. You are a vile man, and I would rather die than marry you.”

A murderous fury darkened his gaze. He dug his fingers into her hair and yanked her head back. A strangled cry almost escaped her throat, but he cut it off with a hard, slobbering kiss. His lips mashed hers and his tongue invaded her mouth, choking her. Unable to breathe, she struggled with a desperation born of terror.

Blundell crushed himself against her, bending her over the hard stone of the parapet as he locked her in an unbreakable grip. Tears leaked from her eyes when she felt his hand dragging up her skirts.

But more than fear rose up in a welling tide. Fury rose, too, pushing out the fear. She had to stop him. She’d rather be exposed to all of London and shunned by everyone she knew than allow the brute to molest her.

When he took a breath, she bit down hard on his lower lip. He gave a shocked cry and jolted back, letting her go so suddenly she could barely keep from toppling over the barrier behind her. Quickly righting herself, she slipped past, dodging his clumsy attempts to grab her.

“Come back here, you bitch,” he spat out in a snarling voice.

She dashed for the doors leading into the darkened study, only to collide with a rock-hard body coming through them. A pair of strong arms snaked around her, keeping her from crashing to the ground.

“Clarissa,” exclaimed Christian, holding her close. “What the hell is going on out here?”

She stilled in his arms, gazing up at him, trying to see his face in the dark. Her brain went blank as relief wiped out every other emotion. She sagged, her limbs weak and trembling. He cradled her in a gentle embrace, one hand splayed securely across her back.

With an effort, she managed to calm her pounding heart, breathing in the clean, masculine scent of him. Her brain stopped tumbling around in her skull and her reason returned.

“Better?” he asked in a quiet voice as he rubbed a soothing hand down her spine.

She nodded.

“Good. Then please explain why you were running as if your life depended on it.”

A painful rush of blood heated her cheeks. How could she explain without causing a scene? Christian would be furious, and God knew what he would do then. She had to defuse the situation before a scandal erupted right there in the middle of the largest ball of the Little Season.

“Ah … nothing … nothing was happening,” she stuttered. “I was just …”

She trailed off as he arched his eyebrows in disbelief. Then he lifted his gaze and stared out at the terrace, where Blundell still stood, muttering curses under his breath. Christian’s face grew stern, anger tightening his features into sharp angles.

“Never mind,” he said in a quiet but lethal voice. “I see the problem.” His flinty gaze switched back to her face. “Did that bastard hurt you?”

Clarissa loosened her fingers from where they clutched the front of Christian’s coat and shook her head.

“I’m fine,” she said in a firm voice. She gave his chest a gentle push, forcing him to let go. He did, but reluctantly.

“It was nothing,” she continued. “Really. I ’d be grateful if you escorted me back inside. I ’d like to find Lillian.”

He ignored her request, his eyes narrowed on Blundell. “It doesn’t look like nothing to me. What happened to your lip, Blundell?”

“That is none of your business,” sneered the other man. “And you will address me as Major Blundell or my lord, Captain Archer. If you know what’s good for you.”

Christian appeared unmoved by the threat. In fact, he took a menacing step toward Blundell, despite Clarissa’s attempt to pull him in the opposite direction.

“If I find you laid a hand on her,” he said in a harsh voice, “I’ll make you regret the day you were born.”

Blundell stopped dabbing at his lip—Clarissa was very glad to see it was bleeding quite profusely—and glared back at Christian.

“Fancy her for yourself, do you, Archer? Well, I suppose you’re welcome to her. I’ve already had a taste, but I’ve discovered that aging widows aren’t really in my line, after all.”

A growl rumbled up from Christian’s throat. Then, in a blur of motion, he surged forward and drilled his fist into Blundell’s face. The man went crashing to the ground with a muffled cry of pain. Christian reached down with one hand and took hold of his collar, then hauled Blundell up as he cocked his fist again.

Clarissa leapt forward, grabbing Christian’s arm and tugging on it with all her might.

“Are you insane?” she hissed. “You can’t do this in the middle of a ball. Think of the scandal! Your mother will be mortified.”

Sluggishly recovering from Christian’s devastating punch, Blundell began to struggle and thrash. Clarissa dug her fingers into Christian’s arm and shook it.

“Let go, Christian,” she commanded. “I don’t want this.”

He glowered at her even as he continued to hold the struggling Blundell at arm’s length—apparently with very little effort, since the other man couldn’t break loose.

Clarissa glared back. “I mean it,” she said in the same voice she’d used when he was a disobedient little boy. “Let him go.”

Shadows played over his stone-hard face. His lips twitched. Opening his hand, he dropped Blundell to the terrace pavement.

“Very well. But in return, I want you to explain what happened out here,” he said.

“I will not,” Clarissa retorted, taking his arm. “Now, will you please escort me back to the party?”

One corner of his mouth curved into a lazy half smile, replete with a masculine sensuality that stole the breath from her lungs.

“Will you dance with me if I do?”

She huffed. “Your sister was right. You really are the most impertinent boy. But yes, I will. Now take me away from here.”

He glanced back at Blundell, who had crawled over to one of the benches and hauled himself onto its seat.

The banked anger in Christian’s eyes flared back to life. “Are you sure about this, Clarissa? I won’t have him bothering you again.”

“I feel sure he won’t,” she said earnestly.

He didn’t look convinced.

She sighed. “And if he does, I’ll tell you. I promise.”

He gave a reluctant nod as he took her elbow and began to lead her away. And not a moment too soon, as far as she was concerned. The longer they stayed on the terrace, the better the chances of being discovered. Then the gossips would truly have something to say.

She scampered across the paving stones, trying to hurry Christian along. As they stepped inside the study, Blundell’s nasal voice—even more nasal now, thanks to Christian’s punch—halted them in their tracks.

“Stop right there, Archer,” he barked. “Don’t think you can run away from me.”

Under Clarissa’s fingers, the muscles in Christian’s arm turned to iron. She stifled a groan. Could things get any worse?

Christian carefully disengaged her hand and turned to face Blundell. “Are you calling me a coward, Major?”

Blundell staggered to his feet, his thick features distorted with rage, his eyes burning with hatred. Clarissa shivered, her insides pulling into a knot. She’d always known Everard Blundell had a vile temper, but now something sick and disturbing seemed to emanate from his hulking figure.

She tore her gaze from him and looked at Christian, who was inspecting the other man with a mild curiosity.

“I’ll have my satisfaction,” Blundell barked.

Christian replied as calmly as if he were ordering ices from Gunter’s. “Name your seconds.”

Clarissa’s heart crashed into her ribs. A duel? Over her? She detested dueling—the very idea of men shooting at each other in a senseless display of violence, all for their so-called honor. She’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.

“You will not,” she interjected, stepping between the two men. “I absolutely forbid you to engage in that barbaric, outdated, illegal practice.”

Christian expelled an impatient breath, reaching for her. She evaded him.

“It’s not up to you,” he said. “At this point, it has nothing to do with you.”

She stiffened. “It has everything to do with me. I don’t want it. I won’t have it.”

He rolled his eyes, opening his mouth to argue with her.

Blundell beat him to it. “I won’t be insulted without redress.”

He put his head down like an angry bull and stalked toward them. Clarissa took a hasty step back, fetching up against Christian’s chest. His hands settled at her waist, resting lightly but possessively on the curve above her hips. Somehow, that felt right, even though she knew how wrong it was.

“I suggest you not come closer, my lord,” drawled Christian. “You’ve distressed Mrs. Middleton quite enough for one night.”

Blundell’s lips peeled back into a taunting sneer. “Hiding behind the lady, Archer? Wonder what your fellow officers in the Fifth will have to say about that?”

All along Clarissa’s spine, Christian’s body went rock hard. Tension and anger radiated from him, enveloping her in a hot wave. In front of her, Blundell glared at Christian with murderous intent. So much belligerent male energy crackled around her, it was a wonder her hair didn’t stand on end.

She had to do something.

“And what will your fellow officers do when they hear you tried to force yourself on me, Lord Blundell? What will your father, the marquess, do when I recount your behavior tonight?”

Christian’s fingers dug into her hips and she flinched. He loosened his grip, murmuring an apology in her ear.

Blundell’s sneer twisted into an ugly grimace. “I doubt anyone would believe you. After all, I’m the son of a peer. And perhaps you forget that my father is a member of the government.”

At one time, she would have accepted that. But with Christian at her back, his strength surrounding her like a shield, her courage returned. “I assure you, sir, I am quite convincing when I put my mind to it.”

Blundell shook with rage. “I will have my satisfaction, I tell you!”

“You’ll have nothing of the sort,” Clarissa retorted. “Please leave, my lord, or I will be forced to relate this unfortunate incident to our host. You may consider yourself untouchable, but I will make it my business to tell everyone about what transpired here tonight. Your father, I suspect, will not be happy about that, no matter how powerful he is.”

Clarissa wouldn’t have been surprised if Blundell had started foaming at the mouth, but he managed to throttle back his rage. He stormed to the French doors, giving the two of them a wide berth. But before he disappeared inside, he rounded on them.

“This isn’t the end of it, Archer. Be sure of it.”

Behind her, Clarissa felt Christian shrug, his hands still clasped lightly on her hips.

“I’ll look forward to our next meeting, my lord,” he said in a bored voice.

Giving them a last, enraged look, Blundell stomped across the floor of the study, and then the door to the hallway slammed shut.

Clarissa stood frozen in Christian’s embrace, trying to quell the trembling of her limbs. Muted sounds from upstairs—the chattering of voices, the scrape of violins—began to filter into her consciousness. She heaved a sigh as life began returning to normal.

With a reassuring murmur, Christian turned her in his arms. She couldn’t look at him. Now that the crisis had passed, shame was fast replacing outrage. Her cheeks flushed with the knowledge that her urge to flee from Christian had placed her in this humiliating situation.

With a gentle hand, he tipped her chin up, and she met his gaze. The rugged angles of his face, only partly obscured by the shadows of the night, emanated masculine authority and determination. She had no doubt he was going to be overly protective and pigheadedly male, when all she wanted to do was go home and forget this night had ever happened.

But then he brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek, sending tingles racing across her skin. When he smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, it sucked the air out of her lungs.

Clarissa realized with a blinding flash of insight that life had most certainly not returned to anything approaching normal.

Christian studied her, his eyes warm and full of concern. His penetrating sapphire gaze held her captive, and the glow she had felt earlier in the ballroom—when he first looked at her that way—surged through her veins. A foolish part of her wanted to stand there all evening, absorbing the heat of their silent exchange.

Blinking, she looked away, determined to break the mysterious connection that had sprung up between them. It frightened her, but she couldn’t worry about that now. A more pressing problem had to be dealt with, namely, preventing Christian from challenging Blundell to a duel.

She braved a look at his face. No trace of anger remained on the clean lines and sharp-cut features. But that didn’t fool her.

He caressed her cheek again, and she repressed a delicious shiver.

“Are you sure he didn’t hurt you?” he asked in a husky voice.

She nodded, intensely aware that his hands still rested on her hip bones. In fact, his fingers were stroking her, lightly and soothingly, through the delicate fabric of her gown. This time, she couldn’t repress the shiver.

He frowned. “Are you cold?”

She shook her head, disengaging reluctantly from his embrace. He let her go, allowing his fingers to trail a path of heat as she stepped away.

“I’m fine,” she said, inwardly cursing the break in her voice.

“You don’t seem very steady on your feet, and you’re trembling. Do you want me to send for Lillian, or my mother?”

It wasn’t only Blundell who had pitched her into her current state of unease, but Clarissa would die before admitting that.

“No!” she responded a bit too loudly.

Christian looked even more concerned. She clamped down on her nerves and tried again. “Really, Christian, there’s no need to call anyone. Lord Blundell hardly touched me.”

His lips turned down in a disapproving curve. “His mouth was bleeding, and you were running like you had the devil at your heels when you charged into me. That sounds rather more than barely touching.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, remaining silent.

His mouth twitched up in a wry smile and he relented. “At least tell me what happened to his lip. Did you bash him with your fan?”

Her fan? What was he talking about?

“That,” he said, glancing at her hand.

She stared in surprise at the fan she still clutched, now a tangled mess of broken sticks and torn lace. It must have been crushed in her struggle with Blundell.

“No. I … I bit him,” she blurted out, instantly regretting it.

He looked puzzled. “You bit him?”

Unfortunately, his puzzlement didn’t last. Enlightenment dawned, and a ferocious scowl descended on his brow. He grabbed her hand and began towing her into the study.

“I’ll kill the bastard,” he muttered under his breath. “I swear to God, I’ll kill him.”

Clarissa panicked. “Christian, stop,” she exclaimed.

He ignored her. She dug her heels into the thick carpet in front of his father’s desk and jerked him to a halt.

“What?” he snapped. His eyes blazed with fury. He looked ready to go to war.

She glared up at him. He glared right back.

“Stop. It. Now.” She ground out each word.

He gave an impatient shake of his head. “You needn’t worry about it, Clarissa. I’ll take care of this.”

“Don’t patronize me. Whatever stupid male thing you’re planning, I won’t have it. I insist that you stay away from Blundell. He didn’t hurt me, and I’ll make sure I never go near him again.”

“You insist?”

He gave her a sweeping inspection, his features etched with a barely controlled savagery. Clarissa hated angry men—hated the raised voices and the stinging slaps that often came with the anger. But Christian, even in a rage, would always be Christian. He would never do anything to harm her.

She propped her hands on her hips, meeting him stare for stare. But just looking at him made her knees quake. He was so impossibly handsome and so intensely masculine that she wanted to shriek with frustration. How infuriating that the boy she had known had grown into a man who could tear her so easily from her moorings.

“You said he forced himself on you, Clarissa,” he growled. “I thought you might be exaggerating to get rid of him before I beat him to a pulp, but clearly I was wrong.”

She sniffed defensively. “I said he tried to force himself. It was just a kiss, which was certainly bad enough. The man is a disgusting pig.”

His eyes turned into chips of blue ice.

“Besides,” she added hastily, “he came out much the worse for wear, thanks to you. I’m certain he won’t come near me again.”

Christian’s anger didn’t appear the least bit assuaged. “He needs to be taught a lesson.”

“Not by you,” she said firmly. “I absolutely forbid it.”

His eyebrows arched with arrogant command, and he looked every bit the hardened soldier. If she didn’t know him so well, she would be shaking in her kid slippers. Although, if truth be told, his imperious look made her stomach flutter with a girlish excitement, which suggested she didn’t really know him very well at all.

“In case you haven’t noticed, Clarissa,” he said in a voice both dangerous and seductive, “I’m no longer a boy for you to order about. As one of your oldest family friends, I’m responsible for you. Your honor has been insulted, and under my own roof. I cannot allow that to go unchallenged.”

The flutters in her stomach turned to pangs of frustration. Honor. He meant his honor. For men, that was always what it came to. She was sick to death of it.

“I don’t care about your blasted honor,” she retorted, her temper finally shredding. “All this talk of honor leads to only one thing—women crying alone in the night. I’ve had enough of that to last me a lifetime. I won’t be the cause of anything happening to you, Christian.”

She jabbed his chest with her index finger for emphasis. “Or even to Blundell, for that matter. My honor is my own to defend. I don’t need you or anyone else to do it for me.”

As she poked at him, he stopped looking angry and started looking amused. His blasted lips twitched again, a sure sign he was holding back laughter. As brawny as he was, she still longed to box his ears.

“And don’t you dare issue Blundell a challenge,” she ground out, determined to put him in his place. “I’ll find out if you do. And … and I’ll tell your mother!”

For a moment, she was sure he was going to laugh, and she vowed to murder him if he did. But he managed to school his expression into one of polite interest.

That made it worse. He was obviously going to ignore everything she said. She closed her eyes, breathing through her anger—and fear, apparently, because once she closed her lids a horrifying image came to life in the darkness. With chilling clarity, she saw Christian stretched out on the ground, a bloody wound in the center of his chest.

Jeremy had died from a bullet to the chest. In all her nightmares, he looked exactly like that.

She gasped, opening her eyes. The room whirled about her and she staggered. Christian’s hands shot out to keep her from falling.

“Clarissa! What the devil—”

With a quiet oath, he swept her into his arms. She knew she ought to protest, but she couldn’t even muster a squeak.

Striding across the room, he gently deposited her in a leather armchair by the fireplace. He hunkered down in front of her, taking her cold hands in a comforting grip.

“It’s all right, sweetheart. If that’s what it takes to make you happy, I won’t challenge Blundell.”

Sweetheart?

She ignored the shock of pleasure that one little word gave her, focusing instead on her anger to restore her strength.

“I don’t believe you,” she said, tugging her hands away. Whenever he touched her like that, her mind went sideways in the most disconcerting fashion.

He gave an exasperated shake of the head.

“Oh, ye of little faith,” he replied sardonically. “I give you my word.”

She snorted, and his eyes narrowed with a dangerous intensity. A prickle of apprehension slithered down her spine. Perhaps she had challenged him enough for one night.

“Oh, very well,” she said in a grumpy tone. “I believe you.”

“I should hope so,” he said dryly. “Not that I won’t be keeping an eye on Blundell. And if he touches you like that again, I won’t be answerable for my actions.”

Her frustration spiked. “Christian, I already told you—”

“Hush,” he said, laying a finger across her lips.

All rational thought fled her brain.

His finger left her mouth and traced a soft path along her chin. He touched her with such tenderness that it brought a sting of tears to her eyes.

“I know how difficult this last year has been for you. And I know how much you hate violence,” he said quietly. “I would not add to your distress. If Blundell makes any trouble, I promise I’ll tell you before I take any action.”

She stared at him, at sea in a swirl of conflicting emotions.

“It’s just that I miss Jeremy so much,” she tried to explain. “I can’t help seeing him … all alone on that battlefield. If anything were to happen to you …”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me. I’m as tough as boot leather.” Rising to his feet in one fluid motion, he said, “Now, you must promise me something in return.”

“What?” she asked suspiciously, trying to ignore how big and handsome he looked as he stood over her.

He pulled her to her feet. “You must promise to drive in the park with me tomorrow. Just the two of us.”

She started to protest, but he cut her off.

“It’s my condition for capitulating to your wishes. I won’t take no for an answer.”

She bit her lip, buffeted once more by those annoying emotions. As ridiculous as it sounded, he threatened her peace and security in every way possible. He shouldn’t be able to make her feel so unlike herself, but he did. It was mortifying, as was her overwhelming impulse to say yes.

“What are you afraid of, Clarissa?” he taunted softly. “It’s just a spin around the park with an old friend.”

“I’m not afraid,” she scoffed, determined to reassert herself. “But I don’t want people to gossip about us.”

“Then we’ll go earlier in the day. That way, only the nursemaids and the children will see us.”

He grinned—a beautiful, boyish grin. One she remembered all too well. “Give over, Clarissa. It’ll be fun. Just like the old days. You do remember having fun, don’t you?”

Her inner defenses collapsed. She did remember, and that was exactly the problem.

Chapter 4

Clarissa strolled along the meandering path through Hyde Park, intensely aware of Christian beside her. He cast a mocking glance her way, then nodded at a group of nursemaids and their charges—a cluster of little boys and girls pelting about the lawn of a nearby sheltered grove.

“See, Ladybird? Not a gossip or an old biddy in sight. Just a few nursery maids and their innocent darlings. No one who could be bothered to take notice of little old us.”

She only just managed to hold back a sigh of relief. He was right, of course. No person of fashion would be seen in the park at this hour of the morning, which was precisely why she had insisted on it instead of a drive later in the day. Christian hadn’t been pleased that she preferred a walk to a drive, but she’d stuck to her guns. The thought of sitting up next to him on the high perch of his curricle in a public display made her shudder. Even Blundell, who had been in his cups last night, had noticed Christian’s flirtatious behavior. God only knew what the gossips would say if they saw her tooling about town in his dashing carriage.

A penetrating shriek from the direction of the grove interrupted her thoughts.

Christian jerked his head around in search of the source of the commotion. “That’s the most appalling noise I’ve ever heard. Who’s getting murdered?”

Clarissa pointed across the lawn. “I believe the culprit is that little girl. One of those grubby boys yanked on her braids.”

He snorted. “You never screeched like that when I pulled your braids, did you? I think I would have remembered if you had.”

“I didn’t, but only because most of your crimes were so much worse. Shrieking about the occasional hair pulling hardly seemed worth the effort.”

A wicked gleam lit up his eyes. “Crimes such as?”

“Hmmm,” she murmured, pretending to think about it. “There was that time you put salt in my tea. Quite a lot of it, I remember.”

“I would never do anything so underhanded,” he protested, trying to look innocent.

“You would and you did. And what about that time you snuck over from your estate to our manor house—which you did on a regular basis, as I recall.”

“Our houses were only a few miles apart,” he said. “I liked to come by and visit you.”

“Torture me, you mean. Like the day you got into my bedroom and stole all my shoes.”

He laughed, a deep, rolling sound that shot thrills of pleasure all the way to the soles of her feet. The morning sunshine picked out flecks of gold in his light brown hair and gilded his tanned skin to bronze. He looked like a young Greek god—so full of vibrant life that it made her head spin.

“I didn’t steal them,” he said with a grin. “I just hid them for a little while.”

“In the stables, as I recall. It took me days to find them. I wanted to kill you.”

Actually, his ridiculous prank had made her laugh, especially since it infuriated her father. Not that Christian gave a fig about that. He’d been on the receiving end of her father’s wrath on many occasions, but had always shrugged it off. His fearlessness as a young boy had astounded her, and she had admired him for his courage.

“But you didn’t kill me,” he said, gently brushing his hand down the length of her spine. His touch and his warm smile created an air of intimacy around them, as if they shared a delicious secret. It made her feel youthfully awkward, and she had to resist the urge to pull away from him.

Instead, she cleared her throat and adopted a tone of matronly disapproval.

“The worst was when you put a toad in my jewelry box. My heart stopped when I opened the lid and it jumped out at me. If I could have laid hands on you at that moment, I most certainly would have killed you.”

He laughed outright at that. “But that was my way of showing you how much I liked you.”

She frowned and came to a halt in the center of the path.

“You liked me? What do you mean?”

He arched an eyebrow. “What do you think I mean?”

She stared up at him. His gaze, flaring with laughter and warmth, flickered over her. Tiny crackles of energy danced along her nerves. “You were only fourteen,” she exclaimed in a breathless voice.

He gave her a lazy and utterly sensual smile. “I was a very mature fourteen.”

She gaped at him, bewildered by the sense that she was tumbling through a strange landscape—one both terrifying and wonderful. He held her gaze, his eyes no longer laughing, but still full of a heat that made her skin prickle.

“Ladybird,” he murmured in a husky voice.

“Stop calling me that!” She snatched her hand away from his arm and fled down the path, heading in a blind rush in the direction of Grosvenor Gate. In seconds, Christian had caught up with her, grasped her hand, and placed it back in the crook of his elbow. She wanted to pull away, but he held her firmly against his side. Heat flowed between them, thickening the air in her lungs, trapping the words of rejection in her throat.

But what was there to reject? He hadn’t offered anything.

She managed a weak protest. “This … this is ridiculous.”

“What is, sweetheart?” he asked quietly.

The simple endearment drove a spike of longing and pain through her heart. Only Jeremy had ever addressed her like that. Jeremy, the only man she had ever loved. And yet, when Christian spoke to her in that low, rumbling voice, and held her close to him, surrounding her with his seductive, masculine strength …

She pulled in a frustrated breath and threw her free arm out in a circle.

“This. Us. You, acting like—” She broke off, trying to find the right words, the words that would make him stop doing whatever it was that made her wish for things she could no longer have.

Gritting her teeth, she ordered her pounding heart to settle, then met his gaze. He looked calm and watchful, completely in control. For some reason she couldn’t explain, that frayed her temper until it broke into pieces.

“Christian, why are you wasting time with me?” she snapped. “Don’t you have better things to do than toddle around the park with boring old widows?”

He drew her to a halt, turning her to face him. She suddenly became aware that they had walked into the shade of a secluded stand of trees, away from the open lawns of the park. The playful shrieks of the children had faded, a peaceful silence taking their place. The bustle of the city seemed distant. Only the coo of a mourning dove calling for its mate intruded on their solitude.

Christian tilted her chin up with a gloved finger. His features were stern, even remote, but his eyes smoldered with a fierce emotion, an intensity that unnerved her, making her stomach flutter.

“You mustn’t talk about yourself that way, Clarissa.” His low voice held a note of command. “Not to me. I won’t allow it.”

She stared wretchedly up at him, at a loss for words. The hard lines of his face gentled. He stroked his finger along the edge of her jaw, the texture of his leather glove a whisper of velvet across her skin.

“Shall I tell you why I won’t allow it?” he murmured.

She struggled to find her voice. To find her wits. “Yes … no. I … don’t know,” she replied, cringing at her awkward response.

He studied her, then shook his head, looking rueful. “Maybe later. You’re not ready to hear what I have to say.”

She blinked, deflated by his answer. Whatever it was that he wanted to tell her, she knew it would frighten her. But a part of her brain—her heart—yearned to hear it.

Yearned for him.

Transfixed and horrified by the thought that had popped unbidden into her head, Clarissa didn’t resist when he guided her back along the path. Silence fell between them, weighted and full of meaning—for her. She hadn’t a clue what Christian was thinking.

After waiting minutes for him to say something, she could no longer stand the silence. If one of them didn’t speak, she might very well succumb to a fit of the vapors and run screaming from the park.

Or box Christian’s ears.

Taking a deep breath, she blurted out the first thing that came into her head. “Captain Archer, when do you return to Portugal? Very soon, I would think.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to sink into the ground. Could she possibly have made it any more evident that she wanted him gone?

He muttered a quiet oath. It was not the kind of thing he would normally say in polite company.

She lifted her eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

He shot her an irritated glance. “Don’t start calling me Captain Archer, Clarissa.”

“And don’t make a fuss over such a little thing,” she retorted, feeling defensive. “Please answer my question. When do you return to Portugal?”

“In a few weeks, at most. My shoulder is healed, so I don’t have any reason to remain in London, do I?”

He sounded enough like a disgruntled schoolboy that she was tempted to laugh. She suddenly felt on familiar ground, with everything back in its proper place.

“Do you miss the Peninsula?” she asked, genuinely curious. “Even though it’s dangerous, it must be very exciting, especially since you’re an ADC to a general.”

He shrugged, a graceful movement of his powerful shoulders. “Sometimes. Especially when we’re out on campaign. But mostly it’s hard, slogging work. Through rain and mud in the winter, and heat and dust in the summer. Often without decent food, or precious little of it, anyway. It’s not the grand adventure people think it is.”

Startled, she sucked in a breath. Had that been Jeremy’s life? His letters had always assured her that he was comfortable and well. But his health had never been strong, and more than once she had suspected he lied for her sake. But, selfishly, she had always tried to avoid the pain of knowing what his daily life had been like.

“I hate to think of our men suffering like that,” she said.

“It’s not all bad. There’s hunting when we have time, and even the occasional party or ball, especially when we’re in Lisbon. The officers’ wives make the best of everything, no matter how dreary the conditions.”

She shuddered. “The women who follow the drum … they’re so brave. I couldn’t imagine doing that. All the hardship, the deprivation …” She let her voice trail off.

He ducked his head to inspect her face. “Not even to be with the man you loved?”

She flushed, reluctant to admit the truth. Besides, Jeremy would never have allowed her to join him, even though she knew several women of good standing who had gone to the Peninsula with their husbands.

Of course, it had never even occurred to her to ask.

“I don’t think I could do it,” she admitted. “I’d be too afraid.”

He pressed her hand, giving her a warm smile. “You only think that because you can’t imagine it. I’ve always known you had more pluck than you gave yourself credit for. You survived all those years with your father, didn’t you? Don’t you remember how you stood up to him when you decided to marry Jeremy? The old bastard blew his top, but you refused to back down.”

“Christian! Your language,” she spluttered, even though his praise brought a welcome warmth to her cheeks. She’d always thought of herself as ridiculously timid, but apparently Christian didn’t see her that way.

“In fact,” he continued in a musing tone, “if you were in the Peninsula, I’m sure you’d be the toast of the regiment. You have your own sort of courage, and you’re the kindest woman I know. There isn’t a lady over there who can hold a candle to you, Clarissa, once you put your mind to it.”

A sudden, intense wave of shame washed through her. No matter what he thought, she wasn’t brave. She was the cowardly one who had begged her husband to abandon his duty to country and king because she was afraid to let him go. A wife who blamed her husband for his own death—for doing what he thought was right.

She turned her head, blinking away the sting of tears.

“Clarissa, what’s wrong?” he asked in a puzzled voice.

“I’m none of those things, and it’s wrong of you to tease me,” she choked out.

He gripped her by the shoulders and spun her to face him.

“I’m not teasing you,” he exclaimed. “Why the hell would you think that?”

Suddenly, she couldn’t take it anymore. “Christian, why are you doing this? It doesn’t make any sense!”

His gaze burned through her. “I should think it would be obvious by now.”

“Christian—” His fingers tightened on her shoulders, pulling her fractionally closer. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird.

“No, Clarissa,” he said gently. “I won’t let you hide behind the wall you’ve built around yourself. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

A scorch of anger and humiliation drove her to throw the ugly answer back in his face. “I think you’re bored, and I’m convenient.”

His expression went dark. “Convenient for what?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she retorted, hating herself even more than she hated him for making her say it. “I’m a widow and will probably never remarry. Perfectly convenient for a soldier on leave.”

He gave her a prolonged stare, his features so grim that she considered pulling herself from his grip and making a dash for the gates. But now that he had forced her to this point, some impulse held her in place, refusing to let her back down.

“Ladybird,” he finally growled. “What kind of loose screw do you take me for? How in God’s name could you place so little value on yourself?”

His answer mystified her. “Then why, Christian? Do you just feel sorry for me because you’re my friend, and I’m a lonely old widow?”

He abruptly released her, but then grabbed her by the hand and drew her behind the shelter of a towering shrub.

“Christian!” Her voice came out on a startled squeak. “What are you doing?”

He backed her against a gigantic oak, caging her by placing his hands on either side of her shoulders. “Showing you that you’re the furthest thing possible from a lonely old widow.”

He swooped down and took her mouth in a ravening kiss. She whimpered under the onslaught. Her fists came up to his shoulders but, to her amazement, she didn’t push him away. Instead, as his mouth devoured hers, tasting her with a hot passion, she felt her fingers open and then dig into the wool of his coat with a desperate grip. When his tongue slid along her lips, teasing, silently asking for her to open, she moaned and melted into him, hanging on with all her rapidly fading strength.

He took her hands and moved them up and around his neck. Their bodies melded together. Need simmered through her veins, eager—even greedy—and his kiss ignited a sweet, painful emotion that had lain dormant. She threaded her fingers through his thick hair, pulling his head down to nuzzle his mouth.

His groan of approval vibrated against her quivering lips. Again, his tongue danced across them, seeking entrance. Swept up in the rising tide of desire, she opened for him and he surged inside. A sweet fire, dark and scorching, burned through her limbs and settled deep in her core. Everything inside went soft as their tongues tangled, playing a delicious and forbidden game. He pressed against her, his solid body gently pushing her against the hard trunk at her back.

She flinched as the rough bark dug into her spine. With a murmur, he eased back, teasing her mouth with a slow, impossibly gentle kiss, so tender and sweet that tears gathered under her closed eyelids. That sweetness undid her. The memory of Jeremy, and the last kiss they had shared, forced its way back into her mind.

Her eyes sprang open. Horror and shame flooded her veins. Bad enough she was letting Christian kiss her like this, but out here in the park? In public?

She jerked back, knocking her head against the trunk of the tree.

Startled, Christian broke free. “Jesus, woman,” he gasped. “What are you doing? Did you hurt yourself?”

“Let me go,” she panted. She pushed against him, frantic.

He stepped back immediately. His cheekbones were glazed with a dark flush and his eyes still smoldered, but he looked wary. And worried.

“Sweetheart,” he began.

She cut him off with a sharp chop of her hand. “No, Christian. Don’t say anything more. This never should have happened.”

With trembling hands, she set her bonnet on straight and dodged around him, heading back for the path. He caught up to her, fell in step beside her. The intensely humiliated part of her took comfort in the fact that he was breathing as hard as she was.

“Clarissa, I’m not playing with you,” he said in a low voice. “I’m dead serious about this. I want to be with you. And not because you’re convenient. I’ve felt this way for a long time.”

Anxiety and a strange, sorrowful yearning squeezed the air from her lungs.

“No,” she choked out. “We can’t do this. It’s absurd.”

He grasped her elbow, forcing her to slow her headlong rush out of the park. She sensed the restrained strength in his grip, the desire to drag her to a halt.

“Why not?” he asked in a frustrated voice.

“Do I really have to explain it?”

“Yes.”

She stifled a curse. “You’re young, Christian.” She could feel his gaze bearing down on her, but she refused to meet it. “You have your whole life ahead of you. And I’m—”

“Don’t you dare say you’re old. I swear I’ll do something drastic if you do.”

His voice held a note of warning, but something else, too. He sounded hurt.

She stopped and looked up at him. His eyes blazed with a complex mix of emotions: desire, anger, and pain. The pain of rejection, of not being good enough. She had seen that pain before. Years ago, when he had compared himself to his athletic and dashing older brothers and found himself wanting.

She sighed, both the fight and the fear draining out of her.

“Christian, you honor me. But I’m not ready for what you’re asking of me. I still love Jeremy, and I’m not ready to let him go.”

He towered over her, like a baffled giant. “Will you ever be ready?”

She briefly closed her eyes, letting her guilt and the love she felt for Jeremy bleed through her. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “But I don’t think it could ever be with you. Whatever you might say, you are too young for me.”

His face hardened into an austere mask. In that moment, he looked anything but young.

“You’re wrong, Clarissa. Why do this to yourself?”

“Because I want peace and quiet. Is that so much to ask for?”

He began to argue, but she grasped his arm and gave it a little shake. “Christian, no. I’m begging you. I can’t give you what you want. Please, let’s just be friends, as we have always been.”

She stared up at him, making no effort to hide the desperation behind her plea. His eyes went bleak, but he nodded.

“As you wish.”

Without another word, he took her arm and led her from the park.

Chapter 5

Pressing her hand against her bodice, Clarissa fought to quell the mad fluttering of her heart. Christian and Lillian had come to call and now waited for her in the snug drawing room of the Middleton town house. Four days had passed since that devastating kiss in the park, and Clarissa had carefully avoided any contact with the Archer clan during that time. But as much as she’d been tempted to send the footman downstairs with a message to Lillian and Christian that she was unwell, neither of her friends deserved such shabby treatment. She had to face the consequences of her foolish behavior sooner or later, and delaying a meeting with Christian wouldn’t make that any easier.

Gritting her teeth, she opened the door. Her guests rose to their feet. Christian’s sapphire gaze locked on hers, boring into her with a smoldering intensity that halted her faltering steps. Her wafer-thin composure evaporated. If Lillian hadn’t been in the room she would have turned tail and fled.

Her friend hurried across the room to greet her. Lillian enveloped her in a sweetly scented hug, then drew her over to sit on the sofa.

Christian bowed, then retreated to the fireplace. He looked handsome and powerful, every inch the proud soldier. His leather boots and buckskin breeches clung to his muscled legs, and his beautifully tailored uniform showcased his brawny shoulders. With an effort, Clarissa turned her attention on Lillian.

“I’ve been so worried about you,” Lillian said with an anxious smile. “When you didn’t come to the Framing-hams’ ball last night I thought you must be ill.”

Clarissa flushed. Bad enough that she had to lie to Lillian now. Even worse that the reason for her lie stood only a few feet away.

“I’m sorry. I should have sent you a note. My father-in-law has been unwell, and I was reluctant to leave him.”

Lillian hesitated, casting a worried glance at Christian. A silent communication passed between them, one that sent a prickle of warning across the nape of Clarissa’s neck.

“I hope the colonel feels more the thing very soon,” Lillian replied. “But Christian and I thought we should call on you today. To ask if you’d heard, ah, any unusual gossip lately.”

Clarissa frowned. “What do you mean? I haven’t heard anything.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, comprehension surged through her in a sickening rush. Had someone seen her in the park with Christian? Backed up against a tree while he devoured her mouth? Her gaze flew up to meet his. He gave a slight but decisive shake of the head.

A sigh of relief escaped her lips, and Christian’s mouth thinned into a grim line. She winced, hating that she possessed the power to wound him.

Lillian briefly closed her eyes, as if in gratitude. “Thank goodness,” she murmured.

Clarissa directed a questioning glance at Christian as her relief gave way to puzzlement. To her dismay, he gave a slight grimace, then dropped his gaze to the fire burning in the grate. Foreboding seeped through her veins.

“Lillian, whatever is the matter?”

Her friend took her hand. “Christian and I need to tell you something, and it’s going to distress you. But please remember that the entire Archer family will do everything we can to help. And the rumors will die down soon enough.”

Clarissa’s heart gave a frightened thump. “What are you talking about?”

Lillian rolled her eyes at her brother, silently pleading for help. Still looking grim, Christian left his station by the fireplace, grabbed an armchair, and pulled it over to sit in front of Clarissa. He reached over and swallowed her hand in a warm, massive grip.

“Clarissa,” he said gently, “rumors about Jeremy are circulating through the ton. They are without foundation, but of course that won’t stop them from spreading. You and Colonel Middleton will surely hear of them soon enough.”

Her mind went blank. What could anyone say about Jeremy that she didn’t already know?

“What … what rumors?”

A muscle pulsed in his lean jaw. Her heart beat even harder in response.

“It’s being whispered that Jeremy failed to act appropriately during the Battle of Badajoz,” he replied in a carefully neutral voice.

She blinked, caught off guard. Jeremy had been one of the officers of the Forlorn Hope, the company assigned to lead the infantry attack on the besieged fortress. The company that obviously sustained the heaviest losses. Colonel Middleton had been told later that Jeremy had volunteered, thereby consigning himself to an almost certain death. Her husband’s decision had eaten away at Clarissa for months, as she had struggled to understand why he could have made that choice.

“Did he make some kind of mistake?” she asked.

Christian squeezed her hand, and she saw pity in his eyes. That more than anything caused a bubble of fear to rise in her throat.

“Clarissa, it’s being said that Jeremy froze at a decisive moment, and did not fulfill the duties of his command,” he answered.

She gaped at him, her mind rejecting his horrifying words.

“Are they calling him a coward?” she finally choked out.

Christian gave a terse nod, his gaze sparking with anger.

Lillian put an arm around her shoulders. “No one who knew Jeremy will believe so foolish a story. We just have to ignore the rumors and they will eventually fade.”

Clarissa snatched her hand away from Christian’s grasp and twisted sideways to glare at Lillian. Fury rose within her in a blinding rush.

“How can you say that? You know very well that most people will believe that kind of rumor—they always do. Whoever started it is lying, and I’m going to find out exactly whom it is.”

She was desperate to move, to get away from them. But Christian, seated in front of her, was blocking her way. Still, Clarissa tried to jump up, but he took her by the arms and held her in a gently unyielding grip.

“No, sweetheart. Wait,” he soothed. “Let us finish telling you what happened.”

Clarissa felt Lillian’s start at his term of endearment, but right now she didn’t care. Christian could call her whatever he wanted if only he would let her go.

“Let me up,” she snapped. “I must go straight to the Horse Guards. Surely I can talk to someone there. One of Jeremy’s commanding officers. I won’t allow anyone to tell lies about my husband.”

She struggled, but Christian held her as easily as he might hold a newborn kitten.

“I’ve already been to the Guards,” he replied. “Father and I went this morning to speak to the commander of Jeremy’s brigade. Stop struggling and I’ll tell you exactly what he said.”

She froze at the note of command in his voice. Some part of her wanted to strike out at him, but the rational part of her mind told her to listen. She gave him a grudging nod, and he eased his grip.

“My father and I heard the rumors yesterday, as did Lillian,” he said. “By last night, we realized they were spreading, and we needed to ascertain the source.”

“And deny the rumors for the vile untruths they are,” Clarissa interjected hotly.

“Of course. Father and I felt it best to track down the source before speaking to you and Colonel Middleton. We wanted to squelch the rumors, if at all possible, and save you unnecessary pain.”

Her stomach clenched at the thought of breaking such news to her father-in-law, especially given his weak heart.

“I’m assuming you weren’t successful,” she said bleakly.

“Unfortunately not. We spoke with Lieutenant-Colonel Harcourt this morning. At first, he tried to put us off, but he eventually revealed that he knew of the rumors.”

Christian hesitated, and Clarissa’s heart sank.

“Just say it,” she said, bracing herself.

“After some discussion, the lieutenant-colonel admitted that they had surfaced once before. Immediately after the battle, and from a credible source. Jeremy’s battalion commander at Badajoz was an old friend of Colonel Middle-ton’s. For the colonel’s sake, he ordered the matter hushed up. Harcourt swore he hadn’t heard another word about it until this week, and now it’s too late to do anything about it. To his way of thinking, the damage has already been done. In fact, he flat out refused to deny the validity of the rumors, saying it was best not to talk about them at all.”

Clarissa fought to pull in air as the muscles in her chest contracted into a crushing band. A hundred thoughts buzzed in her head, but none made any sense.

“Who accused Jeremy of being a coward?” she asked.

Christian glanced at Lillian, who slid her arm around Clarissa’s waist.

“Dearest, does it really matter?” Lillian murmured. “We know it’s a lie, as will everyone who ever knew Jeremy. Eventually it will all die down.”

Clarissa stared at Lillian, stunned by her friend’s response. Did she really not see why they had to fight back?

“Of course it matters,” she retorted. “The cad spreading these lies must be held to account. For Colonel Middleton’s sake, if for no other reason. Jeremy was his only child, and this will likely destroy him.”

Lillian transferred her gaze to Christian. Again, a silent message passed between them, one they obviously didn’t want to share with her.

Instantly, Clarissa knew why.

“You know who it is, don’t you?” she demanded of Christian.

He sighed, deep grooves of unhappiness bracketing the corners of his mouth. She suddenly noticed that he looked like he hadn’t slept well in days.

“Believe me. You’re better off not knowing.”

She grabbed his arm, digging her nails into his sleeve. “Tell me right now, Christian, or I’ll go to the Horse Guards and find out for myself.”

He looked mulish, but she refused to back down and glared at him.

“Very well,” he finally said. “I’m almost certain it’s Blundell. I suspected him from the moment I heard the rumors. A few other things I managed to find out confirmed my suspicions. He was one of Jeremy’s superior officers at Badajoz. Given what happened the other night, the timing makes perfect sense.”

Clarissa slumped against Lillian as the ugliness of it all seeped into her bones. Christian had to be right—it was too much of a coincidence. Blundell had threatened to punish her, and what could be more effective than tarnishing her husband’s name? Especially since Blundell had always hated Jeremy for winning her hand.

But what should they do about it? What could they do about it?

Lillian hugged her but directed a quizzical glance at her brother. “What happened the other night?”

He gave an impatient shake of the head. “It’s not important. What is important is how we’re going to handle this.”

Clarissa sat up, forcing back the leaden weight of despair that sought to overwhelm her. She had to fight back. Jeremy had sacrificed his life for his king, and she could not allow his honor to be trampled into the dust by a pig like Blundell.

“Did you reveal your suspicions to Lieutenant-Colonel Harcourt?” she asked.

Christian’s mouth flattened into a disapproving line. “I did. And received a sharp reprimand in return. He told me in no uncertain terms to leave Blundell’s name out of it. He ordered me, in fact, to leave the whole thing alone.”

“How can he expect that of you?” she cried. “Didn’t your father say something? Harcourt would have to listen to him, wouldn’t he?”

“My father is only a baronet, Clarissa,” he replied in a dry tone. “Not nearly as influential as Blundell’s father, who, as you know, is both a marquess and a member of government. Harcourt made it clear he would take it up with my commanding officer if I didn’t leave the matter alone.”

Clarissa balled her fists into his shoulders and pushed. “Let me up,” she snapped.

That muscle in his jaw ticked again, but he stood and drew her to her feet. She jerked away and began pacing the room.

After several rapid turns, she felt able to speak again without shrieking. She came to a halt in front of Christian, challenging his steady gaze. “Could you talk to other soldiers you know … officers who were at Badajoz? Get them to tell the truth?”

He grimaced. “I’d like nothing better, Clarissa. But I can’t—not when Harcourt gave me specific orders. The lieutenant-colonel truly believes it’s best for everyone to let the matter die down. He reasons that if the brass ignores it, everyone else will, too.”

“That’s nonsense,” she retorted. “The man obviously won’t risk angering Blundell’s father.”

He shrugged, not bothering to deny her accusation.

“Can’t you do anything?” she whispered. “Even for me?”

His face turned to stone, but his eyes flashed with the evidence of a bitter internal struggle. Guilt speared through her for trying to manipulate him, but she had to, for Jeremy’s sake.

“I would if I could. You know that. But I can’t,” he replied in a husky voice. “Not in the face of a direct order.”

Lillian joined them. “Dearest, there’s nothing Christian can do. He can’t possibly disobey such an order, especially now that Wellington has his eye on him.”

Clarissa swallowed around the constriction in her throat. “Can’t anyone go talk to Blundell, at least? Tell him to stop spreading these horrible lies?”

Christian blew out a frustrated breath. “I intended to do just that, but Harcourt warned me away from him. And he did it in front of my father, making it quite clear that a duel to settle the matter was also not an option. Father agreed. Strongly, I might add.”

Clarissa stared at him, dumbfounded and despairing. She felt utterly boxed in, and unable to do anything to protect the reputation of the best man she had ever known. Grief seared her soul, almost as intense as it was on the day she’d learned of her husband’s death.

“So, there’s nothing we can do,” she said in a dull voice. “Nothing but listen and watch as Jeremy’s reputation is trampled on in every drawing room in Mayfair.”

Christian broke away and strode to the window. He stood with his back to them, quiet and still, but a furious tension vibrated in the atmosphere around him. Clarissa sensed his frustration, his need to take action, but too many forces were lined up against them. Even though grief held her immobile, some part of her yearned to comfort him.

“We’ve been discussing that,” said Lillian, breaking into Clarissa’s gloomy thoughts. “Father thinks it best that you leave town for at least a few days. He and Mother will try to refute the charges—quietly and in private conversations. But your presence will give the gossips more fodder. He suggested you and I spend a week or two at our estate in Kent. We could leave today and arrive by nightfall.”

She cast a speculative glance at her brother’s back, then gave Clarissa a tentative smile. “Christian will come, too. Won’t that be nice?”

At any other time, Clarissa would have blushed. But despair and frustration leached through her like a poisoning mist, smothering the fragile peace she had achieved in these last few months.

“I couldn’t possibly leave Colonel Middleton,” she said. “Especially not now.”

Christian turned to look at her. Clarissa didn’t know what he saw in her face, but it brought him back to her side.

“You needn’t worry about that, Ladybird,” he said. “My mother sent a message to Colonel Middleton’s sister in Russell Square. Mrs. Parker agreed to stay with him until your return to London.”

He curled his hand around her cold fingers. She gazed helplessly into his eyes, which had grown dark with the shadows of her own reflected pain.

“It seems you’ve thought of everything,” she said in a wretched voice.

Lillian gave her an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry, Clarissa. Everything will turn out right in the end. I just know it will.”

Clarissa nodded, even though her friend’s reassurance was nonsense. Nothing would ever be right again.

Not unless she took matters into her own hands.

Chapter 6

With a surreptitious tug, Clarissa adjusted her bodice, exaggerating the swell of her breasts over the trim of her neckline. Less than a week ago, she’d been horrified to wear a gown that revealed so much flesh. But if she wanted Christian to help her she had no choice. She had to make him fall in love with her using whatever tools were at her disposal, including her bosom.

Sighing, she shifted on the old trundle bed, trying to get comfortable—although most of her discomfort sprang from her guilty conscience. She hated that she had to be so ruthless. But Christian was the only person who could assist her in clearing Jeremy’s name, and clear it she would, no matter the cost. But first she had to entice him to disobey his orders and search for the information she needed. If she could transform his passing infatuation with her into something he believed was real, he might then be persuaded to help her.

There would be consequences when Christian learned the truth about her actions, but she couldn’t think about that now or she’d lose her nerve.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor of the attic, Christian glanced up from the battered trunk in front of him. Sunlight slanted through the window at the south end of the low-pitched room, gilding his thick hair with glints of amber and casting a glow over his rugged, handsome features. His heavy-lidded gaze skimmed over her figure, lingering on her breasts.

A forbidden thrill rippled through her. It didn’t matter how many silent scolds she gave herself every night as she tossed restlessly on her crisp linen sheets. Whenever he looked at her that way—whenever she remembered his impassioned kiss—her insides quivered.

He cast a lazy smile that made her want to purr like a kitten. “Did you say something, Clarissa?”

“Ah, no,” she replied. “I simply cleared my throat. It is rather dusty up here.”

He arched a brow and glanced around the tidy, well-dusted room that made up the attic of the Archer country manor, but forbore to comment on the idiocy of her remark.

“Would you like to go back downstairs?” he asked politely. “I’m beginning to suspect Lillian is leading us on a wild goose chase, although I can’t imagine why. I’m fairly certain that if there were love letters from Charles II to one of my ancestors, someone would have found them long before now.”

Clarissa choked back a dismayed groan. This was the first opportunity she’d had to get Christian truly alone since they’d arrived at Rosedell Manor yesterday. It was during the short journey into Kent that she’d hatched her desperate plan, but she could hardly launch it with Lillian sitting in the same carriage, right next to her brother. And since then, her friend had stuck to her like glue, clearly trying to distract her by telling one amusing story after another until Clarissa wanted to scream.

Fortunately, while they were lunching this afternoon, Lillian had mentioned an old family tale regarding an ancestral Lady Archer, and her association with the great Stuart king. Letters from the king had apparently survived, but no one had seen them in years. Lillian had mused that they were likely buried somewhere in the attic.

With an inspired flash born of desperation, Clarissa had asked Christian to help her search for the letters. Feigning a boldness that made her stomach hurt, she had pointedly neglected to include Lillian in her invitation. To her surprise, her friend had simply shrugged, claiming she had errands to run in the village.

Clarissa stared morosely at the whitewashed floorboards of the attic. Lillian would be furious that she was manipulating her beloved brother. God only knew if their friendship would even survive.

She sucked in a huge gulp of air as remorse squeezed her heart in an unforgiving grip. Christian looked up from a pile of documents in his lap.

“You need a rest,” he said, looking worried. “We can do this later, after you’ve had a nap.”

She scowled. “I’m not an old lady who needs her afternoon nap.”

A muscle pulsed in his cheek, and she could tell he was trying not to laugh.

“That’s what I’ve been saying all along, Ladybird. But, very well. Since you’re intent on doing this, why don’t you come over here and help me go through this bloody great trunk. It’s full of documents, although I have my doubts we’ll find any love letters.”

She started to comply when a better idea popped into her head. Sinking down onto the bed, she threw him what she hoped was a sultry look.

“You don’t really expect me to sit on the floor, do you? Why don’t you drag the trunk over here and sit on the bed beside me?” she said.

His chin jerked up, and he studied her for a long moment. She held her breath, hoping her smile didn’t look as false as it felt. God help her if he said no.

Relief coursed through her when he finally gave a slow nod and unfolded his long legs. He rose, then dragged the heavy trunk across the floor to the bed. He loomed over her, his face guarded, the wings of his eyebrows pulled together in an aggressive, masculine slash.

She patted the mattress and gave him an inviting smile. “Sit.”

He hesitated, then came down beside her, careful to keep several inches between them. The bed creaked, but the sturdy old frame accepted the added weight of his brawny physique.

“Now,” she murmured, “let’s see if we can find those love letters. If we do, perhaps I can read them to you.”

He blinked and a light flush glazed his cheekbones. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” he replied in a puzzled voice.

She wriggled across the mattress, closing the gap between them. He tensed, muscles flexing in his broad shoulders.

“But wouldn’t it be fun if we did?” she prattled, trying not to show her nervousness. “One can only imagine what the king wrote. He was apparently quite a romantic and imaginative lover.”

He shot her a startled glance. “Where the hell would you learn about something like that?”

For a moment, she forgot she was trying to seduce him.

“Really, Christian,” she huffed. “It’s not a secret that the king had several mistresses. And I was married, after all. I’m quite aware of what can happen in the bedchamber.”

Oh, Lord. She hadn’t meant to blurt that out. His eyes turned a smoky blue, and waves of heat raced under the confinement of her stays. Well, that was exactly the reaction she was hoping to elicit from him, wasn’t it?

“I’m sure you are,” he murmured. “But I never expected to hear you admit it.”

“I don’t see why not,” she said lightly. “We’re both adults.”

She leaned forward to peer inside the trunk, giving him a generous view of her breasts. She blushed, shocked by her own behavior, but she couldn’t suppress a niggle of excitement. And a surge of satisfaction when she heard the breath hitch in his throat.

Carefully removing a stack of papers, she gave him ample time to inspect her bosom before slowly straightening up. She turned to look at him, surprised to find she was beginning to enjoy playing the role of seductress. She had never been that kind of woman. One who was confident and sensual, and who could hold a man in the palm of her hand. It was intoxicating, especially when it involved a man as strong and masculine as Christian.

Her enjoyment died a swift death when she met his hard, suspicious gaze.

“What are you up to, Clarissa?”

Flinching at the steel in his voice, she fought the urge to bolt. She must be making a mess of it by confusing him. After all, just a few days ago she had begged him to leave her alone.

She tried again, giving him what she hoped was an adoring smile as she tentatively rested her hand on his thigh. The muscles in his leg felt as unyielding as stone, but the heat flowing into her fingers practically scorched her.

“I thought this was what you wanted,” she whispered, gliding her hand upward.

He hissed out a breath, his fingers engulfing hers and holding them still. “It is. I suppose I’m a fool to question it, but this doesn’t make any sense. You asked me to stay away from you, Clarissa. Have you really changed your mind, or is this some kind of game?” He looked angry, baffled, and … ready to rip her clothes off.

She called up every ounce of internal fortitude and held his gaze, refusing to shrink away from his penetrating inspection. Quelling her fear, she tossed her head and pretended to be as bold as the other widows of the ton.

“A lady can change her mind, can’t she? You were right about me, Christian. I have locked myself away, too afraid to let anyone near. Well, I’ve realized I’m sick of it, and sick of being alone.”

She broke off, stunned to hear the words that tumbled out of her mouth. Stunned to realize those words were true.

The disapproving line of his sensual mouth eased fractionally. “Go on.”

With a terrifying plunge, she finally voiced what she had been denying to herself since that day in the park. “I want you, Christian,” she whispered. “I don’t understand it, but I do.”

He stared down at her, a warrior with a hard, predatory gaze—a gaze that sought to bare all the secrets of her soul. Her heart kicked into a racing gallop and she shrank away, knowing in a brutal flash of clarity that she couldn’t go through with her scheme. Not when he looked at her like that.

But then, as if by magic, the angry warrior disappeared and Christian came back to her. A gentle hand cupped her cheek, and his lips curled into a rueful smile.

“Believe me, Ladybird, I’m not complaining. I want to be sure, because once we start this—once I touch you again—I’ll be lost. I have no defenses against you.”

She swallowed around the lump in her throat, awash with guilt and an astonished, almost fearful, tenderness. Christian was everything that Jeremy wasn’t: confident, sometimes reckless, and full of energy and health.

And yet, he was much like Jeremy, too. He had the same kind and loving demeanor, the same devotion to family and friends, combined with the courage of a man of honor. That’s what terrified her. Not that Christian was so different from her husband, but that he was so much the same.

Wretchedly, she stared back at him, conflicting emotions swirling about inside her. But in all the chaos, she was able to grasp one essential truth. In this moment she wanted to be with Christian, no matter the consequences.

Gently, he held her face as his mouth covered hers in a soft, sweet kiss. She clutched at him with trembling arms, telling herself to push him away. How could she betray him like this? Betray herself, and everything she knew to be right? She had to tell him the truth, had to let him make the decision for himself.

But when his tongue parted her lips, taking hot possession of her mouth, all her guilt and good intentions fell away. Only sensation remained. The tingling feel of his long, muscular thigh flexing against her leg, the exciting roughness of his calloused hands on her cheeks, the wet sweep of his tongue into her mouth. Nothing else mattered but the imprint of his hands on her flesh, the mark of his mouth on her body.

He released her face and lashed his arms around her, crushing her against his chest. Her breasts, spilling over the top of her skimpy bodice, pressed into the soft wool of his coat. The brush of fabric across her sensitized skin made her shiver, and her nipples, barely contained by her stays, contracted into hard little points. He devoured her mouth, licking and nibbling at her lips, sucking on her tongue as if she were a juicy sweet to be consumed. And that’s exactly how she felt—like a hot, honeyed morsel, ready to be eaten.

And, God help her, that’s exactly what she wanted him to do.

She opened up to him, sucking his tongue into her mouth. They tangled, and she relished the taste of him—sweet yet scorching, and powerfully male. His energy streamed into her, filling up the sad, empty places where all had been silent for so long. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and she gripped his shoulders, struggling to get closer, to plaster every inch of her body to his.

He broke the kiss, lifting his head to look at her. She gasped an incoherent protest, then buried her head in his cravat, overwhelmed and mortified, her need for him robbing her of strength.

“Shh, sweetheart,” he murmured, moving one hand in a soothing glide down her spine.

“Why … why are you stopping?” she quavered, unable to still the tremors racing through her limbs.

He uttered a low laugh that sounded more like a feral growl. “I’m not. But I’ve got to slow down. I’m only seconds away from having you flat on your back with your legs spread wide and me deep inside you.”

She jerked back to look at him. His eyes blazed with lust, and his crude but exciting words made the soft flesh between her legs throb and grow moist.

“Oh, I …”

She trailed off, too entranced by the way his hands were now roaming over her body to speak. His long fingers briefly shaped her hips and waist, then moved up the bare flesh of her arms, leaving a velvety heat in their wake. Her eyelids half closed as he stroked across her collarbones and brushed his fingers up her neck, tilting her head back so he could kiss the shivery spot below her ear.

She sighed with voluptuous pleasure. How could those hands—so calloused and hard from years of soldiering—be that tender against her skin? So able to send shudders of pleasure along her nerves?

“What were you saying, my love?” Christian murmured against her neck. He pushed her hair back and carefully set his teeth to her skin, giving her a tiny, tingling bite.

She jerked in his arms, a hard throb pulsing deep in her womb.

“I—ah, I wouldn’t mind if you did that,” she managed.

He suckled her neck, his tongue soothing the place where he had just set his teeth. She went boneless in his arms, her head falling back. Sensation stormed through her. Never had she felt so much, even during her marriage. She and Jeremy had enjoyed relations, but nothing like this. Christian’s touch made her blood rush and her heart pound. Her limbs trembled, and she had to repress the urge to beg for more, like some helpless supplicant.

“Is that an invitation?” he asked, easing her down onto the trundle bed.

“Yes,” she whispered. The bed was so narrow he had to lie half on top of her, one leg between her thighs as he propped himself up on an elbow.

She gazed up at him through half-closed lids, enthralled by the passion that carved his features into a wild, rough beauty. His lips pulled back in a sensual smile as his fingers busied themselves in the lacings of her bodice. Carefully, he tugged down the delicate fabric, exposing the flesh that plumped up over her stays. Clarissa’s mouth went dry as she watched him draw one finger over the tops of her breasts, skimming the dusky flesh that ringed her nipples. She shivered, sparks of heat dancing along her skin.

“Are you sure?” he whispered.

He looked up, their eyes locking on each other’s. Need flowed between them, linking them with a single, overwhelming hunger. She nodded, too overwhelmed by desire and trepidation to utter a word.

His gaze flared with a possessive heat, his unleashed passion rolling over her like a wave. With a swift movement, he yanked at her stays and her breasts spilled free. Christian hissed out a breath, a harsh, triumphant sound that set her heart pounding with a tiny jolt of panic.

But then he bent and pressed a reverential kiss on her chest, just over her racing heart.

“Christ,” he muttered, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. I swear I’m not worthy to touch you.”

She heard it, then. The doubt in his voice. The fear that he would never be good enough. It had dogged him all his life, living as he did in the shadow of his older siblings.

With a murmur, she stroked his hair.

“Please, Christian,” she pleaded. “I want you. Don’t make me wait any longer.”

He placed another gentle kiss between her breasts, but then his hands were on her, shaping and kneading with a masterful touch. Fire sizzled through her veins. She moved restlessly beneath him, craving more.

“Christian,” she moaned.

He stroked her breasts, tweaking the hard, rosy nipples. The calloused pads of his fingers tortured her until she squirmed with excitement.

It wasn’t enough.

As if he knew, he cupped her breasts in his big hands, plumping them. Then he fastened his mouth on the tight point of one nipple. A hot thrill streaked along her nerves and she arched her back, eagerly pushing her pelvis against his hip, pressing hard through the layers of their clothing. A small, sharp contraction pulsed in her womb, the pleasure so intense she gave a strangled cry.

Christian played with her, languidly moving from one breast to the other. His body pressed her down into the bed. The sense of being captured and restrained drove her wild. A luxurious, tormenting ache that she had almost forgotten these last several months throbbed between her thighs.

He lifted, pulling back with a hard suck, letting his teeth graze over the rigid tip of a nipple. But still, as if he couldn’t help himself, he dipped again and dragged his tongue across her breast one last time before shifting away. She moaned, arching to follow his mouth.

He held her down.

“You have the loveliest breasts,” he murmured as he stroked the tight points. “I could do this for hours.”

She stared up at him, stunned that he would say something … so … so exciting.

His lips curled back, wolflike, exposing strong white teeth.

“Would you like that?” he asked with a wicked grin.

“Ah …” She was at a complete loss. It had never occurred to her that people talked about these things while they were doing them.

He gave a soft laugh. “Another time.”

Swiftly, he unlaced her stays and pulled them from her body. Her chemise came next and then she lay before him, clad only in her stockings and shoes.

Clarissa blushed from head to toe as he gazed at her. But she felt only shyness, not shame. Christian’s face bespoke adoration as much as lust, and his hands were gentle as he settled her more comfortably on the bed. She waited quietly while he stood to strip off his clothes.

As his body was revealed, her breath snagged. She saw a godlike, brawny, and powerful man. But a man who had experienced all the brutalities of war. She couldn’t help clapping one hand over her mouth.

Christian’s head came up and his eyes filled with concern.

“What’s wrong, love?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

She touched the barely healed bullet wound on his shoulder, and then ran her fingers along the ridge of a cruel scar that bisected the left side of his torso. “Do they still hurt?” she asked.

He carried her hand to his lips. “I’m fine. There’s nothing to worry about. I promise.”

An echo of sorrow rustled in her chest. “I hate that you have to be a soldier.”

He drew her close. She shuddered, loving the feel of his hot, hard body blanketing her limbs.

“Shh,” he murmured. “Don’t think about that. Not now.”

He nuzzled her mouth as one hand shaped the globes of her bottom. Her aroused nipples brushed against the coarse hairs of his chest, forcing a groan from her mouth. Hunger and need poured through her veins, and her thighs dampened.

“Christian,” she panted, breaking free from his tender kiss. “I need you. Now.”

“Patience, love,” he crooned as he trailed kisses along her jaw. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

She grabbed him by the ears and yanked his head up, bringing them nose to nose.

“Ouch,” he yelped. For effect, she thought, since his eyes were gleaming with laughter.

“Now,” she gritted between clenched teeth.

He made a quick, ravishing foray of her mouth, and then settled in the cradle of her thighs. She pulled her legs up around his hips to accommodate his muscled girth.

“As my lady commands,” he said in a rumbling voice.

He flexed his hips, nudging the broad head of his erection into the opening of her body. Holding her head between his hands, he gazed into her eyes as he surged into her. She gasped at the scorching invasion that stretched and filled her to the limit. He stilled, and his head dropped to her shoulder, his breath a pant on her skin.

“Clarissa—” he choked out.

“No,” she breathed. “It’s all right.” She wriggled a bit, and pleasure lanced up from the place where they were joined. It was more than all right. It was wonderful.

With a satisfied hum, she arched her spine, rubbing her breasts against the hardness of his chest. He began to move in short, hard nudges. She greedily absorbed every sensation, running her hands over the broad contours of his shoulders, tracing the rippling of muscles down his back and across his lean flanks.

Her touch spurred him on. He tilted her hips, moving deep, setting off a delicious, fevered ache in her most sensitive flesh. His mouth locked on hers, his tongue hot and caressing between her lips.

Clarissa pulled her knees up, opening herself as wide as she could. She was desperate, sobbing against his mouth, yearning for completion.

Breaking the kiss, Christian lifted on his elbows. She whimpered a protest, needing all of him—on her, in her, bringing her to rapture. Murmuring comfort, he brought his hand down between their bodies, slicking two fingers through her damp folds. She dug her heels in his thighs and cried out as a shuddering release trembled through her limbs.

In response, his muscles began to spasm. He lunged into her, pressing down as he shook with his release. A deep groan broke from his throat, and he collapsed, curling around her.

As they lay there, a panting tangle of arms and legs, Clarissa slowly came back to herself. The pressure of Christian’s body lifted from her chest. She opened her eyes to look at him.

Her heart lurched. What she saw on his face wasn’t some temporary infatuation. It was love—selfless, adoring, and full of joy.

Her plan, God forgive her, had worked.

Chapter 7

Christian propped himself on his elbows, relishing the feel of Clarissa’s lush body lying beneath him. God, how he’d stormed into her, unable to hold himself back. He’d spoken the truth when he said he had no defenses against her. And it scared the hell out of him. But he could no more turn away from her now than he could cut out his own heart.

She stared up at him, looking dazed—flustered, even. Not that he could blame her. He had acted like a brute—taking her with no ceremony on an old trundle bed in the attic of his family’s house. And in broad daylight. His parents would see him hanged for a scoundrel—after making sure he married Clarissa first.

Which he had every intention of doing.

He brushed his mouth across her kiss-swollen lips and she whimpered, her small hands fisting into his shoulders as if to push him away.

“Poor sweet,” he murmured. “Am I crushing you?”

She gave a jerky nod in response.

With a deep sigh, he pulled out of her warm body and rolled onto his back, taking her with him. The damn bed was so small he almost fell out as he tried to arrange them on the mattress. That earned him a muffled giggle, one so girlish and sweet his heart turned over in his chest.

She wriggled on top of him, trying to get comfortable. His shaft twitched with renewed interest.

“Careful, love,” he groaned. “You might get more than you bargained for.”

She lifted her head from his chest and frowned. “What do you mean?”

He caressed her luscious bottom and she blushed, dropping her gaze.

“I don’t think that would be a very good idea,” she replied in a strained voice.

Christian frowned, trying to see her face, but she kept it turned away from him.

“What’s wrong, Clarissa?”

“Nothing,” she said tightly.

He knew that voice. Knew it meant she was hiding something. “Yes, there is.” He rubbed the bunched muscles between her shoulder blades. “You can tell me anything. I won’t be angry.”

She gave an unhappy sigh that stirred the hairs on his chest. “It’s just that … this will take some getting used to. I didn’t expect it to happen.”

He smiled, relief flooding through him. As long as she didn’t regret what they’d done.

“Try not to think about it right now. There will be plenty of time to mull it over later.”

She looked up, scowling. “You always say that. But sometimes things can’t wait.”

He stroked the glorious tangle of golden hair back from her face. “You know me, Ladybird. I’m a simple soldier. We don’t like to think too much.”

She made a scoffing noise and settled onto his chest. But even though she lay quietly for a few minutes, he could practically hear the cogs and wheels turning in her head. He gave her leg a gentle nudge with his foot.

“Tell me what it is,” he said.

She stirred but kept her head down. “All these years you’ve called me Ladybird, and I never once asked you why.”

An obvious feint, but he’d play along for now. “I called you that because you were always flying away home, just like in the nursery rhyme. We could be in the middle of anything—like fishing on the lake, playing cards—and you would drop everything and dash home as if the devil himself were at your heels.”

She blew out a pensive breath. “I suppose in a way he was. Father would be so angry if I was late for afternoon tea or dinner. And I was late quite a lot, because I never wanted to leave Rosedell Manor. I loved it here.”

Anger pierced his gut at the memory of Clarissa’s mistreatment. “I know he used to hit you.”

She seemed to shrink into herself. “Sometimes.”

He hugged her close, the old anger warring with an aching regret. “No one will ever hurt you again, Clarissa.”

“You can’t possibly know that,” she said in a hollow voice.

In a swift move, he rolled her underneath him. Her eyes widened in surprise as he took her face between his hands. “Yes, I can. Because you’re mine, now. I won’t let anyone hurt you, ever again,” he vowed.

Panic seemed to flare in her eyes. She struggled, trying to push him off. “Christian, let me up.”

He blinked, stunned by her reaction. “Clarissa—”

“Now!”

He rolled off her and sat on the edge of the bed. She grabbed her chemise and began wrestling it over her head. When he tried to help her, she batted his hands away.

Resisting the urge to swear, he reached for his breeches. Apparently, she was already regretting what they’d done. No doubt for myriad foolish reasons he would now have to deal with.

He stood and watched her fuss with the ties of her chemise. When she refused to meet his eyes, his heart sank. He had to throttle back his frustration. “You need to tell me what’s wrong.”

She smoothed her chemise, took a deep breath, and raised her eyes. Their usual amber sparkle had disappeared, leaving her gaze flat and bleak. Unease rifled through him.

“I need to tell you something,” she said. “You won’t like it.”

He wanted to sit next to her, to take her in his arms. But her grim expression froze him in place.

“Say it,” he replied.

“I’ve lied to you, Christian. I didn’t want to, but I did. It was necessary.”

He clamped down on his flaring emotions. “About what? This?”

She nodded, looking miserable. “Partly. I wasn’t going to tell you, but I have to now. After this …” She gestured at the bed. “I needed you to help me find out what really happened at Badajoz. To help me clear Jeremy’s name. After you refused, I decided I had to do whatever it took to convince you to help. I thought if I could make you fall in love with me … well, then you would do what I needed you to.”

She finished in a rush. Her cheeks were stained a bright pink, and she looked both defiant and on the verge of tears.

Christian had felt such pain once in his life—when a French saber had sliced him open. But this was worse. A physical wound healed, but the wound she’d just inflicted probably never would.

Sucking in a harsh breath, he tried to stem the anger pulsing through his veins. As much as he wanted to explode at her, he couldn’t. That kind of reaction would scare her to death, and no matter how much she had earned it he wouldn’t do that to her.

After a few moments, he calmed his anger enough to speak. “What just happened between us … was it all a ruse then? Was any of it real, Clarissa?”

She rubbed the corner of one eye, looking ashamed. “Of course it was real. That’s why I couldn’t go through with my stupid plan. You mean too much to me. I couldn’t lie to you any more than I already have.”

He stared at her, too baffled and angry to respond. What the hell did she want from him?

“Christian,” she said in a pleading voice, “you probably hate me now, and I can’t blame you.”

He shook his head. “I don’t hate you—”

“You should,” she interrupted. “If I were a better person, I would leave this house and never bother you again. But I can’t. Regardless of what I’ve done, I still need your help.”

She scrambled from the bed and grasped his arm. He clenched his teeth, forcing himself not to respond. But her simple touch burned through him. She was so beautiful, half naked and flushed from lovemaking. She had ripped his heart to shreds, and yet still he wanted her. Needed her.

He didn’t hate her. He hated himself for being such a fool. “What would you have me do?”

A faint hope dawned in her eyes. “Christian, you know people, especially soldiers who were at Badajoz and who might know the truth. Could you talk to them? If you uncovered what really happened, then Lieutenant-Colonel Harcourt would have to listen to me.”

He cursed inwardly. She asked for the one thing he couldn’t deliver.

“Please,” she begged when he didn’t respond. “If you won’t do it for me, then do it for Jeremy. Do it for a fellow officer who deserves help.”

Christian pulled away from her loose grip and reached for his shirt. “I can’t disobey a direct order. Don’t ask that of me.”

She yanked the shirt from his hand and flung it across the room. “Is your blasted career all you care about? Fighting and killing? Does that mean more to you than I do?”

Tears glittered on her eyelashes, but her slight figure radiated fury. He glared back at her, stung by the accusation.

“I’m a soldier, Clarissa. It’s who I am. What else should I be? Should I sit at home, the feckless younger son waiting for the crumbs to fall from his father’s table? That’s no kind of life for a man. This is what I have chosen to do, and I do it well.”

When she shook her head, making a disparaging sound, Christian’s anger spiked. “And if you think I enjoy fighting and killing, you can go to the devil,” he flung at her. “I do what I must to protect my country and my king. I don’t like killing, but I’ll be damned if I’ll apologize to you for it.”

He stalked across the room, grabbed his shirt, and pulled it over his head. “And by the way,” he added, “your beloved husband obviously thought so, too, or he wouldn’t have gone off to Spain and left you.”

Her anguished gasp brought him up short. He briefly closed his eyes, suddenly wishing a bolt of lightning would strike him dead. “Clarissa,” he sighed.

“No, Christian. Not another word,” she choked out, yanking on her gown. “If you feel any affection for me whatsoever, you’ll pretend none of this ever happened.”

Before he could say another word, she scooped up the rest of her clothes and fled.

An imperious knock sounded on the front door of the Middleton town house, jolting Clarissa from her gloomy reverie. Whoever it was, she didn’t want to see anyone. Since she fled Rosedell Manor four days ago—right after that disastrous, earth-shattering encounter with Christian—she had imprisoned herself inside the house. And if not for Colonel Middleton’s poor health, she would have already packed up their household and decamped to the security of their Devon estate.

She dropped her needlework in her basket and went to look out the window. A highly polished town coach stood before the front stoop. One of the Montegue carriages, which meant Lillian had come to try to see her. Again.

Clarissa rubbed her temples, trying to ease the headache that had taken up permanent residence in her skull. She hated having to avoid Lillian, but she couldn’t face her right now. Not until Christian sailed away to the Peninsula and out of her life for good. Then she would talk to her friend and beg her forgiveness for using her brother in so cavalier a fashion.

Her eyes stung as she imagined life without Christian. Every day she struggled to deny the truth. And every night, alone in her bed, she was forced to admit it. She loved him. How could she not? Even as a boy he had touched her heart, with his intelligence and courage, his kindness, and his sheer joy in life. And now he was a man. Handsome and powerful, whose caresses made her body flare with a passion unlike any she had ever known.

But she had used him and asked him to betray his honor for her sake. Jeremy would have been horrified by her heartless scheme. She understood that now, after four days of thinking of little else. That realization was almost worse than anything.

At the sound of a hasty tread on the staircase, she left the window. A moment later the door to the drawing room flew open and Lillian rushed into the room, as grim as a hanging judge.

Groaning inwardly, Clarissa reached deep for a smile.

“Lillian, how nice to see you. I’m sorry I haven’t been well enough—”

“Stow it, Clarissa,” Lillian snapped. “No more hiding away. We’re going to talk right now about what happened between you and Christian. And what to do about it.”

Clarissa sank into a chair, propping her aching forehead on her palm.

“There’s nothing to do. He hates me.” She gave a bitter laugh. “Not that I blame him.”

Lillian rolled her eyes. “You can be such a goosecap. He doesn’t hate you. He’s been madly in love with you for years.”

Clarissa gaped at her friend. “You knew?”

Lillian scoffed. “Of course. So did Father and Mother.”

Clarissa groaned and dropped her head back in her hands, unable to conjure an answer to that humiliating revelation.

“Oh, for God’s sake! Look at me,” Lillian exclaimed.

Cautiously, Clarissa raised her head.

Lillian seemed torn between vexation and sympathy. “Did you really think we wouldn’t approve of a match between you and Christian? We’d be thrilled. For both of you.”

Clarissa gasped. “Are you insane? I’m five years older than he is. And he’s a soldier. I could never marry another soldier.”

“You just might get your wish,” Lillian retorted. “At this very moment, Christian is destroying his career—for your sake.”

If she hadn’t already been sitting, Clarissa would likely have fallen down. “What are you talking about?”

“Christian is going on a crusade to clear Jeremy’s name. After you bolted from Rosedell Manor, he returned to town immediately and began digging around for information.”

“He did?” She was so dumbfounded she could hardly formulate the question. “Why?”

“Because he loves you,” Lillian enunciated loudly. “While you’ve been hiding away, he’s been searching high and low for witnesses. He managed to find two crippled veterans of the siege of Badajoz, both in London. According to them, Jeremy’s conduct there was brave and exemplary. And they saw everything.”

She frowned. “But why didn’t they come forward when the rumors surfaced after the battle?”

“They did. They went to Major Blundell, but he ordered them to keep silent. Since he was their senior commander, they felt they had to obey. But Christian promised that he and my father would stand with them. They’ve agreed to testify to the truth. And they’re sure there are others from Jeremy’s regiment who would be willing to speak out.”

Clarissa’s head spun. Conflicting emotions—anger, joy, relief—washed through her.

“That’s … that’s wonderful,” she finally managed.

Lillian grimaced. “It is for Jeremy’s reputation. But not for Christian. He disobeyed a direct order. He’s at the Horse Guards right now, trying to convince Lieutenant-Colonel Harcourt to call Blundell to account.”

A jolt of alarm cleared Clarissa’s head. “Didn’t your father go with him?”

“He didn’t tell Father. Christian was afraid he would try to stop him from going to see Harcourt. And he swore he’d kill me if I said anything.”

Anxiety and guilt drove Clarissa from her chair. She grabbed her friend by the arm, pulling her to the door. “I never wanted him to do that. I intended to take any information he discovered to Harcourt myself. I didn’t want Christian to destroy his career!”

“There’s nothing you can do about it,” Lillian protested.

Her friend was wrong. Clarissa knew exactly what to do. The thought of it made her stomach churn, but she had no other choice.

“Yes, there is,” she said, dragging Lillian into the hallway. “I’m going straight to speak with Harcourt. I will not allow Christian to do this to himself.”

Lillian looked scandalized. “You can’t go to the Horse Guards by yourself. Think of the gossip!”

“Yes, Lillian, I can. And you’re going to drive me there. Now.”

Chapter 8

Clarissa glared at the clerk blocking the door of Lieutenant-Colonel Harcourt’s office. The self-important wretch was determined to keep her out, claiming that Harcourt was in an important meeting with another officer.

That officer was Christian, and she had to stop him before he destroyed his army career.

“Stand aside, sir,” she ordered impatiently.

The clerk bristled. Puffing his chest out, he pointed to a chair in front of his desk. “Please take a seat, madam. You will wait for the meeting to conclude, or I will call a guard to escort you from the building. I would not wish to embarrass you, but I will not hesitate to do so if I must.”

Clarissa suspected he would, too. The very thought of the commotion that would cause made her almost nauseous. But she was tired of everyone telling her what to do, and no priggish bureaucrat would stop her now. Not when Christian needed her. “If you or anyone else touches me, I’ll scream. As long and as loud as I can. Please step aside from that door.”

The man’s face went purple, and he began to bluster. She opened her mouth and took a deep breath.

Grumbling under his breath, the clerk shuffled aside, and Clarissa burst into the room before he could change his mind. She slammed the door and leaned against it, trying to calm her pounding heart.

An imposing-looking officer sat behind a massive desk, his bushy moustache quivering with surprise as he stared at her. Christian stood in front of the desk. He pivoted to face her, and his mouth gaped open for a few seconds before he clamped it shut in a grim line.

Lieutenant-Colonel Harcourt lumbered to his feet. “What the devil is going on here?” he snapped. “Who, madam, are you?”

Praying her legs wouldn’t collapse under her, Clarissa crossed the room to stand beside Christian. He gave a slight but angry shake of the head.

Meeting Harcourt’s glower, she mentally braced herself and then launched in. “I am Mrs. Middleton, sir. I’ve come to discuss the harm that has been done to my husband, Captain Jeremy Middleton.”

Christian finally exploded. “Good God, Clarissa! You shouldn’t have come here. What were you thinking?”

“Hold your tongue, Captain,” thundered Harcourt. “I will ask the questions.”

Christian snapped back to attention, even though he still looked furious. With her or with Harcourt, she wasn’t sure.

The lieutenant-colonel returned his penetrating gaze to her. “Mrs. Middleton, perhaps you’ll be good enough to explain your behavior. It’s not quite the thing for a lady to be racketing about the Horse Guards without an escort. Your father-in-law wouldn’t approve, I daresay.”

His scowl twisted her stomach into knots, but she held her ground. “My dear sir, do you intend to offer me a seat, or must I stand all afternoon? Has everyone at the Horse Guards forgotten their manners?” She gave an imperious sniff, for good measure.

Harcourt’s ears went red but, to his credit, he wrestled his temper under control. “Forgive me, madam. Apparently I have forgotten my manners.” He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “Please, be seated.”

“Thank you, but no,” she said loftily. “On second thought, I prefer to stand.”

She heard a slight choke from Christian but didn’t dare look at him. Harcourt’s gaze darted suspiciously between them. To her surprise, he gave a grudging laugh.

“Very well, madam. You have bested me, and on my own territory. How may I be of assistance?”

Relief poured through her so suddenly that her knees wobbled. She wished she could sit after all, but she wouldn’t show Harcourt any sign of weakness.

“There has been a terrible misunderstanding, sir,” she said. “Captain Archer is under the mistaken impression that I wanted him to plead my husband’s case to you. That was never my intention.”

“That’s nonsense and you know it, Clarissa,” Christian exclaimed.

“Captain Archer,” interjected Harcourt. “Remain silent until I give you permission to speak. Is that clear?”

Christian looked ready to argue, so Clarissa pinched his arm. Harcourt’s moustache twitched, but he forbore to comment.

“Yes, sir,” Christian replied stiffly.

“As I was saying, Lieutenant-Colonel Harcourt,” Clarissa continued, “Captain Archer has made a mistake. I always intended to bring you myself the information I discovered regarding these scurrilous rumors.”

“That’s odd. The captain seems quite sure of what he is doing,” Harcourt replied in a dry voice. “So sure, in fact, that he was willing to disobey a direct order. I find it difficult to believe he could misapprehend such a thing.”

Clarissa swallowed her frustration. “That was my fault. I begged him to help me. I gave him very little choice in the matter, I assure you.”

Harcourt raised a skeptical brow. “Forgive me for saying so, Mrs. Middleton, but I find your statements contradictory. Did you ask him to disobey a direct order, or did you not?”

Her nerves frayed some more. “Of course I asked him to disobey his orders,” she snapped, feeling defensive. “No one else would help me. My husband’s good name was being trampled into dust, and his fellow officers didn’t seem to care. Not even his superior officers.”

Harcourt tugged on his moustache, looking worried. And, she thought, guilty. Resting her hands on his desk, she leaned forward to press home her point.

“It was a matter of honor,” she said. “Jeremy’s honor. His family’s honor. And, once I asked it of him, Captain Archer’s honor. How could he refuse me?”

Harcourt emitted an unhappy sigh. “Sit down, Mrs. Mid-dleton. There’s no need for us to stand around like we’re on dress parade.” He frowned at Christian. “Except for you, Archer. You remain standing.”

As Clarissa sank into the wooden chair before the desk, she ventured a peek at Christian. His anger had vanished. He even winked at her. Flustered, she turned back to Har-court, who continued to inspect her with open curiosity.

“Lieutenant-Colonel,” she started, hoping to bring the conversation back to the question of Jeremy’s reputation. “Will you be able to help us? My husband’s good name has suffered great injury. It calls for immediate redress.”

Harcourt clasped his hands on his desk, his expression grim. “So Captain Archer and I have just been discussing, Mrs. Middleton. You do understand what you’re asking, don’t you? There will be risk involved in raising this issue, and the outcome is uncertain. Powerful people will do everything they can to refute the claims regarding Lord Blundell’s role in this matter. Captain Archer knows this but you must comprehend it as well, if we are to proceed.”

She squared her shoulders. No longer would she be intimidated by Blundell, or by his father, the marquess, or by any other man. “I’m not afraid.”

Harcourt nodded solemnly. “So I see. Very well, then. I will proceed.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “You will? What will you do?” she asked, hardly believing it.

“I’ll make enquiries amongst officers and enlisted men. Quietly, you understand,” he said rather sternly. “This is a delicate situation, and there’s no point rattling the powers that be sooner than we must.”

Clarissa took a deep breath, the first in what seemed like ages. With luck, Jeremy’s good name could be restored. And she owed it to Christian.

“Lieutenant-Colonel Harcourt, I can’t tell you how happy this makes me,” she said. “Please accept my gratitude.”

He gave her a brusque nod and rose from his chair. “Mrs. Middleton, I beg you to excuse me. I shall keep you informed of the results of my investigation.”

Clarissa stood but didn’t move away from the desk. There was another, equally important, matter to be resolved. “What will happen to Captain Archer?” she asked, glancing at Christian. He didn’t seem the least bit worried. He gave her a roguish grin, looking so much like the insolent boy she used to know that she almost laughed.

“He’ll return to his post in the Peninsula,” said Harcourt. “It will be up to Lord Wellington to decide his fate.”

Clarissa’s relief evaporated as anxiety took its place. “Please, this was my fault. Not his.”

For the first time, Harcourt smiled at her. “I wouldn’t worry overmuch, Mrs. Middleton. Captain Archer is an excellent soldier. If a bit forward.” He finished sardonically, looking down with a pointed glance.

Clarissa followed his stare and gasped. Somehow, her fingers had become intertwined with Christian’s. She’d been so focused on asking for Harcourt’s forgiveness that she hadn’t even realized Christian had taken her hand.

Her face burned with heat, and she muttered an incoherent apology as she tried to tug her hand away. Christian tightened his grip.

“Christian,” she hissed, mortified.

“Yes, Ladybird?” he replied in the most innocent voice.

Harcourt broke in. “I must step out. Please take a few minutes, Mrs. Middleton, to recover your countenance. Captain Archer will escort you home.”

He waved away Clarissa’s attempt to thank him again and exited the room.

Hesitating, she looked at Christian, who gazed down at her with an adoring smile. She couldn’t think of a thing to say, and he seemed in no hurry to break the silence. Her heart pounded like a drum, leaving her breathless. But from what? Happiness? Trepidation?

He took her hands and raised them to his mouth. When his warm lips brushed over her skin, she trembled.

“I’m very angry with you, Ladybird,” he said, though his voice held a hint of laughter. “You shouldn’t have come down here, flying to my rescue like an avenging angel.”

She snatched her hands away, annoyed that he could think of laughing after such a nerve-wracking scene. “And what about you, you foolish man? Why would you take such a risk?”

“Because it was what you needed me to do—for both our sakes. Once you left Rosedell Manor, and after I calmed down, I realized that. You could never let Jeremy go and move on with your own life as long as this cloud hung over your head.” He rested his hands on her shoulders, gently caressing. “And you were right about another thing. Jeremy did deserve better, especially from me.”

She ducked her head, ashamed to look him in the eye. “Jeremy would have hated that I tried to manipulate you. I’m so sorry, Christian. I’ll never be able to forgive myself.”

His leather-clad fingers tipped her chin, forcing her to look at him. She saw only understanding and warmth in his gaze. Her heart cracked under the weight of her own guilt, and the love she felt for him.

“He was your husband. And the army abandoned him after he made the ultimate sacrifice. No woman of spirit could accept such a betrayal. You had no choice but to search for answers.”

“I was so angry,” she said.

“With me or with the army?”

She grimaced. “With Jeremy. For leaving me.” How petty and selfish that anger seemed now.

Christian rubbed a soothing hand along the back of her neck. “He didn’t want to. You were in his thoughts every waking moment. Never doubt that.”

A rush of emotions tightened her throat. Christian, the most selfless man she had ever known, sincerely mourned Jeremy’s death. In a flash, she understood Christian would have spared her the grief of widowhood if it had been in his power, even though it meant he could never be with her.

What a gift she had been given, to have won the love of two such men in a single lifetime.

“Jeremy was a man of honor,” she said. “He always tried to do the right thing, no matter the cost. I was wrong to try to hold him back.”

“You loved him,” he said, as if that explained everything.

She supposed it did, but only Christian understood that. He had never once judged her for hating the war, or for hating what it had done to her life.

“How can I ever thank you?” she asked, fighting back tears.

He lifted his eyebrows, as if surprised by her question. “I should think it was obvious, Ladybird. You can marry me.”

The breath rushed from her lungs, and she almost staggered. It just might kill her to refuse him, but she had no choice.

“I can’t,” she choked out in a miserable voice. “You’re too—”

“Oh, Lord,” he groaned, cutting her off. “Not that again. You certainly didn’t think I was too young when we made love.”

She flushed, both from embarrassment and from the heated remembrance of his touch. “Christian! You mustn’t say such things, especially not here.”

He scoffed, then sat and pulled her onto his lap. He ignored her protests and her feeble attempts to get up.

“Clarissa, you employ your age as an excuse to put me off,” he said in a serious voice. “Damn few will give a hang about that, and you know it. Tell me what’s really bothering you.”

She fiddled with the starched linen of his cravat. His hand covered hers, stilling her restless fingers.

“You are too young, but not in the way you think,” she blurted out.

He frowned. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re still young enough to be reckless. You’ll take dreadful risks in battle to advance your military career. Just like Jeremy. I think that’s why he volunteered for the Forlorn Hope at Badajoz. I’ve already lost one husband to that kind of reckless behavior. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing another.”

Christian rubbed his chin, silent for a moment. “I can’t be sure why Jeremy made that choice. All I can do is speak to my own experience. I’m not prone to foolish acts, and I’m not going to risk my life simply to garner notice or glory. I promise you that, love. I’ve been at war for eight long years. It’s a bloody and ugly business, with damn little glory. I do my duty and I do it well, but I seek no honors. Not ones that ultimately mean little more than a piece of ribbon and a medal pinned to a coat.”

Hope stirred in her chest, like the faint hint of the breaking dawn.

“Do you mean that?” She couldn’t keep the doubt from her voice.

He captured her face in his hands, feathering a kiss across her lips. She clutched the lapels of his coat, aching for more.

A few breathless moments later, he drew back. “Trust me. I’m very good at soldiering. It’s what I do.” He rubbed his nose against hers, and she laughed.

“And I promise I’ll always come home to you,” he finished, making it sound like a vow.

She wanted to believe that was true, but she couldn’t. No man who went to war could control his fate. But somehow it didn’t frighten her nearly as much as it used to.

“You can’t promise me that, Christian,” she said, cupping his cheek in her hand.

He kissed her palm. “No. We can never be sure of what the next day will bring. But I can promise that I will always love you, for as many days as I have left on this earth.”

Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back. She had cried enough. If Jeremy’s life—and death—had taught her anything, it was that she wanted to live with joy, not fear.

She wriggled off his lap and straightened her gown. “When do you leave for Portugal?”

He hesitated, then came to his feet. “In a week. Why?”

Clarissa studied him. Christian might very well object, but she had no intention of letting him march off to war without her. She had made that mistake once before, and she wouldn’t do it again.

“That should give me enough time to pack and get things in order. But just barely,” she mused, mentally composing a list of things she needed to accomplish, including settling Colonel Middleton’s sister permanently in Brooke Street.

He gave her a puzzled look. “Where are you going? Devon?”

She rolled her eyes. “To the Peninsula, of course. With my husband. Where else would I be going?”

Christian’s mouth gaped as if he’d been poleaxed. But then, with a joyful laugh, he lifted her off her feet and into a crushing embrace. She squeaked in protest, but he covered her mouth in a gloriously possessive, toe-curling kiss. When he finally released her mouth, she could hardly breathe.

“Are you sure, Clarissa?” he asked, his voice deep with emotion.

She wound her arms around his neck. “I can hardly believe it myself, but yes. I am. And I want to marry you not because it’s what you want, but because it’s what I want.”

He flashed a devastating grin. “I love a woman who knows what she wants.”

She laughed, her heart so full of happiness she thought it would burst. “I choose you, Christian Archer,” she said, holding him close. “I choose you over fear and sorrow and loneliness. I will always choose you.”

He nuzzled her mouth, murmuring gentle words of love. Finally, he lowered her to the floor. As he led her to the door, he glanced down at her, his sapphire eyes glittering with mischief.

“You say that now, sweetheart. But wait until you see my bachelor’s quarters in Portugal. You may run screaming in the opposite direction.”

He was teasing her, of course, as he loved to do. But whatever difficulties lay before them, Clarissa knew there would always be a full measure of love and laughter. Christian would see to that.

She couldn’t wait.

The Naked Prince

SALLY MACKENZIE

Chapter 1

“Papa, what thehell is this?”

Miss Jo Atworthy threw the package she was carrying at her father’s desk; he dove to catch it before it could hit the battered mahogany surface.

“Careful! That’s a very rare collection of Catullus’s poems to Lesbia, Jo.”

“Oh, good Lord.” Jo clenched her teeth and counted to ten. Another expensive book, and of dirty poetry, no less. How many times did she have to tell Papa they couldn’t afford such extravagances?

She watched him reverently unwrap the book and stroke its leather cover. A thousand times would make no difference. He never heard things he didn’t want to hear.

She blew out a short, sharp breath. There was nothing to be done. She’d have to tell Mr. Windley she’d take his youngest little hellion on as a Latin student. She untied her bonnet and jerked it off her head. But she would not take Mr. Windley on as well, no matter how clearly he hinted he’d be delighted to hire her permanently—via a wedding ring—to teach his spawn and tend his hearth and maybe even produce a new idiot Windley or two.

Yet the damnable truth was her marriage would solve all their financial difficulties.

She flung her bonnet on the overstuffed chair. Knocking some sense of economy into Papa’s thick skull would work as well. He was studying the pages of his newest purchase now, smiling with unadulterated joy and a touch of awe.

“Papa, you must stop buying these books. We simply don’t have the funds to pay for them.”

He didn’t even bother to glance up. “Now, Jo, I’m sure we can—”

“We cannot.” She shoved her hands in her pockets to keep from strangling him, and her fingers slid over the letter she’d got when she’d picked up the post. A small thrill shot through her. She’d been waiting for this letter, looking for it each day for the last week. When she’d finally seen it, her address written in the familiar black scrawl, she’d wanted to snatch it up and take it to her room, to curl up in her favorite chair and read it in privacy—but Papa’s blasted package had caused all thought of her letter to fly out of her head.

She ran her finger over the paper. Had her London prince found her comments on Virgil amusing? She’d been on tenterhooks waiting for his reaction. Had he—

She snatched her hands back out of her pockets. She was as harebrained as Papa. Worse. Papa’s books were real; she’d built her “prince” from air. She’d sent her first letter off to him via his publisher, signing only her initials to hide the fact she was a female. She knew he’d never answer, but when he had …

She repressed the shiver of excitement she still felt at the thought. Missive by missive, sentence by sentence, word by precious word over the last year, she’d created a figure of male perfection—handsome, honorable, strong, brilliant, kind, courageous.

She was a fool. She knew nothing about him, not even his name, for heaven’s sake. No matter how witty or intelligent his letters, a man who wrote articles as “A Gentleman” in The Classical Gazette and signed his letters “K” was probably some ancient don.

She should be inquiring after his gout, not imagining him riding up on a white horse to save her from her boring life. She frowned at her father. “Perhaps you’d like to tutor the Windley—”

She heard a sudden banging.

“I say, isn’t that someone at the door?” Papa clutched his precious Catullus to his chest and looked over her shoulder, relief evident in his face.

She was not going to let him escape. Every time she tried to get him to face their dire financial situation, he found a way to dodge the conversation. Not this time. “Papa, I—”

The banging got louder.

“There? Don’t you hear it? Someone is knocking at the door.”

“I don’t—” Damn, their caller was not going to give up; the fellow risked pounding a hole in the wood. She treated her father to her best glare. “We’ll resume this conversation as soon as I find out who that is.”

Papa looked so damnably innocent. “I’ll come with you.”

“Don’t think to slip past me and escape. We are going to have this talk.”

“Jo, you wound me.” Papa tried to look wounded but failed. “Go see who is knocking.”

“I am.” She stalked to the door and threw it open. A haughty-looking footman dressed in Baron Greyham’s black and gray livery stood on the threshold, his hand raised to knock again.

He looked her up and down and then sniffed, clearly not approving of what he saw.

She clenched her fists to keep from smoothing her hair or skirt. “Yes?”

“I have an invitation for Miss Josephine Atworthy from his lordship, Baron Greyham.” If the man tilted his nose any farther into the air, he’d fall over backward.

“I am Miss Atworthy.”

The footman actually cringed.

She tilted her nose in the air. She might not look like the baron’s cousin—well, she probably did look like his poor relation. Her dress was showing its age a bit, but, damn it, it was still serviceable. She had no time—or money—to follow the silly vagrancies of fashion.

He addressed a spot above her head. “Lord Greyham sends his regards, Miss Atworthy, and requests the pleasure of your company at a gathering he is hosting in honor of St. Valentine’s Day.” He offered her a sheet of vellum.

She stared at it as if it were a snake. The Bad Baron was inviting her to one of his scandalous gatherings? “There must be some mistake.”

The footman looked as if he thought so, too, but restrained himself with some effort from saying so. “If you are indeed Miss Atworthy, there is no mistake.”

He offered her the paper again. She considered rejecting it again, but that seemed rather silly—and she’d admit she was curious. She took it.

“Of course she’s Miss Atworthy,” Papa said. “Who else would she be—Helen of Troy?”

The footman was not a classics scholar. “Lord Grey-ham didn’t mention a Miss Troy.”

Jo perused the invitation. “Lady Greyham writes that one of their female guests came down with a putrid throat at the last minute; they need me to make up their numbers.”

“I see.” Papa, trying unsuccessfully to hide a grin, shrugged. “Then you’d best go pack your things.”

Jo crumpled the note. “I’m not going. What are you thinking?”

Papa patted her arm. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine on my own.”

She was going to grind her teeth to dust. “I’ve no doubt you’ll be as merry as a grig, but you know I can’t attend one of Lord Greyham’s parties. My reputation would never survive it.”

Papa laughed. “Balderdash. Everyone knows you’re far too full of starch to participate in anything even remotely improper.”

She was not flattered. Was she really considered so priggish? Would even her prince think her so?

Damn it, she must cure herself of this silly girlish fantasy. She tried to picture “K” as hunchbacked, balding, and decrepit.

“And you’re a bit long in the tooth to be concerned with gossip.”

Oh! Insult added to injury. “I am still unmarried; I must concern myself with gossip.”

Papa smiled at the footman. “Will you excuse us for a moment?”

“Of course, sir. I’ll—”

Papa shut the door in the footman’s face.

“Papa!”

He took her arm and led her a few steps from the door. “Jo, think. This is quite the opportunity. It’s not every day you get such an invitation.”

She jerked her arm free. “An invitation to sin!”

Papa looked heavenward as if requesting divine intervention and then back at her. “A little sin would do you good.”

“Papa!”

“Dear God, Jo, I was only funning.” He frowned. “Well, mostly funning. The truth is you are twenty-eight years old. You’re not getting any younger.”

“I’m well aware of my age.”

“Oh, don’t poker up.” He sighed. “I hate to say it, my dear, but you do have a reputation for being …” He waved his hand, as if that told her anything.

“For being what?”

“A bit of a prude.” He took her hand in his. “Men—except perhaps that idiot Windley—see you more as a Latin tutor, ready to smack them at the least mistake, than a woman.”

She jerked her hand back. “That’s ridiculous.” It might be true that the few moderately eligible gentlemen in the neighborhood had stopped asking her to stand up with them and edged out of any conversational group she joined, but that just saved her from having to stifle her yawns as they droned on about their horses and dogs.

“Frankly you’re turning into a shrew.”

“I’m trying to save us from the poorhouse. If you’d only exercise a little self-restraint—”

“Jo, men don’t like to be berated constantly. If you don’t take care, even Windley won’t have you.”

If only she hadn’t sold the hideous bust of Virgil that had graced the table by the door, she could bash him over the head with it. “I’d rather sell myself on the streets than marry that hideous oaf.”

“Well, if you’re considering that line of work, I don’t see how you can take issue with attending Greyham’s house party. At least he won’t have any Paphians there.” Papa paused. “That is, I don’t think he will.”

Clearly, Papa’s obsession with erotic classical poetry had addled his brain. “I cannot go to this party. Mrs. Johnson says all the Greyham gatherings include orgies.”

“Really?” An odd expression lit Papa’s eyes.

“Papa! Aren’t you scandalized?”

“Er, yes, of course.” So why did he sound so wistful? “But I think it’s highly unlikely Greyham will host anything as exciting as an orgy. And you can’t go by what Minerva Johnson says. She’d think a handshake that lasted more than a second was the beginning of a seduction.” He snorted. “Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn there never was a Mr. Johnson. I can’t imagine that woman ever spread her—”

His eyes met Jo’s and he stopped abruptly. He cleared his throat. “Suffice it to say, I don’t believe you can put any reliance in Mrs. Johnson’s speculations concerning Baron Greyham’s gatherings. But if anything of that nature does occur, you can just retreat to your room. I’m sure none of the men in attendance would try to take any liberties with you.”

Papa’s reassurances made her feel very out of sorts. “Be that as it may, I still can’t go. I have lessons to teach to pay for that book you just purchased.”

She glared at Catullus; Papa crossed his arms, sliding the tome under his coat.

“I’ll teach the lessons.”

The footman banged on the door again.

Papa scratched his nose and gave her a speculative, sideways look. “You know, the old baron borrowed a very rare copy of Ovid from me and never returned it. If you found it, we might be able to sell it for a significant sum.”

“Ha! As if you would ever sell a rare book.” Why wouldn’t Papa meet her eyes? He was hiding something.

Still, if there was indeed a rare Ovid in the baron’s library … Papa might not sell it, but she could. Any extra income would improve their financial picture. “How will I recognize it?”

A small, triumphant smile flickered over Papa’s lips. Damn. He did have some plot in his twisted mind, but she couldn’t begin to discern it.

“It has a bright red binding with large gold lettering. I’m sure it will almost jump off the shelf at you.”

All her instincts told her Papa was setting a trap for her, but what was his goal? Likely all he wanted was to get some days to himself to enjoy his blasted Catullus. “I don’t know. I—”

The footman hammered on the door once more.

“Come, Jo. The baron’s servant is growing anxious to hear your decision. I’ll tell him you’re just packing a few things and will be with him in a moment, shall I?”

“Well …” She couldn’t believe she was actually considering attending. “You really will teach the lessons?”

“Yes.”

“All five Windleys and perhaps the sixth? I told Mr. Windley I wouldn’t take the youngest one on, but with your newest purchase”—she glared at Catullus again; Papa moved it behind his back—“I think I ’d better agree to give him lessons, too.”

“Leave it to me. I’ve dealt with beef-witted boys before.”

Being free of the Windleys for a few days was itself reason enough to accept this dratted invitation. “We can’t afford to annoy Mr. Windley, Papa. If he decides to take his boys elsewhere for their lessons, we will be in the briars.”

Papa shrugged. “Where else would he take them? Besides, he has his eye on you to be the next Mrs. Windley. He’ll put up with me for a day or two, I assure you.”

“Well …”

“Come, Jo. You need a little adventure in your life.”

Unfortunately, that was very true. “Oh, all right. I’ll go.”

“Splendid!”

Now why did Papa’s pleasure sound so much like a trap snapping shut?

Chapter 2

“Can’t you see the Widow Noughton wants to drag you into parson’s mousetrap?” Damian Weston, Earl of Kenderly, leaned back against the squabs of his very comfortable traveling carriage. What he really wanted to do was grab his friend Stephen Parker-Roth by the shoulders and shake some sense into him.

Stephen laughed. “Good God, Damian, are you going to be a bore about the widow the whole bloody house party? Maria doesn’t want marriage. She likes variety in her bed far too much to tie herself to one man.”

Damian frowned. “She might like variety, but she wants you. Perhaps she thinks she can have both.”

“Then she’s an idiot.”

“Not necessarily. Many members of the ton go their separate ways after producing an heir and a spare.”

“And I am not many members of the ton. I want a marriage like my parents’. You know that.”

“Ah, but does Lady Noughton know it?”

Stephen shrugged. “I don’t believe the topic’s ever come up.” He grinned. “I have far more enjoyable things to do with Maria when I visit her than discuss my views on wedlock.”

Damian was sure Stephen did. Maria Noughton’s exceptional talent in bed was a frequent topic at White’s.

“That may be true, but I assure you Maria Noughton means to have you. She’s persuaded herself she’s in love with you.” Damian glanced out the window. They were approaching the gates to Greyham’s estate. “I imagine her sudden interest in wedded bliss may have something to do with her rather spectacular falling out with the current Lord Noughton.”

“Well, yes, she told me she’d had words with the fellow. The new baron is a bit of a Methodist; stands to reason he wouldn’t care for Maria. But she’ll come about.”

“As your wife if you aren’t careful.”

“And how the hell is she going to manage that?” Stephen’s voice had acquired an edge; he was clearly tiring of this subject. “It’s not as though she’s some blushing virgin. She can’t claim I’ve ruined her reputation; she’s no reputation to ruin unless it’s her reputation as a nimble piece in bed, and she’d be lying if she said I’ve hurt that.”

That was the question, wasn’t it? How was Maria going to trap Stephen? “I don’t know what she’ll do, but I swear she’s got something planned. She’s as thick as inkle weavers with Lady Greyham, you know.”

“What of it?” Stephen flicked his fingers at Damian. “You worry too much.”

“And you don’t worry enough.” Though that wasn’t true normally. Stephen wasn’t careless; he wouldn’t be so successful a plant hunter if he were. But he’d seemed on edge—reckless even—ever since he’d got back from his last expedition in the fall. He’d been drinking more. And he usually started planning his next trip almost as soon as he set foot on English soil; here it was February, and Damian had yet to hear anything but vague ruminations of another expedition.

Perhaps Stephen’s odd behavior had something to do with his older brother’s marriage and impending fatherhood; perhaps it was due to his thirtieth birthday approaching. Whatever the cause, it was disturbing. It had worried Damian enough to make him leave his comfortable study and current translation of one of Juvenal’s Satires to come to this blasted house party and keep an eye on Stephen.

The coach turned and started up the long drive. Stephen leaned forward to tap Damian on the knee. “You do worry too much, you know. I’m the damn King of Hearts, aren’t I? I’m not about to be caught unawares.”

Damian shrugged. There was no point in arguing further. Stephen wouldn’t listen, and Damian couldn’t blame him. Until he had something more than vague worries to offer, he would do best to bite his tongue—and keep his eyes open.

Stephen sat back. “The real joke here is that I’ve been worried about you.”

“You have?” Damian frowned. “Why?”

“Because you’ve turned into a bloody hermit, that’s why. You used to be up for every frisk and frolic, gambling and drinking and wenching as much—or more—than I. You were crowned the Prince of Hearts, after all.”

“A nickname I hate as much as you hate yours.”

“Yes, but now they’ve taken to calling you Brother Damian, the monk.”

“Ridiculous.”

“Is it? You warn me against Maria, but when was the last time you took a woman to bed?”

“That’s none of your bloody business.” Damian felt a hot blush sweep up his neck; he turned to look out the window. Where the hell was Greyham’s damn door?

“Can you even remember the last time?”

Damian kept his eyes on the passing scenery. Thank God the coach was finally slowing and he could escape this inquisition. “I’ve been busy. This translation is very tricky.”

He was afraid he’d see Stephen’s jaw hanging if he dared look in that direction.

“A tricky translation,” Stephen said. “Good God.” He reached over and grabbed Damian’s shoulder. “Face it, man. When a jumble of letters written by some dead Roman is more interesting than a tumble between the sheets of a warm and lively lady you need help.”

“I—”

Stephen held up his hand. “Say no more. I’m convinced this house party is exactly what you need to cure you of your blue devils.”

“I am not blue deviled.”

“You certainly are if you can’t remember the last time you had any bed sport. But don’t worry. Greyham is certain to pair you with a pleasant girl unencumbered by morals. Enjoy her, Damian. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, and Lu-percalia the day after. It’s a time for love … or lust.” Stephen grinned as the coach swayed to a halt. “I certainly intend to enjoy myself—and Maria—to the fullest.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Damian muttered as Stephen leapt from the carriage.

Damian descended more sedately, pausing to have a word with his coachman just as a cart clattered up next to him, blocking his path to Greyham’s door. Rude, but perhaps the driver thought Stephen had been the carriage’s only occupant. He turned to regard the man and bit back a smile.

The fellow—one of Greyham’s footmen—looked harassed, as if he were fleeing the Furies. Or perhaps he’d been condemned to escort one of the unpleasant sisters. The woman seated next to him certainly looked the part of an avenging goddess. Her old, ugly bonnet hid her hair so successfully he couldn’t tell its color—or if it were indeed a writhing mass of serpents—but her slightly bushy brows were a golden brown. At the moment, they met over her nose in a deep vee of temper, and her generous lips were pressed firmly together as if she’d just bitten into a lemon.

She wasn’t beautiful—her nose was too long and her chin too sharp, and she looked to be far too tall and thin—but she drew his attention like a magnet. Her eyes, even angry, were compelling. They were the same golden brown of her brows and were large and fringed with long lashes. Who was she?

Her worn, unfashionable clothing marked her as someone’s maid, but her demeanor gave the lie to that theory. Yet she looked nothing like Maria Noughton and her ilk. She couldn’t be a guest.

The footman whose job it was to help arriving ladies alight apparently was of the same opinion. He stayed on the portico, sheltered behind one of the pillars, out of the chill February wind.

“Jem!” The cart’s driver tried to get his attention, but the wind whipped his words away.

Well, Damian could help. He didn’t care if the woman was a duchess or a dairy maid; she was female and could use a hand in descending. He moved around the back of the cart to reach the passenger side.

The woman made a short, annoyed sound. “I can get down myself, you know,” she told the driver and began to suit action to words.

“Miss Atworthy, please—”

Everything happened at once then. The driver, distracted by his passenger, let his hands drop. The pony, beginning to shiver in the wind, took that as an invitation to bolt for the warm barn. Miss Atworthy, gathering her skirts and rising to depart, jerked backward as the cart lurched forward. Her hands flew up into the air, and she screamed as she tumbled over the side.

Damian leapt forward to catch her. A flailing froth of feminine skirts and curves plummeted into his arms.

“Oof!” He staggered back a step but managed to keep his feet and his hold on Miss Atworthy. She was not a featherweight. And she was not as thin as he’d guessed, or at least not thin in the important areas. Her bottom and breasts felt very nicely rounded.

She gaped up at him, clearly disoriented by her sudden change in altitude. At this proximity, he saw her eyes had flecks of gold and even hints of green in their depths. Golden brown curls, freed from her bonnet, tumbled over her forehead. He inhaled her scent—lemony, clean and fresh—and it hit his brain like brandy on an empty stomach. He was drunk on the feel and smell of her, and like a drunkard, he acted on his impulses. He bent his head and covered her wide mouth with his.

She stiffened, and he thought for a moment she’d push him away, but then she relaxed, so he let his tongue go where it wished—into her warm mouth.

She tasted sweet, full of promise.

Stephen was right: it had been far too long since he’d been with a woman. Perhaps he would enjoy himself at this damn house party—when he wasn’t keeping an eye on Stephen, of course.

Her tongue tentatively touched his.

Or maybe he’d let Stephen go to hell with Maria. He had more interesting things on which to focus. He drank in her warmth, her intoxicating sweetness, her maddening mix of innocence and desire.

He was lost in her until his body protested. His cock ached, but so did his back. Standing had never been his preferred position for lovemaking, and Miss Atworthy was far too heavy to hold for an extended period. It would not endear him to her if he dropped her on her delightful posterior.

He eased out of the kiss and raised his head. She blinked at him, eyes wide and slightly bewildered, and her finger crept up to touch her lips. He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring fashion as he let her legs slide slowly down his body, keeping his arm around her back. She felt very good indeed.

He grinned. “Curls, not snakes.”

“What?” She frowned as her feet touched the ground.

“Your hair.” He tugged on a lock that had fallen over her forehead. It sprang back as if it had a life of its own. “You looked like one of the Furies, sitting next to that poor footman in the cart.”

“I did not.”

“You did. You were scowling just like you are now.”

Her frown deepened—and then she apparently remembered he still had his arm around her. She flushed and jumped away, catching her heel on her hem.

His hands shot out to steady her. “Careful.”

“Miss Atworthy,” the driver called as he ran up, having finally got the pony under control and handed the reins off to Jem. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, thank you, but if it hadn’t been for Mr….” She frowned again; the woman spent far too much time with her brows lowered. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name, sir.”

“Damian Weston.” He inclined his head. “Earl of Kenderly.” He turned to the footman. “I’ll see to Miss At-worthy; please have her things taken up to her room.”

“Yes, milord.”

He offered Miss Atworthy his arm; she took it somewhat gingerly. Odd. She wasn’t a young miss, and after that kiss, he wouldn’t say she was shy—

No, that wasn’t accurate. The kiss had been hot, but not practiced; it had not been the kiss of an experienced flirt. And with the last name of Atworthy …

“Are you perhaps Josiah Atworthy’s daughter?”

She stiffened. “I am.”

Now why the hell did she suddenly look so guarded? He smiled in an attempt to put her at ease. “I hope to pay your father a visit while I am in the area. He and my father were classmates at Oxford; in fact, my father used to say he had a bone to pick with yours.”

“Oh?” Miss Atworthy looked straight ahead, her expression stony. It was hard to believe he’d just been kissing her. “I don’t believe I’ve heard Papa mention your father.”

“No? Well, my father claimed your papa borrowed his rare copy of ”—he paused; better not be too specific—“Ovid’s poems and neglected to return it.”

Her fingers tightened on his arm, and she shot him a quick, sharp glance before returning her gaze to Greyham’s portico. “That seems very odd. I wonder why your father never came to retrieve it if it was so valuable.”

Did the girl think he was prevaricating? “Oh, I rather doubt it’s valuable.”

She threw him another look. “If it’s rare, it must be valuable.”

“Not necessarily. A three-legged dog is rare but not valuable.”

“A book is not a three-legged dog.”

“True.” He shrugged. “All I know is my father seemed more amused than anything over the situation. I never asked him about it, though. Perhaps I shall ask your father. Did he not speak of it?”

“N-no.”

Now why did Miss Atworthy look so guilty? “Perhaps he didn’t think it a suitable topic for your tender ears.”

She made an odd gurgling sound. “Trust me, Papa doesn’t spare my sensibilities.”

“I think you do him an injustice. I’ve found him to be far more perceptive than I would have guessed, especially from hearing my father’s stories.”

Miss Atworthy stopped dead and stared at him. “Are you sure you’re talking about my papa?”

He laughed. “Well, it did take me a little while to puzzle out who J.A. was.”

Her face lost all its color, and she seemed to be having difficulty breathing. “J.A.?”

“Josiah Atworthy.” Was she a complete widgeon?

“Ah.” She was still staring at him with her mouth slightly ajar, an almost panicky look in her eyes.

“Your father wrote to me last year to comment on one of my articles in The Classical Gazette, and we started a correspondence.” He frowned. She definitely looked as if she was about to swoon. He shifted his hold to support her elbow. “I say, are you feeling quite the thing?”

“I’m f-fine.” She cleared her throat. “Can you tell me—I know it’s a silly question, but I’m curious—how did you sign your letters to Papa?”

“With my initial.” Her color did not look good at all, though his answer seemed to reassure her.

“Oh. ‘W,’ for Weston, then?”

“No, ‘K,’ for Kenderly.”

“Ah.” Her lips wavered into a smile, and then her eyes rolled up and she collapsed into his arms.

Chapter 3

If it were truly possible to die of embarrassment, Jo would have expired on Lord Greyham’s front drive.

She stared up at the bed canopy in one of Lord Grey-ham’s guest bedchambers. She’d not been able to escape her humiliation; she hadn’t even been able to maintain a nice, insensate swoon. Oh, no. She’d come to her senses—all her senses—almost immediately and had been completely aware of the servants and guests staring at her and whispering about her as the Earl of Kenderly carried her up the stairs and into this pleasant bedroom.

Jo covered her face with her hands. Yes, she’d been aware of the onlookers, but she’d been even more aware of Lord Kenderly—the strength of his arms; the broad, hard plane of his chest; the solidity of his shoulder where she rested her head; the firm line of his jaw with the faintest shadow of stubble against his snow-white cravat; the deep blue of his eyes. When she’d buried her face in his coat to hide from all the people staring at her, she’d breathed in his scent, a mix of clean linen, eau de cologne, soap, and man.

And when he’d laid her on the bed …

She bit her lip to stop a moan from escaping.

Dear God, she’d wanted to pull him down on the bed with her. She’d locked her hands behind his neck and held on a moment too long; he’d had to reach back and disengage her fingers to free himself.

The next moan would not be muffled. She flipped over and buried her face in the pillow.

The prince she’d fashioned out of air had stepped into her life, and he was far more perfect than she could ever have imagined. Her dreams tonight would be much more detailed than ever before.

And he’d kissed her. Heavens! Her very first kiss. She’d been almost too shocked and disoriented to appreciate it at first. Had he actually put his tongue in her mouth? It should have been disgusting, but it hadn’t been—not at all.

And then she’d tried to kiss him back. He must think her a complete hoyden or worse. What if he—

“Miss Jo.”

“Eek!” She turned over and sat up so quickly her head spun. She pressed her fingers to her temples and blinked at the short, round girl who’d come into the room. “Oh, Becky, you gave me such a turn. What are you doing here?”

Becky stared at her as if she’d suddenly sprouted a second head. “I work here; ye know that.”

She did know that. Becky was a year or two younger than she and had grown up on the estate; they used to play together when they were children. “Yes, yes, I mean, what are you doing in this particular room?”

“Mrs. Stutts sent me up. She said ye needed help.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Stutts, a gray-haired, somewhat dour woman, was the Greyhams’ housekeeper. “That was very kind of her, but what would I need help with?”

“With yer clothes and hair.” Becky was clearly struggling not to roll her eyes.

Jo stared at her for a moment, flabbergasted, and then laughed. “You know I make do for myself at home.”

Becky gave her a long look. “Begging yer pardon, Miss Jo, but ye do need help. All the other guests are from Lunnon. Ye don’t want to look a country mouse.”

“What do I care if all those London ninnies look down their noses at me?” Jo climbed off the bed and shook out her skirts.

“Oh, ye’ll care plenty. I’ve seen them do it afore. The poor girls those cats turn their claws on end up crying their eyes out.”

“Well, I’m made of sterner stuff.” She was not some delicate, young debutante, and she didn’t care about something as superficial as personal appearance. It was a person’s intelligence that mattered.

A certain gentleman’s image—a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman with dark hair and blue eyes—popped into her thoughts.

All right, it didn’t hurt if an intelligent man was also attractive, but it wasn’t important. She’d never have given Lord Kenderly a second thought if he had the mental acuity of stewed cabbage.

Well, perhaps she would have given him a second look. A woman would have to be blind not to—the man was as handsome as sin.

He kissed like sin, too, not that she had any experience in the matter. Still he’d definitely made her feel like sinning. Her breasts and belly … lower than her belly, actually … had felt very, very … odd. She—

She was as bad as a runaway horse, and if she didn’t rein herself in immediately, she’d come to serious trouble. Yes, the man was handsome; yes, he was intelligent. But he must also be a rake. He was at this disreputable party, wasn’t he? And as far as he knew, she was a complete stranger, yet he’d kissed her in that very intimate fashion. Clearly the actions of a rake.

She flushed. She hadn’t known who he was when she’d kissed him.

“Mrs. Stutts told me to tell ye the guests are meeting in the blue parlor before dinner,” Becky was saying. “I’m to help ye change.” Becky looked around. “Where’s yer trunk? I hope we can find one dress that’s not too wrinkled.”

Trunk? Her entire wardrobe wouldn’t fill a trunk. “I didn’t bring many clothes.”

Becky’s eyes had found Jo’s bag. “Ye mean this one small valise is all ye have?”

They both stared at the bag in the corner where the footman must have deposited it. It had looked enormous at home, but now in this rather large bedroom …

“Yes. You know I’ve no call for fancy gowns, Becky. I’m a Latin tutor. My students come to me to learn their declensions, not study the latest fashions.”

Becky grunted. “Maybe they’d pay more attention to their studies if they didn’t have to look at ye in the dowdy dresses ye wear.”

Dowdy dresses? She should be insulted, but in the opulent surroundings of Greyham Manor, she was afraid Becky might have a point. The Windley hellions certainly weren’t impressed with Cicero or Virgil. “My dresses are perfectly serviceable.”

Becky limited herself to an expressive snort and started unfastening Jo’s frock. “Ye’ll never get through the house party with so few clothes.”

Jo sighed and let Becky help her out of her dress. “Unless you are a magician, I shall have to, shan’t I?”

Becky considered Jo’s poor little case again and chewed her lip. “Let me see what I can do. I think Lord Greyham’s sister was about yer size; leastways everyone always said she was a giant.”

Was Becky determined to insult her at every opportunity? It wasn’t her fault most of the females in the neighborhood were midgets—most of the men, too. “I am not a giant; I am merely taller than the average woman.”

Lord Kenderly wasn’t a midget. He must be over six feet tall; her eyes had been level with his mouth. Mmm, his mouth …

She had no business thinking of his height or his mouth. He was an unprincipled rake, like all of Lord Greyham’s male guests.

Becky was staring up at her, brows raised, clearly saying—without uttering a word—that Jo was acting like a great ninny.

“And Rosalind married and moved out ten years ago,” Jo said. “Even I know any clothes she left behind would be sadly outdated.”

“Aye, but I’m very clever with my needle.” Becky moved to open the valise and pull out Jo’s dinner dress. She shook it out and looked at it doubtfully. “This is yer best gown?”

“Yes.” Her poor frock did look a bit woebegone.

Blast it all, she knew she should have refused the invitation to this scandalous party, though she hadn’t anticipated her wardrobe as well as her reputation would come under siege.

“At least it’s not too creased.” Becky frowned. “I wouldn’t have thought this shade of pink would suit ye.”

“It’s fine,” Jo said, grabbing the stupid dress from Becky and putting it on. She looked in the mirror.

She’d forgotten how consumptive it made her look. She’d bought it because Mrs. Wiggins, the local dressmaker, had purchased too much cloth for another order and so was willing to make her a gown for almost nothing.

“I don’t have occasion to wear it often.” Jo averted her eyes from the mirror. “It serves its purpose.”

“And what would that be? Giving the gentlemen nightmares?”

“Oh, come, Becky.” Jo scowled. This was the problem with growing up in the area; the servants had no compunction about sharing their opinions. “I’m twenty-eight years old. I’m sure I don’t appear in any gentleman’s dreams.”

Becky glared back at her. “Yer female—that’s enough for most men.” She stood back and looked Jo up and down. “And yer not bad looking—or wouldn’t be if ye weren’t wearing that ugly dress. Ye could even be pretty, if ye made a little effort. Now come sit at the dressing table, and I’ll try to put yer hair into some order.”

Jo sat and watched Becky brush her unruly curls. She would like to be pretty, just for this house party. She’d like to appear in Lord Kenderly’s dreams….

No. She mustn’t forget he was a rake. She’d been misled by his letters; apparently scholars could be as scandalous as any man. “I have no illusions as to why I’m here. I’m merely a poor relation invited to make up the numbers.”

“Aye, and ye’ll never be more than that if ye keep thinking that way.”

Jo pressed her lips together. There was no point in arguing further; Becky was—

“Ouch!”

Becky was wielding the brush with a little too much enthusiasm. Her efforts to dispatch one particularly difficult tangle brought tears to Jo’s eyes.

“There ye go. At least ye don’t look like ye was dragged through a bush backward anymore.”

“Thank you. I’m just glad you left a few hairs still attached to my head.”

“Aye. I had to leave a few for the cats downstairs to rip out, don’t ye know.”

Jo lifted her chin, ordered her stomach to stop jumping about like a mouse trapped in the bottom of an empty jug, and headed for the door. “I am not afraid of any London cats.”

She stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind her, but not quickly enough to miss Becky’s muttered words: “ Ye should be.”

“Who was the Amazon you had in your arms, Damian?” Stephen took a sip of his Madeira.

“Miss Atworthy. Her father is a Latin scholar and one of my father’s Oxford classmates.” Damian surveyed the room. Miss Atworthy had not yet made her appearance. Had she recovered from her faint? He hoped so. He couldn’t very well go up to her room and check—well, perhaps he could at this scandalous gathering.

The assembled guests were an odd assortment of dirty dishes. Mr. Roger Dellingcourt, Viscount Sheldon’s disreputable heir, was laughing uproariously at something Baron Benedict Wapley had said. As Lord Wapley was not considered a wag, chances were good Dellingcourt had got into Greyham’s brandy early. Sir Humphrey Edgert, baronet; Mr. Arthur Maiden—an unfortunate surname; and Mr. Percy Felton, one of the Earl of Brent’s many sons, were lounging by the fireplace and, well … giggling was the word that came to mind.

The women were no better than the men. Maria Nough-ton sat next to Lady Blanche Chutley, whispering in her ear, probably trying to get her to lure Damian away from Stephen so Maria could carry out her nefarious matrimonial plan unimpeded. Ursula Handley and Sophia Petwell, both nominally widows though no member of the ton had ever met their likely mythical husbands, were standing by the door, talking to Lord and Lady Greyham. Completing the assembled guests were the pleasant-looking, portly Mrs. Butterwick and Lady Imogene Silven, Lady Mardale’s daughter, with, rumor had it, one of her footmen.

“Ah,” Stephen said. “So you’d made Miss Atworthy’s acquaintance before?”

“No, I saw her for the first time today.” He smiled. She’d looked so fierce and full of passion. His smile broadened. She was full of passion. He hadn’t been able to get their kiss out of his mind.

“Ha!” Bloody hell, Stephen was almost crowing. “But you’re looking forward to seeing her again, aren’t you? Seeing and touching and … other things.”

Damian shot Stephen a pointed look. “Miss Atworthy is not available for ‘other things.’”

Stephen grinned. “Oh, don’t lose hope. I grant you she didn’t look like a highflyer, but perhaps looks are deceiving in this case. She is here, isn’t she?” Stephen glanced around and shrugged. “Well, not here at the moment, but here at this party.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I told you this gathering would be good for you.”

“I am not looking for dalliance.” Well, he hadn’t been, but now—

No. He suppressed his baser urges. He was a scholar; he was used to taming the needs of his body to achieve loftier, intellectual goals.

This time his body grumbled more than usual.

He gave Stephen a long look. “I am here to ensure you don’t fall prey to Maria Noughton’s machinations. You aren’t helping matters, by the way. I noticed how you dashed in to see her as soon as you climbed out of the carriage.”

Stephen laughed. “Listen to yourself, Damian. You sound like my mother, though Mama is far less of a wet rag than you.”

Damian opened his mouth to blister Stephen’s ears with his opinion of that statement but was deterred by Lord Greyham clapping him on the back.

“Kenderly, Parker-Roth, so good to have you here.”

“Our pleasure, Greyham,” Stephen said.

Damian only managed what he hoped was a civil nod. He was still trying to get his spleen under control.

Greyham dropped his voice and stepped closer. “I wanted to have a word with you, Kenderly, before the party gets under way.”

“With me?” Damian glanced at Stephen; he looked mystified as well.

“Yes. It’s about Jo.”

“Jo?”

“Miss Atworthy.”

“Ah.” Of course Lord Greyham wished to ascertain his guest hadn’t sustained an injury, though it would make more sense for the man or, better, his wife to go up and speak to Miss Atworthy directly. “I was happy to be able to save her from what could have been a very serious accident.” Had Greyham heard about the kiss? Better not mention it.

“Er, yes,” Greyham said. “Glad you could be of help. Wouldn’t want Jo getting hurt, of course.”

“Of course.” Damian waited. Lord Greyham cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot. “Was there something else?”

The baron tugged on his waistcoat. The man’s belly had grown significantly in the last few years. “Yes, actually. I wanted to tell you—” He coughed. “This is a little awkward, but given your reputation—your current reputation, that is, not your old reputation as Prince of Hearts, heh heh.”

Damian and Stephen just stared at him.

“Yes, well, given your current reputation, I assumed you wouldn’t mind.”

Lord Greyham smiled. Damian blinked. “Mind what?”

“That I’ve paired you with Jo.”

An embarrassing bolt of lust shot through him, lodging in the obvious organ. “Oh.” It was his turn to clear his throat. “Why would I mind?”

“Well, you see, the thing is we invited Henrietta Helton to be your, er, valentine. She’s a knowledgeable widow and would have been very”—Greyham winked—“accommodating. But then she took ill at the very last minute. Literally. By the time I got word, there was no hope of inviting a suitable substitute. The Widow Bellingham, who sometimes attends our parties, was off visiting her daughter in Manchester, and none of the other mature ladies in the area would ever deign to darken our door. They’re a nasty bunch of puritanical prudes; they turn their blasted supercilious noses up at us.” Greyham shrugged. “My only option was Jo. Her father’s a distant cousin; they live on the estate.”

“I see. And Miss Atworthy doesn’t share the local prejudice against your parties?” Damian asked. She’d looked a bit like a prude in her outdated outfit and severe expression when she’d arrived in that cart, but she hadn’t felt—or tasted—like a prude when he’d had her in his arms.

“Oh, she probably does. I took the precaution of asking her father before I sent the invitation. He said he thought he could convince her, but frankly, I was shocked to hear she’d come—I’d expected to get my invitation back torn up into tiny pieces.” He shrugged. “Just wanted to warn you, she’s not up to snuff, no matter that she’s not a dewy young miss. To tell the truth, she’s a bit of an ape-leader. Past her prayers, don’t you know.” He grinned suddenly. “Or maybe that’s why she came—to find out what she’s been missing all these years. If so, you’re just the man to educate her, aren’t you, Kenderly?” He waggled his brows. “You two can do a little conjugation together.”

Stephen choked on his Madeira; Damian scowled at the baron, even while an evil little voice in the randy section of his brain pointed out Miss Atworthy had shown great promise while kissing him. A confirmed prude would have slapped him soundly.

Greyham looked over Damian’s shoulder and frowned. “Damn.” He sighed. “I’m afraid Jo looks exactly like the stuffy, dull Latin tutor she is.”

Damian turned and felt another jolt of lust.

Miss Atworthy stood in the doorway, wearing perhaps the ugliest gown he’d ever seen—a hideous pink frothy affair with a high neck, long sleeves, and far too many ruffles. But above the nauseating pink cloud, her eyes flashed with nervous challenge, her firm chin tilted defiantly, and her rebellious curls twisted in whatever direction they liked.

She might be an impoverished Latin tutor, but her attitude was that of a duchess.

Or a countess?

Good God, where had that thought come from?

Her eyes met his, and she flushed a bright red before looking away.

Lust exploded in his gut.

Bloody hell. Perhaps it was time he put away his Latin texts to study the needs of his body.

Chapter 4

Jo wanted to hit something, preferably this beautiful raven-haired woman who, like a fox sensing an easy kill, had almost run to her, her equally unpleasant companion close behind, the moment Jo had entered the blue parlor. They’d introduced themselves as Lady Noughton and Lady Chutley.

“What an interesting frock, Miss Atworthy,” Lady Noughton said now, derision clear in her voice. “Wherever did you get it?”

Was she hoping Jo would say she’d made it herself? “From Mrs. Wiggins, our local dressmaker.”

“You know, I think I once had a gown that was just that shade,” Lady Chutley said. “It was a very popular color four or five years ago, wasn’t it?”

More than likely, since that was when Jo’d had the dress made. She forced a smile. “Was it? I’m afraid I don’t follow the fashion magazines.”

Lady Noughton tittered. “That’s rather obvious, isn’t it?”

Both women tried—not very hard—to choke back laughter.

“What’s so amusing, Maria?”

Jo glanced over to see who had spoken. An attractive man with shaggy, sun-streaked hair was approaching—with Lord Kenderly at his side.

Damn. She felt her cheeks flush again. She looked back at Lady Noughton. Perhaps Lord Kenderly would assume her heightened color was due to anger.

“Oh, Stephen, Blanche and I were just making Miss At-worthy’s acquaintance. She is so refreshing—but then, provincials often are, aren’t they?” Lady Noughton laughed. “I venture to guess she’s never been to London.” She glanced at Jo. “Am I right, Miss Atworthy?”

“Yes, I’ve not had that pleasure.” Jo tried to relax her jaw so it wouldn’t sound like she was speaking through clenched teeth.

“Then you will have to visit someday, Miss Atworthy,” Lord Kenderly said smoothly as if he couldn’t tell she wished to kick Lady Noughton in the shins. “If you can put up with the dirt and the noise, London has much to recommend it.” The corners of his eyes crinkled in a very appealing fashion. “But I’m afraid my manners have gone begging. Let me make known to you my good friend Mr. Stephen Parker-Roth. I believe he would agree with you that the country is preferable to Town.”

Mr. Parker-Roth had been frowning at Lady Noughton, which had put the old cat in a pout, Jo was happy to see. Now he smiled at Jo.

“Most definitely. You show excellent sense, Miss Atwor-thy, in favoring the country.”

“Oh, Mr. Parker-Roth,” Lady Chutley said—Lady Noughton was apparently so disgruntled she could only glare—“you must admit society is so much more stimulating in London.”

“On the contrary, I find London society too often ‘full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.’”

“Oh, but Stephen—”

They were saved from hearing what Lady Noughton had to say by Lord Greyham’s booming voice.

“Welcome, everyone! Lady Greyham and I are delighted you could be here to celebrate our favorite holidays of love—”

“And lust!” one of the men standing by the fireplace shouted. Licentiousness suddenly permeated the air. Everyone except Jo—and Lord Kenderly and Mr. Parker-Roth, thank God—cheered and clapped.

“You’ve heard about our little celebrations, have you, Felton?” Lord Greyham said.

“From my brothers and their friends. It’s no secret Greyham Manor’s the place for some fun, especially in February.”

The other men by the fireplace hooted and cheered. They had clearly been making free with the brandy decanter.

“I’m so happy our gatherings have got such glowing reviews. For those of you who may not have heard the reports Mr. Felton has been privy to, let me explain. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day—”

The men—and some of the women—called out in a completely hurly-burly manner.

“No, really?”

“You don’t say!”

“I never would have guessed.”

Lord Greyham held up his hands for quiet. “Yes, and the day after we celebrate Lupercalia.”

More cheering. Good God, surely Lord Greyham didn’t mean the men of the party would run naked over the grounds hitting women with goatskin thongs to ensure fertility? How horrible.

Jo sent a sidelong glance toward Lord Kenderly. Perhaps not so horrible. The earl would strip to advantage—

Blast it, what was the matter with her? She’d never had such a shocking thought in her life.

She snorted. Of course not, given the quality of the local males. A naked Mr. Windley, for example; she shuddered. But a naked earl …

She cast another glance at Lord Kenderly. His arms and chest had felt so hard when he’d carried her; his shirt and waistcoat must cover muscles as impressive as those of Michelangelo’s David. And his face, with its strong chin, high cheekbones, long lashes, clever lips …

A strange, liquid heat curled through her.

“But first,” Lord Greyham said, “we must have the lottery.”

“Huzzah!” the men by the fireplace yelled. “The lovers’ lottery!”

It was as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped on her. A lottery? Good God! What if she was paired with one of the idiots by the fire? She looked around the room. None of the men besides Lord Kenderly and possibly Mr. Parker-Roth was the least bit acceptable.

Lord Greyham turned to his wife. “The vase, my dear.”

Lady Greyham stepped forward with a remarkably obscene bit of pottery: two jugs fused together and shaped like female breasts, with the handles—a hot flush swept up Jo’s neck and cheeks—resembling a distinctive part of the male anatomy.

“I will pull a gentleman’s name from one side of the vase,” Lord Greyham said, “and Lady Greyham will draw a lady’s name from the other. The two shall be a couple for the duration of our festivities.”

The gentlemen made a number of enthusiastic, if rude, noises; the ladies giggled and preened. Jo swallowed her nervous stomach.

“The gentlemen will have tomorrow, Valentine’s Day, to woo their ladies,” Greyham continued, raising his voice over the commotion. “If they are successful, they’ll have Lupercalia to”—he grinned and waggled his eyebrows—“celebrate.”

More cheering and catcalls.

Damian flinched, cursing inwardly at the rising chorus of lewd comments. Why the hell had he let Stephen drag him to this infernal house party?

His reason was right in front of him. Lady Noughton was doing a credible impression of ivy, wrapping her fingers around Stephen’s arm and attaching herself to his side. Happily, Stephen didn’t look very pleased. Maria had made a serious mistake in her treatment of Miss Atworthy; Stephen detested that kind of sly cruelty.

Damian glanced down at the oddly dressed woman. Perhaps she would turn out to be his best weapon in his battle for Stephen’s continued bachelorhood.

Lord Greyham drew the first name. “Mr. Roger Delling-court.”

Damian saw Miss Atworthy tense. She didn’t think Greyham had really left the pairings to chance, did she?

“Lady Imogene,” Lady Greyham called out.

Lady Imogene squealed; Damian cringed. Squealing was one of the lady’s most unpleasant traits, but Dellingcourt must not mind. The two of them had been scandalizing the ton for the last six months.

Had he heard Miss Atworthy sigh with relief?

“Mr. Arthur Maiden.”

As always, the men snickered and the women giggled at Maiden’s surname. One would think everyone in society would have grown immune to that feeble double entendre, but one would be wrong.

Miss Atworthy’s face paled. So she did think this was a real lottery.

“Lady Chutley,” Lady Greyham read from the slip of paper she’d drawn.

“Lucky me,” Lady Chutley said, an edge to her voice.

“What’s the matter, Blanche?” Lady Noughton asked. “You were singing Arthur’s praises to me just this afternoon. You almost made me envious.”

“That was before I realized the Prince of Hearts had come out of retirement.” She touched Damian’s forearm and fluttered her lashes at him. “I’m sure Arthur won’t mind sharing, my lord. We might even arrange an exchange with your partner, whoever she may be.” She glanced at Miss At-worthy. Blanche knew the pairs had already been decided. “Mr. Maiden takes great delight in sampling a wide variety of female—”

His stomach turned. “Thank you, but no.” Even when he’d merited his obnoxious nickname, he’d preferred not to share, and the thought of the disgusting Maiden touching Miss Atworthy in any way was revolting.

Lady Chutley’s mouth hung open for a moment at his sharp tone.

“I’d say you’ve been put in your place, Blanche,” Lady Noughton said, her eyes lighting with what looked like glee at the perceived slight.

“No insult intended.” Lord Kenderly’s voice still had an edge. “I wouldn’t want to take you away from Mr. Maiden for a moment; I’m certain he would be most unhappy should I try to.”

“You needn’t take me away.” Lady Chutley smiled. “As I said, Arthur likes variety. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if we all got busy together. He rather enjoys group situations.”

“Really?” Lord Kenderly’s tone would have frozen water.

Mr. Parker-Roth filled the somewhat awkward pause. “You must know Damian has become a very dull dog, Blanche, though I’m not sure he was ever so exciting as you seem to think. Still, he’s been spending all his time in his study with his Latin tomes recently. I dragged him here against his will to shake some of the dust off him.”

“Oh.” Lady Chutley’s full lips curved in the slightest smile and her eyes slid briefly back to Jo. “I’m the first to admit I’m not a scholar, but my brother always said those Roman fellows were quite, quite adventuresome.” She tapped the earl’s arm. “If—when—you change your mind, I’ll be delighted to help welcome you back to the joys of the flesh,” she said before making her way across the room to where Mr. Maiden was waiting impatiently.

Lord Kenderly shook his arm slightly and straightened his cuff. He did not watch Lady Chutley’s progress.

“Lord Benedict Wapley,” Lord Greyham called.

Oh, God. Jo tried to appear calm, but it was difficult when her stomach was shaking like a blancmange. She did not belong here. She was nothing like these other ladies. She didn’t even understand what Lady Chutley had been hinting at. A group situation? The only notion that came to mind—no, that must be wrong.

And if she were ever in any … situation with Lord Kenderly—which, of course, she would never be—she would wish to have him all to herself.

“Mrs. Sophia Petwell.”

Thank God. Another nincompoop avoided.

At least it was almost dinnertime. She could get through this evening. She would keep her eyes open for the Ovid; Papa had said it was very distinctive. If worse came to worst, she’d plead the headache and go hide in her room until everyone was in his or her bed. She flushed. Or whosever’s bed.

Once everyone was, er, situated for the night, she’d creep down to the library and look through the bookcases. And if she didn’t find the Ovid, so be it. Her headache could turn into a serious illness requiring her immediate departure in the morning.

Papa had not been at all forthcoming about this Ovid; no, he’d been downright secretive. If Lord Kenderly, a noted Latin scholar, didn’t consider the book valuable, it probably wasn’t, though she must remember the earl hadn’t actually seen the volume. Still, given Papa’s behavior, it was most likely all a hum—certainly not worth risking her virtue over.

“Mr. Stephen Parker-Roth.”

Lady Noughton could not possibly get any closer to the man without climbing inside his skin. She’d be sadly miffed if Lady Greyham pulled someone else’s name.

She didn’t. “Lady Maria Noughton.”

Lady Noughton whispered something in Mr. Parker-Roth’s ear that caused him to smile in an exceedingly warm, terribly unsettling way. Something dark and hot and sinful pulsed between them.

Something dark and hot throbbed deep in her. Sin. It was thick around her. And temptation in the form of the Prince of Hearts stood right at her elbow.

She must resist. She must remember her virtue. She would rather die than part with it.

Wouldn’t she?

She glanced around the room as Lord Greyham pulled another man’s name. Yes, of course. She’d defend her honor to her last breath if any of these idiots tried to take it from her.

“Lord Damian Kenderly.”

Oh! Except perhaps Lord Kenderly.

Her palms blossomed with dampness. What if her name wasn’t chosen? She had only a one in three chance of being paired with the earl.

What was she thinking? She should be happy if one of the other ladies’ names was called. Then she wouldn’t be tempted to sin … but she’d be matched with the fat, balding man or the thin, spotted boy. Her stomach twisted.

“Miss Josephine Atworthy.”

She stopped breathing. The dark, throbbing, sinful feeling smoldered deep inside her. She closed her eyes.

“Are you all right, Miss Atworthy?”

Lord Kenderly’s voice was quiet, concerned, deep, and male. It acted like wind on coals, causing hot need to blaze and roar through her.

Virtue. She must hold on to her virtue.

She swallowed and cleared her throat. “Yes,” she said and looked up at him.

Big, big mistake.

A man should not have such dark blue eyes and such long lashes. And his lips …

Dear God! She dropped her gaze to his cravat. She wanted to feel the touch of his lips again so badly she could taste it.

Perhaps a little sin wouldn’t be so terrible. She was twenty-eight years old, after all. Her virtue was shriveling inside her like a grape forgotten on the vine. This house party would last only a day or two, and then she’d go back to her old life. If she was going to be condemned to the hell of cramming Latin verbs into Windley heads, she might as well have something interesting to atone for.

No mortal sin; just a few venial ones. What would be the harm in that? She’d get a little experience, a little tarnish on her reputation, but who would care? No matter what Papa said, just her being here would cause Mrs. Johnson and the other matrons to assume she’d done terrible, scandalous things. If her name was to be blackened anyway, she might as well do something.

She could further her Latin scholarship. Lord Kenderly should be able to explain the confusing poetry she’d found in Papa’s study and perhaps even demonstrate a verse or two.

She flushed. Well, perhaps not.

“And now that our lottery is over,” Lord Greyham said—dear heavens, she’d completely missed the last two drawings—“we can proceed to dinner.” He wrapped his arm around his wife’s waist and bussed her noisily on the cheek. “Gentlemen, though it’s not yet Valentine’s Day, I’m sure no one will object if you begin your wooing now.”

“Huzzah!” Mr. Dellingcourt shouted, grabbing Lady Imogene in a most lascivious manner. All the men in the room except Lord Kenderly and Mr. Parker-Roth embraced their companions. Mr. Parker-Roth didn’t have to; Lady Noughton threw her arms around him and pulled his head down for a kiss. His hands landed on her derriere.

Jo looked away. How mortifying. She quickly stepped back from Lord Kenderly. Was he going to maul her in the same fashion?

No, he merely offered her his arm. She took it, swallowing a ridiculous feeling of disappointment. She was relieved. Of course she was relieved. “I’m afraid I’m not used to …” She waved her free hand, not quite certain how to describe the scene.

“Yes, well, I’m not used to it either.” He was frowning at Mr. Parker-Roth and Lady Noughton.

“Then why did you come?” Dear God, Lady Noughton had her hand on the front of Mr. Parker-Roth’s breeches.

Lord Kenderly put some distance between them and his friend. “To keep an eye on Stephen. I can’t shake the feeling that Maria means to trap him into marrying her.”

Mr. Parker-Roth and Lady Noughton appeared to be on extremely intimate terms already. “Would that be such a terrible thing?”

“It would be a disaster.” He bent his head and dropped his voice so they wouldn’t be overheard, not that anyone was paying them the least bit of attention—everyone else was far too involved in sinful behavior. Sir Humphrey had his hand on Mrs. Butterwick’s breasts, and Mr. Dellingcourt was nibbling on Lady Imogene’s ear as they made their way toward the dining room.

“Maria is a creature of London. She thinks Stephen would be happy living in Town; she seems not to have noticed he never stays there more than a few weeks before he’s off searching for new plant species.”

“Oh.” Mr. Parker-Roth and Lady Noughton were strolling toward the door now. “Perhaps she could accompany him.”

Lord Kenderly snorted. “Pigs will fly long before Maria will set her expensively shod toe into the heat and mud of South America.”

“I see.” She watched Lady Noughton’s elegant derriere swish out the door. He had a point.

“And Stephen comes from a large, close family. When he does wed, he’ll want several children. Maria would never agree to so inconvenience herself or her figure.”

“Ah.” And how many children would Lord Kenderly like? He was an earl. He must plan to have an heir and a spare at least. She flushed. That was none of her concern. “But if Lady Noughton loves—”

Lord Kenderly scowled at her. “Maria loves no one but herself.”

Was the earl a dog in the manger? An unpleasant, but unfortunately reasonable thought. Lady Noughton was very beautiful in a brittle sort of way. “Then why would she wish to marry?”

“I don’t know. The current Lord Noughton disapproves of her, so her funds may be in jeopardy. Likely it’s desperation that persuades her she’s in love with Stephen.”

“But how could she trap Mr. Parker-Roth? She’s a widow, not a debutante.”

Lord Kenderly looked away—and must have realized they were the only people left in the parlor. He started toward the door. “I admit that has me puzzled.”

“Perhaps you are imagining problems where there are none.”

“I am not. I overheard Maria talking to Lady Greyham at the Wainwright soiree last week.”

“Eavesdropping?”

The man didn’t even blush. “Yes. Unfortunately, I didn’t hear the whole of it, so I don’t know exactly what kind of trap Maria plans to set—which is why I’m telling you all this.” He looked down at her, his deep blue eyes intent. “I could use your help.”

The sinful heat flared low in her belly again. The rational part of her insisted this was none of her affair, but the other part—this strange, needy part that until now she hadn’t known existed—was already nodding. “Of course. What do you want me to do?”

He smiled, just the slightest upturn of his lips, and his broad hand came up to cover hers where it rested on his forearm. He squeezed her fingers. “I don’t know. Just keep your eyes and ears open. Maybe Maria will let some clue slip.”

“Very well.” She managed to get the words past her suddenly dry lips. The weight of his hand on hers was doing unusual things to her heart.

She was in very big trouble.

Chapter 5

Jo listened as yet another set of footsteps crept past her door. If the frequent creaking of the corridor floor was any indication, everyone at the party had made his or her way to some other guest’s bedchamber. Mr. Parker-Roth was likely already in Lady Noughton’s room.

Whose room was Lord Kenderly in?

She tossed his letter onto her dressing table. She’d finally found time to read it, but now that she knew he’d thought he was writing to Papa, his words didn’t captivate her as they had in the past. Oh, he was still witty and perspicacious, but she could no longer pretend he was writing to her.

She should throw it away. She picked it up again to do just that, but her fingers refused to crumple it. She glanced down at the vellum square. She still felt an odd thrill when she saw his strong, bold handwriting.

She was a fool, but she tucked the letter into the book she’d been reading. She would keep it with all the others, tied in a ribbon in her desk at home.

She turned and frowned at herself in the cheval glass. She raised her chin. She’d put her foolish tendre behind her. Where Lord Kenderly was and what he was doing with whom were none of her concern. She would wait a few more minutes and then make her own surreptitious way through Greyham Manor’s darkened halls.

She wrinkled her nose at her nightgown-clad figure. She would not be headed to any gentleman’s arms. Oh, no. She meant to search the library. With luck, she’d find the stupid Ovid. She’d like to take it home and wave it in Papa’s face. But find it or not, she’d be gone in the morning.

And what about Lord Kenderly? He’d asked for her help. Was she going to desert him?

Yes. She thrust her arms into her wrapper. Indeed she was. He was the Prince of Hearts. She was merely a country spinster, very much a fish out of water at this gathering.

She’d never endured such a shocking meal as this evening’s dinner. She hadn’t known where to look. To her right, Mr. Dellingcourt was cutting Lady Imogene’s food and feeding it to her from his fork. Across the table, Lord Wapley plucked grapes from Mrs. Petwell’s bodice with his lips. And on her left, Lady Noughton ate a sausage so slowly and lasciviously, it was as if she were consuming something else entirely. Jo had bolted for her room at the first opportunity.

She glanced at the clock. It was almost midnight. The corridor had been quiet for the last ten minutes. She should be able to make it to the library without encountering anyone else.

She slipped out of her room. Just as she’d hoped, the passage was empty. The candles in the wall sconces provided plenty of light; she didn’t need a candlestick.

She hurried past the closed doors, ignoring the laughter and moans that came from behind some of them, and went down the stairs. The library door stood open. Everyone at this party had far more interesting ways of getting to sleep than by reading a book.

She went in, pulling the door closed behind her. Moonlight flooded the room and a glimmer of color glinted in the grate where the fire’s embers smoldered, but there was not enough light to find Ovid. She would need a candle after all. Where—

She heard a step in the hall.

Damn! Some randy gentleman was likely on the prowl. She didn’t want to be discovered. Where could she hide? He would be in the library in a moment.

The window curtains—they would have to do. She darted behind their generous folds just as the door opened.

Damian stepped into the library. Thank God the room was empty; he’d no desire to encounter any of the other guests.

No, that was a lie. He had a burning desire to encounter Miss Atworthy. Far too burning—he’d been tossing and turning for the last half hour, and hearing people creeping up and down the corridor had only thrown kindling on the coals. He could imagine in painful detail exactly what everyone else was doing in bed, and it wasn’t sleeping or reading.

Except Miss Atworthy. She must be lying demurely between her virginal sheets, sound asleep, unless she was bothered by salacious nightmares. The poor woman’s eyes had almost started from her head during dinner.

Dinner had been quite a deplorable show. Even when he’d reigned as Prince of Hearts, he’d avoided such things. But then again, perhaps the appalling spectacle had done some good. Stephen had looked almost as disapproving as Miss Atworthy. Lady Noughton was doing an excellent job of killing his enthusiasm for her.

Damian frowned. The widow wasn’t stupid. She must think she had a solid plan to trap Stephen. What could it be? He kept turning that question over in his mind, but he wasn’t coming up with any answers.

Ah well, he wasn’t going to solve the puzzle tonight. He needed to get some sleep so he could be alert tomorrow. A good book might distract him—he certainly hoped so. He walked farther into the library, lifting his candle to illuminate the bookcases.

Either the Greyhams weren’t readers, or they kept their more entertaining books elsewhere. He had no interest in examining Recipes to Ensure Improved Digestion or A Short Discussion of Sheep Shearing. Short? This tome was a good three inches thick. A long discussion might crush an unwary reader. Perhaps if he—

Damn, were those voices? Yes, a man’s and a woman’s, loud and slurred. They were drunk and coming closer. He snuffed his candle. Bloody hell, he’d neglected to shut the door. The moment the couple reached the room, they’d see him. He had to hide and quickly, but where? He looked around. There was only one option.

He jumped behind the window curtain—and into a soft, feminine body.

“Ee—”

He silenced the woman’s startled shriek in the quickest, most efficient manner he could think of: he put his candlestick-free hand on her back, pulled her against him, and covered her mouth with his.

She stiffened.

Who the hell was he kissing? None of the women at this party cared whom they frolicked with.

None except Miss Atworthy.

The height and the feel … and the innocent taste … of the woman were right, as was her scent—clean and fresh with a hint of lemon. His body certainly recognized her. It was reacting most enthusiastically.

She relaxed and opened her lips on a small sigh. He did not need a second invitation; his tongue swept into her warm, moist mouth while his hand slid down her back.

Mmm. It was definitely Miss Atworthy. No one else had such a lovely body. She was in her nightclothes, her stays discarded—and he was wearing only shirt and breeches, pulled on hurriedly over his nakedness. He could feel her every soft curve….

He drew his hips back quickly so she wouldn’t feel his suddenly hard curve. She might be older than most debutantes, but she was clearly inexperienced.

He’d very much like to remedy that situation, immediately if possible. He could carry her up to his bed or just lay her down on the couch he’d noticed by the fire and—

And he’d best pay attention to what was happening on the other side of the curtain. He moved his lips to Miss At-worthy’s ear. “I think we’re about to have company.”

“Wha—” She stopped, then stretched to whisper in his ear, “Who?”

He almost missed her question, he was so entranced by the feel of her body moving against his. “I don’t … ah.”

The newcomers’ identities required no guesswork.

“I don’t see why I have to sneak around my own house, Alice,” Lord Greyham said in a conversational, if highly annoyed and drunken, tone.

“Shh, Hugh. It’s almost midnight. Maria and Mr. Parker-Roth should be down at any moment. We don’t want them to know we’re here.”

Maria? What was this? Perhaps he’d finally learn the widow’s plan.

“I thought they wanted us here.” Greyham had dropped his voice slightly.

“Maria does.” Lady Greyham whispered loudly. “But we’ll be a surprise for Mr. Parker-Roth.”

“An unpleasant one.” There was the sound of a stopper coming out of a brandy decanter. “No sensible man wants an audience for his proposal, Alice. And why he’d want to come down to the library when he could pop the question in a more comfortable, private location like a bedchamber is beyond me. I imagine he’s already in Maria’s bed.”

“Pour me some brandy, too, will you?” There was the sound of liquid splashing into two glasses. “You’re acting just like a man, Hugh. This will be far more amusing.”

“Amusing for whom? Not Parker-Roth.” Greyham’s voice slid into a leer. “And of course I’m acting like a man. I am a man, Alice. I’ll be happy to give you another, even more forceful demonstration of that fact if it’s slipped your mind.”

Miss Atworthy made a small sound of distress, and Damian pulled her tighter against him. Fortunately, he’d turned slightly, so she was against his side. She didn’t need to have a close encounter with his male organ.

“Really, Hugh, you are impossible. Just think how romantic it would be to become betrothed in the first moments of Valentine’s Day.”

Greyham snorted. “It certainly can’t be romantic to have your host and hostess leap up to shout congratulations. I tell you, Parker-Roth can just as easily—far more easily—become betrothed in a nice warm bed and seal his troth with a long, thorough, sweaty bit of lovemaking.”

“Oh, pish. I think you must not have a single romantic bone in your body.”

“I do have a suddenly bonelike appendage that’s very eager to show you how romantic I can be.”

Lady Greyham giggled amid sounds of a scuffle. “Mmm. Behave yourself, my lord.”

“I thought I was behaving myself.”

More giggling.

“Stop, Hugh.” Lady Greyham sounded rather breathless. “We have to hide. I promised Maria.”

Greyham sighed. “Very well. Shall we conceal ourselves behind the curtains?”

Miss Atworthy sucked in a small breath and her grip on Damian tightened. It would get rather crowded if the Greyhams chose this spot to secret themselves.

“No, I have a better idea,” Lady Greyham said. “See, this couch is turned so if we lie on it, we’ll be hidden from anyone coming in the door.”

“What? You think I can’t satisfy you standing up? I’ll be happy to show you that you are mistaken.”

Lady Greyham giggled some more. “But then we’ll make the curtains move. You know I can never hold still.”

“And you can never be quiet either, can you?”

“I’ll try.”

Her accompanying shriek didn’t speak well for her success nor did the groaning couch springs.

Frankly they were making enough noise to alert all but the deaf to their presence, but Damian couldn’t leave anything to chance. Maria must be planning to trick a proposal out of Stephen—how she thought she’d manage that was a mystery—and by having witnesses, she’d either claim breach of promise or shame Stephen into standing by his offer. A ridiculous scheme, but if she’d managed to get Stephen drunk—a feat in itself—it might work. Stephen was honorable to a fault.

He had to do something, but what? He couldn’t risk ruining Miss Atworthy’s reputation. If he—

“Why the hell do we n-need to go to the l-library now, Maria?”

Damn it all, that was Stephen’s voice. They were in the corridor.

“We have to save Mr. Parker-Roth,” Miss Atworthy whispered suddenly.

“Yes, but—”

She didn’t wait to hear his thoughts; she grabbed the candlestick from him and stepped out from behind the curtain.

* * *

Jo was lighting the candle in the fireplace when Lady Noughton dragged Mr. Parker-Roth through the library door.

Lady Noughton stopped abruptly and glared. “What are you doing here?”

Jo raised her chin. “Looking for a book.” She wasn’t going to let this sneaky, unprincipled snake intimidate her. “This is a library, you know.”

Mr. Parker-Roth laughed. “V-very true. Girl’s got you there.” His speech was slurred. He must be exceedingly drunk. “F-frankly, I don’t know why we’re here. D-didn’t think you wanted to read, Maria.”

“No, of course I don’t want to read.” Lady Noughton patted Mr. Parker-Roth on the arm. “Remember, I wish to show you—”

“Surprise!” Lady Greyham popped up from behind the sofa back, her hair tumbled over her shoulders, her bodice drooping alarmingly low.

“I say, it’s a party.” Lord Greyham appeared next to her. “And look, here’s Kenderly as well.”

In the confusion, Lord Kenderly must have slipped out of the room. It looked as if he were just entering the library now.

“Help yourself to some brandy; decanter’s on the table.” Lord Greyham wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “I have to get back to what I was doing.”

Lady Greyham giggled as her husband pulled her down and, blessedly, out of sight.

“You looking for a book, too, D-Damian?” Mr. Parker-Roth wavered a little on his feet. “Should be looking for a l-lady instead.” The man winked. “A w-wet and willing woman will help you sleep much better than some dry Latin text.”

“And you should be in bed, Stephen”—Lord Kenderly glared at Lady Noughton—“your own bed.”

Suddenly the couch started creaking in an alarming way; odd, breathy pants and grunts emanated from the other side, where Lord and Lady Greyham were obviously engaged in some strenuous activity.

“It is a bit crowded here, isn’t it?” Mr. Parker-Roth executed a wobbly bow to Lady Noughton. “’Fraid my f-friend’s right. Not feeling quite the thing. Excuse me?”

Lady Noughton almost growled. “No, I—”

“Oh, oh, oh!” Lady Greyham’s voice rose, tight and vaguely desperate. There was something intense about her tone that made Jo feel extremely unsettled and, well, hot.

“That’s it. That’s the way.” Lord Greyham might have been urging on his hounds. His voice was strained, too. “Come on, old girl. Come on.”

“Oh, oh … y-yes!” Lady Greyham screamed. “Oh, God, Pookie!”

The couch shook more violently in sharp, hard jerks; Lord Greyham grunted … and then roared. “Huzzah!”

Jo’s entire body flushed.

She glanced at Lord Kenderly; he was grimacing in what looked like pain. Then his eyes met hers, and her temperature shot up another hundred degrees.

A very embarrassing area of her person throbbed, wet and empty.

Dear heavens, was she like a dog in heat—could he smell the need consuming her?

“Well, at least someone is satisfied,” Lady Noughton said waspishly.

“If you hadn’t decided to go h-haring off to the library, you could be, too.” Mr. Parker-Roth shifted on his feet as if he was uncomfortable. “I could be.”

“Yes, well, I believe it’s past time we adjourned.” Lord Kenderly sounded angry. “I’ll see you up to your room, Stephen.” He looked at Jo. His face was now expressionless. “Will you accompany us, Miss Atworthy?”

She certainly wasn’t going to stay here. Lady Noughton looked as if she might explode, ripping apart anyone unwary enough to be nearby, and the thought of facing Lord and Lady Greyham after what she’d just heard …

“That was splendid, Pookie.” Lady Greyham’s voice was almost a purr. “But do get off me now. We should attend to our guests.”

Jo shot out of the library ahead of everyone.

Chapter 6

Damn. Damian sat up in bed and rubbed his hands over his face. His sheets were a twisted mess. He felt like he’d hardly slept a wink—and every time he had dropped off, he’d dreamt of a certain tall, prickly, virginal woman.

She was anything but virginal in his dreams. Those long legs … her full breasts …

He scowled down at his eager cock where it made an obvious bulge in the bedclothes. Stephen was right; he’d been far too long without a woman. Unfortunately, there was little chance he could cure that problem anytime soon. Miss Atworthy was not a candidate for seduction.

He rubbed the spot between his brows. Listening to Greyham and his wife last night had been torture, and with Valentine’s Day and, worse, Lupercalia the focus of the next two days, lust would be so thick in the air, he’d likely choke on it.

He threw off the covers and walked carefully over to the washbasin. Good, the water was cold. He splashed it on his face; he should splash it considerably lower.

He’d tried to talk some sense into Stephen after they’d seen Miss Atworthy to her door last night, but the man had been too drunk to see reason, damn it. Until he could persuade him to look out for himself, he’d have to look out for him, as last night had demonstrated.

He yanked on his clothes and made quick work of tying his cravat. Whether the Greyhams witnessing whatever Maria had had planned would have resulted in her trap snapping shut, he couldn’t say. But Stephen was so damn honorable, all the widow need do was convince him he owed her marriage.

Damian was bloody well determined to see to it that that didn’t happen.

He shrugged into his coat, straightened his cuffs, and stepped out into the corridor.

“Oof!”

Miss Atworthy’s delightful body collided with his.

He grabbed her upper arms to steady her and inhaled the scent of lemon and woman. His cock, which had finally assumed appropriate proportions, leapt with eagerness.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She was babbling, her lovely eyes wide, her cheeks red. “It was my fault entirely. I was woolgathering.”

She was close enough to kiss. He remembered the feel of her last night in painful detail. Her lips were soft; her mouth, warm and wet—

He coughed. “Are you all right?” She seemed to be struggling to get her breath; her bosom was certainly heaving delightfully.

“Yes.” She swallowed, and he watched her throat move. Her dress this morning was a great improvement over yesterday’s monstrosity. All her graceful neck was exposed to his interested gaze as well as most of her lovely shoulders. And the nicely rounded tops of her br—

“I should have been paying more attention to where I was going,” she said. “That was so clumsy of me.”

“Don’t give it another thought. I should have been more careful myself.” He looked down to be certain his wayward body wasn’t announcing his admiration too obviously and noticed something had fallen out of the book she was carrying—a letter she’d apparently been using to mark her place. He stooped to pick it up.

He frowned. He recognized the handwriting. “This is one of my letters to your father.”

“Ack!” She grabbed it and thrust it back in the book. She was even redder than she’d been a moment ago. “Please excuse me. I was just on my way to my room.” She stepped to the side as though she planned to go around him.

He stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Did your father give you my letter?” He hoped she couldn’t hear the hurt in his voice. He’d saved all the letters Mr. Atworthy had sent him, but if the man didn’t value their correspondence the way he did, there was nothing he could do about it. He shouldn’t be surprised or offended. It only made sense that what impressed a man of thirty as significant would seem banal to someone twice that age.

“No.”

“You just took it?” Miss Atworthy hadn’t struck him as someone who had such little consideration for a man’s privacy.

“No, of course not.” She fidgeted. “I, er, needed a bookmark, and, ah, well …” She shrugged.

Very odd. He would try another subject. “Did he tell you I would be here?”

Her eyes snapped up to meet his. “Of course not. Papa didn’t know you’d be attending this house party.”

Why would she assume that? “Yes, he did.”

She shook her head, frowning at him. “No, he didn’t.”

This conversation was beyond absurd. Certainly she must realize he would know the truth better than she on this subject. “Did a Mr. Flanders not stop to call on your father last week?”

Her brows met over her nose. “Yes, I believe he did. Is he a short man with reddish hair?”

“Yes. He helps with The Classical Gazette. He’s the one who initially puzzled out who J.A. was; since the letters are sent to the Gazette offices, he knew what part of Britain they came from. As he happened to be passing through the area, he thought he should introduce himself. He told me your father was surprised and”—Flanders had said “over the moon,” but that had seemed an exaggeration—“pleased that I ’d be in the neighborhood, though doubtful he’d be able to see me. I take it he doesn’t get out much. Is he perhaps an invalid?”

Miss Atworthy muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “not yet” before she pushed past him and fled down the corridor.

Jo sat stunned among the women in the morning room, the gentlemen having been relegated to the study, and tried to appear as if nothing was amiss. Sheets of red paper, bits of ribbon and lace, and pots of glue were strewn over the tables. Her hand slipped and she cut the bottom off her paper heart.

She couldn’t believe it. Papa had known Lord Kenderly would be here. Worse, he must know, after speaking with Mr. Flanders, that she’d been corresponding with the earl for some time.

Dear God, what must Papa think? Well-bred single women did not write to single men to whom they were not related.

“How are your valentines coming?” Lady Greyham asked. “You should have everything you need at hand.”

“I don’t have any ideas.” Lady Imogene dropped her scissors, letting them clatter on the table. “I hate making valentines.”

“But you like getting them, don’t you?” Mrs. Petwell asked as she cut out a large, red heart.

Lady Imogene shrugged. “I like gifts better. Chocolate and flowers.”

“Chocolate and flowers are very pleasant,” Lady Grey-ham said, “as I tell my dear Lord Greyham every year.”

“You just need to let yourself have some fun with it, Lady Imogene.” Mrs. Butterwick smiled in a motherly fashion. “See?” She held up the card she’d just finished.

Lady Imogene took it from her. “It’s rather an odd shape, isn’t it? Like a melted heart.”

It looked more like two red mountains decorated with snippets of ribbon and tufts of feathers.

“It’s a dress,” Mrs. Butterwick said.

“A dress? It doesn’t look anything like a dress.”

“It depends on your perspective. Open it.”

Lady Imogene rolled her eyes and opened the card—it was hinged on the mountain peaks so it lifted up. “Oh!” She started giggling.

Jo frowned. The second layer was all lace. Through the lace one could see the mountain peaks weren’t peaks at all, but knees. And the sides were two legs spread—

Lady Imogene lifted the lace, gasped, and then shouted with laughter.

Oh, Lord. A hot blush flooded Jo’s face. She must be redder than Mrs. Butterwick’s valentine.

“Brilliant,” Lady Greyham said, clapping.

Mrs. Handley nodded. “It looks so real. How did you know what to draw? Can’t say I’ve ever seen that part of me.”

Mrs. Petwell sniggered. “Sir Humphrey helped you, did he?”

“He did not.” Mrs. Butterwick took the card back from Lady Imogene. “I used a hand mirror. Haven’t you ever looked at your female parts, Sophia?”

“No, why would I?” Mrs. Petwell grinned. “I’m far too busy examining Lord Benedict’s male parts.”

“I think it’s very clever,” Lady Imogene said. “And I’m sure Sir Humphrey will wish to see if your portrayal is completely accurate.”

“Of course he will. I’m expecting we’ll repair to bed immediately so he can do just that.”

Everyone but Jo laughed.

“Well, ladies,” Lady Greyham said, “I believe Mrs. Butter-wick has thrown down the gauntlet. Let us see if anyone can outdo her in creativity.”

“How will we determine the winner?” Lady Imogene asked.

“We will have to observe the gentlemen’s falls when they read their valentines,” Lady Noughton said. “The card that provokes the largest, ah, reaction wins.”

“That’s not entirely fair, Maria,” Mrs. Petwell said. “We all know men are not equally endowed. I’ve personally examined both Lord Benedict’s and Mr. Maiden’s … attractions. Bennie is much larger”—she smiled at Lady Chutley—“though both gentlemen satisfy. We ladies know size is not the important issue, don’t we?”

Jo ducked her head and pretended to examine the assortment of ribbon in front of her, though what she was really seeing was gentlemen’s breeches. Good God.

If she survived this party, writing letters to an unmarried male would be the least of the blots on her reputation. And to think Papa had urged her to attend, had even said a little sin would do her good! Had he had the slightest notion how thick sin would be all around her?

When she’d sat at her bedroom desk, she’d had a vague mental image of the gentleman she’d been writing to all these months. She’d pictured a pleasant-looking, bespectacled man, not young but not old, scholarly, with a gentle voice. But now that she’d met Lord Kenderly, she wanted to touch him, press up against him as she had behind the curtains last night, feel his skin on hers—and, yes, examine his most male organ. The thought was scandalous, shocking—and after less than twenty-four hours at Greyham Manor, it felt oddly reasonable.

Oh, damn, she was throbbing again. She pushed some bits of lace around, praying no one would notice her heightened color.

Of course God didn’t answer her prayer. He must be laughing at the old spinster adrift in such sinful waters.

“Are we embarrassing the little virgin in our midst?” Lady Noughton’s voice grated.

Jo ignored her and glued some lace to the heart she’d cut. Her valentine was insipid; before she’d seen Mrs. Butter-wick’s card, she’d thought all valentines insipid.

“Maria,” Lady Greyham said, “have done. You know Miss Atworthy is here only because Henrietta Helton took ill.”

Lady Noughton frowned and might have argued, but she was interrupted by Lady Imogene waving her valentine in the air for the ladies’ reaction.

Jo let the other women crowd around. The tone of their laughter told her clearly she would not appreciate Lady Imogene’s imagination.

What was she going to write to complete her boring card? She couldn’t just wish Lord Kenderly well. This was a valentine, not a sympathy card. On the other hand, she certainly couldn’t mention the odd throbbing heat he provoked in her. She bit her lip. What should she write?

She’d like to write something daring, though not as daring as what Mrs. Butterwick or Lady Imogene had written—or drawn.

She was twenty-eight. As Papa had pointed out, she wasn’t getting any younger. She could use a little sin, a little pleasure, in her life. If she let this opportunity pass, she’d have only Mr. Windley at hand—dear God. Mr. Windley was penance, not pleasure.

She glanced over at Lady Noughton’s card. The widow had written, Meet me at the baths at midnight.

Could she ask Lord Kenderly to meet her somewhere secluded?

No. She hadn’t the courage.

“I still don’t have any ideas,” Mrs. Handley said. “I need some more inspiration.”

“How about some brandy? I often find a drop or two of spirits helps me think.” Lady Greyham pulled the decanter out of the cabinet. “Oh, bother, Hugh must have stolen the glasses.”

“We’ve teacups, don’t we?” Mrs. Petwell said.

“Very true.” Lady Greyham passed the brandy around so everyone could fill her cup.

Jo took a splash to be companionable. Dear Lord Kenderly, she wrote, Happy Valentine’s Day. She chewed on the end of her pen. What else?

Her mind was a blank—well, no, it was filled with scandalous things she could never write.

She heard laughter in the corridor. The men were here; her time was up. Her insipid card would have to do. The earl certainly couldn’t expect professions of love. They were barely acquainted … except she felt as if she knew him so well from his letters. Or she’d thought she’d known him when she’d thought him older and plainer.

She signed the card quickly as the men came into the room.

“Did you miss us, sweets?” Lord Greyham asked, giving Lady Greyham an enthusiastic kiss on the lips.

“Mmm, of course, but we spent our time well, didn’t we ladies?”

“Indeed.” Lady Chutley smirked. “I think you’ll find our efforts most, ah, uplifting.”

The ladies giggled; Jo took the opportunity to move toward the windows. She noticed Lord Kenderly was standing a little apart, frowning, his hands clasped behind his back; he looked about as happy to be there as she was.

“And you’ll find ours inspiring as well,” Lord Benedict said. The men sniggered.

“I’ll confess it looked bleak at first when Greyham gave us The Young Man’s Valentine Writer.” Mr. Dellingcourt laughed. “What a collection of trite and saccharine verses! I suppose they might appeal to very inexperienced young ladies, but I assure you there was nothing appropriate for this group.”

“I should think not,” Mrs. Petwell said.

“So then we found Greyham’s copy of Ars Amatoria hidden behind A Few Theories on Crop Rotation.” Mr. Maiden grinned.

Jo straightened. Could this be Papa’s rare Ovid?

“It wasn’t hidden,” Lord Greyham grumbled. “You found it, didn’t you?”

“Only because of its bright red cover.”

It must be the Ovid. She had to slip out and get it. With luck the men had left it sitting out in plain sight.

Mr. Maiden’s grin widened. “And next to that book was an even more interesting volume, though in some heathen language I couldn’t read.”

“But you certainly studied the pictures long enough,” Mr. Felton said.

“Now, Percy, I gave you your turn.” Mr. Maiden waggled his brows at Lady Chutley. “I merely wished to commit a few of the illustrations to memory so I might re-create them later.”

“Ha. I ’d like to see you try.”

“Would you, Percy?”

“Yes.” Mr. Felton crossed his arms, a hot, hungry look suddenly appearing on his face. “Now.”

Mr. Maiden extended his hand to Lady Chutley. “Are you game, my dear?”

Lady Chutley looked around the room and then smiled slowly. “Of course, if everyone else agrees?”

“Yes.”

“Of course.”

“Carry on, do.”

The chorus of support twisted Jo’s stomach into knots.

“Would you like to stroll on the terrace, Miss Atwor-thy?” Lord Kenderly asked.

“Oh!” The earl was at her elbow, offering her escape. “Yes, thank you. That would be very pleasant.”

He took her arm and guided her out the door as the other members of the party whistled, clapped, and cheered Mr. Maiden and Lady Chutley to misbehavior so scandalous Jo couldn’t begin to imagine it—and she certainly wasn’t going to turn so she could see what they were doing.

The February wind slapped her in the face, and she gasped.

“I’m sorry,” Lord Kenderly said. “I didn’t realize how cold it was. Would you prefer to go back inside?” He glanced over his shoulder at the room they’d just left. “On second thought, I’ll give you my coat.”

“Th-thank you.” She shivered. She’d rather turn into an icicle than witness what must be going on in the morning room. Well, she’d probably turn into a pillar of salt, like Lot’s wife, if she looked. “Aren’t you afraid Mr. Parker-Roth might get into trouble?”

Lord Kenderly frowned as he shrugged out of his coat and draped it over her shoulders. Ahh. It was still warm from his body.

“Stephen doesn’t care for such public displays.” He steered her so her back was to the morning room windows, but he could keep an eye on what was going on. “Making valentines with the other men was bad enough; the level of conversation was so puerile I thought I was back at Eton.” He looked at her. “I think if I can just foil Maria’s plans a little longer, Stephen will leave the party on his own, perhaps as early as tomorrow.”

And surely Lord Kenderly would leave with him. Fine. She was not disappointed, not at all. She should have left herself. She would go very soon.

His gaze had wandered back to the morning room. “Good God,” he muttered, a note of incredulity in his voice, “so that really is possible.”

She would not look. “If you want to save Mr. Parker-Roth, my lord, you might want to watch the baths at midnight.”

“What?” His eyes focused on her again. “Baths?”

“Yes. Lady Noughton put it on her valentine. I assume she means the Roman baths.” Lord Kenderly’s attention had shifted to the action in the morning room once more. His face was rather flushed; perhaps it was due to the wind.

“They aren’t Roman baths precisely.” Was he even listening? Whatever was happening inside must be riveting. “Lord Greyham’s father discovered a hot spring and enclosed it. It’s nothing as grand as Bath—at least, that’s what people tell me, as I’ve not been to Bath—but it’s pleasant to sit in the warm water in the winter.”

“Er, water?” He looked down at her. “I’m sorry; I wasn’t perfectly attending.”

Jo kept herself from stomping on his toes, but only just. “Lady Noughton and the baths. Meeting Mr. Parker-Roth?” He was looking over her shoulder again. “Oh, I’ll go with you. I’ll come by your room tonight at eleven-thirty.”

“My room?” He had an odd light in his eyes for a moment before he blinked and shook his head. “Right. So we can keep Maria from trapping Stephen.”

“Yes.” She would not feel disappointed that he didn’t wish to seduce her. She was a respectable spinster. “Of course.” She would not even peek in his bedchamber; she would merely knock on his door. “Er, which room is yours?”

He was studying the activities in the morning room again. It took him a moment to reply. “Oh, yes, my room. Turn left when you come up the main stairs; mine is the last door on the right.”

“Very well. I’ll come by promptly. We don’t wish to be late.” She looked down and noticed she still held the valentine she’d made. “Here.” She thrust the poor thing at him, distracting him once more from what was happening inside. She might as well give it to him, even though he’d likely throw it into the fire the first chance he got. “I’m afraid I’m not very talented with paper and paste.”

He took it from her and smiled. “I’m not either, as you’ll see when I give you yours.” He reached for his pocket, and then realized she was wearing his coat. “Pardon me.”

He slipped his hand inside his jacket, brushing against her breast by accident. She sucked in her breath. Damn! She hoped he hadn’t heard her.

She saw the corner of his smile deepen. He’d heard.

He slid a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to her. “As you can see, a drunken monkey could make a better valentine than I.”

“Oh, surely not—” Jo looked down at the paper. The heart was rather lopsided, and the few bits of lace decorating it might indeed have been pasted on by an inebriated animal. “I imagine most men aren’t terribly skilled with such things. It’s the thought that counts.” She opened the card. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” it read, “K.”

She felt disappointment—and then she laughed. It wasn’t as if they were lovers; they were barely acquaintances. “You might want to work on your technique, should you find a sweetheart,” she said, glancing up at him.

He didn’t seem to hear her; he was staring down at her card, a very odd expression on his face. He looked shocked. Why? She certainly hadn’t written anything shocking.

Perhaps it was the primitive nature of the card itself that disturbed him. Well, that was rather a case of the pot calling the kettle black, wasn’t it? Yes, women might be expected to have some artistic skills, but she didn’t have many of the skills most females had. And, really, the card wasn’t that bad. It looked rather good when compared to his effort.

His face had gone from pale to red. Uh-oh. “I told you I wasn’t good with paper and paste.”

He finally looked up. His eyes narrowed and then swept over her.

She took a step back. “What’s the matter? I only wished you a happy Valentine’s Day—exactly what you wished me.”

His jaw flexed as if he was clenching his teeth. He held her card out to her, jabbing his finger at her signature. He bit off each word. “You are J.A.”

“Ah.” Oh dear. She’d been in such a hurry when she’d signed the card, she hadn’t thought. “Y-yes. My name is Josephine Atworthy.”

A muscle in his cheek jumped. His lips pulled down; his nostrils flared as he drew in a deep, hopefully calming, breath. “You had my letter in the corridor upstairs because I was writing to you, not your father.”

“Er, yes.” Jo tried to smile. “I hope that’s all right?”

Chapter 7

“All right?!” Damian took another deep breath. Good God. All this time he’d been corresponding with a female.

He frowned. He hadn’t discussed anything he shouldn’t have, had he?

No, of course he hadn’t. He didn’t make a habit of writing about improper subjects and, in any event, he’d thought he’d been addressing an older man. Most of their correspondence had been about Latin, though of late it had begun to stray into more personal topics.

But not too personal, thank God. Not that he had anything of a salacious nature to write about these days.

He scowled down at Miss Atworthy. Damn it all, he’d come to look forward to those letters, reading them eagerly and spending special effort on his replies. He’d thought of J.A. as a friend—but he wasn’t. She wasn’t. It was all a lie. He felt like an idiot. “You should have told me.”

She flushed and pulled his coat tighter around her. “Why? My sex wasn’t important.”

Was she insane? Her sex was extremely important. It was the crucial detail that changed everything.

He made the mistake then of looking away from her toward the morning room. He caught sight of some fat male arse pumping away at—

He took her elbow and hustled her farther down the terrace. The wind tossed her hair about her face and put more color in her cheeks; he hoped it was taking some color from his. He was suddenly very hot. She looked so delicate in his jacket, so damn feminine. “Single young ladies are not supposed to exchange letters with single men to whom they are not related.”

God, he sounded like someone’s stuffy old, dry-as-a-stick great aunt.

“That’s why I didn’t tell you. I knew it was improper.” She snorted. “Well, improper by society’s ridiculous rules. There was nothing really improper in our correspondence. We didn’t discuss anything we couldn’t have talked about in a roomful of people.”

“But we weren’t in a roomful of people, were we?”

“No. We were each alone at our separate desks.”

He ran his hand through his hair. Didn’t she understand? Writing letters … sharing thoughts … it was very private. Very intimate. He’d let Miss Atworthy into his mind. “There is good reason why society frowns on men and women corresponding.”

“Oh, please. I never took you for such a prude.”

That stung. Perhaps she didn’t understand because his letters had meant nothing to her. Perhaps she wrote to many men—to all the men who had articles in The Classical Gazette.

The thought ignited a slow, burning anger in his gut.

She raised her chin. “You are making a great deal out of nothing.”

“It is not nothing.” He clenched his teeth. “You misled me.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, I did not mislead you. You never asked if I was a woman, and I saw no reason to bring it up because it was not significant. I never told you I had curly hair, either.”

“But I assumed—”

“And whose mistake was that?” She crossed her arms, her chin still at that defiant angle.

“You knew who I was.”

“I did not. I only discovered your identity when I arrived at this party and you mentioned you’d been writing to my father.”

“Ah.” He caught her gaze and held it. “So why didn’t you tell me then it wasn’t your father I was corresponding with?”

She flushed. “I, er …”

Suddenly his anger and hurt coalesced. The fire burned hotter. He wanted revenge. He wanted her to feel something.

Lust. He wanted her to need him, to ache for him.

He hadn’t been the Prince of Hearts for nothing. He stepped closer. “You didn’t tell me because you knew it was scandalous.”

“Improper. Not scandalous.” She took a step back. She didn’t have much room to retreat. The house was just behind her.

“Did you look forward to my letters”—he dropped his voice slightly—“Jo?”

She took another step back. “I’m sure you shouldn’t use my Christian name.”

“No? I give you leave to use mine. It’s Damian.”

“I couldn’t possibly call you Damian.” She was obviously trying to sound unaffected by his nearness. She wasn’t quite successful.

“You could. You can.” He bent his head to whisper by her ear. “You just did.”

She jerked her head away from his mouth. “Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop doing this. Stop making me feel … odd.”

“Odd? What do you mean?” If he leaned forward just a little more, his body would touch hers. There was only a breath of space between them. But he wouldn’t lean forward; not yet.

“Just odd.”

The wind blew a strand of hair over her eye and he brushed it away. “I looked forward to your letters,” he murmured, sheltering her from the wind and trapping her against the side of the house. They were quite alone. “I was delighted when each one arrived. I thought they were from your father; I’ll have to read them again now that I know you wrote them.”

“Oh.” Her voice trembled.

“I’ve saved them all.” He remembered how her lips tasted. He wanted to taste them again. Now. “They are in a box on my desk.” Should he kiss her? “In my bedroom.”

He was supposed to be luring her into lust with him, but he was already very much in lust with her. It must be this damn house party. He’d never felt this way before.

“Oh.” She sounded quite breathless. “I”—she swallowed—“I don’t know what Papa was thinking when he—”

Suddenly her brows snapped down, and her voice lost any trace of uncertainty. She put her hands on his chest and gave him a little shove. “But I do know. Damn it, it’s all clear now.”

Reluctantly, Damian moved back a step. “What’s clear?”

“Papa’s motives. Why he tricked me into coming to this shocking party. It had nothing to do with Ovid.”

“Ovid?” How the hell had they got to Ovid?

“Yes, Ovid.” She slipped away from him and began pacing the terrace. “Papa told me some taradiddle about the old baron having borrowed a rare copy of Ovid. He knew that would persuade me to put aside my scruples and attend this, this … orgy.”

Given what was happening in the morning room at the moment, Jo’s description was sadly apt. “You’re a fan of Ovid?”

“No. Or, not especially. I find his verse very confusing. I can’t understand—” She flushed. “Well, never mind that.”

“Ah.” He grinned. “I would be delighted to explain any passages you have trouble with.”

She answered him with a glare. “No, thank you.”

He bit back a smile and shrugged. “Your father didn’t make the story up out of whole cloth, you know. I’m reasonably certain the Ars Amatoria in the study is the volume he referred to.”

Jo looked momentarily interested. “Oh? I wondered if perhaps it was. Is the book valuable?”

He shook his head. “No. Either your father or mine pilfered it from the Oxford library. The margins are full of salacious commentary scrawled by generations of university students.”

Jo made a small sound of disgust. “So it is just as I thought. Papa dangled the Ovid in front of me to get me to come to this party.” She pressed her lips tightly together for a moment. “I can just see how his devious little mind worked. His Catullus had just arrived, and I was, er, discussing with him how we simply cannot afford for him to keep buying these expensive books.” Her voice rose. “He has no sense of economy.”

“Oh?” He could see Jo had the bit between her teeth on this topic. She would need to marry a man who knew how to keep a firm hand on the reins or she’d ride roughshod over him.

And why the hell had that thought popped into his head?

“Yes, indeed. He is going to land us in the poorhouse if he doesn’t see reason. There are just not that many potential Latin students in the area, and I am not going to wed Mr. Windley to produce more.”

“No, I definitely think that would be unwise. Who is Mr. Windley?”

“A very annoying widower with six idiot sons all of whom I have the misfortune to teach—to try to teach—Latin.”

The disgust on Jo’s face was rather comical. “He does not sound at all like a good match for you. Is your father pushing you to marry him?” Mr. Atworthy would not be the first man to sacrifice his daughter for the family fortunes.

Jo laughed. “Oh, no. Papa cannot abide Mr. Windley or his progeny either. I think he’s afraid I’ll marry him out of desperation.”

“Come, you’re not past your prayers certainly.”

She snorted. “I’m far too old to tempt most gentlemen into marriage. And Papa says I’ve a reputation for being a”—she flushed—“a trifle, er, difficult and, ah, staid.”

Difficult he could believe, but not staid. Obviously the neighborhood men were blind to Jo’s attractions. She had a lovely mind and an equally lovely body.

She started to pace again, and he admired the way her skirts pulled tight across her hips and teased him with brief outlines of her legs. “After Mr. Flanders visited, Papa knew I was writing to you, and he knew you would be at this party. Having one of Lord Greyham’s female guests take ill at the last minute must have seemed like a sign from heaven, a golden opportunity to get me off his back for a few days. I don’t doubt he even hoped I’d—” Her cheeks—no, her whole face—turned beet red. “That is, Papa … he …”

A cold, hard feeling—disappointment with a touch of anger—settled in Damian’s gut. He’d been the earl for ten years now; he was very familiar with matchmaking mamas—and sometimes papas. “Thought you could get me to come up to scratch.”

Her eyes swiveled to his. “Good God, no. Are you daft?”

His anger turned to pique. “It isn’t that odd a thought. You were writing to me. I was answering.”

“Yes, but I’m sure he realized if you thought my letters were from him, they could not have contained anything of a, er, warm nature. No, no, trust me. Marriage would be the last thought to cross Papa’s mind. I suspect he hoped I would have some kind of small, ah, adventure that would take my mind off rare books and empty coffers for a while.” She looked away, her color still high. “He said a little sin would do me good.”

Damian’s gaze, which had wandered down to her breasts, snapped back up to her face. “What?” Good God, had she read his mind? It was full of sin, lovely, hot, wet sin.

“Yes. I was as shocked as you are.”

Now was not the time to point out she had no idea what he was thinking, because if she did she would be having a fit of the vapors. “Um.”

“I suppose I will see if I can have a look at the Ovid to satisfy my curiosity, but from what you say, it isn’t worth my spending any more time here.” A smile flashed across her face, missing her eyes. “I believe I can feel the headache coming on.”

He didn’t want her to leave, not yet. Things were still unsettled between them. He certainly felt unsettled, and he did not care for the sensation. “But I thought you were going to help me this evening.”

“What? Oh, right, Mr. Parker-Roth and Lady Noughton.” She backed away from him a step. “I can show you where the baths are now, if you like. You need only follow the path through the garden a bit. You can’t miss them.”

She was unsettled, too. He could feel it.

Had she truly been interested only in Latin grammar when she wrote to him? Probably the first time and perhaps the second, but something else had crept in by the third letter, he’d swear it. This … warm feeling couldn’t have all been on his side.

They’d had a meeting of minds; they’d found a harmony of spirit. He’d just been shocked for a moment to discover the mind and spirit he’d been communicating with came in such a delightful package.

He was not going to let her get away. “Thank you, but I think your presence tonight is crucial.”

“Surely you can handle the situation yourself.” She took another step backward; he followed her.

“I am Stephen’s friend. People might not believe me. But you are a disinterested third party and a female.”

“Yes.” She bumped into the balustrade; she’d backed up as far as she could. Without the building to restrain it, the wind whipped her curls around her face so she did look a bit like one of the Furies, only her expression was uncertain and vulnerable. “I mean no.” She moistened her lips. “I mean you don’t need me tonight.”

“Oh? I think I do.” If she had any idea of the need that was pounding through his veins right now, she’d leap over the balustrade. “I need you very much.”

“What?” She must have caught a hint; she looked vaguely alarmed.

“And what about sin?” He dropped his voice again and leaned into her.

“Sin?” she croaked.

“Yes. I think your father is correct—a little sin is good for the soul.”

She snorted. “You make a far better Latin scholar than you do a theologian.” Brave words, belied by the waver in her voice.

“Don’t you want to sin a little, Jo?”

“Ah.” She had dropped her gaze from his eyes to his mouth, the minx.

He cupped her face in his hands, trapping her wild hair. He bent closer so he could whisper. “I would be happy to teach you how. It would be my pleasure—my very great pleasure.”

Her eyes widened. Was that desire he saw in their depths? Desire and uncertainty. He would just kiss her now, just—

“Ah, so here you are.”

Damn. Damian spun around to find Stephen and Lady Noughton walking toward them.

“My, my, my,” Maria said, looking from Damian to Jo, “what are you two up to?”

Thank God the widow hadn’t arrived a minute or two later, when it would have been far too clear what Damian, at least, was up to. “We are taking the air.” He took Jo’s hand and placed it on his arm.

“It looked to me as if you were on the verge of taking more than the air.” Maria examined Jo. “My compliments, Miss Atworthy. I should have said something earlier. That dress is a great improvement on yesterday’s gown.” She raised a knowing eyebrow. “Out to catch yourself an earl, are you?”

Damian squeezed Jo’s hand as he heard her draw breath to answer the harpy. That would be a very bad idea. Maria would tear Jo to pieces; the widow had sharpened her claws in far too many London ballrooms. “You have it wrong, Lady Noughton. It is I who am trying to capture Miss At-worthy’s interest.”

Stephen laughed. “Bravo, Damian.”

Maria glared at Stephen, smiled brittlely at Damian, and then addressed Jo. “I see. Then it was no accident we saw you and Lord Kenderly together in the library last night.”

“Oh, no, it was indeed an accident,” Jo said. “I thought I ’d just run down to find a book; I had no idea Lord Grey-ham’s library would be so crowded.” She smiled sweetly. “Were you and Mr. Parker-Roth also in search of some reading material to help you fall asleep?”

Maria made an odd noise, sort of a cross between a gasp and a hiss, but Stephen laughed.

“Touché, Miss Atworthy,” he said. “Well done.”

Chapter 8

It was almost eleven twenty-five. Jo consulted the clock for the fifth time in as many minutes.

She’d been hiding in her room for two hours, ever since Blind Man’s Bluff had become too dangerous. The various blind men—and women—had taken the role as an opportunity to run their hands all over whomever they caught, exploring the most embarrassing parts of their victim’s anatomy. Mr. Maiden, not even pretending to be hampered by his blindfold, had taken advantage of Lord Kenderly’s brief absence from the room to pursue her, much to the glee of the other guests. She’d been compelled to dodge behind a settee and knock over a chair before the earl had returned and put an end to Mr. Maiden’s fun.

She heard giggling in the corridor. Damn. She hoped she’d be able to get to Lord Kenderly’s room without encountering any other guests.

Frankly, it was hard to imagine what Lady Noughton could do to force Mr. Parker-Roth into marriage. This party just got more and more scandalous. At dinner the men had decided to get into the spirit of Lupercalia and run naked over the grounds at midnight.

Ugh. The thought of Sir Humphrey or Mr. Felton without clothes was revolting. She’d shut her eyes at the first hint of bare flesh. But Lord Kenderly naked …

She fanned her face with her hand. It was suddenly quite hot in the room.

That afternoon on the terrace, when he’d offered to teach her to sin, she had to admit she’d been tempted.

She bit her lip. She was far too old for such silliness, wasn’t she?

Her brain said yes, but her body had a different opinion.

She glanced at the clock again. Oh dear, it was now eleven thirty-two. She was late. She grabbed her dark pelisse and cracked her door open. She listened. All was quiet for the moment.

Cautiously she poked her head out and looked up and down the corridor—no one in sight, thank God. She eased out of her room and hurried as quietly as she could to Lord Kenderly’s chamber. She scratched on the door.

“Damnation, Viola.” She heard Sir Humphrey’s voice as the door to the room across the way began to open. “I don’t want to go scampering around Greyham’s grass naked as a needle. It’s February; I’ll freeze my—”

Sir Humphrey and Mrs. Butterwick would see her if Lord Kenderly didn’t let her in immediately. What was taking him so long?

She couldn’t wait another instant. She turned the knob and scrambled inside, shutting the door behind her just as Sir Humphrey stepped into the passage.

That had been far too close. She turned to give the earl a piece of her mind. “Lord Kend-ack!” She caught her foot on her pelisse and fell forward—onto a naked chest.

“Oof.” Lord Kenderly grunted as his arms came around her to steady her.

Her nose was smashed up against warm, hard flesh and soft, springy hair. Mmm. He smelled of soap and eau de cologne.

“I seem to make a habit of catching you,” he said.

She felt his words rumble in his chest even as they whispered past her ear.

She’d never encountered a naked male chest before. Men were always covered in layers of fabric: shirt, waistcoat, coat. She slid her hands over Lord Kenderly’s hard planes and around to his equally hard back. She’d wager a week’s worth of Latin lessons few men had chests as impressive as this one. And had she glimpsed …? She slipped her fingers a little lower. Yes. The man had only a thin towel covering his hips.

Something hard began to press against her belly….

“Jo.”

Damian’s voice was rough and breathless. She looked up.

The hot expression in his eyes caused her jaw to drop. She watched his mouth descend, and then she closed her eyes as his lips covered hers, his tongue sweeping past her teeth, deep inside. One of his hands landed on her derriere, pushing her tightly against his interesting bulge, while the other skimmed up her side to cup her breast.

Hot, liquid need rushed through her like a stream after a violent summer rain.

She had too much clothing on; he had too much. She slid her hands up his naked back and then down again, lower, all the way to—

He jerked his head up and put both hands on her shoulders, pushing her back. She watched his towel start to slip—

Blast! He grabbed it before it had fallen very far. She caught only a glimpse of a dark thatch of curly hair, and then the cloth was back in place. Well, not quite in place. The hard ridge she’d been pressed against must have grown—was still growing, forming a definite tent in—

“Will you stop that?” Damian grabbed a bright yellow pillow off a chair and held it in front of him like a shield.

“Stop what?” Breathing? She was certainly having a hard time getting her lungs to work, and her heart was beating erratically as well.

Damian did look like Michelangelo’s David come to life. His upper arms curved with muscle; his shoulders were unbelievably broad; the short dark hair she’d had her cheek against just moments ago dusted his chest and trailed in a line over his flat stomach down to … the pillow.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

Her eyes flew back to his face. He sounded as if he was in pain. He looked as if he was in pain—white lines bracketed his mouth and a deep crease separated his brows. “Are you feeling quite the thing?”

“No, I am not. I am feeling …” He took a deep breath. “I am feeling as if I should consign my good friend Stephen and his future happiness to the devil so I can attend to my own happiness now. Immediately. With you.” He jerked his head toward the bed. “Naked.”

“My lord!” The most shocking part of his shocking statement was the way her breasts and her … feminine parts throbbed in eager agreement.

“Don’t worry, I have myself under control”—he glared at her—“as long as you stop staring at me that way.”

“What way?”

His voice dropped. “As if you want to touch every last inch of my person—”

She whipped her hands behind her back.

“—with your lips.” She watched his throat move as he swallowed. “And tongue.”

Little tongues of flame shot all over her skin. Her nipples peaked into hard, sensitive points; her, ah, nether regions felt as if he’d lit a bonfire right between her legs. She bit back a moan. “I-I’m not.”

“You are.” He took another deep breath. “Unfortunately, this room lacks a dressing screen. If you will turn around …?”

She stared at him. Turn around?

He made a little circular motion with his finger, but her brain was no longer functioning. The firelight played over his lovely, lovely muscles.

He shrugged. “Very well, if you wish to watch.” He dropped the pillow and put his hands on the towel.

Jo spun around to give him her back. She wanted to watch, depraved spinster that she was, but she didn’t want Lord Kenderly to think she did. If only there were a mirror handy.

She must stop thinking of Lord Kenderly’s muscles and other, er, attractions. “Why in the world did you decide to bathe now?”

“Because I stayed downstairs to keep an eye on Lady Noughton, and Mr. Felton managed to spill a very large glass of ale all over me. To be blunt about it, I was wet and sticky, and I stunk.”

“But then why did you leave it to so late?”

“I didn’t.” The words were muffled; he must be putting on his shirt. “You were early.”

“I was not. I was two minutes late.”

“Then your clock is fast. It’s only eleven thirty-five now. Come on.”

She turned to find he was dressed all in black. He picked her pelisse off the floor where it had landed when she’d landed on his chest and helped her into it. Then he put on a black cloak, opened the door, and looked out.

“All clear,” he said, taking her hand. He pulled her to the right.

She stopped and tugged back. “The stairs are the other way,” she whispered.

“The main stairs are. There are servant stairs here.” He opened a door Jo hadn’t noticed before.

“How did you find these?”

“I make it a policy to be observant. It’s often handy to have an alternate exit when things turn unpleasant.”

“And do things often turn unpleasant?” She followed him down a narrow flight of steps.

“Not any longer, but it’s a habit I formed when I was younger and more daring.” He looked over his shoulder and grinned at her. “And stupider.”

Jo put a hand on Damian’s arm to stop him when they reached the outside door. “Do you think we’ll encounter any of the other guests celebrating Lupercalia? Sir Humphrey and Mrs. Butterwick were leaving his room when I arrived at yours—which is why I came in so precipitately.”

Damian laughed. “Sir Humphrey naked—now there’s a sight that would turn one to stone. Just the thought roils my stomach. But no, I don’t think so. At least not yet.” He pushed open the door and a blast of frigid air accosted them.

Jo shivered. “I can’t imagine going out without a warm coat let alone without a stitch of clothing.”

“They were all gathering in the study to fortify themselves with Greyham’s brandy, so they’ll be as drunk as emperors when they venture outside. They won’t feel the cold—they won’t feel anything. Pull up your hood and lead the way.”

It was a clear night. The moon was almost full, and Lord Greyham, anticipating the Lupercalia festivities, had hung lanterns from the trees, so it was easy to follow the path down through the garden. They saw the bathhouse as soon as they rounded the last curve. It was a long building with a barrel-vaulted roof. Lights flickered in the windows. Jo stopped short, causing Damian to bump into her. He pulled her off the path behind a tree.

“What is it?” he whispered.

“We’re too late. See the lights? They are already there.”

He looked at the building. “No, not necessarily. Grey-ham said the festivities are to end in the bathhouse; he probably sent servants down earlier to get things ready.”

“Oh.” Jo let out the breath she’d been holding. She was not used to sneaking around in the dark, and she was still rather unsettled from the events in Lord Kenderly’s room. She could not get the picture—or the feel—of his naked chest out of her mind. “You are probably right.”

“Of course I am. You said Maria specified midnight in her card, which is shortly before the revelers should arrive. I think she realizes Stephen is becoming disenchanted with her, and she needs to spring her trap tonight if she wants to catch him.” His even, white teeth flashed in the moonlight as he grinned. “She’s not shown herself to advantage here.”

“That’s an understatement. I ’d say she was a complete harpy.”

He laughed. “Exactly.”

They continued down the path, approaching the building cautiously. Damian tried the door; it was unlocked. He cracked it open, and they paused, listening. Jo heard the quiet lapping of water against the sides of the pool, the drip of condensation, the hiss and pop of a fire—but no footsteps or conversation. “They aren’t here yet.”

“No, they aren’t.” Damian pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Blech, what is that smell?”

Jo wrinkled her nose. “The minerals in the water, I think. I don’t remember it being so strong, but then, I haven’t been here in probably fifteen years.”

“Perhaps the heat makes it worse. Greyham has five—no, six—braziers going.”

“It is oppressive.” Jo unbuttoned her pelisse; Damian helped her off with it and then shed his cloak, coat, and waistcoat. He stuffed all their outer garments in a corner, out of sight behind a large, decorative urn.

They walked farther into the bathhouse, their feet echoing on the tile floor. The room was about forty yards long and perhaps twenty yards wide with large stone pillars along each side. The pool, dark and murky and green, took up most of the space.

Perspiration beaded on Jo’s lip, rolled down her sides, pooled between her breasts. It was hotter than Hades—or so she would imagine, not having yet visited that place; however, given her reaction to Damian’s broad shoulders, narrow waist, and splendid arse, she might be heading there shortly.

“I suppose Greyham wanted to raise the temperature to thaw the naked idiots,” Damian said. He turned and frowned down at her. “Which you should not be here to see.”

“I will close my eyes.” She should close them now. Damian’s fine lawn shirt was plastered to him, revealing his wonderful chest and shoulders. She forced herself to look away before he noticed she was staring at him like a child at a sweets counter. “There aren’t any good places to hide, are there?”

“No, unfortunately. We’ll just have to stand behind a pillar and hope for the best.”

They positioned themselves so they were hidden from the door. Damian was still frowning.

“I do wish I didn’t need you here,” he said. “If only I could—but it’s too late for second thoughts. I don’t have time to escort you back, and with drunken idiots running wild, it’s not safe for you to go back by yourself.”

She had no intention of leaving, but it wasn’t fear of naked nodcocks that kept her in the bathhouse. “Oh, I’m sure the revelers would just pass me by. Even Papa says no one would take liberties with me.” That comment still rankled, even if it was true.

“What?” Damian’s eyebrows shot up. “Haven’t I already proved him wrong?”

“Oh. Well, er …” Damian had kissed her when she’d fallen from the cart and again when she’d hidden in the library. And he’d taken more than a few liberties with her in his room.

Heat that had nothing to do with the bathhouse washed through her. She was going to melt into a puddle—she felt a distinct dampness between her thighs already.

He took her by the shoulders. “Have you forgotten?” His hands slid down her back, coming to rest on her hips, and he pulled her tight against him. With the heat and the damp, it was almost as if they were naked … almost, but not quite, blast it. “Let me remind you.”

His mouth covered hers as his hand moved to her breast and his leg … oh! His leg slipped between hers so his thigh pressed against her most feminine part. She rocked against him by accident and thought she would faint with pleasure.

Her fingers found their own way to his waistband and started pulling his shirt free. She had to feel his skin again.

“God, Jo,” Damian muttered, his lips moving to a sensitive spot just below her ear, “you make me forget propriety. Hell, you make me forget my own name.”

“Mmm.” She tilted her head to give him more room to explore as she succeeded in freeing his shirt from his breeches. “Mmm.” She ran her hands up his back. If only she could—

His fingers dipped below her bodice and rubbed over her nipple. Lightning shot through her body to lodge … she pressed herself more tightly against his thigh and moaned. “Damian—”

Suddenly her face was crushed against his chest again. “Shh,” he breathed by her ear. “I think they’re here.”

Her pleasure-soaked brain tried to recall whom they were expecting when she heard Lady Noughton’s voice.

“It’s Lupercalia, Stephen.”

Jo looked up at Damian; he pressed a finger to her lips, and then they both moved to peer around the pillar. Mr. Parker-Roth stood just inside the door; Lady Noughton had ventured farther in.

“Right. Hard to forget after seeing all those naked arses flashing across Greyham’s lawn. I’ll have nightmares about that for weeks.” Mr. Parker-Roth’s voice acquired a new edge. “I’m surprised you didn’t join in, Maria.”

“I might have if you’d done so.” Lady Noughton’s voice was low and sultry, rather appropriate given the oppressive heat.

Mr. Parker-Roth snorted. “I don’t care to have frosted ballocks.”

“No, that would never do.” Lady Noughton ran her hands down her sides and gave a slow little wiggle—Jo wondered if she should practice such a move.

It seemed to have no effect on Mr. Parker-Roth, however. He turned away to examine the windows. “What did you drag me down here for, Maria? I was planning to spend a quiet night”—he looked at her, his lips twisting into something of a sneer—“alone with a good book.”

“I thought we might go for a swim.” The woman gave another wiggle and somehow her dress slipped down to reveal she had nothing at all on underneath.

She had a very impressive pair of … well, it was quite obvious why she was such a success with the male members of the ton. Jo looked up to see if a specific earl was impressed, but Damian was watching his friend.

Mr. Parker-Roth’s eyes never strayed from Lady Nough-ton’s face. “It’s over, Maria. We had a pleasant association, but it’s done. I’ll send you a draft on my bank, and you can pick out a suitable bauble at Rundell and Bridge to assuage your wounded feelings.”

“But I love you, Stephen.” Lady Noughton spread her arms wide in case Mr. Parker-Roth had perhaps not noticed her very large breasts.

He still did not appear interested, but then he’d probably had many past opportunities to examine them thoroughly. “I don’t think you do, Maria. It certainly hasn’t kept you from sharing your favors with an assortment of men—something I would never tolerate in a wife, by the way.”

She dropped her arms and glared at him. “I’ll tell everyone you offered marriage, Stephen. Many will believe it; you’ve been showing me very marked attention these last few months.”

“More fool I.” He put his hand on the door. “You may do as you like, Maria. I know it is a lie, and I imagine most of the ton will know it, too. You will only make yourself look foolish.”

“Especially when I corroborate Stephen’s side of the story,” Damian said, stepping out from behind the pillar.

Lady Noughton spun toward him, sending her large breasts bouncing. “You!”

Mr. Parker-Roth grinned. “Damian, I hate to say it, but you were right. I should have listened to you.”

Lady Noughton put her hands on her hips—apparently she was completely at ease with her nakedness—and tossed her head. “People will only say you are supporting your friend.”

“They’d best not suggest I am lying.” There was more than a touch of steel in Damian’s voice. “Dueling may be illegal, but I have many other methods at my disposal to make life uncomfortable for anyone who dares question my honor.”

“And I shall support Mr. Parker-Roth as well,” Jo said, going to stand by Damian. Not that anyone would care what a provincial spinster said, but it just didn’t feel sporting to stay hidden behind the masonry any longer.

Damian scowled at her. Clearly as soon as they were alone he was going to let her know she should have stayed out of sight.

She was rather looking forward to that argument.

“Miss Atworthy.” Mr. Parker-Roth’s grin widened; he bowed.

“Miss Atworthy.” Lady Noughton almost spat the words. “I don’t believe you’ll be in a position to say a thing after everyone learns you were here with Lord Kenderly.”

Jo shrugged. “Since—as you know—I’ve never been to London and probably never will, I can’t imagine anyone will care what I was doing.”

“Ah, there you are wrong, my love,” Damian said, putting his arm around her and pulling her scandalously close. “Society will be very anxious to hear everything about the new Countess of Kenderly.”

Jo’s gasp was drowned out by Lady Noughton’s screech—and that was drowned out, quite literally, by the Lupercalia celebrants as they stampeded into the bathhouse and into the pool in all their naked glory.

Chapter 9

“I fear I will go to my grave with the image of fat, balding Sir Humphrey running naked into that damn bathhouse,” Damian said, hurrying Jo up the path to the house. Her teeth were chattering. He was damn cold, too, but there’d been no time to collect their coats. With all the naked revelers, a hasty departure had clearly been called for.

“Ah, but then think of Maria’s expression as he barreled into her and took her into the pool with a mighty splash.” Stephen looked down at Jo. “Miss Atworthy, are you certain you won’t take my coat,” he said for the third time.

“N-no, th-thank you.” Poor Jo was so cold she could barely speak. “W-we are al-almost th-there.”

Thank God they were. Damian hustled Jo over the last few yards, through the servants’ entrance, and up the flight of stairs. They stopped at Damian’s door.

Stephen clapped him on the back. “My heartfelt thanks for all your efforts, my friend. As I said in the bathhouse, you were right about Maria. I shouldn’t have come to this infernal gathering.” He grinned. “But if I hadn’t, you would have stayed sequestered in your study and never met the lovely Miss Atworthy, so I can’t repine too much.”

Zeus, Stephen was right. Jo felt like such an important part of his life now, but he’d only known her a handful of hours.

No, that wasn’t true. He’d known her for months through her letters.

“I warn you, Miss Atworthy,” Stephen was saying, “Damian has the highly annoying habit of being correct in his advice nine times out of ten.”

“I d-don’t know about th-that.”

Jo’s teeth were chattering again, damn it. “I need to get Miss Atworthy warm,” Damian said, an edge creeping into his voice.

“And here I am, jawing on and on. I will take myself off immediately.” Stephen frowned. “I don’t put it past Maria to find a way into my room tonight, so I’m going to borrow one of Greyham’s horses and decamp to a neighboring inn. Would you take anything I must leave behind with you when you leave, Damian?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.” Stephen took Jo’s hand in his. “I look forward to dancing at your wedding, Miss Atworthy.”

“Oh, I—” Jo shook her head. “There’s no w-wedding. L-Lord K-Kenderly just said that to avoid a s-scandal.”

Stephen laughed. “Trust me, an earl doesn’t ‘just say’ such an interesting thing to Lady Noughton unless he is willing to have the information spread far and wide.”

“Oh.” Jo chewed on her bottom lip and shivered some more.

Damian glared at Stephen. Why wouldn’t the man move along and let him get to his wooing before he and his bride-to-be turned into icicles? “Didn’t you say you were leaving, Stephen? Immediately?”

Stephen grinned. “I did. I am.” He looked back at Jo. “Don’t worry, Miss Atworthy; people really will be delighted. I, for one, must thank you for bringing Damian out of his cave. He’d become quite the hermit.”

“I like being a hermit,” Damian said. “I hope you don’t expect me to start showing up at all of London’s inane parties.”

“Well, you’ll want to introduce your bride to society.” Stephen’s grin widened. “But if you’re absent, I’ll know you’re at home doing something more interesting than translating dusty Latin texts.”

Damian put his arm around Jo as a particularly nasty shiver shook her. “Good-bye, Stephen.”

“Good-bye.” Stephen laughed, looking as innocent as sin, damn him. “But before I go”—he waggled his brows—“does the Prince of Hearts need any advice from the King on how best to get warm?”

“No.” Damian jerked his door open. “You may go to the devil with my blessing.” He pulled Jo into his room and slammed the door on Stephen’s laughter.

“I-I should go to my own room.” Jo tried to keep her teeth from chattering. She was cold, but she was also nervous … and excited.

She didn’t want to leave; she wanted to stay right where she was.

It had been such a bizarre evening, starting when she’d come flying in this door and landed against Damian’s chest. His naked chest.

Mmm. She’d like to be up against his chest again, but this time she’d like to be naked, too. He was moving in the right direction: he was pulling off his wet shirt.

To think she’d never seen a naked man before, and then tonight she’d seen a herd of them, pale and hairy with their little dangly bits bouncing as they ran for the pool. They’d looked rather comical, once she’d gotten over the shock.

There was nothing comical about Damian’s body. She watched the muscles in his back flex as he yanked the wet shirt over his head. Damian’s chest was far more impressive than any of the others she’d seen tonight, and if the sense she’d got when she’d been pressed against him was any indication, his dangly bit was also. She would very much like to inspect it more closely. She’d—

But her feminine bits were not very impressive, especially when compared to Lady Noughton’s. Would he be disappointed?

And why was she considering letting him see them at all? God should strike her dead where she stood for thinking such a thing.

“We need to get you warm, Jo,” Damian said, dropping his shirt by the fire and coming over to her.

“Ah.” She swallowed. Her mouth was dry. He was so handsome. “I sh-should go back to my room. I can g-get Becky to help me.”

He put his hands on her shoulders. “Do you want to go back to your room?”

She should say yes. Of course she should say yes. Miss Atworthy, the staid, boring, shrewish Latin tutor would say yes.

She was a twenty-eight-year-old spinster. She might never again get a chance like this to sin.

“N-no.” Another shiver set her teeth to chattering.

He smiled. “Good. Now let’s get you out of those wet clothes.” He turned her around, and his nimble fingers flew down her back, unbuttoning her dress. He tugged it off her shoulders, down her arms, and over her hips. It felt wonderful to get the cold, damp fabric off her skin. She stepped out of it, and he undid her stays. As soon as they hit the ground, he grabbed the hem of her shift and pulled it up and over her head.

She was completely naked except for her stockings. She tried to wrap her arms around herself to hide her poor little breasts and her nether region. She should be mortified, but she was shivering too much.

“Under the covers with you now,” Damian said as he lifted her up and laid her on the bed, pulled off her stockings, and tucked her in. He might have been her nurse for all the interest he showed in her body.

She shivered again and curled up, turning her back to him. Apparently, she needn’t have worried about sin. She—

She felt the mattress depress, and then a pair of naked arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her back against a very naked male body.

“Sharing heat is the fastest way to warm up,” he murmured by her ear as his hands moved, one to cup her breast and the other to rest low on her belly.

“Um.” Her temperature was certainly rising. His must be, too. He was like a furnace all along her back.

He stroked the side of her breast and pressed her hips firmly against what felt like a very long, very large male appendage—nothing at all like the small, dangly things she’d seen bouncing on the men in the bathhouse.

“Stephen was right, you know,” he said, burying his face in her hair. “News of our betrothal will be all over London as soon as Maria leaves this party—which will be tomorrow, now that Stephen has gone.”

“Oh.” She found it very hard to care about a place and people she’d never seen. She was far more interested in this warm bed and the very male, very hard person behind her. If only his hands would each move just a few inches. Her nipples had become hard points, screaming—if they could scream—for his touch and the place between her legs was weeping in frustration. She wiggled her hips a little to encourage him, but his hand stopped her immediately. Damn.

“I don’t know anyone in London,” she said. Her frustration showed in her voice; even she heard it.

“But many people in London know people here. The news will be all over Greyham’s estate and the village in no time—perhaps even before the ton hears in Town. I doubt Maria will keep her lips sealed until she arrives.”

“Oh.” That would be unpleasant, but not fatal. “Then I’ll just tell everyone Lady Noughton was mistaken.”

Mmm. His lips had found that sensitive place under her ear again. She almost purred, but she caught herself in time.

“Was she? I hope not.” He turned her so she faced him, his hand on her shoulder keeping her an arm’s length from his lovely body. “Don’t you want to marry me, Jo?” His gaze held hers. “I thought you did; I thought that was why you agreed to come to bed with me.”

“Ah.” Should she admit she’d been willing to sin with him just this once? But that wasn’t really what she wanted. Still … “Marriage is for life.”

“Yes.”

“And we hardly know each other.”

“On the contrary, I think we know each other very well, certainly better than many of the ton do when they wed. We’ve written to each other.” He smiled. “We’ve shared our thoughts.”

He hadn’t been smiling on the terrace earlier. “You were angry when you learned it was me you’d been writing to.”

He shrugged. “I was surprised. I felt you’d lied to me.”

“I hadn’t.”

“Hadn’t you?” Damian raised a brow, and she flushed. Well, perhaps she had committed a small sin of omission.

“I’ll grant you it took me a moment to adjust,” he said, rubbing her shoulder with his thumb in a very distracting fashion, “but once I did, everything came into focus. Don’t you feel the same?”

“Er …” She did; there was no point in denying it. Even teaching the Windley idiots would be bearable if she had Damian in her life. “Y-yes.”

He grinned, so clearly happy it was impossible not to grin back at him. “I looked forward to your letters, Jo, to reading them and answering them. I admired your mind”—his lips slid into a rather wolfish smile—“but now that I’ve met you, I admire so much more.” He ran his finger over her cheek. “I love you.”

Her heart stopped—and then set to beating so hard it threatened to leap out of her chest.

“And I love you,” she whispered. She flushed; she might as well be painfully truthful. “I imagined you were my prince who would ride in and deliver me from cramming endless declensions into thick Windley skulls.”

He laughed. “Jo! How could you wish to be delivered from declensions?”

She laughed back at him. “It was Windleys I wished to be delivered from.”

“And so you shall be. I have no Windleys on any of my estates.”

He turned her onto her back then and all thought of Windleys flew out of her head. He was so hard and warm and—“Oh! Yours is far larger than the other men’s.”

He chuckled. “Shame on you for looking! In their defense, I must say they’d just been running in the cold.”

“I’m sure they couldn’t ever match you.” She felt that part of him between her legs. It was wonderful, but it would be much more wonderful if it would rub against a specific point of sensitive flesh. She wiggled.

His wolfish expression intensified. “Eager are you? Then we shall celebrate Lupercalia properly.”

“Are you going to strike me with a goatskin thong to ensure my fertility?”

“No, I’m going to strike you with this.” He moved his hips and his male organ slid along the wet place between her legs. “And hope your fertility will start the next Earl of Kenderly growing in your womb.”

“Ahh.” The thought of creating a life with Damian filled her with warm desire and happiness. “And if you don’t succeed?”

He flicked his tongue over a nipple and need streaked through her.

“Then I shall be delighted”—he rubbed against her—“very, very delighted”—he found her entrance—“to try again.”

His hips flexed, and he came into her slowly. There was a brief, burning pain, and then an incredible sense of fullness.

He kissed her. “All right?”

“Yes.” She loved the feel of him on her and in her, but the sensitive place between her legs demanded that he move. She wiggled her hips to encourage him.

Thank God he took the hint. He pulled back, and then came in again. Out and in; back and forth; slow and fast. Faster …

“Oh!” She grabbed his back. She was so tense she was going to shatter. She—

He moved once more and stopped, so close he was almost part of her. Waves of incredible sensation pulsed through her, and under the exquisite madness, she felt another pulse, a spurt of liquid heat, deep inside her.

He collapsed onto her, and she ran her hands up and down his back. “That was wonderful,” she said.

“Mmm.” He rolled to the side, stretching out on the bed next to her.

“I didn’t know what to expect. Frankly, if someone had told me what was involved, I wouldn’t have believed them.” She turned to look at him. Surely he wasn’t asleep? “Is it always this wonderful?”

He cracked one eye open. “Are you always this chatty?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”

He grunted again and put his hand on her breast. “No, it’s not always this wonderful. It’s never before been this wonderful for me.”

“Really? You aren’t just saying that?” She felt inordinately pleased, but just a little suspicious. “I’m sure the other women—the experienced women—must have done it better than I.”

He teased her nipple, making her body hum again in anticipation. “Apparently it’s not how it’s done, it’s with whom it’s done that’s important. Love is far stronger than lust.” He closed his eyes again.

“I’ll wager it will be even better next time now that I know what happens.”

“Mmm.”

She looked up at the bed canopy and tried to determine whether she felt different. Well, of course she felt different—she’d never been so sore there—but did she feel different? “Do you think we made a baby?”

“Mmm.”

“Are you going to sleep?”

He opened one eye again. “I am trying to.”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“That’s clear.”

How could he even consider sleep? Her thoughts were darting around like dragonflies on a pond. “When can we do it again?”

“Insatiable, are you?”

“Yes.”

He laughed. “Later. You are probably sore now, aren’t you?”

“Y-yes, a little.” A lot, really.

He stroked his hand over her belly. “If you’re looking for something to do, I brought the Ovid up. It’s on the night table.”

“Really?” She leaned over him to look at the volume. It was indeed very red, battered, and dingy. “It’s rather unimpressive.”

“Yes.” Damian stroked her breasts as they dangled over his chest. His thumb found one of her nipples and rubbed it. “You know, I’m suddenly feeling more energetic. Perhaps we should read it together. I might even demonstrate a few verses.”

“But I thought you said I was too sore.”

“For some things.” He kissed her nipple. “But not for other things.”

“Other things?” This sounded interesting. “There are other things?”

“Of course. You know your conjugations. There are many forms of the verb ‘to love.’”

“Oh.” She grinned at him. “I think you will find me an eager student.”

“Splendid!”

And he proceeded to give her a very illuminating lesson indeed.

A Summer

Love Affair

KAITLIN O’RILEY

Chapter 1

Southern Spain

Summer, 1880

Charlotte Wilton had never seen anything so beautiful.

An azure Mediterranean sea glittered under a brilliant sun, its gentle waves lapping the rugged hills of the coastline. Tall palm trees swayed with careless abandon in the breeze. The expansive blue sky overhead was not blemished by a single, solitary cloud. Charming white houses dotted the surrounding countryside. Exotic flowers and the scent of the sea perfumed the soft air around her. The small balcony on the hillside villa in the south of Spain afforded Charlotte an incredible view.

But it was not the glorious vista of the shore that had captured Charlotte’s attention.

What caught her eye so thoroughly was the sight of a man.

A very handsome man. So handsome in fact that Charlotte’s normally calm and sensible little heart skipped a beat or two as she stared fixedly at him, unable to break her gaze away from his strapping masculine form.

He moved with a carefree, easy grace for such a tall man. The muscles in his bare, tanned arms flexed and pulsed as he lifted and carried the massive, carved wood chair from one end of the terra-cotta tiled patio to the other. It was not that she had never seen a bare-chested male before, having far too many brothers for that to be the case. The fascination was due more in part to the sculpted beauty and chiseled lines of his broad chest itself.

Her eyes followed him as he finally positioned the wooden chair in a spot that satisfied him and he stood back to admire it. It did not occur to Charlotte to wonder why he was doing such a thing, for she could not see past the perfection of his being. His tousled blond hair glistened in the afternoon sun, giving the effect of a halo around his face. Oh, and his face! He possessed an aquiline nose, a strong jaw, and heavy-lidded eyes. He was clean-shaven and youthful, and she guessed him to be about her age. He was simply the handsomest man she had ever seen.

Indulging in this rare departure of character, Charlotte gazed down from her secluded spot on the balcony on the floor above him. She tried to distinguish what it was about him that so captivated her. She had certainly met handsome men before and some of those handsome men had even fancied themselves in love with her, but never had a man caused her to feel this way. Never had she felt this completely powerless. Watching him was an involuntary reflex. The situation fascinated and flustered her. Not taking her eyes off him, she continued to ignore the breathtaking coastal scenery around her.

Somehow he suddenly sensed her presence and glanced up at her.

A warm, lazy smile, revealing a deep dimple on his right cheek and straight white teeth, lit his face. The effect was astonishing. The charm and humor in his grin sent a thrill of delight through her very bones. He was smiling at her! Almost giggling like a schoolgirl, Charlotte could not help but smile back.

He gave her a nod of acknowledgment. “Forgive me. Have I disturbed you? I was not aware I had an upstairs neighbor. Have you just arrived?” With casual grace, he reached for the white shirt that was hanging on the balustrade and slipped his arms into the long sleeves, obscuring her view of his chiseled chest.

Feeling the deep tenor of his voice vibrate within her, Charlotte knew from his cultured accent he was English, just as she was. And a gentleman. For no man would remain bare-chested in the presence of a lady. At least now she would not be distracted by his rippling muscles. Self-conscious about being caught watching him for so long, she cleared her throat and found the wherewithal to speak. “Yes.”

He chuckled at her brief response, while buttoning the front of his linen shirt. “Yes, I’ve disturbed you or yes, you’ve just arrived?”

She nodded her head and murmured, “Yes, I’ve just arrived. And no, you haven’t disturbed me at all. I only stepped out on my balcony to admire the view.” And what a view it was.

He turned his head toward the sea. “Yes, it’s quite a spectacular vista from up here, is it not? That is why I was moving this chair. This way I can sit and enjoy the sea without that cluster of trees obstructing my view.” He looked back up at her and smiled. “However, now I see that there is a much prettier view just above me.”

Charlotte felt her cheeks redden and her stomach did a little flip at his words. Thankful for the distance of height between them, she tried to breathe. Goodness! Whatever was wrong with her? It was ridiculous actually. She had been through a Season or two and had handsome men making all sorts of fools of themselves over her. And here this golden stranger just paid her a silly little compliment and she fell to pieces like a giddy debutante at her first ball!

“I don’t believe we have met,” she heard herself murmur, for lack of anything better to say.

He bowed graciously in her direction. “I’m Gavin Ellsworth, here on holiday, as part of a summer tour. And the beautiful blond woman in the room above me must be …”

Again her heart fluttered ridiculously. She made a point to ignore it. “If you are referring to me, I am Charlotte Wilton.”

“Would that be Miss Wilton?” he questioned pointedly.

“Yes,” she answered reluctantly. “And I believe you are being rather impertinent.”

“I’m more than impertinent, I should warn you.” He flashed her another devastating smile. “However, I am very pleased to meet you. I was afraid that this visit might be a bit dull, but now that you have arrived, things are looking up.”

“Really? Why is that?” With both hands Charlotte tightly gripped the wrought iron railing of the balcony that held her over his head. It was a flirtatious question, for of course his point was obvious.

“Oh, Miss Wilton, I think you know very well what I mean.” Again that lazy, sultry smile flashed at her.

She stared at him, saying nothing at all. Heavens, she had been rendered witless by him! The discovery of this weakness within herself was a revelation.

“Are you here as a guest of Don Francisco also?” he asked.

“His wife is a friend of my aunt,” Charlotte explained, surprised that actual words came out of her mouth. “I am traveling with my aunt this summer and we stopped here for a visit.” Charlotte was a houseguest at this home and apparently so was this handsome young man. The thought of spending the next few weeks sleeping above him caused her knees to tremble.

“I am most pleased that you have finally arrived.”

“Mr. Ellsworth, I believe I shall retire to my room now.”

“I suppose I shall see you at supper, then?” he suggested with a hopeful grin.

“I suppose.” She would most likely see him at every meal. Charlotte wondered how she would be able to eat anything in his presence. She might perish of hunger by the end of their visit.

“Until supper, Miss Wilton.”

Charlotte willed her immobile legs to move and turned from the balcony railing, the spectacular sea view forgotten. As she made her way through the double doors into her room, she suddenly noticed something at the far corner of the narrow balcony. A wrought iron staircase spiraled down to the patio below. To his patio. Heavens! A private stairway connected their two rooms!

Gavin watched the vision in blue disappear into the bedroom upstairs and continued to smile, amused by her nervousness. Completely aware of his effect upon the fairer sex, he knew it would be great fun flirting with her and breaking that icy shell of reserve of hers. Miss Charlotte Wilton was certainly a stunning beauty and he wondered why someone had not claimed her by now. She was traveling with a spinster aunt. That was a red flag. Families often sent away troublesome daughters whom they could not marry off. He wondered what she had done to warrant an exile. Whatever the reason she found herself here, it now became his good fortune, for as he had said to her, his stay at the villa would be infinitely more diverting with her there. Beautiful women were always diverting, if nothing else.

Although his hosts seemed like perfectly charming and gracious people, all the other guests he had met were at least a decade older than he and all of them married and some sort of artist, poet, or painter. Pedro Bautista-Martín, his friend from Oxford, had invited him to stay at his home in Spain, and since Gavin had no desire to spend another summer being lectured on his behavior by his father, he had readily accepted Pedro’s invitation. It was the least his friend could do considering it was Pedro’s crazy scheme that had caused Gavin’s expulsion in the first place.

However, when Gavin arrived two days ago he learned that Pedro had been visiting a cousin in Seville, fallen ill with a fever, and would not return to Málaga for another week or two. So here Gavin was in Spain, staying with a family he did not know and his under-the-weather friend in another city! He had a devil of a time understanding Spanish and could only mumble some half-remembered Latin under duress. Fortunately, Pedro’s parents spoke perfect English, but they seemed to be the only ones.

He had not even seen one passably attractive woman either since his arrival. He couldn’t wait to give Pedro what for when he finally showed up! Leaving him deserted in this sleepy coastal village with nothing to do for fun. Gavin had fumed inwardly for a while and thought of moving on to France before deciding to wait a little longer for Pedro.

Ah, but now there was Miss Wilton. She was just his type, too. Slender and fair with a pretty face. Of course, he preferred actresses and opera singers, women of a certain persuasion with talents for pleasing a gentleman. Miss Wilton was obviously a proper and well-bred young lady and he understood without a doubt the boundaries he dared not cross with her. But she really was quite beautiful and hopefully would provide enough of a diversion until Pedro arrived. Then Pedro could show him around town and Gavin could finally enjoy the summer holiday he had anticipated.

Gavin turned his eyes back to the shore and breathed deeply of the sea air. The view was truly remarkable. Still he could not resist another glance at the now empty balcony above him and the double glass-paned doors that were now shut.

The spiral wrought iron staircase that led from his private patio to the room of the beautiful woman above had not escaped his notice either.

Chapter 2

“¡Bienvenidos!” Don Francisco Bautista-Martín uttered with a silky smooth accent as Charlotte stepped into the main salon of his villa. The tall, dark-haired Spaniard welcomed her with a warm smile. She had first met him when she arrived earlier that afternoon and liked him immediately.

“Welcome to my home, Señorita Wilton!” he continued. “I hope you enjoy your visit with us.”

“Thank you,” she said with awe, looking about the room with wide eyes.

Charlotte quickly discovered that Don Francisco and his wife, Yvonne, were not conventional hosts. The rather late supper that evening was presented in a buffet style and instead of assigned places at the table, guests were encouraged to sit wherever they wished in the sprawling sala, which opened onto the veranda outside. Women in rather revealing gowns and casually dressed men lounged atop large, luxurious velvet and satin pillows on the polished wood floor, engaged in spirited conversations. She overheard Spanish, some English and French being spoken, as well as a few other languages she did not even recognize. Scores of flickering candles lit the room while gauzy curtains were draped elegantly about the sala. The scents of unfamiliar spices and seafood filled the warm night air, mingled with the heady fragrance of jasmine from the garden. A musician strummed a Spanish guitar, the melody lending romance to the shadowy, candlelit room.

It seemed like anything could happen in a place such as this.

The unusual scene seemed so terribly evocative of … seduction was the only word she could find to describe the feeling. The highly formal and properly seated suppers back home were nothing like this. She turned to her aunt for reassurance.

“Enjoy yourself, my dear. When in Spain …” Louisa Wilton responded to Charlotte’s unease with the situation with an indulgent smile, while she helped herself to a plate laden with delicious treats. “Live a little, Charlotte. You are not a babe and your parents are not here,” she added in a low whisper.

Surprised, Charlotte smiled back with hesitation, wondering about her aunt.

Louisa Wilton was extremely intelligent and well educated. She was taller than usual for a woman, with thick auburn hair and wide brown eyes. Her bubbly personality and charming ways made her a favorite among her many nieces and nephews. Charlotte was still trying to uncover the mystery regarding her aunt’s broken engagement many years ago, but Louisa had yet to divulge the source of her heartache. Although they had grown closer during their travels from London, Charlotte realized there was much about her aunt that she did not know or understand. She had an unshakable feeling she was on the verge of seeing her aunt in a new light since they arrived in Spain.

“But Aunt Louisa, is any of this proper?”

“Of course it is!” She flashed a grin. “It’s just a different sort of proper.”

Charlotte cast a skeptical eye at the unusually garbed guests and wondered again how she ended up in Spain.

“I would love to paint your portrait,” a female voice said from behind her.

Charlotte turned around to see Doña Yvonne Bautista-Martín. “My portrait?” she asked in confusion.

She had met her hostess when they had first arrived that afternoon and had been impressed by her beauty and gra-ciousness. A petite woman with an elegant manner, she was also an accomplished painter. At least that was what Charlotte had been told. Standing there in her flowing gown of red silk, Doña Yvonne seemed out of the pages of a Gothic romance.

“Yes, Charlotte, I wish to paint you,” Doña Yvonne said with enthusiasm. “I adore the color of your golden hair. It would look lovely in the morning light.”

“I agree with you,” Gavin Ellsworth said to their hostess but looking directly at Charlotte. He gave her a smile, flashing white teeth and his engaging dimple. “She is quite beautiful and would be the perfect subject for a portrait done by you.”

Charlotte almost dropped the china plate from her hand at the sight of Gavin Ellsworth. She had carefully scanned the sala when she had first entered and had relaxed considerably when she had not seen him. Now he was standing right beside her. She could barely breathe. Without the distance of an entire story between them, she feared he could sense her reaction to him. He looked devastatingly handsome, in a clean white shirt and black trousers. He must have just bathed for his blond hair was still damp and combed back. At this close range, she could look into his eyes. They were greenish, with flecks of gold and brown. He stared at her so intently, she had to look away.

Again, Charlotte said nothing but Doña Yvonne smiled, her dark eyes flashing with excitement. “You see, el guapo agrees that I should paint you, Charlotte. Perdóname, have the two of you been introduced?”

Gavin continued to gaze at her. “We met briefly earlier this afternoon.”

Doña Yvonne said, “Then you know that this lovely woman is Señorita Charlotte Wilton, the niece of my dear friend Louisa Wilton. And this young gentleman is Señor Gavin Ellsworth, a school friend of my son, Pedro.”

“I am pleased to meet you once again, Miss Wilton,” Gavin said, reaching out his hand to take hers.

Charlotte nodded in greeting, the contact of his hand shaking her to her toes. She mumbled, “Pleased to meet you.”

Gavin also greeted her aunt. Louisa gave Charlotte a knowing glance. Charlotte wished to roll her eyes at her aunt’s insinuation, but she could not. She knew next to nothing about Gavin Ellsworth, yet she could not deny that her heart rate increased dramatically in his presence.

“Yes, let her paint you, Charlotte. Have some fun! Doña Yvonne is a very skilled artist. You will not be disappointed with the end result,” Aunt Louisa urged, brimming with enthusiasm. “And it would be a wonderful souvenir of your visit to Málaga!”

Charlotte was a guest in this house and it would be wrong to refuse her hostess. She had sat for portraits before, of course. At this very moment a beautifully rendered painting of her in a stunning formal gown of blue velvet hung in the family gallery of her home, Glenstone Manor, in England. So why did the thought of sitting for this woman fill her with trepidation? She did not know. Looking at the three faces staring at her, Charlotte could do nothing but acquiesce. “If it would please you, Doña Yvonne, I would be happy to sit for your painting.”

“¡Maravilloso!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands in triumph. “¡El retrato será magnífico! Ahh, un momento—”

Doña Yvonne glanced at Gavin and eyed him carefully, assessing him. Then she looked at Charlotte. And back to Gavin. “I would love to paint you both. ¡Qué rubios! Yes, that is it. Together. You are both so fair, so blond, and so beautiful. May I paint you also, Señor Ellsworth?”

“You wish for us to pose … for you … together?” Charlotte squeaked, noting the higher pitch in her voice with mounting alarm. She was making a fool of herself with this man. She had hardly been able to string two sentences together in his presence. The very idea of being in his general proximity for any length of time caused her to tremble.

“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Gavin agreed with a winning smile, his dimple playing havoc with Charlotte’s heart. “I would be honored, Doña Yvonne, and I am at your disposal for as long as you need me.”

“Muy bien. Then it is all settled. We shall begin tomorrow morning. Meet me in my studio at dawn.”

“Did you say dawn?” Gavin’s golden brows drew together in disapproval.

It seemed he had an aversion to waking early. Charlotte silently agreed with him, for she hated arising before ten, but she still could not speak. What had she just gotten herself into?

“Claro que sí!” Doña Yvonne exclaimed with a delighted smile. “Of course! We have to be prepared for the sunlight. You will both come on time. It will be perfect, I promise you. Now, you must have something to eat.”

Their gregarious hostess began filling two plates with fruit, cheese and ham and then ushered them both to seats in the corner of the long veranda before hurrying off to see to her other guests. Charlotte watched Aunt Louisa sit with a bearded gentleman on a divan inside, while she found herself seated upon a stone bench bedecked with velvet pillows, with Gavin beside her. A small table stood before them. They were virtually alone together in the moonlight. How would she possibly survive such an intimate encounter? Is Doña Yvonne playing at matchmaker?Charlotte shuddered to think.

This was exactly why she had agreed to leave England with her aunt, not that she had much say in the matter. The pressure from her family to marry had made her anxious.

“In your brief time here at the villa, what is your opinion of this place?” Gavin asked, his expression full of intent interest in her.

“It is like nothing I’ve ever seen at home, but I am not sure what to think of all this.” She swept her hand across to indicate the sprawling sala.

“I am certain I had the same expression on my face two nights ago as you do now.”

“Is it so obvious?” Charlotte’s cheeks grew warm.

“It’s not the calamity you think it is.” He encouraged her with a heart-melting smile. “You merely look overwhelmed. And rightly so.”

Charlotte understood that most of her nervousness was due to his proximity to her. Yes, the atmosphere at Don Francisco’s villa was one of Bohemian indulgence. That was something she believed she could get used to. What rattled her more was Gavin Ellsworth himself. Sitting beside her. Close beside her.

“It’s very different from England,” she said. In England she knew exactly what was expected of her. Whether she agreed with the social standards of the day or not, she knew how to behave, how to act, and what was proper in any given situation. Whereas here in this villa, she felt unan-chored and adrift.

“Yes,” he agreed, “but you’ll grow accustomed to it. In fact, I’m already quite used to it here. Why this evening I did not even don a necktie.”

Charlotte forced her eyes away from the nakedness of his throat and the loosely buttoned shirt, for she recalled all too vividly the chiseled muscles and smooth golden planes of his chest. She breathed in and ignored his necktie-less state.

She had noticed the complete disregard of fashion dictates since she’d arrived. Especially Doña Yvonne, wearing flowing robes of colorful silk and her long hair hanging loose. It was quite different here in this house. The rules she was familiar with did not apply here, it seemed.

“How long are you staying at the villa?” Gavin asked.

“A few weeks at least, and then we are sailing to Italy.”

“I thought I might leave tomorrow, but then you arrived to alleviate my boredom.” He gave her a roguish wink. “You are my saving angel.”

Charlotte knew then exactly the type of gentleman Gavin Ellsworth was. She had met enough men like him over the years. He was typically spoiled and lazy and very used to getting his way in everything. Especially with the ladies. Oh, most especially with the ladies. He knew precisely how his charming smile and striking blond good looks left a woman weak-kneed and eager to please his every whim for the chance to see that smile again and with the hope that she would be the one to win his favor. To her great humiliation, Charlotte was fast turning into one of those foolish, fawning girls. Even worse, she could not help herself. Could not stop herself. Where were all her witty comebacks and sardonic remarks that she had readily given other gentlemen of such ilk and for which she was so well known? She was skilled at putting men in their place. And yet now, nothing. She could do nothing.

She realized from the moment she spied his bronzed and bare chest that she was defenseless. She had no resources strong enough to stop his charm.

Now she was his angel? She should laugh in his face. She should deliver a quick retort to set him back and show him that she had not the least bit of interest in a man like him. Instead Charlotte grinned, ridiculously pleased by his compliment.

“I don’t believe anyone has ever called me angelic before,” she said, wishing she could kick herself.

“Well tonight you are an angel to me.” His engaging smile lit a fire within her.

“I see,” she murmured.

“Am I anything to you?” He eyed her with blatant speculation.

Her heart flipped over in her chest. Oh, she wanted him to be something to her! Wanted to be able to call him by some sweet endearment. “I should think not. I do not even know you.”

“Yet.”

Her pulse quickened. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t know me well enough yet. But you will, Miss Wilton, you will. I believe we shall be spending a great deal of time together.”

She stared at him. His deep hazel eyes fixed on hers and she could not look away. Indeed, she could barely draw a breath.

“May I call you Charlotte? Miss Wilton seems overly formal given the current surroundings in which we find ourselves.” He nodded in the direction of the house.

Through the archway, Charlotte could see various guests coupled together intimately, some seated on velvet sofas and some resting on cushions upon the floor. The bearded gentleman now had his arm around Aunt Louisa’s shoulders and the two were laughing together. Another passionate pair was locked in an amorous embrace. In plain view of everyone! The atmosphere in the house was decidedly outside the bounds of propriety.

A heated blush suffused her cheeks. She averted her eyes and asked, “And I am to call you Gavin then?”

“Of course.” He gave her another smile. “Unless you’d rather call me darling.”

Nervous laughter bubbled up from within her chest at the boldness of his suggestion. It was as if he had read her thoughts! “I don’t think I shall be calling you that.”

He raised and lowered his brows in a devilish manner. “Yet.”

“My, my,” she shook her head. “Aren’t we rather presumptuous, sir?”

He cast her a meaningful look. “Not presumptuous per se. I just hate to waste time.”

“I see your point,” she responded. He was too charming for his own good.

“Well then, my beautiful Charlotte, would you care for a glass of sangria?”

A servant had approached them with a silver tray of crystal glasses filled with a dark red liquid. Gavin took two glasses from the tray and extended his hand to her before she could respond.

“What is it?”

“It is a kind of fruit punch made with red wine. I think you’ll like it.”

Normally Charlotte did not imbibe alcohol, but tonight was different. She felt different. She accepted the glass, her fingers lightly brushing his as she did so, and a little thrill went through her. She took a sip, and the rich fruity flavor tingled her throat. She smiled at him. “Mmmm.”

“See there. I was correct.” He settled back into the velvet cushions. “I know you already.”

The soft, jasmine-scented air wafted around them. Charlotte sighed and glanced up at the stars glittering in the night sky. This was certainly one of the most unusual evenings of her life.

“So tell me, beautiful girl, why are you here in Spain?”

She turned to see his hazel eyes sparkling at her. “Why are you here?” she countered.

“Guess.”

She smiled at him. Oh, this was far too easy. “You are escaping the drudgery of schoolwork and avoiding lectures from your father on accepting the responsibilities of your position.”

His rich laughter caused others to turn and stare in their direction. “You would be correct, my Charlotte. How did you know?”

“Wild guess,” she quipped, taking another sip of the luxurious sangria. The possessive use of her name secretly thrilled her and she wondered why that should be so. She knew he did not mean such endearments. He was the type who used such language with casual ease and little consequence. Still …

He arched a brow suggestively. “Let me guess why you are here then.”

“I bet you can’t guess.”

“I cannot resist a challenge. Especially such a delightful one.”

She took a sip of sangria. “Impress me then.”

“Let’s see…. Your parents have passed away and your eccentric aunt is now your guardian.” He gave her a look of triumph.

She hesitated a moment. “Well, you are partly right. My father passed away when I was very young. My mother has since remarried, so I have a stepfather. But both are alive and well and more than able to watch over me properly.”

He tapped his finger against his chin. “Ah, well then, it only stands to reason that you are traveling with your aunt until the gossip of some terrible scandal you caused back home dies down!”

Now it was Charlotte’s laughter that drew attention. The absurdity of his guess amused her. She shook her head at him. “Oh, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but it’s nothing that dramatic. Try again.”

He cocked his head to the side and eyed her critically. “You are escaping the overly amorous attentions of an unwanted suitor?”

Charlotte cringed a bit at this. It was not one unwanted suitor in particular but rather all the suitors in general she found completely unsuitable. To put it simply she had not met someone she could foresee spending the rest of her life with. She had been introduced to many upstanding and proper gentlemen during her first Season, as well as her second and third. Some of the gentlemen were even quite charming and attractive, just not attractive to her. No one had met her expectations. Her parents were exhausted and frustrated with Charlotte’s excuses for turning down prospective husbands. They despaired of her ever approving of a proposal of marriage, so when Aunt Louisa offered to take Charlotte on a tour of the continent, her parents, overwhelmed with caring for their four young sons, readily agreed to send her off with her aunt for the summer. They hoped a change in scenery might prompt a change in Charlotte’s outlook.

So here she was.

“I’m right, am I not?” he boasted.

“On the contrary.”

“There is no suitor pursuing you?” There was a note of disbelief in his tone.

“No.” Charlotte sipped her sangria.

“How could such a thing be possible?” Gavin’s face was incredulous. “One so beautiful as you?”

“I do not lack for suitors, I assure you.” Her chin went up. “However, I am rather discriminating in my tastes.”

“Oh, I see now.” He nodded sagely. “You are one of those types of females.”

Charlotte bristled slightly at his remark. “And just what type would that be?”

“The very worst kind.”

“Please explain.”

“I think you know exactly what I am referring to.” He drank his sangria.

“I’m afraid you must enlighten me, Mr. Ellsworth.”

“Gavin.”

She sighed. “Gavin.”

He regarded her steadily. “You, my lovely Charlotte, are the type of female who thinks she is too good for any man.”

Charlotte gasped. It sounded ridiculous. Was that the way men perceived her? That she was too good for them? It certainly was not how she felt about herself or about males in general. Perhaps Mr. Gavin Ellsworth had a point. Were her standards too high? Had she held herself out of reach? Maybe she had unwittingly been holding out for someone better? Someone perfect? So what if she had, was that so wrong?

If that were not enough, he added, “You’ve turned down perfectly suitable marriage proposals and your parents no longer know what to do with you.”

She didn’t say a word.

He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back. “I win.”

“It took you three guesses! Besides, I merely know what I like and what I don’t like,” she countered in indignation.

He leaned in close to her and grinned. “And you like me, don’t you?”

“That, my dear Gavin,” Charlotte murmured flirtatiously, ignoring her fluttering heart, “remains to be seen, now doesn’t it?”

Chapter 3

“Move your lips closer to Charlotte’s cheek,” Doña Yvonne instructed as she stood behind a large canvas, her colorful pots of paints and her brushes and palettes close by. Her dark hair was swept back from her face and she wore a spattered smock.

Gavin had officially landed in hell and wondered how he had gotten himself in this position in the first place.

He hated posing for portraits, yet here he was, holding the luscious and half-naked Charlotte Wilton in his arms. Under normal circumstances such an arrangement would be quite pleasurable, yet at the moment it was nothing short of torturous agony. Never had he held a woman so intimately before and not been able to further his advances.

He and Charlotte had both arrived at the studio of their hostess just before dawn, as instructed, sleepy but willing to be immortalized on canvas, unaware that Doña Yvonne had envisioned painting them as some sort of ancient Grecian deities or some such nonsense. Using her skillful persuasion and charm, within moments Doña Yvonne had gotten them both draped artfully in nothing but a few yards of pale silk cloth.

The sight of Charlotte’s creamy white shoulders and bare arms and legs and knowing there was not a stitch of cloth- ing beneath the silk almost undid Gavin then and there. Doña Yvonne had loosened Charlotte’s blond hair from its pins and the silky locks cascaded in golden waves to her waist, glistening in the pastel dawn light. With her sultry blue eyes, she looked as if she had just risen from a passionate night in his bed. Which did nothing to calm him of his already aroused state.

Garbed in his own array of silk, which was wrapped strategically around his waist, leaving his chest and legs bare, Gavin had been instructed to sit upon a marble bench and hold Charlotte in his arms. Charlotte’s eyes had widened considerably at Doña Yvonne’s request, but she had gamely followed orders, which is how he had come to be embracing the scantily clad Miss Wilton while she lay practically naked across his lap, her gorgeous legs crossed elegantly at the other end of the bench.

Although it was no hardship on his part, he dutifully pressed his lips closer to Charlotte’s soft cheek. Her swift intake of breath indicated she was as aroused as he was. He tried not to smile in satisfaction. After their lengthy meal together on the veranda the night before, he had wanted to kiss her, but Charlotte had held herself at a distance and would not allow him an opportunity. He reasoned it had been for the best, since she was not at all the type of woman he dallied with. Or should even consider dallying with. She was too reserved, too British, and in the end too much trouble.

However, he now found himself reconsidering his entire position on the matter.

Charlotte had shocked him by going along with this risqué pose.

Now that he held her this way he realized she was even more desirable than he first envisioned. Consequently, he wanted her more than he had ever wanted any other woman. He ached to caress her creamy skin. God, but she smelled heavenly! An intoxicating floral scent. And she was so light in his arms, petite as she was.

“Gavin, querido,” Doña Yvonne called out. “Move your left hand up a little bit higher.”

A little bit higher? If he was not in hell already, he was certainly on his way now. Never one to miss a good opportunity whatever the consequences, Gavin did not need to be told twice. Slowly he inched his hand along the silk fabric until he cupped the underside of Charlotte’s soft, full, and temptingly delicious breast. She sucked in her breath again and trembled slightly. It took every ounce of his self-control not to squeeze her luscious form. His finger brushed her hardened nipple and his groin tightened in response, while his right hand rested possessively on the seductive curve of her hip.

“Bien,” Doña Yvonne said, looking pleased. “Now, Charlotte, lean back into him and relax.”

Gavin’s wild heartbeat echoed with Charlotte’s against his own chest. He had expected her to protest in outrage, or to stand up and leave, decrying the indecent nature of the portrait session. She did not. Instead she settled into him, resting her head on his shoulder just as their artistic hostess requested.

“That is perfecto. Now … Do not move,” Doña Yvonne ordered them, her hand moving across the canvas.

Do not move. Gavin gritted his teeth. Do not move while a beautiful and half-naked woman reclines on my lap, my lips are pressed against her cheek, and I cup her breast in my hand. God in heaven, at this moment he began to regret ever agreeing to come to Spain in the first place!

The exquisite torment of posing in some sort of Grecian tableau continued for some time while both remained silent. All he heard was the pounding of his heart and the soft intake of Charlotte’s shallow breathing. The heat of her body permeated every pore of his skin. Caught between heaven and hell, Gavin could do nothing but remain motionless while he held Charlotte Wilton intimately in his arms and tortured himself with vivid images of what he wanted to do to her. The desire to kiss her, to taste her sweet lips, and to remove the flimsy pale silk that barely shielded her naked body consumed his entire being, and he wrestled with the need to restrain himself from ravishing her there in full view of an astonished Doña Yvonne.

After what seemed like an eternity, Doña Yvonne declared, “That is all I can do today. The light has changed. You will both come back tomorrow, no?”

Tomorrow? Gavin groaned inwardly. It had not occurred to him that he would have to endure this intimate encounter with Charlotte for more than one morning. Undoubtedly a portrait required several sessions at least. It was impossible to back out of doing the portrait now without offending his hostess. He would have to continue until it was complete. How would he survive this?

“Of course we will,” Charlotte’s soft voice murmured, as she began to move from his embrace.

He admired her spirit for agreeing to continue but doubted that she had to fight to restrain her baser urges the way he did. The sessions might be awkward or uncomfortable for her, but they would not be painful, as they were for him. Reluctant to let her go, Gavin let his hands slide from her perfect body. As she stood, a gap in the pale silk draped across her chest afforded Gavin with a brief glimpse of Charlotte’s breast. His mouth went dry, but he automatically assisted her to her feet, taking her hand in his. A pair of liquid blue eyes shyly met his as he did so. Something within their depths called to him, causing his heart to flip, and Gavin had to shake himself mentally at the silly perception.

“How long will it take?” he managed to utter somewhat hoarsely, his eyes still locked with Charlotte’s.

“Perhaps a week. Maybe more. Quién sabe?” Doña Yvonne answered. “I promise I will only keep you for an hour or so each morning; then you shall have the rest of the day free to do as you wish.”

Charlotte glanced away and pulled her hands free from his, wrapping the silk tighter around her body. Gavin continued to stare at her, strangely moved by their encounter.

“No, no, you must not look yet!” Doña Yvonne waved Charlotte away from the large canvas. “I shall let you see it only when it is finished completely. No, todavía no!”

Charlotte laughed and took a step back, a smile lighting her face. Gavin still could not take his eyes off of her.

“Now, get dressed the two of you.” Doña Yvonne gave them a knowing glance. “Why do you not go visit some of the city? It is still early and you have the day ahead of you yet.”

Gavin watched Charlotte retreat into the next room in order to don her clothes. Her elegant stride and the graceful sway of her hips mesmerized him. When she disappeared behind the door, he noticed his artistic hostess looking in his direction.

Doña Yvonne winked at him. “¿Qué hombre más guapo eres tú, eh?”

He did not know what she said exactly, but he took her meaning well enough to actually blush a little, suddenly realizing he still stood in nothing but his strategically placed silk attire.

“Now go and take that beautiful girl and enjoy the sun,” she commanded with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Chapter 4

Charlotte spent the rest of the day sequestered in the safety of her bedroom. She could do little else given how she spent that morning.

She needed to recover her nerve in order to survive another portrait sitting.

Gavin had invited her to tour the city and perhaps visit the shore, but she had politely thanked him and declined. It was far better to retreat to the sanctuary of her little room than spend another minute in his presence, where she might do something reckless and impulsive such as kiss him.

Honestly, what had Doña Yvonne been thinking to pose them in such a risqué fashion? The woman had asked so charmingly and made it all seem so easy that before Charlotte knew it she was wearing nothing but silk, her hair hanging loose. It was hardly what one would deem as decent and Charlotte should have refused to be a party to such a scene.

Yet she could not help herself.

Surprisingly, the idea of the portrait intrigued her. For the first time in her life she felt truly beautiful. Wearing only silk against her naked body and being held by an equally undressed Gavin had been an astonishing pleasure. And wickedly erotic. His muscular arms around her, embracing her possessively. And his hands … One on her hip, the other on her breast. She thought she would faint when Doña Yvonne suggested the pose, but she did not. In fact, she reveled in it, much to her amazement. His lips on her cheek, the heat of his breath against her skin, sent shivers of delight down to her toes. Lying against him in the soft morning light, draped in luxurious silk while a sea-scented breeze wafted around them had been nothing less than heavenly. She could have easily remained in that position all day and not minded a bit. Except that she wanted more from him. She wanted him to touch her. Wanted him to kiss her.

And feared that she would kiss him if he did not do it first.

It had been maddening and terrifying and thrilling and wonderful.

And she would do it again tomorrow. And the day after.

Charlotte could hardly contain her excitement over the prospect of another morning in Gavin’s strong and muscular arms.

Which was exactly why she could not trust herself to spend another moment in his company. He had already been more intimate with her than any man had a right to be, but she did not think she would be able to ward off further liberties from him. If he were so inclined to try.

And knowing the type of man he was, she did not doubt that he would.

However, it was just that type of man she needed to stay far away from. He would only end up hurting her, breaking her heart. She had seen it too many times before with those spoiled, wealthy, charming gentlemen who took what they wanted and disregarded the consequences. She and her friends had heard the gossip and stories of the rogues who won the heart of a young woman and then set their sights upon the next pretty face. It was the chase that appealed to them rather than the prize itself. And if ever she met a rogue, Gavin Ellsworth was one, and Charlotte had no wish to be one of those foolish young women. She was too smart for that.

A sudden knock at her door startled her. She sat up on the bed where she had been lying and straightened her dressing gown. The late afternoon sun slanted through the wooden shutters and spilled across the rich-tiled floor.

“Come in,” she called, assuming it was a servant coming to collect her lunch dishes.

Aunt Louisa entered the room, her kind eyes clouded with worry. “I have not seen you all day, Charlotte. Are you not feeling well?”

“I am quite well, thank you. Just resting a little. I was up rather early this morning,” Charlotte explained to her aunt. “Doña Yvonne was painting me.”

“Oh yes, of course.” Aunt Louisa sat on the bed beside her. She looked at Charlotte carefully. “Still, I am a little surprised you did not join the others on the trip to town.”

“The others?” Charlotte asked in confusion.

“Yes, the other young people.”

As far as she could tell from supper last night, she and Gavin were the two youngest guests at the villa. “Who are you talking about?”

“Gavin Ellsworth and the rest of them. Don Francisco’s son, Pedro, arrived with some friends.”

Charlotte shook her head, suddenly wondering whether the friends were male or female. “No, he asked me but I preferred to rest.”

Aunt Louisa’s brows drew together. “Has Mr. Ellsworth done something to offend you?”

“Of course not!” Charlotte protested. “Why would you think such a thing?”

“Well, the two of you seemed to be getting along quite well last night and I know that you both posed for Doña Yvonne this morning, and for you not to join him this afternoon … I just wondered, that’s all.”

Charlotte remained silent. Had her name been linked with Gavin’s so soon?

“He is a very handsome young man.”

“Yes, he is,” Charlotte agreed.

“What do you think of him?”

“I think he is used to getting his own way and does not trouble himself with the consequences of his behavior.”

Aunt Louisa’s brows rose. “You know him so well already?”

“I know his type.”

“That’s a little judgmental, don’t you think? You just met the man.”

“Exactly.” Charlotte knew all she needed to know.

“How was the portrait sitting?” Aunt Louisa changed the subject.

“Unusual.” She hoped her aunt did not notice the blush creeping across her cheeks. She figured the less details she gave about the portrait sitting, the better.

“Knowing Yvonne I can only imagine! I look forward to seeing the finished painting.” Aunt Louisa laughed lightly. “My friend is rather eccentric in her tastes. She and I had great fun in finishing school in Paris together back when we were much younger. Then she fell in love with Paco, that is, Don Francisco, and moved to Spain. I make a point to visit them here at their villa whenever I can.”

“This villa …” Charlotte said, recalling the Bohemian atmosphere in the sala last night. “They don’t follow the usual conventions here, do they? They prefer doing things their own way, it seems.”

“Yes,” her aunt nodded in agreement. “That is the wonderful part of traveling, Charlotte, and why I suggested you come along with me on this trip. Women are boxed in and constrained in every way in England. When you see more of the world you realize how much more to life there is than what you are led to believe back home.”

“I am beginning to see that,” she said, thinking of how her morning was spent.

“Please don’t hide away in your room, Charlotte.” Aunt Louisa took Charlotte’s hand in hers and gave it a light squeeze. “Do not squander opportunities to enjoy your life, for sometimes they do not come again. Your parents entrusted me with your well-being on this trip and wanted you to have new experiences and—”

“They sent me away,” Charlotte interrupted, “because they are fed up with my overly selective qualifications for a husband. They don’t know what else to do with me.”

Aunt Louisa ignored her little outburst. “As I was saying, your parents entrusted me with your well-being on this trip, and as your guardian, I am allowing you complete freedom to do as you wish. Break out of your usual routine, my dear. You need not answer to me or anyone else. You are not here to find a husband, but to let yourself grow. At least, that is how I see it. You are young and beautiful and have your whole life ahead of you. Enjoy yourself now.”

Charlotte stared at her aunt, wondering what she would say if she knew that her niece had posed nearly nude in the arms of a half-naked man that morning. She squeezed Aunt Louisa’s hand in response. “I was not hiding in my room,” she lied, for she had been doing just that. “But if it will make you happy, I will not rest during the day again.”

Aunt Louisa sighed. “I just want you to be unafraid and to not regret missing certain opportunities.”

Charlotte could hardly be called a coward for what she did with Gavin and she did not regret it. At least not yet anyway … But what had happened to her aunt in her past to have her speak so passionately now about wasted opportunities? “What is it that you regret in your life, Aunt Louisa?”

Aunt Louisa pulled her hand away and her eyes clouded. “Oh, too many things to count. I suppose I mostly regret the times I feared doing something I should have done and the chances I lost to do the things I wanted to.”

“Who was that gentleman you sat with last night?”

Aunt Louisa smiled and the expression on her face softened. “You mean Carlos? He is an old friend. A very dear and special friend of mine who knew me when I was young.”

“Were you in love with him?”

Aunt Louisa nodded.

“What happened?” asked Charlotte, intrigued by this new information.

“I was very foolish and did not marry him when he asked me. So he married someone else.”

“That’s sad, Aunt Louisa.”

“Yes,” she agreed, looking toward the window. “I was devastated at the time.”

“Is his wife here?”

“No. She passed away last year.”

“Oh, then the two of you can now—”

Aunt Louisa interrupted, “Oh well, that is enough about me. I came to talk about you.”

And that was all she was going to share with Charlotte on that subject, it seemed.

Aunt Louisa faced Charlotte and said brightly, “Now promise me you will enjoy yourself thoroughly while we are here. No more hiding in your room.”

Could she do it? Could she pretend her mother had not sent her here as a punishment? Could she simply pretend the old Charlotte did not exist for the time being and let down her reserve? Could she let go and do as her aunt suggested? Would it be so terrible? And hadn’t she already begun?

She whispered hesitantly, “I promise.” “Good!” Aunt Louisa beamed with satisfaction. The seductive atmosphere of the villa had already begun to work its magic on her, and Charlotte’s heart began to race at the prospect of what she just agreed to do.

Chapter 5

Gavin’s eyes scanned the room watching for her. Waiting for her.

He had not seen Charlotte since that morning and he wondered with growing impatience where she was and what she had been doing all day. It was the same scene in the sala as the night before. Guests were milling about, or seated in intimate groups around small tables or on sofas. Platters of succulent seafood and dishes of exotic fruits and cheeses covered the long table. A guitarist’s music filled the room. Gavin was growing rather accustomed to the casual atmosphere in the villa.

“Señor Ellsworth, would you care to sit beside me?”

Isabella Hernandez flashed her dark eyes at him and beckoned to him from a red velvet sofa. Pedro’s pretty cousin had been hanging on him all day and the novelty was wearing a bit thin. Accustomed to women flirting with him, Gavin was wise to her bold looks from the moment he met her. Pedro had returned home before noon that day, just before Gavin was venturing into town. Gavin had waited longer than needed, hoping that Charlotte would change her mind and come with him. Then Pedro, along with his three cousins, arrived unexpectedly at the villa, and Gavin allowed himself to be swept along in their plans. He spent the afternoon touring Málaga with them and had a pleasant enough time, although all he could think about was Charlotte.

She was a bit of a mystery. Aside from her reasons for spending the summer abroad, last night he thought he had her all figured out. She was a typically aloof, hard-to-please female, full of high principles and suspicions. But she had proved him wrong on that account this morning in the art studio. Charlotte had not put up a fuss about that pose at all! And she was too delectable to be believed. Her perfectly shaped body, her enchanting scent, the graceful arch of her neck, the silkiness of her creamy skin, the clear blue of her eyes … The look in those eyes …

He could not get the image of her out of his head.

It seemed, however, that he would not be seeing her this evening. Devil if he knew what she was about! It was ridiculous of him to be thinking of her so much anyway. She was not his type. Charlotte was the sort of girl one married, and Gavin was too young and looked forward to more fun in the years ahead of him to think of getting himself married now. He needed to put the lovely Charlotte Wilton out of his mind.

He flashed a grin at Pedro’s dark-haired cousin and joined her on the sofa. Isabella smiled with unabashed delight.

“Did you have a nice time this afternoon?” she asked brightly, placing her hand on his arm possessively.

Before Gavin could give an answer to Isabella, the beautiful object of his thoughts captured his gaze. Charlotte had entered the room and for a moment Gavin could not speak.

Charlotte paused under the archway, looking for all the world like a luscious temptress in an elegant gown of deep burgundy that hugged the curves of her body like a glove and displayed her ample cleavage to perfection. Her blond hair was arranged high upon her head, revealing the graceful curve of her neck. Gavin fought the urge to wave to her, to call her over to him. Instead he watched Doña Yvonne, as the excellent hostess she was, quickly take Charlotte by the hand and draw her into the room. Doña Yvonne then introduced Charlotte to her son, Pedro.

Gavin almost leapt from the sofa at the way Pedro’s eyes glittered in appreciation of Charlotte’s beauty. Of course his friend would gravitate immediately to Charlotte, for Pedro would never pass an opportunity to be with a gorgeous female. Charlotte reacted with a shy smile to Pedro’s charm. He took her arm and then guided her toward the sofa. Gavin stood and Pedro performed the necessary introductions.

“Miss Wilton, have we not met before?” Gavin smiled at Charlotte.

“Yes, I seem to recall seeing you somewhere,” she teased, a sparkle in her eyes. “Something about you seems quite familiar to me.”

Pedro’s face clouded in confusion. “Have the two of you met?”

Gavin laughed then. “Yes, we met last night and your mother is doing a portrait of us now.”

“Por supuesto, mi madre.” Pedro nodded in understanding. “So now we are all friends. Qué bueno! We shall eat together. Señorita Wilton, you must come with me. Gavin, will you escort my cousin?” Pedro took possessive hold of Charlotte and moved her expertly toward the table.

Gavin found himself wanting to knock Pedro’s hand off of Charlotte’s arm and escort her himself. Instead he assisted a beaming Isabella to the massive dining table to fill her plate. He spent the remainder of the supper irritated by Pedro’s blatant claim upon Charlotte and growing more annoyed by the clinging Isabella. Every time he caught Charlotte’s eye, she held his gaze longer than necessary. Her wide blue eyes mesmerized him. As did her laughter.

And she seemed to laugh at everything his friend said, smiling and fluttering her long eyelashes, apparently captivated by Pedro’s Latin charms. He had not guessed Charlotte to be a practiced flirt when he met her. She had been alluring with him and he believed it to be because of his own magnetic charm.

Yet here she was acting the coquette quite skillfully with his friend.

He did not like it one bit.

By the time guests began retiring to their rooms for the evening, Gavin was more than ready to leave as well. As the group concluded making plans for the next day, Gavin tried to position himself beside Charlotte, but Pedro had his arm on hers and he watched helplessly as his friend escorted Charlotte from the sala.

Gavin was left with Isabella, who tugged on his arm and asked to have a bit of air before retiring. Normally he would have enjoyed kissing the pretty Spanish-eyed girl on a starlit veranda and could not understand why he had no desire to do so now. She was more than willing and not shy about letting him know it. Yet, all he could think about was Charlotte. And if Pedro was planning to kiss her.

“I’m afraid I’m not feeling well, Señorita Hernandez.”

“The fresh air will make you better,” she insisted with a slight wink.

What was wrong with him? “I am afraid not,” he said as gently as he could, while removing her hand from his arm. “I think it would be best if I were to sleep. I shall see you tomorrow, señorita. Thank you for a lovely evening.” He flashed her his most devastating smile.

He recognized the disappointment in her eyes, for he was sure it was clearly in his own as well.

He fled the scene as quickly as he could. He had to reach Charlotte before Pedro made an advance on her. Gavin first searched the walled garden, thinking his friend might have led her to a secluded and romantic spot in the moonlight, but he did not find the couple. Although he did happen upon Charlotte’s aunt and a bearded gentleman in a private corner, conversing rather intensely. Luckily, they did not notice him before he backed away. He then hurried through the villa and followed the steps up to the area near Charlotte’s bedroom. The long hallway was empty. He paused outside her door but did not knock.

Feeling like a fool but unable to quell the panic within his chest, he descended the stairs and returned to his own room. He flung open the double doors and walked out to the private patio. He stopped before the spiral staircase that led directly to Charlotte’s bedroom, glancing up at her balcony.

He took the steps two at a time.

He tapped lightly on the door. Through the gauzy curtains that draped the glass-paned double doors a soft light shone through.

A startled Charlotte opened the doors. Her eyes grew wide at the sight of him. “Gavin!”

“Are you alone?” he demanded.

“What a ridiculous question! Of course I am. What are you doing here?”

He relaxed slightly at that news but still had to know. “Did he kiss you?”

Her elegant brows drew together. “You mean Pedro?”

“Yes.” He took a step toward her.

Her chin went up. “Why is that any of your affair?”

“It’s not. I just—” He felt like an idiot. He had no claim on Charlotte. Who was he to be standing on the balcony outside her bedroom demanding to know whom she had been kissing? “I just …”

Charlotte looked up at him, her expression full of longing. “No,” she whispered breathlessly. “I did not let him kiss me.”

“Then I will.”

Without questioning the impulse, Gavin reached out and drew her into his arms. In a swift motion, he lowered his mouth over hers and kissed her. She melted into him, warm and soft and willing. And he was lost the minute his lips met hers. As their kiss deepened, he couldn’t tell who was trembling more, he or she. Her heady floral scent enveloped him and he felt himself drowning in her. The sweetness of her mouth and tongue as it twined with his made him hunger for more. More of her. Her arms reached up and around his neck and he pulled her more tightly against his chest, feeling her luscious breasts press into him.

Gavin had kissed his fair share of women, some far more accomplished than others. Tall blondes, petite brunettes, luscious redheads, stage actresses, ballet dancers, eager debutantes, and young widows. He had flirted with, laughed with, kissed, and enjoyed each of these ladies. They were all beautiful women, just as Charlotte was.

But not one of them made him feel the way he did now with Charlotte.

A soft gasp escaped her lips and his kiss intensified at the sound. His hands moved up her back, along her elegant neck, and splayed into her golden hair, loosening it from the pins that held it in place. Just as it had done that morning, her hair cascaded around her in gentle waves and again she looked like a beautiful goddess.

A faint alarm bell rang in his head and he realized he had to stop now or he would end up with her flat on her back in bed. He cupped her face in his hands, and calling on every reserve of willpower he possessed, he withdrew from the kiss.

Her head fell against his chest and they both sought to catch their breaths. Her arms still around his neck, she held on for support and he cradled her in the circle of his arms. The length of her curvaceous body pressed so intimately against him that it strained his self-control close to the breaking point. Tenderly he kissed the top of her head and breathed in deeply.

Gavin remained standing on the balcony with Charlotte’s head resting against his chest, unsure how much time had passed while he held her like that. Both of them were loath to break their embrace.

“Charlotte,” he whispered finally, surprised by the hoarseness of his voice.

She did not move a muscle nor say a word.

He cleared his throat and said, “I should go now.”

She pulled away from him, her eyes downcast, and stepped backward into the doorway.

“Charlotte.” He reached out his hand for her.

She took his hand and gave it a squeeze before letting go. “Good night,” she murmured, before quickly retreating into her bedroom.

The double doors closed with a soft click.

Chapter 6

“Gavin, I believe your lips were a little closer to her cheek,” Doña Yvonne instructed. “Charlotte, tilt your head toward me. There you go. Perfecto! Now do not move.”

Once again, Charlotte found herself posed half naked in Gavin’s embrace. She had feared seeing him this morning after their passionate kiss on the balcony the night before, but there had been no reason to feel so. The endearing smile he gave her washed away any unease that lingered the moment their eyes met.

She was more relaxed this morning during the sitting. In fact, she enjoyed it more than she had yesterday. There was something special about being held in Gavin’s arms and now they had this lovely secret between them. Their kiss last night and this painting. No one but Doña Yvonne knew of their scandalous pose, for the artist kept her studio off limits. Once the painting was complete no one could deny her the pleasure of sitting for it.

And no one knew about their kiss. His kiss had been quite the surprise. A quite wonderful surprise.

She had spent most of the evening on the arm of Pedro Bautista-Martín. He was handsome and charming, no doubt. She had found him to be amusing, had enjoyed his company, and had been grateful for his attention, since Gavin had seemed to be happily partnered with the pretty Señorita Hernandez. The feeling of jealousy at seeing the Spanish woman’s hands on Gavin’s arm had made her uncomfortable. Although she had posed for an intimate painting with him, she had no claim upon Gavin Ellsworth whatsoever. She had held up her head and taken the advice Aunt Louisa had given her. She had tried to enjoy the evening and found herself laughing at Pedro’s silly jokes, but still she had felt Gavin’s eyes on her.

Later that night when he had knocked on the door to her bedroom, she had been stunned, because the look on his face caused her heart to somersault in her chest. He was jealous that his friend had wanted to kiss her. The thought thrilled her! Pedro had not tried to kiss her, nor would she have allowed him to. Yet when Gavin took her in his arms, she had no wish to deny him.

She had been craving his kiss since the moment she first saw him, all tan and golden. And that kiss …

Oh, that kiss!

Her stomach did a little flip at the memory of the sensations the kiss had awakened within her. She had assumed Gavin to be skilled in the art of kissing and she had not been disappointed. No, not at all. She had never wanted their kiss to end. But it had to end and she had been grateful for his self-control, if not quite at the time, then definitely later.

Now, she leaned back into his embrace, enjoying the feel of his bare and muscled arms holding her. The soft dawn light spilled around them, bathing them in its pale glow. She wished she could see Gavin’s eyes, but her back was to him and Doña Yvonne became agitated if her subjects moved position.

They remained very still until she felt Gavin’s hand, which was resting upon her breast, gently squeeze her through the thin silk. She held her breath while the tip of his finger slid ever so slightly over the tip of her nipple. Sheer pleasure washed over her. His breath was hot on her cheek and sent shivers of delight down her spine. She wished desperately that they were alone and he could touch her without the silk covering her skin.

Charlotte almost bolted off the marble bench at the outrageous thought. Only a few days in the south of Spain with her aunt, and she had lost all sense of decency! Good heavens! What had come over her?

“Spend the day with me,” he whispered in her ear.

“Yes, of course,” she murmured in return. At the moment he could ask her to do anything, anything, and she would agree to it.

“What are you two whispering about?” Doña Yvonne called out. “¿Qué es el secreto?”

“I was asking Charlotte to spend the day with me,” Gavin explained, turning his head toward their hostess.

“Do not move!” she scolded him, and Gavin resumed his position with his lips on Charlotte’s cheek. Then Doña Yvonne laughed. “And did the lovely Charlotte agree to go with you?”

Charlotte felt his lips and the heat of his breath as he responded, “Yes, she did.”

“Maravilloso!” Doña Yvonne exclaimed with undisguised amusement. “Just a few more moments of the light and then you shall be free to go.”

Only a few more moments! The morning had slipped by far too quickly for Charlotte.

Before she knew it she was dressed in a sweet gown of pale lemon muslin with a wide straw sun hat draped with matching yellow ribbons and on her way to the shore with Gavin. Because they had risen so much earlier than the others, they slipped away before anyone knew they were gone, although Charlotte left a note for Aunt Louisa. Even though her aunt had given her carte blanche to do as she wished, Charlotte did not wish to worry Aunt Louisa over her whereabouts.

One of the coachmen from the villa drove them in an open carriage down to the shore. The warm sun shone brilliantly above and only a few puffy clouds dotted the sky. The scent of the sea invigorated her. Charlotte felt decidedly wicked being with Gavin without a chaperone, something that never would have been sanctioned had she been home in England. Once they reached the shore, Gavin instructed the coachman to wait for them. The beach was empty except for a few fishermen here and there. After assisting her from the carriage, Gavin took her hand in his and together they walked along the sand. How odd that holding his hand now seemed a more intimate gesture than posing for the portrait!

“You are not at all what I expected,” Gavin said to her, over the sound of the rolling waves and screeching seabirds.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You are taking this all very calmly.”

“This?”

“The painting and the posing. Most well-brought-up ladies such as yourself would be too mortified to pose in such a manner.”

“Do you think less of me then?” she questioned.

He turned to look at her, his lustrous hazel eyes intense. “No, of course not.”

“Then why would you say something like that?”

“Because you are more than I expected.”

Charlotte remained quiet at that remark, not sure how she should take it.

“Why did you agree to pose for the portrait, Charlotte?”

“When Doña Yvonne asked to paint us, I had no idea it would be so … Grecian,” she said for lack of a better word, “and then once I realized what she meant to do, it seemed rude to refuse.”

Gavin chuckled. “So you are draped in nothing but silk with my hands on your body merely to be polite?”

Charlotte stopped walking and faced him. His blond hair glinted in the sun. “Why are you posing?”

“Because I was ready to accept any excuse to be near you.”

He had agreed to sit for a portrait in order to spend time with her. She wanted to believe him, although he probably said such pretty words to every girl. Gavin was outrageous in the things he said to her. But she could not resist the thought that he really meant them. That this handsome, sweet, charming man truly wanted to be near her. She reached one lacy-gloved hand up to touch his cheek. Would she allow herself to believe, just this one time? Just for this summer. Just with him. That his words were true. That his kisses were true. It would be so terribly easy….

She stood on tiptoe and placed a soft kiss on his cheek, near the dimple that so distracted her.

He smiled, revealing the said dimple on the side of his mouth. “What did I do to deserve such a sweet kiss?”

Suddenly feeling shy, she lowered her hand and turned, continuing to walk. He fell into pace quickly beside her, still holding her other hand in his.

“You always smell pretty, like flowers,” he said.

“It’s lily of the valley.”

“I like it.”

Charlotte smiled. They walked in comfortable silence, the waves crashing along the shore.

“Where do you go to school?” she asked.

“Nowhere at present.” He cast her a sheepish glance. “I was just tossed out of Oxford last term.”

“I see.” She had suspected this about him from the start. “Dare I ask what you did to warrant such an action?”

“It was a little scheme that Pedro and I concocted. Foolish, but funny. I got caught and he did not. I shall spare you the grim details.”

“What will you do now?”

He gave a slight shrug. “I suppose my father is trying his damnedest to find another university willing to take me on.”

“Is it so difficult to just do as you ought?” she asked softly. “Wouldn’t that be easier than having to hide in shame for the summer?”

“I’m not ashamed,” he barked. “And I am not hiding.”

For once, Charlotte bit her tongue, feeling his hand tense. “What I meant was, wouldn’t it be less trouble to simply follow the rules and get on with it?”

“With my education, you mean?” Gavin’s sardonic laughter echoed on the sea breeze. “What do I need an education for? I’ll inherit my father’s title and lands. I’ll become the Earl of Breckinridge, marry well, produce an heir, retire to the country, and become old and fat. What difference does it make if I get an education or not? My future has been preordained.”

She paused before responding. “If you don’t wish to further your education for the sake of not playing the fool while you sit in the House of Lords someday, fine. But do you have any idea how many men would give all they have for the chance to attend university and never will?”

He remained silent but looked properly chagrined by her words.

“You should not squander such an opportunity, Gavin. It may not come again.” Her aunt’s sentiment to her the day before echoed in her mind.

“Point taken.” He held up a hand in mock surrender and flashed his grin.

“My brother attends Cambridge,” she added.

“Have you a brother?” He seemed intrigued.

“I have five brothers. One older and four younger.”

“No sisters?”

“No, but I wish I had at least one.”

“It must be great fun to be a part of a large family,” Gavin said.

“Yes and no.”

“No? All those men in the house must treat you like a princess!”

“Not exactly.” Charlotte shook her head ruefully. “My older brother is away at school most of the time and my little brothers, well, let’s just say they are very energetic. My mother and stepfather have their hands full with raising them.”

“I always wished for a sibling.”

“I did too. Then my mother remarried after my father died and before I knew it I had a stepbrother and four little half brothers!”

“Poor Charlotte,” Gavin said softly, but not at all condescendingly. “You’re lost in the shuffle of your new family, aren’t you?”

She had never actually put that thought into words before, but she supposed there was a grain of truth in what he said. Since her marriage, Charlotte’s mother had not had as much time for her, so consumed was she with raising her sons. Oh, Charlotte loved her younger brothers and helped her mother as much as she could. Still, it was difficult to share her mother when it had been just the two of them for so long. Over the years she told herself it did not matter, but inside she felt a bit of a castoff. Odd that someone like Gavin would pick up on something so insignificant.

He continued, “Still, I wanted a sibling. Brother or sister, it didn’t matter. Just someone to take some of the attention and pressure off of me.”

Charlotte said teasingly, “I would think you enjoyed getting all the attention.”

“That depends on the kind of attention I’m getting.”

“And just what would that be?” she glanced up at him.

He stopped walking this time. “Any attention that I get from you.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek.

Flustered by his impetuous kiss, she smiled at him. He had the power to send her heart tripping….

“We should head back to the carriage,” he suggested. Giving her hand a light squeeze, he turned them around.

Just then a large wave washed ashore farther than they expected. With a startled shriek, Charlotte tried to run so as not to ruin her slippers, but in one swift movement, Gavin swept her up in his arms just as the water rushed in around them. She held on tightly to his shoulders, delighting in being so close to him. She rested her head on his chest as he trudged back through the wet sand carrying her effortlessly.

It was such a sweet and thoughtful gesture that she felt her barriers against him completely disappearing.

Their days fell into an easy pattern. Gavin and Charlotte spent their mornings posing for Doña Yvonne and their afternoons alone together exploring the countryside. Each evening they dined with all the guests at the villa, and everyone was aware that Gavin was openly courting Charlotte. Both Pedro Bautista-Martín and Isabella Hernandez withdrew their attentions, for it was obvious that Charlotte and Gavin only had eyes for each other.

Charlotte knew that it wouldn’t last. That it was just for the summer. She knew that Gavin did not truly care for her and was aware that he would lose interest and grow bored with the novelty of her. She prepared herself for that eventuality. In the meantime she tried to figure out, to pinpoint exactly what it was about him that so intrigued her. That drew her to him. The answer never really presented itself. All she could do was let herself be swept up in the giddy feelings that washed over her whenever she was with him.

Chapter 7

“Voilà!”

Neither Gavin nor Charlotte moved. As the last of the morning light faded, they remained in their reclining posture on the marble bench, draped in pale silk.

“El retrato está completo!” Doña Yvonne exclaimed from the other side of the canvas. “It is finished!”

It had been nearly two weeks since they began this unusual little venture in Doña Yvonne’s art studio. During that time it seemed that Charlotte and Gavin existed only for each other and their days revolved around their intimate sessions together. In the studio they were not Gavin or Charlotte. No. They were not themselves. He was a powerful Greek god and she was a splendid Greek goddess. They lived another life in that studio. There were no limits. They were bare to each other with only a bit of filmy fabric between them …

And now it was over. As was her time in Spain.

They still did not move.

“Oh, it is beautiful. Beautiful! Perfecto. But you cannot see it just yet. I will surprise you with it. Go and dress now, my dears.”

Gavin slowly slid his hands from Charlotte’s body, lingering as he did so. Just as reluctantly she moved from his embrace. Is he sad too? Does he feel as bereft as I do? As Doña Yvonne chattered away and busied herself with her paints, Charlotte dared a glance at Gavin’s handsome face. His hazel eyes were full of longing and the blatant desire that flamed within their depths took her breath away. A burning blush crept up her cheeks and she suddenly stood, clutching the silk tightly against her chest.

When Charlotte returned from the dressing room, Gavin was waiting for her. As was their routine, they had their walk on the beach and a drive through the surrounding countryside. By the time they dined that evening, Charlotte could hardly believe her last day in Spain was over.

And she still had not told Gavin that she was leaving for Italy in the morning.

Aunt Louisa had received a letter from her friend in Italy who was ill and she wished to travel to her as quickly as possible, so they were cutting their stay in Spain a little short and moving on to Venice in the morning. Charlotte did not know if Gavin had heard the news from someone else or not, but she had not mentioned it to him. For some reason, she felt it would break the spell they were under if they spoke of the end of their time together in Spain. She had no expectations from him of what would become of them after.

Gavin took her in his arms and kissed her on the balcony outside her bedroom, as he had done every night since the first time he had kissed her and she had melted into him. Their kisses had grown more and more passionate each night, their hands venturing farther and farther beyond where they should. But as always he stopped before they became too carried away, even though she longed for more, ached for more.

“Good night, my beautiful Charlotte,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Yet tomorrow morning they would not meet at dawn in the studio as they had.

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him then that she was leaving in the morning, but the words would not come out. “Good night,” was all she could muster.

And then he disappeared down the spiral staircase.

Charlotte returned to her empty room, blinking back unshed tears and feeling as if someone had kicked her in the stomach. She sat on the edge of her bed, wrapped her arms across her waist, and tried to catch her breath. Finally she stood. With trembling fingers she removed her pretty gown and all its trappings and slipped into the coolness of her white lawn nightdress. She unpinned her long hair, letting it fall to her waist. She turned down the lights and climbed into the tall bed. Restless and anxious and filled with longing, she could not lie still.

Charlotte rose from her bed. She began to pace across the room, her bare feet silent upon the smooth tile. Back and forth she moved, back and forth across the floor. Finally she paused.

She stared at the balcony doors.

Before she could think, before she could change her mind, she slipped out the doors and fairly flew down the iron steps that led to Gavin’s room. Her heart pounding an erratic rhythm, she tapped lightly on his door. Without waiting for a response she pulled the double doors open. Her eyes scanned the dimly lit room, focusing in on him.

He turned at the sound of her entrance and froze in place. He had just removed his shirt and stood in only his trousers. The sight of his bare chest made her shiver.

“Charlotte?”

Her mouth was too dry to speak. She closed the doors behind her and stepped toward him on unsteady legs, ignoring the incredible roaring in her ears. Her eyes moved to the large bed that dominated the room and back to Gavin.

He tossed his shirt to the floor and came to her. He gathered her in his arms and she breathed in the clean scent of him. It calmed her. As did being in his familiar embrace. She pressed her cheek into the heat of his bare chest, could hear the beating of his heart. Her arms wrapped around him and her hands caressed the smoothness of his back. He kissed the top of her head over and over, while his hands stroked her hair.

When she could breathe again, he cupped her face in his hands, making her look at him. Charlotte stared into his eyes and was lost.

He knew why she had come.

Without a word, his mouth came down over hers, hot and possessive and demanding. His tongue plundered her. She clung to him tightly and kissed him back as fiercely as she could. She wanted him. She wanted everything. And nothing else mattered at that moment but the two of them. She clung to him, to his soft lips, to his hot mouth.

Finally allowed the freedom to touch her where he wished, Gavin’s hands raced over her body, caressing her through her nightdress. He slid his hands down her back, over her hips, then cupped her bottom and pressed her against him. With his fingers he hitched up the fabric of her nightgown, slowly sliding the material up her legs, leaving bare skin in its wake. When he had enough in his hands he pulled the rest of it up and over her head, as she obligingly raised her arms.

A rush of air escaped him in a low whistle. “I’ve pictured you like this a thousand times, Charlotte, and you are even more beautiful than I imagined.”

Naked before him, without the cover of pale silk between them this time, he ran his warm hands over her skin, caressing her shoulders, her arms, her back. Shivers of delight washed over her. Leaning forward she kissed him, her mouth hungry for the taste of him. Effortlessly, he lifted her up and carried her, just like the day on the beach. She loved it when he did that. With a gentle touch he placed her on the bed and positioned himself beside her. He rested his head on his hand and gazed at her.

“You’ve done this before,” she whispered in apprehension, knowing what his answer would be.

He gave a slight nod.

“With very many women?”

“That doesn’t matter now.”

“I’ve never done—”

“I know.” He kissed the words from her lips and stroked her face in a soothing motion.

Charlotte leaned into him.

“Do you know what torture it was for me to hold you in my arms each morning in the studio and feel your body so close to mine, and yet not be able to do this?”

With the lightest, the faintest of touches, he traced a delicate path from her cheek, to her jaw, down her neck, caressing across her chest until he crested at the peak of one breast. Her eyes fluttered while he stared at her, his eyes heavy lidded with passion.

“Or this?”

He lowered his head and kissed her breast, his tongue teasing the nipple.

Her breathing now began to come in shallow pants and she shivered with pleasure at his intimate touch. It was rapturous, every bit of it.

“Or this?”

He continued to lavish honey-sweet kisses on her other breast.

As she lay naked on his bed, a moment of panic consumed her at the inevitability of what she was about to do. She closed her eyes and pulled him to her, wanting the weight, the solidness, of his body to cover hers. She heard the sound of his voice, soft murmurings of endearments, soothing words. He whispered her name as he kissed her face, her eyes, her cheeks, her throat. She was not afraid, for she wanted this, wanted him too much to truly be afraid. It was the unknown that had her so skittish.

Thoughts, everything and nothing at all, raced through her mind. She could not catch one long enough before another one replaced it. He smelled nice, like spicy soap. His skin was so warm and smooth. His blond hair was thick and silky. She loved the sound of his name. She may have even said it out loud. His touch felt wonderful. Time was suspended around them, for each second seemed to last an eternity. Every caress, every kiss was intensified between them. She could not get close enough and she writhed beneath him. He moved away, and feeling bereft, she pulled him back to her.

She wanted to melt into him, to become part of him. Her mouth sought his and they kissed, their lips searing each other. Tasting, licking, sucking. She splayed her fingers through his thick blond hair, losing herself in the feel of him. She arched her back, pressing against his body, which covered the length of hers. Taut muscle and heated skin, a long, hard penis … Her eyes flew open! Unaware of how he had shed the rest of his clothes, she suddenly realized he was as naked as she was. Heavens! She knew it would come to this, and she had four little brothers so she had an idea of what one looked like, but she was not at all prepared for the sight or feel of Gavin’s! She gasped and wriggled against the male protrusion that rested intimately between her legs. He kissed her, calming her and enflaming her once again. His molten eyes bored into her and she could not look away, no longer wanted to keep her eyes closed from him.

“Charlotte?” he asked, his voice hoarse with desire. The muscles in his arms tightened.

She knew what he asked. “Yes,” she breathed so low she wasn’t sure if he heard her.

He kissed her mouth again, his eyes still on hers. He heard.

When he entered her, hard and swift, she cried out before she could stop herself. The pain and awkwardness subsided as he continued to move in a steady rhythm within her. She lay motionless at first, unable to do anything else but accept. But then, oh but then … Those sensations began to escalate anew…. She had no choice. She had to move then, move with him. The look in his eyes as she shifted her body with his excited her.

Their pace increased, their fervor for each other in a fever pitch. Awash in pleasure and blissful sensations and feelings that had no name, Charlotte thought she would faint. Or scream. Or both. Instead she held on to Gavin’s strong shoulders as the only stable element in her spinning world as she was suddenly overcome with waves of the most intense pleasure she had ever known as he strained his body against hers.

Then he collapsed next to her, breathing as heavily as she was.

Exhausted and basking in the delicious lethargy that crept over her entire body, she curled up next to him. Gavin drew her into the circle of his arms and kissed her.

Charlotte closed her eyes then.

Chapter 8

Gavin squinted at the golden sunlight that poured through the tall windows of his bedroom. Glancing at the empty space next to him, he recalled images of the beautiful woman who had been there during the night. Unsure when Charlotte had left his bed, he lamented the fact that she was gone already. He knew she had to return to her own room, but still it would have been nice to kiss her good morning.

Bloody hell! He bolted upright and rubbed his eyes. What the hell had he been thinking? To bed a woman like Charlotte Wilton? There would be the devil to pay now. He knew the consequences of such an act and now he would have to face them.

Charlotte had taken him by surprise, coming to his room in her nightgown the way she had. She had thrilled him, knowing that she had wanted him just as much as he had wanted her. And Christ, but hadn’t he been tortured more than a red-blooded male could bear during the portrait sittings the last two weeks? Who could blame him for succumbing to temptation when it came walking in his door, looking like a luscious goddess in the moonlight?

And it had been amazing with her. He had sensed that it would be from that first session in the art studio. She had not balked at removing her clothes or stiffened when he had held her so intimately in their required pose. He loved that about her. The naturalness of her desires and feelings. And she had been unabashed and unashamed in sharing them with him last night. Smiling at the memory, he stretched and recalled the taste of Charlotte’s sweet lips.

After he had bathed and dressed, he left his room in search of her. The poor girl was probably frantic with worry over what they had done last night. He knew she would need reassurance that he didn’t think any less of her. Hell, he thought more of her, if such a feat were possible! For hadn’t he done nothing else but fantasize about making love to her night after night? No, the decent thing to do was to find her and tell her he would put everything to rights. He had taken her innocence and now he would have to marry her.

Or he could get out of it somehow. The idea danced around his head, a slight temptation.

He could leave Spain immediately. It wasn’t likely he would see her again. He didn’t have to marry her. But a girl like Charlotte … No. He couldn’t do it. He liked her too much. Respected her even. She was witty and sensitive and intelligent. They got on well together. Gavin could not do something so low as to disappear on her by playing the cad.

He had been raised to be a gentleman and to behave accordingly.

She must be feeling a little ashamed and fearful about what to do next. He imagined she would be quite pleased with him and grateful for his offer. He was heir to an earldom after all, and as his wife, Charlotte would be a countess.

Marriage was not something he thought he would enter into for a few more years yet. He only had a year of university left, so they could plan a wedding for next summer. Perhaps his father would be pleased by Gavin’s desire to settle down with a proper and lovely girl and forgo the pressure for him to finish school. And just what would his dear old father think of the news? Surely he couldn’t disapprove of marriage?

“Buenas tardes, mi amigo!” Pedro Bautista-Martín called to him.

“Good afternoon to you too.” Gavin smiled in return.

“You are up rather late today.”

“The portrait is finished and I thought I would sleep in for a change. Have you seen Miss Wilton about?”

Pedro seemed surprised by his question. “I just said good-bye to her.”

“Has she gone down to the beach?” Gavin asked, wondering why Charlotte had not waited for him. The beach would be a perfect spot to propose to her.

“No.” Pedro shook his head, an odd expression on his face. “She went down to the port. She and her aunt are sailing to Italy.”

Gavin felt as if all the air had been sucked out of his lungs. “What do you mean?”

“Miss Wilton and her aunt have left the villa. We all wished them bon voyage. My mother went to see them off.”

Stunned, Gavin stared in amazement at his friend, his blood racing. Charlotte left? Without a word to me? Why would she do such a thing?

“Did you not know she was going?”

Gavin shook his head slowly. He had definitely not known. If he had known he would have stopped her. Or gone with her.

“I thought you two had grown rather close of late …”

He had thought so too. Quite close. Apparently, Charlotte thought something else entirely.

Moving on wooden legs, Gavin walked out to the veranda and stared at the Mediterranean Sea. She had gone. After giving herself to him last night she had disappeared without a word. She wanted nothing more to do with him. He had the oddest sensation that his heart had just been ripped from his chest.

Never in his life had he thought seriously about marrying before. Yet with Charlotte he had. He was on his way to ask her to be his wife. And she was gone. She’d left him. Fled the country! He did not even know where she was going. It suddenly dawned on him as well that he had no idea at all where she lived. He had no way to contact her.

Astounded by this bit of reality, he sat on a chair and stared at the sea glittering in the afternoon sunlight. She was out there … on a ship …

She’d left him.

His mind was not functioning properly. Surely he had misheard his friend and Charlotte had only gone out with her aunt for a while.

Pedro followed him onto the veranda and sat in the chair beside him. “You are in love with her?”

“What?” Gavin stiffened at the question. “Oh, no. No.” He liked her immensely. She was beautiful and intelligent and caring. But in love with her? Definitely not. He was not in love with Charlotte. Was he?

“I would not have thought this of her.” Pedro shook his head in disbelief. “That she would not have told you she was leaving. Was she angry with you over something?”

“Of course not.” Unless she was angry about spending the night in his bed, but given how eager and willing she had been, he seriously doubted it. She’d left him. No woman had ever left him before.

“Women!” Pedro exclaimed. “Who can understand them? Forget about her, my good friend. There is still much to enjoy here and we have a few weeks to go before you return home.”

He should take Pedro’s advice and enjoy the rest of the summer. Gavin should feel nothing but relief! She’d left him. He was off the hook for marrying Charlotte. This development should make him happy. Once again he was a man free to enjoy the delights of pretty women. More than likely he would never set eyes on Charlotte Wilton again. Yet he felt nothing but great disappointment at that prospect. And devastated by her careless defection. He should try to forget her now and join Pedro for a good time, enjoying the rest of a carefree summer.

Yet he had no desire to do that. None at all.

Strangely enough, what he really wanted to do was put all this behind him. He wanted to do something different, something worthwhile. He wanted to start over. He wanted to return home and apologize to his father.

Chapter 9

Four Months Later

English Countryside

“Charlotte!” the young boy cried from his perch on the limb of the oak tree. “Charlotte! Watch me!”

Charlotte saw her younger brother and called out to him, “Addison Forsythe! Don’t you dare jump off that branch! It’s entirely too high. You’ll get hurt!”

“Ah, don’t be a stick in the mud, Charlotte! Let him jump!” Allen Forsythe piped up. “Let him jump!”

“Come on, Char!” Andrew Forsythe pleaded, his baby hands pressed together. “We want to see him go!”

She put her hands on her hips in exasperation and stared at her three brothers, their pugnacious little faces set in determination. Adam, her only younger brother who was not vexing her at the moment, ignored the lot of them. Sprawled on the blanket under the shade of the tree, Adam had his nose in a book. The oldest of the quartet of Forsythe brothers at eleven, Adam was studious and quiet and generally considered himself superior to his younger siblings.

“No. It’s too dangerous,” Charlotte exclaimed. She looked up at the one in the tree. The sunlight sprinkled through the autumn-tinted leaves and colored his brown hair with a red hue. “Climb down a few branches at least, Addison!”

“Well, that’s no fun!” snorted Andrew, the youngest at five. His round freckled face filled with scorn at her proclamation.

“Let him jump, please!” Allen tugged on her arm.

“I promised Mother I would not let you run wild if I took you on this picnic. So I will not bring you home with a broken leg or worse, Addison,” she called up to him.

“Oh, just jump already, Addison!” Adam called from his position on the blanket, not even glancing up from his book.

“You are not helping me at—Oh!” Before Charlotte could finish the words, her nine-year-old brother came crashing down on the ground beside her amid a flurry of gold and red leaves and broken twigs. “Addison! I told you not to do that!”

He could not hear her reprimands over the shouts of glee from the younger boys.

“That was brilliant!” Andrew cheered, exceedingly delighted with his brother’s forbidden descent from the tree.

The wild whoops and hollers even made Adam look away from his beloved book.

Charlotte grabbed Addison’s arm, helping him to his feet. “Are you hurt at all?” Her mother certainly would blame her if he were.

Addison, beaming with pride, brushed some dirt from the seat of his trousers. “Course not!”

“Then let’s go back to the house,” she ordered all of them. “It’s getting late anyway and we want to be home before Alec gets there.”

“Oh, yes! Let’s hurry!” Andrew jumped up and down. “I want to see Alec!”

Charlotte knew that mentioning their eldest brother’s imminent visit from university would elicit their compliance in heading back to the house. Her stepbrother’s rare homecoming had left the younger boys excited, for they looked upon Alec as an all-powerful hero. And indeed, he was tall, handsome, athletic and excelled at everything he put his hand to. The product of her stepfather and his first wife, Alec was only a year older than Charlotte, with dark hair and deep brown eyes. They had always got on well together and she had been looking forward to his homecoming as well. She had not seen Alec herself since his Christmas holiday last year, because she had been away all summer.

Summer. She tried to block what happened then out of her mind. It was too painful to bring up those memories. And regrets. Aunt Louisa had been terribly wrong about that. Charlotte regretted many things she had done that summer. Regretted one thing in particular.

As much as she tried to forget, it haunted her daily. Gavin Ellsworth haunted her thoughts, her dreams, her every waking moment. The aching loneliness in her heart had not healed and she feared it never would.

“Oh, let’s hurry, Charlotte!” cried Allen, dancing a little jig around her.

After they gathered their picnic items, Charlotte ordered the older three to carry the baskets and things and she grabbed Andrew’s chubby hand firmly in hers. They set off across the field while the autumn sun sank low in the sky. As they rounded a hedge they spied a carriage coming up the drive.

“It’s Alec!” Excited shrieks pierced the air and the boys broke into a run.

Charlotte held fast to Andrew’s hand, although he tried desperately to break free. The carriage disappeared from view as it drove to the front of the house. The three older boys raced ahead. By the time Charlotte reached the back entrance, she was exhausted and felt as if her arm were pulled from the socket. She released her impatient charge and Andrew went careening down the hallway in a mad hurry to find his big brother.

Removing her hat, she sighed and followed after the sound of her brothers’ wild cries. She always knew exactly where they were simply from the amount of noise they made, and today was no different. She knew her brothers were in the front hallway. As she neared, she could distinguish amid the noise her mother’s sweet voice and Alec’s laughter. Her pace increased as she turned the corner.

“Charlotte!” Alec cried when he saw her. He broke loose from his little brothers, raced to her side, swept her up in a bear hug, and swung her around. He finally set her down and took a look at her. “You haven’t changed a bit, Char. You’re as pretty as ever!”

Smiling broadly, she said, “You, on the other hand, look much older!”

“Did you send those little monkeys to attack me?” He laughed and pointed to Andrew, Adam, Addison, and Allen.

“Of course I did!” She gave him a wink.

“Let’s not stand here in the hallway any longer,” her mother, Elizabeth Forsythe, suggested. “Shall we go into the drawing room? We can’t have our guest standing here all day. I fear we’ve kept you here too long as it is, Lord Langdon.”

Charlotte glanced over at her mother and froze at the sight of her standing beside a handsome gentleman; tall, blond, and muscular. Her mind spun and she became slightly dizzy, clutching Alec’s arm for support.

“I’m sorry”—Alec tugged her forward—“I should have introduced you.”

Charlotte moved on leaden feet, her heart racing so rapidly in her chest, she thought it might very well explode.

With an easy manner and blithely unaware of his sister’s reluctance, Alec introduced Charlotte to the man who had turned her life upside down. “This is Gavin Ellsworth, Lord Langdon, a new friend of mine from Cambridge. Gavin, may I present my sister, Charlotte Wilton.”

Charlotte stared into the depths of hazel eyes that were far too familiar. She recognized every fleck of gold and brown.

Gavin’s brows raised and he looked at her with surprise, holding out his hand. “I am pleased to meet you, Miss Wilton.”

She nodded, unable to form a coherent word, and took his hand in hers. The spark that shot through her veins when they touched almost knocked her to the ground.

“Alec, you neglected to mention that your sister was such a beauty.”

She closed her eyes at the sound of his voice and he released her hand. She suddenly felt very cold.

Charlotte heard her brother laugh and say something about Gavin keeping his distance from his only sister. Her elegant mother then ushered them all from the hallway and obediently she followed her family into the drawing room and sank gratefully upon a damask chair. She was vaguely aware that little Andrew had climbed onto her lap. She heard the words that were being spoken, but she could not take anything in except that Gavin Ellsworth was there in her home. He’s here! Somehow he had become friends with her brother.

And he had pretended not to know her.

He was as shocked as she was. She could see it in his eyes. But he acted as if they had just met for the first time. As if what had happened between them in Spain had never happened at all.

A lump formed in her throat. She did not partake of the tea and cakes and biscuits that were served, although Andrew ate more than enough for her and left the crumbs on her lap as evidence. She did not enter into the conversation among her mother, Alec, and Gavin, nor did she object to the shouts and interruptions from the boys, who were tumbling about on the floor. It took all her energy to keep from bursting into tears.

“Charlotte, are you feeling well?” Alec asked.

She blinked and looked up at the sound of her name.

“She does look rather pale,” her mother said, her voice tinged with worry. “Perhaps she was out with the boys too long this afternoon.”

“Addison scared her by jumping out of a tree!” Andrew tattled on his brother with no remorse, his mouth filled with shortbread biscuit.

Charlotte leapt at the excuse. “I … I do have a dreadful headache. Would you mind if I went to my room to rest for a bit?”

“Not at all, darling,” said her mother.

“Excuse me,” she whispered. She felt Gavin’s eyes on her as she shooed Andrew from her lap and fled the drawing room as decorously as she could manage.

When she reached the safety of her pretty floral bedroom, she flung herself onto her four-poster bed and buried her sobs in the pillows. Wishing she were anywhere but in her home, she could no longer hold back the tears. Hot and stinging, the tears poured down her cheeks while great sobs wracked her body.

It was the first time she cried over Gavin Ellsworth.

Chapter 10

Gavin was stunned. When he had accepted Alec Forsythe’s invitation to visit his home, he had never imagined that Charlotte Wilton was Alec Forsythe’s stepsister! He was not sure if acting as if they were meeting for the first time was a wise decision or not, but he had been so astonished to see her it was all he could do. She had not rushed forward in recognition nor appeared especially happy to see him. Nothing less than shock had registered on her beautiful face. At the time, his behavior had seemed the best course of action.

He had not said another word to her, and she had grown eerily quiet. She had disappeared to her room claiming a headache, but Gavin’s instinct told him he was the reason for her distress. She had remained in her room for supper as well. He idly wondered if she would hide for the duration of his visit. After the pain she had caused him he felt slightly mollified by her obvious discomfort at his presence in her home.

Gavin spent the night in a restless mood, unable to sleep.

He had found Charlotte Wilton and was in her house! After four months of wondering about her, dreaming about her, missing her, and cursing her, she had turned up on a whim. And she was even more beautiful than he remembered. She had looked so carefree when she first entered the hallway, before she had recognized him. She’d obviously just come in from outside, holding a straw hat in her hand and wearing a pink striped dress. Her blond hair was tousled and her cheeks were full of color. The genuine delight at seeing Alec had been clearly written in her expression.

Until her eyes met his. Then all the color had drained from her face.

Meanwhile all he had wanted to do when he saw her was shout for joy. He had believed he would never see her again, so when she appeared before him, so great was his happiness at finding her, it took every ounce of his self-control not to pick her up and spin her around as her brother had done.

The next morning Gavin breakfasted with the family. He was amused by the antics of the four younger Forsythe brothers and noted how much Charlotte and her mother, Elizabeth, looked alike, yet Charlotte was nowhere to be seen. He knew she was avoiding him and it irritated him. He spent most of the day with Alec and his father, the Baron of Glenborough, looking over their estate and learning about their management methods.

Later that day he was returning to his room to change for supper when he ran into Charlotte in the upstairs hallway.

They both stopped walking and stood in awkward silence. Neither of them made a move to pass by but held each other’s gaze. Already dressed for supper and apparently willing to be seen by him again, she looked stunning in an elegant evening gown of deep blue edged with black lace, her blond hair swept back from her face. He recalled all too vividly the sight of her with her golden tresses spilling around her naked shoulders, looking like a goddess in pale silk.

Finally Gavin reached out and grabbed her arm, drawing her quickly into his guest room. She did not resist but she did not seem overly eager to go with him either. He closed the door once they were inside.

“Charlotte, this is ridiculous. We can’t pretend not to know each other.”

She said nothing, but he noticed that her breathing had become more labored and her eyes, the color of aquamarines, were wide with panic. She took a step back from him. He so desperately wanted to hold her in his arms, to kiss her.

“Charlotte,” he said again.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered.

“I had no idea that Alec was your brother.”

“You must leave.” There was a note of pleading urgency in her voice.

“Why?” He stepped toward her and her familiar lily of the valley scent washed over him. The need to touch her became unbearable. “Why? Because you cannot run away from me here?”

She gasped as the truth of his comment hit its mark and her eyes flashed in anger. She made a move toward the door.

He prevented her from doing so by pulling her into his arms. And then he gave in to his desires and covered her enticing lips with his own. God, but she tasted like heaven! How he had missed her. He held her tightly against his chest, feeling her body next to his.

Melting against him, she kissed him back as his tongue delved deeper into her mouth. Her arms went around his neck and the soft sigh that escaped her sent his mind reeling. They moved back until he had her against the wall.

The thrill of kissing her once again excited him more than he could have anticipated. Judging from her eager response she had missed kissing him as much as he had missed her. And he had missed her. Not a single day had passed that he had not thought of her, not wanted her, not longed for her.

They continued to kiss and he wanted to devour her. She clung to him, her fingers splaying into the hair at the back of his neck. He wanted her desperately, wanted to strip her of her gown and lavish her naked body with his kisses. As his desire for her grew, he could sense her own heightened passion. Her tongue intertwined with his and her body arched against his. His hand moved to cup one luscious breast and she moaned at his touch.

“Charlotte,” he murmured her name into her sweet mouth.

“Charlotte!” A young and quite impatient voice wailed from the hallway. “Chaaaaarrrlotte!”

They both froze at the sound. Her hands fell from his neck and she shoved at Gavin’s chest. With great reluctance he released her and stepped aside.

“Charlotte!” the voice called.

“It’s Andrew,” she whispered frantically. “He’s looking for me. What shall I do?” She covered her kiss-swollen lips with her fingers, her cheeks still flushed with desire. Tendrils of her blond hair had spilled from its arrangement atop her head and now framed her face softly.

Gavin wanted nothing more than to carry her to the large bed in the center of the room and make love to her for days.

“Charlotte!” Andrew continued to cry, his five-year-old voice filled with anguish. They heard his little footsteps stomping farther down the hallway. “They’re being very mean to me! Chaaaaarrrrrlotte!”

Gavin grabbed her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. She stared up at him but he could not read her thoughts.

As Andrew’s childish wails faded, Gavin carefully opened the door and peered down the hallway. He nodded at Charlotte and she scurried out of his room and fled down the hallway in search of her distraught brother. She did not look back at him, but Gavin watched her until she disappeared into the boys’ nursery.

Chapter 11

“So what do you think of our estate, Lord Langdon?” Elizabeth Forsythe, her blond hair swept stylishly atop her head, asked her guest.

Charlotte kept her eyes on the delicate china plate in front of her, piled with roast partridge and squash, although she still could not swallow a single mouthful. She had not been able to eat anything since Gavin had arrived yesterday. Her stomach rebelled at the mere thought of food.

“Glenstone Manor is beautiful. I was quite impressed at how well you have been able to drain your fields,” Gavin said. “The system you have employed would work well at our estate since we have similar problems with the hills above the fields. I would like to bring my father to visit to see what you have accomplished here.”

Charlotte could not suppress a surprised glance at Gavin, who sat beside her at the elegantly set dining table. Since when had he taken an interest in his father’s estate? Or in farming? This was a startling change from the indolent and carefree man she met this summer. And Lord Langdon? He never referred to that title while they were in Spain! She remembered him mentioning his father’s earldom, but oddly enough she never thought to ask about his title and everyone at the villa had simply called him Señor Ellsworth.

He was still as handsome as ever, though. That had not changed. If anything he had become even more attractive. As he sat at the table in his formal evening attire, the jet black of his jacket and the crisp white of his shirt set in stark contrast to his golden blond hair and tanned skin.

Her heart skipped a beat at the memory of the passionate encounter they had shared in his bedroom not an hour ago. She touched her lips, which were still tingling from his kiss. Being in his arms again had brought to the surface long suppressed memories of their last night together in Spain and she found it difficult to breathe. She trembled to think what might have happened in his bedroom if they had not been interrupted by Andrew’s shouts.

“Of course, you and your family are welcome to visit us anytime you wish. How are you getting on at school?” her stepfather, Alexander Forsythe, asked him.

“I’m finding Cambridge much more to my liking than Oxford, but it might be that my change in attitude has more to do with it than anything to do with the school,” Gavin explained.

“Why is that?” asked Alec.

“You see, I had a bit of an epiphany while abroad this summer.”

Charlotte dropped the fork she had been holding onto her plate. The clatter caused everyone to look at her.

“Excuse me,” she murmured in apology, carefully placing her fork back on the table. Her pulse quickened as Gavin continued to speak.

“I realized that I was a very fortunate man, indeed, and I ought not to squander the opportunities I have in my life. Much to my father’s delight, I have changed my wild ways and have focused on my studies and placed my energies into improving and modernizing my family’s estate.”

“That is very commendable,” her stepfather commented. “Fathers do appreciate sons who take their inheritances as the serious responsibilities they are instead of spending every last pound on frivolous pursuits.”

“You’re very welcome, Father,” Alec quipped dryly and gave a sly wink across the table to Charlotte.

“Where did you spend the summer, Lord Langdon?” Elizabeth asked with polite interest.

“I spent a great deal of it in Spain.”

Elizabeth cried in wonderment, “Why Charlotte was in Spain this summer too!”

The sound of Charlotte’s crystal water goblet shattering against the gleaming mahogany table startled everyone, Charlotte most of all.

“Whatever is the matter with you, Charlotte?” scolded her mother, before Roberts, the butler, hurried to clean up the watery mess and glass shards. “That was my grandmother’s crystal!”

“I … I am terribly … I am so sorry,” she stammered awkwardly. “I don’t know what happened.”

“Please be more careful, dear,” her stepfather said gently with a pointed look in her direction.

“So what did you think of Spain?” Alec asked Gavin.

Charlotte silently blessed her brother for drawing the attention away from her.

“It was quite beautiful,” Gavin began. “I met some very interesting people. In fact, I fell in love while I was there.”

Charlotte held her breath. The room began to tilt a little. She held tightly to the edge of the table in order to stay upright in her chair. Will this supper never end?

“With a Spanish lady?” Elizabeth asked, intrigued by his story.

Gavin smiled, showing the dimple that so enchanted Charlotte. He said, “No, she happened to be English, surprisingly enough. And astonishingly beautiful.”

“How romantic!” Elizabeth cried in delight. “Imagine going all the way to Spain and falling in love with someone you could have met here at home!”

Charlotte quickly picked up her fork again and stabbed a bit of squash. She shoved it into her mouth to keep from screaming.

“Just a moment.” Alec looked confused. “This is not the same woman you just became engaged to, is it?”

Unable to swallow, Charlotte choked on the bite of squash she had just placed in her mouth. Covering her lips with her linen napkin, she began to cough hysterically. Engaged? Gavin is engaged? He is getting married? Her coughing increased, growing louder and more violent. She could not stop.

Concerned for her daughter, Elizabeth cried, “Oh my goodness, Charlotte!”

Gavin, who was seated beside her, sprang from his chair and began patting her back. Charlotte continued to fight the terrible coughing spasm and the entire meal came to an abrupt standstill.

“Give her some water!” Alec exclaimed from the other side of the table.

As the coughing fit began to subside somewhat, Charlotte gratefully sipped the water from the crystal goblet that Gavin held to her lips. She gasped and sputtered, her eyes tearing.

“Are you all right, Charlotte?” Gavin asked, his hand still on her back. With one knee on the floor beside her chair, he stroked her with infinite tenderness, his hand moving up and down her back in a soothing motion.

She nodded as the need to cough continued to weaken.

Gavin urged, “Take another sip.”

She obeyed his command and drank from the glass he still held for her.

“Better now?”

“Yes, thank you,” she finally managed to utter, with another nod of her head.

“Take a deep breath.”

She inhaled with a shaky breath and the action seemed to calm her aching throat.

He still rubbed her back, his hand touching her possessively. “Are you sure you are all right now?” he asked, his voice soft and full of tenderness.

She sniffled a little, feeling foolish for her ridiculous display. His hazel eyes were intent on her. “I’m fine now, Gavin. Thank you.”

He set down the goblet and touched his hand to her cheek, gently brushing a tendril of hair from her eyes. “You must take more care, Charlotte. You gave me a terrible fright.”

She closed her eyes and leaned into his hand. How had he the ability to both calm and excite her with the merest touch?

“Ahem.” Alexander Forsythe cleared his throat with a pointed significance.

Charlotte looked up then and her eyes grew wide. Their mouths agape, her parents and her brother were staring at her in amazement. And at Gavin. Who was kneeling on the floor beside her chair and touching her rather intimately. For a moment it had seemed that there were only the two of them in their own little world. She now cringed at the sight of her family.

Slowly and with great care, Gavin removed his hands from her. Without a word he rose to his feet and sat back in his chair. He picked up his linen napkin and placed it in his lap.

An awkward silence fell over the table.

Mortified not only by her own behavior, but by the fact that her family had witnessed the affectionate exchange between her and Gavin, Charlotte avoided the peculiar looks her mother was sending in her direction. She could not face her stepfather or Alec either. She kept her eyes on the dish of barely touched food in front of her. The evening was interminable.

“Now that Charlotte has recovered, shall we finish our meal?” her stepfather suggested, breaking the tense silence.

They resumed eating, although Charlotte could not take a single bite and allowed the butler to remove her plate.

After a sharp look at her daughter, Elizabeth turned her eyes to Gavin. “I believe you were telling us of your engagement, Lord Langdon?”

Charlotte wished with all her might that her mother would close her mouth and cease her infernal questions to Gavin.

“I am not officially engaged yet,” Gavin explained, his lips forming a tight line. “I merely agreed to marry the woman my father thinks would be a good match. Her family’s estate is adjacent to ours and we could merge the two properties.”

“Again, very commendable,” Alexander Forsythe declared. “You have a good head on your shoulders, young Langdon.”

Charlotte could not believe her stepfather was speaking of Gavin. At least not the Gavin she knew in Spain. She doubted her stepfather would applaud Gavin so heartily if he knew of his affair with Charlotte!

“Yes, but what of the English woman you fell in love with in Spain?” Elizabeth questioned, her eyes moving sharply between Charlotte and Gavin.

A sudden wave of nausea swept over Charlotte. She wondered if she looked as green as she felt.

Gavin paused before answering. “It’s quite an unfortunate story, you see. The woman broke my heart. She left the country without saying good-bye. I have not seen her since.”

“Oh, how tragic!” Elizabeth said in a clipped tone. “But you’re not going to marry the other girl, are you?”

Charlotte definitely wanted to crawl under the table.

“My father would like for me to,” Gavin stated simply.

“Do you see how well the boy obeys his father, Alec?” Alexander’s teasing voice lightened the mood.

“Really, Gavin, you must stop showing me up in front of my father!” Alec said with a laugh. “Soon he will be choosing a bride for me!”

“Where did you say you were staying in Spain this summer, Lord Langdon?” Elizabeth asked.

“In the south of Spain, near a town called Málaga.”

“Charlotte,” Elizabeth eyed her daughter with avid interest, “isn’t that where you stayed with Aunt Louisa?”

“Yes,” she squeaked.

“How funny that you were both in the same place at the same time!” Elizabeth again looked pointedly between her daughter and her son’s friend.

“Yes, it’s a very small world,” Gavin said with charming ease, flashing a smile that revealed his distracting dimple.

“Let’s adjourn to the study for some brandy, shall we?” Alexander stood, signaling the end of the interminable meal.

Charlotte would have held a parade in her stepfather’s honor so thrilled was she to be released from the table.

“Yes, why don’t you gentlemen enjoy your cigars?” Elizabeth stated. “We shall join you later.”

Gavin did not glance in Charlotte’s direction as he left the room silently with her stepfather and brother. The minute they were gone, Charlotte rose from her chair.

“Sit down, Charlotte,” Elizabeth commanded softly.

Slowly she sank back into her seat. The silence between them was palpable.

Her mother folded her elegant hands on the table in front of her. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

Charlotte swallowed. “No.”

Elizabeth paused for a moment and tilted her blond head to the side. “I have eyes, you know. You have acted strangely since the moment that young man entered the house. And your behavior this evening—”

“Mother, I’m sorry for how I’ve acted during supper. It’s just that …” Charlotte could not bring herself to finish.

Elizabeth waited patiently for her daughter to continue. When it was clear Charlotte would not, her mother said, “It is fairly obvious that you and Lord Langdon already know each other. Did something happen between the two of you in Spain?”

“I would rather not discuss it at present.”

A rather long silence ensued as her mother pondered her options. Charlotte wished herself anywhere but where she was.

“Very well.” Elizabeth sighed in resignation, clearly irritated. “But we will discuss it at some point, I promise you that.”

“Yes, Mother.” Charlotte left the dining room on unsteady legs and somehow made her way slowly up the stairs.

Her mother knew. Trepidation filled her heart. She would be forced to disclose everything. Yet would that be so terrible? To finally bare her soul? She had never told anyone what had happened between her and Gavin. Not even Aunt Louisa, although her aunt suspected something. Charlotte had fled Spain and buried all her tumultuous and intense feelings for Gavin that day for she did not know what else to do with them.

Now those feelings seemed determined to overwhelm her, to bury her.

On the verge of tears once again, she entered her pretty bedroom and closed the door behind her in relief. Then she almost jumped out of her skin.

“Gavin!”

“I didn’t mean to startle you so,” he apologized hurriedly.

“I just wanted to see you. Talk to you.” He stepped toward her and drew her into his arms. “Are you all right?”

Unable to resist, she instinctively curled her body into his. The warmth of him soothed her agitated state of mind and she breathed deeply of his familiar scent. He was being too nice to her and she did not deserve it. Not after what she’d done. Hot tears ran down her cheeks.

“What are you doing here?” she cried.

“I don’t know,” he whispered into her hair. “Charlotte, Charlotte, don’t cry.”

“You must leave.” If he left her house right away, she could pick up the pieces of her life and move on. No one would know and she could bury those feelings again. She could forget he had returned. She could forget she wanted him so much. Couldn’t she? Had she ever truly forgotten him? “If you don’t leave, everyone is going to find out.”

He asked softly, “About us?”

She shoved away from him, angrily wiping the tears from her cheeks. “Don’t you have a fiancée to go back to?” Her voice was sharper than she intended it to be.

“Don’t make this my fault,” he ground out.

“Everything was fine until you came here!”

“Was it?” he challenged her. “Was running away from me the right thing to do?”

“I didn’t run away from you.” Her voice was weak and her protest sounded feeble even to her own ears.

“Didn’t you?”

“I don’t even know who you are anymore!” she burst out. “Lord Langdon? Who is that? Who is this responsible person who attends Cambridge and does everything his father wishes? Were you simply lying to me the entire time?”

His jaw tightened. “Is that what you think? That I lied to you?”

She glared at him.

“Charlotte?”

“If you won’t leave my house, at least have the decency to leave my room.” Her hand trembled as she reached for the door.

“I will leave you then.” Gavin gave her a cold look before he walked from the room.

Chapter 12

The next afternoon Charlotte sat curled up on a divan in the sunroom, attempting to lose herself in Wuthering Heights, which, as one of her favorite novels, usually captured her attention. But she had read the same page at least twenty times and had not moved on. Her mind was a million miles away.

All she could think of was Gavin Ellsworth.

She had barely slept all night, tossing and turning. And crying. Gavin had kissed her and seemed quite sincere in his concern during her choking fit at the table. He had acted hurt that she had left him in Spain and genuinely wished to discuss what happened. Had he truly cared for her? Was he not the rogue she had thought he was? This thought tortured her. As a consequence of her fitful and anguished night, she had slept through breakfast and by the time she had dressed and ventured downstairs, she had learned that Gavin and Alec had already gone out for the day but would be returning for supper. So he had not left to go back to school yet. Relieved she did not have to face him for a while longer, she had hidden in the sunroom, but not before her mother had reminded her that they needed to have a little talk later. Charlotte closed her eyes tight at the prospect.

“There’s a package for you, Miss Charlotte,” Roberts, the butler, announced as he entered the sunroom. “It just arrived.”

“There is?” she said in surprise. “Where is it?”

“Your mother had it carried into the study. It’s a rather large box. She asks that you join her while one of the footmen opens it for you.”

A large box had arrived for her? How odd! “Thank you, Roberts.”

By the time she reached the study, Elizabeth had already instructed the young footman to pry the wooden planks of the crate apart. The inside of the box was packed with padding.

“My goodness, Charlotte!” her mother exclaimed. “Whoever would send you such a large package?”

“I have no idea,” Charlotte responded, equally intrigued.

“There was a letter with it addressed to you.” Her mother gave Charlotte an envelope addressed with an unfamiliar hand.

Curious, she broke the seal and removed the letter within. In an instant her heart began racing as she read the sprawling script with a mounting sense of dread. Charlotte now knew exactly what was in that large crate. And there was nothing she could do at this point to prevent her mother from seeing it.

“Mother … There’s something I need to explain to you,” she began hesitantly.

Elizabeth was already standing over the crate as the burly footman lifted the enormously framed portrait from within and placed it on the floor, propped against the wall near the mantel.

Elizabeth’s shocked gasp echoed Charlotte’s own.

Without needing to be told, the footman discreetly left the room, closing the door behind him.

“Good God in heaven …” her mother whispered, placing her hand over her heart.

Speechless, Charlotte stood in awe at the portrait that Doña Yvonne Bautista-Martín had painted of her while she was in Spain.

It was the most beautiful painting she had ever seen.

The pastel colors illuminating the dawn light bathed the scene in an ethereal glow, setting the figures of the goddess and god depicted within to be almost otherworldly in their perfection. Every detail was exquisite. The carefully draped silk seemed to flow like liquid silver over their almost naked bodies, clinging to every curve of their bare skin. Her blond hair glistened in golden waves around them. And the pose! The intimate positioning of their glorious bodies made it difficult to tell where the female form ended and the male began, so close were their arms and legs intertwined.

Charlotte barely recognized herself as the woman in the painting, so lovely was the rendering. How blissful and radiant the expression on her face! Had she truly looked that euphoric? And Gavin! How had Doña Yvonne managed to capture the absolute essence of his masculine features, his perfect aquiline nose and strong chin? His tawny blond hair glowed on his head. There was an amorous gleam in his hazel eyes and a hint of his devilish dimple at the corner of his sensuous mouth, which was pressed seductively against her alabaster cheek. The taut, sculpted muscles in his upper arms held her with such assured possession and his hand gently cupped the underside of her breast. The very strength and handsomeness of him came alive and leapt from the canvas.

But it was the two of them together … This was a man and woman passionately in love with each other portrayed with elegance, grace, and mystic splendor.

For days Charlotte had posed for that painting but never had she seen what she and Gavin looked like together from this point of view. Had it been so obvious to everyone else? Never had she suspected …

The effect was astonishing. She remained motionless and speechless before the painting. The portrait so as- tounded her that she forgot to feel embarrassed by the romantic nature of it. Charlotte was the woman in the painting and Doña Yvonne had managed to capture her true essence. When Charlotte had been that woman, it was the happiest she had ever been. It suddenly dawned on her that the woman in the painting was the real Charlotte.

“Good God in heaven, Charlotte!” her mother echoed once again. “What on earth did you do in Spain?”

“I posed for a painting …” she offered weakly.

“Yes, I see that! But this?” Elizabeth cried, scandalized. She gestured angrily to the painting. “This is indecent, Charlotte!”

Charlotte turned to face her mother. “You are only saying that because I am in the painting.”

The painting was beautiful. That point could not be disputed. It was a true work of art. Anyone with eyes would have to agree.

“Yes! My daughter is undressed with an equally unclothed man!” Elizabeth looked distraught enough to faint. “And that young man is now a guest in my house! Lord Langdon! What is the meaning of this? What if your brothers see this?”

The thought of Adam, Addison, Allen, or Andrew seeing this painting made her very uneasy. She wasn’t comfortable having her mother see it right now, let alone her stepfather or Alec. But it was simply because it was her. Her emotions and her body were on display for all to observe, yet the portrait was not in bad taste or offensive in any way. If it had been a pair of strangers in the scene instead of her and Gavin, she would still find it artistically appealing. Elizabeth would most likely hang it in the gallery. Or in the main parlor. But it was probably not the best time to bring up that point to her mother right now.

“What possessed you to do such a thing, Charlotte? And where was Louisa while this scandalous picture was painted? How could she have allowed something like this to happen?”

“Aunt Louisa did not know that Doña Yvonne was painting us in that way, so please do not blame her.” Charlotte defended her aunt instinctively.

“It was her responsibility to know about it! You were under her care!” Elizabeth exclaimed, righteous anger shaking her voice. “I knew we never should have let you go with her!”

“Let me go?” Charlotte burst out. “You sent me away!”

Her mother came up short and looked at her oddly. “Is that what you think, Charlotte?” Her face softened, as well as her tone. “That I sent you away?”

“Yes.” She blinked back the tears that suddenly threatened.

“I thought that you wished to go,” Elizabeth said in confusion. “That you were tired of another unsuccessful Season and wanted a change of scenery, a bit of a break from the business of finding a husband.”

“I did … I just thought … you were weary of me and too busy with the boys …” Charlotte’s voice trailed off.

Her mother put her arms around Charlotte’s shoulders. Together they sat on the leather sofa. “Oh, Charlotte. I am very busy with the boys and I am quite weary with your stubbornness at not choosing a husband from an array of suitable gentlemen, but I would never send you away from home because of that. I am sorry if I ever made you feel that you were not wanted. I love you, darling.”

“I love you, too, Mother.”

Elizabeth glanced at the painting. “But what are we going to do about that?” She shook her head. “Alexander is going to be fit to be tied when he sees it. I don’t know what he will do to Lord Langdon.”

Charlotte cringed. She had not considered that prospect.

Her mother gave her hand a squeeze. “Did you really pose for this? She didn’t simply paint your face on someone else’s body?”

“No, it’s all me,” she admitted. “I posed every day for over two weeks.” And they were the happiest two weeks of her life.

“With Lord Langdon as well?”

“Yes.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I never would have expected behavior like this from you. You’ve always been so steady and responsible and this painting is so out of character for you. Wasn’t posing like that”—her mother actually blushed—“rather … awkward?”

“That was the most remarkable part,” Charlotte explained as she recalled those early morning sessions in the studio, being held securely in Gavin’s arms. “It was not the least bit awkward posing with Gavin.”

“Is that when you fell in love with each other?”

Charlotte remained quiet.

“It was obvious to everyone at the table last night that something happened between the two of you,” Elizabeth said gently. “You’re in love with him.”

“I don’t think I admitted it to myself at the time, because I was too afraid, but yes, I fell in love with him.”

“I never suspected something like this happened to you in Spain,” Elizabeth said in disbelief. “You never said a word about it. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You never asked me what I did in Spain, Mother,” Charlotte stated quietly, “or anywhere else I went this summer.”

Elizabeth looked crestfallen. “Didn’t I?”

“Not once.” Charlotte shook her head.

“Oh, Charlotte, I am sorry. I just don’t know what to say. The boys occupy so much of my day, but that is no excuse for ignoring my daughter.” Elizabeth looked contrite. “Can you ever forgive my thoughtlessness?”

“Yes.” Charlotte squeezed her mother’s hand.

They sat in silence, staring at the portrait together.

“What shall I do?” Charlotte finally murmured. “I didn’t think I would ever see him again and then he happens to befriend Alec, of all the people in the world! And here he is at our home.”

“Have you spoken to him about any of this?”

“I’ve only asked him to leave.”

“Do you want him to leave?”

“No.” The truth was she wanted to be with him always.

“You tend to push people away, Charlotte, if you haven’t noticed. You had better think long and hard about what you want. I like this young man and have an idea you will be very happy with him, if that portrait is any indication of your feelings for each other.” She looked toward the painting again and shook her head in wonder. “It’s amazing. I’ve never seen you look so full of joy, Charlotte.”

“I was.” At the time she had attributed her happiness to the seductive atmosphere of Don Francisco’s villa and the carefree environment of Doña Yvonne’s art studio, but now she realized it was simply being with Gavin that had made her feel so alive and joyful. She recalled what her Aunt Louisa had said to her in Spain about not wasting opportunities for happiness. She did not wish to follow in her aunt’s footsteps.

Elizabeth continued, “If you love him, I suggest that you let him know it. Men have their pride, after all. You have already left him once and he has another woman willing to marry him. He won’t wait for you forever.” Her mother gave her a hug of reassurance. “Perhaps you should talk to him about the—”

“I believe the ledger we need is in this desk.”

Elizabeth was interrupted by the arrival of Alec Forsythe and Gavin Ellsworth. Both young men entered the study clearly under the impression the room was unoccupied. They both stopped abruptly when they saw Elizabeth and Charlotte on the sofa.

“Oh, excuse us—”Alec saw the painting first and his mouth dropped open.

Charlotte kept her eyes on Gavin, her pulse quickening at the sight of him. He truly was too handsome for words.

“What in blazes is that?” Alec cried.

Gavin was as riveted by the painting as she had been. A look of wonder lit his face. He glanced at Charlotte with appreciation, and without words they both understood that the painting was incredibly special. She gave him a tentative smile.

“In the picture … It is Gavin and … good God!”—Alec turned with eyes bulging toward his sister—“Charlotte?”

Elizabeth rose from the sofa and went to Alec. “Yes. It was painted while they were both in Spain this summer. Isn’t that remarkable?” She took his arm and led him toward the door. “Come with me, dear. We’re going to give these two a bit of privacy.” Elizabeth gave a quick smile of encouragement to her daughter before exiting.

Now that she was alone with Gavin, Charlotte’s mouth went dry at what she was about to do.

Chapter 13

As the door to the study closed, Gavin remained still. Judging from the hasty retreat of Charlotte’s mother and in light of the arrival of the painting, he surmised that their ruse of not knowing each other had come to an end. The stunning portrait that leaned against the wall quite clearly indicated in no uncertain terms that he and Charlotte knew each other on an intimate level.

Doña Yvonne had outdone herself. That creative, vivacious woman possessed an amazing talent. The painting was beautiful. There was an incandescent quality to the colors giving their human forms a touch of the divine. Charlotte was mesmerizing in her beauty, and even he had to admit that he looked more handsome than he imagined himself to be. It was quite flattering. But it was the deep emotions portrayed within that astounded him. These two people were undeniably in love with each other.

“It just arrived today.”

Charlotte’s soft voice broke his concentration on the portrait. She had risen from the sofa to stand beside him.

“Was your mother horrified by it?” he questioned.

“Yes, at first she was terribly upset to see me posed in such a way. But I think now she sees that it is simply an incredible work of art.”

Gavin nodded in agreement. “I had no idea it would turn out so fine.”

“Neither did I.”

“Honestly, I never thought I would ever see it.” He tore his gaze from the framed portrait once again and focused on Charlotte. His heart skipped a beat. Her natural beauty was more than any artist could capture. “I am happy she sent it to you.”

“The letter she sent said she hated to part with it, but she thought I should have the portrait. She also said she hoped that you found me.” She paused a moment and there was a catch in her voice when she asked, “Were you looking for me?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “When you left me that day in Spain, I realized I did not know how to reach you. I asked Doña Yvonne if she knew where your home in England was, but she only knew where your aunt lived. I wrote to your aunt, requesting your address, but I never heard from her.”

“You wrote to Aunt Louisa about me?”

“Yes, a few times.”

“Aunt Louisa has been away. She married while we were in Italy and has been traveling with her husband—”

“She married?” he echoed in amazement.

“Oh, yes, it was quite romantic.” Charlotte’s blue eyes sparkled. “She married the man she was in love with her entire life. But she has not been home in London at all. She more than likely has not received your letters.”

“Well, that explains not getting an answer from her,” he said ruefully. A thought perplexed him. “But then how did Doña Yvonne know where to send the painting to you?”

Her elegant brows drew together. “Perhaps Aunt Louisa gave Doña Yvonne my address when she visited Spain on her way to Egypt with Carlos.”

After a thoughtful moment, she asked, “Why were you trying to find me?”

“Do you really have to ask why? I should be asking you why. Why you left without saying good-bye, Charlotte. Without even a word to me. After that night we—” He broke off, unable to speak.

She whispered hurriedly in explanation, “I didn’t think that you would care if I left, that it would—”

“What?!” he boomed. The girl was batty. “Why would you think I wouldn’t care that you left?”

Her chin went up. “I know how you are. You’ve done that with other women and I thought it would be best if I just went on my way—”

“For your information, I have never done that with a woman like you before, and I wanted to marry you,” he ground out between clenched teeth.

The color drained from Charlotte’s face and she stumbled back to the sofa, sank into the cushions as if her legs would no longer support her. “I had no idea.”

He moved to sit beside her. He took her warm hand in his as she spoke.

“When I woke up the next morning I was afraid. I couldn’t face you after … after what we did that night and I didn’t know how to tell you that my aunt and I were leaving. I didn’t want you to feel bound to me or obligated to marry. I just had to get away …” Her voice faded.

“What had I done to make you flee from me?”

“I thought … I thought you were a rogue.”

“I was.” He flashed her a grin.

“I felt that I was merely a summer diversion for you.”

He took in the meaning of her words. He asked softly, “And what was I to you then, Charlotte?”

There was some hesitation before she responded. “I think what I feared most of all were my feelings for you.”

“Why?” He waited for her to continue, holding his breath.

“I had never done any of the things I ’d done with you in Spain before. Posing for the painting, kissing you, being with you …” Soft color suffused her cheeks now. “I’d never felt that way about anyone before, the way I felt about you.”

“And how did you feel?”

“Happier than I ’d ever been in my life.”

He grinned. “That’s how I felt being with you.”

Her blue eyes clouded with doubt. “But, Gavin, I didn’t think you truly cared. You are not serious about anything and I—”

“I was serious about you.” Gavin squeezed her hand.

“I wish I had known that,” she murmured.

“You never gave me a chance to tell you that, did you?”

“I suppose not.”

“Meeting you changed everything for me, Charlotte. Losing you just about destroyed me. Do you have any idea how thrilled I was to find you here? I had no idea that Alec was your stepbrother when he and I became friends. I did not know your stepfamily’s name was Forsythe. What are the chances of me discovering you this way?”

“It is remarkable.”

“It is more than that, Charlotte. It’s fate.”

She raised her eyebrows.

He pressed on. “And the painting of us arriving while I was here? More fate.”

“What does it mean?” she ventured.

He leaned in close to her, his lips brushing the silky softness of her cheek. The scent of lily of the valley wafted over him. “It means that you cannot run away from me this time, because we were meant to be together.”

She pulled back, her eyes searching his. “I wish I hadn’t run from you, Gavin. I regretted leaving you the moment I was on that ship bound for Italy. I was such a fool. It was too late then and I didn’t know how to get back to you. I tried to forget you. I really tried. I thought that if I didn’t speak of you to anyone or tell anyone what happened you would cease to exist. All I succeeded in doing was making myself more miserable each day with longing for you, because I thought of nothing but you all these months. I missed you more than you can imagine.” She finally paused for a breath before she confessed, “Gavin, I won’t run away from you this time.”

As he lost himself in the blue depths of her eyes, his heart turned over in his chest. Unable to resist any longer, he lowered his head to hers and kissed her sweet lips. She responded with undisguised ardor. It was heaven to feel her this way again. Their arms found their way around each other and he held her tight.

He had finally found Charlotte and he was never going to let her go.

“You couldn’t run away now, even if you wanted to,” he whispered in her ear.

“Why is that?”

“Because I am not going to let you. In light of our little scene at the table last night, your stepfather and I had a bit of a chat this afternoon. I asked his permission to marry you.”

She blinked at him. “You did?”

“Yes.” He kissed her again. He would never tire of kissing her. “Yes, and it’s a good thing I did it before he sees that painting.” He imagined Alexander Forsythe being none too pleased over Gavin’s intimate relationship with Charlotte. It was bad enough to have her parents suspect the worst. It was something else to have blatant proof of how far their love affair had progressed.

“What did he say?”

“He consented to the match as long as it is your desire to marry me. Then he wished me luck, informing me that you had turned down numerous offers of marriage in the past.”

Charlotte laughed ruefully. “My reputation precedes me.”

“It’s no laughing matter. You may have refused the others, but not me. I’m not going to lose you again, Charlotte, in spite of your trying to get rid of me.”

“But you are already engaged to the woman your father approves of.”

Enjoying the touch of jealousy he detected in her words, he shook his head in reassurance. “That was never official. In truth, I did not wish to marry her. I was merely at a loss to find you and thought I would please my father. I haven’t even seen the woman since we were young children.”

“Oh,” she breathed, and he noted the relief in her expression as she grinned. “So, are you going to ask me?”

Thrilled, he moved to the floor and knelt on one knee, taking her warm hand in his.

“Gavin!” A smile of delight lit her beautiful features.

His heart thudded loudly, but he had never been more sure of something he wanted before in his life. And he wanted this beautiful woman with him. Forever. “Charlotte Wilton, will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

“Yes, I will marry you,” she whispered, squeezing his hand, “because I love you.”

Gavin moved back to sit beside her and drew her into his embrace. “I love you, Charlotte.” He held her close to his heart for some minutes. He could not believe his good fortune at finding her again.

“Let’s hang the painting in our bedroom,” she murmured.

He laughed low in his throat. Most women would immediately be thinking of wedding plans, but Charlotte was decorating their bedroom. Their bedroom. His heart began to pound again. “Yes, that is exactly where that portrait belongs and that is exactly where we shall hang it. After we return from our honeymoon trip.”

“Our honeymoon …” she said in a soft whisper. “Spain?”

“Where else would we go?”

Charlotte gave him a seductive little smile. “Maybe Doña Yvonne could do another portrait of us?”

“What a brilliant idea….” Gavin kissed her.

The Naked Baron

SALLY MACKENZIE

Praise for The Naked Gentleman

“Hilarity reigns as a queen of love and laughter crafts another “naked” book designed to keep you smiling. This delicious romance blends MacKenzie’s hallmark humor with a cast of unforgettable characters.” —Kathe Robin, Romantic Times

“What a great series! Funny, spicy, and romantic.” —Jane Bowers, Romance Reviews Today

Praise for The Naked Earl

“Naked, noble, and irresistible—who could resist one of Sally MacKenzie’s heroes?” —Eloisa James, New York Times bestselling author

“Providing plenty of heat and hilarity, MacKenzie has great fun shepherding this boisterous party toward its happy ending; readers will be glad they RSVPed.” —Publishers Weekly

“The latest in MacKenzie’s delectably sensual Naked historical Regencies series has plenty of sexy sizzle and charming wit.” —Booklist

Praise for The Naked Marquis

“The Naked Marquis is an endearing confection of sweetness and sensuality, the romance equivalent of chocolate cake…every page is an irresistible delight!” —Lisa Kleypas, New York Times bestselling author

“With a delightfully quirky cast of characters and heated bedroom encounters, MacKenzie’s latest Naked novel delivers a humorous, sprightly romance.” —Romantic Times

“The Naked Marquis is a delicious indulgence. Treat yourself!” —Once Upon a Romance

Praise for The Naked Duke

“MacKenzie sets a merry dance in motion in this enjoyable Regency romp.” —Booklist

“This is a funny, delightful debut by a talented writer who knows how to blend passion, humor and the essence of the Regency period into a satisfying tale.” —Romantic Times

“Debut author Sally MacKenzie has penned a marvelously witty novel…. Readers who enjoy a large dose of humor will love The Naked Duke. The characters are charming, and the pace is quick. It is the perfect book for a cozy winter retreat.” —A Romance Review

EVER SO LIGHTLY

He silenced her with his fingertips. Lord Dawson removed his glove; his skin was warm and slightly rough as he stilled her lips and then slowly traced their outline.

What was he doing? Why did her lips feel suddenly swollen? Grace parted them slightly.

His lips touched hers as lightly as his fingers had. The briefest brush and then brush again…

Also by Sally MacKenzie

THE NAKED DUKE

THE NAKED MARQUIS

THE NAKED EARL

THE NAKED GENTLEMAN

“The Naked Laird”

(novella from LORDS OF DESIRE)

Published by Zebra Books

This one’s for my agent, Jessica Faust,

and my editor, Hilary Sares

And, as always, for Kevin

contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 1

Lady Grace Belmont stepped through the wide double doors into the Duke of Alvord’s ballroom.

Dear God.

She froze on the small landing. Hundreds of candles lit hundreds of faces—and she’d swear every single face was turned toward her. Men in precisely fitted black coats and snowy white cravats raised their quizzing glasses. Brilliantly-gowned women, plumes bobbing, fans shielding their lips, tittered and whispered.

Dear, dear God. She couldn’t escape fast enough—except she couldn’t escape at all. A gaggle of elderly women blocked the stairs.

Blast! Grace swallowed and clenched her hands. She tried to take a deep breath, but the air was too thick with the scent of candle wax, perfume, and infrequently washed bodies. Black dots swam before her eyes. Was she going to swoon? That would be an even more entertaining spectacle for the duke’s guests—the Amazon from Devon, all five feet nine inches and eleven stone of her, collapsing into an ignominious heap—a very large ignominious heap—on the ballroom floor. What a lovely way to begin her first—and last—London Season.

“Isn’t it splendid?”

“What?” Grace looked down at her petite, ethereally beautiful aunt, Lady Oxbury.

“The ballroom, the guests…isn’t it all splendid?” Aunt Kate almost glowed with pleasure. “It reminds me of my own come-out. The room is much the same, but the gentlemen then all wore lace and velvet, of course. They were as colorful as—perhaps more colorful than—the ladies.” She sighed, smiling wistfully. “I was completely enchanted.”

Enchanted? Enchantment was not one of the emotions swirling through Grace’s gut at the moment. Nausea—well, nausea was not precisely an emotion. Terror, mortification, self-consciousness, anger…there was a lively stew brewing inside her, but enchantment was not one of the ingredients—it wasn’t even one of the seasonings.

“You were only seventeen,” Grace said, “and lovely. I am twenty-five and large.”

“Grace!” Aunt Kate frowned at her. “Don’t say that. You are quite regal.”

“Regal.” How Grace detested that word! It was uttered kindly by tiny women like her aunt, women who made her feel like a female Gargantua simply by standing next to her. Unless one were actually of royal lineage, regal was merely a synonym for large.

“Yes, regal. You are very striking. Don’t you see how the gentlemen are admiring you?”

They were certainly admiring one specific part of her. “They are staring, Aunt Kate. That is not the same thing at all.”

“Nonsense. They are all struck by your beauty.” Aunt Kate smiled, but the curve of her lips looked strained. “However, if you keep scowling like that, you will scare them all off.”

One can only hope. “Aunt, can’t you see where all those quizzing glances are directed? Those men aren’t studying my expression; they are examining my bos—”

“Grace!” Her aunt fanned her face and glanced quickly to either side. “Mind what you say. You are not at Standen any longer.”

No, she wasn’t at Standen, was she? And she had only herself to blame. If she’d kept her tongue between her teeth when her aunt had arrived and proposed this hare-brained trip, she’d be home now, curled up with a good book in the drawing room, pretending to listen to Papa discourse on crop rotation and drainage issues.

The thought didn’t give her the feeling of contentment she expected.

She suppressed a sigh. Of course it didn’t. Life at Standen had been comfortable while Papa had mostly ignored her. Now, however…for the last year he’d become obsessed with the need to marry her off.

The elderly ladies had managed to navigate the first step. Now they were struggling with the second. Was it going to take them all evening to reach the floor?

Grace swallowed her annoyance. If only she’d done the same at Standen, but how could she have kept her temper in check when Papa had gone on and on about what a laughingstock she’d be if she appeared at the Season’s events? She couldn’t. So she’d let her temper slip its rein, and it had bolted, taking her good sense with it.

She blew out a short, impatient breath, causing the tendrils that had worked themselves free of her coiffure to float briefly in front of her eyes, and glanced back down at her aunt.

Aunt Kate looked as if she would like to wrap her elegant fingers around her neck in exasperation.

“You are in a pucker over nothing, Grace. Didn’t you notice in the receiving line that Miss Hamilton was almost as tall as you? And I’m sure there are other ladies present as”—Aunt Kate blushed and coughed slightly—“well endowed.” She patted Grace’s arm. “Your father is an idiot. There will be plenty of gentlemen eager to pay you court.”

That was highly unlikely, but there was no need to argue the point. “You know I’m not here to find a husband, Aunt Kate. Papa has already arranged everything with Mr. Parker-Roth. I just came to attend a few parties and see the London sights.” And enjoy my last gasp of freedom before I give my life over to John.

“But do you truly want to marry this neighbor, Grace?”

“Er…” She didn’t, but she was resigned to her fate. She couldn’t live at Standen forever—and marrying for love was a fairy tale reserved to Minerva Press novels. “I’m content with Papa’s choice. After all, didn’t he choose Oxbury for you? And you had over twenty years of marital harmony.”

Aunt Kate’s face suddenly assumed the oddest expression, almost as if she’d taken a bite of stewed eels and couldn’t decide whether to swallow or spit it out.

“Ah…er…yes.” Aunt Kate cleared her throat. “But I do think you might wish—you really might wish—to look around, Grace. Mr. Parker-Roth may be a pearl beyond price, but how will you know unless you see what else is available? I, at least, had a brief Season.”

“Well…”

“You can’t go home like a beaten dog with your tail between your legs and give your father the pleasure of saying he told you so.”

“True.” This was her only chance to see London. She should enjoy the experience. She would think of the male population as simply another sight to see, like London Bridge or Westminster Abbey. “I suppose there would be no harm in looking.”

“Exactly.” Aunt Kate smiled. “And there is so much to look at.” She made a small, graceful gesture encompassing the ballroom. “You have all of society at your feet.”

“Until these ladies finally move and we descend to join the crush.” There was hope. The women had reached the final stair.

Kate’s smile widened. “Indeed. So take a moment to survey the scene. I see a number of tall gentlemen, don’t you?”

“Perhaps.” There did seem to be one or two men above average height, though it was difficult to be certain from this vantage point.

“Perhaps? Of a surety. Look at the man by the ficus over there. Or the one by the windows. Or those two gentlemen by the…by the—oh, dear God.” Aunt Kate turned as white as a sheet and gripped Grace’s arm hard enough to leave marks.

“What is it? What’s the matter?”

Aunt Kate was staring at one of two men standing by a clump of potted palms. The fellow was tall with dark hair, graying slightly at the temples. Distinguished looking—not alarming in the slightest. What could be the matter with—

Grace’s gaze traveled to his companion.

Oh.

Her heart began to thud; heat flooded her face. For a moment she forgot to breathe.

This gentleman was even taller and roughly twelve years younger. His black coat stretched tight across impossibly broad shoulders, and his hair, dark blond and slightly longer than fashionable, waved back from a broad forehead. He had deep-set eyes, high cheekbones, a straight nose, firm mouth…and was that a cleft in his chin?

He was staring at her, but not in the highly obnoxious fashion of the other men. Oh, no. She met his gaze and felt a jolt of…something. The feeling fluttered down to lodge low in her belly.

What was the matter with her? Could the sooty London air be affecting her constitution? She’d never before felt this heat, this heaviness in—

She flushed. Could he tell?

A corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile. He could tell.

Aunt Kate’s fingers dug farther into Grace’s arm and her voice sounded slightly strangled. “I…I need to go to the ladies’ retiring room,” she said. “Now!”

“Damn, this ballroom is crowded.” David Wilton, Baron Dawson, grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing footman and retreated to the relatively quiet spot he’d found by some potted palms. “I can hardly breathe or hear myself think, there are so many people.”

“Welcome to London and the ton.” His uncle plucked one of the glasses from his hand and took a hearty swallow. “Now you know why I abhor the place, though this gathering may be even more of a squeeze than usual. The on dit is everyone’s here to see Alvord’s American houseguest—and to see how Alvord’s cousin reacts to her.”

David grunted and sipped his champagne. Gossip! London must be as bad as—no, worse than—the country. This was his first trip to Town for the Season—and his last, if he had anything to say to the matter. He wouldn’t be here now if he didn’t need a wife. But he did, and he couldn’t choose a woman from the country. He’d grown up with all the females around his estate; he wasn’t able to conjure up the slightest spark of desire in his heart—or other organ—for any of them.

He surveyed the blushing debutantes in their virginal white gowns. Faugh! What a collection of silly young geese.

“See anything—I mean, anyone—you like, nephew?”

“No.” David swallowed, trying to rid his voice of annoyance. “Not yet, at least. But we’ve just arrived. Perhaps the more attractive ladies—the somewhat more mature women—have yet to make their appearance.” He bloody well hoped these fluttering young girls weren’t all society had to offer this Season. He didn’t have forever. Yes, he was only thirty-one and had been a baron for just a year, but life was fragile and death too unexpected. He knew his responsibility. He needed to see to the succession.

Even his devil-may-care father had attended to that before splitting his head open on a rock.

“What about that girl? She’d be a pleasant sight over the breakfast table—or over rumpled bed sheets.”

David looked at the young woman in question—a blonde in a crimson gown with an exceedingly small bodice. The girl noticed their attention and fluttered her fan.

“I don’t think so.” The chit was far too short and thin for his taste. “Do you suppose her mantua maker ran out of fabric before she finished that dress?”

“Perhaps.” His uncle Alex’s voice held a salacious note.

David frowned. “The girl’s young enough to be your daughter.”

Alex’s jaw tightened; something—sorrow, pain?—flickered in his eyes, but it was gone so quickly, David couldn’t be sure he’d seen anything but a shadow from the candlelight.

“A man can look, can’t he?” Alex waggled his eyebrows in a distinctly lascivious fashion. “Admire beauty in all its manifestations?”

“Especially when the chit has two very lovely manifestations almost leaping from her gown.”

“Especially then.”

David laughed. “Behave yourself, uncle.”

Alex scowled. “I am sick to death of behaving myself. I haven’t been to Town in over twenty years. If I choose to celebrate with a little misbehavior, who the hell will care?”

“Surely you don’t intend to take after my disreputable father at this late date?” David hoped the alarm he felt wasn’t reflected in his voice.

“Perhaps I will. Luke’s life may have been short, but it was intense. He knew what he wanted and he took it.”

“But—”

“Mr. Wilton! Oh, Mr. Wilton! I say, can it really be you?”

“Wha—?” They both turned. An elderly woman with a cane and elaborately powdered hair was hobbling toward them as quickly as she could.

“Oh, God,” Alex muttered. “Lady Leighton. I thought she’d been put to bed with a shovel.”

David bit back a laugh. “She looks very much alive—and delighted to see you.”

“God only knows why.”

Lady Leighton grabbed Alex’s arm as soon she got close enough. “About time you came back to Town, Mr. Wilton. It’s been so long, I hardly recognized you.”

“Ah.”

David turned his laugh into a cough. Poor Uncle Alex was apparently rendered speechless by Lady Leighton’s enthusiasm.

The lady frowned and turned her grip into a pat. “I want to tell you I was so sorry to hear of your parents’ passing.”

A muscle jumped in Alex’s cheek. Bloody hell. This time David was certain what he saw in his uncle’s eyes—that stricken, bleak look was sadly all too familiar. When would Alex realize he was not responsible for Grandda’s and Grandmamma’s deaths?

David cleared his throat.

Lady Leighton turned her attention to him. “And who might this be?” She put up a hand as David opened his mouth to reply. “No, don’t tell me—the resemblance is too great. Lord Dawson, correct?”

Damn. Was everyone going to see his ignoble father in his face? That was a trial he’d not anticipated when he’d mentally listed all the reasons not to come to Town. He inclined his head as unenthusiastically as he could manage. Perhaps the woman would take the hint and drop the subject.

No such luck. Lady Leighton thumped her cane on the floor. “Just as I thought. Luke’s son. Does everyone tell you you’re very like your father, my lord?”

David’s stomach clenched. No, thank God. “I’ve been told I resemble him physically.” He had tried his entire life to ensure that was the only way he resembled the man.

“Ah.” She nodded. “Not a scapegrace, eh? Well, for all his faults, Luke Wilton was charming.” She shook her head, sending a flurry of hair powder drifting down to her ample bosom. “Such a senseless tragedy.”

She looked back at Alex. “And such a tragedy Standen insisted on thrusting a spoke in your wheel all those years later, Mr. Wilton. I hope this visit to Town means you’ve finally got over your disappointment? It’s not too late to find a nice girl and start your nursery, you know. You can’t be much above forty.”

“Ah. Er.”

She patted his arm again. “It is time to get on with your life, sir. Past time. Some woman will have you—you’ll see.” She turned back to David. “And are you in London to go shopping on the Marriage Mart as well, my lord? Very good. I like a man who recognizes his duty and gets down to business.” She laughed. “Should I wager which of you will be the first to produce an heir?”

“Ah.” It was David’s turn to be less than coherent.

“I don’t need to tell you—” she said.

He and Alex both shook their heads.

“—but—” Blessedly, Lady Leighton stopped and waved at someone. “Oh, there’s Mrs. Fallwell. I have something of a very particular nature to say to her. I hope you don’t mind if I run off?”

“No, please—” Alex said.

“Don’t let us keep you.” David said.

“Well, then.” Lady Leighton squeezed both their arms. “Good luck with the ladies, my dear fellows,” she said before she toddled off to accost Mrs. Fallwell.

“Thank God.” They looked at each other and laughed.

“I never thought I’d be grateful for Mrs. Fallwell’s presence on this planet.” Alex took another long swallow of champagne. “She’s a gabble-grinder of the first order, you know.”

“Hmm.” David studied his uncle. “What did Lady Leighton mean about your ‘disappointment’? About Standen putting a spoke in your wheel?”

Alex’s ears turned red. “I have no idea.” He gulped the rest of his champagne and grabbed another glass from a passing footman.

“Is there something you haven’t told me?”

“I can’t think of anything.” Alex stared into his champagne glass.

Why wouldn’t his uncle meet his eyes? “Lady Leighton seemed quite—Damn!”

“Damn?” That made Alex look up.

“Yes. The Addison twins are here.” David glanced around, looking for a suitable hiding place.

Alex gave a low whistle. “So they’ve tracked you all the way to London. Very impressive.” He chuckled. “I’d say one of the Misses Addison plans to bag herself a baron.”

“Not this baron.” Those palms might conceal him. And look—a splendidly stout pillar as well.

“Don’t be so certain. You’d best tread carefully if you don’t want to stumble into parson’s mousetrap.”

David didn’t bother to reply, he was too busy putting as many barriers as he could between himself and the Addisons. There was nothing so terribly wrong with the girls, besides the fact that he’d known them since they were in leading strings. Some man would be delighted to wed one of them, but not he. He couldn’t tell them apart for one thing. Confuse his wife with her sister? That would be exceedingly awkward. And they were both far too scraggy.

He peeked around the pillar. They hadn’t seen him, thank God. He watched their bony backsides move past. It was not an inspiring sight.

Were all young women today small and angular? Surely not! There must be some female who would be a good match for a man his size. He was built on a different scale than the usual, just like Grandda had been—and Grandda had found Grandmamma.

Ah. He closed his eyes. He still felt a heavy melancholy when he thought of them, but at least now it was only a dull ache and not the overwhelming, almost physical pain it had been. True, they had both been over seventy, but they’d still been healthy, vigorous, more alive than many people half their age—until their blasted carriage had slid into the big oak at the bottom of the hill between Clifton Hall, Alex’s estate, and Riverview.

They should have stayed the night with Alex. Alex had urged them to. It was dark and rainy. But Grandda was as stubborn as a mule—Grandmamma, too—and they both liked to sleep in their own bed.

And now they were both dead.

Life was indeed fragile—a gift that could be taken back at any moment. He must wed—and bed—someone soon. He would not have the title die with him.

But he didn’t want to wed one of these stick-figure girls. No, he wanted a woman with some meat on her bones. A soft armful—a woman with full breasts and hips who made a comfortable bed herself—sweet, yielding, warm. No, not warm—hot. A woman with a body that made a man forget his own name.

A woman like the one who’d just entered the ballroom.

Zounds! He straightened and closed his mouth. He did not care to appear the complete gape-seed if she should look in his direction.

She was beautiful. Tall, much taller than the older woman at her side, with glorious, wonderful, lusciously full curves. The neck of her gown was, sadly, too high—it covered far too much of her lovely porcelain skin. He would love to touch that skin with his fingers and lips and tongue. Mmm.

And her hair? Also lovely. It was gathered high on her head, a few tendrils escaping to frame her face. His fingers twitched to burrow through that silky mass, freeing the copper-colored length to tumble over her shoulders. Her naked shoulders.

Her naked breasts.

Could they be as large as they looked?

She took a step; turned to talk to her companion. The skirt of her dress pulled tight for a moment, outlining her hips and long, long legs.

Bloody hell, he was almost panting.

Who was she? Perhaps Alex knew. “Alex.”

“What is it?” Alex glanced over his shoulder. “Are you still hiding?”

“No. The Addisons are on the other side of the room. But come here, will you? I’ve got a question for you.”

“Very well.” Alex stepped around the palms. “Always glad to be of service, of course.”

David gestured toward the ballroom entrance. “Who is that woman?”

“Which woman? Surely you aren’t interested in one of the elderly ladies tottering down the stairs?”

“Of course not, you cabbage-head. It’s the tall, beautiful girl on the landing I’m asking about.”

“Oh.” Alex raised his eyes. “How should I know? She must have been in leading strings—if she was even born—last time I was in London.”

“So you have no idea who she is?” Damn. David felt a stab of disappointment.

“No.” Alex raised an eyebrow. “Why are you so anxious to identify the chit? Has she stolen something of yours that you need to alert the Bow Street Runners about?”

Yes. My heart.

God, he hadn’t said that aloud had he? No, Alex was still looking at him with that faintly amused expression. If he’d spoken it, the man’s jaw would be on the floor.

And it wasn’t true in any event. Yes, one of his organs was definitely engaged—and wished to be much more intimately engaged—but it wasn’t his heart.

“Of course not. It’s just that I’ve decided…” David cleared his throat. “That is, I believe the lady would make an excellent baroness.”

“What?” Now Alex’s jaw did drop, and he sloshed champagne on his waistcoat. “Are you daft?”

“No.” David might not know the woman’s name, but he knew he wanted her. She was the first woman he’d seen who’d provoked any, er…interest in him at all. In fact his interest was so great it threatened to become embarrassing.

She wouldn’t be crushed in his bed. He might need to be gentle with her sensibilities, but her body would fit his perfectly. He took a mouthful of champagne, but he barely tasted it. Regrettably, his body was all too anxious to see exactly how well they would fit. He’d best find a way to control his raging interest before he made her acquaintance. She might be more than a little startled if he fell on her like a lust-driven schoolboy.

Her companion had stepped forward so her profile was now visible. David nodded at her. “Perhaps you know that woman, then. I imagine she must be the girl’s mother.”

“I don’t know why you think I—” Alex looked up at the woman and stiffened. “No.” He sounded oddly agitated. “I wouldn’t…she’s rather…she looks—” He made a strangling sound.

“What’s the matter?” Alex was reacting damn peculiarly. David studied the older woman. She wasn’t doing anything unusual—just looking around the ballroom. Her gaze came to Alex…Her mouth fell open, her eyes grew wide, and all the color drained from her face. She grabbed her daughter’s arm.

Ah, the daughter. She was looking at him now, and a very attractive flush swept up her neck to cover her cheeks. Did it also sweep down her body? How fervently he wished he could see…

He could almost feel her eyes on his shoulders, his face. Her tongue slipped out to moisten her lips.

He’d seen women look at him before. This girl wanted him. She probably didn’t know that yet…she was far too innocent to recognize what she was feeling, but he would be more than happy—dashed delighted!—to explain it all to her. In detail. In lovely, hot, wet, slow detail.

“Bloody hell,” Alex murmured. It couldn’t be. Alex squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them again.

It was. Damn. It was Kate.

After all these years, he was in the same room as Lady Kate Belmont—except now she was the Countess of Oxbury.

But Oxbury was dead, had been dead a year. He’d died around the same time as Mama and Da.

Kate had closed her mouth and was turning away, her hand grasping the arm of…her daughter?

No, that wasn’t her daughter. It couldn’t be. He’d kept track. She and Oxbury had had no children. No sons—the title had passed to Oxbury’s cousin—but no daughters, either.

He was embarrassed to admit it, but it had always comforted him that Kate had had no children with Oxbury. He snorted. Did he think her relationship with her husband had been platonic? Unlikely, though Oxbury had been thirty years older than she.

He watched her walk off with the girl. She was still very pale.

David grabbed his arm again. “You do know the pair. Can you introduce me?”

“No!” Kate would have nothing to do with him or with David—with any Wilton. And the girl…she must be a relative. Kate’s brother, the Earl of Standen, had had a daughter…

Even worse.

David was scowling at him. Alex took a calming breath. “The older woman is the Earl of Oxbury’s widow.”

“And the girl? They are obviously together. They must be related in some way—the age difference is too great for them to be merely friends. Yet if the matron is the Countess of Oxbury…”

“She is definitely the countess. I think the girl must be her niece—the Earl of Standen’s daughter.” The bloody bastard.

“So, can you introduce me?”

“No.” Approach Kate? She would probably spit on him.

“Why not? You obviously know Lady Oxbury.”

“I knew Lady Oxbury. I doubt she’d recognize me now.”

David choked on his champagne. “Oh, I’d say she definitely recognizes you, Uncle Alex.”

Why the hell was David grinning at him? “I meant recognize. She’ll give me the cut direct if I try to speak to her.”

“I don’t think so. Introduce me,” David said. “I may not be quite as lofty as an earl, but my barony is an old, respected one. I—”

“You have not been attending. Clear your mind of lust. This has nothing to do with you. Did you not hear the girl’s father’s name? She is the daughter of the Earl of Standen.”

“So? I can—oh.” David’s arrested expression would have been comical in other circumstances.

“Exactly. Standen. The man whom your mother, Lady Harriet, jilted to run off with your father. I assure you, the Earl of Standen hates all Wiltons. He will not—he will never—consider your suit.”

David considered Alex’s slightly strident tone, flushed face, and set jaw.

The Earl of Standen’s daughter…damn. That was a problem, but not an insurmountable one, surely? He’d never met Standen, but the man couldn’t be a complete idiot. He must have moved on from those long ago events—he’d married, had a daughter.

“Surely Standen has got over his disappointment,” David said.

Alex snorted. “The earl has got over nothing.”

“But the scandal was more than thirty years ago. From what Grandmamma said, the earl should be falling on his knees every night and thanking God he didn’t get buckled to mama. She was much too young and too wild to suit him.”

Alex shrugged. “I can assure you the earl harbors no good thoughts concerning our family. He’d drag his sister naked down St. James’s Street before he’d give his consent for a Belmont to marry a Wilton.”

“How do you know that?”

“He told me so himself,” Alex said, his voice more bitter than David had ever heard it, “twenty-three years ago when I asked to marry his sister.”

Chapter 2

“Are you certain you’re all right, Aunt Kate?”

“Ah. Oh. Er…” She certainly was not all right. Thank God the retiring room was empty. Her loss of composure was bad enough—at least she was not enacting a spectacle for an interested audience.

She had to get hold of her emotions before she went back out into the ballroom.

Kate clasped her hands and tried to stop gulping air. If only she could loosen her stays. She should never have had Marie, her maid, lace them so tightly, but she’d stupidly wanted to look young again, slim and virginal and seventeen. Impossible. Marie could tighten her stays until the strings broke, she’d still have lines at the corner of her eyes, threads of gray in her hair…

She wasn’t seventeen any longer. Alex must have been shocked—horrified—to see how she’d aged.

Oh, Alex…

Kate moaned slightly. Breathe in through her nose; out through her mouth. In. Out. Stop panicking.

“Here, try your vinaigrette.” Grace waved the small, aromatic box under Kate’s nose.

“No, I—ah!” Kate’s head snapped up as she inhaled the pungent scent.

“Do you feel better?”

“Ah.” No, she was just more aware of how miserable she felt. Could she spend the entire evening here in the retiring room?

Definitely not. She was Grace’s chaperone. She had to go out into the…

Breathe.

Grace was still waving the vinaigrette in her face. Kate snatched it from her and snapped it shut.

Most likely Alex—Mr. Wilton—hadn’t even noticed her entrance, didn’t remember her or the unfortunate incidents of her long-ago Season, had absolutely no recollection of that mortifying scene in this very garden…

“Ohh.” She covered her face with her hands.

“Aunt Kate, you sound like you’re in pain.”

“No, no, I’m fine.” She waved the hand with the vinaigrette in Grace’s direction.

Had Alex noticed her arrival? She’d been too shocked to see, let alone comprehend, his expression.

“What is the problem?” Grace said. “Is there something…odd about those two men?”

Two men? There were two men? Kate tried to clear some of her distress from her mind. Oh, yes—the other man—the younger one who looked so like Alex. He must be Alex’s nephew, the product of the first Wilton-Belmont scandal.

Why in God’s name was Alex here anyway? He should be safely in the country. What infernal coincidence had sent him to London precisely when she’d chosen to come?

His parents had died around the same time as Oxbury. Perhaps that was it. Death did have a way of making one reevaluate one’s life. Oxbury’s passing had certainly forced her to do some soul searching.

“Aunt Kate…”

Kate flushed. She had barely admitted it to herself, but she had thought…only in a general way, of course…that while Grace was looking for a husband, she might also take a glance around the London ballrooms. Oh, not for another husband—though Oxbury’s heir was certainly making living in the dower house miserable—but for…

Well, she was a widow, and widows were allowed—almost expected to take—certain…liberties. She’d considered…

But she had never expected to see Alex.

Twenty-three years ago, she’d been eager for excitement and surprises. She’d had her head full of silly dreams of handsome men and stolen kisses. Of love and marriage. Of happily ever after.

She was wiser now. She knew life might hold contentment, if one worked hard and had a modicum of luck, but happily ever after? That was only for fairy tales.

But Alex was here. Could it be…was it possible…?

“Aunt Kate, what is the matter with you? Are you ill? Do you need to leave?”

Yes, yes. She needed to leave—leave this ball, leave London. Go home where it was safe, where she could hide.

But she couldn’t hide. Oxbury, with its comforting, orderly house and neatly trimmed lawns, wasn’t her home any longer, and if she fled Town, Grace would have to go with her. She’d miss her Season and her chance to find a husband of her own choosing.

She would not let Grace be forced by circumstances—by Standen—to make the same mistake she’d made…not if she could help it.

“Aunt Kate!” Grace had resorted to shaking her shoulder.

“What?” Kate blinked and looked up. A very worried expression twisted Grace’s features.

“Should we send someone to fetch the carriage?”

“No. No, of course not.” Kate moistened her lips and smoothed her skirt with hands that didn’t shake very much at all. “I am perfectly fine.”

Grace opened her mouth, but Kate put up a hand to stop the words she knew were coming.

“No, truly. I am fine. I had a brief attack of nerves, that’s all.” She forced a smile. “It has been many years since I’ve stepped into a London ballroom. I was momentarily overcome, but I have recovered.” She stood and shook out her skirts. “Come, let’s go back to the ballroom.”

Grace crossed her arms. “Not until you explain what just happened.”

Kate wished Grace wouldn’t loom in such a disconcerting fashion. “I have just explained. I lost my composure briefly.”

Grace’s left eyebrow flew up so she looked just like her father at his most skeptical. Kate had always hated that expression on Standen. Since their parents had died when she was young, she’d seen that look growing up more times than she cared to consider. At least it was better than the cold, haughty expression he assumed when he was furious—as he had been the last time she’d been in London.

“I may be new to Town, Aunt Kate, but I am not a complete flat. You’ve been remarkably calm this whole trip. I cannot think even a ballroom full of the ton could set you to quaking—especially as your nervous attack did not commence until you saw the tall, older gentleman by the potted palms. Who is he?” Grace grinned. “And, more importantly, who is his companion?”

Oh, dear. Grace’s eyes were sparkling. This would never do. Of all the men in London—of all the men in the world—this was the one man Grace could never have.

“I’m not certain.” Kate tried to leave, but Grace caught her arm.

“Who do you think they are?”

Kate sighed. Grace obviously wasn’t going to let her leave without giving her an answer. “I haven’t seen the older man in years, and I’ve never met the younger, but, well, I believe…”

“Yes?” Grace’s nostrils flared and her jaw clenched. If she were her father, she’d start shouting now. “Who are they, Aunt Kate?”

“I believe the older gentleman is Mr. Alexander Wilton and the younger is Mr. Wilton’s nephew, Baron Dawson.”

“Oh.” Grace blinked.

Kate felt slightly relieved. At least Grace appeared to be aware of the problem. She should only require a small word of warning to avoid the men. “I assume your father has mentioned the family?”

“Occasionally.” Grace bit her lip. Yes, she’d heard Papa mention the baron—this baron’s grandfather. Usually it was “that bloody Dawson” followed by a detailed condemnation of the man and his family, past, present, and future. She’d made the mistake once of asking Papa why he disliked Lord Dawson so much. She’d never got a clear answer, only more curses and then tight-lipped silence.

The old baron died a year ago, shortly after Lord Oxbury. That was also when Papa decided she needed to marry John. She’d thought the impetus for his matrimonial mania had been Lord Oxbury’s demise, but now she wasn’t so sure.

“Why does Papa dislike the Wiltons so, Aunt Kate? It’s not as though they are our neighbors. As far as I know, Papa has never met the two gentlemen who are here tonight. Or is it only the old baron he detests? I’ve asked him, but he won’t say.”

Of course he wouldn’t say, Kate thought, and he especially wouldn’t tell his daughter. It was not Kate’s place to reveal Standen’s secrets—and she didn’t relish discussing her own past indiscretions, either. “It’s enough for you to know you must avoid these men.”

Grace’s brows snapped down. She looked extremely mulish—another expression she’d got from her father. “That’s ridiculous. If you can’t—or won’t—tell me what the problem is, then I’ll just have to ask Lord Dawson.” Grace lifted her left eyebrow again. “I assume he knows?”

“Ahh.” Grace wouldn’t have the temerity to ask the baron, would she? “I don’t know what Lord Dawson knows or doesn’t know. It makes no difference. It is not the sort of conversation you can have in a ballroom full of gossips.”

Grace shrugged. “Then I’ll find a more private location for my questions—the garden, perhaps.”

“No!” The last time a Wilton had escorted a Belmont into the Duke of Alvord’s garden…Kate pressed her hand to her bosom. Was her heart pounding with embarrassment or…?

Embarrassment, certainly. Definitely. Without a doubt. She had no desire to reenact that painful evening.

Though it hadn’t been painful until later, when Standen had called her into his study. Her time in the garden with Alex had been special—a cherished memory she would keep locked away in her heart forever.

But Grace must not be making any memories with the current baron. “You know you cannot go into the garden with a man.”

Grace shrugged again. Was that a spark of defiance in her eye? “Of course, I won’t do anything truly scandalous, Aunt Kate. And John won’t be swayed by silly London gossip.”

“Mr. Parker-Roth might not pay attention to London gossip, but the rest of the ton will. Do you wish to have your Season end before it begins?”

“I wish to find out what this secret is that you and Papa have been keeping from me.”

“Grace, I—”

Two women came into the retiring room.

“…and then did you see how Lady Charlotte glared at the Colonial?” the short, round one said. “I never—oh!” She stopped and stared at Kate. Her eyes widened. “Is that…can it be…Lady Kate Belmont? I mean, Lady Oxbury?”

“Y-yes, I’m Lady Oxbury. And you are…?”

“Don’t you know me, Kate?” The woman laughed. “I realize I’ve gained a few pounds with all my babies, but I had hoped I was still recognizable. We made our come-out together, remember? Hid by the ficus trees at the Wainwright ball, too shy to speak to anyone. I was miserable when you left Town so abruptly.”

Kate blinked. “Prudence? Prudence Cartland?”

“The same, except now I’m Lady Delton. And this is my friend, Mrs. Neddingham.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Neddingham. Please let me introduce my niece, Lady Grace.” Kate could not stop smiling as she chatted with the women. She’d never expected—though now that she thought of it, she should have—that she’d know anyone in London. She did remember shy little Prudence—and now that she knew who it was, she could see the young girl she’d shared her come-out with in the broader, older lines of this matron. What other old acquaintances would she find in the ballroom—besides Alex, that is?

Alex. Oh, dear. And Alex’s nephew. She must be certain Grace kept clear of him. The girl had looked far too interested in Dawson. If she were truly attracted to the baron—no, Fate could not be so cruel.

“It was lovely to see you again, Prudence, and to meet you, Mrs. Neddingham, but Grace and I must—” Kate looked to her right. Grace had been there just a moment ago, hadn’t she? She wasn’t there now nor was she anywhere she could see in this small room.

“Looking for your niece, Kate?” Prudence laughed. “I’m afraid she got bored listening to us old women reminisce. She left a good ten minutes ago.”

Lady Luck in the guise of Mrs. Neddingham and Lady Delton had certainly smiled upon her, Grace thought as she slipped out of the ladies’ retiring room. Now she could find Lord Dawson without first having to brangle with Aunt Kate. She was determined to discover why Papa held the baron’s family in such aversion—and why Aunt Kate had fled when she’d seen Mr. Wilton.

If there were skeletons in her family closet, she wished to meet them, especially as they seemed to be pushing her down the church aisle toward Mr. Parker-Roth.

The ballroom was even more crowded than when she’d arrived. Couples filled the center of the room, making their way through the figures of the dance while knots of turbaned chaperones gossiped and giggling debutantes darted glances at the young bucks lining the walls. The din of all the voices almost drowned out the orchestra, and the competing smells of perfume, pomade, and, well, bodies were truly suffocating now that she was down in the midst of them.

Where was Lord Dawson? He should not be hard to locate—he was one of the tallest men in the room. There was his uncle, still by the potted palms. And the baron? Ah! He was standing by a ficus tree near the doors to the garden.

She felt the same jolt seeing him now as she had when she’d been standing on the ballroom landing, and this time he wasn’t even looking at her. What was it about him that started this convocation of butterflies in her stomach? Not that the sensation was confined to her middle. Oh, no. She felt a fluttering in her chest as well as—she blushed—other, unmentionable places.

Were all the women in the room similarly affected? How could they not be—though no one else appeared to be staring at him as she was.

They should be staring. If this room were a painting, Lord Dawson would be the subject. Everyone else, all the other men, women, everything surrounding him was incidental, background and setting for him.

He stood quiet and alert, alone. Would he look her way? She felt breathless with anticipation—

Silly. She was not going to stand here waiting for him to notice her. She needed to speak to him; she could not leave that conversation to chance. She started to make her way around the room’s perimeter, but she couldn’t move quickly enough. She watched him slip outside.

No matter; she would follow him. She would not be deterred by something so minor as a few plants and the evening sky, no matter what Aunt Kate said. Aunt Kate was a chaperone—it was her duty to worry. She was old enough to make her own decisions.

She sidestepped an elderly woman with a cane and an excess of plumes, avoided the eye of a portly gentleman, and reached the door.

Had Lady Oxbury and her niece left the ball? He’d looked for them the last ten minutes and had seen no sign of either of them.

David resisted the urge to take out his timepiece once more. He’d been getting far too many interested looks from Alvord’s guests—particularly those of the feminine persuasion; he didn’t wish to cause everyone to speculate why he kept pulling his watch out of his pocket. Best to try for patience. If they hadn’t left—and God, he hoped they hadn’t—they would have to appear in the ballroom eventually.

He stepped to the other side of a ficus tree to avoid a very intent-looking mama and her debutante daughter.

He should not be avoiding them—he should be speaking to them and to all the other ladies in the room. He should not be concentrating on Standen’s daughter. Alex was right—life would be much simpler if he could find a pleasant woman without a history linked to his blasted father.

Yes, he liked Lady Oxbury’s niece’s appearance—Zounds, how he liked her appearance! He was growing shockingly enthusiastic just thinking of her appearance…but he hadn’t met her. She might smell of garlic or have a voice as shrill as a fishmonger’s wife.

He forced himself to look around the ballroom. There were plenty of matrimonial candidates present. They all had two eyes, a nose, a mouth, a quantity of hair arranged in ringlets and curls. Not one made his…ahem…heart leap.

He was as bad as a hound that had caught the scent of a fox. Lady Oxbury’s niece was all he could think about.

If only she weren’t the Earl of Standen’s daughter. Or if only her father were a reasonable man. Did Standen actually blame him for Lady Harriet’s death? Impossible. Many women died in childbirth. Hadn’t Standen’s wife died trying to birth the man’s stillborn heir?

And surely Standen didn’t hold him accountable for his father’s actions? People might think he looked like Luke Wilton, but no one had ever blamed him for causing his parents’ elopement.

He snorted. He could have caused it, he supposed, but he’d always been given to understand he’d yet to be conceived when the young couple had made their dash for the border—though they’d certainly not wasted any time in seeing to his creation.

Or did Standen simply consider him bad seed from bad seed?

Anger coursed through his gut. The bloody fool. If anyone had a right to bear a grudge, it was him—but he didn’t blame Standen for his father’s death. He didn’t blame anyone, though if there were guilt to be apportioned, he’d lay some on the doorstep of Lord Wordham, his mother’s father. If the man hadn’t tried to force his daughter to wed Standen, the whole sorry train of events would not have been put in motion.

He relaxed his jaw, unclenching his teeth. Lord Wordham was dead; it was useless to expend any more anger on him.

He would just have to persuade Standen he was the perfect husband for his daughter. He should be able to do it—he’d lived his entire life proving to the world he was nothing like Luke Wilton.

He allowed himself another glance at his watch. Where could the ladies have gone? There was still no sign of them. He might have to concede defeat for tonight. But he would search for them again at the next gathering. He looked forward to it—and that in itself was something to celebrate. He hadn’t looked forward to anything since his grandparents’ damn carriage accident.

He closed his eyes briefly. He was definitely doing better. He’d finally accepted the fact Grandda and Grandmamma were gone. He’d accepted that he was now baron and needed to attend to those duties—all those duties.

He smiled. And tonight he’d made the next step. He no longer just accepted the need for a wife and heir, he looked forward to winning the wife and getting the heir.

Another debutante and marriage-minded mama were heading his way. He should talk to them; dance with the girl…

He couldn’t. He stepped out the door to the garden.

Where was Grace? Kate scanned the ballroom. Music spilled over her and, despite her need to find her niece, Kate’s heart lifted. She used to love to dance. She watched the couples gliding around the room, waltzing. It was scandalous, men and women touching each other like that. Completely scandalous.

What if the waltz had been danced when she’d had her come-out? What would it have been like to have waltzed with Alex all those years ago?

Regret darkened her heart like the sooty London air. She saw him still standing by the palms. He was looking at her…

She looked away. She had to find Grace. She couldn’t think about Alex and the past.

She couldn’t think about anything else.

She was still beautiful.

Alex took another gulp of champagne. He much appreciated Alvord’s verdant decorating scheme. This vase of flowers, for example, was very strategically placed among the potted palms. His skin-tight breeches left nothing to the imagination, making painfully clear to any casual observer exactly where his imagination had strayed.

Painfully clear, yes—with the emphasis on pain. He had to think of something other than Kate. There was little hope he could ease this ache tonight.

But if he could—

It was very, very fortunate the floral arrangement before him was a splendidly bushy collection of vegetation.

He squeezed his eyes shut briefly, but that didn’t stop the memories. Twenty-three years ago, at a ball given by the previous Duke of Alvord, he’d asked Kate to marry him. He’d known who she was, yet he’d still let himself fall in love with her. He grimaced. Could he have been any more mutton-headed?

No. It was not possible—unless he surpassed himself tonight.

He looked at Kate again. She was standing alone by the windows to the terrace now, fanning herself. Standen’s daughter had vanished.

Tsk, tsk, Kate. You need to be more vigilant. You know what can happen in the duke’s garden.

Madness. He’d taken Kate into Alvord’s garden all those years ago and had asked her to marry him. It had been the only spontaneous, daring thing he’d ever done in his life. She’d said yes, even though, as he learned later, she was already engaged to Oxbury.

And then he had kissed her. It had been a rather chaste kiss. She’d been a virgin, after all, and he, not much more than one.

He smiled slightly. God, how that kiss had haunted him. It had been awkward and short, barely more than a brushing of lips, but full of longing and possibilities. A promise of future passion—a promise sadly unfulfilled. The next morning when he’d called to ask for Kate’s hand, Standen had let him know in no uncertain terms that hell would freeze over before a Wilton would marry a Belmont. Kate had already been packed off to the country.

He hadn’t seen her since—until tonight.

She was a widow now. Perhaps she missed male companionship…

He took another swallow of champagne. He could use some liquid courage.

He’d swear she hadn’t changed at all. She still looked as fragile, as sylphlike, as she had that first Season.

Would she go with him into the garden? Would she let him kiss her again? But this time the kiss he gave her wouldn’t be in the least bit chaste—it would be wet and hot and carnal.

He downed the rest of his champagne, hid the glass in the greenery, and stepped out of the palm fronds. It was time to put his hopes to the test.

Kate looked at the window. The candlelight and dancing couples were reflected splendidly, but as for the terrace outside…She couldn’t see a thing unless she stuck her nose to the glass and cupped her hands around her eyes to block the light from the ballroom.

She should go find Grace. The girl must be out on the terrace—she was nowhere to be found in the ballroom.

How could Grace ignore Kate’s pointed warnings? Didn’t she understand the danger? Yes, she was significantly older than most debutantes, but this was her first London Season. It would not be hard for her to put a foot wrong, especially as she seemed to think her age and size exempted her from society’s rules.

Kate knew all too well what could happen in the Duke of Alvord’s garden.

Dear heaven. Just the thought of the garden brought so many memories flooding back. Memories and…sensations.

She plied her fan vigorously. She should stop trying to delude herself. She hadn’t gone out looking for Grace because she hoped by staying in the ballroom Alex might approach her. She was being terribly irresponsible. And pitiful.

Her stays were much too tight. She would listen to Marie from now on and forget her silly notions of appearing youthful. She tried to draw a deeper breath.

She’d like to escape the crush herself—and the decidedly stuffy air, she thought, wrinkling her nose. She’d like to go into the garden with Alex—

No! Not with—most certainly not.

Dear God, would this evening never end? She was so hot and uncomfortable—and everyone was talking about her. Oh, Prudence had been very friendly, but there had been a touch of pity in her old friend’s eyes. And why not? Prudence had a house full of children and Kate had…nothing.

She glanced around the room—and saw Alex.

She whipped her eyes away and pretended to look out the window again. Would he ask her to dance or, worse, stroll in the garden?

She moved her fan faster.

He must have had innumerable conquests these twenty-three years while she’d been busy being a good wife—well, a wife—to her husband—her much older husband.

Oh God, he was coming her way.

She should join the other chaperones. There was safety in numbers. She glanced at the knot of older women. They were darting looks at her and Alex and whispering behind their fans.

No, she wouldn’t join the chaperones.

She watched Alex’s reflection. He was coming closer…

She moistened her lips. Her stomach shivered. Her heart, even her—She blushed and fanned more vigorously still. Tendrils of hair flew about her face.

Even the secret place between her legs, the place Oxbury had entered frequently in the early days of their marriage when there was still hope she could bear him an heir and not so frequently later—not at all in the last months when he’d been so sick—even that place shivered.

It was as if she’d been asleep all these years and now she was waking.

“Lady Oxbury?”

He was standing right behind her. She turned slowly to face him. She stared at his white waistcoat. Her mouth was as dry as dust. She couldn’t speak.

“Lady Oxbury, are you all right?”

She tried to breathe, but the damn stays were too confining. “I…” She managed to raise her eyes from his chest to his lips.

His mouth was firm, serious, his lips narrow…

Did she remember how they felt? She would swear that she did. Their light, brief touch, brushing over her mouth, had ignited a fire that had smoldered for twenty-three years.

She met his eyes—

Ahh. Heat flared in those blue depths. His gaze was so intent.

She moistened her lips again.

The embers of that old fire were bursting back into life. The conflagration would incinerate her if she were not careful.

Did she want to be careful?

Was she a moth, flying to her death, or a phoenix, reborn by flame?

“Come with me into the garden, Kate.” His voice, low, full of promise, melted any whisper of resistance her conscience might muster.

That wasn’t all it melted. Her lips, her breasts, ached for his touch; the secret place throbbed, wept for him.

Heat swept up her cheeks. She had been faithful to Oxbury all the years they were wed and the long year since his death. Was she a light skirt, then, to so easily consider going into the garden with this man?

No. This was not any man—this was Alex.

Moth or phoenix, suicide or rebirth, it didn’t much matter. She was going out into the garden with Alex, even if she had to drag him into the bushes herself.

Chapter 3

The terrace was markedly cooler, quieter—and darker. The ballroom candles cast only very small circles of light from the door and windows. There were lanterns, yes, but they seemed to create more shadows than they dispelled—if the murmurings Grace heard were any indication, a number of couples were delighted to take advantage of the dim light.

She should go back inside. Now that she considered the matter, she realized it would be rather awkward to try to initiate a discussion with the baron out here. They had never been introduced, after all. Lord Dawson probably had no idea who she was.

She flushed, remembering how he’d looked at her when she’d stood on the ballroom landing. His eyes had seared a path straight to her soul, if her soul was located—

Oh! The place low in her…well, that place throbbed again. It could not be her soul—it was far too physical.

“Pardon me, but are you going out, miss?”

“What? Oh, er…” She was blocking the door, wasn’t she? A short, balding man wished to get through—a short, balding man who was now drooling on her bodice.

She stepped back quickly and caught her heel in her hem.

“Ack!” She flung out her hands to recover her balance, but it was hopeless. She was going down. She would indeed end in an ignominious heap, but at least not in the middle of the ballroom—“Oh!”

A pair of strong arms caught her and hauled her up against a rock-hard chest.

“Are you all right?” The voice was warm, deep, concerned—but with a hint of laughter.

“Ah.” She blinked up at her rescuer—Lord Dawson, of course. “Er.”

She couldn’t form a coherent sentence—she couldn’t think. She’d never been so close to a man before. A host of sensations overwhelmed her: the hard strength of Lord Dawson’s arms holding her as if she weighed nothing; the rough texture of his coat against her cheek; the clean scent of his linen and…him.

She felt small. She had never felt small. Even as a child, she’d towered over the other girls and most of the boys. The feeling was completely disorienting.

She concentrated on Lord Dawson’s face, but that didn’t help. If anything, such a close inspection caused her heart to pound harder and her poor brain to drift further into its stupor.

He did have a slight cleft in his chin. And a dimple in his cheek. And long, dark lashes framing his eyes…

His teeth were white and even in the shadows. Was he laughing at her? It wouldn’t be odd if he were. She was gaping up at him like a complete ninny.

“Are you all right?” The laughter was more pronounced, but there was a different undertone now. The heat was back in his eyes.

“Has she swooned, Dawson? Should I send someone for help?”

“I don’t believe that will be necessary, Delton.”

Good God, what was she thinking? Lingering in Lord Dawson’s arms was bad enough, but lingering on the Duke of Alvord’s terrace with an interested group of spectators gathered round, one of whom must be the husband of Aunt Kate’s friend—She didn’t need her aunt to point out she was flirting with social suicide.

Grace struggled to right herself. Lord Dawson released her, but kept a steadying hand on her elbow. She should shake him off, but she did still feel a trifle in need of support.

She straightened her skirt and lifted her chin. “I’m fine, sir. Thank you for your concern.”

“I’m so sorry, miss. I…” Delton shrugged. He was clearly uncertain what he’d done to cause this particular disaster. Not surprising. He had merely been trying to pass through a doorway. It was unfortunate her bosom was on level with his face, but that was not his doing.

“Please, don’t give it another thought,” Grace said. “It was my fault completely.”

Lord Dawson squeezed her elbow. “Ah, but a lady is never at fault, is she, Delton?”

“No, indeed. I take full responsibility.”

“No, no. I should not have lingered in the doorway.”

David smiled slightly. Was Standen’s daughter going to argue with Delton? He’d best get the girl off the terrace. They were beginning to gather a crowd.

His smile widened. He’d be delighted to take her into the garden and begin his courtship. Very delighted. How fortunate he’d been standing in exactly the right place when the lady had stumbled.

Mmm—very fortunate. Just as he’d expected, she was an entrancing armful. He’d been hard pressed not to steal a kiss in front of Delton and all their interested onlookers. With luck and skill, he might be able to steal one in the foliage. The lady had not been struggling to get out of his arms. No, she’d seemed quite content to remain there.

He stepped back slightly, a little behind the girl and closer to the garden stairs.

He definitely needed to retreat to the leafage—his enthusiasm was becoming a bit too apparent. He grinned. Fortunately, he could hide behind the lady’s skirts.

And he needed to discover her given name. He could not keep thinking of her as Standen’s daughter.

“Well, no harm done,” he said, interrupting the polite, but pointless apologies. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Delton? I believe the lady would benefit from a calming stroll through the garden, don’t you?”

“Yes, indeed. Don’t let me delay you a moment longer. Just came out to blow a cloud, don’t you know? I’ll step out of the way then. So sorry for the accident. Do enjoy your walk—the greenery is very soothing.”

“But—”

Surely the girl wasn’t going to keep protesting her fault in the silly contretemps? Delton shot him a pleading look. He agreed. Someone needed to take the young lady in hand, and he was more than happy to be that person. He had his hand on her already. He exerted a slight pressure and directed her toward the garden steps.

“We are attracting a small bit of attention, my dear,” he murmured. “I cannot think you will like that.”

“Oh.” The girl glanced around the terrace.

“A few moments admiring Alvord’s plantings will give you time to compose yourself and give the witnesses to our little—our very minor—scene time to lose whatever interest they have in you and your activities.”

Her brows lowered into a frown. “But isn’t walking in the garden scandalous?”

“Not at all. Do you think the Duke of Alvord would have lanterns hung along his garden paths if walking there were scandalous?” Of course, David did not intend to stay on the paths the entire time, but there was no need to mention that.

“Oh. No, I suppose you are correct.”

Aunt Kate would not approve, Grace thought as she descended the steps on Lord Dawson’s arm. Ha—there was an understatement! She had explicitly told Grace not to go into the garden with the baron. But Aunt Kate was overly nervous, and the baron had a valid point. If strolling amongst the plants was so daring, the duke would not have tempted his guests with lantern-lit walkways.

Grace needed to talk to the man—she’d come out on the terrace with that specific goal. The privacy of such a perambulation would be perfect for getting to the bottom of her father’s strange antipathy and Aunt Kate’s odd nervous attack.

She would behave perfectly respectably, and Lord Dawson wouldn’t offer her anything but conversation. Men never did.

But if he did…

She glanced up at the baron and felt a small frisson, a tiny shiver of excitement.

They turned left at the bottom of the stairs and followed the path toward the main section of the garden, leaving the ball’s light and crowds behind. A slight breeze brushed Grace’s cheek. She could almost believe they were in the country now. Almost, but not quite. This was London after all, and London was never really quiet. The noise of the street—the creak and jingle of harnesses, the rattle of wheels on cobbles, the shouts of the coachmen—blended with the drone of conversation drifting from the open ballroom windows.

They strolled past a rustic bench and paused by a small fountain with a statue of Pan capering in its center. Water cascaded from the god’s pipes and splashed merrily from a multitude of fishes’ mouths.

Lord Dawson wandered over to the far side of the fountain to examine a fish that wasn’t spouting. Grace followed him. The vegetation was especially overgrown here—they were almost in a small bower. If John were present, he’d be giving her a lecture on every leaf and twig. She sincerely hoped Lord Dawson was not a botanist.

“Is that a trout?” A stupid question—it was just a stone decoration. It could be a whale for all she cared.

The baron shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not much interested in fish.” He smiled and turned to face her. Somehow her hand had ended up in his—and his was missing its glove. “But I am very interested in you. Will you gift me with your name? My Uncle Alex didn’t know it, and I cannot keep calling you Standen’s daughter or Lady Oxbury’s niece.” He rubbed his thumb over her palm.

“Oh, ah.” Another, larger shiver of excitement teased her. She cleared her throat. “Grace—my name is Lady Grace.”

He brushed a strand of hair back from her face. “And I am David Wilton, Baron Dawson of Riverview.” His voice deepened. “I am very, very glad to meet you, Lady Grace.”

Grace withdrew her hand and gave the man a cautious look. They were secluded here, but not completely hidden. Anyone passing by on the walkway could see them, if they looked. Lord Dawson appeared relaxed and pleasant—not at all predatory.

She was in no danger. It was perfectly safe to take advantage of the moment and ask about her father—and her aunt.

Her hand still tingled from the motion of his thumb on her palm. She rubbed it against her skirt.

And what if something besides information was exchanged?

She moistened her lips. If such an opportunity presented itself…well, she would be daring and enjoy her brief window of freedom.

She was twenty-five; she had never in all those years done anything the least bit scandalous. She was too old and sensible to allow herself to be led into complete ruin. There were hundreds of people nearby; if she became alarmed, she had a sturdy pair of lungs.

David watched thoughts of caution flit over Grace’s face. He should not take advantage of her, she was so innocent. She had followed him so trustingly.

But how could he not take advantage? It was dark, and they were in this sheltered spot. He would not hurt her. His intentions were only honorable.

Hmm. Perhaps it depended on how one defined honorable. He would not take her beyond the point of no return, but he would take her as close to that point as she—and the vertical nature of their encounter—would allow. And he meant marriage, of course. He definitely meant marriage.

A few creative uses for this splendid fountain popped into his imagination, but he suppressed them. Lady Grace was a virgin, and there were hundreds of the haut ton just yards away in the ballroom—as well as a few walking in the garden, no doubt. Once they were wed, once he’d accustomed her to marital relations, then they could attempt more inventive activities.

Grace looked serious, as if she meant to get down to business—and not the business he would most like to get down to.

“I came out on the terrace looking for you, Lord Dawson.”

“You did? How splendid—and please call me David.”

Her eyes widened. “I couldn’t possibly. I hardly know you.”

“Oh, you will know me much better shortly.”

She flushed as best he could tell in this dim light.

“I—”

“Shh.” He stepped closer. “Not so loud. Sound carries in the night air, you know.”

“Ah—” She looked adorably confused. Her mouth was agape—He definitely had to take advantage of such an inadvertent invitation.

He brought his head down slowly; he gave her plenty of opportunity to move, but she didn’t dodge out of the way. He saw in her eyes the moment she decided to take the kiss he was offering. He smiled as he closed the last few inches.

Her lips were firm, smooth, sweet. And her mouth! He only used the tip of his tongue, tracing her lips, dipping past them just slightly. He wanted her enthralled, not frightened. She was so still it was clear this was her first time. Gently, he brought her closer until she was touching him from chest to knees.

Who would have thought careful, restrained kissing could be so bloody erotic? He was restricting his lips to her face and his hands to her clothed, corseted back, but he was more aroused than he could ever remember being. And she was so responsive.

Grace panted, making little mewling sounds. Once Lord Dawson’s—David’s—lips had touched hers, all thought had evaporated, leaving her lost in a whirlwind of sensation. His lips moved lightly, briefly, tantalizingly over her mouth, like a butterfly’s wings, teasing. Her own lips felt swollen; his tongue touched them, slid slowly over them.

Heat pooled low in her belly, making everything in that region throb and ache. She wanted…she needed…what?

His hands brought her body against his. Oh! This. She needed this—and still it wasn’t enough.

He cradled her against his chest and moved to explore her eyelids, her cheekbones. Was she moaning? Surely not.

She felt a chuckle rumble through his chest as his hand cupped the back of her head.

“Shh.” His lips brushed her earlobe, his words stirring her hair, tickling over her ear, sending shivers skittering down her spine. “Remember, sound travels at night. We don’t want anyone to find us.”

No, that was right. No one should find them because…because they were…

They were behaving scandalously in the foliage.

She shoved hard against the miscreant’s chest. He loosened his hold immediately.

“What seems to be the problem?” The oaf was grinning.

What wasn’t the problem? She, the unmarried daughter of the Earl of Standen, was alone in the garden with a man her father hated. And not merely alone. No. She had allowed the fellow shocking liberties. She had had her person plastered up against his; she had allowed him to kiss her—

She inhaled sharply and covered her mouth with her hand. She had allowed Lord Dawson to give her her very first kiss. Was she mad? Surely that favor should have been reserved for her intended, John Parker-Roth, and not this rogue. Certainly not this rogue. Perhaps Papa was right to hate his family.

“What is it, sweetheart? Cat got your tongue?”

Something about the way he said “tongue” made her flush. She tried to respond, but the noise she made was incoherent—a sound somewhere between a gulp and a growl. She tried again.

“Lord Dawson, I…I…” What was the appropriate thing to say in this situation?

There was no appropriate thing.

She should slap him soundly, but that seemed unfair. He hadn’t been forcing his attentions on her—she had been a very active participant.

“Ohh.” The thought caused a slow snake of shame to curl through her stomach. She dropped her face into her hands.

“Grace.” She felt his arm come around her shoulders. He pulled her close. She should struggle, but she didn’t have the spirit to do so. Besides, his touch was comforting.

“Grace, it’s all right. We did nothing wrong. My intentions are honorable.”

She lifted her head. “Honorable?”

He grinned. “Definitely. I know it’s a bit precipitous, but…Will you make me the happiest of men?”

“What?” Surely she had misheard.

His grin widened. “Will you marry me?”

She felt her jaw drop. This might be her first time in London, but she could not believe every excursion into the foliage there resulted in a marriage proposal. No one had seen them, and while she most certainly shouldn’t have been doing what she’d been doing, no permanent harm had been done. “Are you a lunatic? You’ve just met me.”

He shrugged. “I could tell from the moment you stepped through the ballroom door, you would be the perfect baroness for me.”

The man was a lunatic—a very attractive lunatic, but a lunatic nonetheless. Or perhaps he was destitute? “I’m not a notable heiress, you know.”

He looked at her as if she were the lunatic. “I don’t need to marry money—I’m quite plump in the pocket.”

“Oh. Well, I can’t marry you in any event.” And why did she feel a pang of regret when she said that? All she knew of Baron Dawson was that Papa hated his family—and that he was tall, handsome, and skilled in the amatory arts.

He frowned. “Why not?”

“Besides the fact that I don’t know you—”

He grinned. “That’s easily remedied.”

Grace tried not to roll her eyes. “—I already have an understanding with a gentleman.” Papa certainly understood she would marry John, and John definitely had his eye on that patch of Papa’s land bordering his estate—he wished to plant roses or rhododendrons or something on it.

She started walking back to the ballroom. Lord Dawson fell into step beside her. She had to admit it felt very nice to be beside a man who, well, fit her. She allowed him to place her hand on his arm again.

“You didn’t kiss me as if you had an understanding with anyone,” he said.

She jerked her hand back. “I didn’t kiss you at all.”

His dratted eyebrow flew up.

“You kissed me.” Her face must be glowing again. She should rent herself out as a lantern.

“That’s true. And you struggled mightily to free yourself from my unwanted attentions, didn’t you?”

“Er.” No, she hadn’t struggled; she’d welcomed his advances in a totally shocking fashion. Yes, that was it. Shocking. “I was so shocked I couldn’t move.”

“Hmm.” Baron Dawson just looked at her. “So, this understanding…are you betrothed?”

“Ah, not precisely…” And why was she prevaricating? She was as good as taken.

“Oh? What—precisely—are you?”

“Well, er…” She just couldn’t say the word “engaged.” And she wasn’t engaged—not quite. Technically, she was free for the moment, for these precious few moments she was in London.

“You are undecided.” Lord Dawson took her hand again and raised it to his lips. He smiled slowly. “I shall help you decide.”

“No. I…”

He picked a leaf out of her hair. She was perfect for him. He was so tired of tiny women. He was always afraid he’d hurt them. Grace on the other hand…he would wager she could meet him thrust for thrust.

Zeus, what a thought! His anatomy sprang to attention, eager to begin thrusting posthaste.

He would persuade her to have him. She might think she was committed to this other fellow, but her body told him differently. She would not have kissed him with such innocent yearning if she were in love with someone else.

“You know, you never told me why you came out looking for me,” he said. He sent her a sidelong glance. “I suppose it wasn’t to drag me into the shrubbery?”

He was rewarded—she stopped. She was almost emitting sparks when she turned to face him. Regretfully, they were now in view of the terrace, so he could not do anything more than admire the sight she presented.

“It was not, you clod pole! I came to ask you about my aunt and Papa. Do you know why there is such enmity between our families?”

Perhaps it was fortunate Grace’s back was to the house. She didn’t see her aunt and his uncle slip out the ballroom door. Her aunt didn’t see them either, but Alex did. He paused momentarily and then guided Lady Oxbury in the opposite direction. They disappeared behind an overgrown tree.

“Enmity?” He almost laughed. He’d guess hostility was not the motivation urging those two into the foliage. Good for old Alex.

“Yes. Aunt Kate had such a strong reaction when she saw your uncle, she had to withdraw to the ladies’ retiring room to regain her composure. Do you know what the connection is between them?”

He could guess what the connection was about to be. “I believe my uncle asked your aunt to marry him the last time she was in London.”

Lady Grace gasped. “No! Aunt Kate never mentioned such a thing.”

“Uncle Alex never mentioned it, either, until your aunt entered the ballroom this evening.” Odd. Why hadn’t Alex told him before? They’d certainly got drunk together enough times over the years. And they’d been discussing matrimony—his need for a wife and heir—frequently since he’d inherited the title. It would have been natural to bring up a blighted marriage proposal over a bottle of port.

Had Alex suffered a broken heart? Now that he considered the matter, it was odd his uncle had never married. Alex wasn’t the sort to enjoy casual liaisons—and he was certainly well past his salad days. True, he didn’t have a title to pass on, but he did have his own estate—had had it for years. He should have had a wife and children as well.

Grace’s aunt had married Lord Oxbury…

Dash it, if Lady Oxbury had been cruel to Alex…well, he might have to have a private word with her on that subject.

Lady Grace was shaking her head and worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. It quite sent thoughts of Lady Oxbury and Alex from his head.

“How could that be the reason Papa holds all Wiltons in aversion? A marriage proposal is not an insult—unless your uncle is as busy in the bushes as you are.” Grace shot him a most pointed look.

He was willing to bet Uncle Alex was being very busy in the bushes at the moment.

“But an offer would have addressed any question of scandal.” Grace frowned. “Are you certain your uncle did actually offer?”

“Oh, yes. And your father turned him down. He hated Wiltons long before Alex asked for your aunt’s hand.”

“Why? Though if your relatives are all as annoying as you, I quite understand it.”

“Very funny. Did your father never tell you about Lady Harriet, the daughter of the Marquis of Wordham?”

She frowned. “No. Who is she?”

“Was. Who was she.” He smiled slightly. “She was my mother.”

Grace’s expression changed in a blink. The frown vanished; her eyes and mouth softened. She touched his arm lightly. “I’m sorry.”

An odd warmth spread through his chest. Stupid. Grace’s compassion was misplaced. He’d had Grandmamma. She’d probably spent more time with him than his mother would have. By all accounts, both his parents had been headstrong and wild, setting things whirling and tumbling like a windstorm, leaving everyone else to clean up the debris.

He didn’t have Grandmamma any longer, of course. Riverview was empty now.

But it wouldn’t be empty when he married Grace. They would fill it with their children—with their sons and daughters. It would be far livelier then than it had ever been when he was a child.

Grace had to accept him…and reject the man in the country.

He pushed aside the guilt that threaded through his gut at that thought. He needn’t feel guilt. Grace didn’t love the fellow.

And was this how his father had reasoned when he’d planned his elopement, stealing Lady Harriet from Standen?

God, no! He was nothing like Luke Wilton.

Grace was frowning again. “Why would Papa have told me about your mother?”

“Ah…” He would consider any parallels—and there were none—between his father and himself later. He was alone in the garden with a beautiful woman, even if he was only giving her a history lesson now. “Because thirty-one—well, thirty-two years ago, to be precise—my mother jilted your father to run off to Gretna with the notorious Luke Wilton.”

Chapter 4

“I should look for Grace.” Kate sounded more than a little hesitant, as if her heart was not in that particular search. Good. Alex had other plans for their brief time together.

It was markedly cooler outside. A scattering of couples dotted the terrace, but Lady Grace was not among them. Alex glanced off to the left and saw her with David in the garden. Should he tell Kate?

“I take it this is Lady Grace’s first Season?”

Kate sighed. “Yes. She is a bit old for a debutante—well, more than a bit—she’s twenty-five. My brother was planning to marry her off to a neighbor, but his butler’s cousin works in the Oxbury dairy and she told my housekeeper who told me. I couldn’t…I thought I should bring Grace to Town.”

“I see.” Twenty-five? The girl could manage on her own. As could David. Alex had warned him not to hunt that ground, but if David chose to ignore his sage uncle’s advice, so be it. David wouldn’t harm Lady Grace. And Alex had his own concerns to attend to.

He placed Kate’s hand on his arm. Ah! She smelled of lavender just as she had all those years ago, when he was young and believed the future was full of promise, not guilt and regret.

Her fingers trembled slightly, but she didn’t withdraw.

He smiled. Perhaps the future was full of promise. He certainly hadn’t felt this hopeful in a long, long time—since he’d last entered this garden with Kate.

He guided her down the terrace steps and off to the right, toward the little bower they’d found that first Season. Was it still there? It wouldn’t be surprising if it weren’t. Twenty-three years was a long time. The duke—the previous or current titleholder—might well have decided to re-landscape, turning their retreat into a patch of pansies. Or nature’s vagrancies could have made it a barren spot of dirt and twigs and dead leaves.

No, his luck held—the alcove was as verdant as he recalled. “Do you remember this place?”

“Yes.” Kate’s voice wavered ever so slightly. “Of course I do.”

Of course she did. Regret darkened his soul again.

She had been only seventeen—but he had been only twenty-two. A man, yes, but hardly more than a boy. He had still believed honor would prevail and love would conquer all.

He’d been a fool, but what else could he have been? He’d been so damn young.

He should have been like his brother, Luke. He should have persuaded Kate to run to Gretna Green on the border between England and Scotland with him. There they could have been married as the Scottish marriage laws were much more flexible than they were in England. Then he would have had twenty-three years of wedded bliss instead of years of solitude, of lonely nights reading by the fire—or, worse, slinking up inn stairs, taking his ease with women he didn’t love.

If he had taken Kate to Scotland, he’d have sons now…daughters…a family.

But no, he was the responsible brother, the thoughtful, cautious, sensible one—and look where the hell it had got him.

Of course daring had gotten Luke dead.

Should he pretend he’d come this way out of nostalgia—pass by, continue through the garden and back up the steps to the terrace, polite, gentlemanly, a pattern card of proper behavior?

No, damn it. He hadn’t come all the way to London to be proper. He’d come to misbehave—and he bloody well would do so now. With Kate. He’d woken up hard and aching more times than he cared to count, thanks to her.

He ducked under a low hanging branch to move deeper into the shadows. Kate followed without hesitation or even a whisper of protest.

He held her hand to guide her over the tree roots and down the thin path, a line worn in the grass by other couples. Was anyone else here? He paused, put his finger to Kate’s lips when she would have spoken, and listened. He heard snatches of distant music from the ballroom, laughter from the terrace, the rustle of a small animal scurrying through the bushes, but no sound of lovers stealing a kiss in the bower, thank God.

He moved around the high hedge to the small hidden pocket of privacy. Best take no chances. He guided Kate to stand so he blocked the opening in the hedge. If anyone stumbled in, they would see only his back—and hopefully take themselves off immediately.

He didn’t want anyone to see them. He didn’t want anyone to interrupt them. Hell, he didn’t want the party, the ton, the whole damn world to exist. He wanted life to be limited to this little patch of greenery, to him and Kate. No time—past or passing; no memories. Just now. Just here.

“We’re alone.” He barely breathed the words, half afraid anything louder than a whisper would break the spell.

“Yes.” She whispered, too. Her head was down; she was staring at his waistcoat.

Moonlight sifted through the tree branches, sliding over Kate’s shoulders, over the tops of her breasts, making her skin glow.

He closed his eyes briefly. She was so beautiful, she made his heart—and other organ—ache. He studied the delicate curve of her neck, the soft wisps of hair that had slipped free of their pins. He wanted to hold her close, to protect her from all life’s pain—and love every last inch of her perfect body.

He had never thought to stand here with her again. He’d never thought to stand anywhere with her again. When he’d got word she’d married Oxbury, something in him had died. Now it was stirring back to life.

“Kate.”

She finally looked up. The tip of her tongue slid out to moisten her lips.

He had to touch her, to feel her skin under his. He shed his gloves—he’d like to shed more than his gloves, ofcourse, but not in Alvord’s garden—and brushed his fingers over her lips. He felt her breath sigh out, and her eyelids closed. Her face tilted up, her mouth just slightly—but so invitingly—open.

Not yet. He wouldn’t kiss her yet. Soon though—very soon.

He traced the swell of her breasts—and watched them swell more as she inhaled. Her top teeth caught her bottom lip. Her hands came up to grip his arms—to steady herself, not to stop him.

He cupped her elegant neck, smoothing his thumbs over her jaw. A small, breathy moan escaped her. Her skin felt hot.

“I’ve missed you, Kate.”

“Ah.” Her eyes opened. They were slightly out of focus. “I-I’ve missed you, too.” She swallowed; he felt her throat move. “Terribly.”

He traced her mouth with his finger, pulling her lower lip gently down. “Shall I kiss you?”

“Yes. Please.”

He bent his head.

How much had she learned from her husband?

He pulled back slightly. No. He would not think of Oxbury. That was the past, and there was no past here. He had left the past behind when he’d slipped into this bower. Here there was only now, only Kate and Alex.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please, Alex.”

He touched his mouth to hers gently, as he had when he’d been so much younger. Her lips stayed quiet. He brushed over them, moved to her cheek, her forehead, her eyelids. Her skin was so soft.

The scent of lavender teased him, mixing with the rich scents of the garden just as it had before.

He wanted to thread his hands through her hair, but he couldn’t. He was still cautious. They had to go back to the ballroom. She could not look as if she’d been doing what they were doing.

He followed the line of her jaw with his lips. She tilted her head back to give him room to explore, and he took the invitation. He brushed aside a tendril of hair, kissed her throat from just below her ear to her collarbone and then down to the delicate mounds of her breasts. She gasped—and then made an odd little noise, a cross between a moan and a breathy pant. He moved back to the pulse in her throat. It fluttered beneath his lips.

He had dreamt for so long of just this—of having Kate back in Alvord’s garden, in his arms, kissing her. The dream always ended with her naked under him—that wasn’t an option now, of course, but there was one detail he could enact.

He touched his mouth to hers again, but this time he didn’t just brush her lips with his. This time he slid his tongue deep into her warm depths.

She stiffened briefly as though startled, and he paused. She wouldn’t push him away, would she?

No. She relaxed, letting her body rest against his. Her tongue touched his tentatively, as if she had no notion how to go on.

He cupped her jaw and proceeded to show her. She tasted of mint and lemon and wine. Sweet and tart. Perfect.

He was hard with need. He wanted to free her from the confines of her stays, strip her of her shift, explore her breasts, her belly, her thighs. He wanted more than his tongue deep in her moist warmth.

She was a widow. He was unwed. There was nothing—no one—keeping them from doing what they should have done years ago. They wouldn’t even need to fly to Gretna.

He withdrew, rested his cheek against her hair, tried to marshal his thoughts and his breath to ask her to marry him.

She found her composure first.

“Alex, I…” She paused.

“Kate—”

She put her finger on his lips, shaking her head slightly.

“No, I…” She paused again and seemed to gather herself. A smile wavered over her lips. “Come tonight, to Oxbury House.” Her voice was breathless, nervous. Her gaze dropped to consider his chin. “Will you?”

She couldn’t mean…? “You wish me to escort you and Lady Grace home from the ball?”

“No.” She jerked her head in a short, negative motion. “No, I wish you…I want you…to come…later.” She glanced up to meet his eyes briefly, and then addressed his chin again. “I wish you to come to my room.” She was whispering so low he could barely hear her, but her next words were crystal clear. “To my b-bed. I wish you to come to my bed.”

“What?!”

“Shh! Someone will hear you.” Kate bit her lip. Alex’s eyes had widened and his mouth had dropped open. He was shocked.

She was shocked herself. A hot wave of embarrassment flooded her. Had she actually just invited a gentleman to her bed?

She had. She stepped away from him and lifted her chin. Alex was frowning at her now. She frowned back. He had better not judge her.

She was an experienced woman, not a debutante like Grace. If Grace had done such a thing, that would be shocking. Grace was a virgin, young, and fertile. She was none of those things.

Grace. She should have gone in search of Grace. She should not have come here with this jackanapes.

But she had wanted to come. She had so wanted to go back to that magical time when she was young and in love.

She was an idiot, a complete cabbage-head.

“To how many men have you extended this invitation, Lady Oxbury?”

Oh! She felt as if he had slapped her. How could he think such a thing?

Because he hardly knew her. They had spent only two months of the Season—a few social events—together twenty-three years ago. She had been a child then; she was a woman now. How could he know her?

“That is none of your concern, Mr. Wilton.”

“I am somewhat particular in my associations, Lady Oxbury.”

She should slap him. She should certainly disinvite him. She did not want an ass in her bed.

She opened her mouth to tell him exactly that, but the words wouldn’t come.

The ugly truth was she did want him, had wanted him every day since she’d kissed him in this garden that first Season. She had wished for him on her wedding night after Oxbury had done his duty and gone back to his own bed. She had dreamed of him in the dark—and sometimes at the breakfast table while watching Oxbury read the paper and chew his toast and kidneys. And much as she blushed to admit it, she had often imagined it was he, not Oxbury, above her in bed, working at getting an heir.

She had been fond of Oxbury and had tried to be a good wife to him. She had never taken a lover—but had she been completely faithful?

No, not really. Not in her heart.

Enough! Her husband was dead, had been dead this last year. No one would fault her if she took a lover now—well, no one besides Mr. Saintly Wilton here. She was curious, that was all. She finally had the opportunity to find out what it would have been like if it had been Alex instead of Oxbury in her bed.

She thought it would be good. She’d never before felt the sensations Alex had created in her just now. He’d done little more than kiss her—though she’d never before been kissed like that. Where had he learned to be so skilled? He had not been married.

“You are particular, are you, Mr. Wilton? I would venture to guess you have associated with more women since last we met than I have men.”

Did he blush? Well he might.

“That is a different matter entirely. I am a man.”

True, women were supposed to turn a blind eye to men’s peccadilloes. If he were her husband—she ignored the pang that thought provoked—she would look the other way. But he was not her husband, and he was taking her to task for the same sin he had doubtless committed too many times to count.

“And I am a widow, Mr. Wilton.” She looked away. She couldn’t bear to see his expression. “I believe I am free to behave as I see fit. However, if you are not interested in my invitation, we need say no more. Please, forget I ever mentioned the topic.”

She would not be embarrassed. He did not know how it felt to be so completely alone. She had no husband, no child—no home. She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. Well, there was no point in dwelling on things she had no power to change.

So, no, Mr. Wilton had no conception of her plight. He was a man. He was in complete control of his destiny. He could choose to marry or remain single. He was the master of his estate. He had not the slightest inkling what her life was like.

“I believe I should like to return to the ballroom now, if you please,” she said. “I have been remiss in my duties. I should see if Grace has returned.”

The cabbage-headed, cork-brained lobcock stood rooted to the spot, staring at her. Well, she could find her own way back to the ballroom if he did not wish to escort her or was incapable of the task.

“If you will excuse me then, Mr. Wilton? I’m sure you will understand when I tell you I would prefer any future encounters we may have be limited to a cordial nod. I believe we’ve exchanged all the words we need to for the duration of our separate stays in London.”

She was very proud of herself. She had got that speech out without crying or even suffering her voice to crack. She moved to step by Alex.

His hand shot out to clasp her arm.

“Lady Oxbury.” He paused. His face was in shadow; she couldn’t see his expression. “Kate. My pardon. I meant no insult.”

She snorted—she couldn’t help herself. Meant no insult? Did the man think she was a complete paperskull?

“No,” he said. “I was just…surprised.”

All right, she could understand that. She’d been surprised herself. She never would have guessed she’d have the temerity to say such a thing.

“Very well. I accept your apology. Now please be so kind as to escort me back to the ballroom.”

He looked away. The moonlight glanced along the side of his face—she could see his jaw clench. He made no move to leave nor did he release her.

What was he thinking? Surely he didn’t intend to keep her here until Grace came searching? How would she explain her presence in this secluded place? She must go inside now.

She opened her mouth to demand he release her when he turned back.

“Kate.” His voice was low and tight.

“Mr. Wilton—”

“Alex, Kate.”

He almost sounded as if he were in pain. “Alex, then.” She put her hand on his arm. “We should return to the ballroom.”

“I…may I…that is…” He took a deep breath and seemed to gather his composure. “If I may, I would like to take you up on your kind offer.”

“My offer?”

“Yes. I would like to…visit you. Tonight.” He was having a hard time getting the words out. “If I may.”

Her stomach roiled with nerves and excitement. This was her last chance to change her mind. She should be sensible. She should be cautious.

She should be daring. She had not followed her heart before and had regretted it for years. She would not make that mistake again.

“All right.” Now what did she tell him? He couldn’t very well knock on the front door—she wasn’t that bold yet. But there was a sturdy tree outside her window…“Give me half an hour—no, an hour—after I leave the ball. Throw some pebbles against my window—second floor on the northwest corner—and I’ll let you in. That is, if you can still climb a tree?”

He grinned then, his teeth flashing white in the moonlight. “I believe I can persuade this old body to do that much.”

She frowned. What if he fell? He might do himself a permanent injury. And the scandal! Every last member of the ton would be sure to speculate on what Mr. Wilton was doing on the ground outside Lady Oxbury’s bedroom. “I’ll leave the servants’ door unlocked.”

“You don’t think I can manage the more romantic route?”

She smiled. The teasing note she’d missed was back in his voice. Perhaps this was going to be all right. It wouldn’t be love—at least not on his part—but it would be…all right. If nothing else, it would satisfy her curiosity. She could finally put her infatuation with him in the past where it belonged.

“I want you to be able to manage other things once you arrive.”

“Ha! Ye of little faith. I’ll be delighted to show you I have endless stamina.” He leaned forward and kissed her nose. “But I believe I will make use of the servants’ entrance. No point in wasting energy I can apply to more enjoyable pursuits.”

Light and teasing—that was best. Let him think her a merry widow. She ran her hands up his chest to his neck. She would flirt, she would learn to seduce. “I can hardly wait.”

She was encouraged by his kiss to surmise that he was as impatient as she.

She was not going to think about Papa and Lady Harriet, Lord Dawson’s mother. She was not going to think about the baron’s bizarre marriage proposal. She was not going to think at all—she was just going to enjoy fully the one dance she’d ever had when she didn’t feel like a lumbering—a regal—Brobdingnagian.

Lord Dawson was mad, completely and utterly mad, but he was a wonderful dancer. Grace spun through a turn, tethered by his large, strong hands. She wanted to put back her head and laugh. She’d never felt such joy in movement.

She hated to dance, and she hated to waltz most of all. She always felt so large and ungainly. Most of the time she was taller than her partner and sometimes…well, back at Standen she’d been forced to inform Mr. Fenton she would no longer stand up with him—ever. He was almost a head shorter than she and took dancing as an opportunity to get a very close look at her bodice.

But tonight, with Lord Dawson, dancing was an entirely different experience. She felt light and…graceful. Her smile widened—and then faltered.

John hated to dance—or at least he hated to dance with her. They plodded around the floor in time to the music, but…She sighed. Dancing with John was prosaic at best, but wasn’t that the way life was?

This—the dancing, the music, the brilliant colors, and beautiful dresses—this romance was merely a moment out of time. A glimmer of magic, impossible to hold. In the morning the elegant members of the haut ton, the flowers, the musicians would be gone and all that would be left would be a scuffed floor, a scattering of dead leaves, and a few wilted flower petals.

But that was the morning. Tonight she would revel in the magic; when it was time, at the end of the Season, she would go home to her dull, commonplace life, to Papa and to John.

“Enjoying the music, my dear?”

She would even pretend for the moment that having handsome men call her “dear” was normal. “Yes, I am.”

His mouth turned up in a half smile—and her stomach did that odd little flutter again.

It was not fair he was so sinfully handsome. That strong, square chin with its little cleft was completely captivating. And that dimple! Dimples should definitely be outlawed in a face as attractive as Baron Dawson’s. He had sun streaks in his slightly shaggy, dark blond hair, and his deep blue eyes glinted with humor—and something else…something hot and intense.

She felt rather hot herself. She must be blushing—his smile had grown, damn it.

She closed her eyes, but that didn’t help at all. Now she focused on the feel of his hands—firm, yet gentle—as they guided her through the dance. Her bodice brushed against his waistcoat briefly and her breasts felt fuller and heavy. Shocking. She drew in a deep, shuddery breath and inhaled the spicy heat of him.

Her eyes flew open. This was too much. She should have run from him in the garden or at the least fled the moment she’d returned to the ballroom.

She glanced up at his face. His cheeks creased, making the dimple deepen as his smile broadened to a full grin. He knew exactly what she was thinking!

Blast, now her face must really be as red as a fire’s embers. She certainly felt as if she were glowing. She frowned again.

He had to swallow a chuckle. Did she think to cow him? That look might work on her not-quite betrothed, but it didn’t on him. He could almost feel sorry for the man. If the fellow did wed Grace—an event David was becoming more and more determined to prevent—she would ride roughshod over him. In truth, it would be a charity for David to take Grace off the gentleman’s hands. He knew how to manage her fire.

Damn. He edged his hips back slightly. Thinking of managing Grace—in his bed, of course—had the predictable effect on his person.

She was still frowning.

“Don’t try to look so fierce, Grace. You don’t scare me, you know.”

Scare him? Grace was tempted to roll her eyes. He was the one who was frightening, like a spider sitting in his web of seduction, waiting for her to fall into his trap. “You are absurd. Of course, I don’t scare you. I’ve never scared anyone in my life.”

The odd glint in his eyes grew more pronounced. Was he laughing at her? How dare he? She should…she should…

She should feel angry, but instead she felt hot and unsettled.

“Ah, there I’m certain you’re wrong,” he said, swinging her through a turn. “I imagine the average male quakes when he sees you.”

She snorted. “Only because he fears for his toes. The men of Standen know too well what the ton will soon discover—I’ve sent more men limping home than Napoleon.”

He pulled her close to avoid another couple and her bodice brushed his chest again. Her breasts were still extremely sensitive. Her nipples hardened. How mortifying! He couldn’t tell, could he?

“Nonsense,” he was saying. “I don’t worry about my toes at all.”

Toes? Damn, she suddenly had salacious thoughts about the man’s toes. They were talking about dancing not Lord Dawson’s bare feet. “You don’t worry about your t-toes only because you are an amazingly skilled dancer.”

His mouth slid into a slow, knowing curve. He dropped his head and his voice—he had the most wonderful voice, deep and smooth and warm like a cup of the richest chocolate. His words stirred her hair, caressed her ear, sent heated shivers down her back to her—

No. She would not think about such things. No toes, no feet, no secret, wet, aching—No, definitely not. Most assuredly, without a doubt, without question—

“Would you like to see what else I’m amazingly skilled at, sweetness?”

The dark, wet, empty, aching place throbbed with eagerness. Her head snapped away from his lips, and she sent an urgent message to her heart and other organs to behave themselves. She wasn’t a child. She knew seduction when she heard it. She gave him her sternest look. “Lord Dawson—”

“Shh, Lady Grace.” His eyes were glinting—he was laughing at her again, damn him. “Why are you so agitated? I was merely referring to parlor games—Twenty Questions, Pope Joan, charades, spillikins.” One eyebrow arched up. “What did you think I meant?”

Drat her pale complexion! She was definitely burning hotter than the candles now. He was trying to intimidate her. She would not let him do so.

“Seduction, my lord. Do not play me for a fool. You were trying to seduce—”

The orchestra played its last note. Her voice had, unfortunately, got somewhat strident. The ladies and gentlemen near them turned to stare. Lord Dawson raised his other eyebrow.

Damn.

“—to seduce me into the re-refreshment r-room.” Please God, let no one be able to see how red she was. Or, if they noticed, let them think it was from the exertion of the dance.

Lord Dawson smirked slightly. “Ah, yes, those lobster patties are so enticing, are they not?”

Thankfully, everyone around them went back to their own conversations. “What?”

“The lobster patties, Lady Grace. The alluring, tempting, seductive lobster patties.”

“Oh, do stop laughing at me, will you?” And he was laughing. Not out loud, of course. He wasn’t even grinning, but his damn eyes were positively gleaming.

“But you are so amusing.” He took her hand and laid it on his arm. “And the most amusing thing is you have no idea how beautiful, how utterly enchanting you are.”

The man was definitely mad. “I am not amusing or…or…any of that other balderdash.” Lord Dawson had started walking, and since he was keeping her hand firmly on his arm, she had to walk as well. “Where are we going?”

“To the refreshment room, of course, and the ravishing lobster patties.”

She pulled back. “I’m not hungry.” Unfortunately, it was true. Her stomach was too busy jumping and twisting and shivering—all due to his annoying presence—to accept even the smallest morsel of food. A shame, as lobster patties were generally one of her favorite dishes, and she suspected these would be splendid. The Duke of Alvord did not seem the type to stint on his lobster patties.

“Have a glass of lemonade instead, then.”

He was very highhanded. “Perhaps I should look for my aunt.” Where was Aunt Kate? Grace glanced around the ballroom as Lord Dawson stubbornly steered her toward the door to the refreshment room. “And you could look for your uncle.”

He smiled and inclined his head toward the garden door. “No need to look. See, they are returning from a promenade in the greenery.”

“Well.” Grace tried not to stare. “They look as though they are on cordial terms, don’t they?”

“Yes, indeed. Perhaps they have managed to deal with their differences.”

Grace glanced at the couple again. Aunt Kate was smiling, though she looked a little nervous. And Mr. Wilton appeared a touch stiff. Still, they were together—they were even joining the next set. Was Aunt Kate going to find love again?

Grace grinned. “Perhaps I’ll have a glass of champagne.”

Chapter 5

She’d actually asked Alex to come to her bed.

Kate gripped her hands tightly together in her lap and pretended to look out the carriage window at the dark London streets.

She must have been mad, that was the only possible explanation. She’d never been so bold before. Bold? Ha! Her action was beyond bold, it was…

It was too outrageous to contemplate.

Yet she had contemplated it. More than that, she had done it. She had asked Alex…and he had said yes.

Oh, dear God. She pressed her hands to her stomach. The damn stays. She could barely breathe.

In just an hour—perhaps less—Alex would be in her bed.

Her stomach twisted. She bit down on her lower lip. At least she had shown one shred of good sense. She had avoided the refreshment room. If her stomach rebelled, she would be saved that humiliation.

What was she thinking? Her stomach was the least of her worries. If Alex actually came to her room—to her bed—he would expect her to show some…experience. Some talent. Something to make the trip worth his while. She couldn’t just lie still as she had with Oxbury.

Oh! She tried to breathe. She must not panic. Oxbury had never complained. He’d seemed to enjoy the exertion. He’d kept at it all those years, even when—

Well, he’d kept at it.

Men needed their release. It probably didn’t matter what female was beneath them. In the dark, surely all women were much the same.

Were all men?

No. Alex would not be like Oxbury…would he?

She would find out tonight. After all the years of wondering and longing, she would finally know. Perhaps she’d learn what she’d longed for was no different from what she’d had.

Good. The point was she could finally put aside her wondering and move on, unencumbered by the “what ifs” and “if onlys.”

Would the experience be different with Alex? Kissing certainly had been. Mmm. She closed her eyes. Just thinking about his lips on hers, remembering the feel of his hard form, the strength of his arms around her started an odd ache in her center.

She flushed. Well, not her center precisely…

“That was quite, um, f-fun.”

Kate’s eyes flew open. Surely Grace hadn’t read her mind?

Grace hiccupped and grinned at her—a rather broad, sloppy grin.

Heavens! Kate squinted at her niece in the dim light. Grace’s eyes did look slightly glassy, and now that she considered the matter, the girl had stumbled a bit getting into the carriage.

“How many glasses of champagne did you have, Grace?”

“Only t-two.” Grace dropped her head back against the squabs and contemplated the carriage ceiling as if the correct number were written there. “Or th-three.” She giggled. “I lost count.”

“Wonderful.” Kate blew out a short, exasperated breath. Obviously she should have been paying more attention to Grace and less—much less—to Mr. Alex Wilton. But how could she have guessed Grace would get brandy-faced at her first London ball? The girl—the woman—was twenty-five years old. “Surely you’ve had champagne before?”

“’Course I have!” Grace snapped her head forward to glare at Kate, but spoiled the effect by losing her balance and slipping sideways. She braced herself on the seat beside her. “Just not s-so much.”

“You’re going to have quite the head in the morning.”

“S-so?” Grace settled back against the squabs again. “I feel sp-splendid now. I’ve never felt so h-happy.”

“Happy’s one way to describe it. Jug-bitten is another.”

“Oh, pooh. Why are you such a crosspatch? Didn’t you have f-fun?” Grace wiggled her eyebrows.

Kate looked out the window in earnest, cupping her hands to block out the dim light of the carriage. Good, she recognized the neighborhood—they were almost at Oxbury House. With luck she would be able to get Grace upstairs and into bed before she fell asleep—or got sick.

“I was not at the Duke of Alvord’s ball to enjoy myself,” Kate said. “I was there to chaperone you. Obviously, I did not do an adequate job fulfilling my duties.”

Grace was contemplating the carriage ceiling again. She giggled and transferred her gaze to Kate. “Is that what you were doing in the g-garden with Mr. Wilton? Chaperoning me?”

More eyebrow wiggling. The girl looked as if she had a pair of dancing caterpillars on her forehead.

The caterpillars would leap off her face if she knew what her aunt had really been up to in the garden.

“I was looking for you.” It was only a small lie. And what was it Oxbury used to say? The best defense was a good offense. “And while we’re on that subject, what were you thinking, going out into the shrubbery alone? You are not some silly, dewy-eyed debutante.” Kate paused. “Well, debutante, yes; silly and dewy-eyed, no—at least I hope not.”

Grace actually sniggered. “I wasn’t alone.”

Good Lord, what had Grace been doing? Certainly nothing as scandalous as her own activities…No, the situations could not be compared. She was a widow; Grace was a virgin.

Surely Grace was still a virgin…

Now she was letting her guilty conscious lead her into the ridiculous.

“Even worse. If you’d been seen, you’d be ruined now. Your Season would be over. London society is full of gossips that delight in shredding young—and not so young—females’ reputations.”

Grace shrugged. “I wished to speak to Baron Dawson.”

“What!” Standen would have Kate’s head if he ever got wind of the fact Grace had been talking to Baron Dawson, let alone promenading in the foliage with him. “You went into the shrubbery with Lord Dawson? I don’t believe it. I told you to avoid him. You know your father does not approve of the man’s family.”

“Well, P-Papa’s not here, is he?” Grace blinked at Kate. “You aren’t going to s-snitch on me, are you?” She waggled her finger in Kate’s direction. “Because I can snitch, too. You were also in the garden with a Wilton, auntie.”

“But you are unmarried. You should have remained sedately on the terrace,” Kate said, rather weakly to her own ears.

It didn’t matter. Grace was too foxed to concern herself with nuances.

“M-maybe I don’t want to be s-sedate. Maybe I want to have some f-fun before I shackle myself to Mr. J-John P-Parker-Roth and his damn roses.”

“Grace—”

Grace leaned forward, catching herself on the seat edge before she toppled face first into Kate’s lap. “I like Mr. Park—John. I like his mother and his father and his brothers and his sisters. I like the whole blasted lot of them.” She waved her finger in Kate’s face this time. “But I like Baron Dawson, too. I really, um, like him.” She sat back, put her head against the squabs again, and wrapped her arms around herself. “He makes me feel all…tingly.”

“Good God!” Tingly? Tingly would never do. She had felt tingly all those years ago. Tingly too often led to thoughts of marriage, and Standen would dance naked at Almack’s before he’d let his daughter marry a Wilton. She knew that from bitter experience.

Why did Alex and his nephew have to choose this Season to come to London?

Because the old baron had died, of course. So was Lord Dawson in Town for a wife or to lure a few young women—including the daughter of his enemy—down the primrose path?

She straightened. He’d best steer clear of Grace if he had nefarious purposes. If he hurt Grace—

She sighed and collapsed back against the squabs. Even if he meant marriage, the baron must look elsewhere—Standen truly would never accept his suit. When Alex came tonight, she must have a few serious words with him about his nephew.

If he came. Certainly good sense and caution would convince him, on further reflection, to stay home. He had never been a wild, careless man. Climbing into a lady’s bedchamber window—or sneaking up the servants’ stairs—was not an activity Alex Wilton would engage in, she was sure.

Or was she? She must remember she’d only known Alex for a few months many years ago. Perhaps he was adept at getting in and out of ladies’ bedrooms without detection. And, truthfully, inviting a man to her bed was not something she’d ever have believed she’d do—and yet she had.

But it was Grace’s amorous activities—dear God!—that she needed to attend to at the moment.

“Grace—”

But Grace interrupted. “Lord Dawson told me his uncle asked you to marry him before you married Oxbury.” Grace frowned, sounding much too sober. “Why didn’t you share that bit of information with me, Aunt Kate?”

Thank God for concealing shadows. “It was a long time ago.”

“Hmm. The last time you were in London. Is that why you came back, to see Mr. Wilton again? Now that you’re free and he’s free…” Grace sighed. “How r-romantic.”

“It is not romantic.” She didn’t need Grace interfering in her…in whatever she had with Alex. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Grace leaned forward—and almost fell into Kate’s lap again. She pushed herself back to a more upright position. “You know, this time Papa can’t stop you.”

True, Standen couldn’t stop her. A little thrill of defiance shivered down her spine. She was no longer seventeen. She was a grown woman—a merry widow. She had lived her life to please her brother and her husband. Now, finally, she could choose to please herself.

Except she couldn’t. She wasn’t the heroine of a fairy tale, living in a castle by herself. She couldn’t marry Alex—even if he asked her, which he wouldn’t. It wasn’t just that Standen would explode with anger. Society would flock like vultures to feast on the scandalous stories in the Belmont-Wilton past. She couldn’t bear that—and she certainly couldn’t consider the possibility at the beginning of Grace’s Season.

“It’s not that simple, Grace.”

An affair, though, that would be permitted as long as she was discreet. Very discreet. If even a whisper of Alex’s visit to her tonight—if he did indeed come—reached the ton’s ears, the gabble-grinders would resurrect the stories of Alex’s brother and Alex’s own ill-considered, short-lived courtship of her.

“Why would Papa want to keep you from marrying Mr. Wilton, Aunt Kate? He must see you’d be vastly more comfortable with a husband than living in the dower house, watching the new Lord Oxbury ruin the estate.” Grace grinned. “P-Papa thinks the man’s an ass, you know.”

“Grace, your language!” Had Standen let Grace grow up like a weed? He should have remarried. Everyone had thought he would after he’d mourned his countess for the requisite year. He’d needed an heir. Still did, but it was unlikely he’d get one now, with fifty-six years in his dish.

“Well, that’s what Papa said when your husband died.”

“I’m sure he did. He never cared for Oxbury’s heir—few people do—but that doesn’t mean he would want me to wed Mr. Wilton. Another man—any other man—but not Mr. Wilton. If Lord Dawson explained our history, you must know that.” Kate looked down and smoothed her skirt. “And in any event, Mr. Wilton has not mentioned marriage.”

“But he will.”

Kate snapped her head up and glared at Grace. “He will not.”

“Don’t be s-silly, Aunt Kate. I saw you waltzing with him. Of course he will.”

“You had consumed a significant quantity of champagne by the time you made that observation, hadn’t you, Grace?”

“Well…”

Kate shrugged. “It makes no difference. If Mr. Wilton offers—which he won’t—I must decline.”

Grace must still think love conquered all—or perhaps it was only the champagne talking. Real people didn’t live happily ever after; they had to face—daily—society’s or their family’s censure. Love was wonderful, but friendship, respect, and companionship would do, perhaps better than love in a hermit’s cave.

“But—”

The coach stopped and Kate was spared further fruitless argument. Her butler-cum-footman, Mr. Sykes, opened the door and peered into the carriage cautiously.

“It’s safe, Mr. Sykes. Lady Grace made it home without casting up her accounts.”

“Ah. I am very glad to hear it.” He extended his hand. “May I assist you to alight, Lady Grace?”

“C-certainly.” Grace climbed out of the carriage quickly, but the moment her foot touched the pavement, she collapsed against Sykes.

“Grace!”

“Don’t be alarmed, my lady.” Sykes slid his arm under one of Grace’s. “If you could disembark and take Lady Grace’s other side, I believe we can manage nicely.” Sykes was able to brace Grace’s not-inconsiderable weight against his body while offering Kate his free hand.

“I’m f-fine, Aunt Kate. I j-just need a minute to get my b-bearings—oh.” Grace pressed a hand to her lips.

“I believe the sooner we get Lady Grace to her room, my lady, the less chance we have of a Regrettable Occurrence on the street.”

“Very true, Mr. Sykes.” Kate scrambled out of the carriage. “Let’s get you up to bed, Grace.”

Grace nodded and took a step, supported mostly by Sykes.

“The n-night air…seems to…d-does, actually, have an unfortunate—” Grace paused and pressed her hand to her lips again. She was definitely taking on a greenish cast. “Ohh.”

That sounded distinctly like a moan. Kate shot a glance at Sykes. He nodded. “Yes, my lady, I would say time was indeed of the essence.”

They hustled Grace into the house and up the stairs, making it to her room without disaster, and propped her up against the bed.

Kate heaved a sigh of relief. She did hope Grace would not be too sick. Now that she thought about it, her one and only episode of overindulgence in spirits had come after her first Alvord ball as well. She’d stolen a bottle of Standen’s brandy after he’d enumerated in excruciating detail all the reasons she could not—could never—wed Mr. Alex Wilton. She had never felt so ill—she had never been so ill, especially when her brother had bundled her into the carriage at first light. She’d had to ride in the dreadful rocking conveyance all the way to Standen.

She’d best have Sykes fetch their maid. She would know just what to do to make Grace more comfortable. “Mr. Sykes, will you—”

“Ohh, w-why is the room sp-spinning?”

“What?” Kate whirled around. Grace had decided to try lying down—a poor decision. Her face was now a ghastly shade of white.

“I think I’m going to be—” Grace turned on her side and struggled to push herself up.

Kate grabbed a basin from the cabinet next to the bed. “Get Marie, Sykes—and hurry.”

As she thrust the basin under Grace’s chin, she remembered one key task she had left undone.

Bloody hell. She hadn’t unlocked the servants’ door for Alex.

“You don’t have to leave on my account, David.” Alex watched the Duke of Alvord waltz by, Miss Sarah Hamilton in his arms. Alvord was staring down at his partner as if there were no one else in the room. Miss Hamilton’s face was flushed—she looked just as adoringly up at the duke.

There was no question in Alex’s mind—or the mind of any other man present, he’d wager—exactly what Alvord wished to be doing at that moment with his American guest. Which was precisely what Alex would like to be doing with Kate. It had been heaven waltzing with her tonight—he hoped his thoughts then hadn’t been as apparent as Alvord’s were now.

Hell, if the waltz had been danced twenty-three years ago, he’d have been certain to have found a way to get Kate to Gretna, damn the scandal. He would have gone mad otherwise.

And tonight he’d finally be able to—

If he went, that is.

“Why would I wish to stay?” David was saying. “My future wife has departed.”

The man was as bad as a terrier with a rat. “I’ve told you—Standen will never give his consent.”

“And I’ve told you, I don’t care. Grace is of age. I don’t need the earl’s permission.”

“You assume Lady Grace is willing.”

The cocky bastard grinned. “I assume I can persuade her.”

Alex grunted. “Good luck with that. Women’s minds are beyond my poor comprehension.” Like Kate’s. What had she been thinking, inviting him to her bed? Yes, she was a widow, but still, she was Kate, shy, quiet, reserved, modest Kate.

Or was she? Twenty-three years changed a person. And truthfully, how well had he known her?

David drained the last of his champagne. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

“All right.” He wished David would stay. It would make it that much easier for him to slip away to Oxbury House undetected. He didn’t want anyone—even David—knowing where he was going tonight.

Was he going?

His head said he shouldn’t. The Kate he knew—well, the woman whose memory he’d cherished all these years—would never invite a man to her bed without first securing the church’s blessing. If the merest whisper of her indiscretion got out, her brother would be livid…and society would feed on the tale like jackals on carrion.

Another organ insisted—strenuously—that he should. Kate had haunted him all these years, her face always lurking in his mind, even when he was busy in another woman’s bed. She had stolen a part of his heart and he needed it back.

Kate was a widow. For all he knew, she’d been welcoming men into her bed before Oxbury was cold in his grave. Had she even been faithful while the man was alive? Oxbury had been close to seventy when he’d cocked up his toes. Likely he hadn’t been able to attend to his marital duties for years.

But this was Kate.

And he didn’t have to trust his gut. His butler’s sister-in-law’s cousin worked at an inn near Oxbury’s country estate. If Kate had been taking lovers, he would have heard.

Alex collected his hat and cane from a footman and stepped outside with David into the hubbub of horses and carriages and coachmen.

“I’d say Alvord is going to get himself an American duchess, wouldn’t you?” David headed down the street toward their townhouse, passing the long line of coaches waiting to pick up their aristocratic owners. Alex fell into step with him, but didn’t reply. His mind was elsewhere.

David didn’t care if Alvord married a trained monkey, but he had to say something. He was too full of frustrated energy to keep still. Watching the duke waltz with Miss Hamilton had been torture—almost like being forced to watch sexual congress. True, some men enjoyed being spectators to such activity, but he much preferred being an actor—and he’d especially like acting with Lady Grace on a nice, soft bed.

Waltzing with her had been heaven, though not as heavenly as their too-short interlude in the garden. She was just as wonderful to hold and kiss as he’d imagined.

And if he didn’t keep talking, he would imagine in painful detail exactly what bedding her would feel like—and look like and taste like and smell like. He’d much prefer to wait until he reached the relative privacy of Dawson House to indulge in those fantasies. Walking in his damn breeches would become much too uncomfortable otherwise.

“How long do you think it will be before we read of the duke’s engagement in The Morning Post?”

“What?” Alex looked at him blankly.

Poor Uncle Alex’s imagination had clearly wandered in exactly the direction David was trying to avoid, though Alex seemed capable of walking and thinking of Lady Oxbury at the same time. Still, he’d wager the level of sexual anguish in his library tonight was going to be much higher than that of a roomful of randy schoolboys. Fortunately he had a ready and ample supply of brandy with which they could drown their desires.

“The Duke of Alvord and Miss Hamilton—how soon do you think we’ll read that they are getting wed?”

“Oh, right—the salacious waltz.” Alex cleared his throat. “Very soon.” Damn, he’d like to be able to say he and Kate would be wedding soon as well.

Would they be bedding soon? Tonight?

“That’ll throw the cat amongst the pigeons. Rothingham’s daughter did not look at all happy some colonial upstart might snatch Alvord out of her grasping claws—I suspect she won’t give up that ducal prize easily. And Alvord’s cousin, Richard Runyon, looked just as evil as the rumors paint him.”

Alex tried to control his annoyance. Why was David nattering on about the duke’s guests? He wasn’t normally such a rattle. “I don’t believe I saw Mr. Runyon.”

“Perhaps he appeared while you were in the garden with Lady Oxbury.”

Alex tripped on some uneven pavement.

“Careful, uncle. You don’t want to fall and break something. Might interfere with your courtship.”

Alex glared at his nephew. “Courtship? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then what were you doing in the garden, Uncle Alex? Examining the flowers? Discussing Plato? You were out there long enough to…Well, to do any number of things.” Should he tease Alex? If his uncle were anywhere near as frustrated as he was, the man might haul off and darken his daylights for him. Still, Grace would certainly expect him to encourage Alex to pursue her aunt. Teasing might not be the method she’d recommend, but a heart-to-heart talk wasn’t his or Alex’s style. And in any event, it looked as if no encouragement was necessary.

“Damn it, David, my activities are none of your concern.”

David laughed so loudly the stray dog across the street yelped and bolted down an alley.

“Will you be quiet, for God’s sake?”

“What? We don’t want to disturb the homeless curs or the cutpurses lurking in the shadows?”

“No, we don’t—or at least I don’t.”

David chuckled. “Not up for a fight this evening, uncle?”

“No.” Alex did have a quantity of energy to expend, but not on brawling. And Kate would surely not care to have him appear on her doorstep—or windowsill—bleeding and bruised. If he appeared at all, that is.

David laughed again, though a bit ruefully. “In truth, I’m not eager for a fight, myself. I’m already aching enough, if you know what I mean.” He winked.

Alex grunted and pretended not to notice, studying the path ahead of him instead. He could almost feel David’s thoughtful gaze on him, damn it all.

He hated London. He should go home. If he were at Clifton Hall now, he’d be sitting in his study, a glass of brandy at his elbow, a book in his hands, the fire crackling in the hearth. He’d be calm, tranquil, at ease—not walking a dirty London street, wondering whether he should visit Lady Oxbury’s bed, whether he would finally live the dream that had haunted him night after night for year after year.

A warm fire and a good book seemed exceedingly dull.

“If you do court Lady Oxbury,” David said, “that would help my cause. You can distract the dragon while I make off with the princess.”

“Lady Oxbury is not a dragon, and your cause will only be helped by Standen suffering a complete change of sentiment—an event even the most hardened gamester would not wager on.”

Alex wanted to court Kate, but how could he do so in front of the ton? All the old gossiping harpies would resurrect the scandals. Zounds, that would be dreadful. No, any pursuit must be conducted in private, away from prying eyes.

What could be more private than Kate’s bedchamber?

Kate was expecting him. She was an experienced woman…

“Alex, are you attending to me at all?”

But she was not a light skirt. He should marry her before he took her to bed. Still, she had invited him. It would be exceedingly rude not to appear…

“Alex!”

“What?” Alex stopped. David was standing on the walk about ten yards behind him. “What are you doing back there?”

David grinned. “Wondering how long it would take you to notice you were alone. You must be immersed in some very…deep thoughts.” His annoying nephew waggled his eyebrows.

Alex shrugged and resumed walking. David did not.

“What the—” Alex turned again. “Shall I leave you standing there like a lamppost? Come on.”

“Alex, look around.”

“Why?” Alex looked right and left. He saw a typical London street. “What am I supposed to see?”

“That we’re home. This is Dawson House.”

“Oh.” So perhaps he hadn’t been paying attention to his surroundings. He watched David take out his key and unlock the door.

He should follow him into the house, but he couldn’t persuade his feet to move. The last thing he wanted to do was go inside—or at least inside David’s house. He needed to clear his head, get rid of some of this energy coursing through his veins.

“I think I’ll walk for a while. Don’t wait up.”

David gave him a long look; then shrugged and shut the door behind him.

Alex hesitated. He could still change his mind. He could—he should—be sensible. Responsible. He should go up to his room and climb into bed. Alone.

But he wanted to misbehave—thoroughly and utterly misbehave. Proper Alex Wilton wanted to act like a rogue, a rake, a scoundrel.

Well, hardly. But at his ripe old age, he could—he would—break, or at least bend, a few rules for once.

He started walking again, this time toward Oxbury House.

Chapter 6

It didn’t matter that she’d forgotten to unlock the servants’ entrance—Alex wouldn’t come. He would never do anything so shocking, certainly not once he’d had the opportunity to consider the matter.

Kate pushed her hair back out of her face as Marie left to empty the basin. Grace had collapsed against her pillows. “Feeling better?”

“A little.” Grace closed her eyes briefly. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid tonight was a complete disaster.”

“Oh, I don’t believe any great harm was done. Lord Dawson kept you from bringing attention to yourself, though it might have been more to the point if he’d kept you from drinking so much champagne.”

Grace covered her face. “How can something that tastes so good make me feel so horrible?”

Kate laughed. “I don’t know, but if it’s any consolation, you’re not the first person to run afoul of the drink. The bubbles are very seductive.”

Grace sighed. “They are, aren’t they?”

“Yes.” Kate relaxed a bit. Grace’s color was much improved. A cup of Marie’s peppermint tea and Grace should feel, if not right as rain, at least well on the mend.

Kate looked around the room. But perhaps they wouldn’t have that tea here. The heavy mahogany furniture and the blood-red curtains were depressing.

This was the master bedchamber. The footmen had taken her things to the adjoining bedroom, even though she was no longer mistress, so she’d had them put Grace’s bags in here. With just the two of them in residence, it was silly to stand on ceremony.

This room would suit the new Lord Oxbury—the Weasel—perfectly. He was depressing, too—and any manner of other unpleasant things. She had hated asking him for the key to Oxbury House, and she could tell he’d hated giving it to her. She was convinced he’d only done so in the hope some desperate man would offer for her, freeing him from any further obligation to her.

Yes, this dark room would be perfect for the Weasel, but had it suited her Oxbury? He must have stayed here whenever he’d come up to take his seat in the House of Lords. She didn’t know for certain—she’d never accompanied him. She’d always felt she had to stay in the country to see that everything ran smoothly in his absence.

Silly. Critten, the estate manager, was quite competent.

The truth was she’d never wanted to come to Town, and Oxbury had never insisted. Perhaps he knew what she just now suspected—that she’d been afraid she might encounter Alex. How would she have reacted?

Perhaps it was best she’d never know.

“Let’s go to my room, Grace—that is, if you feel up to it?”

“Yes. I feel better since I…” Grace gestured toward where the basin had been. “You know.” She stood, bracing herself on the bedpost. “I’d like to get out of my dress and stays first.”

“Of course, I—what is that din?”

Grace laughed. “It must be Hermes. He’s the only dog in the house, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but I was hoping he was asleep.”

Marie came in, carrying a pot of tea, a small black and white dog at her heels. “Shh, ye wild doggie. Do nae carry on so. Yer mistress is home now. She did nae desert ye.”

“Hermes, you idiot, behave.”

Hermes glanced at Kate and gave her a short bark of welcome before turning his attention back to Marie.

“If you can manage it, Marie, will you put the tray in my room?”

“Of course, my lady, as long as this imp of Satan does nae trip me.”

Hermes was on his hind legs now, prancing around Marie’s skirts, his feathery tail waving as he hopped, his ears flying.

“Yes, and very entertaining ye are, sir. Now move aside, do, so I can get through this door.”

Hermes barked and obliged, but still followed Marie closely.

Kate laughed. “You don’t happen to have a piece of cheese in your apron pocket, do you, Marie?”

Hermes had been her close companion for the last three years—his presence had helped immeasurably after Oxbury died—but he did have a sad tendency to ignore her when he thought someone might offer him food, unless that someone was the Weasel, of course. He was an excellent judge of character—he knew not to trust the new Lord Oxbury. Any food the Weasel offered was more than likely poisoned.

Marie grinned. “Happen I might. The poor wee doggie has been so sad with ye gone all evening, I thought he needed a treat.”

“Ha! You know he is an accomplished actor, Marie,” Kate said. “His skills rival those of Mr. Kean.”

“But look at that face.” Marie put the tea tray down, and they all turned to look at Hermes.

Hermes barked and lifted his lips in what appeared to be a smile. Then he tilted his head to one side and waved his front paws in the air.

“Oh, give him the cheese, Marie,” Kate said, laughing again and sitting down.

“Here then, sir.” Marie tossed the treat toward Hermes who snatched it out of the air and swallowed it in two bites. He dropped back to all fours, trotted over to Kate, and lay down by her skirts.

“You know Marie doesn’t have any more cheese, don’t you, you little beggar?” Kate said, scratching Hermes’s ears. The dog merely yawned and put his head down on his paws.

“It’s clear what the path is to his heart,” Grace said, smiling.

“Aye, and it’s the same path to many a man’s heart, my lady. Keep them fed”—Marie winked—“all their appetites, and they’re content. Now let me help ye into yer night things, and then ye can have a nice cup of tea and a biscuit or two. It’ll settle yer stomach.”

Kate poured the tea while Grace went back to her room to change. She inhaled the fragrant steam. The peppermint was soothing. She felt some of the tension leave her neck and shoulders. As soon as Marie was finished with Grace, she’d have her loosen her blasted stays and help her into her nightdress. Then she could finally relax.

Unless Alex came.

A hot flush swept up her chest to her neck and on to her cheeks. She should never have asked him—what had possessed her? He’d been so shocked at her brazenness.

He’d said he would come, but surely he’d changed his mind. Alex had never been one to flout conventions. If he had, perhaps they would have run for Gretna and she would have been married to him all these years instead of to Oxbury. Perhaps they would have had children—

No, they would not have had children.

The thought still sent a sharp pain lancing through her heart.

She was forty years old now, so, of course, she should not be thinking of children. But when she’d been young…when she was first married…

Each month she had hoped, and each month her hope had leaked from her in red despair. By the end of her second year of marriage, she had finally accepted she was barren.

Oxbury, bless him, had accustomed himself to the truth long before she had. He’d never held it against her, though it had meant his title and all his entailed property would pass to the Weasel—the short, fat, greasy, annoying cousin who’d visited twice a year, always looking first at her stomach when he arrived and smiling when he saw it was still as flat as on her wedding day.

She took a large mouthful of tea, but it was too hot to swallow. She spat it back out and put the cup carefully down on the table.

It was a good thing now that she was barren. If she…if Alex ever…well, there’d be no awkward consequences if Alex…if any man…ever visited her bed.

But Alex wouldn’t come. The risk of scandal was just too great. If he wanted bed sport, he could easily pick from any of the countless young and beautiful London courtesans.

And if he did come, he’d find the servants’ door locked. He’d leave and never seek her out again. Which would be a good thing. Very good. Excellent. She exhaled a long, shuddery breath.

She could relax now. She would relax. She’d get these blasted stays off and she’d put on her oldest, her most threadbare, most comfortable night clothes.

Marie and Grace came back into the room. “Shall I help ye now, too, my lady?” Marie asked.

“Please.” She could hardly wait to be comfortable at last.

This was wrong. He should turn around, go back to Dawson House, go up to his room, have a glass of brandy, and read…something.

He’d just finished Byron’s Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. He didn’t feel like starting a new book.

So he was going to screw Kate because he had nothing good to read?

No. He kicked a stone and sent it clattering across the pavement. He was not going to…do that to Kate. The word—the thought—was obscene. He was going to…going to…

He didn’t know what he was going to do. He would wait until he arrived at Oxbury House to decide. And he was going to Oxbury House. He couldn’t help himself. He needed to see Kate. God, he’d spent so many years dreaming of her, wanting her, missing her…How could he not go to her now?

He crossed the street. It was early for London—the roads were relatively quiet in this part of town. Most of the ton were still out at their chosen entertainments—balls, routs, the theater.

It wasn’t far to Oxbury House—only a few blocks. It had been farther to Blantrope House. That was where he’d gone the morning after Alvord’s ball twenty-three years ago. Lady Blantrope had been acting as Kate’s chaperone since Standen’s wife was increasing, and Standen had been visiting.

Damn, every detail of that morning was burned into his memory. Thoughts of it bubbled up at odd times—in the middle of the night or the midst of a dinner party—to haunt him. He cringed every time some recollection of it surfaced. He cringed now.

He’d wanted to look precise to a pin, so he’d spent an inordinate amount of time dressing. Sleeping a few hours would have been a good idea, too, but he’d been too nervous to lie still. He’d waited until nine o’clock—an obscenely early hour—and then he’d gone.

It had still been too late. Standen had packed Kate off to the country at first light. Not that it mattered. She was already engaged to Oxbury.

Damn, damn, damn. He kicked another stone, sent it ricocheting off someone’s front steps. His meeting with Standen had been the most embarrassing, demeaning interview of his life.

When he’d grasped the knocker on Blantrope House’s front door, he’d been thinking about Luke and Lady Harriet and the disaster at Gretna Green. He’d worried Standen might still harbor a grudge—and he’d been right, of course. But he hadn’t realized Kate had not been honest with him—that she’d been as good as wed when she’d gone with him into the garden.

Why hadn’t she told him about Oxbury? More, why had she let him kiss her? Her lack of candor had hurt as much as—or more than—Standen’s scathing dismissal.

Alex stopped in front of Oxbury House. He stared at its orderly façade, but in his mind he saw a different building.

The Blantrope butler had left him to cool his heels in a small, dismal antechamber. He could still see the room’s hideous red-patterned wallpaper and the disgruntled-looking china cat on the mantel. After waiting almost an hour, he’d been seriously considering flinging the bloody feline into the fireplace.

Or hurling the porcelain beast at Standen’s head.

“What are you doing here?” Standen had said when he’d finally stepped into the room. He’d sounded as if he were addressing a cockroach. Still, this was Kate’s brother, her guardian. Alex couldn’t say exactly what he wanted to to the horse’s arse.

“Lord Standen, I came about your sis—”

“My sister has returned to the country.”

“I see.” Standen’s tone had not been at all encouraging, but Alex had been young and stupid. “I came to ask for her hand—”

“Her hand has been given to the Earl of Oxbury. They will wed in a matter of weeks.”

“Ah.” Alex had felt as if he’d taken a punch to the gut. “But—”

Standen cut him off. “You will have no more to do with her. Do I make myself clear?”

Could the bloody bastard be any clearer? “Yes, but—”

“Good.” Standen’s lip curled; his nose wrinkled as if he smelled something foul. “I’d drag my sister naked down St. James’s Street before I’d see her married to you.”

Damn it all to hell. He’d left, not really believing Standen. He’d entertained all manner of crazy thoughts on the way home—and then he’d seen the announcement in the Post.

He’d been numb at first; once he’d been able to feel again, he’d been overwhelmed by an almost physical pain, as if he’d had an arm or a leg cut off. And in the back of his mind was always the nagging question—if he’d been more decisive, if he’d pressed Kate that night in Alvord’s garden to fly with him to Gretna, would she have given up Oxbury and gone?

The man had been thirty years her senior—but he’d also been an earl.

He blew out a long breath. So he was in London again, and outside Oxbury House. Kate was inside waiting for him.

Perhaps tonight he would finally find some peace. That was why he was going to visit Kate. To finish what had not been finished before. To see if he could finally heal this damn wound.

He slipped around the side of the house to the servants’ entrance, grabbed the door handle, turned it—

It didn’t move.

He frowned and tried again. The knob didn’t budge. He took off his gloves and put both hands to the task. Nothing.

The bloody door was locked.

David stretched his long legs toward the fire and wiggled his stocking-clad toes. Mmm. The heat felt good. He took a sip of brandy and savored the liquid’s slow slide over his tongue and down his throat. That heat felt good, too. And the heat that would feel the best…

He rested his head against the back of his chair, closed his eyes, and finally let his mind go where it wanted. Like a hunting dog slipped from its leash, it flew straight to its quarry.

Lady Grace Belmont.

She was perfect. He would never have guessed he was enamored of red hair—he’d always thought he preferred his women blonde. But he’d never seen hair like Grace’s. It wasn’t red; it was copper and gold, fire and light. He wanted to bury his fingers in it, let it slide like silk over his palms. Over his chest. Over…

He slid lower in his chair, spreading his legs wide so an important part of him could swell with admiration. That part was generating a bit too much heat—his breeches were in danger of spontaneously combusting.

If only Lady Grace Belmont were here.

If Grace were here…He took another sip of brandy, rolling it on his tongue. If Lady Grace were here…

What would he do if Grace were in this room right now?

What wouldn’t he do?

He’d start with her hairpins. Yes. Slowly, one by one, he’d pull each pin out, watching Grace’s glorious hair slowly tumble down over her shoulders. Copper over cream—beautiful. Then he’d comb his fingers through it, bury his face in it, inhale its sweet, clean scent. He’d lift a silky handful off her neck, brushing it back so he could kiss the sensitive spot by her ear.

And then? Then he’d explore her face. He’d kiss her jaw, her cheekbones, her eyelids; he’d brush over her lips—he’d not want to get waylaid there so soon—and move down kiss by nip by lick to the pulse at the base of her throat and to her shoulder…and then he would loosen her gown.

He shifted in his chair. Could his breeches get any tighter? Doubtful.

Where was he? Ah, yes. Grace’s gown. He’d slip it off her shoulders slowly, savoring each inch of perfect skin revealed. Off her shoulders, over her breasts to her waist, her hips, pushing the cloth down to pool at her feet, leaving her in only her stays and shift.

And then he would turn her, push her hair forward so he could kiss the back of her neck, the top of her spine…

Would he have the patience to untie her laces?

He snorted. He’d not advise anyone to wager on it. His fingers felt as thick as the organ begging to be released from his breeches. Heh. No, not that thick, but still he was certain he would not be able to battle small, knotted laces. He would have to use his knife. Surely Grace wouldn’t mind? If he were doing his job correctly, she would be as desperate to be free of her clothing as he was to free her.

He grinned at the fire. Ah, yes, free her—and her lovely, lovely breasts. He would reach around, pull her body against his, and cradle her heavy, round breasts in his hands.

And then he would turn her to face him again. He would trace the delicate curve of her ribcage, of her waist, the generous flare of her hips, her long, long legs down to the hem of her shift. He would kneel so he could better watch his hands move back up, better see them slide up her ankles, her calves, her knees, taking the thin shift with them. He might stop at her thighs, just a little above her knees, to kiss her tender, white skin. Then he would let his lips move upward with his hands, until he cupped her sweet bottom and buried his face in the soft hair at the top of her legs. Would it be red, too?

God, he was panting. He was going to have to open the fall of his breeches. Hell, he wasn’t going to be able to walk upstairs unless he took steps to relieve his discomfort. He hadn’t had to do that since he was little more than a stripling.

He needed to think about something other than Grace.

Alex. He grimaced. Probably a bad choice. Alex was likely in Lady Oxbury’s bedchamber right now, getting to do with his lady everything David had been imagining with Grace. Alex, the cautious, proper Wilton, was participating in what could become a colossal scandal if word of it ever leaked out.

No one who knew Alex would believe it—he wouldn’t believe it if he hadn’t walked home from Alvord’s ball with the man.

Or perhaps Alex was just taking an evening stroll through London.

David got up to pour himself another glass of brandy. If he drank enough, he’d not dream of Grace when he managed to drag himself upstairs and fall into bed. He’d not dream at all.

He filled his glass and looked around the library. His great grandfather had been the last Wilton to use this room. Grandda had hated London. Luke, his father, had been only twenty when he’d eloped with Lady Harriet. So young.

Would his parents’ love have lasted if they’d lived?

The stories Grandmamma had told him when he was little said yes. She’d created a couple whose devotion would have withstood all tests but death. The tales he’d heard from the innkeepers, stable hands, local gentry, and peers who’d known his father, however…well, Grandmamma had always loved fairy tales.

Luke Wilton had not had a reputation that bespoke steadiness and commitment.

He ran his hand along the bookcase. Tomes in Greek and Latin, books on agriculture and horticulture—it was clear the volumes had been purchased solely for appearance.

It had been very easy to make Lord Wordham, his mother’s father, the villain of Grandmamma’s fairy tales. If the man hadn’t tried to force Lady Harriet to marry Standen, his parents wouldn’t have run to Gretna and his father wouldn’t have opened his head on a rock in the stable yard. But now that he thought about it—well, if he were honest, he would not have wanted his daughter, if he had one, to marry someone like his father.

But not wanting a thatch-gallows for a son-in-law didn’t justify Wordham’s deserting Lady Harriet at the inn nor did it forgive his shunning her deathbed and ignoring her son.

David took a deep breath and another mouthful of brandy. The spirit’s warmth was steadying.

Lord Wordham was dead, but Lady Wordham was still alive and in London.

He snorted. Why even note that fact? The woman had never expressed any interest in him either.

He turned back to the fire and poked it, sending sparks flying.

Alex had been just fourteen when Luke died. Had he been a model of propriety even then or had he become one in reaction to his older brother’s blatant impropriety? No matter. Now Alex was finally misbehaving.

David grinned at the fire. If Alex distracted Lady Oxbury—and she had acted very distracted this evening—that would give David many opportunities to do many lovely, scandalous things with Lady Grace.

He would steal her away from this clod in the country.

Just as his father had stolen his mother from Standen.

No. The situations were not similar at all. Luke had been a niffy-naffy fellow, a scoundrel. David was responsible, like Alex.

Except—also like Alex—perhaps not so responsible in present circumstances.

Damn it, Grace was meant to be his, not Parker-Roth’s. The man had had years to woo her and had obviously failed miserably.

David would court her. If he did not win her heart, then he would withdraw and let Parker-Roth have her.

But he would succeed. He would work very hard to do so—and enjoy every moment of his toil.

He tossed off the last of his brandy and headed for the stairs and bed.

Alex stared at the door. He tugged on the handle again. Nothing happened. It was definitely locked.

Kate had changed her mind.

Bloody hell! He’d walked all this way, struggled with his conscience, and for what? To find the door locked.

She’d been teasing him again, just as she had twenty-three years ago. Was she in her bedroom, laughing?

He wanted to hit something, but he was no longer young and stupid—well, not completely stupid. He certainly wasn’t going to pound his fist on a stone wall or a tree trunk. He’d only hurt his hand and call attention to his presence—

Tree trunk. Hmm. Should he…?

No, he should go back to Dawson House. If he were lucky, David could be persuaded he’d merely gone for a long walk. Hell, if he left now and walked briskly, he’d be back in time to join his nephew in the library for a glass of brandy before he headed off to bed.

He was very tired.

He was not that tired.

Kate had seemed so sincere in Alvord’s garden. Yes, his judgment had been colored by lust, but he’d swear it hadn’t been completely obfuscated by his animal instincts.

Perhaps when she’d got home, she’d simply awoken to the scandal his presence in Oxbury House could provoke were it discovered. She’d lost her courage.

He should go home.

He turned and started for the street.

Or perhaps she’d forgotten about the door. Or the butler had come round later and locked up for the night.

He stopped. He couldn’t go without knowing.

He was at the northwest corner. She’d said there was a tree. Yes, there it was—a solid tree with plenty of sturdy branches. Very climbable, even for a man of his advanced years. And there was a light in her room.

He was tired of dreaming and guessing. He needed to know for certain if he had a future—or even a present—with Kate.

He picked up a pebble from the garden walkway, hefted it, and took aim at Lady Oxbury’s bedroom window.

Chapter 7

Grace cradled her tea cup in her hands and drew in a deep breath. To think she had imbibed so much champagne she’d cast up her accounts! At least Lord Dawson didn’t know that detail, thank goodness, though he must have noted her overindulgence.

She muffled a moan, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. How could she have been so buffle-headed? The first glass had gone down so quickly—she’d been thirsty from the dance and a little nervous. She was not used to having such a large, handsome gentleman paying her attention—a gentleman who had already announced he wished to marry her. So when he’d offered her a second glass, she’d taken it gratefully.

And then she’d been so happy seeing Aunt Kate and Mr. Wilton together, she’d had to have a third glass in celebration…or was it a fourth?

She took a sip of her tea. She would have been fine if it hadn’t been for Baron Dawson. She would have stayed in the ballroom and danced with the men who couldn’t find another partner. She would have endured and even been anxious to go back to Standen and listen to John drone on about his plants.

She put her tea cup down so abruptly it clinked against the saucer. She had an odd, very empty feeling in her middle.

Perhaps a biscuit would help. She reached for the plate.

Hermes’s ears pricked up as Grace’s teeth sank into the crunchy treat. He was at her side before she’d swallowed her first bite.

“Let me guess—you want a biscuit, too?”

Hermes barked twice, wagged his tail, and looked beseechingly up at her, appearing pitifully hungry.

“But you just had some cheese.”

The little dog put his paws on Grace’s knee and stared intently into her face, his ears drooping. Somehow he managed to convey most eloquently that it had only been a very small bit of cheese, and though he was a small dog, he had the energy and the appetite of a beast twice his size.

“Hermes!” Kate stepped out of her dressing room wearing a voluminous nightdress. “Leave poor Grace alone.”

Grace laughed. “But he is so persuasive. Mayn’t I give him a biscuit?”

“That will encourage him, you know, but…all right. Just one, otherwise he’ll beg himself into gluttony.” Kate turned to Marie. “Hermes had his walk tonight, didn’t he?”

“Aye. Jem, the boot boy, took him out to the back garden.”

“Splendid. He should sleep well tonight, then.” Kate smiled. “Thank you, Marie. That will be all.”

“You don’t look terribly sleepy, Hermes,” Grace said as Marie left. She held out a biscuit and Hermes snapped it out of her hand, then licked her fingers to get every last crumb. His tongue tickled. “Do you ever feed this dog, Aunt Kate?”

“Constantly. It’s a wonder his belly doesn’t drag on the floor.”

“Yes, I’d say—” Grace examined Kate’s nightdress more closely. “Where did you get that? It looks ancient.”

“It is ancient.” Kate sat in the other chair and tucked her feet up under her. “But it’s very comfortable.”

“And very threadbare. You might want to replace it while you’re in Town.” Grace couldn’t resist; Hermes was dancing at her knee, his eyes so large and pleading. She offered him a bit of her own biscuit. He nipped it out of her fingers and trotted over to eat it by Kate. “Well! Does he think I’ll steal it back from him?”

“Perhaps he realizes he’s pushed his luck.”

“Hmm.” Grace cleared her throat slightly. Speaking of pushing one’s luck…“I should say…I mean, well…” Best get the words out. She spoke in a rush. “I am so sorry about tonight. I don’t understand what happened. I’ve had champagne before, but I’ve never been ill.”

“A little champagne goes a long way. Did you have anything to eat at the ball?”

“N-no.” Her stomach had been far too unsettled to sample the duke’s lobster patties.

“And not at the luncheon either.”

“I wasn’t hungry. I was too nervous, I suppose.”

Kate shrugged. “I imagine if you’d eaten, the champagne wouldn’t have affected you so much. Next time don’t drink on an empty stomach.”

The thought of drinking anything stronger than tea was revolting. “You do not need to worry. I’ll never touch champagne again.” Grace rubbed her forehead. “Did I…did I embarrass myself too dreadfully?” She grimaced. “I should be happy if I am too disgraced to attend another society event.”

“No, you did not embarrass yourself at all. I didn’t know you’d imbibed too freely until we were riding home in the carriage.”

“Truthfully?”

“Truthfully.” Aunt Kate put her tea cup down and leaned forward. “However if you are feeling more the thing, we do need to talk.”

This did not sound good. Could she plead a recurrence of her indisposition?

“Grace, about Lord Dawson…”

Grace’s stomach twisted. A recurrence was definitely possible. “W-what about Lord Dawson?”

“He…Well, you know your papa would be mad as a buck if he learned you’d been in the baron’s company.”

Papa…Baron Dawson…

Grace leaned forward as well. “Aunt Kate, why did Papa never tell me about Lady Harriet?”

Kate’s expression suddenly turned guarded. She sat back, putting more distance between herself and Grace. “Lady Harriet?”

“The Earl of Wordham’s daughter—Lord Dawson’s mother.” And the love of Papa’s life? But what about Mama? Grace’s mother had died in childbirth when Grace was only two. Grace didn’t remember her—she’d only seen her portrait in the family gallery—a petite woman with red hair, large brown eyes, and a serious expression. She’d thought Papa had never remarried because his heart had broken when she’d died.

Perhaps his heart had broken, but not for Mama.

Grace’s stomach twisted again.

Aunt Kate wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. “I suppose your papa thought it was ancient history—which it is.”

“Except he is apparently still wearing the willow for Lady Harriet.” Grace’s voice caught slightly. “Didn’t he love my mother at all?” She shouldn’t care; she knew that, but she still felt betrayed.

Aunt Kate patted her hand. “I’m sure he did, Grace. I always thought he and your mother had a very comfortable relationship. Lady Harriet was just his first love, and”—Aunt Kate blushed—“first loves are very intense. You shouldn’t assume my brother still has feelings for Lady Harriet.”

“No? Why else would he continue to hate the Wilton family?”

Aunt Kate laughed humorlessly. “Because your father feels his honor was injured by a Wilton, I suppose. He does not forgive or forget, Grace, which is why you cannot cultivate a friendship with Lord Dawson.”

Grace sighed. Aunt Kate was right. A wise woman would make a point of avoiding Lord Dawson for the rest of the Season. Besides the fact Papa detested the man, it was clear the baron was a very strong-willed individual, the sort of man who could have the unsuspecting believing that up was down—the sort of man in whose presence she drank too much champagne.

Unfortunately she did not feel at all like being wise. No, she felt like being slightly reckless—though not regarding champagne or any other spirits. But with regard to the baron—and waltzing and lingering in gardens without studying the plantings…

This trip to London was a small window—a small interruption—in the gray wall of her existence. A glimmer of magic, a brief portal into fairy tales and happily ever afters. She would enjoy it as fully as she could for as long as she could.

She would be wise and dutiful once she returned to the country and married John.

Grace put the biscuit she’d been nibbling back down on her plate. She suddenly had no room for it—her stomach felt heavy, leaden, as if she’d swallowed a cannon ball.

“You don’t need to worry, Aunt Kate. I’ve already told Lord Dawson his suit is hopeless.”

“Suit?” Kate shrieked. She fumbled her cup, spilling a little tea on her nightdress. “Surely he hasn’t proposed? He just met you.”

Right. Grace knew that…well, her head knew it. Her heart seemed to have a very different opinion—it felt as if she’d known the baron forever.

“Apparently Lord Dawson is not a man to waste time.”

Unlike John. John had never kissed her. That hadn’t seemed such an oversight until now.

She hadn’t expected John to be amorous. She knew he was more interested in acquiring a bit of Papa’s land than in acquiring her. She’d thought he’d be a comfortable husband. Neglectful, perhaps, but she didn’t want much attention.

They would have a child or two or three—she couldn’t quite imagine the actual getting of those children, but surely John would manage the deed with a minimum of fuss—and she would be content. At least he would never be unfaithful—well, besides his occasional visits to his mistress, Mrs. Haddon.

No, “passion” and “John Parker-Roth” were not usually found in the same sentence unless the subject was vegetative. Roses or gardens evoked John’s emotions, not women and weddings.

“You can’t marry Lord Dawson.” Aunt Kate sounded both stern and worried. She was frowning.

“I know that.” Grace frowned back. Grace had not been the only woman in the garden tonight. “But you can marry Mr. Wilton.”

“What?!” Aunt Kate squeaked so loudly, Hermes raised his head.

“You can marry Mr. Wilton.” Grace leaned forward. “I have no idea why you failed to mention his proposal when we had our little chat in the retiring room earlier, but no matter. You are a widow; he is a bachelor—you are both free. You can marry as soon as you want.”

“Ah. Er…” Aunt Kate turned bright red. Was that a good sign?

“Did Mr. Wilton propose again tonight, Aunt Kate, when you were in the garden together?” Aunt Kate would have told her already if he had, wouldn’t she? Well, perhaps she would have if Grace hadn’t been foxed—and then sick. “I saw you waltzing with him. You looked…radiant.”

“Ah…radiant?” Kate looked more horrified now than radiant. “You must be mistaken.”

“No, I assure you. I—”

Ping!

Kate bolted to her feet as if electrified. Hermes leapt up and, barking madly, dashed to the window.

“It sounds as if someone’s throwing pebbles,” Grace said. “Who could it be?”

Ping!

Hermes danced in front of the curtains, then grabbed a mouthful and tugged. Kate stayed frozen in place. She was as colorless as an ice sculpture.

“Shall I see who’s there?” Grace started across the room, but Kate’s hand shot out to grab her wrist.

“No!” Her calm, self-possessed aunt was acting surprisingly agitated.

“Aunt Kate, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Everything’s fine.” Kate tore her eyes away from the window and smiled weakly—but jumped when another pebble hit the glass.

“You know, Grace, this has been quite a comfortable coze”—Ping!—“but I’m suddenly very tired”—Ping!—“and I do think I’d like to go”—Ping!—“to bed”—Ping! Ping!—“now.” Kate tugged Grace toward the connecting door and opened it. “You should go to bed as well. You need your rest.”

That was true. Grace was still feeling a little ill from her encounter with the champagne. “All right.” She paused to listen. “And it sounds as if the noise has stopped. Whoever was out there has probably left.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re right.” Kate literally pushed Grace over the threshold. “Sleep well.”

“You, too, Au—”

Slam!

If Grace had been standing any closer, the door would have hit her in the nose. She stared, and then shrugged and turned away. Apparently Aunt Kate did not wish to be disturbed. Just as well. Now that she was alone, she realized she was completely exhausted.

She climbed into bed and lay down cautiously. Thankfully, the room did not start rotating. She glanced at the bedside table. Good. Marie had replaced the basin, so if she should have an unfortunate recurrence of her indisposition, she would not be completely disgraced.

How could she have been such a noddy? She should have noticed the bubbles going to her head. To think she—

But she had not been thinking, had she? She’d been feeling. She’d been enchanted by a certain tall, handsome baron.

Oh, dear. She leaned over and blew out the candle. What was she going to do? Baron Dawson was not a man to take no for an answer, and she must tell him no.

She couldn’t break Papa’s heart again. She couldn’t align herself with a family that had stolen away his first love and caused him such great pain he still ached all these years later. She most certainly couldn’t give him grandchildren with Wilton blood running in their veins.

Grandchildren…babies…her babies and Dav—

No. Not Lord Dawson’s babies—John’s babies.

Her stomach lurched a little. Was she going to have to use that damn basin?

And she couldn’t ignore the effect her actions would have on John, either. He was expecting to marry her. He and his family would be hurt—embarrassed and insulted—if she jilted him. She would hate that.

She turned over on her side. Fortunately, her stomach did not object.

She had to tell David no, but here in the dark, in the privacy of her room, she could dream. What if she could tell him yes?

That would be wonderful. She could waltz with him at every ball as many times as she wanted. She could go off with him into society gardens without giving the ton anything to gossip about. And once they were in those gardens…

She smiled and burrowed deeper into her bed. There would be no botany lectures. No, they would do all the wonderful things they had done tonight—and perhaps a few more. She could tell David was holding back this evening.

His body was so hard and strong—so different from hers. Yet he’d been so gentle. She’d felt sheltered and safe. And the feel of his lips and his tongue and his hands…He had provoked so many entrancing, exciting sensations.

The throbbing…oh. The throbbing had started again. She was hot and damp and unsettled. She stretched, but even the friction of the sheets against her skin was too much.

She turned over on her stomach and pressed against the mattress, but that gave her no relief.

Thinking about David had been a mistake. She would never get to sleep at this rate. If only she could remember some of John’s discourses on plant classification, she would fall asleep in minutes—but she’d never paid enough attention to remember any of his lectures.

There was no help for it—she would have to count sheep.

She turned over on her back, closed her eyes resolutely, and started at “one.”

It must be Alex outside—who else could it be?

Kate rushed to the window. Why had she chosen to wear her oldest nightdress tonight? It looked like a rag, it had been washed so many times. The lowest scullery maid would be embarrassed to own it. It certainly wasn’t an appropriate garment for a seduction. She should change.

There was no time to change.

Had he left? She hadn’t heard a stone hit the window for a while. Hermes had stopped tussling with the curtain and had collapsed, panting, on the floor.

Surely Alex hadn’t left. Please God, don’t let him have left—though why she was asking the Divinity to assist in her liaison—

Hermes jumped up and started barking again as she shoved aside the curtain.

“Shh, Hermes. You’ll wake the dead.” Alex wouldn’t rush off after coming all this way.

All right, so Oxbury House was only a few blocks from Dawson House, but still, he’d made the trip, which must mean he wanted…

She wouldn’t think about what he must want.

She tugged on the window latch.

There was no real hurry. Alex must have left. Why would he stay, after she’d forgotten to unlock the servants’ door and then ignored his attempts to get her attention? He likely was halfway home by now.

Damnation, the old latch wouldn’t budge. She pulled with both hands. She had to get the window open. He might not have gone far. Maybe if she shouted—

If she shouted all of London would wonder why Lady Oxbury was hanging out her bedroom window, yelling into the darkness.

At least her room was at the back of the building. Perhaps no one would notice.

If she couldn’t get this bloody window open, no one would notice. She could shout all she wanted—only Hermes would hear her.

She jerked harder on the latch. Was it rusted or painted shut? Surely the blasted window had been opened sometime in the last forty years, or however long it’d been since Oxbury’s mother’s death. The servants must have aired the rooms before she and Grace arrived. Whatever the case, the damn window wasn’t opening now. She pulled one last time, as hard as she could.

Finally! The latch screeched open. She shoved on the window. It protested, too, but went up slowly. She leaned out…

She couldn’t see a thing—or hear anything, either, Hermes was making such a racket.

“Shh, you silly dog.” She held her breath, listened…

She heard a low, male chuckle. Where was it coming from? Under the tree? The shadows were too thick to tell.

“Alex?” she whispered urgently.

“Hallo, Kate.”

“Alex!” She collapsed against the windowsill in relief. He was still here. “I’m sorry about—”

“Shh.” Another low chuckle. “Shall I come up? We can…talk then.”

She shivered at his pause. Yes, they could talk—and do other things. “Yes, come up. Can you manage the tree?”

“Of course.”

There was nothing “of course” about a forty-five-year-old man—even a man in as splendid physical condition as Alex appeared to be—climbing up a tree and through a bedroom window. She bit her tongue and said a few prayers as she watched him shed his coat and waistcoat and make his way up through the branches. She picked Hermes up and stepped back when he reached the window.

“Be careful.”

He grinned at her from his perch on a sturdy branch. At least she hoped it was sturdy. She’d be very much happier when he was inside; she did not care to watch him plummet to the ground.

“Fortunately the gardeners have neglected their pruning. This tree grows much too close to the house, you know.”

Heavens, did he want to have a discussion of horticulture while he sat in that bloody tree?

“For God’s sake, Alex, come in before you fall to your death.”

“Very well, since you ask so nicely.” He grabbed a branch above his head and swung his legs over the windowsill. In a minute he was standing in her room. He spread out his arms. “Here I am, safe and sound.”

“Thank God!” She took a step toward him and froze.

He was so big. She held Hermes a little tighter. It was one thing to imagine Alex, to dream of him here, but a different thing to actually have him in her room.

In her bed? Good God.

“W-would you like some t-tea?” She put Hermes down and turned back to the table.

Oxbury had been forty-seven when they’d married—only two years older than Alex was now. But Oxbury had seemed ancient. Yes, she’d been only seventeen, but that wasn’t it, or at least not all of it. Oxbury had been, well, scraggy—only a few inches taller than she, with narrow, slightly bowed shoulders and spindly arms and legs. Back then he’d used stays and false calves and other sartorial tricks to pad his appearance. She’d been startled when he’d come to her on their wedding night. He’d looked like a skeleton in his nightshirt.

She’d be shocked if Alex wore any padding at all, but she’d find out tonight—

Dear heavens. If he actually…if they really—

“G-Grace and I were just having a cup of p-peppermint t-tea. It’s very s-soothing. And biscuits. There are still some left. Grace didn’t have much of an appetite. Nor did I.” No need to explain why she’d had no appetite. “They’re gingerbread—Hermes’s favorite, aren’t they, Hermes?”

She turned back to look at the males in the room. Both Hermes and Alex were staring at her as if she were completely addled.

“I didn’t come for tea, Kate.” Alex’s voice was low and warm, but there was a question in it, too—a question she was not quite prepared to answer.

Why couldn’t he just grab her, take her to bed, and do whatever it was he did in b-beds? Besides sleep, that is.

“N-no, of course, you don’t want tea. I’m afraid—well, I didn’t think—I don’t have any brandy or—”

He came toward her and took her hands, which had been fluttering around her like drunken sparrows. His clasp was strong, warm, strangely reassuring. Comforting. She took a deep breath and looked up into his face.

“Kate, do you want me to go?”

“Ah.” He certainly got right to the point.

“I will if you want me to.”

His eyes searched her face. She couldn’t bear the scrutiny—she looked away. Hermes had settled down in his bed in the corner. Apparently he trusted Alex.

A slightly calloused finger touched her chin, urging her back to meet his gaze.

“The servants’ door was locked, Kate. Did you mean for me to leave, then?” He frowned, and she could feel him begin to draw back. “I’m sorry, I—”

She grabbed two handfuls of his soft lawn shirt. “No!” She would have to find the courage to say it. She’d been wrong to hope Alex would take charge. “I-I want you to stay. Please. Don’t leave.”

He cupped her face in his hands. “You’re certain?”

“Yes.” She was nervous—terrified, actually—but she was also certain—completely certain—she wanted him here.

Alex looked down at Kate. She was not acting like a woman who made a habit of inviting men to her bed. She seemed agitated. Afraid…of him? No. She couldn’t be afraid of him. He would never hurt her.

Instead of kissing her, he gathered her close, holding her lightly. After a moment, he felt her arms slide around his waist.

She was so small and delicate.

“Do you miss Oxbury, Kate?”

Where the hell had that thought come from? Was he an idiot? He didn’t want to talk about her dead husband, did he?

Her grip on him tightened. “Yes.” Damnation, was that a sniff he heard? “Y-yes, I m-miss him.”

Hell and blast, all of a sudden she was sobbing. Her shoulders shook; his shirtfront was growing damp. He felt her drawing in deep, shuddering breaths.

“Shh.” He cradled the back of her head, his fingers tangled in her hair. “Shh, love.”

He knew all about loss, about holes in your life so large you feared you’d fall in and tumble down and down forever. When Da and Mama had died…

Damn, his eyes were watering. He must have got a speck in them climbing up through the tree branches. There was a lump in his throat as well. He swallowed.

He was not crying. Only women and dandies cried.

He stroked Kate’s hair while she sobbed for Oxbury. It was so soft. It slipped like silk through his fingers and flowed all the way down to her waist. Thank God she hadn’t braided it.

She sobbed harder.

Obviously, he was a failure as a rake. He should have kissed her the moment she’d strayed into his arms. He should have tried to stir up her lust—or whatever urge had provoked her to invite him here. He should have got her into bed as quickly as he could. Why the hell did he have to mention Oxbury?

Because the man was only dead a year and had been Kate’s husband for more than half her life. There was no escaping those facts. When he took Kate to bed—if he took her to bed—Oxbury would be there, too. Hopefully only as a pleasant memory—a pleasant, very faint memory—but from the way Kate was crying…well, there just might not be room for a mere mortal in her heart.

If Kate still mourned Oxbury, why the bloody hell had she asked him here?

“I should leave, Kate.”

She shook her head and clutched his shirt more tightly. It would take some effort to detach her.

He rubbed her back. Mmm. Her nightgown was worn, the fabric so thin he’d seen the outline of her lovely body—her breasts, waist, hips, even the shadow of her nether curls—when she’d walked over to the tea tray. Now he could feel the warm mounds of her breasts pressed against his chest and the heat of her skin where he stroked her. No dress, no stays, just woman.

A sobbing woman whose mind was definitely not on bed play.

What was he to do? Leave? But she wouldn’t let him. Seduce her? Surely even the most hardened rake must hesitate at luring such a tearful female into bed.

He could only try to comfort her. There was no turning back the clock, no uttering a magical incantation to make the last twenty-three years disappear. Kate was who she was. She was not the young girl he’d lost his heart to. That girl was long gone. In her place was this beautiful woman who was…who? He didn’t know.

He shouldn’t have come. He truly was an idiot. He’d wasted half his life dreaming of, longing for, someone who didn’t exist.

But she felt so very good. And she smelled just as he remembered. He brushed his lips over her hair, breathing deeply. Whether it was sleight of hand or not, holding her made him feel young again, made him believe anything was possible.

And she seemed to need him. He would give her what he could—whatever she wanted.

“I do miss him,” she said. She looked up. Her face was blotchy red, her eyes swollen. She sniffed several times.

He handed her his handkerchief. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose, then looked at the cloth wadded up in her fist. She blushed.

“I’ll have Marie launder this and—”

“Keep it. I have others.” He should find a way to leave. She had stopped crying. She would want to be alone with her memories.

She dropped her gaze back to his shirtfront and put her hand on his chest. “I’m sorry I turned into such a watering pot. I’m sure that’s not what you were expecting.”

“Not quite.” God, he could feel each one of her fingers through the linen. They burned him, branded him…

He should leave.

“Kate, I think—” Damn, her hand was moving lower, over his belly, down to…He held his breath.

She stopped at his waist, but her other hand joined the first, the used handkerchief relegated to the floor. Both hands slid slowly up his body, her fingers tracing his muscles through the cloth.

Dear God! He was going to burst into flames, especially the most interested part of him. He moved his hips back to spare her the evidence.

“Kate.” Was that his voice, so hoarse and thick? He covered her hands with his, staying their explorations. “Kate, I’m not sure—”

“I am.” She looked up at him, her eyes still puffy from her tears. “I wish to seduce you.”

“You’re lonely.”

She hesitated as if she would say something and then changed her mind. She smiled slightly. “So I need company. Will you keep me company?” She leaned forward and kissed the cloth above his heart. “Please?”

He was going to explode. He shouldn’t do this. He should climb back out the window, but frankly, he doubted he was physically able to manage the deed at this particular moment. “Er…”

She looked up again, a slight frown between her brows, her eyes serious. “I’ll be honest, Alex. I know next to nothing about bed play. Oxbury was, well…” She shook her head, shrugged, and then smiled slightly. “But I want to learn.” She pressed closer to him. “With you.”

He tried to think, but all the blood had drained from his head to another organ which was insisting on doing his thinking for him, enthusiastically urging him to get on with it and take the girl to bed. “Kate…”

“Please?” Her small hand found the focus of his enthusiasm and gently, almost hesitantly, brushed over him.

“I’m not…” Damn, he was panting. “I’m really not, ah.” She was tracing his outline now which was growing with each gentle touch. “If you’re looking for an expert”—Oh, God. Her fingers…if they did that again…yes…with a little more pressure…a little more—no. What was he trying to say? Yes. No. He was trying to say no. Or at least maybe or wait or—what the hell—“If you’re looking for an expert, I don’t qualify.”

Blessedly, her hands moved from their current obsession. He could think again. Or maybe not. Now they were working his shirt free of his breeches and slipping underneath to touch his bare skin.

“I don’t want an expert,” she said. “I want you.”

Chapter 8

Her courage wavered. Had she been too bold? Alex seemed markedly less than enthusiastic.

Well, yes, a specific part of him was very eager, almost alarmingly eager, but the rest of him…She started to withdraw her hands from his wonderful, warm skin. She had reached the extent of her limited seduction skills.

His hands slid down to cup her bottom.

“Really, Kate? You really want me?”

She heard hope, need, and a note of pain in his voice that called to her. Perhaps he was as lonely as she was. Perhaps she could offer him something of value besides his physical release.

“Oh, yes, Alex. I’ve never wanted anything—anyone—as much as I want you.” She pushed his shirt up and kissed his hard, lightly-furred chest. Then she pressed her cheek against him and hugged him tightly. She was going to have Alex in her bed. She was finally going to be able to touch him and kiss him, and…and do the other thing with him.

She would happily skip the other thing, but that had always been Oxbury’s focus, even after it was clear she could not give him children, so Alex would probably be just as interested. It was a male thing, having to do with the male organ. She had spent many nights, especially in the early years of their marriage, lying quietly, making a list of household chores she needed to attend to in the morning while Oxbury worked over her, grunting and sweating and moaning.

No matter. It was usually over relatively quickly. And it was a small price to pay for the chance to touch Alex, to have his attention.

He started to pull up her nightgown. Oh, no. She knew where that would lead. She would be flat on her back in minutes. She was having none of it. Not now. Later, yes. After she did her own exploring.

She pushed back from his chest. “No.”

He frowned down at her. “No?”

“Not yet. I want my turn first.”

“Your…turn?” He sounded—he looked—completely confused. Well, that was all right. She didn’t know exactly what she meant, either. But she had asked him here. This was her room. She was going to take charge.

“I want to…experiment.”

“You do?” His eyes looked distinctly wary. “What exactly do you mean…experiment?”

She laughed then. What did he think she meant? She had a very limited imagination. Excitement and an odd recklessness surged through her. She might be forty years old, but she had never felt so young. “I don’t know. I’ll puzzle it out as I go along.” She grinned and spread her fingers over his chest. “You can give me suggestions—as long as you realize I may not take them.” She kissed one of his nipples and heard him inhale sharply. “I make the final decisions.”

“That is not what I am used to, you know.” Was his voice a little breathless?

“I’m sure it is not, but I think I must insist.” She traced the line from his chest to the top of his breeches and felt his belly tense. “I don’t have any experience to speak of in the arts of seduction, however, so I imagine I will need many suggestions.”

“Ah.” Yes, his voice was definitely breathless and a little strained. “I…see. Well, then, please…ah…proceed.”

She ran her tongue over her suddenly dry lips. There was one other detail she should mention. She watched her finger smooth his soft hair, drawing a little pattern on his stomach. She swallowed. This was rather hard to say. Mortifying. It shouldn’t be. He should be happy to hear it.

“Before we…s-start…ah…” She swallowed. “You should know…that is, you’ll be pleased to know…well, you may be relieved to hear you do not need to worry…what I mean to say is…” She wished she didn’t have to say it. He might guess it, of course, due to her age, but age wasn’t to blame in this case. The problem…the difficulty was…

Well, if she weren’t this way, she would never have invited him here. There were only so many risks she was willing to take.

“Kate?” The edge of his hand came under her chin. He raised her face.

She met his eyes and looked away quickly. She couldn’t be distracted by his touch. She dropped her hands and stepped back. She took a deep breath and stared at his shirt which had now fallen back down to cover his body.

“You need not worry that an unfortunate event will occur in nine months’ time.” She cleared her throat, swallowed again. Best just to blurt it out. “I’m barren.”

“God, Kate.”

Was that pity in his voice? She didn’t want pity. Not now. For once it was good she was barren. And she was far too old for children in any case.

She was going to be a seductress. She was going to play. She was not going to think about children, about a son or daughter with Alex’s eyes—

No, she was not going to think about it.

“I’ve had many years to accustom myself to the fact. And it is convenient now, wouldn’t you say?” She tried to laugh. “At my age it must be impossible to c-conceive, even if I had ever been f-fertile.”

Damn. Her voice broke.

“Kate—”

If they started discussing her failing, they would never get into her bed. She put her fingers over Alex’s mouth. She did not want to think about children or Oxbury. She didn’t want to think at all.

“We are starting now, all right?” Please, don’t ask questions, Alex. Please just play the game.

He frowned. She was certain he was going to protest and ruin everything, but he didn’t. She felt his lips move against her fingers in a kiss. He nodded. She smiled and stepped back.

“Good. Now, take off your shirt, please.”

Alex just looked at her.

Damn. Was he going to insist on talking about children, then? She bit her lip. If he did, she would cry and the whole evening would be a disaster. She would sleep alone again. She would never know what it was like to…be with Alex. She would not get the courage to ask him again. She would—

He was reaching for the hem of his shirt. Thank God! He grasped it in both hands and quickly pulled it over his head, dropping it on the floor by his feet.

Oh. Oh, my. He took her breath away. “You’re beautiful.”

He snorted, his cheeks reddening. “I am not beautiful.”

“You are.” She’d known his stomach was flat and hard; she’d just felt it. She’d known his shoulders were broad—but they looked so much broader naked. Muscles curved in his arms—and even in his chest and stomach. He was like a statue of a Greek god, but instead of being cold, white marble, he was warm flesh. She stepped closer and put her hands on him again.

Very warm.

His arms came up to pull her close. She stiffened. Not yet. She wanted to take things slowly, savor every moment. She would not get another chance. This was only for tonight, to satisfy her curiosity. Tomorrow she would be the strait-laced Lady Oxbury again.

“No, Alex. You can only suggest.”

“What?”

“You can suggest that you put your arms around me; I’m the one who will decide if you do so.”

He looked as if he might argue.

“However, I have decided—for the moment—that this is a good suggestion, so you may keep your arms where they are.”

A corner of his mouth turned up. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She ran her hands over his chest and then followed her hands with her mouth. Her tongue.

She heard a very satisfactory gasp. Alex’s hands moved to her sides, slid up toward her breasts.

“Not yet, sir.” Though she was surprised to find her body was definitely interested in feeling Alex’s touch.

Was that a growl she heard? She laughed up at him and pushed herself free. “You may remove your breeches next, Mr. Wilton.”

He put his hands on his hips. Was he annoyed? Embarrassed? Perhaps this was not such a good game after all.

But she had to do something. She couldn’t just climb into bed, stretch herself out, and lie quietly for him to mount her as she had for Oxbury all those years. She didn’t want that. Surely there was another way.

“What about your nightgown, Kate? I suggest you remove that.”

“I will…later.” What would she do if he wouldn’t play along? Should she give up now? Apparently men were all the same. Perhaps if she were an experienced courtesan, she could seduce Alex, make him so mad with lust he would do anything she said. Not that she wanted to order him around, but—

His hands were at his fall. He was going to play along.

Her entire body flushed, she was certain of it. Heat flooded her face, her breasts, her belly, even the place between her legs that usually winced with the thought of the procreative act. She swallowed. She was even salivating in anticipation of seeing all of Alex’s body. Did he know she was so consumed with lust?

She glanced up at his face. His eyes were hot, intense, slightly hooded. A slow smile curved his lips.

He knew.

“I’m having trouble with my buttons, Kate.” His voice was huskier than normal, low and deep.

Good heavens, she was actually throbbing.

“Oh.” The word came out in a shaky breath.

“Yes. Can you help me?”

“H-help you?”

“Please?” He thrust his hips slightly toward her. There was no hiding that his male organ had swollen to a remarkable size.

She had never considered the issue, but in this case at least, the larger the man, the larger the…

“Do you suppose you might undo my buttons for me? I’m sure your smaller fingers are more nimble than mine, and, as you can see”—there was heat and a note of humor in his voice—“I am rather in a state.”

“Yes, I can see that.” She was the one who’d started this game. She couldn’t complain when he came up with his own ideas—she’d said he could suggest things. And the thought of undressing him, while it wouldn’t have occurred to her on her own, was enticing. “Very well, I will assist you.”

Alex inhaled as Kate stepped close to him. She smelled wonderful. The scent of lavender was there as always, but now there was the added scent of heat and need. He wanted to touch her, to kiss her, to strip off her gown and trace that sweet smell of musk and woman to its source.

Her fingers fumbled with one of his buttons, brushing over the hard, aching length of him. “Ah.” He closed his eyes briefly. Heaven—or rather, the beginnings of heaven. True paradise would happen shortly, in the bed behind him.

She looked up. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“N-no.” He could barely get the word out. Hell, he could barely think. He put his hands on her shoulders. He had to steady himself somehow or he would collapse. Thankfully, Kate did not object. She was too busy with her fingers, her wonderful, teasing fingers. Finally she got the last button free.

Ah. He fell into her warm, smooth, delicate hands. Oh, God. He had never felt anything so exquisite.

Until she began to stroke him. Light, tentative touches all along his length.

He was panting as if he had just run a race.

“Are you all right, Alex?”

“No.” Was that croaking in his voice? “Yes.”

“Am I hurting you?”

“No. God, no.”

“May I remove your breeches for you?”

“Yes.” He was about to beg her to do so—or to rip them off himself. “Please.”

Her hands slid around to push the cloth over his hips and down his legs. Her face, her mouth, was level with…dodging, in fact…

“May I make a suggestion?” God, he was still croaking like a frog—a lust-maddened frog.

She paused. “What do you suggest?”

“It would be very, very pleasant if you…kissed me, er, there.”

Kate sat back on her heels. “Kiss you?”

“Ah.” He could feel himself reddening, though how he could feel embarrassment when his emotions were consumed with lust was a bit of a conundrum. Was all of him red? He was not about to look. “Kiss. Touch me with your lips…there.” There could be little question as to where “there” was. “Your lips and perhaps your…tongue.”

“What an odd suggestion.” Kate stared at his cock—he’d swear it grew another inch, though that was clearly impossible. “And you would like that?”

“V-very much.”

“Hmm. All right.” She leaned forward, and her lips brushed over him. “Like this?”

“Yes.” He had never felt anything so wonderful—until her tongue rasped over his tip seconds later. And then her lips fastened onto him. She was a very quick learner.

He was going to pass out. At a minimum, he was going to fall down if he didn’t sit down—or better, lie down—immediately. He tugged gently on Kate’s hair.

She did not respond. Apparently the woman could be very single-minded when she wished to be. He tugged a little harder.

“Kate, sweetheart, love.” He allowed a note of desperation to creep into his voice. Hell, he was desperate.

She finally stopped her activities and looked up.

“What is it?” She grinned, the minx. “I am having a splendid time—I do not believe I care to be interrupted.”

“And I hate to have to interrupt you, my love, but I do have my physical limitations.”

“You do?” She kissed him, and he’d swear the limits of that particular organ expanded again. “Where?”

He choked back a slightly hysterical laugh. “Kate, you are bringing me to my knees—literally. I am a forty-five-year-old man—though I don’t know I would fare much better with this torture were I twenty-two again. I suggest—I very urgently suggest—that we adjourn to that lovely bed over there.”

Alex did sound desperate, and Kate found she was ready for the next step. She stood, sliding her hands up Alex’s sides. She wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging him tightly. His skin was so soft, but his body was so hard. “I think that is a splendid idea.”

“I am so glad you agree.” He laid his hands on her back and murmured in her ear. “And I have another idea.”

“You do?” She wriggled against him, and smiled when she heard his sharply indrawn breath. He was very well-behaved though—too well-behaved. She’d like his hands to move. She’d especially like them to move downward, past her waist. “What is your idea?”

“I suggest you would be more comfortable without this annoying nightgown. It is far too threadbare to provide any warmth.” He brushed his lips over her earlobe. “I think you are generating plenty of heat on your own, but if you feel the least bit cold, I am more than willing to act as your blanket.”

“Hmm. You may be correct.” She tilted her head back and smiled at him. “Would you care to remove it?”

“Sweetheart, I thought you would never ask.”

Alex kissed her once, quick and hard, and then let her go. She felt bereft, but she knew it was only momentary. She watched him strip off his shoes, breeches, and stockings; then he knelt and put his hands on her ankles. She waited, but nothing happened.

“I thought you were removing my nightgown.”

“I am.” He hands moved leisurely up her ankles to her calves. “Slowly.”

“Oh.” Slowly was torture—wonderful torture. She grabbed his shoulders. His muscles flexed under her fingers. His hands moved to her knees. “Perhaps you should move more quickly.”

“I don’t think so. After all, I am only taking my lead from you. You were very slow removing my breeches.”

“I’m sure I was mis-GUID-ed.” His hands had slid up over her thighs to her hips and his tongue—“Ah!”—his tongue was…oh, dear God. She grabbed his head. “What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing? See if you can describe it.” He ran his tongue over a very sensitive spot by the place where…

She pulled on his hair. She now completely understood his need to assume a prone position. “The bed. You wanted to go to bed.”

“Yes. In a moment.”

“Now.”

“No.” He leaned back and grinned up at her. “I strongly suggest that you allow me to take the lead in this game for a while. I’m certain you will enjoy it.”

She was certain she would, too, but she wasn’t about to say that. “Well, aren’t you cocky?”

He laughed. “Indeed. Very cocky. Painfully so, love, thanks to your tender ministrations.”

Kate felt her face flush. “I have no idea what you are alluding to.”

“No? I shall be delighted to show you in just a very little while.” He slid her nightgown higher, over her stomach, over her breasts. She raised her arms so he could pull it off entirely, but he stopped, holding her arms up, the nightgown over her face.

“Come on, Alex. What are you—eek!”

He was kissing her breasts, laving her nipples with his tongue, and then sucking each one into his warm, wet mouth.

Her knees gave out. If he had not been holding her, she would have fallen.

He pulled the blasted nightgown fully off and lifted her into his arms.

“I believe you wished to retire to bed, my lady?”

“Yes, you idiot.” Her body was on fire. The place between her legs was wet and throbbing and hot. She had never felt this way before. “Now. Immediately. I need you.”

“You do? An old woman such as yourself?”

“Yes!” She half screamed the word. He was not moving quickly enough.

He laughed. “I find this old man agrees with you wholeheartedly.”

He finally reached the bed and put her down in the center of it. She didn’t want to be apart from him, even for a second. She raised her arms, and he came to her, bearing her down onto the mattress. His weight felt good—so good. There was no need for further play. There was no time. She was mad for him. Desperate for him. She opened her legs, and he slid into her all in one motion. She started to come apart immediately. She grabbed his hips, moaning, twisting, pressing closer. He moved once, and she shattered completely.

In the midst of her storm, she felt him pulse in her, hot and deep.

For a few moments, there was only panting and extreme lassitude. Kate could not have raised her head if her life depended on it. Every inch of her body felt satiated. Sleep beckoned. Then Alex laughed breathlessly.

“Ah, Kate.”

She smiled lazily and cracked open one eye. He kissed the tip of her nose.

“I’m too heavy for you.”

He was, but she wasn’t going to say so. She loved having his body on hers. Breathing was much overrated. She hadn’t the air to talk, so she made a low, almost purring sound. He laughed again and lifted himself off her.

She frowned. “I’m cold.” She was. Her body, damp from their loving, was chilled by his absence.

“We can’t have that, can we?” He pulled up the covers and gathered her into his arms. “Better?”

She closed her eyes again. “Mmm. Much better.”

“You are not being very articulate.”

What was there to talk about? She was exactly where she most wanted to be—naked, in bed, her head on Alex’s shoulder, his arms around her, his hand stroking her back. She was in heaven. She kept her eyes closed, turned her head, and kissed his arm.

“We should talk, Kate.”

His voice had a very serious tone to it. Unpleasantly serious.

She didn’t want to talk. Talking meant thinking about the past or the future. She did not want to think. She wanted to ignore everything but the present. This perfect moment. She burrowed closer into his warmth.

“Sleep,” she murmured.

“I can’t sleep, Kate. What if I sleep the night away? What if your maid—or Grace—discovers me here in the morning? Or what if one of the servants finds my coat and waistcoat by the tree? I have to go, sweetheart.”

“No. Stay.”

“I can’t. We have to be discreet, Kate, unless…”

She frowned, opening her eyes. Obviously the fairy tale was over. “Unless what?”

“Unless you marry me.”

The past and future came crashing in on her. They were far heavier than Alex had been. She sat, pulling a corner of the sheet up to cover herself. She should put on her nightgown so Marie wasn’t scandalized in the morning. “You know I can’t marry you.”

Alex sat up, too, but he didn’t bother with the sheet. It pooled below his waist, leaving his shoulders and arms, his lovely chest and belly completely exposed. She reached out to touch him, but he captured her hand in his a little roughly.

His face bore a distinctly mulish expression—eyebrows lowered, lips tight, jaw tense. What was the matter with him? Weren’t men supposed to come happily to any widow’s chamber, delighted to have some uncomplicated, unencumbered bed play? But Alex was…he certainly looked angry.

Well, she was angry, too. She had never given him any promises, nor had she asked any of him. She’d always known this was to be a one night affair, a secret—a bit of magic—stolen from the very real, completely unavoidable everyday events of their lives.

“I know no such thing.” Lud! He was almost growling. “You are of age and a widow. I am not married. What is the impediment?”

Surely he saw the obvious? “Alex, it’s Grace’s first Season—most likely her only Season. My brother has found her a neighbor to wed—the man’s estate marches with Standen—who hates London. When—if—she marries him, she’ll be stuck in the country until she dies.” She leaned forward. He still had not relinquished her hand. “Don’t you see? I want her to have the chance I didn’t. I want her to meet other men—”

“You met other men, Kate. You met me.”

“Yes, I know, but…” It was too hard to explain. Or maybe it was too simple. Maybe she just hoped, if given the opportunity, Grace would have more courage than she had had. Grace was older after all—twenty-five to her seventeen. Perhaps Grace would follow her heart instead of Standen’s will.

“Splendid.” Alex’s hand on her fingers tightened to the point of pain. “So Lady Grace will be able to make some poor idiot like my nephew fall in love with her and then break his heart when she marries another, just like you did.”

“No.” She felt as if he had slapped her. Worse. As if he had squeezed her heart as hard as he was squeezing her fingers. “I didn’t.” She sucked in her breath as his grip tightened even more. “Ouch! Alex, you’re hurting me.”

He almost snarled, but he loosened his hold, moving to put her hand flat against his chest. She could feel his heart hammering against her palm.

“You think you didn’t break my heart? God, Kate.”

She tried to laugh. The mood definitely needed lightening. “Of course I didn’t. It is beating quite vigorously now.”

It was as if she hadn’t spoken.

“You have no idea, no bloody idea, what I felt when Standen told me of your engagement. I wanted to die.” He looked away. His nostrils flared, his mouth formed a thin, white line.

She dropped her eyes to stare at his hand where it pressed hers to his chest. His heart still raced under her fingers.

Her own heart lurched in sickening thuds.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Kate? Why did you lead me on, let me hope, let me embarrass myself in front of your brother? How he must have been laughing in his sleeve.”

Kate found her voice. “I didn’t lead you on.”

He skewered her with his eyes. “Damn it, Kate, the bloody announcement of your engagement to Oxbury was in the paper that very morning. I saw it when I got back from my interview with your brother. And then you married so quickly. The gossips dined out on that for weeks, everyone giggling over how Oxbury’s lusty passions must have necessitated such a hasty wedding.”

“No.” How horrible. Thankfully, she hadn’t known what tales the tabbies had been chasing. “They weren’t actually saying such things, were they?”

“They were.”

Kate looked so pale, so shocked, Alex felt a twinge of compassion for her. Only a twinge. She could never be suffering what he had suffered.

He’d been so full of hope when he’d gone to visit her brother that day. He’d known he’d have rough ground to get over—he wasn’t a fool—but he’d truly thought love would conquer all.

What romantic twaddle!

And, idiot that he was, he hadn’t believed Standen when he’d said Kate was engaged. All the way back to Dawson House, he’d planned how he’d ride to the country and spirit her away to Gretna. He’d marry her over the anvil, officiated by the blacksmith, just as Luke had married Harriet, only he’d be smarter. He’d take her to the Continent until she’d given him a babe, maybe two, so Standen would have to recognize—or at least tolerate—their union.

And then he’d seen the announcement in The Morning Post.

Kate was tugging on his hand. She’d let go of the sheet, exposing her beautiful breasts.

He didn’t feel even the slightest stirrings of lust.

“Alex, I wasn’t engaged when I went into Alvord’s garden with you.”

He snorted. Did she expect him to believe that Banbury tale? He’d been a fool once—once was enough.

Or had he already been a fool again?

“Why did you come to London now, Kate? To find a wealthy husband—or to be a merry widow?”

“I came to chaperone Grace, of course.” Kate hesitated. Her face went still, as if she was coming to some decision—and then she smiled. God, she was so damn seductive, he felt her siren call even through his pain and anger.

“But I find I like being a merry widow as well.” She ran her hand down his chest. “I liked what we just did very, very much. Shall we do it again?”

He stared at her. How could she say that so lightly? All that had just happened between them—it must have been only physical for her, only bodies joining, his body as good as any other man’s. He was a fool.

Damn it all, the pain was unbearable, worse even than when he’d learned of her engagement. He wanted to hurt her back.

“No, once was enough for me.” She flinched—good. “I came just for old time’s sake, you know. To scratch an itch—see what I’d been missing. I’ve satisfied my curiosity, thank you. I’ve no need to repeat the experience.”

He made himself climb out of the bed when he wanted to fling himself out. He ignored her shocked expression as he pulled on his clothes. Even knowing she didn’t have a functioning heart, it hurt him to hurt her. He was most definitely an idiot.

He went out the window in a blur of agony. He was never going to speak—he was never going to see—Lady Oxbury again.

Chapter 9

“Where is your uncle?”

Lord Dawson choked on a mouthful of champagne. He muffled his coughing with his handkerchief as he peered around a pillar to locate the source of the hissing. Lady Grace Belmont glared at him.

Damn. He felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. She was so beautiful—so…vivid. She made all the other girls back in Easthaven’s ballroom fade completely from his thoughts—not that any of the insipid misses had managed to find a foothold in his brain box anyway.

Grace was looking especially alluring tonight in a green dress with a deeply plunging neck that admirably emphasized her very large, very lovely—

Her fan appeared to block his gaze. A pity, but just as well. He could not allow himself to be seduced. He was not in charity with her at the moment. He sent that thought directly, with emphasis, to his most argumentative organ.

He might never be in charity with her again. He’d come tonight with the firm resolve to put her behind him and start his bloody matrimonial hunt all over. He was just having one more glass of champagne here in the refreshment room before venturing back into the terpsichorean fray.

“And a very good evening to you, too, Lady Grace.”

Her frown deepened—she had detected his sarcasm. Not surprising; it had been thick enough for the most obtuse member of the ton to perceive—and Grace was not obtuse.

Damn. He would not think of Alvord’s garden and the way her expression had softened when he’d mentioned his mother. So the woman had a heart, unlike her father. Most women had hearts…though not encased in such lovely, sumptuous packaging.

There, it was much easier to tame lust than…another emotion.

Grace thrust her jaw forward. “I asked you a question, my lord.”

“Did you? Then perhaps you noticed I did not answer it.”

He thought for a moment she would haul off and punch him. No ladylike slapping for his—

No, not his. Never his. He could not marry her; he could never marry a woman so closely related to the female who’d wounded Alex. He didn’t know the details, of course. Alex hadn’t said. Alex wouldn’t talk, but the look in his eyes the morning after Alvord’s ball when he’d left London had spoken more eloquently than any words. David hadn’t seen that look since Grandda and Grandmamma had died. Something—someone—had hurt Alex deeply.

Lady Oxbury.

It could not be a coincidence Alex had left Town the morning after he’d spent the entire night…where? David would wager his estate Alex had been with Grace’s aunt. The woman was as cruel as her brother, Standen.

Was Grace that cruel as well?

No. That he couldn’t believe. Grace had been only kind to him—

Blast it, was he flushing?

“Don’t be a complete ass.” Grace was still hissing like a snake. “We have to talk. Your uncle has hurt Aunt Kate horribly.”

He almost dropped his champagne glass. “My uncle has injured your aunt?” He pressed his lips together. He was close to shouting. Two elderly women—Lady Amanda Wallen-Smyth and Mrs. Fallwell—stopped their conversation to look at him. He forced himself to smile politely until they moved off, then adopted his own serpent-like sibilance. “Are you insane?”

“I most certainly am not. I—”

“Here is your lemonade, Lady Grace.”

They both turned to stare at the new arrival. Mr. Belham was not a feast for anyone’s eyes. His face was all nose. He had no chin to speak of, and his eyes were small and sadly dwarfed by his overwhelming snout.

Grace snatched the glass from Mr. Belham’s hand.

“Thank you, sir. If you will excuse me now, I have matters of importance to discuss with Lord Dawson.”

Mr. Belham’s small chin dropped.

“Go on.” She made a shooing motion with her hands. “You are very much in the way here. Go back to the ballroom and ask some poor miss to stand up with you.”

“Ah.” Mr. Belham’s tiny eyes almost started from his head. “Er, yes. Of course. I’ll just be on my way then.”

“Splendid. Do enjoy yourself.” Grace turned back to Baron Dawson as Mr. Belham stumbled out of the refreshment room. She was delighted to get rid of the annoying little man. He would never have trapped her into accompanying him if she’d had all her wits about her. But she’d been looking for Lord Dawson and so had missed Mr. Belham’s approach.

It was just as well. The man had helped her find her quarry—her very angry quarry. What reason had he to be in such high dudgeon? It was her aunt who was suffering.

She looked up at him, and her heart stuttered. He was so large and so incredibly handsome, even with a pronounced scowl twisting his features.

When Papa got so angry, she always tried to placate him, even while her own anger twisted in her gut. She felt like a dog with its tail between its legs, cowering from the blows of his harsh words. She never argued with him, never defied him. The only time she’d ever let him see her temper was when she’d decided to come on this trip to London. Even then he hadn’t believed she’d actually go until she was seated in the carriage with the steps up and the door closed.

But she didn’t feel like cowering before Lord Dawson. No, she felt like going at him hammer and tongs. Instead of anger or fear, she felt an odd thrill, a shiver of excitement. She wasn’t at all worried he would hurt her verbally or physically. Rather, she thought they would…after a healthy argument they would…

Of course they wouldn’t! She ducked her head and took a sip of her drink.

David smiled slightly. After riding roughshod over Belham, was his—no, not his—was the lady suddenly turning shy? It really was unfortunate he could not pursue her—she was such an enticing mix of fire and diffidence.

It was so damn good to see her. He should be furious—he was furious—but he was also bloody delighted to be standing just inches from her.

“Lemonade, Grace?”

She flushed. “I find champagne does not agree with me.”

“Shot the cat, did you?” He’d wondered if she’d had too much to drink at Alvord’s ball.

She shot him a very quelling look. “You could have prevented me from consuming so many glasses.”

“If you’ll remember, I did try to dissuade you, but you insisted you would be fine, that you had drunk champagne before.”

“And I had. Just not in that quantity, apparently.” Grace shuddered slightly. “Well, it will not happen again. I am foreswearing the drink for as long as I live.”

“Oh, I hardly think you need to take so extreme a course.”

“You were not the one emptying—well, enough of that. As I said, Lord Dawson, we need to talk. It is vitally important.” She glanced around the room, her eyes pausing when they touched upon Lady Amanda and Mrs. Fallwell. “Somewhere more private, I believe.”

“You are not afraid to be private with me?” He was teasing her now. He couldn’t help it. He’d work on being angry later, when he didn’t have her enticing, lovely, lush, wonderful body before him—and her delightfully prickly personality. Now he couldn’t help but be happy, couldn’t keep lo…lust from blooming in his…heart.

And what if Grace had something truly important to say? Then perhaps he wouldn’t have to be angry at all. He could just be…hmm. In a nice private location.

Grace flushed, her eyes wavering slightly before she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and gave him a scornful look. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m certain your poor male mind can focus on something other than seduction for a few minutes.”

He coughed. Poor, naïve girl.

She put her hand on his arm and tugged. “Come. Let’s find a place where we can have a serious discussion.”

“Very well.” He nodded at Lady Amanda and Mrs. Fallwell as he walked past them. The ladies nodded back, their eyes gleaming with suspicion.

He should not go with Grace. He was opening himself to malicious gossip. It would not help his matrimonial prospects. He wanted an unexceptional bride, didn’t he? Going off into a private room with another woman would certainly compromise that goal.

And yet…Gossip be damned. He didn’t really want an unexceptional bride—he wanted Grace. If Grace had a rational explanation for whatever had transpired between Lady Oxbury and Alex, he wanted to hear it.

She peered into a small room and nodded. “This should suit.” She pulled him over the threshold and shut the door.

“Aren’t you being a bit indiscreet, Lady Grace?” Not that he was complaining. The room was hardly more than a closet. There was a single, uncomfortable-looking chair, a small table, and a bookshelf with excruciatingly boring titles such as A Discourse on Crop Rotation and Some Thoughts on the Topic of Sheep Shearing. It must be the room where unwelcome guests were deposited.

The limited space meant he had to stand very, very close to Grace.

“Aren’t you being a bit idiotic, Lord Dawson? As I said, we have a serious issue to discuss. Are your animal instincts so strong you cannot control them long enough for rational discourse?” Grace hoped her voice didn’t waver. This room was smaller than she’d thought—and Lord Dawson was so large. He filled the space rather alarmingly.

David confined himself to a noncommittal grunt. The air was rapidly filling with Grace’s scent, a mix of soap and lemon and…Grace. His animal instincts were urging him to engage in some truly idiotic behavior. Frustration made his voice harsher than he intended. “Get to your point, Lady Grace.”

“Very well.” Grace pulled her thoughts away from Lord Dawson’s shoulders and pointed her fan at him. “Something is seriously amiss with my aunt, and I firmly believe your uncle is the cause.”

David crossed his arms to keep from grabbing Grace and pulling her against him. “Can you be more specific?”

“Yes, I can. I will grant you my powers of observation the night of the Alvord ball”—Grace flushed—“were not at their sharpest, but I would swear my aunt and your uncle were getting along famously. Remember their waltz?” How could anyone forget? Watching them had been extremely disconcerting. Had she and Lord Dawson looked so scandalous when they’d been waltzing?

Grace shivered slightly. She had certainly felt scandalous. Well, not scandalous precisely. She hadn’t been giving their appearance one second’s thought. She’d been too busy feeling, enjoying having Lord Dawson’s arms about her and his chest so close…

She unfurled her fan and plied it vigorously. It was very warm in this tiny room.

David nodded. He, too, had thought all was well with Alex and Lady Oxbury when they were waltzing. Extremely well, if Alex’s woolgathering on the walk back to Dawson House was any indication. The problem must have occurred later.

“Aunt Kate was very distracted on the ride home,” Lady Grace was saying. “Almost agitated. But the next morning she was different. She was still agitated, but, well—”

Grace frowned, idly tapping her fan against her hand in thought. David contemplated that movement. She just happened to be holding her fan near her lovely breas—dress. Her lovely dress that so delightfully revealed her large, well-shaped—

Focus. He needed to focus on the question at hand—not the lovely—the things he would most like to have in hand. If he and Lady Grace could mend the rift between her aunt and his uncle—if it were indeed just some silly misunderstanding—he would be free to lust after Grace again with a clear conscience. That would make him very, very happy.

“Pay attention, Lord Dawson.” Grace poked him with her fan; he forced himself to look at her eyes, not her…right, not her, hmm. She had very nice eyes, too. Green with flecks of brown and yellow.

“Aunt Kate has periods when she is pleasantly bemused. I’ll be talking to her and realize her thoughts are miles away. She’ll just stare off into space, with this funny, dreamy sort of smile. Other times I’ll come upon her and it’s clear she’s been crying. Whenever we’re out in society, she keeps glancing around as if she’s looking for someone. And then when we saw you here alone, she turned white as a ghost.”

David wanted to ask if she had been looking for him, but he stopped himself in time.

Grace frowned. “I think your uncle must have come by Oxbury House after the ball. Someone was throwing pebbles at Aunt Kate’s window, though how Mr. Wilton knew which window was my aunt’s…” Grace shrugged, causing her lovely shoulders—and, well, other things—to move delightfully. “But who else could it have been? And they must have spoken, don’t you think?”

He grunted. He’d wager they’d done a lot more than speak. Alex would not have looked so stricken—would not have fled London—if he’d simply engaged in conversation.

Grace poked him with her fan again. “So, my lord, tell me where your blasted uncle is.”

He pushed her fan aside and stepped back—as far as the tiny room would allow him. “Home at Clifton Hall.”

Grace gaped at him. “What? He’s left London entirely?”

“I’ve just said so, haven’t I?”

“But that’s ridiculous. How could he have done such a thing?” She brandished her fan, but he caught it and took it away from her. He was tired of being poked.

“Very easily. He packed a bag and saddled his horse. I sent the rest of his gear along later.”

“Later? How long has he been gone?”

What harm could there be in telling her? “He left the morning after Alvord’s ball.”

She snapped her jaw shut. “I knew it! The man is a rake, a rogue, a…a complete scoundrel.”

How dare she say such things about Alex? For once the passion he felt had nothing to do with lust. “If you were a man, Lady Grace, you would be naming your seconds.”

Grace bit her lip. Lord Dawson had stiffened up like a poker. She could tell he was going to storm out of this little room at any moment, all high in the instep.

Well, she was angry, too, but that wasn’t going to solve Aunt Kate’s problems. She needed to calm down and calm this glowering man down as well.

She held up a hand—and then two as Lord Dawson approached her, clearly intent on getting to the door as quickly as possible. She pushed against his chest. He would have to knock her down to get out—which was beginning to look like a distinct possibility. He grabbed her hands as if he would remove two cockroaches bold enough to sully his person.

“Lord Dawson, storming off like this will do no good.” He was not listening to her. He’d already discarded her hands and was stepping around her. She lunged and grabbed his lapels. “My lord, wait. I apologize. I spoke in haste. I retract, most humbly, my comments about your uncle.”

He finally paused. He was still looking at her as if she were the lowest class of vermin, but at least he was looking at her.

She loosened her grasp, smoothing his lapels where she’d wrinkled them—but she was careful to keep her body between him and the door.

“Let’s be rational. I love my aunt, and you love”—He was glaring at her again. Apparently “love” was not a manly enough word to use—“hold your uncle in high esteem.” Better. Lord Dawson relaxed, at least slightly. “I’m sure we both want them to be happy.” He nodded. Good.

“It also seems clear they cannot address the problem, whatever it is, dispassionately.”

He snorted at that. “Bloody right.” He grimaced. “Pardon my language.”

She waved her hand. “Please, don’t refine on it.” He was talking to her, which was all that mattered at the moment. “It’s equally clear to me that your uncle’s chosen method of dealing with the issue”—Lord Dawson straightened, his face darkening. Oh, dear, she was going to lose him—“which is perfectly understandable”—he softened slightly—“will not result in a satisfactory solution.”

“I don’t see what is unsatisfactory about it.”

Grace kept herself from rolling her eyes, but just barely. Of course he didn’t see the problem—he was a man, and most men were completely blind to the many emotional facets of an issue. They saw only the one side that was right under their nose. Look at her father—no, she would prefer not to look at him.

“Is your uncle happy, Lord Dawson?”

He frowned. “Well…no.”

“Has he been happy—really happy—recently, or for as long as you can remember?”

“N-no.”

“Does his unhappiness have something to do with my aunt?”

“Damn right, it bloody well does.”

“Exactly. So how will hiding away on his estate make him happy?”

“He is not hiding.”

She could argue with that, but she did not care to get into a spitting match with the baron. His lowered brows and set chin did not bespeak an open, conciliatory mind. “Well, perhaps not. Yet don’t you agree that while leaving London allows him to avoid whatever—”

Lord Dawson snorted and raised a very obnoxious eyebrow.

“—all right, whoever is causing his pain, it won’t make the pain go away. He has to address the root of the problem. He needs to meet with my aunt—”

“He did meet with your aunt. I believe it was that meeting that sent him back to Clifton Hall.”

“Pardon me, my lord, I mean no disrespect, but that’s ridiculous! How could a conversation, a short conversation, carried on between my aunt in her room and your uncle outside—are you all right?” The man had turned red and was making a choking noise.

“Yes. I’m fine.” He cleared his throat. “I believe the…conversation…was a little more intense than that.”

“Were you there?”

“Good God, no!”

Why was he so appalled? “Well, then you can’t know, can you?”

Lord Dawson made some odd, sputtering sounds and wouldn’t meet her eyes. Very strange.

“And even if they had had a very complete discussion, which we do not know that they did—”

Lord Dawson was now making strangling sounds.

“—running away”—He glared at her—“that is, leaving Town so that they cannot meet again indicates the issue has not yet been resolved.”

“You don’t know that.”

She did roll her eyes then. “I do know that his flight—um, departure—means your uncle still feels pain. Do you deny that?”

He certainly looked as if he would like to, but honesty won over loyalty. “No.”

“Exactly. And I’m certain my aunt is still hurting.”

Lord Dawson made a very rude noise. Her fingers itched to wrap themselves around his neck and squeeze. She took a deep breath—and noticed his gaze drop to her chest.

The man was absolutely maddening. She’d told Aunt Kate she needed a fichu for this dress, but Aunt Kate would not listen to reason—and Grace hadn’t had the heart to argue with her, her aunt had been so despondent. She snatched her fan off the table where Lord Dawson had placed it and unfurled it, directing his attention back to her face.

“My lord, your attitude is not helping matters. You have apparently taken a dislike to my aunt.” He made another derogatory sound. She pressed her lips together and counted to ten. She must remain calm. She could not let her infernal temper get the better of her.

“That is your prerogative. However, it has nothing to say to the problem at hand. You need to put aside your personal prejudices”—another scoffing snort. She was about ready to kick the nodcock in the shins…or some softer, more sensitive location—“to focus on what is best for your uncle.” No need to mention Aunt Kate as well; she’d heard enough disparaging sounds for the time being.

Lord Dawson’s nostrils flared; his lips formed a tight, thin line. He was not persuaded, but at least he was listening.

“I firmly believe your uncle and my aunt need to come to some understanding so they aren’t tortured by their past.” She stepped forward, laid her hand on Lord Dawson’s chest, and looked up at him, hoping he could discern the sincerity in her eyes.

“And if they cannot manage to see that, then the people who care for them—you and I—need to. I think we should find a way to bring them together physically”—now why did the man’s face turn red?—“so they cannot run from each other. If they are stuck in the same place, they may have a rational, thorough discussion. They are both intelligent adults. They must realize it would be much more comfortable if they could move about in society without constantly fearing they might encounter one another.”

“You may have a point.” Lord Dawson gazed down at her, his eyes hooded. She could not read his expression, but at least the anger had left his face. He seemed relaxed.

His gloved hand covered hers where it rested on his waistcoat, his fingers almost absentmindedly stroking the back of her glove. Even through the layers of cloth she felt…something. Strength. Heat. Possessiveness? Her other hand came up to join its mate. Heat curled low in her stomach.

He smiled slightly.

No, he was not relaxed. There was a…not tension, exactly. An energy. That was it. An air of expectation, of watchfulness about him.

Suddenly the passion between them was no longer anger.

She wet her lips, and his eyes followed her tongue. Her mouth felt swollen, hot. She opened it slightly. Was she panting?

Now she knew the look in his eyes. He was a cat playing with a mouse—and she was the mouse.

Oh, how she wanted to be caught.

His face moved down toward hers. His lips were so close…She tilted her chin—

“Grace!”

“Ack!” She jumped back and tripped on her skirt. She would have crashed into the bookcase if Lord Dawson hadn’t caught her. “Aunt Kate, what are you doing here?”

“Acting as your chaperone.” Aunt Kate quickly stepped into the room and shut the door behind her.

It was very crowded with three adults in such a small space, especially when one of them was glaring at the other two.

“How did you…er.” Grace cleared her throat and looked at Lord Dawson.

Lord Dawson examined the ceiling.

“How did I find you? I asked Mrs. Fallwell and Lady Wallen-Smyth. They thought you had come this way. They were correct.” Aunt Kate looked pointedly at Grace. “Mrs. Fallwell, by the bye, is a noted London gossip.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed. Fortunately tonight she is much more interested in the Duke of Alvord and Miss Hamilton, so I think your”—Aunt Kate sent Lord Dawson a scathing look. He received it with a completely bland expression—“little indiscretion will go unnoticed if we proceed directly to the ballroom.”

Grace frowned. But she and Lord Dawson had yet to come up with a plan to mend the rift between her aunt and Mr. Wilton. “You go ahead, Aunt Kate. I’ll be along in just a minute.”

“What?” Aunt Kate’s mouth dropped open.

“There’s no need to look so shocked. Lord Dawson and I merely have a few things we still need to attend to.”

“I’ll bet you do. Things like the things you were attending to when I entered this room?”

“Ah.” Grace felt her cheeks burning. “No, er, that is…” She looked at Lord Dawson. He was examining a gouge in the room’s pitiful little table. “I’m sure Lord Dawson—”

“Exactly. I am very sure Lord Dawson…” Aunt Kate stared at the baron. The baron stared at his fingernails. “Good evening, sir.”

Lord Dawson inclined his head as Aunt Kate yanked Grace out of the room.

Damn. David collapsed—carefully—onto the room’s lone chair. It was just as uncomfortable as it looked, but he didn’t plan to stay long. Once he gave Grace enough time to get to the ballroom and perhaps join a set, he could leave this infernal room.

Well, he also had to give a certain organ time to resume its normal proportions.

Blast it all, why did Lady Oxbury have to arrive at just that moment? A second later and he would have had Grace in his arms, his mouth on hers, his tongue deep…

All right, so it was probably best Lady Oxbury had arrived when she did. Best, but damn frustrating.

He dropped his head back against the wall and let out a pent-up breath. He should think about Grace’s words not her—Right. Think about what she’d said.

He hated to admit it, but Grace was correct. Alex wasn’t happy, and he likely wouldn’t be happy until he resolved his issues with Lady Oxbury. But how to get him to accomplish that feat? When the man had left for Clifton Hall, he’d acted like he never wished to see Grace’s aunt again.

David turned his head to look at the bookcase. A small, black spider dangled from one of the shelves. It appeared to be floating in air until you stared closely enough to see the thin strand of silk supporting it.

Grace was correct about another point as well. The first step to getting Alex and Lady Oxbury to discuss their differences had to be getting them in the same location. Alex was not going to come back to Town, but with all the gossips in London, it wouldn’t be a good choice anyway. Some other—any other—location was preferable. The last thing Alex needed was the gabble-grinders sniffing around him. He valued his privacy too much.

So if Alex would not come to Town, Lady Oxbury would have to go to the country. But she couldn’t very well visit Clifton Hall, and Riverview was now a bachelor establishment as well. Neutral ground would be better in any event, but where? Whom did he know who would be willing to host a house party and who had a wife or mother or other suitable female to act as hostess?

His mind was a complete blank. He couldn’t think of a single name.

The spider slowly drifted down to the next shelf and started crawling over the books. He watched it scale A Few Theories on Household Management.

He didn’t know many of the ton. He’d never been to Eton—Grandda and Grandmamma had thought it better that he be schooled at home. He’d spent a few years at Oxford, but all the other men there had seemed little more than boys, more interested in pranks and whoring than their academic studies. He’d had very little in common with them.

Perhaps Lady Grace knew a likely host.

The spider moved on to Several Highly Efficacious Tonics and Cordials.

They definitely needed to arrange a house party. The country with its greater privacy—and more opportunities for assignations—would be a far more likely location for Alex and Lady Oxbury to effect a reconciliation. And if Alex and Lady Oxbury were no longer estranged…He smiled at the spider. He could build his own little web to catch a certain spirited young lady.

There were so many delightful spots in the country to steal a kiss or two. Picnics by the lake, strolls through the gardens, a ramble through the woods. Rules were always more relaxed there and, in any event, Grace’s meddle-some chaperone would be too busy with his uncle to be popping into every secluded room or leafy bower. He should be able to have Grace saying “I do” to any number of delightful activities.

He would be certain to procure a special license before they left just in case he could persuade her all the way to the altar.

He consulted his pocket watch. Had enough time elapsed since Lady Grace departed? Surely so. He would go out into the ballroom—

Wait a minute. He’d forgotten Viscount Motton. He’d seen him here tonight.

The viscount was around his own age and brilliant—he’d been involved in a few investments with him. Even better, his estate was a long day’s ride from Clifton Hall—close enough to be almost in Alex’s neighborhood, but far enough that Alex would have to stay over. Hmm. And if he were not mistaken, Alex had spent part of the trip up to Town nattering on about some crop rotation scheme Motton was trying at Lakeland that he might want to implement himself. He’d even been talking about stopping by Motton’s estate. Perfect.

Now he only had to come up with some subtle way to suggest a casual acquaintance hold a house party in the middle of the Season for his benefit.

Right. That would be easy.

He stood and straightened his waistcoat. Best be—

The door swung open with an inordinate amount of giggling. Two very surprised people stared at him. He bowed.

“Good evening, Lord Featherstone; Mrs. Fallwell.”

“Ah.” They gaped at him, apparently unable to compose a coherent sentence between them.

“I was just leaving.”

“Ah.”

He bowed again, stepped around them, and walked briskly toward the ballroom. He did not look back.

He did not want to know…he did not want to think about anything concerning the old roué, the society gossip, and that very small room.

Chapter 10

Hermes was barking…in her ear?

Kate cracked open an eye. Hermes’s large orbs stared back at her. She groaned.

“Go back to bed. It’s the middle of the night.”

Hermes begged to differ.

“Ow!” He brushed up against her breast. It was uncommonly sensitive, perhaps because her courses were a few days late.

Her courses were never late.

She must have some odd malady. She was so tired, and she felt bloated and out of sorts all the time.

Hermes was still staring at her; absently, she stroked his ears.

It wasn’t surprising she was tired. She’d been keeping most irregular hours, and when she did find her bed, she didn’t sleep well.

She sniffed, wiping away a sudden tear as she pictured the primary reason for her lack of sleep. Damn it all, men were supposed to want bed frolic without any emotional complications. Alex should have been happy she wasn’t demanding anything of him.

She’d had a wonderful time, and then he’d had to go and ruin it by asking her to marry him. She couldn’t marry him. He must know that. Why had he teased her with the offer?

She smiled slightly. But oh, what he’d done with her in this bed. His touch had been magical. There was no resemblance—none at all—between bed activities with Alex and with poor Oxbury. Just thinking about Alex made her body throb in embarrassing places. She craved his touch…

But she could never have it again. She couldn’t flirt with scandal by carrying on an affair with him—and, in any event, he’d said he never wanted to repeat the experience. And then he’d left her—and London—so abruptly.

He had hurt her—but she had hurt him. Why had she played the merry widow then? She should have given him the truth.

Had she broken his heart? Well, they were even. Her heart was in pieces as well.

She sniffed again. She was crying far more easily these days, too. She must get more rest.

Hermes licked her face.

“Stop it, you silly dog.” She lifted the covers. “Here, as a special treat you can sleep next to me. But this is a once in a lifetime opportunity, you know, so do not get used to it.” She was very fond of Hermes, but she’d learned early on that letting him sleep in her bed gave her uncontrollable sneezing fits.

She closed her eyes to give him the proper example.

His very wet tongue accosted her cheek once more.

“Please go back to sleep. It’s too early to get up.”

“But it’s not, my lady.” Marie pulled open the bed curtains.

“Wha—?” Why was Marie here? And her bedchamber was full of light…but it faced west. “What time is it?”

“Almost two o’clock.”

“In the afternoon?” She’d never slept that late. She prided herself on being an early riser. She must definitely be sickening.

“Aye. Jem took Hermes for his morning walk, but I thought ye’d want to take him out now.”

It was two o’clock! How was that possible? She’d dragged Grace away from the Wainwright ball early last night because she’d been too exhausted to stay another minute.

“I brought ye some chocolate.”

“Ah.” Chocolate. A nice cup of chocolate would settle her nerves. She struggled to sit up—and inhaled the thick, sweet scent. Ohh. She put her hand over her mouth. “I don’t want any chocolate this morning—I mean afternoon. Take it away. Please.”

Why was Marie giving her that look? And why was she staring at her chest? She looked down at her thin nightgown. She’d become attached to the old thing in the last few weeks since—she blushed…and saw her breasts darken slightly.

Obviously the garment was too threadbare.

Were her small breasts looking a little larger? And a little…different?

Ridiculous. She crossed her arms over them and winced. They were definitely sensitive.

“Yer courses are late, aren’t they, my lady?”

Marie would know since she collected the soiled laundry. “A little late.”

“How late?”

What was this, the Grand Inquisition? “I don’t know. A few days. Perhaps a week.” She was feeling nauseous. Was there a basin handy? She might have need of it.

Marie was frowning at her. “If I did nae know any better, I’d say ye were increasing.”

“What?!”

“Increasing. Ye know. Breeding. In the family way. With child.”

“Ga.” She dove for the cupboard by the bed and flung it open. Thank God! She grabbed the basin and emptied her stomach. “Ohh.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Marie gave her another look. Kate clutched the basin more tightly. At the moment it seemed like her sole anchor to reality.

“But I couldn’t…It’s not p-possible…”

“Aye, I know.”

“I’m forty years old.”

“That’s not the impossible part. Many a woman past forty finds herself with a babe. As long as ye still get yer courses, ye can still get a child.”

“Oh.” Surely she knew that—she just hadn’t thought about it. She’d been so regular all these years. And Oxbury had exercised his marital rights several times a month—almost daily when they were first married—yet she’d never conceived. “But I’m barren.”

Marie shrugged. “Perhaps the fault was with yer lord. I’ve seen more than one barren woman bury her first husband and have a quiverful of children with her second.” Marie fixed her with a penetrating gaze. “And that’s the part that makes it impossible for ye to be increasing—ye have no husband.” Her gaze sharpened. “Or do ye?”

“Of course not. You know I’m not married. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Ah, but church vows aren’t needed for a babe. It just takes a man in yer bed with lively seed and a strong plow.”

She must be as red as a beet. She could barely get her breath. Could she be…had she and Alex made…but they had only done it once…

“Had ye a man in yer bed, my lady?”

“Ah…”

“And it needn’t be a bed, ye know. A quick poke in the garden will do the trick as well.”

“But…”

Marie crossed her arms. “Ye may as well tell me, my lady. There’s no point in lying. I’ll know soon enough when yer courses don’t come and yer belly swells.”

“Ah. Ah. Oh.” She threw up again and then burst into tears.

Marie took the basin carefully from her hands, sat down on the bed next to her, and gathered her into her arms. Kate hugged her and sobbed into her sturdy shoulder.

“Ye know, my lady,” Marie murmured in her ear, “ye need to send a note to Mr. Wilton.”

She was increasing.

What in God’s name was she going to do?

Hermes tugged on his leash, pulling Kate down the hall. It was a good thing he knew the way to the park. She couldn’t find her way out of her room at the moment. She was locked in a nightmare.

Could she be increasing? After all those years with Oxbury, month after month of disappointment…

Marie must be wrong.

But her courses were over a week late and they were never late. And she’d never felt this way before—so tired and…odd.

It could be the strain of coming to Town, couldn’t it, and of seeing Alex again?

Alex. She had done much more than see him. She had tasted him and touched him and felt him deep inside her…

Dear God. She must be increasing.

She grabbed hold of the banister before she pitched down the stairs. If she fell, she might hurt the baby.

The baby…ohh.

“Are you all right, Aunt Kate?”

“Wha—?” Grace was standing next to her. Where had she come from? “Yes. No. Ah.”

Grace and Hermes stared at her.

“Perhaps you’re sickening.” Grace laid her hand on Kate’s arm. “I was worried when you slept so late, but maybe…do you think you need to go back to bed? I’ll take Hermes out for you.”

Going back to her room, pulling the covers over her head, hiding from…No, that would do no good. Even if she hid in her room for all nine months, she’d still have a baby at the end…

Dear God, a baby! How was she going to tell Alex? Marie was right. He deserved to know. But the man was forty-five years old. He could not want a child. And she’d promised him she was barren before he’d even ventured into her bed. Would he think she’d lied to him intentionally? He thought she’d lied about her engagement to Oxbury.

This wasn’t the sort of news one put in a letter. She should tell him face to face—but he had left London.

And if Marie knew Alex was the father, would all the ton guess as well?

She wet her lips and swallowed. “N-no. It will do me good to get out, I’m sure.”

Grace was still frowning at her. “Why don’t I accompany you then? You still look pale.”

“All right. Yes. That would be fine. Delightful.”

“Let me just go get my bonnet. Wait for me in the entry hall, all right?”

Kate nodded. Grace gave her another worried look and then hurried to her room. Kate stumbled down the stairs.

Sykes was standing by the hall table. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Sykes.” She clutched Hermes’s leash more tightly. Mr. Sykes looked unpleasantly serious. Surely he didn’t know about the scandalous state of her womb? “Do you have something to say?”

Sykes let out a gusty, rather depressing sigh. “Unfortunately I do, my lady. The new Lord Oxbury has sent word he is coming up to Town. He should be arriving shortly. I’m sure you understand, but the staff will need to move you and Lady Grace to other accommodations as Lord Oxbury”—Sykes swallowed as if he’d just had to down a draught of extremely nasty medicine—“will expect to be occupying the master suite.”

“Of course, Mr. Sykes. I understand completely.” Dear heavens! The situation had just got horribly worse. Why was the Weasel coming to Town? He was certain to note the moment her waist got half an inch larger—though he shouldn’t care. Oxbury had been dead over a year. There was no chance anyone would think the baby legitimate.

She let herself down slowly onto a handy chair.

If she didn’t marry, her baby would be a bastard.

“My lady, are you feeling quite the thing?”

She couldn’t meet Sykes’s eyes—she merely nodded and waved a hand in his direction. Hermes came over and put his paws on her knees, barking and waving his tail in an encouraging fashion.

He was a dog. He did not understand the depths of her despair.

What would the Weasel do when he discovered she was increasing? Would he throw her out into the street?

Of course, she was forty years old. It was possible she would miscarry…She put a protective hand over her middle. She didn’t want any harm to come to her baby—hers and Alex’s.

She sniffed and searched for her handkerchief.

“Lady Grace, please, look to Lady Oxbury,” she heard Sykes say. “I fear she is unwell.”

“Aunt Kate.” Grace put a hand on her shoulder and bent to look searchingly into her face. Kate focused on Hermes. “Are you certain you’re all right?” She dropped her voice. “Is it that time of month, perhaps?”

Kate’s head shot up. That time of month? She began to laugh, she feared a touch hysterically. “No. It’s not. Definitely not.”

Grace stepped back, looking hurt. Thankfully, Sykes—probably assuming her malaise was a female complaint—had taken himself off.

“I sometimes get weepy at that time,” Grace said.

Kate stood. She had to get out of this house and into the park, into the open, the fresh air. She had to get a grip on her emotions. “Yes, I know. I thank you for your concern, it’s just…” She let out a long breath. What could she say? “Mr. Sykes just told me the Weasel is coming to London.”

“Oh.” Grace grimaced. “I see why you might be crying.”

“Yes, well, I am better now, and Hermes has been very patient. Shall we go?”

“Did you see Miss Hamilton dancing with Mr. Dunlap at the ball last night? Or, more to the point, did you see the Duke of Alvord watching Miss Hamilton dancing?” Grace was grasping for conversational straws. This was her fifth attempt; if she met with as little success this time as she had with her previous efforts, she was going to give up and just sit quietly on the park bench next to Aunt Kate watching Hermes chase squirrels.

“Hmm?” Aunt Kate fiddled with Hermes’s leash and stared off into space.

“Alvord did not look at all happy—not that I blame him. I had one set with Mr. Dunlap. I grant you, he’s very handsome, but…well, I found him unsettling. He reminds me of a rotten apple—big and red on the outside, but brown and soft and nasty on the inside.”

“If the apples are rotten, tell cook to throw them away.”

Grace rolled her eyes. It was hopeless.

Hermes, barking maniacally, dashed after another squirrel. This one scampered back toward Oxbury House and dove into some large, dense bushes. Hermes followed in hot pursuit.

Grace jiggled her foot; Aunt Kate frowned at Hermes’s leash.

Hermes’s barking faded.

“I think I’ll go see what happened to Hermes, Aunt Kate.”

Aunt Kate did not reply—she probably hadn’t even heard. She was sniffing again and dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief.

Something was seriously wrong.

“I’ll be right back.” Grace spoke a little louder. Aunt Kate nodded and blew her nose.

Grace strode across the lawn. What could be the problem? Aunt Kate had been fine last night. Well, not fine. A little sad—she’d been sad ever since Mr. Wilton had left London—and tired, but not the watering pot she was this afternoon.

She reached the bushes. She was not going to plunge into the greenery. “Hermes?” No response. The stupid dog. Where had he got to? Surely Hermes had the sense to turn around and come back once the squirrel took to the trees. She walked around the shrubbery—

“Oof!” Her stomach collided with a masculine shoulder. A masculine hand shot out to grab her hip.

Her heart flew into her throat; she opened her mouth to scream—and then saw who was crouching in front of her.

Lord Dawson.

Oh. Her heart paused, took stock of the situation, and changed from the rapid tattoo of panic to the slow thud of something else entirely. It dropped from her throat to her stomach. Lower even. To…She flushed.

The last time she’d seen Lord Dawson, they’d been standing very, very close together in Lord Easthaven’s tiny waiting room. He had been on the verge of kissing her. If only Aunt Kate had not arrived at precisely that moment—

No. It was very good Aunt Kate had arrived. If she hadn’t, who knows what might have happened.

A little shiver ran up Grace’s spine. She knew what would have happened—exactly what had happened in the Duke of Alvord’s garden.

She should not be hoping for a recurrence of such activities, but part of her was—the odd, daring, hoyden part that had emerged when she’d defied Papa to come to London and which was insisting she gain a few adventures during her stay. The other part—the dutiful daughter, the well-bred lady of quality—was suitably shocked by her behavior.

She pushed the prim Grace to the back of her consciousness.

Lord Dawson was looking up at her now. Well, not looking up precisely. Looking at would be more accurate. His head was on level with her—

She turned even redder and tried to step back, but he wouldn’t let her go. “What are you doing?”

He grinned at the parts of her by his face and then finally tilted his chin to look into her eyes. “I’m making the acquaintance of this friendly dog.”

She looked past Lord Dawson’s large body. Hermes was lying on his back, an expression of canine ecstasy on his face as the baron gave his belly one more scratch. “Hermes!”

She swore the beast grinned.

“Ah, is he a friend of yours as well?” The baron stood, but did not step back nor allow her to move to a more appropriate distance. The hand that had been scratching Hermes moved to join its fellow so he now had his fingers on both sides of her waist.

Prim Grace tried to get her attention. She ignored her.

“He’s Aunt Kate’s dog.” She was having a difficult time drawing breath. “I’m sure she is missing him.” She glanced back down at Hermes. He yawned and chewed on a stick.

“We won’t be long.” Lord Dawson slid his hands higher.

Grace glared up at him, but she was certain she failed miserably to look stern. It was very hard to feel any kind of righteous indignation when one was unable to breathe—and when the hoyden Grace was urging her to grab Lord Dawson’s face and pull it down to hers.

His blue eyes lit with a spark of…what? Something very hot. As she watched, the spark spread. It must have jumped from him to her because she was suddenly extremely overheated.

“I have good news.”

She saw his lips move. She remembered so clearly how his mouth had felt on hers in Alvord’s garden. She wanted to feel it again…She moistened her lips and watched his eyes follow the path of her tongue.

“What?” She was as bad as Aunt Kate. She couldn’t make herself focus on what the man was saying. If only he would bring his lips closer…

He did. He brought them very close indeed. He brushed them over her forehead, her cheek…

She tilted her head, parted her own lips. Her eyes drifted shut.

No, no, no, prim Grace was shouting, but it was difficult to hear her over the pounding of her heart—and very easy to ignore her.

Lord Dawson’s mouth touched hers—just the barest glancing contact. Oh! His hands wandered almost to her breasts and then back down to her hips. They stroked over her skirt, pressing, bringing her up against his hard body.

She was panting—quietly, discreetly, she hoped, but definitely panting. She wanted to be even closer.

Hoyden Grace slid her hands around to Lord Dawson’s back and tightened her arms. Mmm. He felt so good.

His mouth had returned to hers. She felt him smile, then his lips moved again in light little kisses. Too light. She made a mew of annoyance and opened her mouth wider.

He chuckled. She felt a moment’s doubt, a slight whisper of embarrassment, and then all was forgotten as his tongue slipped between her lips.

To say she was shocked would be to understate the case.

His hands kneaded her derriere while his tongue swept through her—over the roof of her mouth, over her tongue, over her teeth. She felt so full. A heavy, damp ache throbbed low in her belly…no, lower than that…between her legs. She needed something—

Dear God, what was she doing?

She shoved against Lord Dawson’s chest. He withdrew his tongue into his own mouth—where it belonged—and loosened his hold on her.

“Lord Dawson—”

“David.”

“What?” His voice was husky and lower than usual, and if his eyes had looked hot before, they were blazing now.

“My name is David.” He leaned forward and ran his tongue over her lower lip. “You cannot go back to ‘Lord Dawson’ after this very intimate encounter.”

She was certain she flushed so red she might burst into flame. “I shall call you Lord Dawson if I like.”

His lips slid into a very salacious grin. “All right. That might be fun. And you can call me ‘my lord’ when I slide between your beautiful milky thighs on our wedding night.”

Her jaw dropped. If she’d been red before, she was now whatever was redder than red. How did one respond to such an outrageous comment?

Simple. One did not. One pushed one’s hoydenish side to the far back of one’s mind and let Prim Grace out of exile.

“I believe you said you had good news, Lord Dawson?”

“Indeed I do, Lady Grace.” Lord Dawson raised an eyebrow as he leaned back against the tree trunk. “I was able to get us an invitation to Viscount Motton’s house party.” He smirked. “In fact, I was able to persuade, very subtly, if I say so myself—”

“I’m sure you are the only person who would say so. You do not strike me as the epitome of subtlety.”

“On the contrary, Lady Grace, I am exceedingly subtle”—he waggled his eyebrows—“in many endeavors.”

Grace crossed her arms and snorted. She was completely in control of herself now. Lord Dawson gave her a challenging look, but she was not going to accept any challenges from this man. She had the distinct notion she would lose.

He waited a moment and then shrugged. “I was able to persuade Motton to hold the house party. He hadn’t had a thought about having one before I suggested it.”

Grace merely raised her eyebrows. Lord Dawson was obviously looking for plaudits. Ridiculous! The man was cocky enough as it was. She was definitely not going to stroke him—

She flushed. Verbally stroke him, of course. She was not going to tell him how wonderful he was. She cleared her throat. “And that is good news because…?”

“Because Motton’s estate is not far from Uncle Alex’s, and Alex has a particular interest in the viscount’s cultivation theories. I think he can be persuaded to attend. If you can get your aunt to come, they will have many opportunities to address their differences in relative privacy.”

Grace nodded, though the opportunities springing to her mind were those she could have with Lord Dawson. Obviously she was a candidate for Bedlam.

“I see your point—and I do think I can get my aunt to come. We just learned the new Lord Oxbury will be arriving shortly—I’m certain Aunt Kate would rather be elsewhere when he reaches Town.” Perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps her aunt was behaving so oddly because she was tired of London. She had spent her life in the country, after all. She was not a young woman. Perhaps she just needed to get away from the hustle and bustle of Town. “Let’s go ask her.”

“Good afternoon, Lady Oxbury.” David executed a short bow and felt a twinge of compassion. The woman looked terrible. She’d obviously been crying—her nose was red and her eyes were swollen.

Perhaps she wasn’t the harpy he’d been imagining.

“Good afternoon, Lord D-Dawson.” She tried to sound cold, but the effect was spoiled when her voice cracked on his name.

“Aunt Kate! What is the matter?” Grace sat down on the bench next to her aunt and put an arm around her.

“Nothing.” Lady Oxbury wadded her handkerchief into one hand, raised her head, and lied. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“You are not perfectly fine. You’ve been crying.”

Grace had as much finesse with her aunt as Hermes had with squirrels. Lady Oxbury glared at her.

“I have not been crying.”

“You have. Your face is all red and blotchy.”

“I got a speck in my eye. It is out now. I am fine.”

This speech was accomplished with more glaring and some teeth gritting.

“But—”

It was definitely time to interrupt Grace before her aunt strangled her with Hermes’s leash. “Lady Oxbury, as it happens I was in search of you. I stopped at Oxbury House, and your butler directed me here.”

“Oh?” Lady Oxbury gave Grace one last glare, and then turned her attention to him. She smiled tightly. “And what did you wish to speak to me about, Lord Dawson?”

“He has an invitation to the country, Aunt Kate.”

He would have to muzzle Grace once they were married to keep her from putting her foot into her mouth constantly. She was rather like a bull in an emotional china shop. He smiled slightly while Lady Oxbury glared at Grace once more.

“You are interrupting Lord Dawson.”

Grace frowned and opened her mouth to argue, but she didn’t have much of an argument—she had interrupted him. She must have realized it as well; her frown deepened, but she remained silent.

“Lady Grace is correct, Lady Oxbury.” David grinned as Grace finally snapped her mouth shut. “Viscount Motton is getting up a house party. I have an invitation and I believe you will be receiving one soon…”

It was Lady Oxbury’s turn to frown and open her mouth.

“…as will my uncle.”

Lady Oxbury’s mouth hung open for a moment. She blinked. “Mr. Wilton will be in attendance?”

“Perhaps. He is being invited, but, as you know, he’s down at his estate, so I can’t say for certain whether he will be there or not.” Mentioning Alex had been risky. If Lady Oxbury held his uncle in extreme aversion, knowing he might be a guest would surely convince her to stay in London. But if she were not averse to Alex’s presence, if she actually wanted to see him…

He trusted his gut—it had never steered him wrong in all his investment decisions—and his gut told him Lady Oxbury wanted to—was desperate to—see Alex.

“Why is Viscount Motton having a house party now?”

Because he’d been carefully maneuvered into doing so. No, he couldn’t say that—and, on second thought, Motton was so canny, he probably just let David think he was maneuvering him. “Motton said he was ready for a respite from the noise and dirt of London.”

“Exactly.” Grace beamed up at him and then turned to her aunt. “I’m ready, too, Aunt Kate—aren’t you?”

“Well…”

If Lady Oxbury was hesitating, they had won the field. David allowed himself to relax slightly.

“Wouldn’t you like to be back in the country for a week or two, Aunt Kate? Breathe clean air, take long walks, admire the scenery…”

David admired Grace’s scenery while she continued to try to persuade her aunt. She had the loveliest breasts he’d ever had the pleasure to see. Not that he had seen enough of them. He could only imagine how they would look freed of dress and stays.

And he had imagined it. He’d spent hours last night picturing Grace’s breasts—how they would look when she stood naked in his bedchamber or lay on his sheets or sat astride him. He’d imagined how they’d feel in his hands, how her nipples would taste…

He’d spent the night tossing and turning, aching to see how accurate his imagination was.

It had certainly been a pleasant surprise when Grace had collided with him just a few minutes ago. How fortunate he had come upon Hermes in a relatively private location. The greenery had shielded them admirably. The foliage wasn’t dense enough for a longer, more thorough interlude, but it had been completely adequate for the abbreviated encounter they’d just enjoyed.

In the country though…He’d never been to Motton’s estate, but the man must have plenty of land—and trees and leafage. House parties provided a multitude of opportunities for amorous explorations. He was looking forward to exploring more of Lady Grace Belmont’s glorious person. It would be beyond wonderful.

“Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, definitely. Without a doubt. I’ve never…ah, what?” He looked blankly at Lady Oxbury. Surely she hadn’t been asking if he would enjoy fondling—well, rather more than fondling—her niece? “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I wasn’t attending.”

He would not look down at his breeches to determine if an astute observer could tell to what he had been attending.

“Don’t you agree Grace should not miss any part of the Season?”

“Oh, no, indeed. If you’ve been to one ball or Venetian breakfast or rout, you’ve been to them all. You see the same people over and over.” It was true. He’d been disappointed, when he’d decided, at the time that, he could not marry Grace, to find he’d already met all the other eligible ladies.

Lady Oxbury sighed. “Very true.”

“Exactly true,” Grace said. “And it’s not as if I’m in the market for a husband, is it, Aunt Kate?”

“Well, as I believe I’ve said, I did hope you would look around you, Grace.”

“I have looked around me.”

Was Grace flushing? She had glanced very briefly his way, hadn’t she?

“And I can look more at this house party.”

Oh, sweetheart, I’m hoping to keep you too busy to look anywhere but at me.

“And you don’t want to have to share Oxbury House with the Weasel, do you?”

“Very true.” Lady Oxbury looked at him again. “Does Lord Motton have a suitable hostess?”

“I believe he said his Aunt Winifred would fill that role.” What Motton had actually said was Crazy old Winifred will come if I let her bring her damn menagerie. David looked down at Hermes who, apparently having had his fill of squirrel chasing, was resting on the grass. “I’m certain you can bring Hermes as well.”

Hermes, hearing David say his name, immediately rolled over and presented his stomach for scratching.

Lady Oxbury sighed. “Very well, then, I guess we will go.”

Chapter 11

“Ah, Lady Grace. This came for you in today’s post.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sykes.” Grace took the letter and examined it.

“Who’s it from, Grace?” Aunt Kate removed her bonnet and unfastened Hermes’s leash.

“Papa.”

“Oh? I’m amazed your father could find paper and pen—he is not a correspondent. Thank you, Mr. Sykes.” Aunt Kate took the rest of the letters from the butler. “I don’t believe I got a single missive from him in all the years of my marriage.”

“Hmm.” Grace stuffed the letter in her pocket. She had a bad feeling about this. “Papa hates to waste time or money on things he views as unnecessary.” So why would he write to her?

“You are his daughter; I am merely his sister. I’m sure he wants to know how you are enjoying your Season. Have you written him yet?”

“No.” The thought had not occurred to her. As far as she knew, all correspondence went directly to Papa’s estate manager; Mr. Boothe hated London almost as much as Papa. He would not be amused by her stories of Town. “I can’t imagine Papa would like an account of the balls and parties we’ve attended or the sights we’ve taken in. Perhaps he is looking for some household item.” Though then he would have just asked Mrs. Drexel, their housekeeper. Her stomach twisted. “Or perhaps he is summoning me home, but I would have thought he’d have written you. Do you have a letter from him?”

“No.” Aunt Kate leafed through her pile. “Ah, but here is something from Viscount Motton.”

“It must be the invitation to the house party.”

“Yes, it is.” Aunt Kate skimmed the sheet of paper and then looked up and frowned. “It’s in two days’ time. Do you really think we should go?”

“Yes.” Grace would wager a hefty sum that if she could only get Aunt Kate and Mr. Wilton together, give them some privacy, and allow them to talk, the two would resolve whatever issue was troubling them. “Definitely.”

“But I’ve already accepted the Palmerson invitation for next week.”

“Send our regrets. I can’t imagine Lady Palmerson will be devastated by our absence.”

“Well, no, of course not, but it will be one of the bigger events of the Season. You’d be able to meet so many eligible men.”

“The men will still be here when we return, Aunt Kate. We will not be gone that long.”

Aunt Kate bit her lip. “And this excursion will put you much in the way of Lord Dawson. I cannot like that.”

Anticipation shivered up Grace’s spine. Nothing could come of her time with Lord Dawson—she knew that—but she wanted it anyway. It was simply one more adventure, one more taste of freedom and excitement before she had to return to her normal life.

“That will not be a problem. You know I’ve already explained matters to the baron. And he won’t be the only man attending the house party. The viscount must be inviting a dozen or more people, don’t you think?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“So there is no need to decline Lord Motton’s kind invitation. In fact, I would like to attend. I miss the country—and I’ve never been to a real house party. It should be entertaining.”

“Well…”

“And frankly, Aunt Kate, you are looking a trifle out of curl. A few days in the country would do you good.”

“I don’t—”

Hermes, apparently of the opinion that he was being ignored, stood on his hind legs and waved his front paws.

“Hermes, do you think we should go to Lord Motton’s country estate?” Grace asked.

The little dog barked enthusiastically.

“See, Hermes agrees with me.”

Aunt Kate laughed. “Oh, very well, I suppose it can’t do any great harm. And you are right. I could stand to get away from Town for a while.”

“Exactly.” And Aunt Kate could stand to see Mr. Wilton again. She hadn’t mentioned him as a reason not to attend, and surely she would have if she was determined never to encounter him again. “You should send word now, shouldn’t you?” No point in delaying and letting her aunt come up with more arguments against the trip.

Aunt Kate nodded. “Yes. I’ll pen our acceptance and ask Mr. Sykes to have one of the footmen take it over—and I’ll send our regrets to Lady Palmerson. And then I think I’ll take a little nap.” She blushed. “I’m, er, uncommonly tired these days for some, ah, reason.”

Why was Aunt Kate embarrassed by being tired? “You just need to visit the country. London is so noisy; you probably aren’t sleeping well at night.”

Aunt Kate turned even redder, if that were possible. “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “I, ah…Yes, you are p-probably right. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go up to my room now, write these notes, and lie down for a while. Come, Hermes.”

Grace watched Kate and Hermes climb the stairs. Why did it feel as though her aunt was running away? Well, no matter. At least she had convinced her to accept the house party invitation. Hopefully Lord Dawson would be as successful getting his uncle to attend.

How was he going to persuade Mr. Wilton, given the man had already left London? She was not certain a simple letter would be enough. Hmm. She had best discuss it with him tonight. He should be at Lord Fonsby’s soiree. They could step into the garden, find a secluded spot, and…

Talk. Nothing else. There would be only talking with Lord Dawson from now on.

She could stand to take a turn about the garden—she was feeling markedly overheated. A breath of cooler air would be just the thing.

The Oxbury House garden was sadly overgrown; a caretaker had been in charge for far too long. Certainly Aunt Kate had never lived here when Oxbury was alive, and she’d said Oxbury had only come up to Town when Parliament was in session—and not even then the last few years when his health had been failing. The big tree by Aunt Kate’s room was in desperate need of pruning. Its branches almost touched the window.

Grace sat on a bench by a bush with small white flowers. She should know what it was called—John certainly would. Whenever she’d made the mistake of admiring some foliage at the Priory, John’s home, he’d given her a long, boring discourse on its history and variations. She’d soon learned not to comment on anything vegetative. But this specimen must be as common as any weed if it was flourishing in this poor, neglected patch of earth.

It was rather pretty, but unfortunately it seemed to make her sneeze. She reached for her handkerchief—and found something in her pocket…ah, Papa’s letter. She’d forgotten. She pulled it out and broke the seal.

You will be happy to learn—Papa didn’t bother with a salutation—why should he? The letter was addressed to her—that Parker-Roth and I have reached an agreement. An agreement? Her heart started to pound. The wedding is set for next month. You may inform your aunt. Plan to return shortly to prepare for the occasion. He signed it “Standen.”

She gulped air. Black specks danced before her eyes. She fisted her hands, crushing the letter in her fingers. She would not faint.

The wedding was to be next month?!

She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t draw in enough air. She wanted to hit something—someone.

Papa and John—how could they do this to her?

Yes, she had expected to wed John some day—but not next bloody month. And it would have been nice if he had bothered to propose.

She uncrumpled the letter. Perhaps she had missed something…No, she’d read all her father had written, but there was a short note from John, scribbled at the bottom of Papa’s sheet.

Lady Grace, I hope you are enjoying London. As you know, I do not see the attraction besides the periodicmeetings of the Horticultural Society. Mother and Father send their regards.

Your obedient servant,

John Parker-Roth

Bah! She wadded the paper up once more and threw it on the ground. Such passion! If she were an exotic rose, now, or a…a…oh, damnation. She didn’t even know a proper plant, but if she were an unusual bit of greenery, John would be in raptures. Common, boring, known-her-forever Lady Grace Belmont, however, certainly couldn’t get his heart to race.

Well, she very much doubted he could get her heart to race, not like Baron Dawson could. It was racing now, just thinking of their heated encounter in the park.

She pressed her hands to her cheeks. What had she been thinking, to allow the man such intimacies? It was completely shocking—but it had felt completely right.

Was Lord Dawson a wizard? She had never before experienced the urge to get so close to a man, to touch him or be touched by him.

Most males were slightly repulsive. She’d discovered that as soon as she’d grown from girlhood—as soon as she’d grown breasts. That was when every male of her acquaintance had become incapable of directing his attention to her face. John had been one of the least afflicted; she had caught him studying her chest surreptitiously, but at least he’d had the courtesy to look her in the eye when he spoke to her.

But Lord Dawson was different. Oh, he noticed her breasts, all right—and, they, to her extreme mortification, noticed him. They felt swollen and sensitive now, just thinking about him. As if they would gladly leap from her stays…

She was losing her mind. Or perhaps the man had put a spell on her. Why else would she be wondering how his hands would feel on her naked skin? What sensations his mouth, his tongue, his teeth would evoke if they encountered her nipples, which were now hard, pointed, and aching.

She pressed her hands against her bodice.

She should be incapable of imagining such bizarre activities, and yet, here she was, in the Oxbury garden, imagining all kinds of salacious things and causing various areas of her body to throb. If only Lord Dawson were here—

No! Having Lord Dawson here would be a disaster. Her malady was all his fault.

She bent over to pick up her discarded letter.

At least the baron didn’t focus solely on her breasts. Oh, no. She could still feel the imprint of his hands on her derriere, the heat of his mouth on her lips, the wet fullness of his tongue…

Heavens, she was panting! She had to get control of her thoughts. She needed to lock this new hoydenish side of herself away for good; prim and proper, that’s what she should be.

She smoothed out the letter and looked at John’s addendum once more. There wasn’t a single thing in it to make anything but her head throb.

Lord Dawson had mentioned marriage, more than once. Surely sharing a marriage bed with him would be much more interesting than climbing into one with John…

What was she thinking? She couldn’t marry Lord Dawson. John would make an adequate husband. He was just more restrained than Lord Dawson, and restraint was a very good thing. Much more restful. All this throbbing and aching must be tiring after a while.

She stuffed the letter back in her pocket. It was time to go in. She would write a few lines to John. She could tell him about the Wainwright ball.

No, he wouldn’t be interested in that at all.

Hmm. Would he be intrigued by the gossip swirling through the ton that the Duke of Alvord might wed Lord Westbrooke’s American cousin if the duke’s cousin, Richard Runyon, didn’t kill him first?

No. John didn’t approve of gossip, and she had to agree that all the tittle-tattle concerning the duke was rather farfetched, almost like a bad gothic romance. This was London in the nineteenth century, after all.

She could write about their plans to attend Viscount Motton’s house party. He might have heard of the viscount—Lord Dawson did say Motton was employing some new cultivation theories. Cultivation theories sounded like something John could get very excited about. Perhaps he would even be moved to visit…

She did not care to have John attend this gathering. If—when—she married him, she would be stuck—well, compelled—delighted—to spend the rest of her days with him. She just was not ready to do so now—especially now that she knew her wedding was so soon. She very much needed her few more weeks of freedom.

Lord Dawson’s face and figure popped into her mind. Damn. She could not be entertaining thoughts of the baron.

But she wanted to. She wanted to entertain much more than thoughts.

Perhaps she could strike a bargain with herself. She would be a little daring at this house party. It would be her last opportunity before she became Mrs. Parker-Roth. She wouldn’t do anything too dreadful—just steal a kiss or two. Get this out of her system.

Didn’t men sow their wild oats? Well, this would be her one very minor scattering.

John should be pleased—she was actually thinking in vegetative terms.

She stepped through the garden door into the library.

“Is it warm outside, Lady Grace?”

“Eek!” She pressed her hand to her heart. “Don’t sneak up on me like that, Mr. Sykes.”

Sykes raised an eyebrow. “My apologies. Next time I shall be certain to drop something when you enter a room I am already occupying; however, I do think it is a good thing I did not do so today.”

“What?” She looked around. Sykes had a bottle of brandy in his hand. “Are you…?”

“Imbibing? No. I am ascertaining that Lord Oxbury will have a sufficient quantity of spirits should he wish to imbibe when he arrives.”

“Oh. Of course.” Lord Oxbury was coming. His arrival was reason enough for their departure.

“Is it warm out, Lady Grace? You look a trifle flushed.”

“Warm? No, actually, it’s cool.” As long as she didn’t think about a certain baron.

She would be spending days in the man’s company, days with hours of free time and acres of secluded places.

She shivered.

“I see. You aren’t ill, are you?”

“Of course not, Mr. Sykes. I am feeling fine. Wonderful.” Especially when she considered all the interesting things Lord Dawson could do in the secluded spots of Lord Motton’s estate.

She felt herself flush again. She should not be considering such a subject. But she was. Given the opportunity—and she suspected the baron would give her plenty of opportunities—she was going to do far more than consider the subject.

Mr. Sykes was observing her closely. “Are you certain you don’t have a touch of the ague, Lady Grace?”

“No, I am perfectly healthy.” Mr. Sykes did not look convinced. Well, she could stand a few moments of privacy. “But maybe I should go lie down as a precaution. If you’ll excuse me?” She hurried out the door before he could make any more observations.

They had to go to this gathering for Aunt Kate’s sake, but that didn’t mean Grace couldn’t get some…enjoyment from the excursion as well. She pushed open the door to her room and looked at the writing desk. She should answer Papa’s letter. She should send a few words to John.

She should, she should, she should. She was so tired of “should.”

When she went to Lord Motton’s estate, she was going to do a few things she shouldn’t.

Kate lay on her bed, curtains drawn, staring up at the canopy. What should she do?

Her thoughts had been flapping wildly like birds in a net ever since she realized…

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God…

There were herbs she could take, things she could do to…It was early days. No one would ever know…

She would know.

But she wasn’t married. If she did nothing, if she grew round and heavy, everyone would whisper. More than whisper. The ton would gossip, laugh, mock her. Give her the cut direct. Her brother would berate her; the Weasel would call her a harlot, toss her out on the street…

If the Weasel tossed her out, would Standen take her in, let her live in his home and give birth to her bastard under his roof?

No. How could he? He would tell her she had besmirched his name and he would be right. And then where would she go? To the workhouse?

She turned onto her side. What was she going to do?

Damn it all, this wasn’t supposed to happen. She was too old to be enceinte. She’d never thought…well, why would she? She’d had regular congress with Oxbury for over twenty years and had never conceived. Of course she thought she was barren.

She was an idiot, a bloody sapskull. Widows, experienced women, women who took lovers were supposed to be smart about these things. They were supposed to know what precautions to take. Mistakes like this didn’t happen.

Dear God. She had finally conceived—and it was a mistake.

She covered her face with her hands to muffle her sobs, but she didn’t have to worry Marie would hear her. She was crying too hard to make a sound.

They were leaving for Lord Motton’s estate the day after tomorrow. Alex might be there. She might see him.

Did she have to tell him? Maybe she could go away somewhere, say she had a friend in Yorkshire, leave before she started to show, stay away for nine months, have the baby, and give it away—

Oh! Give her baby away? How could she do that?

How couldn’t she? She couldn’t raise a child by herself, in poverty and disgrace.

She wiped her face on her sheet and rolled onto her back again. Marie was right. She had to tell Alex—he deserved to know. But would he even listen to her? She had stupidly hurt him badly, so badly he had fled her room, fled London.

She would have to apologize first. Grovel. Beg his forgiveness—and then tell him she had lied to him.

She squeezed her eyes shut. How could he ever believe her, believe she was sorry, that she hadn’t intended to mislead him?

Was it a lie when you told a falsehood you sincerely believed was true?

She stared back up at the bed canopy. She shouldn’t try to make excuses for herself. All Alex needed to know was that she was sorry, but he had a child growing in her womb.

She laced her hands protectively over her stomach. But that wasn’t true, either. She wasn’t sorry. Oh, yes, she was, because it was all such a terrible mess, but if Alex had loved her, if he had wanted to get her with child when he’d come inside her…

If, if, if. The truth was what she needed to face, not her wishes, not her dreams.

“My lady?” Marie’s hand appeared on the bed curtain. Kate turned over quickly, so Marie saw her back and not her tears when she let the light in. “It’s time to get ready for the soiree.”

“Psst!”

Lord Westbrooke raised an eyebrow. “Do you suppose you should see why that potted palm is trying to get your attention, Dawson?”

David repressed a sigh. Lady Grace would never make a competent spy. At least he hoped it was Lady Grace. It must be. The Addison twins were normally not so discreet.

Come to think of it, where were the Addison twins? He hadn’t seen them at the Wainwright ball or any of the recent society events—and he had been looking. Was it too much to hope they had decamped and returned to the country for good?

“If you’ll excuse me, Westbrooke?” How to say this diplomatically? “I’m certain I don’t need to suggest that it would be best not to mention the, um, furtive vegetation?”

“My lips are sealed.” Westbrooke grinned. “But you might tell Lady Grace that if she wishes to hide in the greenery, she shouldn’t wear blue. The gown is lovely, but rather noticeable, don’t you agree?”

“Definitely. I’ll put a word in her ear.” David nodded and turned to stroll past the palm. Surely Lady Grace would have the sense to come out of the vegetation on her own. If he was compelled to haul her out, the gabble-grinders certainly would notice.

“Why didn’t you come talk to me when you arrived?” Grace sounded very disgruntled. And she had a leaf in her coiffure as well. He had best take her somewhere private where he could remove it for her. He put her hand on his arm.

“And good evening to you, too, my love.”

“Shh.” She darted a glance to either side. “Do you want to set the prattle boxes to chattering?”

“No, which is why I didn’t dash to your side the moment my foot crossed Fonsby’s threshold.”

“Oh. Yes, well, I see your point.”

He saw that she looked adorably confused. She flushed all the way down to…hmm. Her breasts were displayed in all their glory.

Well, not all their glory, of course. She did have a bodice to her dress, but at least it was cut low enough to display her beauty as fully as was allowed by society’s dictates.

He guided her toward a door he had already determined led to a less crowded part of the house.

Now that he considered the matter, perhaps he should suggest she reclaim her modest fichus. He found he did not care for the thought of other men observing her charms.

“What I wished to tell you is Aunt Kate has agreed to attend Lord Motton’s house party. She sent our acceptance this afternoon.”

“Splendid.” And this small chamber led out onto a rather isolated, dark section of the terrace. “Do you think it is stuffy in here?”

“Yes, I suppose so. I don’t know. What does it matter?”

“It matters not the slightest. Let’s just step out this door and enjoy the cool night air.”

“All right.” Grace went into the dark with him. “So have you got your uncle to agree to come? It is most important. Aunt Kate is still not herself.”

He’d noticed. Lady Oxbury had been standing on the other side of the room with a group of chaperones that included Mrs. Fallwell, Lady Amanda Wallen-Smyth, and Lady Gladys, the Duke of Alvord’s aunt. She’d seemed to be staring off into space while the other women conversed. At least she’d paid scant attention to Grace’s whereabouts and the nefarious men who might be luring her charge astray.

No matter. He had been paying careful attention. He intended to be the only nefarious man to tempt Lady Grace into misbehavior. He maneuvered her so her back was to the balustrade and his back was to the door, his body shielding hers from anyone who might venture onto this little corner of the terrace.

“So, what has your uncle said?” Grace frowned at him, but didn’t protest her location. Had she not realized his intentions?

He smiled slightly. She looked especially alluring tonight. Her skin—her lovely, wonderful skin—was an enticing play of cool, creamy paleness and seductive shadows.

“Lord Dawson, what did Mr. Wilton say? Is he coming?”

“Hmm?” He could not help himself. He’d surreptitiously removed his gloves and stuck them into a pocket; now he put his hands on her upper arms. His fingers smoothed her silky skin. He heard her breath catch.

“He didn’t say anything. I didn’t ask him.”

She had looked slightly alarmed and slightly expectant when he’d touched her. Those expressions vanished and she glared at him.

Would she slap him if he tried to kiss her?

“Why didn’t you ask him?”

“Besides the fact he is not in Town at present—”

“I know that!”

“—I thought it inadvisable to push him too hard. He may smell a rat, you know, and refuse to set foot on Motton’s estate.”

“Oh. Yes, I see.” Grace put her hands on his waistcoat and looked up at him. Her voice held sincerity and a touch of pleading. “That would be terrible. I’m convinced he is the author of Aunt Kate’s discontent. He must come.”

Did she know she was driving him mad? He covered her gloved hands with his bare ones. “I think he will come, but if he doesn’t, his estate is not so far from Motton’s. I will devise a way to get him and your aunt together.”

“You promise?”

Zeus, she was looking up at him as though he could work miracles. He was only a man. He could not decide the future; he could not determine anyone’s fate.

But he wanted to. He wanted to work miracles for her.

He would find a way. He could not promise Alex and Lady Oxbury would reach the accord Grace so obviously hoped for, but he could promise to bring them together. He would succeed, even if he had to knock Alex out and abduct him to do so.

He bent his head toward Grace. Her eyes grew wary; she started to draw back. He slid his hands up her lovely arms to her beautiful shoulders.

“I promise.” He moved closer. She stayed still, like a frightened rabbit, frozen, ready to bolt. He would not let her bolt. He was her fox; he would consume her.

“I promise,” he whispered again, against her mouth. He traced her lips with his tongue. She sighed softly and he slipped inside.

She was hot and wet. She was his. Her body sagged against him—her lovely, soft, rounded body. Her hands moved up to his neck; his hands moved down to her hips, urging her even closer, pressing her against his need. He could not get enough of her. He plunged his tongue into her sweetness…

She pushed against him. Had she been struggling for a while to get free? No, he would have noticed, even through his madness. He raised his head.

“Lord Dawson.” She was panting, her lovely breasts heaving, but she still clung to him. His cheek had not yet felt the sting of her hand. “You go too far.” She spoke in a breathy whisper.

He smiled and kissed the tip of her nose.

“Sweetheart, believe me, I intend to go a lot farther.”

She inhaled sharply, but still made no move to slap him. How far could he go? Regrettably, it would be inadvisable to investigate on Lord Fonsby’s terrace.

“Just not tonight.” Did she look disappointed? Splendid. He put her hand on his arm and headed back inside. He could barely wait until he had the time and privacy to see just how far Lady Grace would permit him to venture.

Chapter 12

Alex stared out at the rain. It splashed in the puddles on the terrace and ran like tears down the Coade stone statue of Hermes he’d purchased in a moment of whimsy.

Funny, Kate’s dog’s name was Hermes.

Damn. He turned away from the window. He should light some candles—it was too dim in the library to read.

He didn’t want to read.

He walked over to his desk. Windom, his estate manager, had been after him to work on his accounts ever since he got home. Something about a drainage problem in the south fields and a new kind of seed…

Blast it all! He left the desk and went back to the window. He’d tried to work on the damn accounts almost every day since he’d fled London. Windom was getting impatient with him. He didn’t blame him. He was getting impatient with himself. His attention was shot to hell. Nothing interested him any more.

What the blazes was he going to do? He had to put Kate behind him. He couldn’t spend the rest of his days drifting from room to room, staring out windows.

The rain continued to fall. It had been misting or pouring every day since he’d got back to Clifton Hall. Everything smelled musty. He could feel the damp in his bones.

It had been too wet to work in the fields or take Lear for a good long gallop, but he had the sinking feeling those activities would no longer cure him of the dismals.

He shouldn’t have left London. Hell, he shouldn’t have left Kate’s room, but something in her glib tone had shot straight to his heart like a well-aimed arrow.

Maybe if he had stayed and simply enjoyed what she was offering, he would have cured himself of this infatuation. Perhaps they could have had an enjoyable liaison for the Season. He might have got tired of her—or she of him, of course. In any event, he could have finally put this longing to rest.

He rested his forehead against the windowpane. God, could he ever fill the hole she’d torn in his heart? He had lived for years with the emptiness of loss, but he’d still had a vague sense of hope. Now that was gone and in its place was this bleak ennui. He felt as if he were dead, but had just forgotten to lie down in his coffin.

He closed his eyes, then opened them again and straightened. No, he was not some silly fribble to be brought low by love. The very thought was nauseating. Damn, he was acting like some court-card, some mewling dandy poet. Disgusting.

And what if David actually married Lady Grace? It would have to be over Standen’s dead body, but stranger things had happened. If he did not want to cut all connection with his nephew, he would have to learn how to meet Lady Oxbury in social settings. At David’s wedding, the christening of his first child—

He squeezed his eyes shut again. God, the pain that thought caused him. But he had to get over it. He wanted David to be happy.

He would stop this ridiculous moroseness immediately. Lady Oxbury was just a woman, and there were plenty of women in the world who would be happy to spend time with him—women who were younger, more beautiful—

No, he was not ready for comparisons. He would not think of Ka—Lady Oxbury. He would not think at all. He would just do. He would start slowly. There was no hurry. Just taking the first step to free himself from this awful gloom was—

“Sir?”

His butler was at the door. He’d been so lost in thought, he hadn’t heard the man approach. Well, that would change right now. “Yes, Grant? What is it?”

“This just arrived from Viscount Motton.” Grant handed him a note. “The footman is awaiting your response.”

“I see.” He pulled his spectacles from his pocket and glanced over the text.

Motton was having a house party at Lakeland, was he? Splendid! What could be a more perfect first step out of his misery? True, sometimes the viscount allowed his odd sense of humor to rule his better judgment—one of his gatherings reportedly included a competition to determine who possessed the worst singing voice—but a little screeching was a small price to pay to get out of the dungeon Clifton Hall had become.

If the planned festivities were too wearing, well, he’d been wanting to talk to Motton about the viscount’s new cultivation scheme and to view his fields firsthand. And if that failed to amuse, Lakeland was only a day’s ride away. It would be easy to come home.

“Grant, tell Lord Motton’s footman I shall be delighted to attend.”

“Lord Dawson has arrived, my lady.”

“Oh.” Grace’s heart almost leapt from her bodice. She stopped packing to press her hand to her chest. Just the man’s name made her stomach flutter as if it housed a flock of sparrows. “I’m not quite ready. Is my aunt packed, Marie?”

“No. Ye both are taking forever. Yer just going for a few days, ye know, not weeks.”

“Yes, I know. It’s just, well, I’m not certain what to expect…” She glanced around the room. Perhaps she should just pack her entire wardrobe and be done with it.

“I’ll put him in the blue parlor and have some brandy sent in.”

“Perhaps that would be best. I won’t be too much longer.”

Marie laughed. “My lady, any time waiting is too long for most gentlemen.”

Grace let out a long breath once the door closed behind Marie. How was she going to survive this house party? She’d be spending days in close proximity to Lord Dawson with hours free to wander the estate in relative—well, perhaps actual—privacy. Many opportunities for him to do exactly what he’d done at Lord Fonsby’s soiree…and more.

Ooh. Her knees gave out and she sat down abruptly. Fortunately, the bed was there to receive her. She was throbbing again.

She’d decided she was going to sow a few wild oats, yes—but only a few. Not a crop. She was still marrying John Parker-Roth in a matter of weeks; in fact, she was leaving for Devon after the house party to make the final preparations. She was not at heart—could not be—a hoyden.

Where was the proper, prim, always-follow-the-rules Grace when she needed her? She was only the veriest whisper in the farthest, darkest recesses of her mind.

She must get herself under better control. Once she wed John…well, she could not be lusting after another man.

But she was lusting after another man right now. She covered her face with her hands. Dear God, she was. How was she to stop?

She should have slapped Baron Dawson there on Lord Fonsby’s terrace. He’d expected her to do so, she could tell. He had put his tongue in her mouth and had run his hands over her person, pressed his body against hers—ohh…

She hadn’t wanted to slap him, she’d wanted to tell him to do it again. And when he’d said he intended to go a lot farther, she’d almost begged him to do so immediately—sooner than immediately if possible—there on Lord Fonsby’s terrace. She’d wanted to cry when he’d taken her back inside.

Was she mad?

She was mad. She was also in serious, serious trouble.

It was all very well to have an adventure or two, but John would expect her to be a virgin on their wedding night. She wasn’t familiar with all the particulars—usually the discussion of a woman’s marital duties happened on the night before she was expected to assume those duties—but she’d be willing to bet the odd sensations she felt with Lord Dawson were closely linked to the marital act. They certainly were linked to nothing she’d ever experienced before.

She rubbed her forehead. Perhaps she should discuss the problem with Aunt Kate. Her aunt had been married. By all accounts, she’d been faithful to Oxbury, so she must also know how to control these peculiar urges.

Grace put her last few items in a valise and went to her aunt’s room. Hermes met her at the door, barking and dancing on his hind legs.

“Sorry, Hermes. I don’t have any treats.”

Hermes paused, gave her a long look, and then sneezed and trotted over to the hearth to lie down.

“Are you ready to go, Grace?” Kate stood by her bed, surrounded by portmanteaux. “As soon as Marie makes Lord Dawson comfortable, she’s coming back to help me finish packing.”

“You look as if you are taking as much as I am.”

Kate pushed her hair back off her face. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? We will only be gone a short while. I’m sure I am bringing far too many things.” What was the matter with her? She wasn’t usually so indecisive.

It was nerves, of course. She was hoping Alex would be at this house party.

No, she was dreading it.

It made no difference what she felt. If he was there, she would have to tell him about his child.

Dear God! She sat down quickly. A child. Alex’s child.

“Aunt Kate, I need to ask you something.”

Grace was looking down at her skirt, twisting the fabric with her fingers. Something was obviously amiss. “Yes? What is it, Grace?”

“I’m a little concerned…That is, I should probably tell you…Well, as you know, Lord Dawson will be at this house party…”

“Of course I know—he’s downstairs waiting. As he was kind enough to offer us his protection on the drive out to Lord Motton’s estate, we should not keep him waiting.”

“Yes. Well, the thing is…” Grace finally met Kate’s gaze. “I might need protection from him.”

“What?!” She knew she should never have accepted this invitation. “I will have a word with him immediately. If he thinks—”

Grace flushed. “Or he might need protection from me.”

Kate’s jaw dropped. For a moment she couldn’t muster a single sound. “I-I don’t think I understand.”

“I thought you might know what to do. I mean, you’ve been married. You must know all about the urges one feels.”

“Ah…” Urges? Grace hadn’t said urges had she? “Er…” What should she answer? Just a short while ago, she would not have known what Grace was talking about, but unfortunately now she was all too familiar with urges—and not very familiar with controlling them. “What you should do—”

“I’m back.” Marie bustled into the room. Kate could have fallen on her neck and kissed her. It was cowardly of her, she knew. Grace had asked for advice, but she had no advice to give her. She laid her hand over her stomach. Look where her urges had led her.

“The footmen are on their way up to get these things,” Marie said, putting the last dress into a portmanteau. “Why don’t ye both go down and wait for the carriage?” She looked up and grinned. “Ye can keep his lordship company. He’s wearing a hole in the rug with his pacing.”

Kate bent and put on Hermes’s leash. “That’s a good idea, Marie. Are you ready, Grace?”

She bolted out the door before Grace could answer.

Kate stopped at the stairs. That was not well done of her. Grace deserved an answer—needed an answer if she was going to get through this house party without putting herself in Kate’s position—enceinte, but unwed. That would indeed be horrendous.

She hoped Grace had more control than she, but the Wilton men were devilishly seductive. And it was Kate’s job as chaperone to see that Grace didn’t go astray.

“I’m sorry,” Kate said as Grace caught up. “I shouldn’t have hurried away like that.”

Grace smiled slightly. “That’s all right, Aunt Kate. I’d thought these feelings must be common, but I guess I’m—”

“They are common, Grace.” Kate wasn’t entirely certain of that, but she suspected it was so—and she couldn’t bear the distress she heard in Grace’s voice. She put her hand on Grace’s arm. “That’s why girls are told to avoid being alone with a gentleman—and why chaperones are there to be sure they follow that rule. I have been sadly remiss, but I promise I will stick to you like a burr at this house party.”

“Oh, no.” Grace looked completely appalled. “You can’t do that!”

“But, Grace—”

“Grr.”

Kate glanced down. Hermes was literally bristling, his teeth bared.

“Good heavens, Hermes, what is the matter?”

Hermes barked vociferously and lunged, jerking Kate’s arm forward. She grabbed for the banister to keep from going head first down the stairs. “Hermes! Will you—oh.”

She saw what had disturbed Hermes. The Weasel was standing by the front door, handing his hat to Sykes. He looked up at the commotion. Good God, his eyes were going for her stomach. She scooped Hermes up and held him in front of her.

“Cousin,” he said in his annoying, nasal tones, “how…nice to see you again.”

Nice? Yes, he probably did think it was nice to see her—just as he must think it nice to see a cockroach right before he heard the crunch of his heel flattening it.

Hermes gave another low growl. Kate kissed the top of his head and strove to sound polite.

“I trust you had a pleasant trip, Horace?”

The Weasel shrugged, his bony shoulders shifting his shabby, cheap coat. He hadn’t yet spent Oxbury’s money on a new wardrobe.

The man was most unpleasant looking. He had all of Oxbury’s less favorable traits plus a few of his own. He truly did look like a weasel—thin with a narrow face, long pointed nose, and small beady eyes.

Her Oxbury had not been much to look at, but at least he had not been pompous and obnoxious.

She descended the stairs, Hermes held shield-like in front of her stomach. When she got within five feet of the Weasel, she stopped. One step closer and Hermes would start barking. Here, he only growled menacingly.

“Have you met my niece, Horace?”

Horace smiled in his usual oily fashion. “I don’t believe I’ve had that pleasure.”

Kate nodded and gritted her teeth. It had to be done.

“Lady Grace, Lord Oxbury. My lord, as I’m sure you know, Lady Grace is the Earl of Standen’s daughter.”

“My pleasure, Lady Grace.” Oxbury bowed slightly.

“Lord Oxbury.” Grace gave the barest curtsy and offset that little politeness by lifting her chin and peering down her nose at Horace—not hard for her to do as Horace was a good four inches shorter than she.

“I shall check on the carriage.” Sykes, the coward, handed Lord Oxbury’s hat to a footman—one of the many new servants hired in the last few days to support Horace’s substantial self-importance—and dashed out the door.

Horace sniffed and looked back at Kate. “You are leaving?”

“Yes.” Hermes wriggled, indicating his wish to be set down. Kate hugged him tighter and stroked his ears. There was no way she was going to expose her torso to Horace’s scrutiny. “We have been invited to a house party at Lakeland, Viscount Motton’s estate. We are on the verge of departure.”

“I see. I wonder—” Horace’s eyebrows—well, in his case eyebrow was more accurate as there was no demarcation between the two—shot up. He was looking at a spot just behind them. “And who might this gentleman be?”

Horace’s tone suggested the gentleman might be a pimp or debaucher. Kate turned to see what nefarious blackguard had slipped by Mr. Sykes’s guard.

Lord Dawson stood scowling in the doorway to the blue salon. “I am Baron Dawson. Who are you?”

Horace puffed up like an angry cat. Hermes must have thought so, too. He started growling again and struggled to be let down.

“Shh, Hermes.”

“I am the Earl of Oxbury, of course—the owner of this magnificent house.”

If Horace got any more self-important, he’d explode.

Kate glanced at Lord Dawson. Oh, dear, it looked as if he was going to say something cutting. Not that Horace didn’t deserve it, but there was no need to brangle. They were leaving momentarily.

She spoke before the baron could vent his spleen. “We are in Lord Dawson’s debt, Horace, as he has kindly offered to escort Lady Grace and me to Viscount Motton’s house party.”

Lord Dawson came over to stand next to Grace. Kate had never noticed before—obviously, she had been too focused on the man’s uncle—but the baron was a very large and intimidating man. He clearly could pick Horace up in one hand and break him in two.

Even Horace seemed to realize this truth. His tone was almost polite. “Ah, I see. Very kind of you, Dawson.”

“My pleasure, Oxbury.”

Lord Dawson was still glaring at Horace. Surely he would refrain from baiting the man for a few more minutes? Where in God’s name was the blasted coach?

Mr. Sykes appeared at the door. “The carriage is ready.”

Alleluia! “Well, we must go. Don’t want to keep the horses waiting. So glad we had a moment to see you before we departed, Horace.” May God forgive her that lie. “I’m sure you’ll find all to your liking here. Mr. Sykes is very efficient.” Kate grinned like an idiot and edged toward the door. “And here comes our luggage.” A procession of footmen, directed by Marie, streamed down the stairs. “Do have a pleasant time in London.” She paused to let the luggage precede her. “Did you have a particular reason for coming to Town at this moment, Horace?”

She hadn’t expected a real answer, just a polite—or as polite as Horace cared to manage—platitude. She was halfway out the door when she heard his response.

“Actually, yes, I did. I’ve come to acquire a wife.”

“Oh.” Grace and Lord Dawson were gaping at Horace, just as she was certain she was. Even Hermes seemed stunned by this pronouncement—he stopped growling. The Weasel, a man with close to sixty years in his dish, a man she had always assumed was a confirmed bachelor…the skinny, oily, annoying, pompous Weasel was going wife hunting? “Well, good luck to you.”

Horace chuckled and smoothed back his few stringy gray hairs. “I doubt I’ll have to rely on luck.”

“Ah, right.” She was going to burst out laughing or cast up her accounts on the marble floor. “Of course. Exactly. Yes, indeed. Good-bye then.”

“Good-bye.” Horace smiled slightly—at least that was what she thought the twisting of his lips meant, but perhaps he just had a touch of indigestion—and waved. “Don’t hurry back.”

Poor Lady Oxbury. David rode behind the coaches as they pulled away from Oxbury House. He certainly would not want to have any extended contact with Lord Lobcock. The few minutes he’d been forced to endure the man’s company had been too many. What a bloody coxcomb!

Zeus took exception to a vegetable cart and tried to bolt. He reined him in, and then had to avoid a cow handed idiot in a high-perch phaeton who was attempting to take a corner too fast. Fortunately the Oxbury carriages were far enough ahead they missed everything. He swallowed his curses and urged Zeus to pick up his pace. He would be very happy to shake London’s dirt from his boots—and his breeches, coat, and hat—for a while.

Once they got free of Town, he moved up past the baggage carriage to ride alongside the coach carrying Grace and her aunt. He tilted his head from side to side, stretching out the kinks in his neck, and let out a long breath.

God, he’d forgotten what quiet sounded like. London was never quiet. Even at night, there was constant din—the rattle of wheels against cobbles, the clop of horse hooves, the shouts of drunken, young—and not so young—bucks. He’d got so used to the noise, he hardly noticed it any longer. Until now, that is, when it was absent.

Now he could hear birdsong and leaves rustling in an errant breeze. And the air! He could take a deep breath again without falling into a coughing fit.

Mmm. He was looking forward to this house party, to taking Zeus out for a gallop without worrying about carriages or other riders, to strolling along peaceful, tree-shaded lanes—with Grace on his arm, of course—and wandering off into a secluded corner to steal a kiss…or more.

He had taken the liberty of procuring a special license. It was burning a hole in his pocket, actually. As soon as he persuaded Grace to have him, he need only find a minister, a pair of witnesses, and then, after the vows, a nice, soft bed.

He shifted in the saddle. Too much musing on that subject would make for a very uncomfortable ride. He’d best direct his thoughts to a less stimulating topic—like Lady Oxbury and Alex.

He glanced at the carriage. What had happened between them?

Zeus shook his head, making the bit jingle. David leaned forward and patted him on the neck.

It must have been something momentous. Alex had looked like hell the morning after Alvord’s ball. David snorted, causing Zeus’s ears to twitch. No, Alex had looked like he was in hell. He’d only seen the man that haggard when they’d found Grandda’s and Grandmamma’s carriage crumpled by the big oak.

David sighed, shaking his head. He’d expected his uncle to be disgustingly cocky at breakfast that morning, if he put in an appearance at all. He’d assumed the man had been frolicking all night in Lady Oxbury’s bed—it had been close to daybreak when he’d heard him come in.

So what had happened? Had Lady Oxbury refused to see him? But then where had Alex been—walking the streets of London all night?

Damn it, Alex deserved some happiness. Not that he ever appeared unhappy—he was not a man to wear his heart on his sleeve—but there was always a slight air of melancholy about him, as if he saw the world’s colors dimmed by a thin layer of gray, a thin covering of London’s soot, if you will.

When he’d seen Alex that morning, he’d decided Lady Oxbury must be a cold-hearted bitch, but now that he saw how much she was suffering…well, he didn’t know what to think.

“Lord Dawson!”

He snapped his attention back to the coach. Grace had opened the window and was leaning out. “What is it, Lady Grace?”

“It’s my aunt. She is feeling most unwell. Can you ask John Coachman to stop, please?”

“Of course.”

The coachman had heard Lady Grace and was already pulling back on the reins.

“And if you could come help her down.” Grace glanced back at her aunt, and then looked up at him. “It’s rather an emergency.”

“Certainly.” He vaulted from his saddle and jerked open the carriage door. Grace had not overstated the case. Lady Oxbury’s face was as white as a sheet—the parts that didn’t have a pronounced greenish tinge, that is.

“Would you like to get down, Lady Oxbury?”

She nodded frantically, her hand pressed tightly to her mouth.

He half lifted her out. She leaned against the side of the carriage while he helped Grace and Marie. Then he grabbed Hermes while the women hurried away from the road. Lady Oxbury made it only a few steps into the grass before she cast up her accounts.

Grace braced her while she finished. “Are you feeling more the thing now, Aunt Kate?”

“Ooh.” Lady Oxbury shook her head. “I still feel…I still think…”

Grace wrapped her arm around her aunt’s waist and urged her toward a sturdy tree. The three women disappeared behind the trunk.

David heard the sound of retching.

John Coachman pushed his hat back with his whip and scratched his forehead. “Shall we bide here a while, yer lordship?”

“I think that would be wise.” He should offer his assistance, but he didn’t wish to intrude on Lady Oxbury’s privacy. He took a few steps into the grass toward the tree—being careful to avoid one particular spot—and cleared his throat. “Lady Grace?”

Marie emerged from behind the trunk first. “My lord, could ye get the wicker basket from the carriage? I packed a few things that might help, but a woman in my lady’s condition…well, I think we’ll be stopping a few more times afore journey’s end.”

“I see.” There went his hope of making good time. At least Lakeland was not far—they should arrive by dark, even with frequent stops. “I will fetch it immediately.”

He handed Hermes to John Coachman. Fortunately, the basket was in plain sight. He gave it to Marie and watched her hurry off behind the tree. In a moment Lady Grace appeared.

“How is your aunt?”

“Better, I think.” Grace frowned. “I wish I knew what was wrong.”

“Marie mentioned a condition…?”

“A condition?” Grace’s brow wrinkled. “Aunt Kate isn’t prone to carriage sickness, if that’s what you mean.”

“No. But her maid said—” His jaw dropped.

Good God. Alex…Lady Oxbury…

Was it possible? Had Alex spent the night in Lady Oxbury’s bed with interesting results? And now it was imperative the lady see his uncle because the man was about to be a father?

David snickered.

Grace frowned. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing.” He pressed his lips together, but that didn’t quite contain his mirth. “N-nothing at all.”

“You should not be laughing. Aunt Kate is very sick.”

He nodded. “I’m n-not l-laughing.”

Grace gave him a very nasty look and went back to help Lady Oxbury. Thank God.

He walked carefully to the other side of the carriage and then collapsed against it, howling with laughter—as quietly as he could—until tears ran down his cheeks.

He could hardly wait to see Alex.

Chapter 13

Alex let Lear choose his own path up the drive to Lakeland, Motton’s manor house.

He was tired, but satisfied. It had been worth leaving home before daybreak; he’d already had time to take a preliminary look at Motton’s cultivation techniques and chat with Watkins, Motton’s estate manager. The man was a genius. There were definitely a number of improvements he’d seen that he could implement at Clifton Hall. Hopefully he would have time during this house party for some rational conversation with Motton on the topic.

Lear’s ears twitched. Yes, he heard it, too. Carriages were approaching from behind. He reined up, glanced back, and frowned. The man accompanying the coaches looked familiar. He was too far away to be certain…

His eyes dropped to the man’s horse. Damn. He’d recognize that stallion anywhere. What the hell was David doing here—and, more to the point, who was he escorting?

Only one possibility came to mind. Alex jerked, causing Lear to back and toss his head in protest.

“Sorry, boy.” He patted his horse’s neck. David must have caught sight of him then, because Zeus broke into a canter, covering the ground between them in minutes.

“Alex! Well met!”

“Is it?” He could be wrong. Please, God, let him be wrong. But the person—or persons—in the carriage must be female, and the only females he could think might be in David’s company were Ka—Lady Oxbury and Lady Grace.

Perhaps Lady Oxbury had stayed in Town. Lakeland was only a short trip from London. A maid would suffice as Lady Grace’s companion for such a brief journey; perhaps the girl was meeting a suitable duenna here.

Right. And perhaps he would sprout wings and fly.

He wished he could fly, if not through the air, then on Lear’s back. Ride like the wind home to Clifton Hall and hide behind a locked door.

He blew out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He was being absurd. He was not a frightened little boy, and Lady Oxbury wasn’t some hobgoblin. They were two adults. They could behave as adults, surely, and get through this damn house party politely.

And he could manufacture an excuse to run—head—for home tomorrow morning.

“Who’s in the carriage?” He braced himself for the answer. The vehicle was traveling very slowly, as if its contents were exceptionally fragile.

“Lady Grace.” David paused and gave him an odd look. “And Lady Oxbury.”

Did David think he was communicating something significant with his bobbing eyebrows? It was not a secret Alex had made a fool of himself over the woman.

“I see.” He sounded nonchalant, if he said so himself. He was surprised Motton knew Ka—Lady Oxbury.

Did Motton know her? It would be somewhat unusual. She had been out of society for a long time, and Motton was around David’s age…He frowned. “You didn’t happen to have anything to do with the invitations to this gathering, did you, David?”

David grinned. “Perhaps.”

“Damn it, you know I parted on less than cordial terms with Lady Oxbury.”

“Actually, the last time I saw you with the lady—at Alvord’s ball—you looked to be on exceedingly cordial terms with her. I could only speculate as to why you left London so precipitously.”

The coaches were getting closer. Why were they moving so slowly—to prolong his agony? “You aren’t an idiot, David. You might have put two and two together.”

“I might have.” David gave him another odd look. “If we are doing sums, you might wish to do a few calculations of your own.”

Alex tore his eyes away from his approaching doom to glare at his nephew. “What the devil are you talking about?”

“You haven’t had any communication with Lady Oxbury since the morning after Alvord’s ball?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Then you might wish to have some communication with her in the next day or so.”

“Why?”

There went David’s damn eyebrows again. “Lady Oxbury is not feeling at all the thing. We had to stop frequently on our trip from London.”

“I’m sorry for her indisposition, but what does that have to do with me?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

What was wrong with David? “Are you suggesting I gave her this illness?”

David choked. “I’m not certain Lady Oxbury is ill precisely.” The man was laughing!

Had the world gone mad? Alex glanced at the carriage again. In just a few moments, he would go mad. “I’m as healthy as a horse, and, more to the point, I haven’t been in London for weeks.”

David nodded. “Lady Oxbury’s stomach was most unsettled the entire trip. Fortunately her maid had come prepared—nausea is not unusual for someone in Lady Oxbury’s condition.”

“Lady Oxbury’s condition?” The coach was only twenty yards away. “What condition? Why the hell are you talking in riddles—”

Good God! Alex gaped at David. David shrugged.

“As I say, you might wish to have a serious conversation with Lady Oxbury. In fact, I strongly recommend it.” David smirked. “I imagine you might find it life-changing.” With that the blasted man turned and rode back to the coaches.

Alex stayed rooted to his spot. Condition. Nausea. Not ill…

But she had said she was barren. She had been married to Oxbury for twenty-three years and had had no children. She was forty years old. She couldn’t be…

He couldn’t be…

Damn. He stared like a complete cods-head as the coach lumbered by, Kate’s pale face visible in the window.

She couldn’t be pregnant with his child, could she?

A surprising possessiveness surged through him. He could barely breathe. Lear shifted under him, uncertain what his frozen body meant.

He had dreamt of having a child with Kate. Of being a father…

But what if she still wanted to live the life of the merry widow, inviting man after bloody man into her bed?

Lear jumped under him as his knees tightened with rage. He forced himself to relax his body, but he would not relax his resolve. If Kate did not want him, so be it. But he would have his child.

He took a calming breath. If there was a child. He must not leap to conclusions. David could be wrong—most probably was wrong.

In any event, it looked as though he’d be staying for the whole damn gathering.

He turned Lear toward the house and urged him into a gallop. He might as well catch up with the carriage; there was no point in putting off his meeting with Kate.

He rode up just as the footman was letting down the steps. David helped Lady Grace from the coach and then a smaller woman—by her dress, the maid.

Lady Grace looked over as he approached. “Mr. Wilton,”—they both heard a gasp from the carriage—“how nice to see you.”

The maid gave him a hard look that promised serious repercussions—drawing and quartering at the least—if he did anything to harm her mistress. He stepped cautiously past her, and she, David, and Lady Grace continued toward the house, leaving him alone with Kate.

He looked into the coach—he’d swear his heart lurched.

Kate was so beautiful, sitting in the shadows, staring down at her lap—so pale and delicate. So prim—but she had been anything but prim in her bedchamber that night.

A rush of desire swamped him. He wanted her. No matter what she said to him, how she felt about him—he wanted her. But he wanted her love, too. And if she were indeed enceinte…

“Kate.” He extended a hand.

She pressed her lips together while she looked at his gloved fingers. Then she emitted a little sigh and laid her hand in his. “M-Mr. Wilton.” There was a slight catch in her voice. She kept her eyes lowered.

He helped her down. When her feet reached the drive, she glanced up at him briefly. Her color fluctuated from white to red to white again. Was she going to faint? He put a hand under her elbow.

“Kate,” he said, his voice low so none of the servants could hear, “are you all right?”

She nodded. Her tongue slipped out to moisten her lips. “Yes.” She swallowed. “Yes, I am all—all right.” She looked up at him again. “Alex—Mr. Wilton—I—” She stopped and smiled weakly. “I had better go lie down. I find I don’t travel well these days.”

She was a coward. She should speak to him now. Tell him she needed to have a private word with him at his earliest convenience. There was no point in putting it off.

But she was a coward. And she was bone tired. She had not realized how exhausting travel would be. And how mortifying! How many times had they been forced to stop the carriage on her account? After the first few times, she’d had nothing left in her stomach to lose.

A growl emerged from the coach.

“Oh, poor Hermes.” She turned back. Hermes was glaring at her from the carriage seat. He expected to be lifted out, not forced to scramble down the steep stairs.

“Let me get him for you.” Alex’s broad hands reached for the dog. Hermes yelped once, sniffed Alex’s gloves, and then consented to being picked up. “Does he have a leash?”

“Oh, yes, I—” She looked inside the carriage. Where had she put the leash? She had been in and out of the coach so many times on this dreadful trip. “I—I don’t know…”

Alex smiled at her and she wanted to melt into a puddle at his feet or throw herself into his arms. Fortunately his arms were already occupied by Hermes. She clasped her hands together so they couldn’t misbehave.

“Don’t worry,” Alex said. “I can carry him for you if you think he’ll stray on his own.”

“That might be best, if you don’t mind, it being a strange house, you know. I don’t usually take Hermes about, but I couldn’t leave him behind with the Weasel in residence.”

Alex raised an eyebrow as he tucked Hermes under his arm. “The Weasel?”

“The current Lord Oxbury.” She flushed. Her stomach was fluttering, but she didn’t feel as though she would be sick again. “I know I shouldn’t call him that. I don’t usually, in public, that is. It just slipped out.”

He was frowning now. “He is not kind to you? I had heard rumors, but I’d hoped they were unfounded.”

Now she felt as if she would burst into tears. Heavens, she wasn’t usually such a watering pot. All this emotional turmoil must be related to her condition.

Dear God, her “condition”! She had to tell Alex—but how on earth was she going to do it? She couldn’t just blurt it out here. He might drop Hermes in shock. Or fury.

Should she tell him when there were people around to defend her should he turn ugly?

She was being ridiculous. Alex wouldn’t harm her.

“Lady Oxbury, are you all right?” Alex was scowling now. “You know you can call on me if that blackguard shows you any disrespect.”

“Oh, no, I’m fine. Well, I’m not fine, but…” She smiled weakly up at him. “I’m so sorry. I’m not making any sense. I’m just tired.”

“And here I am, making you stand and converse when all you must want is to find your b-bed”—Did Alex blush? If so, he recovered immediately—“and rest. Take my arm.” He smiled. “The arm that is not already full of dog, of course.”

She loved him. Oh, God, how she loved him.

She was in serious trouble. She took his arm, repressing a slightly hysterical giggle. Her feelings for Alex were the least of it. She was unmarried and increasing, carrying the child of a man her brother detested, a man she had misled into believing she was barren.

She glanced up; Alex smiled reassuringly down at her.

But perhaps a man who didn’t hate her—yet. His feelings might change when she revealed her secret.

She bit her lip, swallowing more tears. She must get her emotions under better control.

Lord Dawson and Grace had waited for them. As soon as they approached, the footman rapped on the front door. It swung open on his second knock; his fist almost collided with a large, gray parrot.

The parrot emitted a loud squawk. “Hey, mate, watch wot yer doin’!”

The poor footman jumped back, tripping over his own feet. Hermes, taking instant exception to the bird, struggled to get free of Alex’s grasp. He barked vehemently.

The parrot leaned forward and barked back.

Hermes yelped and gazed up at Alex. Alex shrugged.

“Theo, your manners!” The gray-haired woman on whose shoulder the parrot was sitting looked sternly at her pet. “Apologize immediately.”

Theo bobbed his head. “Aw, Theo’s sorry, Theo’s sorry.”

“I apologize as well,” the woman said. “Theo was raised on a sailing ship. Sometimes his conduct is not all one would wish.” She smiled and stepped back. “And where are my manners you may ask? Please, come in. I am Edmund’s—Lord Motton’s—Aunt Winifred, Miss Winifred Smyth. This, as I’m sure you’ve surmised, is Theo. I inherited him when my uncle Theo, God rest his soul, passed on.”

“Your uncle named his pet after himself?” Grace asked as they stepped into the grand marble entranceway.

Miss Smyth laughed. “Oh, no, I did that. Theo’s original name was quite inappropriate.”

“Heh, heh,” Theo said, “name was—”

“Theo!”

“Aw, Theo’s sorry, Theo’s sorry.”

“And you must be…?”

“Baron Dawson,” David said, “Lady Oxbury, Lady Grace, and my uncle, Mr. Alex Wilton.”

“I am so delighted you could come. Edmund would be here to greet you, too, but he is, unfortunately, dealing with an…issue in the rose parlor.”

A loud crash emanated from a room down the hall, followed by a man’s voice.

“Damn it, you hairy little—”

Miss Smyth raised her own voice. “I’m certain you are tired from your travels and would like to rest, so if you will just come this way?”

She led them up the stairs just as another crash and fresh cursing erupted.

“Good to see you, Dawson. Sorry for the confusion when you arrived.”

David grinned. Motton looked so calm now. He hadn’t sounded so calm earlier.

“Sherry?”

“Thank you.” David took the glass from the viscount. “What were you doing when we arrived?”

“Chasing Aunt Winifred’s bloody monkey.” Motton grimaced. “He is not the best behaved beast in Christendom.”

David snorted. “Miss Smyth’s parrot has a few etiquette issues itself.”

Motton rolled his eyes. “I believe I mentioned Aunt Winifred had a menagerie, did I not?”

“You did.” David took a sip of his sherry and glanced around the room. He was still the only guest to arrive at the pre-prandial gathering. “Where is everyone?”

Motton cleared his throat. “Actually, I wished to have a moment to speak to you alone.”

David’s attention swiveled back to Motton. “Oh?”

“Yes.” Motton studied his sherry glass. “The thing is, Dawson, I delegated most—well, all, actually—of the planning for this house party including the, ah, guest list to my aunt.”

“Yes?” That was completely reasonable. Why did Motton seem uncharacteristically perturbed? “Is there a problem?”

“Well…” Motton cleared his throat again and took a large swallow of sherry. “I’d say, wouldn’t you, that Aunt Winifred seems like a nice, normal older lady…er, that is if you subtract the parrot and the monkey?”

“Yes…if you subtract the parrot and the monkey.”

“Unfortunately, looks are deceiving. Aunt Winifred, though she rarely frequents London or attends any ton events, knows exactly what the latest on dits are—and how to, ah, use them.”

“Use them?” Whatever was Motton getting at?

“Yes. She has an unusual sense of humor. She enjoys stirring up trouble, setting the cat amongst the pigeons, if you will, though I do believe she is always good hearted about it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

Motton examined his sherry. “You noticed how Lady Oxbury and your uncle are both here?”

“Yes. I tried to hint to you that would be an excellent outcome.”

Motton shook his head. “No hinting was necessary. I merely mentioned Lady Oxbury to Aunt Winifred and she immediately added Mr. Wilton to the guest list.”

“Splendid.”

“You may not think so shortly.” He smiled ruefully. “Lady Oxbury and Mr. Wilton are not the only individuals Aunt Winifred invited with ulterior motives.”

David heard female voices approaching. Was Grace’s among them? He thought so. Yes. There she was—and behind her were the Addison twins. He turned to glare at Motton.

Motton shrugged. “And that’s not the worst of it.”

Not the worst of it? What could be worse? The twins almost bowled Grace over in their dash to get to him. Well, Motton could pay part of the price for this appalling development. David nodded at the girls, then stepped behind Motton and over to Lady Grace, leaving the viscount with the matching pair of matrimonial barracudas.

“How is your aunt?” David asked. Grace looked beautiful, as usual, in a celestial blue gown with a neck that displayed a lovely expanse of skin and mounded breasts.

“Resting. I think she’ll be down shortly.” Grace glanced around. “I don’t see your uncle.”

“I’m certain he’ll be down shortly as well.” He saw one of the Addison twins looking in his direction. He took Lady Grace’s elbow and directed her toward the windows. There was no time to waste—no time for roundaboutation. “May I ask a boon of you?”

Grace looked startled. “Yes. Well, I think so. What is it?”

“Do you see those two young women talking to Lord Motton—the twins?”

Grace glanced over. “Yes, of course. Miss Amanda and Miss Abigail. I met them in the hall just now.”

“Can you please see that I am never alone with either one of them?”

“Why?”

“They are trying to catch me in parson’s mousetrap and I don’t wish to be caught”—he smiled down at her—“at least by one of them.”

She opened her fan and fluttered it in front of her face. She had reddened again. Her beautiful skin showed her every emotion.

Damn, he had a sudden overwhelming desire to see how it responded to intense bedroom pleasure. Not an appropriate thought for Motton’s drawing room.

“Will you help me, Grace? Protect me? Please?”

The fan moved more quickly. Grace glanced at the Addisons once more. “You are being absurd.”

“I am being truthful. Painfully truthful.”

She smiled slightly and shook her head. “Absurd, but yes, I’ll do my best to see you aren’t trapped by one of the Misses Addison.”

“Thank you. I—”

“I’m sure he’s here, Cordelia.” Miss Smyth entered the room, an older, white-haired woman with a cane at her side. “He’s a big, strapping fellow.”

Miss Smyth surveyed the few people assembled. Her eyes hit upon him—he was the tallest person in the room—and lit up. She grabbed her companion’s arm and started dragging her in his direction.

Hell. There was something about the woman with Miss Smyth…Was she why Motton had said the Addisons weren’t the worst of it?

Miss Smyth reached him and smiled.

Bloody hell.

“Lady Grace, if you’ll excuse me for interrupting, I have someone who especially wishes to meet Lord Dawson.”

Dread exploded in his gut. He looked at the white-haired woman. Were there tears in her eyes?

Good God, it couldn’t be…

“Lord Dawson,” Miss Smyth said, “I’d like you to meet Lady Wordham.” Her smile grew. “Your grandmother.”

Kate sighed. She couldn’t delay any longer. She was dressed; she had dismissed Marie.

She should have gone down with Grace when Grace had looked in a little while ago, but she’d lost her courage. She’d even considered pleading fatigue and hiding in her room. But she couldn’t do that—she couldn’t hide away for the entire house party. She had to face people—Alex—eventually.

She studied her reflection in the cheval glass, turning sideways to scrutinize her profile. Thank God for the current fashion of high-waisted gowns. Her middle had begun to look larger—well, perhaps that was her imagination. Marie had been lacing her stays more loosely, but more from an excess of caution than need.

Her breasts, however, were another matter. They were most definitely larger—they were barely contained by her bodice. Marie had already talked about making an alteration or two.

Would Alex notice? Surely not. Her breasts were large for her, but she had been rather small-breasted before. They weren’t beacons of her condition…were they?

She would take a shawl down with her. It might be drafty. Where had Marie put her Norwich shawl when she’d unpacked? She opened the wardrobe; pulled out a few drawers…Ah, there it was. She draped it over her shoulders and finally acknowledged she had run out of ways to put off the inevitable. She took a sustaining breath and stepped out of the safety of her room.

She need only follow the sound of conversation to find where everyone was gathering before dinner. From the volume of noise, many more guests had arrived.

She paused outside the room. Was Alex there? He should be; she was coming down quite late.

She took another deep breath, gathered her shawl around her, and nodded to the footman who’d been waiting to open the door. Perhaps she could find a nice corner to hide in…

What was she thinking? She needed to watch over Grace. Lord Dawson was here.

She stepped over the threshold and surveyed the room. Her eyes found Alex immediately, as if he were a magnet. He was talking—well, listening—to one of the Addison twins, his back to the door. She moved to the other side of the room. Yes, she had to discuss the…situation with him, but not here amongst all these people. And she felt completely incapable of discussing any other subject with the man.

She did not immediately see Lord Dawson. Since he would tower over all the guests except Alex, he could not be hiding in the crowd. Had the other Addison twin cornered him? No, there she was, conversing with a very young gentleman.

And where was Grace?

“Looking for your niece, Lady Oxbury?”

“Oh!” She hadn’t noticed Miss Smyth approaching. Fortunately the woman was not accompanied by Theo. “Yes. Do you know where she is?”

Miss Smyth smiled. “Lord Dawson dragged her out into the bushes not five minutes ago.”

“What!?”

The people around her stopped their conversations to stare. She tried to smile for their benefit while her heart lurched in her chest. It was beating so hard, she feared it might push her newly oversized breasts right out of her bodice.

Miss Smyth took her arm and led her toward an elderly woman on a settee. “Now don’t be concerned, Lady Oxbury. I’m certain Lady Grace is completely safe in the garden with Lord Dawson. He was understandably upset, and I’m afraid it was my fault.”

“Upset? Your fault?” Whatever was the woman talking about?

Miss Smyth nodded. “Yes. I happen to be good friends with”—she paused and frowned at Kate’s shawl. “Aren’t you overly warm, Lady Oxbury?”

It was a trifle stuffy in the room. Actually, she was quite warm indeed. She was warm all the time now that she was—

Kate pulled her shawl closer. “Oh, no. I’m perfectly comfortable. I believe there’s a slight chill in the air.”

Miss Smyth lifted an eyebrow, and then gave a small shrug. “Very well. As I was saying, I am good friends with Lady Wordham, Lord Dawson’s maternal grandmother.”

“Oh.” The mother of the woman Standen had loved and apparently never quite got over.

Kate slipped her hand under her shawl to rest on her stomach. Alex hadn’t talked about his brother’s death. Did he blame Standen? If Lord Wordham hadn’t promised his daughter to Standen, if the young couple hadn’t been pursued…

She’d been all of nine then. Standen had been twenty-five—Grace’s age now. He’d come home from that Season different. But what had Lady Wordham felt? Standen had lost the woman he thought he loved—though she, obviously, had not loved him. Lady Wordham had lost a daughter.

“Lord Wordham died last year, you know, probably close to the time your husband passed.” Miss Smyth paused, took Kate’s hand in hers, and patted it. “My sincere condolences, dear Lady Oxbury, on your loss.”

“Why, ah, thank you, Miss Smyth.”

“You, of course, are much younger than Cordelia. You may marry again.”

Good God, did Miss Smyth have a knowing gleam in her eye? Surely not!

“Cordelia, however…” Miss Smyth shrugged. “She is not in the best of health, I fear. I tell her she’ll live another ten or twenty years, but I don’t think she believes me. I mean, look at me. I’m almost seventy and in fine fettle. I feel as if I’ll live forever—well, except for my rheumatism…”

Kate wasn’t sure what to say. She needn’t have worried. Miss Smyth didn’t need any encouragement to continue.

“Cordelia wishes to tidy up, as it were. Attend to unfinished business. So when she told me she’d always regretted she’d never even met Harriet’s son, I knew I had to do something. I do so like bringing people together.”

Surely Miss Smyth hadn’t winked? And when was she going to give her her hand back? It seemed rude to just pull it away.

There was a disturbance at the door. They both looked over. A tall, broad-shouldered, very angry-looking man and a slim, equally angry-looking woman had just entered.

“Oh, dear,” Miss Smyth said. “That’s Lord and Lady Kilgorn. Scots, you know. Rather hotheaded. I’d best go help Edmund deal with them.” She smiled and patted Kate’s hand again. “You will go sit with Cordelia, won’t you, dear? And look, here is Mr. Wilton to keep you both company.”

Alex! No. She wasn’t ready…She felt cold and then hot. Clammy. Certainly she wasn’t going to faint, was she?

“Dear Lady Oxbury, you look so pale. Mr. Wilton, I think Lady Oxbury should sit down, don’t you? Why don’t you take her to the settee over there?”

She heard his deep voice, a note of concern evident, and felt his strong grasp on her elbow.

“My pleasure, ma’am.”

Chapter 14

“What am I going to do? I can’t go back in there.” David ran his hand through his hair.

“Why not?” Grace tried to catch her breath. She’d had to almost run to keep up with David, he’d left the drawing room so quickly. “What is the problem?”

The problem obviously had something to do with Lady Wordham. Miss Smyth had barely got the name out of her mouth before David had grabbed Grace’s hand and pulled her out the door and into the bushes. And this trip to the vegetation had nothing to do with seduction. David wasn’t even touching her now. His hands were fisted at his sides.

“Didn’t you hear? That woman is my grandmother.” He looked away, his jaw tense.

She wanted to wrap her arms around him, hold him, comfort him…but what was she comforting him for? Lady Wordham had looked harmless. More than that, the poor old woman’s eyes had been full of longing and regret. And tears.

There was something here she didn’t understand, so she must tread cautiously. “She’s your mother’s mother?”

“Yes.”

David still stared off into the distance. A muscle jumped in his cheek. He looked as taut as a bowstring.

“Have you met her before?”

“No, God damn it. Why would I?” He glared at her, but she wasn’t convinced he saw her. “She and her husband never came to visit—they never even sent me a note on my birthday. In all my thirty-one years, this is the first time a member of that family has acknowledged my existence.”

Grace laid her hand on his arm. For a moment, she thought he would jerk it away, but he didn’t. He looked down at her.

“Perhaps Lady Wordham wanted to see you, but her husband wouldn’t let her. She is recently a widow. Perhaps this is the first time she has been free to do what has been in her heart all these years.”

David snorted derisively and looked away again—but he didn’t move away. She put her other hand on his arm as well.

“Or perhaps she was as bad as her husband, but now sees that such malice and pettiness is wrong. Perhaps she regrets her actions—or lack of action—and wishes to make amends.”

He looked back down at her. “Why should I think that?”

“Why shouldn’t you? She has come all this way; she looked so eager—so happy—to see you.”

He snorted again. She shook his arm slightly.

“What have you got to lose, David? If she is as unfeeling as you say, you have had your opinion confirmed. You can avoid her—or even cut her—for the rest of the house party and feel justified in doing so. But if she has had a change of heart—or if she has always had a good heart—you’ve gained a grandmother and lost this anger and pain you’ve been carrying all your life. It must weigh you down terribly.”

He stared at her, his face expressionless. Was he going to cling to his hatred, tell her to leave him alone?

It would be best if he did. She was going to marry John, not David. She should not be out in the garden with him. She should have refused to come.

But she could not bear for him to hold onto this pain any longer. He needed to get rid of it—to talk to his grandmother. But he needed to choose that. She could not do it for him.

His hands came up and covered hers, and she felt his body relax.

“Will you come with me? Will you stay with me while I talk to Lady Wordham?”

She should say no.

“Yes, if you wish me to.”

“I do.” He wrapped his arms around her. “How did you get to be so wise?”

She laughed. “It is easy to be wise when it is someone else’s problem you are solving.”

He kissed her lightly on the nose. “Then I hope I can be wise for you, when you have a difficult problem to solve.”

She ducked her head so he could not see her eyes, see the pain and longing she knew were there. If only he could help her solve her problems—but that would be John’s place.

He put her hand back on his arm. “Let’s go in, and I will apologize to Miss Smyth and Lady Wordham for my rude and precipitous exit.”

“I don’t have to apologize to you, too, do I?”

“What?” Alex’s teacup clattered in its saucer and he felt his ears burn as he turned to look at his host. Had Motton noticed he’d been staring at Kate, watching her converse with Lady Wordham and Lady Kilgorn?

He’d intentionally chosen a spot on the other side of the room from her when the men returned to the drawing room after port. For some reason she’d acted nervous earlier when he’d sat with her. She’d used Lady Wordham almost as a shield.

What did she think he would do? Pounce on her? They definitely needed to have a frank conversation, but Motton’s drawing room was not the proper place.

The viscount shrugged. “I seem to be apologizing to everyone tonight. I hope you don’t mind that Lady Oxbury is here?”

“No, of course not. Why should I mind?” Not only was Kate here, her room was next to his—with a connecting door. Someone—Miss Smyth?—had a very twisted sense of humor. He did not expect to get a wink of sleep tonight.

Motton smiled slightly, almost slyly, and took a sip of his tea. “Why indeed?” He looked over at Kate. “Aunt Winifred tells me you and Lady Oxbury were acquainted before her marriage.”

Alex stiffened. “Only slightly. I believe we crossed paths once or twice when she was in London. She left to marry Oxbury before the Season was over, so she wasn’t in Town long.”

“Hmm.”

Dash it, what did Motton mean by hmming that “hmm” in just that tone?

“Oxbury was many years her elder, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.” Did the cur think Kate had been unfaithful? “By all accounts, she was completely devoted to him.”

“Oh, I’m sure she was. Lady Oxbury is above reproach.” There was that damn smile again. “It is…nice that she’s come back to London now that her period of mourning is over. Do you think she’ll wed again?”

What was the man getting at? “It would not be a surprise if she did.”

Motton nodded. “And if she did marry, she might even have a child or two.”

Alex’s teacup crashed into its saucer.

Motton raised his eyebrows. “I’m sorry.” He chuckled. “There I go, apologizing anyway. But did I say something to offend you, Wilton?”

“No. Of course not. Just my own clumsiness. I am the one who should apologize. I must still be tired from my travels—got up very early this morning, you know.” It was past time to change the subject. “I say, I thoroughly enjoyed talking to your man Watkins. Very knowledgeable.”

“Yes, he is, isn’t he? I—oh, blast!”

Miss Smyth had appeared in the drawing room, accompanied by Theo on one shoulder and a small monkey dressed in the black and silver of Motton’s livery on the other.

“I’m going to kill her. I swear I’m going to kill her.” Motton forced a smile. “If you’ll excuse me, Wilton?”

The viscount headed toward his aunt.

“Avast! Trouble on the portside!” Theo flapped his wings, disarranging Miss Smyth’s hair and disturbing the monkey.

The monkey screeched.

The Addison twins screamed.

“Aunt Winifred, I believe we had a discussion earlier today about the livestock.”

“Oh, pooh, Edmund. Theo is perfectly well-behaved, and you’ll see I have your namesake on a leash.” She flourished a red leather strap she had tied to the monkey’s leg.

Alex heard a choked laugh behind him and turned. He had the very odd feeling that his heart had jumped in his chest. Kate was standing there grinning.

His heart wasn’t the only organ jumping.

“She named the monkey after Lord Motton. Can you believe it?”

“No.” He grinned back at her. He hadn’t seen this uncomplicated glee on her face since she was seventeen. If only she hadn’t married Ox—

But she had.

It didn’t matter. That time was in the past. She was here now, unwed, and…increasing?

Would she tell him? Should he ask?

How do you ask such a question?

He cleared his throat and gulped down the rest of his tea. This time he managed not to make the teacup clatter, though only just. Kate was watching him, a small frown between her brows. What was she thinking?

“Would you like another cup of tea, Mr. Wilton?”

He wouldn’t, but if he said yes, she would take his cup and go away, giving him a moment to get his heart and other organ under control.

“Thank you, Lady Oxbury. That would be very kind.”

She carried Alex’s cup back to the tea tray. She needed to get her nerves under control. She took a deep breath and then another as she poured the tea carefully into the cup. Her hand only shook slightly.

She had to tell him about the child.

The cup rattled in its saucer. She put it down quickly and glanced around. No one was paying the slightest attention to her; they were all transfixed by Miss Smyth, Lord Motton, and the monkey. Well, and the parrot, too.

She took another breath, smiled slightly, and picked up the cup again, starting back across the room to Alex. How difficult could it be? She would just smile coolly and say, “Mr. Wilton, do you recall the evening you spent in my bed? Well, I need to inform you there has been…you will be…in less than nine months’ time…”

Her hand shook so badly, she had to grasp the cup in both hands.

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t tell him.

She had to tell him. He deserved to know he was going to be a fath—She swallowed. That he was going to have a chi—

She couldn’t do it. There was no way she could get the words out.

“Are you all right, Lady Oxbury?”

“What! Oh, oh yes.” She’d managed to navigate the room without noticing. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Wilton.” She handed him his cup.

He took a small sip and looked at her. She looked at him. She moistened her lips.

“Mr. Wil—”

“Lady Ox—”

They smiled at each other.

“Go ahea—”

“You fir—”

Kate laughed, it was too absurd. She heard Alex’s deep chuckle echo her—and then felt his hand on her arm.

“You first, Lady Oxbury,” he said, smiling down at her. “I insist.”

She couldn’t find the breath to speak. “Ah…”

“Aunt Winifred!”

She turned to look back at Viscount Motton. Now Edmund the monkey had jumped to the decorative lintel above the door and was screeching down at Edmund the viscount.

“Get that bloody beast!”

“Theo!” Miss Smyth frowned at her parrot. “Your language!”

“This is one time Theo and I are in perfect agreement, aunt. Will you curb that animal?”

“Very well. Come, Edmund.” Miss Smyth tugged on the monkey’s leash. The leash dropped out of her hands. Edmund-the-monkey screeched again and leapt for the curtains. Edmund-the-viscount looked as if he, too, would like to screech, or at least curse freely.

Miss Smyth smiled brightly at the gathering. “Who would like to take a brisk turn about the terrace?”

“Lady Oxbury?” Alex offered his arm. She took it and let him lead her toward the garden and darkness, where she could tell him…

She wasn’t ready.

Lady Kilgorn was standing by the door, watching Lord Motton and her husband try to catch the monkey. Poor woman. She’d been estranged from Lord Kilgorn for years, but now found herself sharing a bedchamber with him. It must be very uncomfortable. According to Marie, no other accommodations had yet been arranged. Surely she would enjoy a turn about the terrace.

“Lady Kilgorn, would you like to join us?”

She laughed. Kate guessed she was not yet thirty. She had beautiful creamy skin, jet black hair, startling blue eyes, and a ready smile—when she wasn’t glaring at someone.

“Well, I’d like to stay and watch Ian scamper after the wee monkey, but I doubt he’d thank me for it—I’d be laughing too hard, it is so funny.” She looked from Kate to Alex. “Yes, I’d like to join you, if I won’t be in the way?”

“No, indeed. We were just going to invite Lady Wordham to come with us as well, weren’t we, Mr. Wilton?”

“Of course, Lady Oxbury.” Alex’s expression was unreadable. Was he annoyed or relieved? She couldn’t say. It didn’t matter. With Lady Kilgorn on her one side and Lady Wordham on the other, she was safe. She could put off the inevitable just a little longer.

“Lord Dawson, would you be so kind as to escort me around the terrace?”

“Oh, Lord Dawson, please, surely you would prefer to take a turn around the terrace with me?”

David looked at the Addison twins and hoped his mouth wasn’t agape. Did they not see Lady Grace on his arm? He was certain he still felt her hand.

He glanced down. Yes, there she was, biting her lips to keep from laughing, he was sure.

He drew his arm closer against his side, trapping her hand securely. He was not letting her stray an inch while these man-eating maidens were in the vicinity.

“I’m sorry, but as you can plainly”—he tried not to put too much stress on that word—“see, I am already committed to Lady Grace.”

“Oh, but surely she will give up her place,” Abigail—or perhaps it was Amanda—said.

“Won’t you, Lady Grace?” the other twin said. “Won’t you give up your place to me?”

“To me.” Abigail glared at Amanda—and vice versa.

David squeezed Grace’s hand even closer against his side, and turned to look at her. He was certain his eyes held groveling entreaty and abject terror. She couldn’t desert him now—she couldn’t be that cruel.

She smiled slightly. “I’m sorry, but Lord Dawson and I have matters to discuss. I’m afraid I can’t cede my place to either of you.”

Thank God! David struggled to look and sound pleasant. “And since I am completely incapable of choosing between you”—ever—“I regretfully cannot offer my other arm. And as Lady Grace says, we have matters to discuss that would certainly bore you”—since they don’t deal solely with your narrow little concerns—“so if you will excuse us?”

He dashed out the garden door while the twins were still sputtering.

“My heartfelt—my very heartfelt thanks, Lady Grace, for not deserting me in my hour of need.”

She laughed. “They were rather forward, weren’t they?”

“Rather. I have been dodging them ever since their come-out; they live near my estate. I thought I’d escaped them when I came to Town—I was not very pleased to see them in London, and I was even less pleased to see them here.”

They strolled along the terrace. Fortunately, it was an unseasonably warm evening—a little chill, but the ladies appeared to be comfortable without their shawls. Except for Lady Oxbury—she still clutched hers; she had not shed it since she’d appeared in the drawing room.

“Is your aunt feeling quite the thing?” Was this another sign that Lady Oxbury was increasing? Was she increasing? He had indicated to Alex that she might be, and Alex had acted as though it were a definite possibility.

Grace frowned. “I don’t know. I confess I’ve been worried about her. She’s been behaving so oddly.”

“Oddly? How so?” Not that he knew what behavioral signs indicated pregnancy. He only knew the behavior that precipitated the state—a behavior he would most dearly like to engage in with Grace. And if that behavior resulted in Grace growing big and heavy with his babe?

A part of him grew big and heavy at the thought. Good God! He’d never considered children, certainly never thought he’d want one or two or more.

Oh, of course, he knew he needed an heir, but that had been, well, just a word. He hadn’t thought of an infant, a small person with his blood flowing in its veins, a being made through a very intimate act with…

Bloody hell, the thought was physically painful in its intensity.

Grace sighed. “Well, you saw how weepy she was in Town. I don’t think she’s usually that way at all. And she’s been so tired even though she’s sleeping more than usual.”

Grace was frowning, obviously sincerely puzzled and distressed. She was a female—wouldn’t she know the signs of pregnancy? Perhaps he was mistaken. But then why had Lady Oxbury’s maid referred to her “condition”?

Whatever the situation, Grace obviously had not been told anything. He would not mention his suspicions. Alex was here now. He was a responsible adult. Adult? The man was forty-five. Well, and Lady Oxbury was forty. One would think they were too old…

In any event, Alex was here. This was his concern. If Lady Oxbury carried his child, Alex would not rest until he had addressed the situation to his satisfaction.

But would it be to Lady Oxbury’s satisfaction? There were two people involved here…but, thankfully, he was not one of them. He had his own somewhat difficult female to deal with.

“At least Mr. Wilton is here,” Grace was saying. “I am so glad. Thank you for persuading him to come.”

Should he lie? No, he couldn’t, even by omission. “I have to confess I didn’t persuade Alex. He came to see Motton’s cultivation techniques, I suspect. He was rather surprised”—shocked would be a better adjective—“when I met him on the drive and he discovered you and Lady Oxbury were going to be guests as well.”

“Oh?” Grace frowned for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t signify. He’s here, that’s all that matters. Aunt Kate has the opportunity to talk to him. They can resolve any problems they have with each other.”

Easier said than done, if the problem was the one he thought it was. The only resolution for that was a special license and vows before the parson as quick as may be. People might still count on their fingers the months between church and birth, but that couldn’t be helped. It would be vastly better for Lady Oxbury to walk down the aisle in her current state than a few months further along when she was bulging with child.

And, of course, there was no question they must marry. Alex’s baby could not be born a bastard.

Miss Smyth poked her head out the terrace door, her parrot still on her shoulder. “You can all come inside again,” she said brightly. “Lord Kilgorn caught Edmund—my monkey Edmund, I mean.”

“Caught ’im good. Put ’im in chains.”

“Oh, stop, Theo. They merely tied the leash more firmly to his leg so he couldn’t get into mischief again.” She turned to address everyone on the terrace. “Do come in. It is quite safe—but you know, it was quite safe before as well. Edmund is rather high spirited, but he wouldn’t hurt a flea.” She stepped aside to let Lady Kilgorn and Lady Oxbury pass. “Edmund the monkey, that is, though I assume my nephew wouldn’t hurt anyone either. Still, you can never be sure with men, can you, Mr. Wilton? Here, let me help you, Cordelia. Yes, thank you, Mr. Wilton, you take Cordelia’s arm. That’s the way.”

Everyone started back into the drawing room. Grace stepped forward as well, but David stopped her. “Not yet,” he whispered.

Fortuitously, they were in a darkened portion of the terrace, in a patch of shadow cast by a large tree. If they were quiet, everyone would go inside without noticing they were not among the crowd. They could have a few moments of privacy.

He found he was very anxious for a few moments alone with Lady Grace. All this thinking about infants had heated his blood. He needed to take a few moments to cool down—and for one of his organs to calm down—before he went back into the light and heat and prying eyes of the drawing room.

“It’s a beautiful evening, don’t you agree, Lady Grace?”

“Um, yes. Yes, it’s very beautiful.” Grace was just as happy to have a few more moments away from the drawing room. It was overwarm and stuffy there—and she did not like those Addison girls one bit. What shockingly bold hussies, the pair of them!

She drew in a deep breath of the cool, night air. A breeze rustled through the treetops and somewhere off in the distance, an owl hooted.

It was very dark in this corner of the terrace, and Lord Dawson was standing very close. She took a few steps away to rest her hands on the balustrade. Was he going to kiss her?

She should insist on going back inside immediately.

He had not followed her. He was still standing where she’d left him. Perhaps he was only interested in enjoying the night air and avoiding the stuffiness—and the Addisons—inside.

She was relieved. Of course she was relieved. She was virtually married to John Parker-Roth. She should not want kisses from another man.

But she wasn’t married, not quite yet.

“You are going to talk further with your grandmother tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“Yes, after breakfast.” He made a noise, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “I confess I’m more than a little nervous. Perhaps we should have left the drawing room to have our conversation this evening, but I don’t believe either of us wished to bring attention to ourselves.”

“You are wise. People are so interested in everyone else’s business.” Why did society have to be so hungry for gossip?

He shifted slightly. “I don’t know what we will say, but I do believe you were right. Even if I wished to continue avoiding the situation, Lady Wordham—”

“Your grandmother.” She looked over her shoulder. He should learn to say it. He nodded.

“My g-grandmother seems to feel a need to address the issue.”

“She is getting older. She is just out of mourning for her husband. Perhaps she is feeling that time is precious and limited.”

“Perhaps.”

She felt him move. She turned to see what he was about, and found herself quickly trapped between his hard body and the balustrade. They were alone and in the very darkest spot of the terrace. She should have been extremely alarmed.

She was extremely something, but it wasn’t alarmed.

“Thank you, Grace.”

“For what? I did nothing.”

“You listened.” His lips turned up ever so slightly. “You asked the right questions.” There was enough light from the moon—and they were standing so close together—that she could see the softening in his eyes. “You gave me courage when I needed it.”

“No, I—”

He silenced her with his fingertips. The sly man had removed his glove; his skin was warm and slightly rough as he stilled her lips and then slowly traced their outline.

What was he doing? Why did her lips feel suddenly swollen? She parted them slightly.

“Yes.” He pulled her lower lip down just a little with his thumb. “You did give me courage.”

His lips touched hers as lightly as his fingers had. The briefest brush and then brush again.

“Oh.” She inhaled. His scent was all around her—the scent of soap, linen, and…him.

His arms gathered her close—a good thing as her knees had chosen that moment to turn to water. His lips kept playing with her mouth, teasing her with fleeting brushes. She moaned.

That must have been the sign he’d been waiting for. His mouth finally came to rest on hers, and his tongue traced where his finger had earlier. She moaned again, opening wider, and he slipped inside.

Heaven. He was stroking deep and wet, over her tongue, over her teeth, over the roof of her mouth—filling her.

Causing another emptiness to open. An aching, throbbing emptiness, a heat, a madness.

He moved his mouth to her cheek, and all she could do was cling to him, panting, mindless.

“I need you, Grace.”

Yes, need. That was right. He needed her. She needed him.

No…

“I need you, Grace. For this”—he returned to her mouth and leisurely, thoroughly, filled her again—“but also for your wisdom”—he brushed his lips over her forehead—“and your strength.”

He pulled back, cupping her face in his hands. “Marry me, Grace. Please?”

He was asking her to marry him again. Lord Dawson—David—was asking her to become his wife, live in his house, sleep in his bed. Bear his children.

She could say yes and have his wonderful, amazing mouth on her skin, everywhere on her skin, doing things she could barely imagine…

She couldn’t say yes. There was John. There was Papa. There was the history of their families.

Why did none of those things seem particularly persuasive at the moment?

“Grace? Will you marry me? Will you be my wife?”

“I…” Could she say yes? “I—”

“There you are, you naughty children!”

Grace tried to jump back and slammed into the balustrade. Miss Smyth and Theo had stepped out onto the terrace. They strolled toward them.

Dear God, could she be more embarrassed? At least all her clothing was in order.

Of course her clothing was in order! What was she thinking?

“Naughty children. Naughty, naughty.”

“Shh, Theo.”

David cleared his throat. “Miss Smyth, I—”

“Oh, you shush, too, Lord Dawson. It’s a house party. The rules are a little looser. Everyone expects young people to have a little fun.”

“Fun! That’s wot we’re ’aving. A spot o’ fun. Naughty—”

“Theo! Behave yourself.” Miss Smyth smiled at Lord Dawson and Grace. “Do I have to say the same thing to you?”

“I—” Grace’s mouth was so dry she couldn’t get any more words out.

“Miss Smyth—” David did not sound the least bit alarmed.

Miss Smyth laughed. “Don’t say another word. You wouldn’t be young and lusty if you didn’t try to steal a kiss in the moonlight. Now come in and join the others. We are trying to get up tables of cards, and we need you to make the numbers even.”

Chapter 15

It was a glum group at the breakfast table. Alex chose some kidneys and toast and took the seat next to David.

David glanced at him, grunted what must have been a welcome, and returned his attention to his plate. Kilgorn didn’t even look up from his coffee.

Damn Miss Smyth. What had she been thinking? Why in God’s name had she put him in the room next to Kate—a room connected to Kate’s by a blasted interior door? An unlocked door…and yes, he had checked.

Did she wish to torture him?

He’d barely slept a wink; he’d kept thinking of that damn door. It would take but a moment to open it. If he waited until their servants left, no one need know he was visiting Kate in her bedchamber.

He had a good reason to seek her out. He needed to talk to her. He had to find out if David’s suspicions were true. If she was carrying his child…

His knife slid on his plate, making a hideous scraping noise. The other men flinched and glared at him before returning to their own private gloom.

Talking was not the only thing he needed from Kate. His lust was almost unbearable. He’d spent years trying not to imagine her in bed, especially in bed with Oxbury. Now…He stabbed a kidney. Now he knew she was lying in bed alone, just steps from him.

Bloody hell.

He had cured himself of the woman. He had been ready to be finally free of her when he’d come to Town with David. And then he’d seen her at Alvord’s ball—and at Oxbury House.

He’d done more than see her—he’d touched her, tasted her, taken them both to the most amazing climax he, at least, had ever experienced.

Now when he thought of her in bed, he thought of the silky smoothness of her breasts, the slightly tart taste of her nipples, the musky scent of her…

Damn it all, he was as hard as a poker here in Motton’s breakfast parlor with only two other men for company. Thank God his lap was shielded by this sturdy table.

The fact of the matter was he was going to go mad. Even the pain of her rejection had left him, burned away by this all-consuming lust. Did she have the slightest clue what he was suffering? Did she feel it, too?

No. She looked so cool, so self-possessed.

He should leave Lakeland and go home to Clifton Hall.

He couldn’t leave. He had to find out if Kate was increasing.

Damn it all. He shifted position and tried to contemplate Motton’s cultivation techniques.

Cultivation. Planting seeds in well-tilled soil, in fertile fields…

Motton had a lake. He’d seen it when he’d ridden up. With luck, it was cold, ice cold. He would test it after breakfast. Perhaps a plunge into freezing water would cool his damn ardor.

“Good morning, gentlemen!”

He groaned—and heard David and Kilgorn echo him as they all struggled to come to their feet.

“Good morning, Miss Smyth.” Fortunately David was able to locate his voice. Alex merely nodded, as did Kilgorn. Also fortunately, there was no livestock accompanying Motton’s demented aunt.

“I’ll just join you, shall I?” Miss Smyth made a noise that might have been intended as a giggle. “Though I’m certain it’s not my company you’ve all been longing for.”

Alex clenched his teeth to keep from agreeing aloud. David was stricken with a coughing fit; Kilgorn simply glared.

“Be sure I will take the ladies to task for abandoning you.”

All three men came down with coughs.

“My, my, gentlemen. I’ll have to see if Edmund has any horehound tablets or licorice for your throats. Where is my nephew, by the by?”

“He was here earlier,” Kilgorn said. “He left to attend to some estate business. Ye might find him in his study, if ye look.”

Kilgorn sounded as hopeful as Alex felt. He looked at Miss Smyth’s plate—it was piled high with eggs, toast, sausage, kidneys, and ham. No, she wasn’t going anywhere for a while.

“Thank you, my lord. I should have guessed. Edmund is very conscientious, you know. He would never let a little fun and frolic distract him from his duty.”

Kilgorn snorted. “And speaking of fun and frolic, where’s your wee monkey this morning, Miss Smyth?”

“Oh, that Edmund is still sleeping.” She tittered. “Edmund the monkey is nowhere near as industrious as his namesake. But don’t worry, I’ll bring him down later. He does enliven a party, does he not?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Kilgorn carefully arranged his knife and fork on his plate. “Have ye managed to find me proper accommodations yet, Miss Smyth?”

“Oh, my lord, I am so sorry, but I haven’t. You’d think in a place this size, there would be rooms to spare, but…” She sighed. “Well, and you’d think I’d have remembered that you and your lovely wife have an…unusual domestic arrangement, but…well, I do apologize.”

Alex could swear he heard Kilgorn’s teeth grinding across the table. The man did have dark circles under his eyes. Obviously he wasn’t getting much sleep—and not for the reasons a man would hope. Miss Smyth had put him in the same small bedroom as his estranged wife. A bedroom with only one bed.

Frankly, it was hard to believe Miss Smyth was being completely honest about the situation. Even he, who hadn’t been to Town in twenty-three years, knew the Earl of Kilgorn and his countess had lived apart for the last decade. He’d never met Kilgorn before, though. The man was only David’s age—he must have married very young.

“I sent word to the inn, Miss Smyth, but I was told it was full up.”

“Yes, I know. It’s not a very large place, and I believe there’s some…some event or something going on. There is no space to be had.”

“I could sleep in the stable.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Lord Kilgorn. You’d have all the stable boys in a dreadful pother. No, no. Please be patient just another day or two. Mrs. Gilbert, the housekeeper, is working on the problem. I’m sure she’ll have a solution as soon as may be.”

Kilgorn shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. “It is not very…comfortable for Lady Kilgorn, ye understand.”

“Oh, yes, I understand completely. I have apologized to her most sincerely. As I say, I’m sure Mrs. Gilbert will have a solution shortly.” Miss Smyth smiled brightly and popped a forkful of eggs into her mouth.

Lord Kilgorn nodded. He clearly had more to say on the subject, but just as clearly recognized any further discussion was futile.

“I believe I’ll take a bit of a walk. If ye’ll excuse me?”

“But have you looked outside, Lord Kilgorn? It’s rather nasty—damp and drizzly.”

Kilgorn grinned. “Aye. It reminds me of Scotland.”

“Oh, well, do enjoy yourself then.” Miss Smyth waited until Kilgorn was out of the room to shrug and say, “Those Scots. They are a bit different, aren’t they?”

Alex felt Kilgorn had dealt with Miss Smyth in a remarkably restrained way. Having to share quarters with your estranged wife must be exceedingly awkward. He chewed thoughtfully on a mouthful of kidneys.

He’d give anything to be forced to share a room with Kate. To be forced to share a bed with Kate. All night, every night. To—

“Now, Mr. Wilton, what is putting such a smile on your face?”

David helpfully thumped him on the back as the kidneys tried to go down his windpipe. At least Miss Smyth must think his heightened color was due to his choking.

“N-nothing,” he gasped. David stepped in to rescue him.

“Miss Smyth,” David said, “I have an appointment this morning with Lady Wordham. Do you happen to know if she’s come down yet?”

Miss Smyth clapped both hands to her cheeks. “Oh, dear, my dreadful memory. Yes, indeed, Lord Dawson, she came down when I did, and she particularly instructed me to tell you she’d be waiting for you in the yellow parlor. I’m so sorry. Please apologize to her for me and tell her it’s all my fault you didn’t appear sooner.”

“I’m sure she’ll understand.” David stood. “I’m afraid I must leave you two alone.”

Over his dead body. Alex leapt to his feet. “Regretfully, I, too, have to go.”

“Oh? Where are you off to?”

Trust Miss Smyth to ask awkward questions. He looked out the window for inspiration and saw a dog run by in the wet. Dogs. Wet.

“I thought I’d see if I might be of assistance to Lady Oxbury. I might walk her dog for her, so she doesn’t have to go out into the damp.”

Miss Smyth beamed at him. “How chivalrous. That is an excellent idea, Mr. Wilton. Don’t let me detain you.”

Lady Wordham was on the settee staring out the window at the rain.

David stepped into the yellow parlor. She didn’t turn. Did she not know he was there? Perhaps she was as hard of hearing as Grandmamma had been. She must be about the same age, though she looked very little like Grandmamma.

Grandmamma. Damn. Thinking of her still opened a gaping emptiness in his chest. Ridiculous. He was a grown man. It had been a year. He should not still feel this…loss.

She had been old; old people die.

But not so suddenly, not when they were healthy—laughing and teasing and gossiping one day and gone the next, caught in the twisted mess of a wrecked carriage.

For weeks—months—afterward, he’d expected to see her or Grandda every time he turned a corner at Riverview. Every time he entered the library or the breakfast parlor or passed their favorite bench in the garden.

He sniffed and pulled out his handkerchief. He’d got a speck in his eye.

“Lord Dawson.” Lady Wordham must have heard him then. Damnation. He stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket.

“My pardon. Got a bit of soot in my eye.” He cleared his throat. “It’s rather dark in here, isn’t it? I’ll just light a few candles.”

Hell, she was watching him as if he were a bloody miracle or something.

She had disowned her own daughter, for God’s sake, and her own grandchild. Him.

Well, perhaps she had not done so, but she had allowed her husband to do so. She’d never written, never marked a single one of his birthdays, never given the slightest indication that she knew he was alive.

“Thank you for consenting to meet with me, Lord Dawson.”

“My, ahem, my pleasure, ma’am.” God, he wished Grace were here now. It was her fault he was facing this uncomfortable interview.

Lady Wordham smiled slightly. She looked rather familiar all of a sudden, rather like…

Like the person who stared back at him from the mirror every morning.

No. There was no family resemblance whatsoever. He’d always been told he looked just like his father and just like Grandda’s younger brother who’d died of smallpox.

“Well, I know it can’t be a pleasure, but I do appreciate you doing so. I also know it must have been a very nasty surprise seeing me here. I told Winifred you would not like it, but I was desperate to meet you and I wasn’t certain you would agree to visit me if I extended the invitation. After all, you had not sought me out when you came to Town.”

He cleared his throat again. Good God, this was worse than he’d imagined. He should feel righteous anger, but Lady Wordham just seemed so old and sad.

She shook her head. “Do not prevaricate. I understand, I think, why you would not wish to see me. Well, why would you? I am a stranger to you—”

“Not just a stranger—” He pressed his lips together. Surely he hadn’t sounded as hurt as he feared?

Lady Wordham sighed. “Will you please sit down, my lord? I promise to be brief, and if you do not care to hear from me again—”

Lady Wordham’s voice caught, and she had recourse to her handkerchief. Could this get any more awkward?

“Lady Wordham, it isn’t necessary—”

“Yes, it is.” Her voice was surprisingly firm. “I am seventy-five years old, my lord. My husband has recently died. It is very clear to me that I shall not live forever. It is time—past time—to address a few…regrets while I still can. Please, sit down.”

He sat. This interview could not last forever, and then he could spend the rest of the house party avoiding Lady Wordham. If it was as embarrassing as he feared, she would probably wish to avoid him as well.

He could manage it. She didn’t look much like Grandmamma. Grandmamma had been plump and soft, always smiling. Lady Wordham was almost gaunt and serious. Sad.

Why should she be sad?

He pushed the thought away. Her happiness or sadness was none of his concern.

Lady Wordham sighed again. “This is harder than I expected.”

“Don’t feel—”

She held her hand up to stop him. “Hard, but necessary, Lord Dawson, if not for you, then for me. Please indulge an old woman.”

“Of course.”

She smiled at him. “Thank you.” She closed her eyes for a moment and then leaned forward. “Harriet, your mother, was our youngest and somewhat spoiled, I’m afraid. She was too much like her father—very strong-willed and stubborn. She was also a little wild.”

He caught himself nodding and stopped. He had surmised as much, but he didn’t wish to give Lady Wordham the impression he was agreeing with her about anything.

She studied her hands. “I’ve thought about this over and over, why Harold—my husband—insisted Harriet wed Lord Standen, when anyone with half a brain could see they were not well matched.” She looked up. “And yes, I saw it, too, and tried to reason with Harold, but he would not be swayed. I did say he was strong-willed and stubborn, didn’t I?”

David smiled slightly. “Yes, I believe you did.”

“I think Harold was of the opinion Standen would settle Harriet down. Harold had just celebrated his fiftieth birthday that Season, and it hit him hard. His father had died at fifty-one. I believe he was all too aware of his mortality and wanted to ensure that his baby, his pet, would be taken care of.”

“His pet?” David swallowed. He would not shout at the old woman. “And so he disowned his pet and left her in an inn yard with her dying husband?”

Lady Wordham gaped at him. “What? What do you mean?”

What did she mean? This odd act was most distasteful. “You must know Lord Wordham tracked my parents to an inn.”

“Yes, of course.”

“And that he was dragging my mother away when my father came back from the village.”

“I don’t believe he was dragging Harriet anywhere…”

“When my father tried to defend my mother, he tripped and hit his head on a rock. He died after your husband left.”

Lady Wordham frowned at him, anger clear in her eyes. “Who told you that? Surely not your other grandparents?”

“They did…” Or had they? Had he actually heard that story from Grandda or Grandmamma? He’d grown up with it, but he might have heard it from Alex or even one of the villagers. Now that he thought about it, neither of his grandparents had talked much about his father’s death. Grandmamma had told him wonderful tales about how beautiful and spirited his mother was and how clever and bright his father was, but had she actually told him what had happened at the inn and what Lord Wordham had or hadn’t done?

“No, I’m not certain…I don’t know where I heard that story. But if it isn’t true, why didn’t my mother go home to you? Why did she come to my father’s parents? And why didn’t you come to her funeral or ever visit or write me?”

Damn. He sat back and took a breath. He sounded much too emotional.

“I said Harriet was strong-willed and stubborn, and I’ve admitted my husband was as well.” Lady Wordham shook her head. “I don’t know exactly what did happen, only that when Harold came home, he was a broken man. He told me Harriet had disowned him—disowned us—that she’d said she wanted nothing more to do with us, that she held us responsible for your father’s death. And he felt responsible. No, he hadn’t laid a hand on the boy, but he knew if he hadn’t pursued them, Luke would not have fallen and died.”

It was exactly what he’d thought, too, but now it seemed slightly unfair. If he ever had a daughter—he and Grace—he would damn well pursue her if she ran off with some man.

“I do know Harold stayed away a week,” Lady Wordham said. “He told me he stayed near Harriet—she wouldn’t let him stay with her—until your parents arrived to take her and your father’s body to Riverview.”

“All right, I suppose I believe that. At this point it is only hearsay.”

“As is the story that Harold deserted Harriet.”

“True.” He could stop now—he should stop now. A portion—a large portion—of the wound had been healed; he could part on cordial terms with Lady Wordham. But if Grace were here, she would not let him stop; he knew it. She would insist he try to heal the whole wound. And she would be right.

“But why did you not come to my mother’s funeral?” He gripped his hands tightly together. “Why did you never come see me?”

“I wanted to; dear God, I wanted to.” Lady Wordham reached forward as if to touch him, but stopped herself and dropped her hand back into her lap. “Emotions were raw then, Dav—Lord Dawson. I believe your grandparents did blame Harold for causing their son’s death and, as I said, we agreed they had some basis for that belief. And Harold and I—well, if your father had not gone off with Harriet, none of it would have happened. She would not have died, either.”

David opened his mouth. How dare she lay any blame on his father?

She rushed on. “Even though we knew Harriet was equally at fault—we never thought your father had taken her against her will. But we were not totally rational at the time.” She leaned forward again. “Can you understand at all, Lord Dawson? Can you imagine having a daughter, having her run away, having…”

Lady Wordham used her handkerchief again.

Yes, the damnable thing was he could imagine it—now that he had met Grace, he could imagine it very clearly.

“As to why we did not visit you, we never felt we would be welcome. And we could understand that, too. Your grandfather had lost his son; you were now his heir. You needed to be at Riverview to learn to manage the estate. You were happy—we did ascertain that.”

She paused and took a shuddery breath, glancing at him and then down to her lap where her fingers twisted in her skirt. They were so thin and fragile looking.

She spoke very softly, her voice fragile as well.

“Now, with Harold gone…I just had to see you. Ask you to forgive me; see if we could…We’ve both lost people special to us…”

She was right. She’d lost a daughter and a husband; he’d lost parents and grandparents. What would be served by refusing to recognize that fact?

He still had one grandparent left.

He felt a burden shift, lighten. He smiled. “Well, Grandmother…should I call you Grandmother? I’m afraid I’ve already had a Grandmamma, but—”

“Oh, yes. Oh, please. I would love it if you would—”

His grandmother dissolved into tears. He hesitated a moment, then sat down beside her and gathered her into his arms.

Grace sat on the window seat in her room and stared out at the wet lawn. A very tall figure with a short, moppy dog came into view. She smiled. Was that Mr. Wilton with Hermes? They made a very odd pair.

Hermes took off across the grass after a squirrel. He chased it up a tree, barked vociferously for a few minutes, and then trotted back to Mr. Wilton.

Aunt Kate should be with them. Why wasn’t she? Was she still feeling poorly?

What was the matter with her? She’d been an early riser when they’d first got to London; now she didn’t get out of bed until almost noon and more times than not greeted the day clutching a basin, her stomach sadly unsettled.

She must be ill. She should see a doctor, yet when Grace had suggested as much, she’d turned very pale and had refused, insisting it wasn’t necessary.

What could Grace do? She’d been so certain the problem was somehow connected to Mr. Wilton. She’d thought once she got the two of them in the same place, everything would be resolved, but so far that plan hadn’t worked. Aunt Kate was still not in plump currant. Mr. Wilton must have had nothing to do with the problem.

Well, they had only been here a short while. She might be too impatient. She needed to give it time—but not too much time. If Aunt Kate were not better by the house party’s end, Grace was going to insist a doctor be called. She would go and fetch one herself, if need be.

Mr. Wilton and Hermes had moved out of sight. She should go downstairs. She would like to go for a walk herself, but it was too damp. She was not as intrepid as Lord Dawson’s uncle. Well, and the rain was starting to come down harder now.

She would go out later, when the weather had cleared. Perhaps she would look for Lady Kilgorn. How tragic that she and her husband had been estranged so long. They had married very young…had they wed for love or for duty?

Hmm. Thinking of estrangement, had Lord Dawson met with Lady Wordham yet? She hoped so. It was wrong to maintain such enmity for so many years. Perhaps the sin had been great, but it had happened over thirty years ago. And Lady Wordham was old and frail—she didn’t have many more years left to her. It was time to find a way to forgive.

It was time for Papa to forgive, too.

Mr. Wilton and Hermes came back into view, moving at a brisker pace. She grinned. Perhaps the man was not that intrepid.

She should go downstairs. She would, in just a minute.

Could Papa forgive the Wiltons? He was not the forgiving sort, but maybe he could find enough charity to accept Aunt Kate marrying Mr. Wilton. If Mr. Wilton would bring Aunt Kate pleasure in her declining years, surely Papa would not begrudge her that comfort? He knew the Weasel would not take good care of her.

And if Papa would not object to Aunt Kate marrying a Wilton, how would he feel about…

No. She would not consider it. Her situation was nothing like Aunt Kate’s. Aunt Kate was Papa’s widowed sister; she was Papa’s only child. It had been just the two of them for so long—as long as she could remember. Much as he might bluster, much as he might drive her to distraction—to anger, even—she loved him. She could not marry his enemy. She could not leave him all alone.

John Parker-Roth would make a fine husband. She liked him well enough. He was intelligent, even interesting if one were interested in plants. His family was very congenial, though his mother’s paintings were a bit…It wasn’t as though Mrs. Parker-Roth hung her artwork throughout the house. As long as Grace avoided her studio, she could avoid embarrassment.

And once they were married…

Perhaps John was merely reticent. Once they were married, surely he would…After all, he was a man. He had a mistress. He must know how marital relations were conducted. Surely he would be able to perform adequately. Perhaps he was even more skilled than David in the amorous arts.

She closed her eyes and rested her head against the window glass.

No. It had been one thing to consider marriage dispassionately when she had never experienced passion, but now…

Last night on the terrace had been wonderful—the solid strength of David’s arms surrounding her, the hard security of his chest, the touch of his lips, the sweep of his tongue. He’d made her feel sensations she’d never felt before—and not just physical sensations.

Men might find women interchangeable, but she was not a man. And David had not made her feel interchangeable. He’d made her feel loved—not just wanted, not just lusted after, but loved. She’d never felt so cared for, so valued, so cherished before.

Tears leaked out and ran down her cheeks as the rain ran down the window glass.

Dear God, what was she going to do?

Chapter 16

Kate looked out her bedroom window and saw Alex and Hermes walking across the lawn—Alex so tall and straight, his long legs eating up the ground, Hermes scurrying to keep up.

She leaned forward. She loved watching Alex. As silly as it was to say it, her heart leapt whenever she saw him. She felt a thrill, a surge of pleasure and happiness…until she thought about what she had to tell him.

She closed her eyes briefly. How was she going to tell him?

She pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window. She saw a squirrel run past Hermes; the demented dog took off after it, barking wildly. The squirrel scampered up a tree trunk and high into the branches, yet Hermes still barked at it. She smiled slightly. What went through that little canine head?

Her eyes traveled back to Alex where he stood watching Hermes. He had such broad shoulders and such small, tight a—

She pressed her hands to her flaming cheeks. Where had that thought come from?

Still, it was true—Alex might be forty-five, but he carried himself with the vigor of a man half his age.

He did other things with youthful vigor as well—

Her cheeks were burning again. She turned away from the window.

It was kind of Alex to take Hermes out. She had been indisposed again or she would have braved the wet to go with him.

Perhaps.

If she’d gone with him, she should have felt compelled to tell him…

She pressed her hand to her lips. The thought made her stomach twist.

When would this nausea end? Surely she would not be condemned to spend nine months worshiping at the basin every morning. Didn’t most women feel better once the first few weeks were past?

She stood sideways in front of the looking glass once again, spreading her hands over her stomach. Was there a slight bulge there?

No, it was her imagination. Her stomach was just as flat as always…for now. But eventually…perhaps soon…

She had to tell Alex. This wasn’t a secret she could keep for long.

She went back to the window. Alex and Hermes were out of sight.

Would Alex get angry when she told him? Standen certainly would, and she would have to tell him, too. She didn’t relish listening to him bellow at her, but the thought didn’t twist her heart the way the thought of Alex’s anger did.

She sat down heavily on the window seat. Alex had good reason to be angry. She had tricked him, though not intentionally. But he already doubted her veracity. More than doubted—he was certain she was a liar. He’d spent all these years thinking she’d been engaged to Oxbury when she’d gone with him into Alvord’s garden. She hadn’t been, of course. Standen had made that deal behind her back. She hadn’t even seen the announcement in The Morning Post—her brother had bundled her into the carriage for home long before the paper came out. She didn’t discover she was engaged until Reverend Posten read the banns at church the next Sunday. She’d almost fallen out of her pew.

But Alex thought she had tricked him—and now she had to tell him she had tricked him again—that he was going to be a father when she’d promised him she was barren.

She smoothed her skirt over her lap. What would he do when she told him? Would he wash his hands of her—or would he ask her to marry him?

He might propose. He was honorable, chivalrous. He’d mentioned marriage that night at Oxbury House.

So what would she answer if he did ask?

She didn’t know. She’d imagined the scene too many times to count since she’d realized she was increasing. Sometimes she was brave and told him no. He should not be penalized for her mistake. But other times she was a coward and said yes. The thought of being pregnant and unwed was terrifying. She would be cut by society, and her child would be a bastard, always living on the fringes of the polite world.

Her palms were clammy; her breath came in short gasps—

She must not panic. She forced herself to inhale and exhale slowly. She would talk to Alex. Soon. She could not put it off much longer.

She would need somewhere private. Once she finally mustered her courage, she would not wish to be interrupted. An isolated spot somewhere on Lord Motton’s estate might serve, but she would have to first persuade Alex to go with her. And she would have to wait for a sunny day; today was far too damp…

She was procrastinating again. It might well rain all week and then where would she be? Heading back to London without having discussed the issue with Alex at all.

Surely there was some place in this very large house where she and Alex could be assured uninterrupted privacy.

Her eyes went directly to the door by her bureau. It connected her room with Alex’s. She’d assumed it was locked. Was it?

Alex was still out with Hermes. This would be the perfect time to find out.

She put her hand on the knob, turned, and pushed carefully. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges. Holding her breath, she peered inside.

“Aunt Kate—”

“Eek!” Kate banged her head against the doorjamb.

“Oh, dear. Are you all right?” Grace hurried toward her from the hall while Kate slammed the connecting door closed and stepped away from it. She did not want Grace speculating about that other room—or, more precisely, the room’s occupant.

“I’m fine. You just startled me.” Kate steadied her voice. “Did you want something?”

Grace frowned at the door, a puzzled expression in her eyes, but then shrugged and turned to Kate. “I came to see if you wished to go downstairs.” She smiled slightly. “I found I was getting tired of my own company.”

Kate forced herself to smile as well. “How fortunate, because I, too, am tired of my own company. Shall we go downstairs and see what mischief Miss Smyth’s monkey has got into?”

Grace laughed. “Or what outrageous things her parrot has said?”

“Yes.” Kate took Grace’s arm. “Miss Smyth’s pets do enliven the party, don’t they?”

She would go downstairs now, but tonight…Tonight she was going to open that connecting door.

“So what do you think I should do, Hermes?”

Hermes tilted his head as if giving the question careful thought and then barked enthusiastically.

Alex nodded. “Yes, I think I agree. I must take the issue up with Kate as soon as possible. Today. Tonight at the latest.”

Hermes wagged his tail and then took off after a squirrel.

If only his life were so simple. Well, he didn’t really wish to be a dog—at least not a silly little lapdog like Hermes—but he did wish things were less complicated.

He should not have accepted Kate’s invitation to come to her bed. He’d known it was wrong at the time. He should have stayed home with David, had a glass of brandy in the study, and gone up to bed early. His own bed.

But, damn, it had been good. So good. Even now, standing in the damp, in the middle of Motton’s lawn, he could get lost in the memory.

He closed his eyes and saw her again—as he’d seen her every single night since he’d scrambled out that damn window at Oxbury House. It was a wonder he ever got any sleep; he’d been reduced to relieving his…tension the way he’d done it as a boy, with his hand. It was that or lie stiff, hard, and sleepless all night.

He felt himself growing hard now. How could he not? She’d been so beautiful—hair tumbling over her bare shoulders, her lovely small breasts almost glowing in the candlelight, their sweet nipples taunting him. And her graceful waist, her flat belly with its delicate navel, the sweet nest of curls between her lovely, white thighs…

And the feel of her…her hair, like silk; her skin, like rose petals. Her breasts fit the palms of his hands perfectly, her nipples pebbling so sweetly when his fingers…and then his lips…brushed them.

She’d grown hot and damp at his touch. Her scent had surrounded him. Her mouth had tasted like heaven, and when he’d come inside her…

He’d dreamed of her, of being with her—in her—for twenty-three years. Even when he’d tried not to, when he’d told himself she was married to Oxbury, she would never be his, still his dreams took him to her bed.

How could he regret finally being there in truth?

And damn, if anyone walked by now, they could not fail to notice his breeches were bulging in a very obvious fashion. Thank God Hermes was his only companion.

Did the dog actually think that squirrel cared he was at the foot of the tree, barking—if you could call the little sound he made barking? Hermes certainly didn’t look very intimidating—the squirrel was almost as big as he was.

Hermes gave one more bark and then trotted back to him. Alex turned up his collar against the damp and resumed their walk.

In a few months’ time, would Kate’s belly still be smooth and flat or would it be rounded by his babe?

He should feel a stab of panic at the thought, but all he felt was lust and pride and something else, something gentle and warm. Something he couldn’t remember feeling before.

He wanted to protect Kate from the gossips, to keep her safe…and in his bed.

He had to talk to her today, but where? He couldn’t very well take her for a tramp across Motton’s estate, not in her condition…that is, if she was in a condition. And anyway, it was too damp. It was actually raining now.

“Come on, Hermes. Time to go in.”

He turned and headed back the way he’d come. Hermes must have had enough of the weather as well, because he didn’t protest.

Could he find a quiet corner in the house where he and Kate could have a private conversation? This was not a chat he’d care to have interrupted—or overheard, even by the servants. If the word got passed around that Kate was increasing…

No, there was only one place for a discussion of such a sensitive nature. The place where the…problem had started—Kate’s bedroom.

He would use that connecting door tonight, and if by some chance the conversation moved to her bed…well, he wouldn’t complain at all.

David looked warily around the blue drawing room. Was this a safe place to read? The library had too many shadows and not enough escape routes.

He could go hide in his bedroom.

No, he wouldn’t put it past the Addison twins to corner him even there.

He chose a chair that faced the door so no one—no young lady, no husband-hunting Addison—could creep up on him unawares. At the first sight of a feminine slipper, at the first sound of a female voice, he would bolt. He could dash out through the other door to the hall or head for the terrace via the French windows.

He was in a particularly precarious position at the moment. Motton’s butler had informed him most of the men had gone out riding. He would have gone as well if he hadn’t been talking to Lady Wordham. To his grandmother.

He smiled. He owed Lady Grace a large debt of gratitude. She’d been completely correct. There was no point in carrying a grudge—and now that he’d given it up, he realized what a heavy burden it had been. His whole life had been shadowed by a vague feeling of anger and abandonment, an ever-present niggling sense of unease. Half of his heritage had been obscured by a dark cloud.

Now, thanks to Grace, a fresh wind had dissipated the gloom. He’d learned about his mother’s family—and he had a grandmother again. Lady Wordham would never replace Grandmamma, of course. Grandmamma had raised him, she and Grandda, and he had loved her as a mother. He would always miss her.

But Lady Wordham was tied to him by blood as well, and it felt good to know about that side of his family. He had an uncle, two aunts, and various cousins whom he’d never met. He’d always known of them, of course—his uncle was now the marquis; he couldn’t live in England and be completely unaware of the man—but that was different. He just might see about paying a visit or two when he returned to Town.

But first he had to be certain he left the house party a free man—or, better, a man betrothed to Lady Grace, not a devious Addison twin.

He opened his book, but kept an eye on the door. He must remain alert. He was alone and unprotected. His grandmother had gone upstairs to lie down, and Grace was not in evidence. Where could she be? Didn’t she understand that her absence put him at grave risk?

If she were here…Ah, he’d happily be found in a compromising position with Lady Grace. He would dearly love to initiate a compromising position. A very compromising position. A nakedly—

“Lord Dawson!”

He shot to his feet. Damn! One of the Addison girls had appeared in the doorway. Had she taken her shoes off and arrived on tiptoe so as to make no sound?

He should not have allowed himself to become distracted by thoughts of Grace.

“Ah…Miss…ah…Addison.” Which of the bloody little ferrets was she—Abigail or Amanda?

“What a pleasant surprise, finding you here. I thought you’d be out riding with the other men.” Good God, was the woman actually batting her eyelashes? “Did you stay here hoping to encounter me?”

“No!”

Perhaps he had been a little too forceful in his reply. Miss Whichever Addison blinked, but rallied quickly.

“Oh, Lord Dawson, you are so droll!”

He was going to be so absent the moment she took one step closer. It might be hard to explain such a precipitous exit, but he didn’t care. He’d plead a sudden, urgent need to visit the privy, if he had to.

Hell, she’d probably follow him into the damn jakes. The girl knew no shame. He cleared his throat.

“Sorry to have to leave you so quickly, Miss, um, Addison, but I’m afraid I must go—”

“No, you don’t, you cheeky little devil.”

He blinked. Surely Miss One-or-the-Other Addison hadn’t said that? There was shameless and then there was…He couldn’t think of an adjective extreme enough to convey his sentiments.

“Stop, thief!”

No, now that his brain wasn’t completely frozen by panic, it was obvious who the speaker was—Miss Smyth’s parrot.

“Eek!” Miss Addison-in-the-Room screeched and grabbed at her skirts, revealing a significant quantity of ankle had there been anyone in the room who cared to see. Miss Smyth’s monkey darted across the floor by her feet.

“Edmund, you bad creature, come here!” Miss Smyth followed, her parrot on her shoulder.

“Bad creature! Stop, thief!”

“Oh, hush, Theo, do.” Miss Smyth smiled at David, then turned to Miss Still-Screeching Addison. “Please, Miss—which one are you?”

“Abigail.”

“The older one?”

“By five minutes.”

“Well, good for you—you elbowed your sister out of the way from the very beginning, didn’t you?”

“Ye—no.” Miss Abigail Addison frowned. David swallowed a laugh. He could come to like Miss Smyth very well.

Miss Amanda Addison put in her appearance then, pointing a finger accusingly at Miss Smyth’s monkey. “That creature stole my plume!”

The monkey, attired today in a bright red coat and matching hat, was indeed clutching a pink plume. It screeched at Miss Amanda, scrambled up the curtains, and swung onto the mantel. A porcelain shepherdess, accompanied by two sheep, toppled to the hearth, shattering into hundreds of pieces.

“Oh, dear,” Miss Smyth said, “I hope Edmund wasn’t especially fond of that knickknack.”

“Yer in big trouble, matey.”

Surely it wasn’t possible for a parrot to gloat? David bit back a smile. Theo seemed uncommonly pleased with the monkey’s misbehavior.

“Oh, Lord Dawson, can’t you please rescue my plume from that, that…creature!” Miss Amanda was gazing at him beseechingly. He was not impressed.

“I’m certain Miss Smyth can get your plume for you better than I can.” He grinned. “I don’t want to risk my fingers—the animal might bite.”

This unchivalrous reply seemed to give her pause for a moment, allowing her sister the opportunity to push into the exchange.

“Quite right, my lord. You can’t be too careful. Who knows what diseases that beast might carry?” She batted her eyelashes at him again.

Apparently his barony outweighed his lack of bravery, at least on Miss Abigail Addison’s scale.

Miss Smyth’s mouth was opening and shutting, but no sound was emerging. She pressed her hands to her breast and took a deep breath. “Diseases? Diseases!”

“Scurvy dog.”

“You are quite right, Theo, but not about Edmund.” Miss Smyth took a step closer to Miss Abigail and waggled her finger right in front of the girl’s nose. “I’ll have you know, miss, that my Edmund does not carry diseases. How could you even think so? The very idea! He’s never been sick a day in his life. I’m sure he does not care to be so insulted.”

Miss Amanda made the ill-considered decision to enter the fray. She laughed. “But he’s a monkey, Miss Smyth.”

Motton’s aunt rounded on her new target. “I am well aware that he is a monkey. He is a very intelligent monkey—certainly more intelligent than a pair of young women I could mention”—Miss Smyth sniffed—“but won’t.”

Two identical jaws dropped. Four identical eyebrows snapped into two identical frowns.

David stepped forward. Surely the girls wouldn’t harm Miss Smyth, would they?

They were not given the opportunity. Lady Kilgorn, Lady Oxbury, and Lady Grace fortunately stepped into the room then.

Lady Kilgorn laughed. “Where did the wee monkey get that feather, Miss Smyth?”

“From me, Lady Kilgorn.” Miss Amanda sounded exactly like the spoiled four-year-old daughter of one of David’s friends. “And I want it back.”

“Well of course ye do.” Lady Kilgorn walked over to Edmund and extended her hand. “Here, sir, give me that feather, if ye please.”

Edmund screeched. He did not seem inclined to comply.

“Ah, ye drive a hard bargain, do ye?” Lady Kilgorn looked around the room and picked up a small, silver snuff box. “Will ye trade me then, sir?”

Edmund looked at the shiny object in Lady Kilgorn’s hand for a few seconds; then he dropped the plume and grabbed the box. Lady Kilgorn picked up the feather and handed it to Amanda. Miss Smyth clapped.

“Well done. You have quite a way with animals, Lady Kilgorn.” She beamed at the woman. “I was obviously very wise to include you in this house party.” She glared at the Addison twins. “Though clearly I did make a few mistakes on the guest list.”

The Addison twins gasped in unison.

Grace had stepped away from the fracas and closer to David.

“Come with me into the garden?” he asked. She seemed to hesitate. “I’d like to tell you how my interview with my grandmother went.”

She smiled then. “Of course.”

They stepped out the French windows. The other women were having a spirited discussion about pets and appeared not to notice their departure.

The air was fresh, damp, and a little chill, but invigorating. Grace let Lord Dawson put her hand on his arm. They walked across the terrace, down the steps, and along a path.

“How did your conversation go, my lord?” She was so glad he had spoken with Lady Wordham. It had been obvious to her that the elderly woman needed to make peace with her past, but men could be so obtuse sometimes, so pigheaded. Just look at her father. Once he got a notion in his brain box, it was almost impossible to shake it loose.

“It went very well.” David grinned. He looked so happy and…young. “Thank you for urging me to talk with her. I think it helped us both.”

She squeezed his arm and smiled back at him. “Of course it did. And you were very kind to meet with her.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know about that. I was not very eager for the interview—and it was not pure charity by any means. I did gain something important—I learned about my mother and her family—my family.”

“Yes, of course. But you could have lived your life adequately without knowing those things. Something would be missing, yes, but nothing crucial to your happiness. Lady Wordham, however…Well, I think she needed to be forgiven. Whether she was truly at fault or not, I think she felt the burden of the past.”

He nodded and they strolled in silence for a few moments. Grace tried to memorize every detail—the feel of his arm under her hand, the height and breadth of his body next to hers, the way the sunlight gilded his hair. All too soon, she would be returning to Standen and walking down the aisle to an altar where John Parker-Roth waited.

Could she hold these impressions in her heart, clear and sharp and alive, so she could relive them in the years to come? No. They would fade like a painting hung in the sunlight or subjected to the inevitable dust of time.

It was just as well. She would have John. She should not be keeping another man in her heart.

They had strayed into an overgrown section of the garden. The air was heavy with the scent of wet dirt and leaves.

“Grace.”

“Hmm?” It was so quiet here, so private. Almost as if she and David had managed to walk into another world, a world blessedly free of practicalities.

David stopped and put his hands on her shoulders. He had a very intent look in his eyes. He was going to kiss her. Good. She tilted up her face, parted her lips. She wanted this. It was another memory, another sensation to store away for as long as she could.

His mouth touched hers, gently at first, asking, not demanding; giving, not taking. It moved to her eyelids, her cheeks, light touches that burned into her heart, heated her, made her melt with need.

She whimpered softly and his mouth returned to hers. This time its touch was not light. It was wet. Deep. Consuming. His tongue swept through her until she was certain he knew every corner of her soul.

She put her hands round his neck and let her body sag into his, soft to his hard. Madness burned in her; hunger; desire.

“Grace?”

“Hmm?” She blinked up at him. She didn’t want to talk. Talking meant thinking. She didn’t want to think. She wanted to feel.

She cupped his face, kissed his jaw, urged him to come back to her.

He did. His hands moved to her hips. She wanted them on her breasts…

He pulled his head up, laughing, panting slightly. “Grace, stop.”

She didn’t want to stop; she never wanted to stop. She reached for him again, but he grabbed her by her shoulders and set her away from him. His touch was gentle, but unbreakable.

“Grace.” He was grinning. “This is lovely, and I would definitely like to get back to such activities very soon, but first I have an important question to ask you.”

Oh, dear God. She should turn away. She should make an excuse to go back to the house.

No, running away did no good. Just as she had urged him to talk to his grandmother, now she must talk to him.

She couldn’t talk. Her throat was clogged with tears.

How could she explain her loyalty to her father? Her duty to honor his need above hers—above something as transitory as lust? She could tell by looking in David’s eyes he would not understand, and she did not want to see the joy in his face drain away.

But he was relatively young, and they had only known each other such a short while. He would find another woman to love. Her father had only her.

“Grace, will you marry me?”

She didn’t have to watch his face; she couldn’t see it, she was crying too hard.

“No, David. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Chapter 17

“You’re retiring early, are you not, sir?” Roberts put Alex’s coat in the wardrobe.

Alex swallowed a sigh. His valet could be damn annoying sometimes. “Not so early.”

Roberts raised an eyebrow. Alex contemplated planting his fist in the man’s eye socket just under that obnoxious brow.

His valet was a moderately perceptive man. Both eyebrows shot up, and then he bowed hurriedly. “I take it that will be all for the night?”

Did the man’s glance dart toward the connecting door? Alex strove for an impassive—a phlegmatic—demeanor. Roberts probably knew exactly what he was contemplating—servants knew every blasted detail of one’s life—but he need not acknowledge that fact out loud. “Yes, thank you. That will be all.”

Roberts headed for the door. Alex couldn’t help himself—the words were out before his brain fully realized he was speaking.

“Ah, one more thing…”

Roberts stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “Yes?”

Alex’s brain finally caught up to his tongue. Was he a complete idiot? He couldn’t ask that. “Never mind.”

Roberts smirked. “I noticed Lady Oxbury also sought her bedchamber early. The gathering must be very tiring.”

He’d so enjoy throwing a shoe at the coxcomb’s head. “Exceedingly tiring. So tiring I may sleep late tomorrow. Do not bother to come until I call for you.” Ha! Let Roberts make what he would of that.

It was obvious what Roberts was making of it. The man grinned at him. “Very good, sir.” He waggled his blasted eyebrows. “And may I say I wish you the best of luck?”

Damn it, he was flushing. He could feel the heat flood his neck and face. “Why would I need luck?”

Roberts’ eyebrows moved faster. “I have no idea, sir.” He slipped out, closing the door quietly behind him.

Bloody liar. Roberts had a crystal clear idea of what he thought Alex intended—only he was wrong.

Well, partly wrong. He would love to love Kate, to take her to bed and do what he’d done to her back in London.

Ah, there was the rub. What had he done to her in London?

He reached for the brandy decanter and poured himself a full glass. Was he going to be a father? Have a child—a son…well, or a daughter. A baby.

In the first year or two after Kate had married Oxbury, he’d been tortured by the thought of her growing round and heavy with Oxbury’s brat. It wasn’t well done of him, he knew that. He’d known it even then, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. In his mind, having Oxbury’s child made Kate’s marriage irrefutable. When the years passed and she stayed slim and childless, he could fool himself that she didn’t share Oxbury’s bed, that she wasn’t tied to the man.

There might be some truth to that. Oh, not that Kate was a virgin—she’d clearly not been one when he’d climbed into her bed in London. But her ties to Oxbury…for better or worse, they hung by a thread—or by the new Lord Oxbury’s whim.

If she’d had a son, things would be very different. She’d be the earl’s mother. And even if she’d had a daughter, there would be that life she and Oxbury had created together.

Alex sat down heavily in the brown leather wingchair and stared at the fire, cradling his brandy in his hand. He’d thought a lot about children, about legacy, in the year since Da and Mama died.

When he died, there would be no one to mourn his passing. Oh, David would—and perhaps David’s children would miss old Uncle Alex—but that was different. He would have no direct descendent; no son to carry on his name; no daughter with his blood. And no one to inherit Clifton Hall. He blew out a long breath. Perhaps he would leave it to David’s second son.

If David had a second son.

Nonsense. David had to marry and have children—he had a title to pass down. It looked a bit uncertain at the moment that his bride would be Lady Grace, however. Something had happened this afternoon to cause a falling out. At dinner tonight, the two would not let their eyes meet. If by accident their gazes did connect, they looked away as quickly as they could. When David had entered the drawing room after dinner, he’d looked for Grace—and then gone to the other side of the room. Grace had retired shortly afterward.

It was unfortunate, but David was only thirty-one, still relatively young to be considering matrimony. And, given Standen’s dislike of all Wiltons, choosing a different bride would probably increase David’s domestic harmony.

But he was not young.

He swirled the brandy in his glass. He’d seriously considered marriage a few years after Kate’s wedding. He’d wanted children, and he’d found a lady who seemed congenial. But he’d vacillated and she’d married someone else.

That was the story of his life—he failed to act decisively and he lost the prize. If only he’d flown with Kate to Gretna Green twenty-three years ago, just as Luke had taken Lady Harriet…

He took a sip of brandy. All that was water over the dam. History. This was today. He had a decision to make now.

If Kate indeed carried his child, there was no decision to be made. He would not let his child be born a bastard.

He put down his brandy, rose, and strode toward the connecting door. It was time to put an end to his uncertainty.

“That will be all for tonight, Marie. Thank you.” Kate rubbed her temples. She was developing a crushing headache.

“Would ye like a spot of tea, my lady?”

Kate’s stomach twisted. Regretfully, tea would not help in this instance. “No, thank you.”

Marie made a small huffing sound and lingered by the door. Kate looked up. It was obvious the woman would burst if she didn’t open her budget. Unfortunately, Kate was certain she knew exactly what Marie wished to say—and she did not want to hear it.

She could ignore her—she should ignore her.

Whom was she fooling? That tactic had never worked in the past; there was no indication it would work this time. Marie was capable of standing there until tomorrow.

She sighed. “Did you have something else to say, Marie?”

Marie’s chin came up. She looked quite pugnacious. “Happen I do.”

Kate nodded; Marie glared.

Zeus! If Marie wanted to ring a peal over her head, she should just do so and be done with it. It was hard to imagine she could say anything Kate had not already said to herself.

Kate looked down and pressed her fingers to her forehead. It didn’t help. “Yes? And you wished to say…?”

“Ye know ye have to tell him soon, don’t ye?”

Kate didn’t need to ask who “he” was. There was only one male in attendance whom she needed to tell anything. She had decided earlier she would do so tonight, but now that tonight was here…She glanced at the connecting door. Perhaps tomorrow.

She looked back at Marie. Her maid actually appeared sympathetic. Damn. Tears pricked her eyelids.

She would not cry.

“I will get to it, Marie.”

All trace of sympathy vanished; now Marie merely looked exasperated. “And when will that be, my lady? Ye said the same thing last night.”

She had, hadn’t she? “Well, yes, but the house party has just begun.”

“And it will end all too soon with poor Mr. Wilton no more the wiser, I fear.”

Poor Mr. Wilton? What was poor about Mr. Wilton? He didn’t puke his breakfast up every morning. He wasn’t worried people were looking at his stomach; he didn’t wonder if it had begun to protrude, if everyone would guess…exactly the truth. And in just a few months—perhaps a few weeks—no one would have to guess. It would be painfully obvious to anyone with eyes in his—or her—head that an interesting event was expected.

She pressed the heels of her hands into her forehead. What if Alex laughed at her when she told him? What if he washed his hands of her, said she’d seduced him so now she could pay the price?

No, he would never do that. He might be very, very angry, though, and she couldn’t blame him. He’d gone all these years without any encumbrances, and now she had to tell him…

She couldn’t do it.

She had to do it.

“I’ve hardly had time—”

“Ye’ve had plenty of time.” Marie clicked her tongue. “I see how it fashes ye. Ye’ve nae been eating or sleeping well. That canna be good for ye or the wee bairn.”

“Well…” Certainly worry was contributing to this blasted headache.

“It’s nae gonna to get any easier, my lady. Just think if ye wait till ye are showing, how awkward that will be. I canna think Mr. Wilton would like to find out then that he’s the cause.”

“Nooo…” Where was that basin? She was going to be ill.

Marie crossed her arms. “If ye do nae tell the man tonight, I will tell him in the morning.”

Kate’s head snapped up. “You wouldn’t!”

“I would.” Marie looked exceedingly mulish.

“But I should go to Lady Grace. She appeared very upset in the drawing room this evening.”

Marie just stared at her.

“And I’m not dressed.” Kate spread her arms. “See, I am already in my nightgown.”

Marie snorted. “The man has seen ye in yer nightgown afore, my lady. He’s likely seen ye without yer nightgown—or any gown at all. I do nae think he’ll be complaining of that when ye walk into his bedroom.”

Dear God! Walk into Alex’s bedroom…she could not do it. It was as simple as that.

“I’ll speak to him tomorrow morning, I promise.” She could meet him in the garden. That would be private enough.

“Ye’ll speak to him tonight, my lady, or I’ll speak to him tomorrow morning.” Marie slammed the door behind her for emphasis.

“Ohh.” Kate covered her face with her hands. What was she going to do?

She was going to tell Alex…somehow. She had to. Marie was a woman of her word; if Kate did not find the courage tonight, Marie would march up to Alex tomorrow.

When had she so offended the Fates? She had lived a good life. She had done as her brother insisted and married Oxbury. She had been faithful to her husband. She gave alms to the poor, visited the sick, said her prayers every night…almost every night.

Other widows entertained gentlemen in their beds, and they did not become enceinte. And she had only done it once. It was not fair.

“What do you think, Hermes? What should I do?”

Hermes yawned and put his head down on his paws. He appeared completely unmoved by her troubles.

She blew out a long breath and looked at the connecting door. How difficult could it be? She and Alex were both mature adults. They could discuss this rationally, couldn’t they?

Panic grabbed her throat so tightly she could barely breathe.

Perhaps she should practice. She walked over and stood in front of the looking glass.

“Mr. W-Wilton—” She cleared her throat and took a few deep breaths. “Mr. Wilton, I wish to…to…”

She could not sound frightened. There was nothing to be frightened about—

Of course there was something to be frightened about…it was growing in her womb right now. She put a shaking hand on her stomach.

What did she want from Alex? A marriage proposal? How could she accept? She would be making him pay for her folly. She was too honorable for that. Perhaps a proposal of a different sort? But men did not want pregnant mistresses and squalling brats.

She put both hands over her abdomen. Her baby would not be a squalling brat. He or she would be loved and well cared for…if they both weren’t starving in the workhouse.

She leaned on the dressing table and took some more deep breaths. This was not working.

The important thing was to tell Alex that she was…that he was…that there was a child on the way. Once that basic task had been accomplished, she could address all the other issues. With luck—a commodity that had been sadly lacking in her life of late—Alex would not totally desert her. He might even have some constructive thoughts on how to address the problem.

Yes, of course. Two heads were better than one…She touched her stomach once more. Not two—three…Oh, dear.

She squared her shoulders and stepped up to the connecting door. Enough. It was time to find some courage—past time.

She put her hand on the knob and took one more sustaining breath. She could—

She was jerked forward as the door opened from the other side.

“Eek!” She reached out with her free hand to brace herself and encountered a hard, male chest. “Oh!”

“Kate! Are you all right?” Alex grabbed her shoulders to steady her.

“Um.” He smelled of brandy and linen and…Alex. He’d taken off his coat and waistcoat. His fine lawn shirt was so soft under her fingers.

His skin was softer. She remembered the feel of him very clearly…

She snatched her hand back as if burned. He frowned down at her.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course, I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?” She bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to sound so sharp, but her stomach was jumping around like Miss Smyth’s monkey. She cleared her throat—her mouth was suddenly as dry as the Sahara. “May I come in?”

The right corner of his mouth slid up into a half smile. “You already are.”

She flushed. “Well, yes, but may I come farther in?”

The left corner of his mouth turned up to match the right. He stepped aside. “Of course. Would you like a glass of brandy?”

Brandy was not one of her favorite drinks, but it might help steady her nerves now. “Yes, thank you. That would be very pleasant.” She stepped past him. She glanced briefly at the bed—she was already as red as a ripe tomato, so her added blush would surely go unnoticed—and then focused on the chair by the fire. The single chair.

She stopped. Where should she sit?

“What’s the matter?” Alex looked up from pouring the brandy.

“I, er…nothing.” She would stand.

His brow furrowed. “You don’t look very comfortable.”

She was not very comfortable—in fact, she was exceedingly uncomfortable. She was nervous. And he wasn’t helping matters.

A man should not be so handsome. Alex had discarded his cravat. The neck of his shirt was open, revealing the strong column of his throat. She remembered exactly how he’d looked with no shirt at all, how broad his shoulders were, how soft the hair that spread over his chest, trailing down to…

She turned away quickly to stare at the fire. She was certainly hot. And…damp. Wet. Achy and…

“Go ahead and sit in the chair, Kate.”

She clasped her hands tightly together. Kate. She loved it when he called her Kate instead of Lady Oxbury. She was tired of being Lady Oxbury. She wanted to be just Kate, just herself, and to hear her name in his voice. It was so intimate. Just the two of them, just Kate and Alex. No interfering brothers, no obnoxious cousins-in-law, no gossiping ton—just them.

And one other. She put her hand over her stomach. She had to tell him.

She looked back at him. “Where will you sit?”

He waved his hand vaguely. “Somewhere.”

Mmm. His hands. He wasn’t wearing gloves; his long, broad fingers were naked.

She remembered exactly how those hands had felt on her skin. Slightly calloused; strong but gentle; sure and tantalizing; teasing; promising…

Her knees felt weak. She definitely needed to sit. She lowered herself into the chair—and shot back out of it. It was still warm from Alex’s body.

“What’s the matter?” Alex’s voice roughened with concern. “Did you sit on a pin or something?”

“N-no.”

He came over, handed her the brandy glasses, and bent to run his hands over the seat. She had a glorious view of his breeches stretched tight over his muscular arse.

She wet her lips. And she remembered exactly how his naked arse had felt under her hands as he’d pumped his seed into her…his seed which had taken root, his seed whose fruit was the impetus for this visit.

She had to tell him she was increasing.

She took a swallow of brandy.

“I don’t feel anything sharp.” He straightened. He was so much taller and larger than she. “I think it’s safe for you to sit now.”

“I…I think I’d prefer to sit on the ottoman, if you don’t mind.” She suited action to words. Unfortunately, this brought her eyes directly on level with Alex’s fall. If she raised her hand, she could touch him there. If she leaned just a little forward, she could kiss…

Did she see a more pronounced bulge?

Alex sat down abruptly and took his brandy back from her. “Did you have a particular reason for…” He cleared his throat. “I mean, why did you come…” He shook his head. “No matter.” He smiled. “I am delighted to see you, Kate.” He leaned forward and combed his free hand through her hair. “I’ve missed you.” His thumb stroked her cheek.

She swallowed. Her condition was making her very weepy. “Ah…” They had just seen each other downstairs, but she knew that was not what he meant. “I’ve missed you, too.”

The last time they’d been together in a bedchamber, he’d left so abruptly—both her bed and London. That had been her fault—it was the first thing she should apologize for. “I’m sorry for what I said. I never meant to hurt you.”

He did not pretend to misunderstand. “What did you mean, Kate?”

She pulled back a little and looked down at her brandy. “I-I’d dreamt of you for years, Alex, all the years of my marriage. And then, when I saw you in the Duke of Alvord’s ballroom…”

She paused. She wanted to say something that sounded like the truth, but wasn’t quite. She couldn’t. Alex deserved to hear all of it, the carnal with the sweet.

She tried again. “I wanted you, Alex. I’ve wanted you all these years. I wanted to see if…loving you would be as good as I’d dreamt. But I didn’t want you to feel compelled to offer more than a pleasant romp in the sheets.” She smiled briefly. “I thought a single romp would be enough to satisfy my curiosity. The actual act…with Oxbury, it hadn’t been…well, I could have lived without it. But with you…”

His hands gently tilted her face up so she had to meet his eyes. “It was never about a romp in the sheets to me, Kate. Never. Was it really that for you?”

More truth. She bit her lip. “No.” The word came out in a whisper. “No, it was never that.”

“What was it then?” He took the brandy glass from her fingers. His hands slid down to her shoulders and then her upper arms. He urged her closer. She half stood and he swept her forward onto his lap. “If it was not purely physical, what was it, Kate?”

“Um.” He expected her to think, sitting on his lap in her nightgown, unprotected by stays or shift?

She didn’t need to think—she knew it was love, on her part at least, but she didn’t have the courage to say so.

“One chair is enough, don’t you agree?” he said.

“Ah.” One chair seemed more than enough. She was overwhelmed by sensation—his thighs pressing against her bottom; his arm firm around her; his chest cradling her; his fingers stroking her jaw. She tilted her head to rest on his shoulder.

She should tell him now. “Alex.”

“Hmm?” He had that very intent, very hot look in his eyes. His mouth was coming closer. She let her eyes drift shut as his lips touched hers.

She would tell him later.

His fingers left her jaw to cup her breast.

“Eep!” She’d swear a jolt of energy shot from his fingers directly to the aching place between her legs.

He chuckled. “I’d rather make you sigh than squeak, my love. Let me try again.”

His tongue slipped between her lips and stroked deep into her mouth. His thumb found her nipple. Thankfully, her breasts were no longer sore.

She had to tell him.

She would tell him later when she could think of something other than the feel of his tongue sliding over hers. He was working loose the little buttons that ran up the front of her gown. His large male fingers were taking much too long with the task. She would be happier if he would just rip the gown open.

He’d called her his love. Had he truly meant it? Or was that just a casual endearment, something he said to any woman he had panting in his hands.

She was definitely panting. Ah. He finally had the nightgown open. He was touching her, his fingers sliding over her skin. It felt so very good. And…oh. His mouth left hers to move to her jaw and then to the sensitive spot right below her ear…

Yes. He was moving in the right direction. She arched a little to encourage him.

“Eager, Kate?”

She would think him exceedingly obnoxious, cocky even, if she hadn’t heard the catch in his voice, the slight breathlessness.

She shifted on his lap. Hmm. Perhaps he was cocky. Very cocky. There certainly was a large ridge growing under her—

“Ohh.” His mouth, his tongue, had reached her nipple.

Alex smiled. He’d made Kate moan. He wanted to moan, too. His…desire was becoming a very large, throbbing ache.

He laved her nipple and made her moan again.

Why was Kate in his room? Did she have the same purpose he’d had when he’d opened her door?

Well, there was no rush. They had all night. Mmm. All night. He could think of a number of things he would like to do to pass the time.

He moved to her other breast. He needed to get her out of this nightgown. He wanted to see every beautiful inch of her as he had at Oxbury House. He’d dreamt of that night so many times.

He returned to her mouth and skimmed his free hand over her hip, down her leg, to the hem of her nightgown. This chair was all very well, but he would prefer the bed. He wanted to stretch her out naked on the sheets and have both hands free to explore her thoroughly. Very thoroughly.

He started sliding his hand back up her leg, taking her gown with him.

At some point she would come to the reason for her visit. If she did not, he would initiate a conversation. One way or the other, she was not leaving this room without telling him whether he was going to be a father or not.

God! The thought that his child might be growing in Kate’s body…it was terrifying and awe-inspiring. His babe at her breast…a son or daughter with his blood and Kate’s. It was a dream he’d not had the courage to dream for years.

He kissed her slowly and thoroughly, pretending it was true, praying it was true.

He would ask her if she did not tell him, but it would be better if she told him. Perhaps she would find it easier to talk in bed…naked in bed…

He now had her skirt up to her knees. He could not proceed farther without a bit of contortion. It was time to move this interesting activity to a more congenial location.

He slipped one arm under Kate’s knees and the other around her back and stood up.

“Eek!” She flung her arms around his neck. “What are you doing?”

He grinned. “Taking you to bed. Does that meet with your approval?”

“Yes.” Some of the lust cleared from her eyes and she frowned. “No.”

“No? I promise sharing a bed will be far more comfortable than sharing that chair—though that was very nice and I will return us there, if you insist.” He bent his head to kiss her again, but she put her fingers on his lips before he could reach her mouth.

“No, Alex. Put me down.”

She hated to say those words, but she had to. If she went to bed with him now, she would not find the presence of mind to tell him what she had come here to say, at least not until long after they had done what she most wanted to do in that lovely bed. She might even persuade herself to put off telling him till the end of the house party.

He shifted his hands and slid her down the length of his body. She felt the hard ridge of his erection. He was as eager to go to bed as she was.

Would it be so very wrong? The damage—would he see it as damage?—was already done; he couldn’t get her with child again. They would both enjoy the interlude. They could spend the remaining nights of the house party pleasuring each other. It would be wonderful.

It would be wrong. By keeping her child—their child—a secret, she would be lying to him, and she wanted only truth between them from this moment on. When she opened her body to him this time, she wanted to open her mind and heart as well. If he wanted no part of her once he knew—well, so be it.

She took a deep breath, gathered her courage, and looked directly into Alex’s eyes.

Chapter 18

“There is something I must tell you.”

Kate looked so serious. Her eyes were huge; her face was still; there wasn’t a hint of a smile anywhere in her countenance. She was still standing in the circle of his arms, but she had withdrawn completely.

He fought the urge to pull her close. “Yes, Kate?”

“I…I…” She swallowed. There was a tight, almost panicked look about her eyes now. Should he help her, tell her he already knew?

But did he know? Perhaps she was trying to tell him something else. “Just say it, Kate. It can’t be that bad.”

“But it is!” Her voice was almost a wail. She must have heard it, too, because she pressed her lips tightly together and closed her eyes. Was that a tear shimmering on her cheekbone? He brushed his thumb over the dampness, then wove both hands through her hair to cradle her head. He kissed her gently, briefly on the mouth.

“Tell me, sweetheart. Trust me, please?”

Her eyes flew open. “But you can’t trust me!”

Can’t trust her? He felt as though he’d been kicked in the gut. Had she been entertaining other men in her bed—is that what this was about? But why would she feel the need to tell him that?

This time he was not going to jump to conclusions.

“Kate, you are making me anxious. Just say the words. We’ll deal with the message once it’s out, all right?”

“All right.” She stepped back; he let her go. She clasped her hands tightly in front of her and stared at his chest.

“Do you remember what I told you when you”—she cleared her throat—“visited me at Oxbury House? When we…” She gestured toward the bed and then glanced up at Alex.

His face took on a cautious expression. “You told me many things. Which particular bit are you referring to?”

“I—” He must think her a complete ninny. She was not normally one to beat around the bush. She would take his advice and just say it. “When you came to Oxbury House, I told you I was barren.”

“Yes, I believe you did.”

“I’m sure I did. That’s why you agreed to…” She gestured at the bed again. “You know.”

He was frowning now. “I do know, but you are wrong. I did not take you to bed because you’d told me you were barren. I took you because I couldn’t help myself. I wanted you more than food or water or air.”

“Oh.”

His eyes were so intent, so clear and honest—but she still hadn’t told him about the baby. She couldn’t entertain any other thoughts until she told him that. She dropped her gaze back to his chest and forced the words out.

“I lied. I’m not barren. I did think I was, because after all those years of marriage, I never conceived. It’s true Oxbury didn’t try often or at all at the end, but when we were first married, he was very assiduous in his efforts to procure an heir.”

She looked back up at his face. Was he paler than before? She saw a pulse beating in his temple. He must hate her.

“Kate, why are you telling me this? How do you know now you aren’t barren?”

“Because—” She stared at his chest again. No, she should look him in the eye when she told him. She wrenched her attention back to his face. “Because I am…with child—with your child.”

His eyes widened. He looked shocked for a moment, and then his face lit up. He grinned and grabbed her shoulders.

“You are? Are you certain?”

“I-I think so. Marie seems certain. And there are signs that I am.”

He pulled her into a tight hug. “I had hoped as much—David had hinted at it, but then, what does he know about such things?”

She wrapped her arms around his waist. This was not the reaction she’d expected.

“I’ll get a special license—Shall I leave tomorrow or wait until after the house party?—and we’ll be married as soon as may be.”

She felt as if she were being swept along by a flood, unable even to grab for a low hanging branch to stop her progress. Still, she had to make the attempt.

“You don’t have to marry me, Alex.”

He held her away from him and frowned fiercely down at her. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, I have to marry you. I will not have my son or daughter born a bastard.”

“But—”

“No.” He put his finger on her lips. “If you do not care for me, you should never have invited me into your bed”—his voice dropped—“and into your body.”

“But I feel like I’ve trapped you.”

“Kate, I’ve never wanted to be trapped more in my life. I’ve dreamt of marrying you for twenty-three years and now that you are carrying my child I will not be denied.” His eyes turned guarded. “Is it you who feel trapped?”

She sighed. “I did when I thought I would bear this baby and face all the scorn and condemnation alone. When I imagined what my brother and the Weasel would say.”

Alex pulled her against him again. She rested her cheek on his chest. She felt so relieved.

“They will say ‘congratulations’ and ‘best wishes.’ And if they are silly enough to count the months on their fingers, we will ignore them.”

“Mmm.” She rubbed her cheek against his chest. “I love you, Alex. I tried to be a good wife to Oxbury, but I never stopped loving you.”

“And I love you, Kate.” His hand stroked her hair. “I have missed you, you know. For twenty-three years.” He laughed. “And I’ve missed you even more these last few weeks, when I knew exactly what I was missing.”

She felt safe and protected—no longer alone. It was wonderful. But something else would be even more wonderful. “Do you suppose we might go to bed now?”

She felt his chuckle rumble in his chest under her cheek. “To sleep?”

She started to pull his shirt out of his breeches. “Eventually.” She ran her hands over his belly. In place of fear and worry, she now felt an overwhelming…lust. And love, of course. But right now she wanted him inside her as quickly as possible. She slid free one of the buttons on his fall.

“Eager, are you?”

“Yes. Very.” She got the fall open and almost sobbed with pleasure. He was not wearing drawers. She wrapped one hand around his thick warm shaft. “Take your shirt off.”

“So demanding. Is this what motherhood does to you?” Alex’s voice sounded breathy and a bit strained. “Careful, Kate, or you’ll unman me.”

“I don’t want to wait, Alex.”

“An understandable sentiment.”

“I’ve waited too long.”

“I couldn’t agree more, but you will have to wait a moment more or you will have me spilling my seed in your hand.”

“Oh.” She sighed and regretfully let go of her prize. She stepped back. “Very well.”

Alex wasted no time. He grabbed the hem of his shirt and hauled it over his head in one deft motion. Then he shoved his breeches down over his hips and kicked them out of the way.

“Ah.” She’d thought she’d remembered every detail of his body, but she had not. Or perhaps it was just that memory could never do reality justice. Naked, his shoulders and chest seemed impossibly broad—much broader than when they were confined by shirt and coat. His arms bulged with muscle and sinew. Dark hair dusted his chest, trailing down to…Mmm.

She reached for him. He grabbed her hands.

“No, you don’t. No touching until we remove this voluminous nightgown.”

She flushed. “I wanted something more seductive, but this was all I had.”

He grinned. “The only problem with this nightgown is that it is still on your body. It will be lovely in a heap on the floor, I promise you.” He grabbed the skirt. “Raise your arms.”

She raised her arms, and he pulled the nightgown up and off her as quickly as he’d disposed of his shirt. Another night he would move slowly, teasing her, but not tonight. Tonight he felt like a starving man who suddenly finds himself at a banquet. He was too hungry to savor the feast.

Zeus, she was beautiful. Lovely, small breasts—though perhaps not as small as they had been—Was that another indication of her condition?—flaring hips, gently curving belly…He put his hand over the place where his child grew. His child. To have Kate and a babe…It was almost more joy than he could bear.

He grinned again. Ah, to have such problems. He bent to flick one of Kate’s nipples with his tongue. She squeaked and grabbed his shoulders. He was delighted to be burdened with such happiness.

He lifted her onto the bed and scrambled in after her.

Kate reached for him, but he evaded her grasp. “Not so fast, my love.”

She grabbed for him again. Didn’t he realize she was desperate? “Yes, Alex. Now. I need you now.”

He held her arms above her head with one hand. “Soon, I promise, but not quite yet.”

He kissed her forehead, her cheek, her jaw, the base of her neck. She twisted her hips, spread her legs, arched her back. His light kisses were teasing her to the point of madness.

Ah. He finally reached her nipples. They were so tight and hard. His tongue flicked over each in turn, and then he latched on and sucked.

It was good—it was wonderful—but it was not enough.

“Please, Alex.” She would beg, cry, scream, whatever it took to get him to go where she most needed him.

He freed her hands so he could stroke her breasts, while his mouth at last moved lower. He paused to leave a lingering kiss on her belly.

“Do you suppose it’s a girl or a boy?”

“Huh?” For the first time since she’d realized she was increasing, she was not thinking about the baby. “I don’t know.”

She tried to feel warm and maternal, but all she could manage was hot and carnal. “Could we talk about this later? I need you to attend to something else first.” She flexed her hips.

Alex laughed. “You know, I think that is probably a good idea. I find I’m slightly distracted myself.” He grinned rather wolfishly up at her and then dipped his head again. He had moved from her belly to her—

“Eep!” She sat up, the sensation was so exquisite.

“What? Do you like this?” His tongue flicked over the very sensitive little spot between her legs.

“Yes. Oh, yes.” She lay back and opened her legs wider. His hands cupped her bottom and lifted it slightly. His tongue probed delicately, teasing…

She was going to explode. She was going to die. She was going to—

“Alex! Oh, please…”

“Kate.” His voice was tight. He sounded almost as desperate as she felt. “Yes. Now.”

He put her down and came over her. She felt his heavy erection touch the point that so ached for him. She almost sobbed with desire. She wanted him; she needed him inside her like she needed air to breathe.

She tilted her hips, and he slid in deep.

“Ah.” She shivered as he stretched her—and then he started to move. “Alex. Ah. Oh, Alex. Oh.”

She gripped his hips and shuddered, sensation washing through her. And then a heartbeat later, he stilled and she felt the warm flood of his seed.

They stayed that way for minutes—he, heavy on her; she, hugging him tightly. They were joined by his body, but also by the peace of completion. The loneliness of all the years of her marriage—and the year of her widowhood—was gone.

“Mmm,” he said, rolling to his side and taking her with him. “That was nice.”

“It was beyond nice. It was marvelous. You were marvelous.”

He smiled. “Pretty good for an old man, eh?”

“Not so old.” She ran her hand over his hip. They were still joined. “And soon to be a father.”

“Yes. A husband and a father.”

“Did I actually say I would marry you, sir?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’m not certain these lips”—he kissed her briefly—“said yes, but these”—he flexed his hips. He was growing inside her already—“definitely did.” He drew a lazy circle around the tip of her breast with his finger, skirting her nipple. “Are you inclined to dispute it, madam?”

“N-no.” Her nipple was again a small, hard bud. If only he would touch her there…

“Now that I think about it, I believe I’d best keep you in this bed until I have your complete and utter agreement.” His hand moved to slide down her back and massage her bottom. “I imagine this old brain can come up with a number of persuasive arguments. What do you think?”

“I think I am very eager”—she rolled her hips and was delighted to see Alex’s gaze sharpen—“to be persuaded.”

“Fetch Lady Grace immediately, man. Tell her her father is waiting.”

Oh, no. Grace stopped in the hall, a hollow feeling suddenly opening in her stomach. Not Papa! What was he doing here? He was bellowing loud enough to wake the entire house party. She hurried down the stairs to intercept Lord Motton’s butler. “It’s all right, Mr. Wilks. I’ll deal with Lord Standen.”

“Grace,” Papa said, “pack your things. You are leaving.”

“Hallo, Papa. Why are you here?” How did Papa even know she was at Lord Motton’s estate? She had purposely not written to tell him.

“To bring you home, of course. Go pack your things.”

Anger warred with embarrassment in her breast. The other house party guests were beginning to gather in the entryway. “But Papa, the party isn’t over yet.”

“It is for you.” Papa’s jaw was set; his eyes had their stony expression. “We are leaving as soon as you are ready. I hope you don’t have too much frippery with you.”

Didn’t these onlookers have something better to do with their time? The Addison girls, with their mouths agape, closely resembled beached fish.

“What about Aunt Kate? I think she’s still asleep.”

Was Papa grinding his teeth?

“Let her sleep. She is not coming with us.” He snorted. “Her chaperoning duties are ended. Let us hope she is not forced to earn her keep as a duenna, since she certainly did a terrible job bear-leading you.”

How dare Papa speak of Aunt Kate so dismissively? And in any event, Grace did not want to leave now, even though things were vastly uncomfortable with Lord Dawson. She would go home and do what Papa wished, but when the party was over. Not now. She needed her last few days of freedom.

If only all the people staring at her would go off to the breakfast parlor or the garden. She’d been able to stand up to Papa back home, when she’d decided to go to London, but here…

And perhaps the trip to London had not been a good notion. Her life had been much simpler before she’d come to Town.

“How did you know we were here, Papa?”

Papa scowled. “Oxbury wrote me. The man’s an ass, but at least he had the sense to warn me my daughter was going off with a Wilton. Unlike my blasted sister.”

He said “Wilton” in the same tone he’d use for “vermin.” Anger twisted in her stomach. She wanted to shout, but shouting at her father never did any good, and it would just add to the spectacle they were presenting. The Addison twins were whispering to each other now.

Perhaps she could reason with him.

“You are not still bearing a grudge, are you, Papa? The scandal with Lady Harriet happened over thirty years ago.”

Papa’s lips drew into a tight, thin line—the corners of his mouth grew white and his nostrils flared. “And how do you know that story, miss? I’ve never told you it, I’m certain of that.”

“I—”

“What’s going on here?” Lord Dawson pushed his way past the Addisons and strode over to stand next to her. “Is this man bothering you, Grace?”

Grace closed her eyes briefly. Could the situation get any worse? David looked ready to flatten Papa—and Papa looked equally inclined to fisticuffs. That would certainly add to this raree-show—the two of them pummeling each other in Lord Motton’s entryway, though Papa would be the one getting pummeled.

She struggled to breathe. She’d almost forgotten this feeling of walls closing in, of being trapped and helpless. She hadn’t felt it since Lord Alvord’s ball—since her…friendship with Lord Dawson. Her friendship that was shortly to end.

She sighed. “No, everything is fine, Lord Dawson.” Fine? Ha! As fine as a sunny day in Hell. “This man is my father, Lord Standen. Papa, Lord Dawson.”

David’s eyebrows shot up; then he smiled slightly and extended his hand. “Ah, my apologies, Standen. I misunderstood the matter.”

Papa’s expression became even stonier. He looked down at David’s hand as if it were a rotting fish and then turned away, giving him the cut direct.

“I told you to get ready, Grace.”

David’s brows snapped down. “Now see here—”

Grace put out a hand to stop him. Even Lord Kilgorn, Lady Kilgorn, and Lady Wordham had joined the crowd. Those obnoxious Addison girls were hanging on each syllable, memorizing every mortifying aspect of the scene so they could recount it later to all and sundry.

If only she knew a magic word to make herself disappear. She should have gone up to gather her things the moment she’d seen Papa. If she had, she’d be out in his carriage by now, rolling down the drive. She’d already decided she had to go home after the house party, hadn’t she? It was not such a great tragedy to leave early.

“It’s all right.” She took a deep breath. She hated it when she sounded so breathless. She wasn’t frightened. She was embarrassed. She just did not like being the center of attention. “I’ll go—”

“Lord Standen!” Miss Smyth hurried in from the breakfast parlor, Theo perched on her shoulder. “How nice of you to stop by. Come into the red drawing room and I’ll get you a pot of tea. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you.” She frowned slightly. “Did I know you were coming?”

“Tea! Man wants ale, matey.”

Papa glared at Theo and then at Miss Smyth. “This is not a social call, madam. Thank you for your kind offer, but I will be staying only as long as it takes my daughter to pack her belongings.” He turned his glare back to Grace. His very limited patience was obviously reaching its end.

“Oh.” Miss Smyth blinked. “But the party isn’t over yet.” She looked at Grace. “Do you wish to leave now, dear?”

“No. I mean, yes.” Grace took another breath. “I mean my father’s here now. It’s convenient for me to leave.”

No! David wanted to shake Grace. What was happening to her? Where was the fiery woman who’d fought and argued with him, who’d insisted they find a way to bring Alex and Lady Oxbury together? Where was the girl who had bullied him into meeting with his grandmother? She had gone and left behind this beautiful shell, this pale, cringing shadow of his Grace.

This was clearly Standen’s doing. He’d like to throttle the bloody bastard.

“Party’s not over.” Theo cocked his head, and turned one eye to examine the earl. “Spoil-sport.”

Standen’s face turned red and his fists clenched as if he was only a hair’s breadth from grabbing Miss Smyth’s parrot and wringing its neck.

“What seems to be the difficulty, Aunt Winifred?” Lord Motton came out of his study and surveyed the assortment of people gathered in the entryway. “Hallo, Standen. You just arrive?”

“Yes. And I am just departing, as soon as my daughter gets her things.” Standen turned to Grace, his nostrils flaring. “You are keeping the horses standing, Grace.”

“But the house party isn’t over yet.” Motton smiled. “Why don’t you join us? I’m sure we can find you a room.”

Miss Smyth coughed significantly.

“Ah, so there are extra rooms, are there?” Lord Kilgorn said, his voice rather quiet and dangerous-sounding.

Motton looked at his aunt. “Would you care to answer that question, Aunt Winifred?”

Miss Smyth smiled brightly at Lord Kilgorn. “Extra rooms, my lord?”

“Aye.”

She glanced at Lord Standen. “Well, there might be one, but only in a manner of speaking, you know.”

Lord Kilgorn raised an eyebrow. “In a manner of speaking?”

“Yes. You know how it is.”

He shook his head. “Nay, I canna say I do.”

Miss Smyth kept smiling. “Ah. Well, I suppose it is a bit complicated, what with this and that. And the other.”

“Madam.” Lord Standen bit off each word. “Do not concern yourself. I am not staying.” He almost shouted at Grace. “Get your things now.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“But—” David choked down panic. He was not going to let Grace go without a fight—he could not let her go. Yes, she’d rejected his suit yesterday, but he’d sensed regret and sorrow in her answer. She cared for him, he knew it. He just needed to overcome her scruples, whatever they might be. He’d counted on having a few more days to persuade her. She couldn’t leave now.

Standen was white with rage. David didn’t care; he wasn’t afraid of the earl. It was Grace’s look that stopped him. Her eyes held pain and entreaty. She did not want him to say more, so, much as it went against the grain, he held his peace. Grace gave him a fleeting smile and hurried upstairs.

With her departure, the gawkers dispersed. David kept a close eye on the Addison twins. It looked as if they might approach him, but thankfully, they changed their minds and headed off toward the music room. With Grace gone, he would have to be extra cautious around those two.

Hell, if Grace left, he wouldn’t stay either. He’d head back to London as quick as may be.

“Why don’t you come into my study, Standen?” Motton said. “You may as well be comfortable while you wait.”

“I’ll be comfortable standing right here.”

“Nevertheless…” Motton stepped aside to usher Standen into the study. The earl went reluctantly. As soon as the door closed behind the man, David took the stairs two at a time. He hurried down the hall and rapped on Grace’s door. He wouldn’t be so bold normally, but desperate straits called for desperate measures—and fortunately everyone was either still asleep or already downstairs. There were no gossips in evidence.

“My lord.” Marie opened the door. “Please come in and see if ye can talk some sense into my lady.”

Grace whirled around. “Lord Dawson! What are you doing here?”

David stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He had no time for roundaboutation. “Grace, don’t leave.”

Grace’s eyes dropped from his. She stared at her portmanteau as she stuffed a handful of clothes inside it. “I have to leave. Papa is here.”

“No, you don’t. You are of age. Your father cannot order your obedience.”

She glanced up. “It is not a matter of obedience. I love my father. I do not wish to hurt him.”

“But what about me?” Desperation trumped pride. “Do you not care that you hurt me?”

She straightened, pushing her hair back off her face. “Of course I care, but you will get over it.”

Good God! Her words turned like a knife in his gut. “How can you say that? How can you dismiss what I feel out of hand?”

Grace’s eyes were strained, but dry. “How long have you known me, Lord Dawson? A few weeks?”

“Yes, but—”

“What can a person really feel—really know—about someone in such a short time? Attraction, yes. You are attracted to me. If circumstances were different, that might be enough. But circumstances are not different. There is too much history between our families for us to overcome. And Mr. Parker-Roth expects me to meet him at the altar.” She closed her portmanteau. “You will find some other girl who will suit you as well or better than I. You will get over me.”

“I won’t.” He swallowed. He finally understood how his father must have felt, faced with the threat of losing his love to another man. Society and reputations be damned. David would grab Grace right now and flee for Gretna if she were willing.

If she were willing. But she wasn’t willing. She obviously didn’t feel for him what he felt for her.

So now he also knew how Standen had felt when Lady Harriet chose his father over him—and that pain had stayed with the man through a marriage and Grace’s childhood, year after year, even till today.

“Your father didn’t get over losing Lady Harriet.”

Grace stared at him, her mouth slightly open, as if his statement had caught her unawares. Was she going to change her mind?

No. She shook her head, a wooden, determined expression on her face.

“The situations aren’t the same,” she said. “If anyone is in my father’s position, it is John Parker-Roth. If I were mad enough to run off with you, he would be left standing alone at the front of the church, jilted as my father was.”

David had little sympathy for a man who had so failed to woo Grace he hadn’t even kissed her. “But does Parker-Roth love you, Grace? He may like you; he may find you a comfortable—a safe—option for marriage, but does he love you? Does he ache for you and dream of you? Does his heart leap when he sees you? Is he always listening for your voice, waiting for your smile?”

David clenched his teeth. He had to stop blathering on so—he was making a fool of himself. He couldn’t force Grace to love him. Love was a gift that must be given freely.

Grace bit her lip and stared at him. He thought he saw uncertainty in her eyes again. He started to open his arms to welcome her back, but she shook her head and turned away.

“My father is waiting for me, Lord Dawson, and as I’m sure you discerned, he is not a patient man. I must go.”

“Very well.” The searing pain of her rejection made it hard to breathe, but he would not fall apart—he would keep a stiff upper lip. He extended his hand. “I wish you the best, Lady Grace.”

She put her smaller hand in his. “As I wish the same for you, my lord.”

Did he feel a trembling in her fingers, see moisture in her eyes? Before he could be certain, she’d left, closing the door quietly behind her.

Marie stood, hands on hips, and looked him up and down. She made a guttural sound that spoke volumes.

“Och, my lord, and here I was thinking ye actually had something in that brain box of yers.”

Chapter 19

“David, we wanted you to be the first to hear our good news.”

David looked up from the desiccated earthworm he’d been studying. The sun was out, the flowers were in bloom, but the only thing that seemed real to him at the moment was this poor dead creature that had been stupid enough to venture out of the safe, dark earth.

Alex was grinning. Hell, Alex and Lady Oxbury were positively glowing. He’d never seen Alex so happy. If he could feel anything, he would feel delighted for them. “So I see you’ve ironed out your differences?”

“Yes. I’m getting a special license and we’ll be married as soon as possible.”

David forced himself to grip Alex’s hand. “Congratulations.” He looked at Grace’s aunt. “And best wishes, Lady Oxbury.” He tried for a touch of levity. “Or should I say good luck? You are taking on a formidable chore, ma’am. Everyone thought my uncle a confirmed bachelor.”

“Oh, I’m not worried.” She looked adoringly up at Alex, then glanced around the garden. “But where is Grace? We thought she’d be out here with you.”

Just hearing Grace’s name caused a stabbing sensation in his gut. “Didn’t you hear? Lady Grace left.”

Lady Oxbury’s eyes widened. “Grace left? When? How? Why wasn’t I told?”

David clasped his hands behind his back. “Lord Standen arrived about an hour ago. Apparently the current Lord Oxbury alerted him to the fact Lady Grace was attending a house party that included members of the nefarious Wilton family.” He meant to sound self-mocking, but he feared he merely sounded bitter. “I regret to say I believe the earl is not very pleased with you, Lady Oxbury. He seems to feel you should have prevented the situation.”

“I can’t believe it.” She looked at Alex. “Could my brother be that stupid?”

“Apparently he could.” Alex frowned at David. “And you let her go?”

“Of course I did. What did you expect me to do? I have no influence with Lady Grace.”

“No? I would have thought otherwise.” Lady Oxbury worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “My brother must have forced her.”

“No, Lady Oxbury, he did not. Your niece went willingly, I assure you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Grace wouldn’t have returned home without complaint.”

“Well, she did.” He took a calming breath. There was no point in snapping at Lady Oxbury. “She is betrothed to a neighbor.”

“Mr. Parker-Roth. Yes, I knew there was an understanding of some sort, but I also know she doesn’t love him.” Lady Oxbury shook her head. “She couldn’t be repeating my mistake, could she?”

“It sounds as if she is.” Alex turned to David. “And so you must not repeat my mistake.”

“What are you talking about?” David was not in the mood for riddles.

“Twenty-three years ago,” Lady Oxbury said, “I did what my brother wanted me to do. I left London and married Lord Oxbury. I let family loyalty separate me from your uncle.”

“And I should have come after you.” Alex kissed Lady Oxbury’s fingers. “Or I should have persuaded you that night in Alvord’s garden to flee to Gretna with me immediately. I should have anticipated how Standen would react.”

“Nonsense. Who could have guessed my brother would bundle me off to the country? More to the point, who could have imagined he would marry me off so quickly? One does not expect such behavior in this day and age—even the day and age of twenty-three years ago. It is positively barbaric.”

“I’m afraid your brother is barbaric, at least where my family is concerned, Kate.”

Lady Oxbury sighed and shook her head. “I don’t understand it. I can’t think his heart was broken when Harriet ran off with Luke—he did marry Margaret a few years afterward and they seemed to have had a comfortable enough arrangement.”

“Whatever the reason,” Alex said, “we know he is capable of rushing Lady Grace up the aisle. You can’t delay, David.”

Lady Oxbury nodded. “At least Grace has attained her majority. You don’t need her father’s consent to wed.”

David wanted to laugh, though he’d never felt so humorless. “But I do need Grace’s consent. Your niece has no interest in wedding me, Lady Oxbury. She’s content with this neighbor.”

Lady Oxbury snorted. “I don’t believe that for an instant and neither should you. Did Grace say she didn’t love you?”

“Not in so many words, perhaps.”

Lady Oxbury frowned at him. “Don’t assume you know Grace’s mind, Lord Dawson. I have observed her closely—I had to; I was her chaperone. I would say she is very much in love with you. I spent many a sleepless night worrying about it, since I knew my brother would not be pleased with the connection.”

“You need to go after her, David,” Alex said. “You can’t let one short conversation determine your life. You may not be as lucky as I.” He wrapped his arm around Lady Oxbury’s shoulders. “You might not get a second chance.”

“And a second chance is not the same as the first chance, Lord Dawson. You need an heir; you should marry Grace now, while she is most capable of giving you several children.” Lady Oxbury blushed.

Alex grinned. “We have some other good news. Kate is…well, we are anticipating an interesting event in a few months’ time.”

So he had not misunderstood—Lady Oxbury was breeding. It was odd to see a couple of such advanced years beaming over such a thing, but they were obviously delighted. David shook Alex’s hand again and gave Lady Oxbury a kiss on the cheek.

“Splendid! I will not only have a new aunt, but a new cousin as well.”

Alex gave him a pointed look. “Go after Lady Grace, David. Give our baby a cousin more his—or her—age.”

Lust and regret flooded him at the thought. He would love to give Grace a baby, but that would never happen. Alex and Lady Oxbury were blinded by their own love. They hadn’t seen Grace take her leave of him.

Grace was on her way to Devon to wed her neighbor and he—he was going back to London tomorrow to start the search for a wife all over again.

Zeus, what a depressing thought.

Grace stared out the carriage window at the trees and grass and shrubs. Every moment put more distance between her and—

She would not think of him.

“Thank God Oxbury wrote to tell me you’d gone off with Dawson. I never thought I’d be beholden to that horse’s arse, but there you have it.” Papa shook his head. “I should have warned you to give the Wiltons a wide berth, but it didn’t occur to me. They don’t frequent London, as a rule. I swear this must be the first time they’ve come to Town in years.”

“Yes, I think you are right.” Why did they have to come this Season? If only…

No, she was glad she’d met David. He’d made her feel so many new things. And she was certainly glad Aunt Kate had met Mr. Wilton again. Had they worked out their differences? She wished she could have stayed to find out, but surely Aunt Kate would write. Well, she’d come to the wedding…

Grace bit her lip hard. The next time she saw Aunt Kate, she’d be preparing to walk down the aisle at the village church to marry John.

She felt like a noose had dropped over her head.

“Even though you didn’t know about the Wiltons,” Papa was saying, “Katherine certainly did. I’m shocked she didn’t tell you to avoid them. It was to save her from Dawson’s uncle that I married her off to Oxbury, you know. The woman must be dicked in the nob if she thought I’d countenance any sort of contact between you and a Wilton.”

“But, Papa, I don’t understand.” Grace studied her father. He looked smaller than she remembered. Older. Had he changed so much in the short time she’d been gone—or had she changed? “Why do you dislike the Wiltons so intensely? Surely it is not merely because Lady Harriet preferred Lord Dawson’s father to you? That happened so long ago.”

Papa scowled at her. “I do not choose to speak of it. It is enough for you to know that I do dislike them.”

Grace should have felt anger, but she had no room for any emotion besides the deep, leaden sadness of leaving David. Still she was not going to let her father hide in silence.

“No, Papa, it is not enough. Your hatred of the Wiltons ruled Aunt Kate’s life and now it is ruling mine. You owe us—you owe me—an explanation.”

Papa frowned and dropped his gaze to study his hands. He said nothing for so long Grace gave up hope he would respond. She swallowed her annoyance and turned her attention back to the scenery.

“I was young and in love,” Papa said finally. He spoke so quietly, Grace hardly heard him over the creaking of the carriage.

“Yes. You were young—it was over thirty years ago.”

“Some things aren’t changed by time, Grace.”

Some things—like her feelings for David? Would they never fade? They must. She couldn’t live forever with this heavy black cloud shrouding her heart.

“I understand that, Papa, but this was hardly more than a brief dream, wasn’t it? You only knew Lady Harriet for part of one Season. A few dances, a handful of conversations. You didn’t know her at all.”

Just as she hardly knew David.

And Aunt Kate had hardly known Mr. Wilton, yet their love had endured.

Papa spread his hands. He looked almost helpless. “I loved her.”

“You were infatuated. You were only…what? Twenty-five?”

“Your age.”

“Yes, but now you are fifty-six.” She wouldn’t still pine for David when she was so old, would she? She pushed down the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She would get over her feelings. She would marry John, have children. She would remember David fondly, without rancor.

“It doesn’t matter,” Papa said. “It doesn’t matter how old I am. It’s like it happened yesterday.”

Oh, God. Grace squeezed her eyes shut. No. She rested her head against the squabs, turning slightly so he wouldn’t see her tears.

She would not think of David, she would not—but memories of him were all that filled her heart: his eyes crinkling when he was amused; the warm, deep sound of his voice; the touch of his lips. But even more than those things, she remembered his concern for his uncle, his willingness to put his past hurt aside to bring some peace to his grandmother, the way he’d held his tongue when she had so needed him to do so in Lord Motton’s entryway.

He understood her as no one had before.

“Lady Harriet was everything I wasn’t.” Papa spoke quietly again, almost as if he were talking to himself. Grace turned her head to watch him. He was looking out the window, a slight smile curving his lips.

“She was lively and inventive. Quick and bright. Everything sparkled when she was present. She was like a star, fallen to earth—and I was a lump of coal.” He sighed and shook his head.

“Wilton was much the same. It was clear why they were attracted to each other—like to like. But they were too much alike. Wordham—Harriet’s father—thought Harriet needed steadying; Wilton was too flighty. Wordham wanted Harriet to marry me.” Papa at last looked over at Grace. His eyes were full of pain. “But Harriet wanted Wilton.”

He leaned toward her, his voice growing more forceful. “If Wilton hadn’t convinced Harriet to run away with him, she would have married me. She’d be alive today.”

Grace leaned forward, too. “You don’t know that, Papa. Lady Harriet died in childbirth. If you had wed her, she might have died with your child…as Mama did.”

Papa looked startled, as if that thought had never occurred to him.

Grace reached out to touch his knee. “Didn’t you love Mama at all?”

He cleared his throat. He looked flustered. “Your mother was a fine woman. Very pleasant. We rubbed along tolerably well.”

Grace sat back. “But you didn’t love her.”

“I was fond of her.”

“But you didn’t love her.”

Papa hunched a shoulder. “Love causes no end of pain and turmoil. Affection—or respect—is a better sentiment for marriage. Compatibility, such as you have with Parker-Roth, will get you through the years.”

Until death do they part. The words popped into Grace’s mind unbidden. She had always thought they were sad; now they sounded like a goal. After year upon year of polite, boring matrimony, finally a release.

“I do wish you would visit Standen, Lord Dawson. Talk to Grace.”

“I can’t see how that would help, Lady Oxbury.” David had been on his way to take his leave of his grandmother and had interrupted Alex and Lady Oxbury in the green parlor. Fortunately they’d been exchanging only a kiss—a rather heated kiss, true, but at least all their clothing was still properly fastened.

“I just cannot believe she is consenting to marry her neighbor. There must be some misunderstanding.”

“Believe me, Lady Oxbury, there was no misunderstanding.” And Grace had been correct. They had known each other only a very short time. They were just caught up in lust; the feeling would wear off in a month or two.

“Still, it would be worth a trip to see her, David,” Alex said. “Likely she spoke in haste and almost immediately regretted her words.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s it.” Lady Oxbury smiled up at Alex as though he’d just said something brilliant. “Grace can be somewhat impetuous at times. With her father surprising her like that, showing up on Lord Motton’s doorstep with no warning, who knows what odd thoughts were going through her head?”

“You should go, David. What can you lose? If Lady Grace is adamant, at least you’ll know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she does not wish to wed you. But if you discover she regrets her decision or that it was all a misunderstanding, then you’ve won years of happiness.” Alex grinned down at Lady Oxbury in a completely besotted way.

David closed his eyes briefly to keep from rolling them. Why did he have to be subjected to such a large dose of April and May today of all days? Not that he wasn’t happy for Alex and Lady Oxbury. He was. He just didn’t care to feel that happiness right now. He had too much misery to occupy him.

“Yes, well, I’ll think about it.”

“You’d best not think long, Lord Dawson. My brother can be very determined when he has a mind to be.”

Alex nodded. “It would be hell to arrive just moments after the vows were said to discover Lady Grace had been pining for you and had wed the neighbor in despair.”

“Yes, of course. I promise to give it serious thought. At the moment, however, I am in search of Lady Wordham. I wish to bid her farewell; I’m off for London today.”

“London?” Alex frowned. “It should be Devon.”

“Yes, well, I have some business to attend to in Town that cannot wait.”

“I think you’re making a mistake, David, but if you insist on doing so, I’ll ride with you. I’m leaving shortly myself.”

Now that he made note of it, he saw Alex was dressed for travel. If he went with him, he’d be badgered every step of the way to alter his course for Devon and Lady Grace.

“You go ahead, Alex. I don’t want to delay you. I’m not certain how long I’ll be with Lady Wordham.”

Lady Oxbury smiled. “It is so wonderful you’ve reconciled with your grandmother, Lord Dawson.”

“You should call me David, Lady Oxbury, since we are shortly to be related. And yes, it is wonderful. I can thank your niece for pushing me toward that reconciliation.” No matter how much pain he was in because of Grace now, he couldn’t forget she had helped him see the futility of clinging to old hurts.

And clinging to new hurts? Should he put aside the pain of his last interview with Grace and ride for Devon?

Ridiculous! He did not care to ask for her rejection again. He was not a complete fool.

“You don’t happen to know where I might find Lady Wordham, do you?” The sooner he spoke to his grandmother, the sooner he could leave this benighted house party.

“I think she’s in the rose garden, David.” Lady Oxbury smiled. “And, please, you must call me Kate.”

“Not Aunt Kate?”

She laughed. “I think Kate will be sufficient.”

“Very well, Kate. Thank you, I will go look in the rose garden and leave you two to resume the activity you were engaged in when I arrived—though I would suggest you close the door this time.”

Lady Oxbury—Kate—flushed. Alex laughed.

“Good idea,” he said. “You may close it behind you when you leave.”

David smiled as he pulled the door shut. At least one Wilton had benefited from this infernal Season.

Lady Wordham was sitting on a bench in the rose garden, her face turned up to the sun.

“Careful, Grandmother. You’ll ruin your lovely pale complexion.”

Lady Wordham laughed and patted a spot on the bench next to her. “Come sit, David. I promise to be good and put up my parasol, even though the mid-afternoon sun feels wonderful on my old bones.”

David sat and smiled at his grandmother. “Is that why you are sitting out here by yourself—to enjoy the warmth of the sun?”

She reached over and patted his hand. “That and to have some quiet in which to think.” She leaned closer. “Do be careful of those Addison girls. One or the other of them means to trap you into marriage.”

He laughed. “I think the only thing that has kept me safe so far is the fact they both wish to compromise me. They keep foiling each other’s plots.”

“Well, I must tell you, I don’t care for either of them.” Lady Wordham looked away to examine a rose. “Lady Grace, now…she seems like a very nice girl.”

David repressed a sigh. First Alex and Kate, now his grandmother. Was everyone at this gathering—aside from the Addison twins, of course—trying to match him with Grace? “Lady Grace left, Grandmother, did you not hear? Her father came and took her back to Standen.”

“I did hear, of course. When are you leaving?”

“Now. I only tarried to say good-bye to you.”

Lady Wordham grinned. “Don’t waste time sitting with an old woman, boy. Go on.” She patted his hand again. “Go after the gal. I want another great-grandbaby before I die.”

He coughed, hoping to dislodge the sudden lump in his throat. “I’m leaving for London, Grandmother. Lady Grace made it clear before she left that she wasn’t interested in my suit.”

His grandmother’s mouth hung open for a moment. Then she snapped it shut, sat back, and frowned. “Balderdash. I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life. The girl is obviously madly in love with you.”

He shrugged. What was he to respond?

Lady Wordham leaned forward and tapped him on the knee. “No. No, you must be wrong. I’ve observed you both. By my age, one has learned a thing or two. I know she feels something for you.”

He tried to laugh. “Annoyance, perhaps.”

“Don’t be an idiot. The girl loves you. Go after her. Find out what the problem is. You can’t let silly pride stand in the way of happiness.”

He was not going to argue. He leaned over to kiss her weathered cheek. “I’ll see you in London.”

She grabbed his hand and looked intently into his eyes. “David, I know the pain of letting pride keep me from someone I love.” She laid her hand along his jaw. “Don’t be a fool like me, grandson. Go to her.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“It is. Well, it may not be easy, but it is simple. Just go.”

He stood and tried to smile. “I will think about it.”

“But will you do it or will you be pigheaded like your grandfather and deny yourself this love?”

There wasn’t an answer that would satisfy them both, so he just bowed and left.

He was waiting for his horse to be brought round when Miss Smyth found him in the entryway.

“Not you, too?” He bit his lip, but the words had already been said.

“Et tu, Brute?”

He scowled at Miss Smyth’s parrot. “I didn’t know Theo had studied the classics.”

“He has a very eclectic collection of phrases; he’s rather like a magpie that way, hoarding odd bits of things. Well, he’s very like my Uncle Theo, of course. That’s where he learned it all.” She looked at his greatcoat, then glanced at the door. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes. I’ve said good-bye to Lord Motton and thanked him for his hospitality; I thank you, as well, of course, for acting as his hostess and organizing…everything.”

He suspected Miss Smyth had organized a few too many things. Frankly, he’d been hoping he could sneak away without attracting her attention. He was sure what she would say, and he was rather tired of being urged to go to Devon. Couldn’t people comprehend that Grace’s father had given him the cut direct and that Grace herself had indicated her wishes concerning him very clearly, so clearly even a dunce such as he could understand?

Miss Smyth was frowning. “You should go to Devon, you know.”

“Miss Smyth, you do understand Lord Standen would probably have me shot on sight?”

The woman snorted. “I’m sure that’s illegal. You’re a peer.”

“And Lady Grace informed me in no uncertain terms she has absolutely no interest in furthering our acquaintance.”

“Oh, she didn’t mean that.”

He was sorely tempted to tear his hair out by its roots. “She is marrying her neighbor.”

Miss Smyth waggled her finger at him. “Only if you don’t get on your horse and ride posthaste to the rescue.”

“She doesn’t wish to be rescued.”

“There is no need to shout, my lord.”

“Sorry.” He took a sustaining breath. “The fact of the matter is Lady Grace is content with her situation.”

“And if you believe that, you are a bigger dunderhead than I thought.”

“Dunderhead! Numskull! Blockhead!” Theo apparently was full of synonyms for idiot.

He was not going to shout at a parrot, so he contented himself with a glare. Theo fluffed his feathers and glared back at him.

A footman stepped inside. “My lord, your horse is ready.”

He nodded at the man, keeping himself from falling on him in gratitude only by an extreme exercise of will. “Ah, yes. Well, I must be going. Thank you again, Miss Smyth, for your hospitality.”

“It won’t have done any good if you let Lady Grace marry her neighbor. Go to Devon for God’s sake, man! Show some backbone.”

Arguing with Miss Smyth—and her parrot—was clearly futile. Retreat was his best course of action.

David nodded politely and fled.

Chapter 20

“Papa, I cannot marry Mr. Parker-Roth.”

Papa looked up from The Morning Post, a forkful of poached eggs suspended halfway between his plate and his mouth.

“Ridiculous.” He completed the fork’s trip, chewed his eggs, and washed them down with a mouthful of coffee. “Of course, you’ll marry Parker-Roth.”

“No. I cannot.” Grace pushed her plate of cold toast away from the edge of the table. She couldn’t eat; her stomach was in far too much turmoil to even consider ingesting anything. “I thought I could when I left Lord Motton’s estate. I thought I could when we rode over to the Priory yesterday to see John. I even thought I might be able to go through with the wedding after I took a turn about the garden with him and listened to him drone—I mean discuss all his infernal—that is, interesting plantings.”

Grace paused. She was breathing so quickly she was making herself dizzy.

“But I can’t. I just cannot do it.”

“Nonsense. You are merely experiencing maidenly nerves. Once the wedding and the bedding are behind you, you will be fine.”

Her stomach lurched, threatening to disgorge its limited contents onto the breakfast table. She pressed her hand firmly to her mouth and breathed steadily through her nose. She moved her fingers far enough away from her lips to allow a response.

“No.”

“No what?” Papa had gone back to his paper as if the subject were closed.

“No, I will not be fine.” There. Her stomach had subsided to a slow churn. She lowered her hand and focused on her father. “I have thought about this all night, Papa. I hardly got a wink of sleep. And I have come to the firm conclusion I cannot marry John. It would not be fair to him.”

Papa waved a hand in her direction and turned to a new page in the newspaper. “Don’t worry about that. I’m sure Parker-Roth doesn’t care.”

“I cannot imagine John doesn’t care that I’m in love with another man.”

“You’ll get over that.”

Could she be hearing Papa correctly? A man who had harbored a grudge against an entire family for over thirty years because the woman he’d loved had rejected him, the man who had told her as recently as a few days ago that he still loved that woman—this man was telling her she would get over being parted from her own love?

“You never got over it, Papa.”

“What?” He pulled his nose out of the paper long enough to frown at her. “What do you mean?”

“You never got over Lady Harriet.”

He scowled at her and returned to the newspaper. “I married your mother, didn’t I? I…adjusted. You will, too.”

“But you had no choice. Lady Harriet was beyond your reach. She was dead. Lord Dawson—”

He glared at her. “Do not mention that name in my house.”

Grace threw down her napkin and stood. “Why do you insist on clinging to this animosity? I’ll wager you’d never even met Lord Dawson until he walked into Viscount Motton’s entryway.”

“What has that to say to the matter?”

“What? Everything! How can you hate someone you’ve never met?”

“Easily.”

She grabbed onto her temper with both hands. She knew it would do no good to shout at Papa. Instead she leaned on the table and looked him in the eye.

“Right. You’re right. It is even easier to hate someone you’ve never met. You don’t know all the good things about him.”

“There are no good things about a Wilton.” Papa’s mouth was set in a white line. He snapped his paper and turned away from her to read it. “You’re allowing yourself to become hysterical.”

“I am not.” She was shouting. She swallowed and tried to rein in her anger. “You are not allowing yourself to hear the truth in what I am saying.” She straightened, clasping her hands together to keep from wrapping them around Papa’s neck. She must try to remain calm. Rational. “Lord Dawson was the same way. He’d decided he hated his grandmother until I was able to persuade him to talk to her. If you would only meet—”

“No!” Papa slapped his newspaper down on the table and surged to his feet. “I will not meet with Dawson. I have no need to meet with him. I will not see the man again.”

“You will, unless you wish never to see me again.” She raised her chin and hoped David had not changed his mind about matrimony. “I intend to marry the baron.”

“Oh, really?” The veins in Papa’s forehead were pulsing—never a good sign. “And how are you going to manage that? You have no way of traveling to Motton’s estate—if Dawson is even there still—as my carriages are not at your disposal. But, more to the point, you will not be free to wed the baron as you are marrying Parker-Roth tomorrow.”

“No!” She grabbed the back of her chair. In less than twenty-four hours…“I thought the wedding was not for days yet. You said—”

“I prevaricated.”

Married in less than twenty-four hours…dear God! “I never actually agreed. John never actually proposed.” He certainly had never kissed her. The man couldn’t want to wed her. She would be doing them both a favor to decline.

“That doesn’t matter. You will actually marry.”

“No. I will go now and tell him that I must cry off. It will be awkward. It will be embarrassing, but in the long run, it will be better. He cannot want an unwilling bride.”

Papa crossed his arms, his face stony. “None of that matters. He has agreed to marry you. It is a good match. You will be close to home, among people you know. You will marry him. There is no more to be said.”

She gripped the chair back harder. She wanted to pound her hands on her father’s chest. “No. I will not marry him. I can’t.”

“You can. You were willing enough before you went up to London. Damn it all, you were willing enough when you left Motton’s estate.”

“I was not willing—I was resigned.”

“Bloody hell.” Papa threw his hands up in the air, and then leaned toward her, his right index finger stabbing at her. “You listen to me, miss. You will marry Parker-Roth. I am your father, and I order you to do so.”

She stabbed her finger back at him. “You can’t order me. I am of age. I will not marry the man, do you understand?” She tried to get her voice under control. “I am sorry, Papa, but what you ask is impossible.”

Papa was shouting now. “You are not going to do to Parker-Roth what Harriet did to me. You are not jilting the man, do you hear me?”

“The entire house hears you, Papa.”

“Good. Go to your room, you ungrateful girl. I will see you again in church.”

“When the vicar asks if I take John as my husband, I will say no, Papa.”

His face was the color of a furnace. His veins looked like they would burst. Surely he would not suffer an apoplexy?

“Go!” He roared the word.

Grace went.

So he’d taken the road to Devon. So he was an idiot.

David looked at the inn’s bed and sighed. It was too short for someone his height, but at least it looked like the sheets were relatively clean.

He should have taken the road to London. He’d certainly decided to do so when he’d left Miss Smyth in Motton’s entryway. But when he’d come to the crossroads…well, somehow his horse had headed toward Devon.

If he’d taken the road to London, he’d have been home days ago, sleeping in his own roomy bed. He’d have gone to a number of balls and routs already and started his marital search over.

Damn.

He couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for sorting through the giggling debutantes, the coy young misses, the slightly desperate maidens beginning to wilt on the vine.

He wanted Grace. He really wanted Grace. If there were any chance in hell he could still have her…well, it behooved him to leave no stone unturned.

So here he was, pausing at The Blue Heron before going to Standen tomorrow morning to turn over the last stone. He’d arrived at the inn just before dinner. Had a nice chat with a Mr. and Mrs. Weyford, a young couple, rather newly married…well, all right, it wasn’t so nice a chat. Oh, the couple were perfectly pleasant. The problem was he kept thinking of Grace, imagining it was they, not the Weyfords, exchanging fleeting glances full of promise of what they would do once they got upstairs to bed.

He’d preferred his conversation with Reverend Barnsley, the other guest at the inn. The reverend was on his own, on his way to take up a living in Cornwall, and an enthusiastic angler. A well-placed question here and there kept the man discoursing on fish and bait and tackle all evening.

And now he was in his room with this lonely, short, uncomfortable-looking bed. Tomorrow he’d reach Standen. He’d know for certain whether there was still a chance to make Lady Grace his baroness. Maybe he’d discover she’d already wed her boring neighbor.

God, that thought was beyond depressing.

He climbed into bed and tried to find a comfortable position. It was impossible. The mattress was stuffed with rocks.

It was going to be a very long night.

Dear Papa,

I am sorry I must disappoint you now, but I cannot disappoint myself—and John—for years. Please tell John that I love him, but as a brother, not a husband, and extend my sincere apologies and regrets to him and his family.

I love you, even though I cannot do your will in this regard.

Grace

There. Grace sanded the letter and stood it up against her pillow where the maid would find it when she came in to wake her. It had been another long, sleepless night, but finally she felt at peace. She’d made her decision. She was leaving. Now, before the sun was up. If she left when it was still dark, no one would see her.

All she had to do was get to The Blue Heron. She had enough pin money left to buy a seat on the stagecoach to London. It wouldn’t be a comfortable trip, but she would manage. She would go to Aunt Kate…if Aunt Kate were in London.

Surely she would be. Though the Weasel must still be at Oxbury House…

But Lord Motton’s house party was over; everyone must have returned to Town. And if Aunt Kate wasn’t in London, Lady Wordham would be. Grace would find someone to help her.

She had no choice. She couldn’t marry John. He deserved a woman who would love him with her whole heart, but Papa seemed incapable of understanding that. She wouldn’t put it past him to tie her up and throw her in the carriage to get her to the church. Then her only recourse would be to refuse to say her vows, and she couldn’t do that to John and his family. No, she had to go now.

She put all the money she had as well as her few small pieces of jewelry—to be pawned in only the most desperate circumstances—into her reticule and stuffed it into the pocket of her cloak. Then she blew out the candles and opened the window. There was enough moonlight to see the branch of the big oak tree that grew by her room—and the long way down to the ground.

She hadn’t climbed a tree in years. The worst part was getting out her window, leaving the safe, solid building to swing over to a shaky, swaying branch. Then it was a matter of inching her way carefully backward, feeling for solid footing, untangling her skirts from branches, pushing her hair out of her eyes as the tree plucked her pins out. Thankfully there was no one to observe her awkward escape.

She leaned against the tree trunk for a moment when her feet finally touched the ground and blew out a long breath of relief—as well as a short prayer of thanksgiving. She’d made it safely to earth without killing herself, though she was rather a mess. She picked a few twigs out of her hair and then twisted it into a knot at the back of her neck, marshalling her remaining pins to restrain it as best she could. Next time she had to escape down a tree, she would be sure to add extra hair pins to the contents of her reticule.

A cloud drifted over the moon, plunging her into darkness. Thank God that hadn’t happened a few moments earlier.

She waited for her eyes to adjust, and then started carefully across the lawn. With luck no one would look for her until long after she was gone.

She stumbled in a rabbit hole and almost fell. Damn it! She couldn’t risk turning an ankle.

She slowed her pace. Once she reached the road, the ground would level out and she’d be able to move faster, but for now it paid to be cautious. She would not worry—even at this rate she should reach The Blue Heron in an hour or two, well before the stagecoach pulled in. And then she would leave Standen—her home—for good.

She sniffed. Blast. She couldn’t cry. Papa truly had left her no choice.

She concentrated on picking her way across the lawn.

The sun wasn’t up yet, but he was.

David sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed his face. Enough tossing and turning. He’d go out for a ride, clear the cobwebs from his brain and the cricks from his back. Maybe he’d head toward Standen just to get the lay of the land.

He met Reverend Barnsley in the corridor. They walked together down the stairs.

“Up early, Lord Dawson?”

“Couldn’t sleep. And you? Did you also find your bed a touch lumpy?”

“No, slept like a rock. I’m out to commune with God’s creation—and see if the fish are biting. I left my gear outside—just ran back to get my prayer book.” He grinned. “Forgot it at first.”

“Ah. Good fishing hereabouts?”

“Indeed. I had the great fortune to strike up a conversation with the innkeeper after you went upstairs last night. He said there’s a smashing fishing hole within walking distance. Care to join me?”

David needed to move, not sit. “No, thanks. I’m off for a short ride.”

They stepped outside. There was Barnsley’s pole, leaning against the wall. The reverend nodded and picked up his gear. “Enjoy your ride,” he said and strolled off toward a line of trees.

David headed for the stables. It was cool and damp, with a touch of mist lingering on the ground. He drew in a deep breath. He felt better already.

“Morning, milord.” The stable boy jumped up from the pile of hay he’d been lounging on. “I’ll be getting yer horse—”

“No, thanks. I’ll saddle him myself.”

“As ye wish, milord.”

Zeus nickered a welcome. He seemed eager to get out and stretch his legs. As soon as they reached the road, David gave him his head. They thundered over the ground, the damp wind blowing some of the dark cloud from his soul. He wasn’t hopeful, but he felt less blue-deviled.

He saw a figure trudging toward him—a figure in skirts. The woman looked up—she must have heard Zeus’s hoof beats—and then dashed off into the trees.

Odd. Did she need to answer a sudden call of nature? He would give her her privacy. He rode past at a gallop…and slowed.

It was early and somewhat dark. She was a woman alone. It was unlikely she was in any danger, but one never knew what riffraff might be lurking in the woods.

He looked back. She was walking again, moving like someone who needed to be somewhere quickly. Surely he could help her. He turned and started to gallop toward her.

She glanced over her shoulder—and darted back into the trees.

What the hell? He slowed. Was she afraid of him? She couldn’t be—at least, she couldn’t be afraid of him personally. No one but Grace would recognize him in this part of England—and, in any event, he’d never had a woman fear him. Was someone—some man—tracking this poor girl? She must think herself in danger to hide at the first sign of a fellow traveler.

He urged Zeus forward, peering into the trees as he approached the place where she had disappeared.

“Madam,” he called out. “Please don’t be alarmed. I would like to help you, if I may.”

He saw movement a little farther ahead. He kept Zeus to a walk, staying on the road.

“I promise I won’t harm you. I’m Baron Dawson of Riverview. Please tell me how I might assist you.”

Had he heard a gasp?

The girl peered from behind a tree and then stepped out of the foliage. She was tall and…familiar.

“David? David, is that really you?”

“Grace!” He swung off Zeus’s back.

She ran toward him and he opened his arms. He took her lush body against his, holding her tightly while he kissed her.

Her mouth was wet and hot and wonderful. Her breasts were so soft against his chest—she must not be wearing a corset. It would take only a moment to have this cloak off her, and just a moment more for her dress to follow. And then his shirt and breeches…

Was he dreaming? If he was, he never wanted to waken.

He moved from her mouth to her cheek.

“Oh, David, I’m so glad to see you.”

This dream just got better and better. “And I’m very, very glad to see you, Grace.” He lifted her silky, long hair to nuzzle her neck.

“Oh, please…”

He kissed a spot right under her ear and started moving down her neck.

“…please stop.”

What? He raised his head. This couldn’t be his dream. He would never have Grace telling him to stop. This was either a nightmare or it was actually happening.

“You want me to stop?”

“Yes. You must.” She looked up at him, but kept her lovely, soft body exactly where he wanted it—plastered against his. He ran his hands down her back and pulled her wonderful derriere closer. She didn’t resist at all.

“Why?”

“I must get to The Blue Heron. I am running away from home.”

“Oh.” A horrible thought struck him. “You haven’t married the neighbor, have you?”

“No.” She rested her head against his chest. “I couldn’t do it, David. But I’m supposed to marry John this morning. That’s why I’m running away. Papa refused to see reason. He’ll force me down the aisle if I don’t escape. I have to make it to the inn in time to get a seat on the London stagecoach.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do. You don’t know Papa.”

“Well, he can’t force you to marry this neighbor if you’re already married to me, can he?”

“What?” Grace gaped up at him so deliciously he had to kiss her again—and run his hands over her enticing body as well.

“Marry me. Please, Grace? You truly would make me the happiest of men. I came all this way in the hopes of persuading you.”

“But—”

“I tried not to come, even though Alex and your aunt and my grandmother—even Miss Smyth—urged me to do so. I was intending to return to London. But they all assured me you loved me—and I finally realized you’d never said you didn’t.”

“Ah.”

It was a small point, perhaps, but it was enough to have given him courage. He cupped her face in his hands and looked into her eyes. He wanted her to see the truth of what he was saying.

“I love you, Grace. I know that beyond a shadow of a doubt. And I will never get over this love. If you won’t have me, my life will go on; I might even marry someday, but I will never stop loving you. Just as Alex never stopped loving your aunt.”

“And Papa never stopped loving your mother.” She was crying a little and smiling—and still leaning against him. That must be a good sign.

“I have a special license. I got it before we left for Motton’s house party. And there just so happens to be a minister at The Blue Heron who will, I’m sure, be delighted to marry us, and a very nice couple who I’m equally certain would be willing to act as our witnesses. We can be married within the hour—within the half hour.” And in bed moments later, but he wouldn’t say that. No need to push his luck.

“Well…”

“Please, Grace? I love you to distraction.” And he was especially distracted at the moment by her scent and her taste and the heavenly feel of her curves against his chest and his hips and his—

Good God, he was panting. He took a deep breath—which only pushed his body tighter against hers. “I would love to spend my life loving you, Grace. Please say you’ll marry me.”

“Oh, David.” She was crying more than smiling now. “I do love you so much. I was miserable as soon as the carriage pulled away from Viscount Motton’s estate, and I’ve been miserable every day—every hour, every minute—since. I was foolish and wrong when I left you. I love my father, but you are my life, my future. Of course, I will marry you.”

“Huzzah!” He picked her up and twirled her around. He had never, ever been so happy. “Then let’s go find Reverend Barnsley and the Weyfords.” He took her hand and pulled her over to Zeus. She stopped suddenly.

“I can’t ride with you! Your poor horse will collapse under our weight.”

“No, he won’t, will you, Zeus, old man?”

Zeus snorted and shook his head. Grace laughed.

“See?” David said. “Zeus thinks you are being ridiculous, and I agree. Come on.” He grabbed Grace around the waist and lifted her onto Zeus’s back; then he swung up to sit behind her, wrapping his arms around her to hold her securely. If he enjoyed the feel of her curves…well, it was all in the name of safety.

Grace settled back into David’s arms. She was finally where she belonged—where she most wanted to be.

The walk from Standen had been nerve-wracking. It had been so dark. She’d tripped over every rock and root and jumped at every animal call, every rustle in the bushes. The back of her neck was stiff from worry—she’d been terrified someone would come after her and take her back to Standen. And the thought of traveling alone all the way to London…Well, she was very glad she wouldn’t have to endure that experience.

She tensed. She wasn’t safe yet. The moment Papa discovered her missing, he would turn the house upside down and scour the countryside looking for her. If he found her with David, there was no telling what he would do. And when they got to The Blue Heron…

“David, Mr. Timms, the innkeeper, thinks I’m marrying John this morning. If he sees me, he’ll wonder…”

“Don’t worry. I think we can avoid Mr. Timms.”

She saw The Blue Heron ahead of them now. David turned, taking them into the trees a short distance from the inn. He dismounted and helped her down.

“Stay here while I put Zeus back in the stable and find the Weyfords.”

She watched him lead his horse away. There was no good place for a woman her size to hide. What would she do if a servant came by? Most, if not all, of the people who worked at the inn would recognize her. She could crouch in that thicket perhaps—

“Grace—”

“Eek-ahem.” She tried to turn her squeak into a cough.

David raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Grace, this is Mr. and Mrs. Weyford from Kent. They are on an extended wedding trip. Mr. and Mrs. Weyford, my very-soon-to-be bride, Lady Grace Belmont.”

“How nice to meet you, Lady Grace.” Mr. Weyford bowed.

“And how romantic—a wedding in the woods.” Mrs. Weyford smiled.

David put Grace’s hand on his arm. “Let us hope Reverend Barnsley will consent to take a break from his sport to perform the ceremony.”

Reverend Barnsley—at least, that’s who Grace assumed the man standing on the riverbank holding a large fish was—grinned at them as they approached.

“Will you look at this beauty?” he said, holding the fish higher. “It must be close to a foot long, don’t you think?”

“At least a foot,” David said. “Reverend, may I present my fiancée, Lady Grace Belmont?”

“A pleasure to meet you, Lady Grace.” Reverend Barnsley transferred his fish to his left hand before taking Grace’s fingers in his right.

“And you, Reverend Barnsley.” She tried to keep smiling. If the man would perform the wedding ceremony, she couldn’t cavil over a bit of piscine odor. “That’s a very fine fish you have there.”

“A trout, Lady Grace. A very fine trout.”

“Indeed.” She looked at David. The annoying man was struggling not to laugh.

“I say, that is a fine trout, Reverend.” Mr. Weyford stepped closer to examine the catch. “What are you using for bait?”

Before Reverend Barnsley could launch into a dissertation, David cleared his throat. “Reverend, if I might interrupt, I was hoping you could do me a small favor.”

“A favor? Of course, Lord Dawson. How can I help?”

David pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket. “I have a special license here, and Mr. and Mrs. Weyford have agreed to act as witnesses. Lady Grace and I would like you to marry us.”

Reverend Barnsley examined the paper. “It seems to be in order.” He looked up and smiled. “I’d be happy to officiate. Where and when did you wish to marry?”

“Here and now,” David said.

Reverend Barnsley’s eyebrows shot up. “By the trout pool?”

“Can you think of a better spot?” David asked.

Grace looked at the grass, the trees, the water. It was a beautiful place for a wedding.

Reverend Barnsley grinned. “No, by Jove, I can’t. Here, Weyford, if you would be so kind?” The minister handed Mr. Weyford his trout to hold, then bent to pick up his prayer book.

Chapter 21

“What a stroke of good luck that the Weyfords are trout-mad, too.” David hauled Grace across the lawn to the inn.

“Why?” Grace dug in her heels. “Will you slow down? What is the rush?”

He stopped and grinned down at her. She was flushed and her wonderful bosom was heaving. In just a few moments, he would see every inch of that lovely, large…

Something else was growing painfully large.

“Because I should probably buy breakfast for everyone to celebrate our marriage, but I am very—very—anxious to celebrate in an entirely different, extremely private manner, if you get my meaning.” He brushed her breast to help her comprehend.

“Oh.” Her color deepened to bright red. “Is it…I mean, do we have to…so soon? It’s daylight. I thought that…activity was something one did at night.”

“Oh, no, I assure you, it can be accomplished at any time or place.” He felt absurdly cheerful. “Even here, now.”

“What!?” Grace’s voice actually squeaked. “Outside?” She looked around rather wildly. “Here?”

“Well, yes, though I personally don’t like the public nature of this specific location. But it is certainly physically possible. Still, I think a bed and a locked door would be better for your first time, don’t you think?”

“Ah. Er. Um.”

Obviously, Grace was too overcome to express her opinion.

“And I did think it best, given our situation, that we consummate our marriage promptly. It makes it so much more…final, don’t you think, if your father should happen to stop by the inn looking for you? I assume we have not passed the time when your wedding to Parker-Roth was to take place?”

“Oh. Yes. You’re right.” Grace darted a glance toward the road, then grabbed his hand and started almost running toward the inn.

He did like an eager bride.

Grace felt her heart pounding just like it had when she’d first launched herself out her bedroom window. It must be too late for Papa to make her marry John. She was already married. But David was right. Best to be very married.

She pulled the hood of her cloak low so it shaded her face as they got closer to the inn. She would prefer the servants not recognize her sneaking up the back stairs into a man’s room.

Heavens, what was she doing?

She hesitated, but David did not. He yanked open the door and pulled her in after him, up the narrow stairs, down the corridor to his room. She slipped inside and he followed her, closing the door and locking it securely behind him.

Thank God. She released her breath in a sigh of relief. She was finally—

Her eyes found the bed, and her heart started thudding in her chest again.

“Don’t be nervous, Grace.” David’s fingers found the clasp on her cloak and opened it.

“I’m n-not n-nervous.” She stepped away as soon as her cloak came off in his hands. “Well, m-maybe I am.”

She looked horrible. She should have taken the time to put on her corset. What had she been thinking? Now her overlarge breasts were hanging and jiggling in a most distressing way. And her hair had long fallen out of its pins.

“I don’t have a nightgown.”

David laughed!

“Grace, love, a nightgown would be very much in the way.”

“It would?”

He nodded.

She thought about that. Of course, she knew a bed was involved in marital relations, and she didn’t usually climb into bed with her dress and shift on, but there was no reason why she couldn’t. In this case, with inn sheets involved, perhaps it was just as well. She would…

David was unfastening her dress.

“What are you doing?”

His lips curved in a slow smile and his eyes were positively hot. “I’m getting you completely, utterly, wonderfully naked.”

“Eek!” She wriggled free. “Surely that is not a good idea.”

He followed her retreat across the room. “On the contrary, it is a splendid idea. A brilliant idea.” He smiled again. “An idea I’ve thought about and dreamt about since I first saw you enter Alvord’s ballroom.”

“You’re jesting.” Oh, dear. His smile…she was throbbing again in that very embarrassing place. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop looking at me that way. It makes my stomach feel all fluttery.”

“Really?” He looked at her stomach—

She covered it with her hands. Thank God she still had her dress on. “Yes, really.”

“You know, I think that is probably a good thing.” He’d stopped trying to touch her, but now his fingers were working on his own clothes. He flung his greatcoat and coat in a corner and started on his waistcoat.

“What are you doing?”

“I’ve decided perhaps you are shy because I am fully clothed, so I’m rectifying that situation.”

“Oh.”

The waistcoat and cravat went flying. Then he loosened the neck of his shirt and grabbed its hem.

“Ah, do you think…I mean…um, well…are you sure that is wise?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Wait a moment.” He lifted his arms, pulling the shirt up and over his head. Then it, too, flew off to the side.

Oh. Her mouth went suddenly dry. Her heart felt as if it had stopped, but the lower place was throbbing wildly enough for two hearts. She grabbed a chair back. Her knees were threatening to give out.

He was beautiful. His arms curved with muscle, his shoulders were huge—amazing they had fit in his coat. His broad chest was covered with golden hair. Was it as soft as it looked?

“Like what you see?”

“Hmm.”

Suddenly he was close enough for her to touch. She put her hand on his chest. Yes, the hair was soft, but his body was hard, like warm marble.

“Then let me see, too.” He reached for her dress.

“No.” She snatched her hand—regretfully—back to hold onto her bodice. “You don’t want to see. I’m much too large.”

David’s gaze narrowed, becoming hotter. “You cannot be too large.”

She shook her head. What did men know? “Oh, yes. I am…huge. Not ladylike at all.”

She watched him swallow. His voice sounded strained.

“Grace, listen to me. I like large. I love huge.” He laughed, an oddly shaky sound.

“But ladies are supposed to be small and delicate.”

He rolled his eyes and stepped back. “Look at me. Do I look small and delicate?”

She looked at him. He was magnificent…and very, very large from the top of his head to his broad shoulders and chest, his flat, muscular stomach, his…

She blushed. There was a very significant bulge under the fall of his breeches. “N-no. You are not s-small.”

“Of course not. And I don’t want a small woman. I would crush her. I need—I want—a large woman. You, Grace. I want you.”

He put his hands on her shoulders. “Please don’t hide from me. I want to see—I’m dying to see—every glorious inch of you.” His hands moved, slipping her dress off her shoulders. “Please? Please let me see. Let me touch.” His hands moved lower. “Let me taste.”

How could she say no? Her body ached for him. She wanted him as much, or more, than he wanted her. It was a madness, but one she felt powerless to cure.

Or perhaps he was her cure.

“Yes,” she whispered as her dress whispered over her breasts and down to her waist. She heard David suck in his breath; she felt her nipples peak, pushing against the thin covering of her shift.

And then her shift slipped down to her waist as well.

“God, Grace, you are so beautiful.”

“No, I…ah.”

His hands were on her breasts now, stroking their sides. His fingertip traced a circle around one nipple. He was…looking at her.

She should have been mortified. She was mortified, but she was also…excited. Her breasts felt so sensitive.

And then his thumb flicked over the hard nub of her nipple.

“Eek!”

“Do you like that?” David murmured.

“Y-yes.” It felt wonderful.

His mouth moved to cover her nipple and suck. Ah! She felt the pull all the way to the achy, wet, empty place between her legs. It was beyond wonderful. And then his hands brushed her waist, and her dress and shift slithered the rest of the way to the ground.

She was completely naked and shockingly happy to be so. She felt so alive and…powerful. David was staring at her with an almost worshipful expression.

He pulled her against his body. His lips teased her neck, her ear. His chest, with its lovely soft hair, felt splendid against her breasts—but his breeches were too rough on her other tender flesh. She pushed away from him so she could solve that problem. She reached for the buttons on his fall.

“Huh?” David raised his head. Grace’s breasts were truly the most beautiful, most glorious breasts he had ever seen, and the taste and scent of her skin were beyond intoxicating, but the sensation of her fingers brushing the front of his breeches made even those delights fade. He was going to explode—hopefully not literally—with happiness.

“You have too many clothes on.” Grace laughed. She felt so free—free to please herself for the first time—well, and to please David, too, she hoped. His love had given her this heady, wonderful, overwhelming feeling. She could be angry or happy; she could cry or laugh; she could be serious or silly—he would still love her, and she would still love him.

“If I am completely naked, you should be, also.” She worked loose the first button. She was thankful, too. She had barely escaped disaster—and marrying poor John would definitely have been a disaster. She would have locked herself—locked them all—forever in the dark prison of duty.

If she’d wed John, she would never have known this heat, this life that was surging through her. She hadn’t known it existed when she’d defied Papa and gone with Aunt Kate to London. Its first whisper had teased her when she’d seen David in the Duke of Alvord’s ballroom, and it had grown in her with each kiss, each touch, each word exchanged. It was lust and it was love, and she was now finally—finally!—going to discover its depth and breadth. She laughed and stroked David’s growing bulge through the cloth of his fall.

David bit his lip. Ah. Grace shy was adorable, but Grace bold was incredibly erotic. She was killing him—in the best possible way—as she worked on opening his breeches. He felt each brush of her fingers on his cock, yes—that was wonderful—but in his heart also. Seeing her beautiful, red-gold hair cascading over her creamy, lush breasts with their delicately tinted nipples, inhaling the sweet scent of her heat and desire…well, he’d almost wager his cock would tear his buttons free by itself if Grace didn’t manage to slip them from their holes.

But she did. Finally she opened the last button and his fall fell away. He’d dispensed with drawers this morning, not knowing at the time what an inspired decision that was, so his heated flesh sprang naked into the cool air of the room and Grace’s gentle touch.

“Oh, my.” Grace stared at the prize in her hands. So this was the male member. She ran her finger carefully from its root to its tip. It jumped…with delight? David sucked in his breath sharply. She glanced up at him. His face looked strained, but in a good way.

His voice sounded strained, too. “You can”—he swallowed—“touch…me…all you want, love. You won’t hurt me.”

“No?” She wrapped her hand around him. He was large and warm, soft and hard. Quite different from her.

“No.” He was almost panting. “N-not at all.”

“I see.” She grinned and moved her hand up his length. He groaned. Her fingers flew away as if burned. She frowned at him. “You said I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“And you didn’t.” He moistened his lips. A bead of sweat slid down his face. He seemed to be having difficulty forming sentences. “That was a groan of pleasure.”

“A groan of pleasure?” She looked extremely skeptical. And, God, she wrapped her lovely fingers around him again. Some day he would love to play this game—let her take the lead entirely—but not today. Today he needed to get to the…point before he collapsed or spent himself ignobly in her hand.

“Indeed. Here, I will make you groan, too.”

She snorted. “No, you won’t.”

Zounds, he loved her. He would never have guessed this kind of love existed. He’d made love to enough females—but he now realized it had never been love he’d been making.

He grinned. “Would you care to wager on it?”

“Well…” Grace hesitated—and then grinned back at him in a delightfully shy, mischievous fashion. “Yes. What shall be the stakes?”

“Hmm. If I make you groan, you will do one thing in bed that I ask you to do.”

She frowned. “What kind of thing?”

“Something you will enjoy, I promise.”

She laughed. “All right. And if I win?”

“Well, I’m not sure you’ll have won if you don’t groan—and I shall be very disappointed with myself—but if you don’t, I will do one thing you ask me to do—in bed.”

She chewed on her lip for a moment. “Very well, I accept your terms.” She held out her hand to seal the agreement.

He clasped it and pulled her against him. Wonderful—but his breeches were still in the way. He wriggled out of them and picked Grace up.

“Oh! Be careful. I’m too heavy.”

“No, you aren’t.” He lifted her higher, so his mouth could reach one of her nipples. “You don’t seem at all heavy to me.” He flicked her nipple with his tongue and she squeaked.

“I should have bet I could make you squeak.” He carried her over to the bed and dropped her onto the mattress, making her squeak again. “But that would have been too easy.”

He joined her. The mattress must still be lumpy, but he didn’t feel it now. Grace wasn’t complaining either. She was spread out on her back, looking trustingly up at him.

God, he felt such love. He wanted to make Grace groan, yes, but he also wanted to make her laugh, keep her safe, give her children, entwine his life with hers year after year after year until they were truly inseparable.

He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, and her mouth—quite thoroughly. He explored her neck, her breasts, her belly, and her lovely, soft thighs. He—

She pressed her legs together before he reached his goal.

“What are you doing?” She sounded quite alarmed.

He looked up at her. “Kissing you. Isn’t that obvious?”

She struggled onto her elbows. “I-I am certain what you are doing is inappropriate.”

“Indeed?” He brushed his lips over the reddish curls at his end of her lovely body. “In which book of manners did you find a list of appropriate forms of marital kissing? I’ve not seen that tome.”

She flushed—all of her flushed. It was a truly delightful display. “I have not read it in a book, of course.”

“No? So which patroness of Almack’s made this pronouncement?”

“Don’t be absurd. The patronesses don’t discuss such things.”

“They’ve ruled on the appropriateness of dances. And, now that I think on it, they have approved the waltz, so I believe they would definitely find this form of kissing unexceptional.”

“David, you are being absurd.”

“Not at all.” He stroked her thighs; she sucked in her breath and opened them for him. “But I’m not certain they would approve of this type of kissing. You must ask them when next we are in Town.”

“What are you—eek!”

She closed her knees again in shock as he flicked his tongue over the hard little nub hidden in her curls. How delightful—she’d trapped him exactly where he wished to be. He licked her again.

“Oh! Oh!” Her hands gripped his head, her fingers weaving through his hair. “D-David.”

“I think that was more of a wail than a groan.”

“What?”

“I must make you groan, remember?”

“What are you—oh!”

He smiled as his tongue slid over and around her. He breathed in her musky scent, tasting her deeply. Her hips bucked and shifted. She made lovely little sounds—definitely squeaks and gasps and moans…but did she groan?

No matter. He was about to groan. He was so hard, and she was so wet and ready. It was time, but first…

He felt the tension in her body build, heard her breath catch…and then he touched his tongue delicately once more to her hard little pleasure point. She made an odd sound—a soft scream—and sat up. Then she groaned—definitely a groan—and fell back onto the mattress.

He followed her, slipping into her body, thrusting through her barrier as quickly, as gently as he could, and holding, surrounded by her wet heat. He had never felt anything so wonderful in his life.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Yes.” She sounded very annoyed.

“I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“It had better not.”

He kissed the tip of her nose. He wanted to give her time to adjust, but his body was clamoring for release.

“The first part was lovely, though.” Her hands slid down his sweat-slicked back to his buttocks.

Her touch was exquisite. And her body under his…heaven. So soft and hot and wet. He couldn’t wait another instant. He moved as cautiously as he was able.

“Is…is that all right?”

“Mmm.” She gripped his arse harder, pulled him toward her, and wiggled her hips.

“Ah.” It was too much. He thrust again.

Gentle. Careful. Not too hard.

He was fighting a losing battle. At least he was going to be fast—not usually a good thing, but with this being Grace’s first time, probably a blessing.

Blessing or curse, it was the way it was going to be.

He managed to hold onto a thin thread of control until the final glide through her tight heat. He stopped deep inside her, suspended in anticipation, and then his seed leapt into her welcoming body.

He collapsed as carefully as he could onto her. He felt her arms go round him, hugging him close.

Grace closed her eyes. It had all been so overwhelming. She ran her hands up his back and breathed as deeply as she could. Her legs cradled his hips. She was surrounded by his heat and scent. It was wonderful.

She felt very, very married.

“I’m too heavy for you,” he murmured by her ear. He moved off and out of her.

She shivered. Without his body covering hers, she was chilled—but not for long. David pulled the covers up and gathered her close. She nestled her head in the crook of his shoulder.

The place between her legs was sore and wet—and empty now. Had she really felt…what she’d felt?

“Are you all right, Grace?”

“Mmm.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She smoothed her fingers over the hair on his stomach. Words were beyond her abilities at the moment.

David ran his hand up and down her side. “Where were you going to take the stagecoach if I hadn’t found you?”

“London.” She licked his skin. Mmm. Salty. “To Aunt Kate.” She pressed herself closer. She would like to do what they’d just done again.

“I doubt she’s there. I didn’t get a chance to tell you, but when you were packing and leaving with your father, my uncle and your aunt were…having a frank and thorough discussion.”

“Oh?”

“Like the frank and thorough discussion we just had.”

“Oh.” Aunt Kate had done…this? Surely she was too old.

“Alex left Motton’s estate shortly before I did to procure a special license. He and your aunt are probably married and on their honeymoon now.”

“Aunt Kate didn’t wait for me?” She should feel offended—would feel offended when she could feel anything beyond this overwhelming languor.

“Well, they were in a bit of a hurry. Your aunt is carrying Alex’s child.”

That news broke through her lassitude. She sat up.

“What?!”

“Your aunt is going to be a mother.” He cupped her breast, stroked it. “And my uncle is going to be a father.”

“Oh.” David’s touch felt so good; it was completely distracting. She should think about her aunt, but later. Now desire curled low in her stomach; the sore spot between her legs started to throb. Could they do what they’d just done again?

Another thought managed to drift through her heated consciousness.

“If I hadn’t run away, I’d probably be at church now.”

David leaned forward and licked her nipple. “I’m glad you’re not.”

“So am I.” She arched her back, trying to encourage him to keep doing what he was doing. For the first time since she’d reached womanhood she wasn’t embarrassed by her breasts. She was almost proud of them. She frowned. “I do hope Papa spoke to John.”

David pulled her onto his chest. “Stop worrying. Parker-Roth’s a grown man. He should have realized he didn’t have your love.” He cradled her head and kissed her very thoroughly. “Frankly, your passion would have been wasted on him.”

“And it’s not wasted on you?”

“Of course not. I made you groan, didn’t I?”

She grinned down at him, mischief in her eyes again. “I’m not so certain you did.”

David’s eyes widened. “What do you mean? I had you writhing and moaning.”

“Ah, but was I groaning? Moaning, yes, I’ll grant you moaning. But groaning…I’m not so certain.”

David shrugged, causing his skin to slide in a very delightful way across her nipples. They peaked at once—and the bold man noticed. His hand came up to play with one hard nub.

“I see you are a difficult woman, Lady Dawson. And I, being the gentleman I am, do not wish to dispute a lady—especially my lady wife. I will concede to you this time.” His thumb pressed on her nipple, and she drew in a sharp breath. “What is my penalty?”

“That was an easy question to answer. She knew exactly what she wanted. “You must do what you just did—everything you just did.”

“Everything?” He pressed her nipple again, and she felt his touch all the way to her womb. “You mean from the time your lovely back first hit this not-so-lovely mattress?”

“Yes.” Grace smiled in anticipation. She wiggled slightly and felt a specific part of him grow. “Everything.”

David grinned. “My pleasure, Lady Dawson.” He flipped her onto her back and kissed her, his free hand sliding over her body to the place that most ached for his touch. “My very, very great pleasure.”

WHEN HIS KISS IS WICKED

KAITLIN O’RILEY

MORE THAN A KISS

“I should go,” she murmured again, her aquamarine eyes still on his.

“Don’t go yet.”

He stepped closer to her, causing his heart to pound in his head. Every single nerve in his body tensed at the closeness of her. Maybe it was the wine he had with supper. Maybe it was her light, sweet violet fragrance that surrounded him, enveloped him. Maybe it was inevitable. But he had to kiss her just once, and then he would send her home.

Just one kiss.

In one quick movement, his arm reached out and encircled her, pulling her up against his chest, and his mouth came down over hers possessively. As he lost himself in the feel of her seductive lips, the soft silken touch of her mouth responding wildly to his, he held her even tighter, the length of his body pressed intimately against hers.

He had Colette Hamilton in his arms just feet away from his bedroom.

He knew then with a dreadful certainty that this would not end with just one kiss…

Books by Kaitlin O’Riley

SECRETS OF A DUCHESS

ONE SINFUL NIGHT

WHEN HIS KISS IS WICKED

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

For my sister, Jane.

I truly could not have done this one without you.

Thank you for everything, especially the champagne and bacon.

And for Dad.

Thanks for being my research department.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Acknowledgments

I give my most heartfelt gratitude for all their love, support, and wisdom, as well as for helping me in vast and various ways, to the following people:

My West Coast contingent: Jennifer & Greg Malins, Maureen Milmore, Billy Van Zandt, Adrienne Barbeau, Jaime Merz, David Horvitz, Eric Anderson, and all my wonderful friends at CH.

My East Coast contingent: Jane Milmore, Richard Vaczy, Janet Wheeler, Scott Wheeler, John Milmore, Yvonne Deane, Kim McCafferty, Michele Weiner, Jeff Babey, Lynn Kroll, Laurence Cogger (merci beaucoup! ), Jane Dystel, Miriam Goderich, and John Scognamiglio.

(And a special thank you goes out to the inspiration for the character of Jeffrey Eddington.)

Note to Riley: You make me proud every minute of every day.

Chapter One

You Can’t Judge a Book by Its Cover

London, England

May 1870

“Hello!” a deep masculine voice called. “Is anybody here?”

The words echoed through Hamilton’s Book Shoppe, a small but quaint building on a side lane off Bond Street in Mayfair, London’s most fashionable district. Lucien Sinclair, the Earl of Waverly, looked around the dark and cluttered interior searching for signs of the proprietor.

Growing impatient, Lucien ventured another call, this time a little louder. Honestly, one would think Mr. Hamilton had no desire to do any business if he were not present to greet potential customers when they arrived.

“Just a moment, please!” a dulcet voice exclaimed from the back of the shop. “I shall be right with you!”

Finally. A response of some sort. Well, that explained the delay, Lucien thought to himself. Apparently a woman was left to tend the shop. Perhaps Mr. Hamilton was out for the day, in which case his little venture would be for naught. He highly doubted the lady in the back room would be able to assist him.

He had met the owner of the shop over a year ago and had found him to be most agreeable. A kind and genial man who was very intent on helping Lucien choose the exact type of literature that would interest him, Mr. Hamilton wouldn’t rest until Lucien was totally satisfied with his selection of authors. Lucien had only purchased the books out of boredom one day, hoping to ease the restlessness that plagued him from time to time, but once he returned home, he had lost interest in the little stack of books chosen by the eager bookseller, and he became immersed in his demanding social life once again.

However, a few weeks ago his father’s sudden illness required him to spend more time at home to look after the weakened man and keep him company. Lucien began to read to his bedridden father, finally putting the forgotten books to good use, and surprise of surprises, he had actually enjoyed them. He realized how much he missed reading for pleasure, since he had not done much of it since his days at Oxford. Now he wanted to speak with Mr. Hamilton, not only to thank him, but also to ask his suggestion for new books he and his father might appreciate.

Glancing around, he noticed the little bookshop was not quite how he remembered it, but then again it had been over a year since he had visited there last. If he was not mistaken, the bookshop had been remarkably like any other that he had seen in his life; dark, disordered, and fairly dusty. Now it appeared to be undergoing some sort of transformation. Wooden crates, some of which were stacked and some open, and an assortment of hundreds of leather-bound books lay scattered in haphazard heaps on the floor, large buckets of paint and various sized brushes rested on a work table, and long sheets of canvas covered half the room.

“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.” That clear and gentle voice intoned once again and Lucien turned to see a woman walking toward him. “Welcome to Hamilton’s. How may I help you, sir?”

Never one to miss a pretty face, Lucien instinctively noted the one belonging to the lady in front of him. From her small stature, he judged her to be very young, perhaps seventeen, seeing as there was a youthful air about her. Still, she approached him in a businesslike manner. She must be minding her papa’s store for the first time. He frowned.

“I was hoping to speak to Mr. Hamilton,” he responded in his most imperious tone.

As she stepped closer he revised his initial impression of her, for she was more than passably pretty. In spite of the dirt smudges on her fair skin, the dust motes sprinkled in her rich brunette hair, and the drab, shapeless gray smock that covered the navy dress she wore, her face was stunningly beautiful in its perfection. Her deep blue eyes, insightful and steady, regarded him with what seemed like skepticism. Even disdain. Her demeanor shocked him. Such an odd thing! Couldn’t she tell he was a nobleman? What would prompt the beautiful girl to look at him in such a condescending way? As if she knew more than he did? As if she had dealt with his kind before?

“I am Miss Hamilton, his daughter. I can assist you.”

The challenging, practically defiant, tilt to her head almost knocked him over. Once again he realized he was in error. She was older than he first thought, for she handled herself far too confidently. She must be closer to twenty. Again he frowned. He refused to deal with a haughty shopkeeper’s daughter.

“I’m sure you are quite a charming young lady, but I was hoping your father could assist me. Perhaps I shall return at another time when he is available to offer his expertise. Would you please tell me when I could expect him?”

“My father passed away six months ago.” She stated this matter-of-factly, revealing no emotion, her face calm and serene.

Feeling like a callous idiot, he said earnestly, “I am very sorry to hear that, Miss Hamilton. I only knew him briefly, but your father seemed to be a good man. Please accept my sincerest condolences on your loss.”

She nodded her head in acknowledgment of his sympathy. “Thank you.”

After an awkward pause, he asked out of polite curiosity, “Who is responsible for running the bookshop now?”

“I am.”

That truly took him aback. A mere woman, this little slip of a girl, maintaining a business? It was preposterous. Ridiculous. Unheard of. She ought to be safely married with a home to manage, not working in a store.

“How old are you?” Lucien asked without thinking.

“Old enough. How old are you?” she countered quickly.

Her slightly sarcastic response irritated him. “Surely you have help? You could not handle such an enterprise on your own. A brother or an uncle or a male cousin must be overseeing you,” he said.

Again that defiant look crossed the elegant features of her face, making her appear more assertive than he had first anticipated.

“You are aware that a woman is running our country, are you not?”

“Well, that’s different,” he sputtered in his defense. “Queen Victoria was born and raised to rule and has advisors and counselors to guide her.”

“I too was raised to oversee this shop. I have no male relatives to help me, yet I manage quite well without the assistance of men, thank you,” she responded with unmasked condescension.

Lucien did not approve of women having to work, and for some reason her particular situation upset him. This girl was far too beautiful to be in charge of a business with no male to guide her decisions and ease her burdens. From his point of view, it was simply wrong. A woman should be taken care of, not left to fend for herself.

“You seem rather too delicate and too young to shoulder such weighty responsibilities, Miss Hamilton.”

She sighed heavily, her manner revealing she had explained this many times before. “I’ve been assisting my father since I was a child. I assure you, I am quite capable of running the bookshop on my own, Mister…?”

He gazed at her skeptically, but answered her unspoken question. “I apologize for not introducing myself sooner. I am Lucien Sinclair, the Earl of Waverly. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Hamilton.”

“How can I assist you today, Lord Waverly?” she asked with a decidedly lofty tone.

He could not help but notice the unmistakable emphasis she placed on the “I” when she spoke. Irked by her obvious confidence, he glared back at her. She really should be more solicitous of him as a potential customer. And as a gentleman. Something about her made him want to rattle that self-assurance of hers a little.

“I came to speak to your father about selecting some books, but since you are here, let’s see if you can help me. I need to purchase a gift. A present for”—he paused with deliberateness, raised one eyebrow, and grinned daringly at her—“a lady.”

She gave him a withering look and he wondered if she treated all her customers with such disdain or just him in particular.

“Was there a specific type of book you had in mind for this lady?” she questioned with an air of superiority.

Noting her skeptical inflection of the word lady, Lucien felt slightly vindicated. “Are you knowledgeable about poetry?” he asked, for Lord knew he was not.

“Knowledgeable enough.”

Something about the shape of her mouth intrigued him and he could not stop staring at her lips. They were full, sensual looking, and the color of summer-ripe berries. He found himself wondering what they would taste like and if they would be as sweet as they looked. How was a girl this beautiful not married yet? She must be an awful harridan. It was the only explanation that made sense.

“What about love poems?” he continued. “Do you know anything about love poems?”

“I think I know what you have in mind,” she stated dryly.

He was trying to bait her and she refused to be reeled in. Miss Hamilton merely turned and made her way carefully to a stack of books in the corner. She picked up a small, red leather-bound book and handed it to him.

“This should do.”

He glanced at the gold-lettered title, A Collection of Romantic Love Poems, and laughed. “Now, how did you know this was exactly what I had in mind?”

“Experience,” she retorted without hesitation.

He shook his head in mock surprise. “My, my, Miss Hamilton, I wouldn’t have expected it of you.”

Ignoring his innuendo, she gazed at him wearily.

“Have you read this?” he asked out of perverse curiosity.

“Yes.”

“Which poem do you recommend as being the most romantic?”

“Page seventy-four.” She folded her arms across her chest and sighed. “Now, is there anything else I can do for you today, Lord Waverly?”

“Most definitely, Miss Hamilton, but I don’t believe you would agree to it,” he surprised even himself by saying. Something about the woman set him on edge. He wanted to read the poem on page seventy-four, but found himself staring at her instead.

On impulse he stepped toward her and she instinctively backed away from him. Now that was a reaction he expected. He moved forward and she predictably moved back until she was pressed against a table laden with stacks of books and could retreat no further, her hands braced on the edge of the table behind her. He closed in on her, standing mere inches from her petite body.

At this proximity he was able to breathe her scent. It was something floral and delicate and reminded him of a summer meadow. She smelled heavenly, even though she had obviously been immersed in cleaning before he arrived. Being that she barely reached the middle of his chest, she was required to tilt her head back to see his face. Wide eyes, the color of the sky on a cloudless June morning, stared up at him with mixed emotions. Surprise. Expectation. And again that determined look of defiance. But not fear.

Not this girl.

He had the oddest sensation that she could see right through him, leaving him feeling off balance. A feeling he was decidedly unaccustomed to having. Yet the beauty of her face mesmerized him. Such a dainty little nose! She had perfect skin, as smooth as fine china, with not a freckle or a blemish to be seen. Although the inclination to wipe the dirt smudges from her soft cheek overwhelmed him, he held himself in check, his hands at his sides, his fingers clenched tightly around the book of poems.

Instead, their intense stare continued for what seemed an endlessly long time as her intelligent eyes held his in an unwavering gaze. Something intangible sparked between them. An unexplained intimacy, a sense of knowing, an ethereal bond, a chemistry of sorts. Lucien had heard or read dozens descriptions of such sensations before but never had he felt something this intense himself. It was as if they were suddenly the only two people in the world, and a wild desire to kiss her, to taste for himself those luscious lips, charged through every vein in his body. Lucien realized he was holding his breath, and if he were not mistaken, Miss Hamilton held hers also. That intrigued him and made him want to kiss her even more, to set her world off-kilter, too.

What would she do if he leaned down and kissed her? Would she scream in outrage? Would she slap him in indignation, as she rightfully should? Or would this woman let him kiss her pretty, tempting mouth, pressing his lips ever so softly against hers, just to start? He had earned himself quite a reputation over the years, and many women had gossiped about his romantic talents.

Then again, he had never advanced on an innocent woman he had just met all of five minutes earlier.

What had come over him?

He wanted to kiss her, and he did not like how desperately he wanted to kiss her. He didn’t even like the type of woman she was: independent, defiant, and self-assured. All attributes that he found objectionable in women. Still, unable to stop himself from touching her, he slowly reached out his hand to her. He saw her tremble, felt her expectation, but she did not resist. She did not so much as flinch from him, which made him grin. Her blue eyes rose upward as they followed the movement of his fingers to the top of her head.

Very carefully, and ever so gently, he removed a fluffy dust mote from her silky, coffee-colored hair. Holding the bit of fuzz on the tip of his index finger, he blew on it with a puff of his breath. They both watched in mute fascination as it floated lazily to the ground at their feet.

Suddenly Miss Hamilton pushed by him, spinning back around to face him, her long navy skirt twirling around her legs. In an instant she became all business once again, the intensely intimate yet unexplored moment between them lost, leaving him battling a sense of sharp disappointment at the evaporation of all that moment had promised.

“Since this book of poetry is all you require today, shall I wrap it for you, Lord Waverly?” The frostiness of her tone of voice matched the cold look on her beautiful face. All traces of the warm and inviting woman who had wanted him to kiss her had vanished.

She behaved as if that astonishing feeling had not just passed between them. That a highly charged connection had not sparked so wildly in their eyes. That he, a complete stranger, had not almost kissed her there in broad daylight in the middle of her father’s chaotic little bookshop.

She was not easily ruffled, that was for certain. Whereas he was more unsettled than he cared to admit to himself.

“That would be lovely, Miss Hamilton.” He handed the book of poetry back to her with a gallant sweep of his arm and followed her to the counter. He leaned leisurely on the polished wood, resting his chin on his hand. “Does Miss Hamilton have a first name?”

She glared at him. “Of course I do.”

He grinned at her, his most charming, most winning smile. The one that got him his way with every female he had ever encountered. It truly came in most handy at times.

“May I have the honor of knowing your name?”

“No.”

“No?” He echoed in disbelief, raising an eyebrow, a bit stunned by her refusal.

“No.” She did not meet his eyes.

“Then I shall have to guess your name,” he persisted. “Let’s see…Katherine? Mary? Victoria? Margaret?”

She shook her head at each suggestion as she methodically wrapped the little red leather book in brown paper. Her elegant fingers moved with efficient skill as she folded the paper with sharp, straight creases.

“Nothing traditional, then? Because your father owned a bookshop, perhaps your name has a more literary inclination. How about Lydia? Tess? No, not quite. Alice? Goldilocks?”

He noticed the glimmer of a smile playing at the corners of her sensuous lips and felt his stomach tighten in response to her. He continued his guessing game. “Ophelia? Juliette?”

“Juliette is my sister’s name,” she admitted with slight reluctance.

“Ah, I’m getting warmer. It seems your father had a passion for Shakespeare.”

“No. Juliette is just a coincidence.”

“So it’s simply an affinity for French names, is that it?”

She nodded her head.

“This should be interesting now. I didn’t suspect you of having an exotic French name. Is it Desirée? Jacqueline? Angelique?”

She rolled her blue eyes heavenward in exasperation. “It’s Colette.”

“Colette? How very intriguing.”

In an odd way the French/English name suited her perfectly. Colette Hamilton. She was a woman of contrasts. Beauty and business. Youth and maturity. Sensuality and innocence. He could not stop thinking about her.

She continued to ignore him as she artfully tied a pretty green ribbon around the brown paper package. The bright bow added a distinctive flourish to the wrapping.

“Nice touch,” he commented on her handiwork.

“Thank you.” She held out the gift-wrapped book to him.

“No, it is I who must thank you for your most able assistance, Miss Hamilton.” Once again he grinned devilishly at her. “I gather that no one calls you Coco?”

She eyed him evenly. “No one.”

“You are a lady of few words, aren’t you?”

“When prosaic conversation warrants it.”

“Point taken.” He laughed. He glanced at her lovely profile. “Colette and Juliette. Pretty names for pretty sisters. And it seems you have no brothers, correct?”

“Just three more sisters.”

“There are five of you?” Could such a thing be possible? The thought of five women like her boggled his mind.

For the first time, she smiled; her entire face lit from within. The effect was stunning and he had to catch his breath.

“After me, there is Juliette, Lisette, Paulette, and Yvette is the baby.”

“You are the eldest?”

She nodded in a way that was becoming familiar to him.

“And you all work in the bookshop?”

“Every day.”

“I have even more sympathy for your father now.” He reached inside his coat pocket and took out some money.

She accepted the payment and gave him his change. “Thank you and please come again,” she said with unmistakable sarcasm.

“I wonder if your father would approve of your insolent attitude toward a paying customer,” he could not help but respond, enjoying provoking her.

“My father is no longer here to approve or disapprove of anything I do, Lord Waverly.” She challenged him with her eyes, her chin tilted upward.

“Unfortunately, that is the truth. And that is a shame.” He tipped his hat to her. “Good day, Miss Colette Hamilton.”

Lucien turned and exited the quaint little shop, the bells above the door jingling a gentle good-bye. As he made his way through the bustling London streets, he wondered why he felt so flummoxed after meeting Miss Hamilton. She was quite irritating. Captivatingly beautiful, but irritating nonetheless. What did it really matter, though, in the end? He need never see the impossible woman again, for the logical decision would be to simply find another shop from which to buy books.

Which he had every intention of doing.

Chapter Two

The Root of All Evil

“I expect you both to be a credit to me and comport yourselves with the utmost decorum. Your aunt Cecilia and I have spent all the money we could spare on this little venture, and we count on a large return from the two of you,” Uncle Randall warned for at least the hundredth time, as if Colette and Juliette were a pair of idiots and not aware of the urgency of the situation.

Colette fought the desire to stick her tongue out at him, as Juliette was currently doing behind his back. She knew better than to act that way. Besides, Uncle Randall was looking directly at her. Maintaining a neutral expression required what little self-control she had left, after her unusual encounter in the bookshop that afternoon with the handsome Lord Waverly.

“I hope you understand that if you both don’t marry money quickly, then we are all out in the cold,” he continued in his pompous manner, his bushy eyebrows furrowing ominously. “I cannot continue to provide for all six of you, as well as my own family. You need husbands to take care of you and help support your mother and sisters. It’s more than past the time for you to have married already, Colette. Twenty years old and not yet a wife! Why your father let you remain unwed so long is something I will never understand, but then I never did understand Thomas.”

Randall, her father’s older half brother, inherited the title of Lord Hamilton and the Hamilton estate, but he had run out of funds to support his lavish lifestyle, which included his haughty wife and his wastrel of a son, Nigel. Since Nigel was too spoiled to foist upon an unsuspecting, wealthy heiress for a few more years yet, Uncle Randall had appointed himself guardian of his brother’s five daughters.

Although he appeared the benevolent uncle, Colette was perceptive enough to see through to his true motives. In his role as their guardian, Uncle Randall would benefit from contracting the wealthy marriages of his nieces, which was the only reason he’d decided to launch Colette and Juliette during the coming Season. By selling their beauty to the highest bidder and reaping the financial benefits of two fat marriage settlements, he would also rid himself of the responsibility of his brother’s family once she and Juliette married.

Uncle Randall continued with his repetitive speech, pacing between them, his coattails flapping. “With the Hamilton name and your stunning faces, most men will overlook your lack of dowries. You should both fetch a fine price. I have a few suitable gentlemen in mind for you already, and you will be charming and gracious to them when I introduce you.”

As Uncle Randall turned, he almost caught Juliette making a face at him. In an instant, a look of angelic innocence replaced Juliette’s scornful scowl as Uncle Randall ranted on, oblivious to what was happening. From across the room their mother shook her head in despair, silently pleading with Juliette not to anger their uncle.

“Mais bien sûr. They are my daughters. They will behave as expected, Randall,” Genevieve Hamilton whispered in a faint voice, always somewhat fearful of her overbearing brother-in-law.

“They had better be.” He gave Genevieve a hard look, which conveyed volumes and Colette understood quite clearly.

“We will be.” Unlike her mother, Colette didn’t fear her uncle, but neither did she respect him. However, she was wise enough to understand his reasoning.

As much as she hated to admit it, marrying well would ease the burden on her entire family. Unfortunately, she had absolutely no interest in marrying at the present. If only she had more time, she knew she could make the bookshop a great success. The changes she had in mind would transform the place. Changes her father had never allowed her to make. But now she had the freedom to do as she wished with Hamilton’s. If only they weren’t so pressed for money. If only her younger sisters weren’t depending on her. If only her mother would stand up to Uncle Randall…

She glanced at her mother, who reclined wearily on a chaise. Visits from Uncle Randall or Aunt Cecilia drained her more than usual. Her long gray hair, which had once been a rich brown like her own, now hung loosely from a ribbon at the back of her neck, while her pale eyes lacked any life or spirit.

Years ago Genevieve La Brecque Hamilton had once been a raving beauty and the toast of London, or so Colette had been told a thousand times. How Genevieve ever managed to marry Thomas Hamilton, a quiet man with a love of books and the second son of an insignificant lord, always mystified Colette. Now Genevieve could never be thought of as anything but a shadow of her former self. After bearing five daughters and being constantly disappointed in her married life, Genevieve had retreated to her bed, acting as an invalid. By the time of little Yvette’s third birthday, Genevieve had become a complete recluse who never left the house or entertained guests. Colette, not sure if her mother’s constant illnesses and injuries were real or imaginary, had been the one to take care of her younger siblings in her mother’s place, as well as the one to help her father with the shop.

“And when you marry well, it will no longer be necessary for you to have to work in that deplorable bookshop any longer,” Uncle Randall stated with undisguised contempt, his dark eyes narrowing.

“I don’t mind working in Father’s shop,” Colette said, holding her anger in check by biting her tongue. The bookshop had always been a contentious issue between them.

Oh, if he would only leave already! Uncle Randall had no idea how much effort Colette had put into the shop, nor did she want him to know just yet. He thought her incapable of making the store a success, simply because she was a woman. His beliefs infuriated her, as most men’s did. Just as that odious Lord Waverly’s had done earlier that afternoon. One day she would show all those superior, smug males just how wrong they were about her.

“You know how I feel about the Hamilton family being in trade,” Uncle Randall persisted. “It’s quite beneath us. It was embarrassing enough when my brother opened the shop, and now it’s even more humiliating that my nieces are running it. But I shall not delve into a discussion about it with you at this moment, Colette. I haven’t the patience for it tonight, and I’m late for a supper party with the Davenports as it is. Have all your gowns and fripperies been delivered?”

Colette nodded. “Yes, Uncle Randall. They arrived yesterday.” She had to admit that she loved all the gorgeous new clothes that had been made for her and Juliette to wear during the Season.

“Good. Your aunt Cecilia and I will be here at seven o’clock on Friday to escort you both to the Hayvenhursts’ ball.” Uncle Randall stared at her with a pointed glare, his balding head tipped menacingly in her direction. “And I’m counting on you, Colette, to keep your sister here in line during the Season.”

His reference to Juliette annoyed her, for she had no more control over Juliette’s behavior than anyone else did, but Colette nodded in deference to him. She had learned long ago that if he thought she agreed with him, he left her alone. She pretended to agree with him now.

“Yes, Uncle Randall.”

“Good, then. I shall be on my way for the evening, ladies. Genevieve.” He nodded to her mother and took his leave after a disapproving look at Juliette.

“Dieu merci, il est parti. He has always treated me shabbily, just because I am French.” Genevieve gave a petulant frown when the door to their living quarters above the bookshop closed and they were alone once more. “Now I have a dreadful headache.” She touched her hand to her forehead dramatically and closed her eyes with a heavy sigh.

“He makes me so angry!” Juliette exclaimed, rising from her chair.

At nineteen, Juliette was stunning and would no doubt have many offers of marriage during this Season. All the Hamilton sisters were beautiful, or so everyone said. Their beauty was the only reason Uncle Randall was bothering to launch them at all. Colette loved her sister and they were very close, but Juliette could be unexplainably obstinate. If only Juliette would be more accommodating once in a while…She fought against everything so much, often to her own detriment, that at times Colette had given up trying to reason with her.

“Keep me in line, indeed!” Juliette declared adamantly, stamping her foot, her dark blue eyes flashing. “I don’t even wish to have a Season!”

“Juliette, you should be grateful to your uncle,” Genevieve admonished in a weary voice from her position on the chaise, not even bothering to open her eyes. “Your father left us little enough to survive on. Now you have an opportunity you wouldn’t have had to make a grand marriage and live comfortably. Make the most of it. Don’t make the same mistakes I made in life. Ne sois pas insensée.”

“I don’t want to marry some stuffy lord who will order me about and tell me what to do all the time,” Juliette complained, folding her arms across her chest and falling back into the armchair she had been sitting in for their uncle’s lecture on proper deportment during the Season. “I’m not ready to get married.”

“Is it safe to come out now?” Lisette asked from the doorway of the bedroom and glancing around the parlor. Their comfortable home life had been interrupted by their uncle’s visit, and Lisette and the other girls had escaped to the bedroom to avoid him. “I no longer heard Uncle Randall’s voice.”

Colette nodded in relief. “Yes, he just left.”

Lisette entered the room with their younger sisters in tow. She immediately went to their mother’s side, helping her get comfortable and placing a small lavender-scented pillow behind her head to help ease her headache. Paulette and Yvette sat themselves beside Colette on the sofa. Yvette snuggled against her while Colette smoothed her pretty blond curls. She was almost fourteen already, but being small for her age she appeared younger than she was and they still referred to her as the baby of the family. And perhaps treated her as one far more often than they should.

“Well…What did Uncle Randall have to say this time?” Lisette asked as she began to rub their mother’s shoulders, soothing her as only she could. Lisette had a calming quality about her, and Genevieve relied heavily on her middle daughter because of that very fact.

“Oh, the usual marching orders. How Colette and I have to marry well or the entire family will starve on the streets and it will be all our fault,” Juliette snapped, her eyes flashing.

Yvette stared at them with wide eyes. “Are we all going to starve?”

“No one is going to starve,” Colette said firmly, hoping they believed her. “Least of all us. We’re not destitute.”

Not yet, anyway. The thought nagged at her. They were not destitute yet, and with any luck they would not end up that way.

When he died six months ago, their father had left the shop in financial chaos and Colette was barely sorting through it all. Her mother and sisters, and even Uncle Randall, had no idea how close they were to actually losing the shop, and consequently their little home above it. But they would not be forced to move in with Uncle Randall and Aunt Cecilia or thrown out on the streets, because Colette would die before she let that happen. She was not unaware of the dislike Aunt Cecilia had for her nieces, and living with her aunt would be only a drastic last resort. She had to make the shop a success and knew without a doubt she would get no help from her uncle in that regard. She had to do it all on her own.

As much as it pained her to admit it, marrying well at this point seemed the only option open to them. She should be grateful to her uncle for providing the opportunity of a Season, not only to her but to Juliette as well, in order to double their chances. Marrying wealthy husbands would alleviate all their troubles.

If only she had a little more time to make the shop over…

“Everything will be fine. You’ll see,” she reiterated to her sisters, as well as to herself.

“At least you get to wear all those pretty gowns and dance with handsome gentleman at fine parties!” Yvette exclaimed with a dreamy look on her face. “I wish I could go with you!”

“I have no doubt that you will someday.” Lightly Colette kissed the top of Yvette’s head. Yvette had been enchanted with the arrival of Colette and Juliette’s new wardrobe and had been playing with their lace fans and walking around in their high-heeled slippers all day. “But for now, it is time for you to help set the table, sweetie. Paulette, you come help Julie and me downstairs for a little while before supper.”

“Can I paint the signs now?” fifteen-year-old Paulette asked, her sweet, earnest face brimming with excitement.

“Yes, you can start, though I doubt you’ll finish them all tonight.” Colette stood, eager to get back to work in the bookshop. There was so much that still needed to be done. Once she began the Season, her time in the shop would be limited to business hours. She wanted to get as much accomplished as she could before then. She left Lisette and Yvette to prepare supper and look after their mother.

In spite of Juliette’s grumbling and mumbling about being too tired to help, she and Colette actually managed to paint two wall-length bookshelves a crisp, clean cream color. The shade did wonders for brightening up the store. It had always bothered Colette that it was so dark in her father’s shop, for how was anyone supposed to peruse or read books in such a dimly lit space?

After months of penny-pinching, she had finally gathered enough money to buy the paint and supplies she needed and had set to work on her plans. With the cream-colored walls and shelves, the store was becoming a place in which one would want to sit and read comfortably. Once the shelves were dry enough, she intended to rearrange the way the books were traditionally displayed. She would place some of the books with the front covers facing out, making the titles easier for customers to read. She smiled at the prospect her changes would create.

The three sisters worked for over an hour together, pausing only when Juliette tripped backward over some rolled canvas and fell flat on her bottom. It had taken a good five minutes before she and Paulette had stopped laughing at the ridiculous image of Juliette on the floor and got back to their painting.

“What do you think, Colette?” Paulette proudly held up two small wooden boards, with elegantly printed letters in black paint. One read “Philosophy” and the other “History.”

Colette clapped her hands together in glee. “Oh, that looks lovely, Paulette!” She took one of the signs from her little sister and held it up. “It’s perfect!”

When all the signs were completed, they would designate the different areas for various subjects of books throughout the shop. Again, the signs would allow customers to search with ease for books. Paulette’s neat and uniform lettering added an element of sophistication to the plain wooden placards. The gilt-edged trim did the same as well.

“They will look wonderful when we hang them with that green ribbon,” Juliette announced in rare accord.

The green ribbon had been a wonderful stroke of genius on Colette’s part. While at the dressmakers being fitted for their new gowns one afternoon, she saw rolls of the most beautiful green grosgrain ribbon. Instantly knowing just how to use them in the shop, she quietly asked the dressmaker to include the rolls in their purchases. Saying a silent thank-you to an unwitting Uncle Randall for purchasing the yards of ribbon, she smiled at how tasteful and elegant the shop would look when she was finished.

“I have to admit, Colette, that I thought you were batty to try to change this old place. But it’s beginning to look beautiful. The new paint makes it look as if it were a completely different store.”

“Thank you.” Colette was starting to believe it, too. Her father’s shop was actually going to change. That she was the one who was making those changes thrilled her. Ever since she could remember, working in the bookshop was all she ever wanted to do.

After years of assisting her father, Colette had discovered ways to make the shop better, more attractive, more efficient. Her father had always disagreed with her, shaking his head in a patronizing manner, dismissing her modern ideas as the silly whims of a little girl. Now that her father was no longer alive to deny her innovative proposals, Colette was finally free to do everything she had ever wanted to improve the store. The first order of business was a new coat of paint. That was, of course, after she and Paulette had thoroughly scrubbed and polished the dusty store from top to bottom.

Pleased with the look of the wooden placards, which had turned out better than she had hoped, she hugged her little sister in gratitude.

Just then Yvette strode into the room. “Heavens! Look at this place!” she cried in astonishment. “It looks so different!”

“Doesn’t it?” Paulette agreed, her sweet face beaming. “And we’re not even finished yet!”

“Well, supper is ready, so come upstairs now,” Yvette said, already losing interest in the progress of the family shop. “Lisette made popovers!” She and Juliette, who needed no extra encouragement to head up to supper, left through the door immediately.

Paulette turned to go as well, then looked back at Colette. “Are you coming up?”

“In a few minutes,” Colette answered, placing a paint-brush back into the bucket of paint. “I’m not hungry, so I’ll just do a few more things down here and clean up a little bit.”

Paulette nodded with an understanding smile. “I’ll bring you down something to eat when I come back to help you.”

“Thank you.” Colette and Paulette shared a love of Hamilton’s that their other sisters did not. In fact, it was little Paulette who for days on end had painstakingly helped her sort through, reorganizing and cataloguing, all of the books in the shop.

Wishing the paint would dry faster so she could begin reshelving the books, but knowing she would have to wait at least until tomorrow, she began to clean up the pots of paint and the sheets of canvas. Stretching her back and wiping the paint from her hands, she recalled the strange encounter with the extraordinary man who had come into the shop earlier that afternoon.

Lucien Sinclair, the Earl of Waverly.

As soon as she laid eyes on him she knew his type, for she had come across them in the shop many times before: entitled, arrogant, idle young noblemen who had no need to earn a living and looked down upon those who did.

His self-assured manner, his look of cultured breeding, and the fine cut and style of his expensive suit told her all she needed to know. He was predictably aristocratic and spoiled. Although as long as he continued to purchase some expensive books, she did not care who or what he was.

But oh, the way he looked!

He was unmistakably handsome. His patrician features were striking, and his dark green eyes lingered on her for longer than anyone would deem proper. His mouth had a charming dimple when he smiled, a smile that changed the hard lines of his face, warming him, and making him seem infinitely more attractive. She had had to catch her breath at the sight of him. He must lead women on a merry chase, indeed.

And she could have sworn that he wanted to kiss her.

That fact alone was startling enough, but what shook her to the core was that she had actually wanted him to kiss her. Well, not completely. To be fair, she had never been in such a position before. The man was a complete stranger. The most handsome stranger she had ever seen, but a stranger nonetheless.

Yet there was something about him that unnerved her. He was condescending, of course, showing blatant disapproval of her doing what he thought should only be a man’s job, but there was something else she could not easily put to words or explain. They had stared at each other for the longest time, and for the first time in her life, she felt…Well, she didn’t know how she felt, but she had never felt that way before. He left her breathless and shaky and with a fluttery feeling in her stomach. She did not like it. Not one bit.

She reminded herself that in spite of how he looked, Lord Waverly was an arrogant nobleman who looked down upon her, just like all the men she would meet next week at her first ball.

That thought caused a flutter of a different kind in her stomach as well.

She was fraught with worry over the coming Season. Having to please her aunt Cecilia and uncle Randall. Socializing with people she had nothing in common with. Needing to find a husband.

And marriage itself troubled her. Many nights she lay awake wondering if she would be able to find a husband who would condone her working in the bookshop. Most men outright frowned upon the idea of a woman managing a store, and some even found it mildly amusing, but all of them disapproved and automatically assumed she would refrain from working in the shop once she became a wife. But Colette had no intentions of quitting, of ever giving up something that she loved in order to please a man. She loved the bookshop too much.

And she knew she could make Hamilton’s more successful than her father ever would have dreamed. Yet she knew her family was depending on her to support them.

If only she had more time.

Chapter Three

Well, Look Who It Is

Lucien Sinclair, the Earl of Waverly, entered the Hayvenhursts’ massive townhouse with a heavy heart and a forced smile on his face.

Usually he enjoyed the London Season. Nights spent socializing with his good friends, playing cards, going to the theater, attending parties and balls, and critiquing the latest crop of debutantes had always put him in jovial spirits. The start of a Season was exciting and he had always looked forward to it before. But this year would be different. This Season meant business. His father was ill and dying, and the inevitable could be delayed no longer.

As much as he hated the thought of it, he had to find a wife.

He had put it off for too long as it was. Not that he hadn’t tried over the years to find a suitable bride. Well, perhaps that thought was not quite true, he admitted to himself. In all honesty, since his disastrous relationship with Virginia Warren, he had been avoiding the thought of marriage altogether. And for good reason.

“Lord Waverly!” Countess Hayvenhurst welcomed him with a glorious smile, her long, white-gloved arms outstretched in his direction. “We haven’t see you in ages! I’m thrilled you could come to our little party.”

“Our little party” consisted of over five hundred guests, an army of liveried servants, a dining room filled to bursting with rich foods and drinks of every type imaginable, two orchestras, and enough flowers to fill a cemetery for a few years.

Lucien smiled at her warmly. “I’m happy to be able to attend, Lady Hayvenhurst. It seems you have outdone yourself yet again.”

“Oh it’s nothing.” She dismissed his compliments with an airy wave of her hand. “I simply adore parties. Now you must tell me, how is your father getting along?”

“He is much improved,” Lucien lied, not wishing to divulge the grim details of his father’s illness to his hostess. After years of his family being the favorite topic of gossips, he was reticent to share private information with anyone.

“I am so relieved to hear it,” she said. Lady Hayvenhurst, a matron with four grown children, had to be over fifty but still maintained a svelte figure with a considerable bosom, which she showed off to great advantage. Her laughing eyes and genuinely kind nature had won Lucien over years ago. “You must give him my very warmest regards.”

“I will be sure to, Lady Hayvenhurst.”

“There are some pretty new faces here this evening, Lord Waverly. Please try not to break all of their hearts in one fell swoop,” she admonished him with a merry wink.

“I’ll do my best.” As the heir to a marquis, Lucien knew he was considered to be “a catch” by most of society, but so far he had successfully eluded capture.

“It’s about time you found yourself a lovely wife,” she said with a knowing grin. “You’re too handsome to stay a bachelor. I think I may know just the perfect young lady for you. Would you like me to introduce you?”

“Thank you, but I think not. However, I’ll be sure to let you know when I’m ready to settle down,” he said, evading her usual matchmaking plans. Finding a suitable bride was a task he intended to accomplish without any assistance from well-intentioned matrons. “Where is Lord Hayvenhurst this evening?”

“Oh, he’s about somewhere.” She laughed carelessly. “He managed to lose me over an hour ago.”

“If I find him, I’ll send him your way.”

“Thank you, my dear!”

As Lady Hayvenhurst greeted yet another guest, Lucien made his way forward, pressing through the heavy crowd. Judging from the large number of people, all of London had turned out for the ball.

“Waverly!”

Lucien turned as his name was called. Lord James Buckley, one of Lucien’s closest friends and an inveterate gambler, stepped toward him. “How are you, Buckley?” Lucien asked.

“Just fine! We’re starting up a poker game in Lord Hayvenhurst’s back drawing room. Come join us and give me a chance to win back some of what I owe you.”

Lucien shook his head. “I’ve only just arrived. Perhaps I’ll join you later.”

“Right, then.” Buckley hesitated, his hands in his pockets, looking sheepish. “I haven’t seen you in a few weeks, Lucien, and I’m sorry about your father’s illness. And I know I owe you money. I haven’t forgotten and I would really like to pay you back tonight. But the thing is, I owe Crandall some also, and he’s pressing me for the money now, and as I’m rather short on funds at the moment…” He trailed off awkwardly.

“It’s all right, Buckley,” Lucien said. “Get it to me when you can.”

Absolute relief showed all over his freckled face. “Thanks, Lucien. I will pay you back. I’m good for it, I promise.”

“I know you are.” Lucien then added, “But perhaps you should forgo any games tonight.”

“Good idea!” Buckley nodded in understanding and headed off hastily. Lucien hoped his friend heeded his advice, but unfortunately sensed that he would not.

Continuing through the crush of people in the Hayvenhurst ballroom, Lucien paused now and then to acknowledge the familiar faces that greeted him. Above the growing din, he heard a very distinctive voice calling his name.

“Lucien!”

Lord Jeffrey Eddington, a tall, dark-haired gentleman with a wide grin on his face, waved in his direction, motioning for Lucien to join him. Still making his way through the mass of guests, Lucien finally reached his friend.

“It’s a madhouse in here tonight,” he commented when he reached the alcove where Jeffrey was standing. “I’ve been here forty-five minutes and still haven’t been able to get a drink.”

“Well, you can’t have mine.” Jeffrey held up a crystal tumbler half full of scotch. “I need it too much.”

“Rough evening already?” Lucien asked with a wry look.

“I have been cut down by the most beautiful creature.” After making a tragic face, he took a long swig from his drink.

Lucien laughed out loud. Lord Jeffrey Eddington, the illegitimate son of the wealthy and influential Duke of Rathmore, had a reputation only slightly worse than Lucien’s own. Women, young and old, swooned at Jeffrey’s feet.

He and Lucien had known each other since their days at Eton, becoming instant friends at the age of eleven when Lucien punched the arrogant and irritating Walter Brockwell in the face for calling Jeffrey a bastard. At the time Lucien wasn’t even entirely sure what that word meant, but judging from the stricken expression on Jeffrey’s face, he knew it signified something terrible, so he had hauled off and given Walter Brockwell a black eye, earning Jeffrey Eddington’s loyal friendship.

Each suffering the effects of a shattered home life and without the need for further explanations, the two young boys turned into fast friends from that day on. They even attended Oxford together. Over the years Jeffrey became one of the very few people in Lucien’s life whom he trusted implicitly. Lucien did not have a brother, but he felt that Jeffrey Eddington was as close to having a brother as he was ever going to get.

“I’d like to meet the lady who cut you down,” Lucien remarked with a laugh.

“I’ve only just been introduced to her myself. A Miss Juliette Hamilton. You know I never go after the debutantes on the marriage mart, Lucien, but this one is a stunner—”

“What name did you say?” The words sounded eerily familiar to Lucien’s ears. Hamilton with a French name. It could not possibly be the same name of the beautiful girl in the bookshop he had just met. Could it?

“Juliette Hamilton. Do you know her?” Jeffrey asked in surprise.

Lucien shook his head in wonder at the coincidence. “No, but I’ve heard the name before. Where is she now?” His eyes narrowed and scanned the room searching for a luscious brunette with stunning blue eyes.

“She was dancing with Lord Sudbury a short time ago. But I don’t see her any longer. She must be in the dining room.” Jeffrey shrugged carelessly.

“Who is she here with?” Lucien could not help asking, still searching the faces in the crowd.

“An uncle, I think.”

Interesting. Lucien believed she must be the sister of the bookshop girl, for how many Juliette Hamiltons could there be? At the possibility of seeing Colette Hamilton again, he felt his pulse quicken.

Jeffrey resumed his story. “As soon as I laid eyes on her, I wrangled an introduction through Lady Hayvenhurst, who made me promise not to tempt the girl. I don’t wish to marry the chit, for heaven’s sake, I just wanted to meet her. Being the bastard son of a duke has its perks.”

Jeffrey gave him a rueful smile, but Lucien knew his illegitimacy was a sore spot with him, for all that he was raised as Rathmore’s own son.

“Just as I got to her side,” Jeffrey continued his tale of heartbreak, “I heard that stuffy prig George Bickford ask her to dance and she answered, ‘I am honored, but I am not interested.’ Can you believe that? Well, her honest remark made me only like her all the more! Bickford went off in a huff and I winked at her. And by God, she winked right back at me! She didn’t stammer and blush, like all the others would have. Greatly impressed, I told her that I thought she had discriminating tastes. She said that she certainly did. Then the uncle came marching over, to scold her, I would imagine. As he was dragging her off, she turned her head back, and I swear, Lucien, she poked her tongue out at me! Unbelievable! And a lovely little tongue it was, too.”

Lucien laughed at the idea of the girl acting so audaciously. Well-bred ladies did not behave that way. And if they did, they certainly did not do so in public. This one must be a firebrand, all right. “She sounds like a bit of trouble to me.”

“She more than likely is, which is what intrigues me. You know I like a woman who can stir things up a bit. But enough of her.” Jeffrey turned and leaned back against the wall in a careless manner. “Now you, my friend, you are here tonight on a matter of serious business.”

Lucien nodded reluctantly. Indeed he was.

“And you’re still determined to go through with this godawful idea before the Season is over?”

“I owe it to my father. He’s dying, Jeffrey. I cannot deny him this. He’s had too much sadness in his life as it is. I can at least let him see me married before he dies. He deserves to know the family line will continue.”

The image of his father, Simon Sinclair, the Marquis of Stancliff, lying frail and weak in his darkened bedchamber, chilled him. The weakened muscles, the pallid complexion, and the dull, lifeless eyes haunted him. He owed his father more than he had given him over the last few years. His father needed him desperately now. And Lucien had vowed to himself to be there for him.

From the moment his father had been stricken with the strange paralysis, Lucien had been at his bedside night and day, and when he wasn’t there, he was in Simon’s office. He had actually taken over the duties of his father’s estate, and to his great surprise he found that he actually enjoyed it. For the last few years Simon had been trying to get Lucien more involved in managing the marquisate, but Lucien’s heart and mind had been involved elsewhere. Now it was different. Now he focused on the issues that needed his attention and he had begun making changes. As soon as he felt he could leave his father, he would travel to all the Sinclair estate holdings and see for himself how matters could be improved.

Lucien had learned more during the last few weeks than he had in all his years at the university. Through working assiduously and dealing with the day-to-day financial issues of the massive estate that he was marked to inherit, Lucien finally found a sense of purpose within himself that no amount of gambling and pleasure-seeking had ever been able to assuage, no matter how diligently pursued. For the first time in years, he felt useful and hopeful of a meaningful life, even with his father’s inevitable demise looming over him.

“I guess you would have to marry eventually anyway.” Jeffrey pointed out the obvious. “I can’t imagine you would see the whole estate go to that idiot cousin of yours.”

Lucien nodded in agreement. “I can promise you that Edmund will never inherit my father’s estate.”

“Have you any prospects on the lucky woman who will be your bride?”

“None yet,” Lucien answered with a heavy sigh. “I just know I want a sweet, biddable chit. One who is virtuous, kind, and good-tempered. One who will do as I ask and not cause difficulties. One who would be happy to stay quietly at home at my country estate, not here in town caught up in the social season. One who will be content enough with raising children.”

“You didn’t say she had to be beautiful.”

“No, I did not.” Beauty was definitely not a requirement in a wife for Lucien. In fact, he would prefer anything but beautiful. Beautiful women caused only trouble and misery. He knew that from firsthand experience.

Jeffrey laughed at the hard look on Lucien’s face. “Any wife of mine would have to be a beauty. I couldn’t bear anything less. If I’m going to be leg-shackled, I’d prefer a very attractive shackle. But what you’re seeking won’t be a challenging task. Simply look over there.” He gestured across the immense ballroom.

There along the opposite wall amid the potted plants and elderly matrons sat the plain, ignored young ladies who had not been asked to dance all evening, except perhaps for the obligatory dances required by their male family members. These were the ladies who had been passed over Season after Season but were still paraded about each year by their parents in hopes of finally snaring a husband. Never having given such females a second glance before, Lucien now stared at them with a critical eye.

One of those sad ladies would certainly make a suitable wife for him. Yes, he admitted to himself, some were rather decidedly on the plump side and a few were quite unfortunate looking, but all in all they were not repulsive. Perhaps they were not the most fashionable or the most sociable of women, but he was sure they had other admirable qualities. They just needed a closer look to find their less obvious nonphysical attributes.

No, these ladies certainly would not turn heads, but Lucien didn’t want a wife who could turn heads. He wanted a woman who would behave, such as the small one with the blond hair in the plain dress, for example. She had a sweet expression on her face in spite of her dull attire. She would certainly be grateful to have a man like Lucien for a husband. Grateful enough to conduct herself as a faithful and obedient wife.

“You’re not seriously considering one of those when you have your choice of the most beautiful and elegant women in London?”

Jeffrey’s seductive words shook him, but Lucien would not be swayed. He knew what would be best for him, and he would not be deterred in his quest to marry an obedient and well-behaved woman. If that meant she would be plain as well, then so be it. Beautiful women were not worth the misery they were capable of causing. He had experienced all too painfully the heartache and damage they caused. No, he was quite right in his thinking. A plain, biddable wife. That was the way to go.

“Yes. What about that sweet-looking one on the end there,” Lucien said in a quiet tone, pointing out the blonde.

Jeffrey shook his head in disbelief. “Well, I wish you luck, for I think you’ll desperately need it. As for me, I’m fortunate enough not to have the pressure to marry placed upon my shoulders. Having no name to carry on has its benefits—” He stopped abruptly as a predatory gleam appeared in his eyes. “Well, well. Look who is coming this way…”

At Jeffrey’s instruction, Lucien turned his head to see to what his friend referred. Two stunning women approached them, but he had eyes only for one, and she literally took his breath away. Good God. It was the beautiful woman from the bookshop. The very same woman he had been so tempted to kiss.

Even more enchanting than she had been that afternoon, Colette Hamilton stood before him. Gone were the dirt smudges and bits of dust in her hair. Gone were the shapeless navy dress and large work apron. Gone was the little shopkeeper. Even in that dark and dingy shop, he had recognized her as a beautiful woman, but now he could not take his eyes off her. One would never guess that she worked in a bookshop. Dressed in a fitted gown of pale blue silk, she displayed a lush and shapely form that aroused him immediately. Her rich, dark hair was arranged in a sophisticated style upon her head, baring her long, elegant neck. She now appeared a graceful and serene angel.

“Hello again, Miss Hamilton,” Jeffrey said to the other woman standing beside Colette.

Lucien then noticed Juliette Hamilton for the first time. She looked like a darker version of her sister. Both were beautiful women, undeniably. However, Juliette could barely suppress the wildness in her eyes. Something about Colette’s softer loveliness appealed to him more than her sister’s daring beauty did.

“Please forgive me,” Juliette Hamilton said with what closely resembled a smirk on her heart-shaped face. “But I do believe I have forgotten your name.”

“You have forgotten me so soon? You have wounded me to the quick, Miss Hamilton,” Jeffrey stated dramatically, his eyes full of mirth.

Juliette raised an elegantly arched brow at him. “Somehow I find that highly doubtful.”

“I shall have to reintroduce myself to you, then. I am Lord Jeffrey Eddington and this is my friend, the Earl of Waverly.” Jeffrey bowed gallantly.

Juliette’s dark eyes raked over the both of them, but Lucien could only see Colette. He wondered if she was as surprised to see him as he was to see her.

“This is my sister, Colette Hamilton.” Juliette introduced her to both men.

“There was not a doubt in my mind that you two were sisters,” Jeffrey commented, greeting Colette. “You both look astonishingly alike.”

“I am pleased to see you again, Miss Hamilton,” Lucien said, with a polite nod toward the so far silent Colette.

“Good evening, Lord Waverly.” She grinned cryptically.

“How do you two know each other?” Jeffrey asked him in confusion, while Juliette Hamilton’s raised eyebrows conveyed her surprise that her sister already knew Lucien.

Enjoying the fact that he knew something about these two women that his friend did not, Lucien explained. “We met at her family’s bookshop last week.”

Taking in this bit of information, Jeffrey questioned, “Have you a bookshop?”

“Yes,” Colette responded. “Hamilton’s Book Shoppe. It’s in Mayfair, just off Bond Street.”

“I am a fortunate man!” Jeffrey grinned gleefully. “For now I know where to find two beautiful ladies!”

Both girls giggled at Jeffrey’s words, but Lucien could not stop staring at Colette. “It’s lovely to see you again, Miss Hamilton. What an unexpected pleasure to see you this evening.”

Colette shook her head slightly. “I had not expected to see you either.”

“Would you care to dance with me, Miss Hamilton?” Jeffrey asked, his eyes still on Juliette.

“I’m afraid that we cannot,” Colette responded rather hurriedly, before her sister could answer. “It seems our uncle has already chosen our dance partners for this evening.”

“Well, that is terrible news.” Jeffrey gave a lamentable shake of his head. “I must see your uncle about getting my name on your list of partners.”

“I would love to dance with you, Lord Eddington,” Juliette said with a cool and defiant glance at her sister.

The silent interplay between the two women would have amused Lucien, but he sensed something wildly rebellious about Juliette. Colette clearly did not wish for her sister to dance with Jeffrey, which probably demonstrated good judgment on her part. Eddington and Juliette together could be an unmanageable and rather dangerous combination.

“Well, then. I can hardly refuse such a simple request, Miss Hamilton.” Jeffrey grinned from ear to ear. “Shall we?” He offered Juliette his arm and the two of them moved into the throng on the dance floor before Colette could utter another protest.

Lucien stood there in awkward silence, Colette by his side, watching Jeffrey and Juliette waltz away together. He would love to take Colette in his arms and dance with her, but he knew it would be wiser to focus on his goal that evening.

“Are you enjoying the ball?” Colette asked, making a polite attempt at conversation with him.

“Well enough,” he said, admiring the way her silky brunette ringlets framed her face. She was truly a beautiful woman.

“Did your ‘friend’ enjoy the book of poetry you bought?”

At first her question startled him, for he could not think to whom she referred. Then he recalled that he had led her to believe that he bought the poetry book for a woman. He gave her an answer to rattle her calm demeanor. “I decided to keep the book for myself.”

She raised her blue eyes at him, as if expecting him to explain himself. The challenging look on her face elicited the same feeling he had for her that afternoon in the bookshop. He had come so close to kissing her then, and now that unexpected desire had returned with a vengeance. Her full lips simply begged to be kissed. He fought the urge to lift his hand and caress her face.

“I read page seventy-four and I’m afraid that I must disagree with you, Miss Hamilton.” The look of surprise on her pretty face made him grin wickedly.

After their meeting in the bookshop, he had been intrigued by her referral to page seventy-four, and he made the effort to read the poem later that night. It turned out to be a ridiculous poem about love at first sight. Surprised that a business-minded and opinionated lady such as Colette would have a tender spot for fated love, he had laughed heartily at her romanticism. Love at first sight was for inexperienced young fools who did not know how love could wound a heart.

“Then you disagree with Christopher Marlowe’s sentiments?” she questioned him with a curious glance.

“Of course,” he scoffed. “There is no such thing as love at first sight.”

“There you are, Colette!” A tall gentleman with a shiny bald head and bushy eyebrows strode purposefully toward them.

“Lord Waverly, may I present my uncle, Lord Randall Hamilton,” Colette introduced him to her uncle. “Uncle Randall, this is the Earl of Waverly.”

Lucien noted the sudden gleam in her uncle’s eyes. “Good evening.”

Randall Hamilton gave Lucien a polite nod. “Good evening, Lord Waverly.” He took hold of Colette’s arm. “If you would excuse us, please.”

Pulling his niece aside rather forcefully, he moved her behind a large and leafy potted plant, but Lucien could still hear their conversation due to her uncle’s harsh tone of voice.

“I have been looking for you for the last twenty minutes. Where is Juliette?” he demanded impatiently, his anger evident in his manner.

“She’s dancing.”

“With whom?”

Colette hesitated before answering. “With Lord Eddington.”

“Good God! I should have expected something like that from her. Not only is Eddington a bastard, but he also has a notorious reputation. Did I not give you both explicit instructions that you were only to dance with gentlemen I approved of first? Did I not?”

“Yes, Uncle Randall.”

“And yet here I find you with Lord Waverly, whose reputation is only slightly better than that of Eddington’s.”

Lucien cringed at that comment. He was not completely innocent of all the feats ascribed to him, but the talk about him was highly overexaggerated. For the first time, the idea that he was someone a young woman might be warned away from left him feeling slightly unsettled. Would this hinder his search for a prospective bride?

“If you expect to marry well, you must be extremely careful. Lord Eddington and Lord Waverly may flirt with you, but they will never marry you.”

The uncle continued to berate Colette, yet maddeningly his voiced lowered into a fierce whisper so that Lucien could no longer make out what he was saying.

He fought an impulse to intervene and protect Colette from her pompous uncle, yet he knew that with his reputation, to have him defending her would do little to help her cause. And though he was loathe to admit it, he agreed with Randall Hamilton, for he was absolutely correct. If he wanted his nieces married, then Colette and her sister should not be seen flirting with the likes of Eddington and himself. Lucien felt some relief that there was a male relative looking after the pretty Hamilton sisters after all. Colette was managing a bookshop on her own, which in itself was problematic. She needed her uncle to watch over her. And Lord knew that the reckless Juliette desperately needed someone to take her in hand.

No, Lucien did not care for the way Colette’s uncle treated her, but had the Hamilton sisters been in his charge, he would be giving them similar orders.

He glanced toward the potted plant and watched as Randall Hamilton marched off with Colette firmly in his grip. Ignoring the niggling sense of unease in his chest when he thought of her, Lucien forced his attention back to the quiet ladies sitting along the wall.

He had a job to do. He needed to find a wife. And he knew without a doubt that his search for a woman who met his list of requirements would not involve love at first sight.

In fact, it would not have anything to do with love at all.

Chapter Four

Business or Pleasure?

“I don’t even care for Jeffrey Eddington in a romantic way,” Juliette declared hotly in her defense. “I just wanted a bit of fun. I thought balls were supposed to be fun. None of the other gaseous windbags I met last evening were any fun at all. And I just wanted to show Uncle Randall that I don’t have to do everything he says.”

Colette fought the urge to snap at her sister and instead slammed the small stack of books she had been holding onto the table in front of her.

She had spent the entire evening at the Hayvenhursts’ ball being lectured by her bombastic uncle, while Juliette flirted outrageously with or scorned any male that came within distance of her. Colette had been so angry by the time they got home, she didn’t trust herself to speak civilly. Here it was the next day, and she was still having a difficult time of it.

“But right now we do have to do everything he says, Juliette!”

“I know that,” Juliette conceded ruefully, “but I just cannot bear all his orders and proclamations.”

“And you believe that I do?” Colette snapped in response. “Do you think I liked dancing with those stodgy men he partnered me with? Do you think I enjoyed being dragged about by Uncle Randall all night, listening to his ranting about your behavior?”

“No,” Juliette admitted, her defiant attitude somewhat deflated. “But you just seem to bear it all better than I do. You’re the responsible one.”

Colette stared pointedly at her sister. “Do you have any idea how important this is to us? It’s not just you and me. Our marrying well is important to Mother. And to Lisette, Paulette, and Yvette. Everything we do now affects them and their futures, as well as our own.”

Juliette glanced down in shame. It was the first time she showed any remorse for her behavior. Colette felt that maybe she had finally gotten through to her.

“This is not a game, Juliette. If you damage your reputation by acting recklessly and foolishly just to spite Uncle Randall, you will not only ruin your own chances of finding a husband, but you may very well ruin mine, too.”

Her sister still said nothing.

“Do you want to end up on the street if we lose the bookshop? Or worse yet, do you want to have to live with Uncle Randall and Aunt Cecilia? Because that is just what will happen if we don’t marry well and I cannot make a go of this shop. Our whole family and our way of life are depending on you and me.”

Juliette looked up, her face contrite, and whispered, “You are right. I’m sorry you had to bear the brunt of my actions, Colette. I promise I will try to behave better next time.”

“Thank you,” Colette said with a sense of relief. “We’ll be going to Lady Hutton’s ball next. I expect you to make more of a pointed effort to please Uncle Randall then.”

“I will.”

“I’m not saying that you have to marry anyone he suggests, just try to comport yourself in a manner that satisfies him, all right?” Colette began shelving the books she had slammed onto the table a few moments before.

“I will try, I promise.”

Now that she was no longer in disgrace, Juliette’s disposition lightened with a flashing smile and Colette marveled at the mercurial quickness of her moods. Her sister could change from anger to laughter in mere seconds. Her ability to do so always astounded her.

Colette rolled the tall library ladder that allowed her to reach the higher shelves of the philosophy section into position and began to climb the wooden rungs. “Hand me those books, please.” She pointed to another stack on the table that she had already alphabetized and categorized.

Juliette languidly passed two volumes of Rene Descartes up to her sister. “You have to admit that all the men Uncle Randall suggested were hideous. Each one was a disaster. A disaster with deep pockets, but a disaster just the same. The only handsome men who even got close to us were Lord Eddington and his somewhat humorless friend, the Earl of Waverly.”

At the mention of Lucien Sinclair, Colette’s foot slipped from the ladder rung and she dropped one of the books. She righted herself quickly and took a deep breath.

“Be careful up there!” Juliette admonished, retrieving the fallen book.

“I’m fine,” Colette said shakily.

Juliette continued, “Lord Eddington was great fun, though. A girl has to be on her toes when she’s with him. But that Lord Waverly seemed so proper and so very lord-of-the-manor stiff, for all he has a reputation as a rogue. I didn’t care for him.”

Colette wondered what her sister would think of Lucien Sinclair if she knew that he’d almost kissed her in the bookshop last week. She had kept that little secret to herself, though. Last night Lord Waverly had possessed a cool seriousness that made her more uncomfortable than his attempted kiss. Frankly, she had been stunned to see him at the Hayvenhursts’ ball and had been unsure how to approach him. He had not asked her to dance as Lord Eddington had done with Juliette and he had seemed un-sinterested in her, almost distant. And still he managed to occupy Colette’s thoughts for the remainder of the night.

However, Juliette’s astute observation could not be denied. Lord Eddington and Lord Waverly were indeed the handsomest men in attendance. And apparently the most wicked, according to her uncle’s claims. She found that information about Lord Waverly easy to believe after their sensual encounter in the bookshop last week, when she thought he wanted to kiss her. Yet if Lord Waverly’s reputation was that of a rogue, she could not help but wonder why he did not kiss her that day. Wasn’t that how rakes behaved?

Even though he had irritated her with his condescending attitude, for some reason she had spent the remainder of the evening trying to imagine what it would be like if he had kissed her. Perhaps it was his mention of page seventy-four.

The poem by Christopher Marlowe she had recommended to Lord Waverly that afternoon had always been her favorite. She didn’t even know why she told him about it, but the words had escaped her mouth before she could stop them. The poem was one of many she had committed to memory over the years, and its romantic meaning had always resonated deeply within her.

Who Ever Loved, That Loved Not at First Sight?

It lies not in our power to love or hate,

For will in us is overruled by fate.

When two are stripped, long ere the course begin,

We wish that one should love, the other win;

And one especially do we affect

Of two gold ingots, like in each respect:

The reason no man knows; let it suffice

What we behold is censured by our eyes.

Where both deliberate, the love is slight:

Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?

Deep within Colette’s practical and responsible being lurked a yearning romantic soul that she kept well hidden from others. As much as she understood and agreed with her uncle’s reasons that she and Juliette must marry for money, such a mercenary approach went against her warm core. She held out a slim hope that she would meet the perfect husband during this Season. A man she could love and be loved by in return. A man who would support her work in the bookshop, yet still take care of her and her family. A man who would be a partner to her in all ways. She felt in her heart that she would know this man at first sight, just as in the poem.

Recalling that Lord Waverly had said he wanted the book as a gift for a female friend, Colette wondered who this friend was, and if he had read page seventy-four with her. But more importantly, she wondered why he mentioned the poem to her at all.

The jingling of the bells above the front door brought her back to the present.

“My, my,” Juliette muttered below her. “Look who the cat dragged in.”

Colette glanced around from her perch on the ladder and froze in place.

Lucien Sinclair, the Earl of Waverly, stood there in the shop as if her very thoughts had conjured him to appear.

“I’ll take care of this,” Juliette whispered low, while Colette remained immobilized.

“Good afternoon, Miss Hamilton,” he said rather lightly, as Juliette moved forward to greet him. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Colette’s heart raced erratically and she clutched the sides of the ladder tightly in her palms. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. Honestly, what am I so nervous about? More than likely he was just there to purchase books.

“Good afternoon, Lord Waverly,” Juliette said.

Colette detected a slight sarcastic quality in Juliette’s voice as Lucien Sinclair stopped beside the front counter. She suddenly realized he had not noticed her clinging to the ladder near the back of the shop, but she had a clear view of him. And that view was quite nice. In his long black cape and black hat, he appeared extremely tall and imposing. The misty drizzle outside had covered him in little spots of water and he seemed to shimmer. His handsome male presence demanded all of her attention.

“Did you enjoy the Hayvenhursts’ ball, Miss Hamilton?” he asked her sister politely.

“As a matter of fact, I had a lovely time,” Juliette said with forced pertness. “Did you?”

“Yes.”

“How odd,” she remarked carelessly at his response. “I had the distinct impression that you were not enjoying yourself.”

“Why would you think something like that?” Lord Waverly questioned her, his dark brows furrowed.

“Because, to be quite frank, you had a rather serious look on your face.” Juliette was simply being perverse, but Colette clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud at the audacity of her sister’s words.

His eyes widened at Juliette’s bold statement, but he retaliated quickly. “I suppose seeing a young lady behave scandalously might have that effect upon me.”

“You would not be referring to my behavior perchance, would you, Lord Waverly?” Her voice positively dripped with sweetness.

With a disapproving glare, he countered evenly, “What do you think, Miss Hamilton?”

“I’m sure it must be quite difficult for you to recognize it in someone else, since it’s obvious that you don’t know how to do it yourself, Lord Waverly, but I was merely enjoying myself.”

“By flirting outrageously with every gentleman present?”

Colette listened to their conversation with a growing sense of fascination. Lord Waverly was chastising her sister for the very same reasons she had done earlier. On the one hand she felt disheartened that Lord Waverly had noted her sister’s scandalous behavior last night, but on the other hand she was grateful to have an ally.

“Oh, not every male, Lord Waverly,” Juliette stated with an arch look. “Only the handsomest ones with the most charming manners.” While clearly implying that he did not fall into that category, Juliette changed the topic with deft ease. “Did you come in here simply to escape the rain, or is there perhaps a purpose to your delightful visit today, my lord?”

Proving himself a gentleman of restraint by not responding to Juliette’s taunt, he stated the obvious. “I am here to purchase books.”

“Well then, Lord Waverly, how can I be of assistance to you today?” Juliette asked with false brightness.

“I don’t believe you can help me at all, Miss Hamilton. I was hoping your sister would be available to select some books for my father. And what better place to find something interesting than at Hamilton’s Book Shoppe.”

“Yes, interesting would be the word to describe it.” Juliette gave him a challenging look.

Ignoring her sarcasm, he asked, “Is your sister here?”

“All of my sisters are here. To which one were you referring, I wonder?”

He tilted his head in acknowledgment of her little game and to indicate that he was not amused by it. “I was referring to Miss Colette Hamilton.”

Juliette smiled triumphantly. “Well, why don’t you ask her yourself? She’s right there.” She gestured with an elegant wave of her hand to Colette.

In surprise Lord Waverly turned to find Colette perched on the ladder, his eyes raking over her. Colette suddenly wished she were not wearing her dusty old work apron and had taken the time to fix her hair nicely that morning. She knew she looked like a disheveled mess.

Glancing up at Colette, he called to her. “Good afternoon, Miss Hamilton.”

“Good afternoon, Lord Waverly,” she murmured in response. Carefully she forced her shaking legs to step back down the ladder one rung at a time. Running a hand over her mane of dark hair to smooth it as best she could, Colette faced him.

“I was just having an interesting discussion with your charming sister,” he commented, his sarcasm unmistakable.

“Yes, I heard.” She nodded toward the ladder.

“Apparently.” He smiled at her, softening the lines of his face and causing her heart to flutter. “Are you able to assist me today?”

“Of course.” Trying to sound more businesslike, Colette asked, “Are you seeking a book as a gift for a special occasion?”

“No. Unfortunately, my father is not well and confined to bed. I thought I would bring him some new reading material.”

“I’m so sorry to hear about your father,” she murmured. She could not help but wonder what was wrong with him. “What does he like to read?”

“Well, your father had chosen a collection of fiction books for me last time. I ended up reading them to my father and he enjoyed them. But I believe he would like something a little more historical.”

Juliette groaned audibly and made a face of pointed disgust.

“Don’t you like to read about history?” Lord Waverly asked her.

Juliette shook her head adamantly, her dark black curls shaking. “I’d rather have my fingernails pulled out.”

A faint smile tugged on the corners of Lord Waverly’s sensuous mouth, yet his expression remained serious. “That’s a rather drastic alternative, Miss Hamilton. Are you afraid that by reading history you may actually learn something that might benefit you?”

Juliette’s face grew scornful at his condescending words. “I have read enough and learned enough to know that men have caused all the misery in this world—”

Recognizing the tone in Juliette’s voice that meant she would soon fly into one of her little tirades, Colette quickly intervened. “Juliette is not the scholarly one in our family.”

“That much is obvious.” Lord Waverly turned his eyes on her, and Colette had to catch her breath at the force of his green-eyed gaze. “I suppose that the title of the ‘scholarly one’ falls to you?”

“Only by relative comparison,” she explained lightly.

At that moment Paulette entered from the backroom of the shop, carrying an armful of her hand-painted placards. The violet dress she wore carried the evidence of the black paint she had used, and much of her long blond hair had been loosened from the thick braid down her back.

“This has to be another sister,” Lord Waverly declared with some astonishment.

Startled, Paulette looked up at the sound of a male voice. “Good afternoon.”

Intensely proud of all her sisters, Colette made the introductions. “Paulette, this is Lord Waverly. We met at the Hayvenhursts’ Ball last night. This is my younger sister, Paulette Hamilton.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He held out his hand to Paulette, who seemed more than awestruck by his handsome presence.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Paulette echoed in a faint whisper, awkwardly balancing wooden placards in her left hand in order to take his with her right.

Lord Waverly smiled at Paulette’s nervousness and gallantly took the signs from her and shook her hand. He turned back to Colette once again, his expression astonished. “It’s uncanny. Do you all look this much alike?”

Colette nodded, accustomed to this type of question when people met her sisters for the first time. “I’m afraid so. We have varying shades of hair and eye color, but we do tend to resemble each other a little.”

“That’s an understatement.” Lord Waverly could not stop glancing between her, Juliette, and Paulette.

“The rest of the signs are dry now,” Paulette announced excitedly, regaining her composure and pointing to the stack that Lord Waverly held.

“What are they?” he asked, his expression curious.

“New signs for the shop. They will help customers know where to find books,” Paulette explained, her face flushed with pride. She took a sign from him, one at a time. “This one says ‘Science’ and we shall hang it over there, where the scientific books are shelved. And this one, ‘Divinity,’ and this one is ‘Geography,’ and this one is ‘Literature,’ and this one—”

“We all know how to read, Paulette,” Juliette interrupted in exasperation. “You needn’t recite each one for us.”

Fifteen-year-old Paulette stuck her tongue out at Juliette. “You are merely jealous because I actually know how to spell these words and you’re lucky if you can read them.”

“I think you’re exactly right about her, Miss Paulette. Your sister seems to dislike the very things she knows the least about,” Lord Waverly said with a slight wink. “However, I think your signs are splendid.”

Paulette’s stunned expression turned to one of utter delight at finding an unexpected ally against her antagonistic sister in the handsome gentleman she just met. Colette laughed to herself as Juliette received the slight comeuppance she deserved. Juliette’s personality was such that she provoked most people by either her comments or behavior. Colette enjoyed seeing Lord Waverly give Juliette a little taste of her own medicine.

Juliette rolled her eyes in disgust, keenly aware at this point that she was outnumbered. “I shall not even dignify that remark with a response, and I shall take my leave of you all now. Good day, Lord Waverly.”

“Good day, Miss Hamilton,” he said, amusement twinkling in his green eyes.

Juliette flounced from the bookshop with an exasperated air, exiting through the door that led to their living quarters upstairs, slamming it behind her for emphasis.

Paulette declared to Lord Waverly, with a beaming smile, “I like you!”

“Thank you,” he responded quietly. “I like you, too.”

Colette noted that he seemed taken aback by Paulette’s compliment and thought she detected the hint of a blush on his clean-shaven cheeks.

“I’ve worked on these signs all week and we’re going to hang them with this cunning green ribbon. Won’t that look wonderful?” Paulette chattered excitedly. “Colette and I are redoing the entire shop!”

“So I’ve noticed.” Lord Waverly gave Paulette a charming smile and then turned his attention to Colette. “Are you responsible for all these changes?” he asked her.

Colette nodded with pride, thinking of all the late nights that she and her little sister had sorted and alphabetized every book in the store while Colette created an extensive inventory list. For as long as she could remember, her father had arranged the books in some sort of system only he understood, making it almost impossible to find a particular book without his help and guidance, which was most likely the reason he would allow no one to learn his secret system. Some books were grouped by size, some by color, and some by topic. He even had a section filled with books he considered unfairly criticized or discarded by the reading public. There was no rhyme or reason to their categorization. Her father’s disorganization was a never-ending source of frustration for Colette. With her new freedom, she was finally able to arrange the books by subject area, and then alphabetically by author. A system that made complete sense to her.

“Yes, but Paulette helps me the most.” Colette beamed.

“But we practically have to tie Juliette up and drag her down the stairs to get her to help us,” Paulette couldn’t help but add.

Lord Waverly laughed, and the smile lit up his face, making him appear even more handsome. A charming dimple at the corner of his mouth softened the graveness of his face. The result was astonishing.

“Why am I not surprised to hear that? What about the other sisters?” he asked.

Recovering from the effect of Lucien Sinclair’s smile, Colette caught her breath and explained, “Lisette is busy taking care of our mother, who is ill, and Yvette is too young and uninterested to be of much help.”

“So Colette and I do most everything in the bookshop on our own,” Paulette confided, obviously thrilled with her newfound friend.

“And your uncle I met at the ball?” he asked.

“What about him?” Colette questioned.

“Doesn’t he have anything to do with the shop at all?”

Uncle Randall would rather be caught dead than to be seen working in a bookshop. Colette shook her head. “No, my uncle would love nothing better than to see Hamilton’s Book Shoppe sold.”

“Then why does he allow you to have the shop?”

“Allow me?” Colette echoed in disbelief.

“Yes,” he said simply, as if his question were acceptable.

“He has no right to sell it because it is not his shop to sell. It is my mother’s. And someday it will belong to me.”

“I see,” Lord Waverly stated carefully. With an interested expression, he looked around the shop as if seeing it for the first time. “You have made some definite changes since I was here last.”

“Good or bad?” Colette asked somewhat anxiously, not sure why his answer mattered so much to her.

“I first came to this shop a year ago and I remember it being rather dark and cluttered. And now, well, the light color certainly brightens up the place. It’s much more organized with the books neatly arranged. And the signs designating the different areas are an excellent touch.” He gave a warm grin to Paulette. “I could probably find the books I needed without any assistance at all. I would have to say that is a positive change.”

Thrilled with his response, Colette felt all her hard work had been validated. “That was exactly my intention! A customer should be able to wander about and peruse the shelves if he wants. Or ask for assistance.”

“You make a good point, Miss Hamilton, but I still think you should not be managing the shop without a man’s help.”

Colette folded her arms across her chest. “I’m doing just fine without one.”

“So far,” he challenged her. “But this is not work for a woman alone. A man is better qualified for making rational business decisions.”

“That’s ridiculous!” she declared hotly. Statements like his made her furious.

“That’s outrageous!” Paulette chimed in, coming to her sister’s defense.

With a smug expression, Lord Waverly stated very calmly, “Men are better at business. It is a proven fact, ladies.”

“Proven by whom? Men?” Colette protested against his ignorant belief and rolled her eyes. “As if that means anything! I’m running this shop better than my father ever did, and if I just had more time I could—”

He peered at her inquisitively. “If you had more time, you could do what?”

“Nothing.” She pursed her lips and shook her head. If she had more time she could make all the changes she instinctively knew would increase profits. If she had more time she could pay off her father’s debts before the store had to be sold instead. If she had more time she and Juliette would not have to marry for financial reasons. But she needn’t go into that with Lord Waverly.

Colette took a deep breath to steady her nerves. “I shall not waste my breath explaining what I could do when you obviously have a preconceived notion about the capabilities of women, and you are not open to any new ideas.”

“In that case,” he said, bowing gallantly and flashing a heart-melting grin, “Perhaps you could help me choose some books that would appeal to my father?”

“I would love to,” she said in answer to the sudden change in his demeanor. Caught off balance by the contrasting personalities of the condescending nobleman and charming rogue that he encompassed, she felt her cheeks warm under his regard. “You mentioned that your father likes historical works, so we should begin our search over here.”

He followed her toward the history section of the shop with Paulette trailing behind them, listening avidly to their conversations and anxious to hang her hand-painted signs.

Chapter Five

Surprise, Surprise

Lucien finished reading aloud to his father one of the books Colette Hamilton had chosen for him during his last visit to the shop and realized that not only was his father pleased by the story The Count of Monte Cristo, but he had thoroughly enjoyed the book by Alexander Dumas as well. The woman had excellent taste. Normally such a thing would surprise him, but somehow with her it didn’t. She would have a fine sense of literary style. It suited her image.

Lucien’s father smiled lopsidedly at him and slurred his words. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said wearily and closed the book, placing it on the polished cherry table. He stood and poured his father a glass of water from the Wedgwood china pitcher on the sideboard. He had been spending a great deal of time in his father’s massive bedroom suite lately and felt somewhat confined.

Seeing his father bedridden and ailing had shaken Lucien. While he was growing up, his father had not always been the strong athletic type, but he had not been an invalid either. However, this apoplectic attack drained Simon Sinclair, the Marquis of Stancliff, of all life, and the doctor had confirmed Lucien’s fears. There was no indication that he would recover the full use of his right leg, right arm, or his speech. In his weakened condition, his father seemed to have lost the will to live.

“You should rest now,” Lucien suggested, holding the glass of water to his father’s lips.

Simon took a small sip and then shook his head in a feeble gesture. “No…I t-talk.”

“Of course we can talk if you like.” Over the last months Lucien had learned to understand his father’s garbled speech. And in spite of Dr. Garver’s pessimistic predictions of recovery, Lucien believed Simon’s pronunciation was improving. Slightly. He sat back down on the leather armchair and waited patiently for his father to speak.

“Y-you…d-don’t…h-have…t-to…marry.”

Racked with guilt, Lucien said, “Father, I have already made up my mind.” He owed it to his father to be married and settled down while he was still alive to see it happen.

Ever since the debacle of his engagement with Lady Virginia Warren five years ago, Lucien had lived his life like a bat out of hell, earning a notorious reputation for himself, taking no responsibility for anything, not caring about anyone but himself, and causing his poor father more stress than he deserved to bear. His father’s illness opened his eyes to how selfish he had been behaving.

Yet his father had never reproached him. Not once. And at times Lucien more than deserved to be reproached.

Again, Simon shook his gray-haired head in protest, his wrinkled face furrowed. “N-n-no! D-don’t…m-mar-ry…f-for…me-e.”

“I’ve already chosen someone suitable,” Lucien stated calmly. “It will be fine.”

His father became more agitated and shook his head again. The watery blue eyes that had seemed vacant suddenly flashed with a spark Lucien had not seen in years. “No. F-for y-you, y-yes. F-for m-me, no!”

“Father, it is beyond time that I was married and had a family of my own. I realize that now.”

A single tear dripped down his father’s wrinkled and withered cheek. “M-motherrr…”

Good God! They had not spoken of Lucien’s mother in years because his father could not bear to have her name mentioned. Lucien’s stomach churned at the thought of his mother. Hazy images of a dark-haired woman with sparkling eyes, a lilting laugh, and the scent of roses washed over him. Childhood memories of his mother were few and far between, but he distinctly recalled that Lenora Sinclair’s presence lit up any room she entered. Elegantly gowned and sweetly perfumed, she would visit the nursery in a dramatic fashion and gather Lucien in her arms and smother him with kisses before leaving for whatever fabulous party she was attending that evening. Although he’d rarely spent time with her, Lucien had adored his mother and so had his father. Apparently that was not enough for Lenora, who wanted more from life than either Lucien or his father could give her.

She left them when he was only ten years old, and the crushing pain of losing her had devastated both of them.

“P-please, don’t. D-don’t do it,” Simon managed to sputter. “N-not, n-not like your mother.” The effort it took to articulate those few words drained him. He closed his eyes and breathed heavily, wheezing and hoarse, but he continued to shake his head in protest. “Don’t.”

Lucien did not want to talk about his mother now, nor ever, truth be told. She had made her choices and she was gone from their lives for good. He had buried his grief with her when he was a child. His father, unfortunately, had not been able to do the same even after all this time.

“It’s all right. I think I’ve finally found a lady whom I believe will be perfect for me,” Lucien explained in a calm and rational tone, attempting to ease his father’s stress. “You will like her, Father. I promise that I’ll marry her before autumn. You will attend my wedding, and we shall have children, your grandchildren. The Marquisate of Stancliff will not end up in the hands of cousin Edmund. I give you my word on that.”

“D-don’t do it f-for m-me.”

Lucien could not fathom why his father kept repeating this when Lucien was finally giving him what he wanted at long last. He realized it was time to settle down and take up the reins of responsibility and manage the estate, especially because his father could no longer do so. Lucien’s marriage would give his father a modicum of peace, knowing the family line would continue with the Sinclairs and not end up with the Blackstones.

Simon made a feeble attempt at a dismissive wave with his good hand.

Lucien recognized the weary signal as the time to leave his father, who was obviously exhausted. His furrowed brows indicated his frustration at not being able to express himself clearly. Simon seemed to have aged twenty years in the last few weeks, becoming almost unrecognizable from the man he once had been.

“Yes, I’ll go now and send Nurse Fiona up to help you. You should get some sleep,” Lucien said, patting his father on the shoulder. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He left with a heavy heart and an increasing sense of unease.

Later that evening, as Lucien arrived at Lord Hutton’s party, he still puzzled over his father’s vehement protests to his plans for marriage. The illness must have affected the old man’s thinking. Left him slightly unbalanced. Of course Simon wished his only son to marry. Every noble patriarch’s ambition was to continue the family line, and Lucien was determined fulfill that dream for him.

He glanced about the crowd as he made his way through the receiving line, but did not yet see Jeffrey Eddington. Which was a good omen. Jeffrey would only try to dissuade him from his mission that evening.

Lucien had made his decision at the Hayvenhursts’ ball which young lady he intended to pursue. He had spent the evening doing his homework, finding out all he could about her. She came from a well-respected and dignified family. Not a hint of scandal had ever touched her. She possessed clear blue eyes, a smallish nose, and light blond hair, done in simple curls. But most importantly in his view, a general air of steadiness and earnestness surrounded her, indicating she would eventually make a fine wife and mother.

He went in search of Lady Faith Bromleigh.

Not even an hour later, Lucien learned that it was quite a challenge to maintain an interesting conversation with a paragon of virtue. He had asked her about the weather, her general health, the various guests at the party, the music being played, the food being served, and the intricacies of the steps being danced. Lady Faith Bromleigh murmured simple yesses and noes with alarming regularity and did not venture an opinion on anything. There was only so much a fellow could say in response to such banal replies, and he had run out of topics upon which to question her. Especially with her mother hovering around them like a hawk, giving him sharp looks.

Lucien needed a drink. A strong one.

“Are you thirsty?” he asked her, if only to have an excuse to escape for a little while. “May I get a glass of champagne for you?”

“No, thank you,” she murmured demurely, her eyes downcast. “I would prefer punch or lemonade, please.”

This was the type of woman he wanted, so why did he find her behavior so irritating? She was exactly what he had prescribed for himself. She did not argue, but bowed her head in deference to him. She smiled sweetly and possessed a calm and serene manner. She would never cause him a moment’s worry.

Then, across the ballroom, he saw Colette Hamilton, and completely lost his train of thought.

Waltzing in the arms of Jeffrey Eddington, of all people, Colette laughed at something he was saying to her and her face lit up with merriment. In that moment the differences between Faith and Colette were glaringly exposed to him. Colette’s exquisite beauty was infinitely more appealing than Faith’s plain looks, but the beautiful and lively Colette was too modern and opinionated, full of passionate ideas and determination. Her strong, spirited nature, although nowhere near to that of the impetuous Juliette, filled him with apprehension. Other emotions, some best unmentioned and under control, flooded him at the thought of her.

He would definitely be better off with Lady Faith Bromleigh.

Yet Lucien felt an unexpected tightening in the pit of his stomach at the sight of Colette with his best friend. Strange.

He went to get Lady Faith a glass of punch, and for himself something much stronger.

“You are a delightful dancer, Miss Hamilton,” Lord Jeffrey Eddington said with a seductive grin.

“Thank you very much,” Colette replied, unable to resist his genuine charm. “You are a very fine dancer yourself.”

Lord Eddington had somehow managed to finagle a dance with her before her Uncle Randall could protest. And Colette had been thrilled. She found that she liked Lord Jeffrey Eddington very much, in spite of his scandalous reputation. She agreed with Juliette’s appraisal of him. He had a warm and easy manner about him. He also had a way of making a woman feel as if she were the only woman in the room.

They waltzed together quite easily, and for the first time all week Colette was actually enjoying herself. Lord Eddington made her laugh. He was irreverent and lighthearted, ignoring all the stuffy social rules that had been pounded into her head by Uncle Randall and Aunt Cecilia.

As the last strains of “The Blue Danube” came to an end, the orchestra began readying for the next dance. Lord Eddington escorted her from the floor.

“Would you care to rest for a bit?” he asked.

“That would be lovely. Thank you.”

A footman walked by with a tray of glasses and Lord Eddington took one for Colette and for himself.

“Have some champagne,” he offered with a gleam in his eye.

“Thank you again, Lord Eddington.” Taking the glass from his hand, she glanced nervously around the room, but did not see her aunt and uncle. They must have cornered Juliette somewhere. Relaxing somewhat, Colette sipped the bubbly liquid, feeling its coolness slide down her throat.

Colette could not help but notice that Jeffrey Eddington was very handsome. His facial structure was noble and elegant, with an angular jaw. He had deep azure eyes, which were fringed with long, dark lashes. He had an attractive mouth, too, warm and quick to smile. Lord Eddington’s charm was just as powerfully attractive as his good looks, and she found her pulse quickening when he gazed at her.

“You are much sweeter than your sister,” he commented in a light tone.

“Yes, that is true. Juliette is somewhat impulsive.”

“Somewhat?” he asked incredulously.

“Point conceded. She can be quite a trial at times,” she corrected herself.

“But that’s what I love about Juliette, her spirit,” he explained. “No one could, or should, ever tame her.”

Something in his voice caused Colette to look closer at Jeffrey. She could not help but ask him, “Have you feelings for her?”

“I’ll admit that at first I was attracted by her beauty, but I now feel that Juliette and I are too much alike and more suited to be just friends.”

Admiring his honesty, she acknowledged his good judgment. “You are more than likely right about that. But I am curious about you, Lord Eddington. Tell me about yourself.” Colette had heard of his illegitimate birth and scandalous reputation from her uncle, and wondered what he was doing flirting with her. Marriage was definitely not on his agenda, yet quite obviously on hers.

“Oh, that’s a dull tale.”

“Surely not!” she encouraged him. “I highly suspect that anything in relation to you would not be dull.”

“I’m just a man.” He held his hands out in mock helplessness.

“Just a man?” Colette laughed at his false humility. “Well, my lord, could you please tell me why a man such as yourself is so interested in ladies such as Juliette and myself?”

“Honestly?”

She tilted her head in his direction. “That would be nice.”

He seemed slightly embarrassed. His gaze lowered before he glanced back up at her. “I like you both. I have no sisters of my own and I feel a little protective of the two you.”

“That’s very gallant of you, Lord Eddington, but what makes you think we need protecting?”

Jeffrey flashed her a charming smile. “Isn’t it obvious? Your sister is trouble just waiting to happen, your uncle is intent on selling you both to the highest bidder, and it seems someone should be protecting you from those like myself.”

Colette smiled then. “Ah, but who will protect us from you?”

Jeffrey laughed loudly. “You are a wise lady, Miss Hamilton.”

“And you would be wise to remember that,” she challenged him.

At that moment she spotted Lucien Sinclair crossing the room, carrying two crystal glasses. After spending that afternoon with him in the bookshop, she felt even more intrigued with the man. He had sparred with Juliette as if he’d known her for years, befriended and gained the undying loyalty of Paulette in an instant, and had left her feeling completely unlike herself. Although they had laughed and talked easily together selecting a few books she thought his father might enjoy, she felt an impossibly strong and magnetic undercurrent of feeling between them that left her quite breathless when she was near him.

Now curious to see where Lucien Sinclair was going, and for just whom he was carrying a glass of champagne, she craned her head, but could not see through the crowd of guests. She lost sight of him as he entered one of the withdrawing rooms. A pang of disappointment shot through her.

“Watching someone in particular?” Jeffrey asked with a meaningful glance.

Although she sensed that Lord Eddington knew full well whom she had been staring at, she was embarrassed to be caught doing so. Colette blushed. “I thought I saw Lord Waverly across the room, but I must have been mistaken.”

Jeffrey regarded her carefully before saying, “You were not mistaken. That was Lord Waverly. He’s a very good friend of mine. We’ve known each other since we were boys.”

Here was a perfect source of information for Colette’s burning questions. “Does he always behave so maddeningly?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Well…” she began, “sometimes he seems so disapproving, close-minded, and stuffy, and then he can suddenly be lighthearted and charming.”

“You find him charming, do you?” Jeffrey gave her a questioning glance.

“Perhaps,” was her noncommittal response. She supposed Lucien Sinclair was charming in a maddening way.

“Well, I shall only say that Lucien has suffered in his life and he is often harder on himself than he needs to be.”

Colette so wanted to know more about Lucien Sinclair, but bit her tongue so as not to seem like she was prying.

“Uh-oh,” Jeffrey muttered low. “I’m afraid we are in for it now.”

“What is it?”

“Here comes your aunt, and she looks decidedly unhappy.”

Aunt Cecilia swooped down upon them in a flurry, her pale face pinched in disapproval, obviously dismayed to discover Colette with Lord Eddington, a man not inclined to enter into matrimony.

“Colette, I have been looking for you everywhere. Good evening, Lord Eddington.” She gave a brief nod in his direction, her thin lips pursed in silent displeasure of his dallying with her niece.

“Good evening, Lady Hamilton,” Jeffrey said with a most polite stance. “That shade of lavender complements your eyes most attractively.”

Colette was stunned to note that her prim aunt actually looked flustered by Jeffrey’s compliment.

“Why thank you, Lord Eddington.” The faintest hint of a smile quickly vanished from Aunt Cecilia’s face as she turned to her niece. “Now you must come with me, Colette. Your uncle wishes to introduce you to Baron Sheffield.”

“Yes, Aunt Cecilia.” She turned back to Jeffrey and smiled at him. “Thank you for a lovely time.”

As her aunt dragged her away, she felt sure Jeffrey was winking at her.

Chapter Six

A Kiss Is Just a Kiss

“With your face, you should have every eligible bachelor falling at your feet. Instead I see you with Lord Eddington, and everyone knows he will never settle down.” Uncle Randall scolded Colette with an impatient wag of his finger.

Aunt Cecilia added quietly, “For all his charm and good looks, Jeffrey Eddington is a complete waste of all our time and effort.”

Uncle Randall continued to rant his disapproval of her behavior. “You need to focus your attentions on the proper kind of gentleman. Wealthy but suitable gentlemen very interested in marriage. The ones I choose for you.”

“But the men you see as potential husbands for us are old enough to be our father,” Colette retorted heatedly. And the most unattractive, she added to herself.

Aunt Cecilia snapped, her tone bitter, “Because they are the ones with the money, Colette. And the ones desperate enough for a wife to put up with you and your appalling lack of any kind of a dowry. Marriage is a serious business, and if you are still harboring any romantic illusions, you can just forget about them.”

Groaning inwardly, Colette remained silent. She had no romantic illusions where marriage was concerned. She had learned that from watching her own parents.

Uncle Randall took hold her arm with greater force than necessary and pulled her close to him, stating, “I’m going to introduce you to Baron Sheffield now and you will be polite and flattering to him. He’s extremely wealthy, having invested wisely in the textile market, and looking for a young bride to bear his children. He’s been out of the country for some months and just returned. I’ve spoken to him about you, and he has watched you all evening and thinks you are quite lovely. He is also under the misguided impression that you have a disposition to match your looks. Don’t you dare disappoint him with your modern ideas until after the wedding! Can you do that?”

Nodding, Colette glared at her uncle but did not respond, however much she longed to do so with a cutting remark. Somehow she managed to pull her arm from his grasp and took a step away from him.

“Now, here he comes. This is could be a very profitable venture, Colette. Smile and behave,” Uncle Randall whispered sharply through the clenched teeth of his forced smile.

Colette looked up and her heart sank at the sight before her. Lumbering in their direction was a very large man who had to be at least forty if he was a day. He was younger than some of the doddering old fools she had met earlier, but his manner immediately repulsed her. With heavily pomaded black hair and a thick black beard, he smiled crookedly as he neared them, revealing tobacco-stained teeth.

“Ah, Baron Sheffield,” Uncle Randall began with a feigned tone of happiness. “I would like to introduce you to my beautiful niece, Miss Colette Hamilton. Colette, dearest, this is Baron Chester Sheffield.”

The distasteful man presented a gloved hand for Colette to take; yet she shuddered at his touch just the same.

“I have been most anxious to meet you, Miss Hamilton,” he said, with an obvious leer down the front of her peach silk gown.

Colette gritted her teeth and pasted a smile on her face, wishing she could slap the lascivious expression from his face. At that moment she hated her uncle. “It’s an honor to meet you, too, sir.”

“I regret I cannot ask you to dance, Miss Hamilton. I have never been fond of dancing and prefer other entertainments.”

“That’s quite all right,” she answered, very relieved, but not surprised, that dancing did not appeal to him. The man could hardly walk. She gathered that most endeavors that required any sort of physical exertion repelled him.

“Shall we go out on the terrace for a breath of fresh air?” he asked, his relentless gaze piercing her.

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Aunt Cecilia chimed in cheerily, ignoring the blatant look of disgust on Colette’s face. “We shall leave you with Baron Sheffield for a few moments while we see to your sister.” Aunt Cecilia’s sharp eyes told her in no uncertain terms to not refuse the baron’s invitation.

Before Colette could utter a protest, Baron Sheffield had a firm hand on her arm and he led her through a pair of French doors to the terrace. An enormous full moon glistened high in the sky, and the night air felt cool upon her skin. Colette breathed deeply of it so she did not have to smell Baron Sheffield.

“So, tell me about yourself, Miss Hamilton,” he suggested amiably, as they made their way across the slate stones.

Ignoring the stench of stale cigar smoke around him, she responded, “I fear there is not much to tell. I am sure my uncle told you everything you need to know about me.” That we are desperate for money and I am apparently available to the highest bidder?

“Ah, such modesty. I admire that trait in a woman. It’s such a rarity nowadays. Nevertheless I’m still curious as to why a lovely young lady such as yourself is not yet married. Why is that?”

Did she imagine that his hand clutched her arm tighter? Or that he was deliberately leading her from the gaslit terrace onto the darkened brick pathway to the more shadowy garden beyond? Did he actually think to make a romantic overture to her? She almost laughed in his face.

Fed up with men pulling her this way and that all evening, Colette stopped walking before they reached the tall shrubbery that blocked their view of the house. Her abrupt movement catching him off guard, he turned and glanced at her shrewdly.

“You haven’t answered my question, Miss Hamilton.”

“Perhaps you should first tell me why you are not yet married, sir.”

His squinty eyes peered at her more closely. “Well, you do have a bit of spark in you after all. From your uncle’s descriptions I thought you would be a meek little kitten.”

“Well then, please let me rid you of that notion right here and now,” she declared, staring back at him. She was not about to go off in the dark with this man, no matter what her uncle said. And there was no way she was going to marry him either. They were not that desperate. “If it is an obedient wife you seek, then I am afraid you have been greatly misled by my uncle where I am concerned.”

“I know how to handle a disobedient wife, Miss Hamilton. Make no mistake about that.” He grinned, lowering his face close to hers, and the stench of his breath made her head spin. “But I do indeed intend to find out if what I am about to purchase is worth my good money.”

“Purchase?” she echoed with indignation. But then again, wasn’t that what her uncle was doing? Selling her and Juliette? In essence, wasn’t that what the marriage mart was all about in the end? A simple exchange of property?

Before she realized his intent, Baron Sheffield’s clammy lips were pressed against hers as he pulled her tight against his barrel chest. She was no match for his large size, and he swung her around easily enough, lifting her off her feet and moving her farther into the shadowy area behind the bushes. As she struggled against the suffocating girth of him, she did not know which was worse, his rough whiskers scraping against her face or his fetid breath assailing her nostrils. She managed to pull her mouth from his, but his hands were still locked on her upper arms, holding her in place.

“Let go of me!” she cried, not caring at this point who saw them together or that her reputation would be ruined in the process. She simply wanted the odious beast to release her. Then at least she could outrun the man.

“Ah, the little kitten has claws!” He breathed hotly against her neck. “I think you might just be worth that much money after all.”

“Let me go!”

Colette kicked her slippered foot against his leg as hard as she could, but it had no effect upon him. With her eyes tightly closed, she swung her head from side to side to avoid his wet fish lips and struggled to try to pull herself away from his forceful grip.

Suddenly she was free.

Stunned, she opened her eyes, trying to catch her breath.

“I believe the lady asked to be released.”

Lord Waverly had Baron Sheffield’s arm twisted behind his back. In spite of Baron Sheffield’s unwieldy size, Lord Waverly seemed to loom over him. Colette did not recall Lucien Sinclair being quite so tall, but she was only too grateful for his height and strength, as well as his unexpected and quite timely appearance. The baron had the gall to look affronted, while the murderous expression on Lord Waverly’s face left little doubt of his feelings on the situation.

“Unhand me, man!” Baron Sheffield sputtered in abject indignation, his round face puffed with outrage.

“First, you will apologize to the lady for taking liberties with her that were quite obviously unwanted. Second, you will leave this house immediately. Third, you will never come near Miss Hamilton again, or I shall not be so forgiving,” Lord Waverly said. His voice had an edge that brooked no argument. To emphasize his point, he twisted the man’s fat arm even tighter. “And if you apologize very nicely, I won’t knock your teeth down your throat.”

Aware of his weakness, the corpulent baron glared angrily at Colette and muttered with undisguised resentment, “My deepest apologies, Miss Hamilton. Please forgive my lack of control and excessive infatuation at your charms.”

Lord Waverly released him with such force that the man stumbled forward and nearly fell flat on his face. Colette practically had to jump out of his way to avoid him, instinctively moving closer to Lord Waverly.

As he got to his feet again, the baron spat, “This won’t be the end of it, Waverly.” To Colette he spewed, “And you can tell your uncle that the deal is off.” He turned and lumbered, huffing and puffing, as quickly as he could manage back to Lord Hutton’s townhouse.

Still trying to catch her own breath, Colette finally raised her eyes to Lord Waverly’s and felt a little lost looking in them. “Thank you.”

“There is no need for thanks. Did he hurt you, Colette?” he asked, his voice full of concern.

She shook her head mutely, stunned at his use of her given name.

“Would you care to go back inside now?”

“No, not yet,” she answered without hesitation. She was in no hurry to rejoin her aunt and uncle. “I think I should like a moment.”

As if he understood her motivation, he said, “There’s a bench over there. Come sit and pull yourself together a bit before going back to the ballroom.”

For the first time all evening, she did not mind in the least that a man placed his hand on her arm. Lord Waverly gently guided her to a white marble bench set in an enclosure of leafy hydrangea bushes along the brick pathway, where some moonlight spilled through the trees above. The faint sounds of the orchestra playing from the ballroom drifted around them.

“Are you sure he did not hurt you?” he asked again, once they were both seated. His eyes quickly roamed over her body, as if he was assuring himself that she was unharmed.

Colette’s pulse quickened under his scrutiny and her stomach felt suddenly full of butterflies. “I think he may have bruised my arms, but other than that I am quite well. I’m fortunate you came along when you did.”

“It wasn’t good fortune. I followed you.”

“What do you mean?” she asked in surprise.

“I saw you leave the ballroom with him. You had a decidedly…unwilling look on your face. When I saw him take you from the terrace, I just—”

“You just…?” She prompted him.

“I just had a feeling he was not going to behave with you as a gentleman should.”

“Well, your instincts about Baron Sheffield proved quite accurate. He was horrid.”

“Please don’t tell me that your uncle thought that man was a prospective husband for you,” Lord Waverly said.

Colette looked directly at him, once again thrown off balance by the stark handsomeness of his face. And the intensity of his gaze. And the fullness of his lips. Something about this man made her feel giddy, light-headed even. A delicious shiver ran through her. So different from the repulsive shiver she felt earlier with the baron.

“Apparently Baron Sheffield had been given the impression by my uncle that I would make a good wife for him.”

“And you disabused him of that assumption?”

“Quite successfully.” She couldn’t help but grin. “With your help and persuasion, of course.”

“You are most welcome,” he said affably before his expression turned serious. “But why would your uncle choose such an unlikely prospect for you? Surely there must be a gentleman more to your liking than that rude beast?”

“My uncle expects my sister and me to marry very well. Baron Sheffield possesses all the required assets for a husband as far as my uncle is concerned.”

“And those assets would be what?”

“Pots and pots of money. In addition to his baronial estate, he is apparently very wealthy from textile investments.”

“Ah, I see,” he stated quietly, his handsome face thoughtful. “Money is the key component of this marriage?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“You are quite candid.”

“It is my uncle’s decision,” she tried to explain, realizing how mercenary it seemed. “The reality is such that my father left my mother, my sisters, and me a less than modest amount to live on. Women have very little recourse in situations like this, Lord Waverly. Juliette and I need to marry well to support our family.”

He nodded his head in understanding. “But what of the bookshop? Does that not bring in income for you?”

“Unfortunately, not enough.”

“Why don’t you simply sell the shop, then? It must be worth a good sum.”

She shook her head determinedly. “No. Selling the shop is not an option.”

“It means that much to you?” He could not mask the surprise in his voice.

“More than anything. I shall never sell Hamilton’s.”

Recognizing the resolve in her tone, he shook his head slightly. “If you insist upon keeping the shop, then perhaps it is best that you should marry soon so you can have the proper support and guidance of a husband, Miss Hamilton.”

Ignoring his words, which disparaged her ability to manage the shop on her own, she simply said, “You called me Colette earlier.”

“I did?” His voice was threaded with surprise. “I had not noticed. Forgive me.”

The man seemed to be a study in contrasts. “For an earl with a well-known reputation, you are behaving like quite the gentleman, Lord Waverly.”

“Ah, you have heard of my reputation, then.” He looked at her without a shred of embarrassment. In fact, he appeared amused by her comment.

“Yes, but just vaguely, of course. My aunt and uncle have warned me against rogues like you. And your friend, Lord Eddington.”

He gave her a searching glance. “And what do you think of Lord Eddington?”

Did she detect a note of jealousy in his voice? “I think he is a delightful man. I very much enjoyed dancing with him this evening.”

He rubbed his hand across his chin. “Yes, well, I suppose we have both earned a certain standing in society’s eyes.”

She could not help herself from asking, “Have you really been with so many women?”

The corners of his mouth turned up slightly. “What a question from a lady!”

“So then it is not true what they say about you? You are not a rake?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Because you have rescued me from the lecherous baron, showed concern for my well-being and safety, and have not once tried to kiss me.”

“You are not my type,” he explained with succinct ease.

“And why is that?” she asked. She could not help feeling slightly insulted by his remark.

“Because you are a virtuous young lady, one that a gentleman would hope to marry.”

Now she was surprised. “That’s not your type?”

“Decidedly not. I do have some standards. I prefer to dally with more experienced women who are not interested in marriage.”

She dared a direct glance at him. “But you wanted to kiss me that day in the bookshop.”

He held her gaze, but did not respond.

She would not let him off that easily. She knew she had not imagined what she had felt between them that afternoon. “You did want to kiss me, though, didn’t you?”

He lowered his eyes. “Yes, I did.”

His admission thrilled her. “But you didn’t.”

“Why? Did you want me to?” he asked, gazing directly at her.

His question turned her stomach upside down and she suddenly couldn’t think. “Perhaps…”

He grinned wolfishly at her, a grin that lit his eyes from within and caused her stomach to somersault again. “Did I disappoint you?” he whispered, his voice as smooth as velvet.

“I’m…I’m n-not sure,” she stammered, finding it difficult to breathe normally, lost in the look of his eyes, which glittered hypnotically in the moonlight. A thrill ran through her, as if something special were about to happen.

“I would hate to ever disappoint you, Miss Hamilton…”

He leaned in nearer to her, his face so close to hers she suddenly could not breathe at all. He waited there, hovering. His eyes searched hers. He smelled clean and so very masculine and infinitely appealing. She could see the faint stubble along his chin and wondered what it would feel like to run her fingers across it. His nearness unnerved her and left her trembling, while her stomach felt as if it had just plummeted to her toes. Unable to bear the intensity any longer, she closed her eyes.

“Look at me,” he demanded in a hushed whisper, his hand cupping the back of her neck in a gentle movement.

Her heart pounded wildly in anticipation as her lids fluttered back open. She took a shaky breath. His green eyes pinned her in place as his lips touched hers lightly, teasingly. He kissed her as if she were the most delicate, the most fragile of crystal. His touch was soft, featherlike. His mouth was warm, his lips smooth. The hand on the back of her neck pulled her closer, his fingers caressing the sensitive skin there, sending shivers down her spine. The feel was so exquisite she thought she would faint.

“Colette,” he breathed her name into her mouth and suddenly his lips became more insistent, more demanding. They possessed her, seared her in a kiss so all-consuming she could not breathe.

She closed her eyes in spite of what he said and lost herself completely in the sensation of his mouth covering hers.

His mouth became possessive, virtually ravenous over hers. She felt devoured. To her own surprise, her lips parted, instinctively responding to his. His tongue entered her mouth. Shocked and thrilled by the sensation, her heart raced. Heated and slick, his tongue swirled with her own inside of her mouth. Good heavens! Was this what made women swoon in the gothic novels she had read? And that was her last rational thought as his kiss overwhelmed her with its blatant intimacy and intensity. He was strength and gentleness combined, and she could not get enough of him. A hunger grew within her as they kissed. Never had she felt something so completely and utterly satisfying, yet it left her yearning for more, desperate for more. She didn’t want it to end.

Lucien’s mouth on hers wasn’t enough.

When did she place her hands on his shoulders? His quite broad and firm shoulders. What possessed me to do such a thing? And when did his other hand find its way around her waist?

And still they kissed.

And kissed.

She could no longer hear the music from the ballroom, nor the chirping of the crickets, nor the usual noises of the cool evening around them. Only the rapid thumping of her heart and the sound of their breathing echoed in her ears.

Then he pulled her closer, and she clung to him with no resistance whatsoever. She found herself sitting across his lap, a position that was at once so intimate and possessive. It was as if she had been designed to fit perfectly there, with his arms around her, holding her securely against his chest. The feel of his muscled thighs beneath her left her light-headed. It seemed they could not get close enough to each other. They melted into each other, as if they were the only two people in the world and where they were did not matter. Time seemed to disappear.

And still they kissed.

His hands cupped her face, his fingers threaded through her hair, loosening it from its upswept style. Lucien’s touch made her feel cherished and adored. Colette had never experienced anything like it. She had never been kissed before, but she knew, just knew, she would never be kissed like this again. This was wild, reckless, and passionate. She had read about passion, of course. But now she was fast learning what the word truly meant.

She was kissing and being kissed passionately.

By a man who held her on his lap. By a man who touched her with infinite tenderness and unmistakable desire. By a man who…

Abruptly, he turned his head away from hers, and she collapsed into the crook of his neck. They both panted heavily, and he stroked her hair. For a long while they did not speak, but simply tried to regain their breath.

His voice was ragged when he finally spoke. “I’m sorry, Colette.”

She knew why he was apologizing; yet she still wished he had not done so. The apology made their kiss seem wrong, and his mouth on hers felt more right than anything she had ever known. Reluctantly she lifted her head, feeling very groggy, as if she had just awakened from a most delicious dream. Her lips felt heavy and swollen and the thought of leaving his embrace made her want to cry.

They stared at each other, and she tried to read his unfathomable green eyes. Did he regret kissing her? Did he think she was angry? God, but he is stunningly handsome. Lightly, she touched his face with her fingers, tracing the strong cheekbones and the masculine line of Lucien’s jaw. Lucien. For of course, she could not think of him as anything but Lucien now.

Lucien. Lucien. Lucien.

“Colette?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she whispered when she was capable of speaking coherently again. “Is kissing always like that?”

“No. No, it’s not.” His husky words thrilled her. He took her hand in his large one and pressed a sweet kiss to her palm, and then he gently closed her fingers, as if saving the kiss for her.

Her heart fluttered wildly at the tender gesture.

“Which is why this cannot happen again between us.”

Then she could only nod in agreement with him as she slowly came back to her senses. It certainly could not happen again. What was she thinking? Kissing the man in full view of whoever happened to be walking through the garden! She had just behaved more scandalously than Juliette had ever done! No, this could never happen again!

What had come over her?

Gently Lucien slipped her off his lap and onto her feet, which were none too steady at that point. Suddenly flooded with embarrassment, she could not look at him.

“We must get you back to the house unseen. You should enter first and I’ll stay outside a while longer.”

Her hands went intuitively to her hair; she knew it must look a fright. Everyone would know just by looking at her what she had been doing. Kissing the Earl of Waverly in a moonlit garden while she sat in his lap! She had behaved disgracefully, yet oddly enough, she did not regret one minute of it.

As she attempted to put her hair to rights, Lucien leaned over and kissed her cheek. The kiss was soft and gentle, and sent another thrill through Colette’s body.

“You are a beautiful woman, Colette. You can have any man you want, and so you must promise me that you won’t allow your uncle to force you to settle for any man you don’t wish to marry.”

She stared at him, feeling confused by the deep emotions Lucien stirred within her heart. “I promise,” she whispered before turning and making her way along the brick pathway back to the house.

Her heart pounding, Colette gulped deep, filling her lungs with air to calm herself. The comparative glare and the noise from the ballroom made her want to hide her face, which she knew had to be flaming scarlet. She inhaled another long breath and pressed her hands to her heated cheeks, suppressing the urge to look back in the garden. Would Lucien be standing there, watching her? How long would he wait before returning to the ball? Torn between wanting to run back to his side and never wanting to face him again, she ventured hesitantly into the ballroom, wishing she could hide somewhere quiet and relive what had just happened to her.

Juliette found her first.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Where have you been?” her sister demanded.

“For a walk in the garden.”

“Alone?” Juliette’s sharp eyes missed nothing.

“No,” Colette attempted to explain. “The repulsive Baron Sheffield dragged me out to the garden with him and then had the nerve to try to kiss me!”

“He did no such thing!” she exclaimed in shock.

“Unfortunately, he did.” She recoiled at the memory of the baron’s mouth on hers.

“Oh, Colette!” She laughed nervously, her expression aghast. Juliette grabbed her hand in comfort. “How perfectly awful! What did you do?”

“I kicked him.” Colette described the events in a whisper as the two of them hid behind a marble column. “He was not very happy with me, quite angry really, and stalked away. By now I’m certain he has told Uncle Randall that I am an utter hoyden.”

“Well, at least you won’t have to bear his company again.”

“No. But I’ve no doubt Uncle Randall will find someone equally detestable to court me.”

“Are you sure that is all that happened to you?” Juliette questioned.

Colette flushed, unsure why she did not want to tell Juliette that she had just kissed Lucien Sinclair passionately. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m not sure. You just have a look about you, excited or happy. You look different somehow.”

“I suppose I’m still just upset about Baron Sheffield.” She shifted the topic. “What have you been doing while I was gone?”

Juliette’s expression was not one of total belief, but she obviously had something she wanted to share with her.

“I’ve been disappointing Uncle Randall also. He found me playing cards with Lord Eddington in the drawing room and he just about had an apoplectic fit! Aunt Cecilia wants to take us home immediately.”

Colette shook her head in despair. It would be a miracle if either of them were to come out of this Season with their reputations intact, let alone with husbands.

Chapter Seven

A Male Point of View

A few days later Colette continued to work in the bookshop as evening approached. The books had now all been placed neatly on the shelves, and the signs that Paulette had painted hung from the ceiling held with dark green ribbon. Also, a new sign with “Hamilton’s Book Shoppe” printed in elegant writing hung above the counter. The major changes were now completed. Colette stepped back to admire the place and felt an incredible sense of accomplishment at her progress. The store looked completely different from when her father was alive. A few months ago she had only her ideas. Now the shop was generating much talk in the neighborhood, and people were coming in to take a look for themselves at what the Hamilton girls had done to their father’s shop. They had marveled at the changes and congratulated her.

And, most importantly, they bought books. Her sales had doubled from the month before. Which was still a pitiful amount, but better than nothing. Business was picking up slowly but surely.

Colette arranged a few wooden chairs in a circle as the tinkling of the bells above the door caught her attention.

A thin woman, about thirty, wearing a neat gray bonnet and dress, asked shyly, “Hello. I hope I am not too late. This is when the reading group meets, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” Colette responded with an encouraging smile. Just the day before Colette met the woman, who worked as a governess for a family in Mayfair, and had encouraged her to attend. “Please come in and have a seat, Miss Rutan. I’m so happy you decided to join us.”

The woman nodded and situated herself on one of the chairs that Colette had just arranged. “This is so exciting!” Miss Rutan exclaimed. “I’ve never been part of a reading group before! Thank you for inviting me.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

The door to their quarters upstairs opened and Paulette and Lisette entered the bookshop. Lisette carried a tray with a blue flower–patterned china teapot, creamer, and sugar bowl, and Paulette followed with another tray filled with matching cups and saucers and a plate of cookies.

“We’ve brought some refreshments,” Lisette declared as she efficiently set up a serving area on a table covered with a pretty chintz cloth. “Would you like some tea?” she offered their first guest.

The bells jingled again and Colette greeted two more women, who also took seats in the circle. The taller of the two, Miss Benson, wore a bright yellow scarf around her neck and spectacles, while the shorter one, Mrs. Cornell, clutched a book tightly to her chest.

The Ladies’ Reading Circle had been Colette’s idea, too, knowing that the women would have to buy the books in order to join the group. Paulette had made a sign advertising that Hamilton’s would hold a monthly book discussion group for women. Their first book was Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. A little dark, perhaps, but it was daring and much talked about. And Colette thought it important that they begin with a female author. She had hoped for a larger group, but three women, along with her sisters, was at least enough to start.

The three ladies, Colette, Lisette, Paulette, and a most reluctant Juliette had just begun their discussion of the work when the bells above the door signaled another entrance. Colette turned her head to see Lord Jeffrey Eddington enter the bookshop. He held a copy of Frankenstein in one hand and a small bouquet of flowers in the other. He was grinning mischievously from ear to ear.

“Good evening, ladies,” he said grandly. “Would you mind if I joined you?”

Stunned speechless, Colette stared at him in confusion. Juliette suddenly developed a case of the giggles and laughed surreptitiously into her hand, which was held tightly over her mouth. Paulette and Lisette looked as stunned as the other ladies did.

“Lord Eddington, what on earth are you doing here?” Colette finally managed to ask, after he breezily swept into the room, placed the flowers—a lovely assortment of hyacinth and lily of the valley—on the table, and seated himself upon an empty chair, looking extremely comfortable. He acted as if this were the most ordinary of occurrences, when as far as she knew he had never set foot in Hamilton’s before. Or any bookshop, for that matter!

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m here to discuss Frankenstein. It’s one of my favorites.” He smiled winningly around the group.

“But, Lord Eddington, this is a women’s discussion group,” Colette explained, wondering why he had suddenly appeared in the bookshop. Judging from the highly satisfied look on Juliette’s face, she must have had something to do with this.

“Yes, I know that, but I thought you might benefit from a male point of view. You don’t mind if I participate, do you, ladies?” He asked so charmingly; Colette watched as each woman, including Paulette, nodded in acquiescence. It was impossible for the man to be denied.

“It would be interesting to have a man’s opinion,” Mrs. Cornell volunteered.

The sight of the matronly Mrs. Cornell batting her eyes at Jeffrey amused Colette. “Juliette?” she questioned her sister with a single word.

“I may have mentioned to Lord Eddington in passing that we were meeting here this evening,” she said, still attempting to suppress the laughter that bubbled within her.

With a serious expression on his handsome face, Lord Eddington questioned the group, assured of his acceptance with the women. “Did you know that Mary Shelley was only nineteen when she wrote this novel?”

Without missing a beat, Paulette jumped right into the discussion. “Yes, and her parents were revolutionaries. That must have had a strong influence on her writing, don’t you agree?”

As the conversation swirled around her, Colette sat back against her chair, helpless to keep Lord Eddington from participating. This was not how she imagined her first book discussion group. She tried to keep up with the dialogue but was disconcerted by Lord Eddington’s strong presence. She never would have suspected him of participating in such a way. What was he doing there? Did he really have feelings for Juliette? Or, even more incredibly, me?

Of course that thought led her thoughts to Lucien Sinclair.

As much as she tried to block that night from her memory, she had not been able to think of anything but their world-altering and seductively sensual kiss. The feel of Lucien’s lips on hers, the caress of his strong hand at her waist, the huskiness of his voice when he whispered her name. And how she had not wanted it to end.

Oh, she was not completely ignorant of the ways of men and women. Years ago she and Juliette had secretly read one of the thick medical textbooks she had found on a dusty shelf in the shop. A Complete Study of the Human Anatomy and All Its Functions by Doctor T. Everett even had pencil sketches to accompany its explanation of sexual intercourse. The two of them had been shocked, appalled, and fascinated by the information the book contained, which really created more questions for them than it answered.

Now Colette had stunned herself with the realization that she might actually want to do what came next.

With Lucien Sinclair.

She wanted to feel his strong male body against hers. And heaven help her, had he taken further liberties with her that evening in the garden, she doubted if she would have had the resolve to stop him. And if she were truly honest with herself, she knew she would have willingly done anything he wanted.

Sleepless nights and tormented dreams had plagued her ever since he had kissed her. She had not seen Lucien since that night and almost felt relieved. Almost. What would she do when she saw him next? Surely they would meet again. She had been half hoping he would visit the bookshop to see her. But he had not come. So she was left on needles and pins wondering what would happen when they saw each other again.

Suddenly noticing the puzzled looks on her sisters’ faces, she recalled that she was expected to participate in the discussion, and she dragged her thoughts from the seductive Lucien Sinclair and forced herself to focus all her attention on the group. An hour later, after much conversation, debate, and laughter, Miss Benson, Miss Rutan, and Mrs. Cornell declared the group a success and promised to come again next month and more importantly, to bring their friends with them.

“Will you be joining us again next month when we discuss Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility, Lord Eddington?” Mrs. Cornell asked him with a flirtatious batting of her eyelashes that astonished Colette.

“I would never pass up an opportunity to spend an evening in the company of such beautiful women.” His good looks and magnetic charm had enraptured the women and left them giggling as they exited the shop.

Now alone with the Hamilton sisters, Lord Eddington commented, “My God, you four girls look remarkably alike.”

“We know,” they all stated in unison.

Lord Eddington laughed in amusement. “There is one sister missing, is there not?”

“Yvette. She’s the youngest, and Mother said she was not old enough to join us. Not that she would understand the discussion anyway, even if she did attend,” Paulette explained with the sophisticated air of a sibling only slightly older yet far superior to her younger sister.

“I would like to meet your youngest sister,” Jeffrey said, still staring at them in amazement, “as well as your mother sometime.”

“Perhaps you will,” Colette said, somewhat confounded by his sudden interest in her family.

Lisette spoke up. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Lord Eddington. You made our first book group discussion quite memorable.”

“I enjoyed it myself. You ladies definitely gave me some ideas to ponder.”

“Come, Paulette, it is past time we went upstairs,” Lisette suggested. “Good night, Lord Eddington.”

“Good night, Miss Hamilton, and Miss Hamilton.”

Giggling at Jeffrey’s teasing, Paulette helped Lisette gather up the remains of the refreshments and headed back upstairs. Colette began to remove the chairs from the circle.

“Here, allow me do that.” Lord Eddington took a chair from Colette’s hands. “Just tell me where you want this. Against the wall?”

Colette nodded as he went to work, then she and Juliette exchanged curious glances.

“You’re not impressing us,” Juliette called to him.

“I’m simply being a gentleman.” He grinned slyly. “I can be one when it suits me.”

Juliette rolled her eyes at him, but admitted grudgingly, “I did not think you would have the nerve to actually join us.”

“How could I possibly turn down an invitation from you, my lovely Juliette? Besides, I wished to take a look at your shop for myself, and what better way is there than to spend the evening with beautiful women?”

“Well, you did lend an air of excitement to our little group,” Colette admitted, surprised by the success of her first literary discussion.

“I thought so, too,” he boasted with a devilish grin. “Excitement is my specialty, you know. Now, ladies, how else can I be of help to you?”

“There is nothing else to be done, but thank you for offering,” Colette replied.

“Well, then, I should be going. Thank you both for a most interesting evening. I rather enjoyed myself more than I thought I would. Shall I see you next at Lady Boswell’s party tomorrow night?”

“I suppose so,” Colette murmured.

As he gathered up his coat and hat, they bid him good-bye and watched as he left. Colette locked the shop door behind him and pulled down the shade.

“Now why do you suppose he came here tonight?” she asked her sister.

Juliette laughed and crossed her arms over her chest. “To prove me wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“At Lord Hutton’s party I made a remark to him that I didn’t think he ever took anything seriously. So when he learned of the book group, he stopped by to show me that he could be serious.”

Pondering this, Colette shook her head. A man like Jeffrey Eddington did not attend a ladies’ literary discussion group without a good cause for motivation. “No, I don’t think that’s it. I think he is a little sweet on you, Juliette, and he’s trying to win you over.”

Juliette laughed outright. “No one tries to win me over! If anything, he’s sweet on you, and he’s trying to win you over!”

Now it was Colette’s turn to laugh. “That’s ridiculous!”

“Is it?” Juliette gave her a knowing look, turned, and made her way upstairs, leaving Colette stunned.

Chapter Eight

Let the Games Begin

Lucien smiled good-naturedly as he laid his cards on the table. Four aces. His friends groaned when they saw his winning poker hand. “And that’s the game.”

“Doesn’t that beat all?” Lord James Buckley complained with a desperate frown. “How do you always manage to win, Waverly?”

“Just born lucky, I guess.” Lucien grinned as he collected his considerable winnings from the center of the table. It wasn’t as if he needed the money. Lucien just liked to play cards and spend time with his friends. Not since his father’s apoplectic sickness began had he hosted a night of cards.

“He gets all the cards and all the women,” Buckley muttered to the others, his thin face narrowed in dissatisfaction. “It’s not fair.”

“Fair enough,” Jeffrey Eddington responded cryptically, collecting the cards from the table. He shuffled them effortlessly and they began another hand.

They had recently learned to play poker, a distinctly American card game, from their friend Harrison Fleming, who had visited New Orleans the year before, and they had been playing it ever since.

“I think Waverly’s luck may have just run out,” Eddington continued, dealing the cards with efficient speed and practiced skill.

“What do you mean?” Thomas Hargrove asked eagerly, puffing on his cigar, the smoke filling Lucien Sinclair’s study with a tangy cloud.

Eddington turned to Lucien and raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to tell them or should I?”

Lucien shrugged, picking up his cards from the table. He honestly didn’t want to discuss the matter, but now that Jeffrey brought it up, he was sure to have no peace until he confessed his plan. “It seems I’m finally going to settle down and choose a bride.”

Buckley and Hargrove’s riotous questions erupted in the smoke-filled room.

“You’re jesting!”

“Why would you do it now?”

“Who is she?”

“Yes, who is the lucky girl?”

Lucien breathed deeply. “I have a young woman in mind and have not asked her yet, but I plan to. I’d like to be married as soon as possible.”

Buckley cried out in surprise, “Good God, man, you can’t mean to leg-shackle yourself so soon!”

“You’re serious, aren’t you, Lucien?” Hargrove questioned, his face full of astonishment.

“Yes, I am.” Lucien left it at that.

“So tell us who she is,” Eddington said with a distinct gleam in his eye.

Lucien offered, “You’ll know when the time comes.”

“He’s being mysterious,” Eddington declared.

Lucien shrugged as the poker game continued, ignoring the continued requests for more information. They would learn it all soon enough. In the meantime, Lucien intended to pursue Lady Faith Bromleigh in the proper manner.

After another two hours, he collected his considerable profits and the game ended for the night. Before Buckley could leave, Lucien discreetly slipped him his winnings.

“This is the last time I will play with you, Buckley. Use this to pay off some of your debts.” Lucien could not bear the grateful look on his friend’s face.

“I can’t take this from you, Lucien,” Buckley mumbled. “I owe you money.”

Yes, Buckley owed him money. A great deal, actually. But Lucien also knew that Buckley was in very deep trouble and in danger of losing his house. He hated to see his friend, whom he had known for years, in such dire straits, even if it was due to his own weakness and poor judgment.

“Stop gambling,” Lucien told Buckley in a tone that left no doubt as to his feelings on the matter. “You can no longer afford it.”

“Thank you. I will pay you back, I swear it.” Looking abashed, Buckley nodded sadly. He did not hesitate as he pocketed the money before he exited the room.

With just Eddington left, Lucien walked to the sideboard and poured them each another glass of fine scotch whisky from a crystal decanter.

“You shouldn’t give him any more money, Lucien,” Jeffrey stated simply, accepting the glass of whisky Lucien handed him.

“You saw that, did you?”

“Yes, and it’s a waste of good cash.”

Lucien sat in the rich brown leather wingchair opposite Jeffrey in front of the fireplace. The orange flames crackled and cast shadows across the room. “I realize I shouldn’t. But I also know he needs it.”

“Don’t misunderstand me, I like Buckley, too, but he owes money all over town. He’s a grown man, for Christ’s sake. He should know better. If he can’t afford to lose, he shouldn’t play. You’re only prolonging the inevitable by helping him out.”

Lucien nodded, knowing that Jeffrey was correct in his assessment of Buckley. Still, Lucien couldn’t help but feel bad for him. Buckley was in for a humiliating downfall one of these days. And more than likely sooner than he expected. Lucien shook his head before taking a sip of the whisky. “Have you been given a new assignment yet?” he asked.

Behind Jeffrey’s indolent and womanizing reputation, there hid a strength of character few would ever suspect him of possessing. For the past few years he had taken on a position with the British government. Aside from Lucien, no one had any idea of Jeffrey’s clandestine work for his country. And Jeffrey wanted it that way.

“Yes. They’re pretty quiet at the moment, at least on my end of things. A war between Prussia and France will stir things up inevitably, I suspect,” Jeffrey explained.

“Are they sending you to Paris?”

“More than likely before the end of summer.”

Lucien nodded, thinking that he might very well be engaged by the end of the summer, while his friend would be aiding his country in Paris.

“So please tell me you’re not seriously considering the dull Bromleigh chit.”

Lucien gave him a steady glance, unwavering in his meaning. “I am.”

“I’m disappointed in you, Lucien. Of all the wonderful girls out there for you to marry, why her?”

“Faith Bromleigh will suit just fine.”

“Fine? Fine?” Jeffrey scoffed with indignation. “Can you even have a conversation with her?” In response to Lucien’s tight-lipped silence, Jeffrey said disparagingly, “I knew it! I’m sure she’s a nice enough girl, but do you really want to spend the rest of your life with someone who has a personality like wall paint?”

Again, Lucien could not respond. Jeffrey had a valid point. Still, he knew he was making a sound decision. It was very important that he marry the right type of woman. And the biddable Faith Bromleigh was the best example of what he was looking for in a wife.

“And can you picture yourself bedding her?”

Lucien remained silent again at Jeffrey’s questioning. Faith Bromleigh did not arouse passion in him because she was not a passionate person. That was why he’d chosen her.

Jeffrey continued, “If you feel you must marry before your father dies, then at least choose a woman with some life in her, like one of those Hamilton sisters. Juliette and Colette are both beauties with enough wit and charm to last a lifetime.”

At the mention of Colette Hamilton’s name, Lucien’s entire body tensed. He had been attempting to block her from his thoughts all week. Since he kissed her that night in the garden, he had been tortured with images of her. He could have kicked himself for kissing her, but at the time he had been powerless to prevent it. He simply had no choice but to finally taste those berry-sweet lips for himself. If he were totally honest, he had been dying to kiss her since the moment he set eyes on her in the bookshop.

But even he, he who had kissed countless women over the years, had been completely unprepared for the effect Colette had upon his senses. Good God, she had left him reeling and desperate for more. So much more…He had wanted to take her there in the garden, to tear that silky gown from her body and feel her naked skin pressed against his, to caress her plump, ripe breasts, to kiss every inch of her, to drive himself into her warm, seductive little body.

Yet even he knew better than to trifle with a girl like that. Colette wasn’t one to be taken lightly. She was the type of girl that a man married. Unfortunately, she was not the type he must marry. Someday Miss Colette Hamilton would lead her husband into a merry hell, with her stubborn ways and modern notions. He could not afford to risk a marriage with a wife like that. After a childhood racked with nothing but scandal, he wished for some measure of peace in his life, with a wife he could trust to behave and who would be faithful to him.

“If you think they would make such perfect wives, why don’t you marry one of them?” Lucien questioned with a challenging look.

Jeffrey countered pragmatically, “I’m an undercover operative for our country, the illegitimate son of the Duke of Rathmore, a notorious and well-respected rake, and I’m about to leave for Paris. Yes, I’m an ideal candidate for any woman to marry.”

“Well, don’t try to foist them on me, then. Especially Juliette. That one is a holy terror.”

“She’s fantastic!” Jeffrey defended Juliette with an eagerness that surprised Lucien. “I have had some of the most entertaining conversations of my life with that girl. And believe me, I’ve had some great ones.” He paused thoughtfully. “But what about Colette? She would appeal more to your tastes.”

“I hardly think a woman who runs a bookshop and handles business like a man would be suited to be a marchioness. Besides, what is your interest in these two particular sisters?”

“I think they’re amazing. I’ve never met women quite like them. I spent some time with them the other night—”

Lucien almost choked on his whisky. “You did what?”

“Easy, old man,” Jeffrey cautioned as Lucien continued to cough. “As I was saying, I went to their bookshop—”

“You went to Hamilton’s?”

“Yes, and would you mind not interrupting me?”

“Fine, but why on earth would you go to their bookshop?” Stunned by the realization Jeffrey had been to Hamilton’s Book Shoppe, Lucien could not come to grips with his own reaction. He felt a strange, overwhelming possessiveness about Colette, her sisters, and the shop, and did not like the thought of Eddington visiting them. He didn’t like to think of him dancing with Colette either, though he would be hard-pressed to explain just why he felt that way to Jeffrey.

“I wanted to see where they came from, these fascinating sisters. I’ve met all but the youngest now. And they are all quite lovely, intelligent women. Besides, Juliette practically dared me to come visit. I could hardly disappoint her.”

“The two of you together would be a devastating combination,” Lucien quipped, shaking his head at the thought.

“Yes, wouldn’t we, though?” Jeffrey agreed amiably. “But Juliette and I are much better suited to be good friends, if that makes any sense.”

“I don’t know if you should even be friends.” Shaking his head in mock horror, Lucien grimaced.

Jeffrey laughed. “Ah, but she’s fun.”

Curious, Lucien couldn’t help but ask, “And what about Colette?”

“What about her?”

“What are your feelings for her?”

Jeffrey gave Lucien a very hard look. Lucien found himself turning away, his eyes lingering on the orange flames in the fireplace. He watched the golden light dance and flicker wildly across the charred wood.

“I think Colette is an amazing woman,” Jeffrey declared without hesitation. “She would be a credit to any man she marries. And that man would be a very lucky one. She’s just twenty years old and supporting her family. Did you know that?”

“Yes,” Lucien admitted reluctantly. The thought had weighed on him. “We should see if we couldn’t send some business her way.”

“That isn’t a bad idea,” Jeffrey admitted. “The poor girls could use a break.”

After a long pause, Lucien stated, “I received some news that will take your mind off the Hamilton sisters. I received a letter from my mother today.”

“You’re not serious?” Jeffrey asked, incredulous. “Good God! After all this time. What did she say?”

“It seems she has returned to London and has learned of my father’s illness. She wants to see him. And me.”

Jeffrey remained speechless for some time before asking, “What do you intend to do?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Imagine hearing from her after all these years.”

Lucien had imagined it hundreds of times when he was younger. He had dreamed of her returning, declaring she missed him too much to stay away and promising to never leave again. But those childhood fantasies had ceased by the time he was twelve and his mother had not written him a single word. Since then he had hardened his heart against ever being hurt by her again.

“Have you told your father yet?”

Lucien shook his head in regret. “No, I’m afraid hearing about my mother might cause him more pain than he’s in already.”

“Maybe it would help?” Jeffrey tossed out the suggestion casually.

“How?” Lucien demanded. Tormenting his father with news of his faithless wife’s return could hardly aid in his recovery.

Jeffrey leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his legs. “Maybe seeing your mother again after all these years might give your father a bit of peace. They probably have a lot to say to each other.”

“The man can barely speak, Jeffrey. It wouldn’t be fair to him.”

“Perhaps. But is that for you to judge or decide?”

Lucien shrugged, unsure. “I just wonder what she wants after all this time. What could she possibly have to say to either of us?” He had a bad feeling about it. His mother had destroyed their lives once before when she abandoned them, running off with another man. The pain and the scandal devastated his father. He could not bear to see her hurt Simon like that again. Lucien shuddered to think of the scandal her unexpected return would certainly create.

Jeffrey asked, “Isn’t that exactly why you should see her? To find out?”

Lucien was not sure he wanted to know.

Chapter Nine

Cry Uncle

“It’s the only way, Genevieve,” Randall Hamilton pleaded with his brother’s widow. “The bookshop is worthless, but the building itself would bring quite a handsome sum of money.”

“I don’t know…Je ne sais pas quoi faire…” Genevieve hesitated. “Colette loves the shop so much. I could not sell it without breaking her heart.” She sighed wearily, distressed by the subject of the conversation.

Randall attempted to quell his mounting frustration with the feeble woman. Her steady decline over the years astounded him, for Genevieve La Brecque had once been stunningly beautiful. So stunning that Randall had even fancied himself in love with her at one time. But she had ended up marrying Thomas. How his half brother had managed to wed a woman like Genevieve always eluded him.

Thomas had been a weak and studious child who had become an even weaker and more bookish man. Although they shared the same father, Thomas and Randall had turned out as different as night and day. Where Randall was driven by the desire to be powerful and rich, Thomas had been motivated only by his love of books.

Even when they were children, Thomas was content to sit in their father’s library and read for hours on end, whereas Randall had spent his time riding his horses and avoiding the schoolroom at all costs. Their old tutor doted on the studious Thomas but despaired of ever teaching the recalcitrant Randall anything. They both ended up attending Cambridge, but while Thomas actually went there to learn, Randall attended merely to placate their father while having as good a time as he could carousing with his friends.

When their father died, Randall inherited the title of Lord Hamilton and little else, discovering how worthless and empty that inheritance was. Their father seemed to have squandered a great deal of the family fortune over the years. Highly disappointed at that unexpected turn of events, Randall pursued a wealthy wife to bolster the family coffers. He married the passably attractive Cecilia Brewton, a minor heiress, but the best he could do under his dire financial circumstances. It proved to be a good choice after all, for he and Cecilia agreed upon what was important in life and they both made it their goal to obtain that end. Cecilia spent wisely and always made sure that Lord and Lady Hamilton showed their best side to the public. Together they had risen as far as they could socially, making only the highest connections, attending only the elitest parties. They had been doing well financially until this year, when Randall had made some very unwise shipping investments in which he took a terribly costly blow. Sending money to help support his brother’s family was bad enough, but then he discovered his son Nigel’s staggering gambling debts. Randall was in danger of losing everything.

It galled him to no end that all of the success that he and Cecilia had worked so long and so hard to achieve now rested precariously on the shoulders of two of Thomas and Genevieve’s daughters.

His younger half brother and his family had always been the bane of Randall’s existence. While Randall worked to raise the family’s social position, Thomas opted to open a little bookshop near Mayfair, much to Randall’s great humiliation. Randall didn’t know which he despised most: his miserable half brother, the beautiful Genevieve, and their ever-growing passel of daughters; or the dilapidated bookshop that bore his family’s name.

That Randall’s financial security now depended on the whims of his flighty nieces rankled him. For weeks before the start of the Season, Cecilia had done her best to school Colette and Juliette in the correct mode of behavior, but it appeared to be a lost cause. Now he was through wasting his time with them and their fickle ways.

“It’s not Colette’s broken heart that concerns me at the moment, Genevieve. It is our survival.”

A pained expression crossed her pale and faded features.

“I’ve been very patient with you,” he began again in an attempt to remain calm. “When Thomas first died, I left everything to your discretion, did I not?”

She nodded weakly. “Oui, but—”

“Well, it has been almost a year now. The bookshop barely brought in enough money to support the seven of you when Thomas was alive, and it is bringing in even less now. Colette has shown me the books. As your nearest male relative, I am honor bound to assist you. And I have, but I cannot continue to support you. I have graciously outfitted the girls for a Season and introduced them to eligible prospects, but they are not cooperating with me, Genevieve. Juliette especially.”

He frowned at the memory of Juliette slapping Lord Trenton across the face in the middle of Lady Deane’s musicale. He had been furious with her because Trenton had been perfectly willing to take on a willful spirit like Juliette, and he had agreed to settle quite a large sum on her. How a weak man such as Thomas and a pathetic creature as Genevieve managed to create a daughter as strong-willed and obstinate as Juliette astounded him. Actually, all of their daughters had more backbone and gumption than both of their parents combined.

Life played odd and often cruel tricks on families, for how had he and Cecilia created a son as disappointing and weak as Nigel?

“Juliette is a special girl.” Genevieve’s chin went up. “Elle est extravagante. Elle n’écoute que son coeur. From the start I told you she would never let you choose a husband for her. She will need to—”

“She will need to control herself, that is what she will do,” Randall interrupted angrily. “I’ve exhausted every prospect for her. She’s a hellion and no man will have her, mark my words. Not as a wife anyway!”

“Randall!” Genevieve cried out in shock, blinking back tears. “She is my daughter!”

“We have to sell the building. There is no other alternative.”

The building’s value had more than quadrupled since Thomas purchased the property twenty years ago, but his sister-in-law didn’t need to know that. Hell, Randall had just learned of it himself. If he had known he certainly would not have spent so much on his nieces’ wardrobe for this charade of a Season. He needed that extra money. And then some. And he needed it now.

“What of Colette? Elle sait ce que l’on attend d’elle. She will behave. Surely she can marry well?”

Randall rolled his eyes in frustration. “Colette is almost as bad as her sister.”

Genevieve shook her gray head in protest. “Non, Colette is a good girl. She knows what to do. She will not let us down. She will marry well for us. A kind gentleman will want her as his wife. And she will be happy.”

“Are you listening to me?” He struggled not to shout at his dim-witted sister-in-law. “We are a month into the Season. Your daughters have blatantly ignored every bit of advice and guidance that Cecilia and I have given them. They have turned down a dozen suitable prospects between them, they are seen in the company of notorious rakes, and Juliette has given herself quite a little reputation as a firebrand already. I don’t know if there’s anything more I can do to remedy the situation.”

Rendered speechless by his anger, Genevieve covered her face with her long, elegant hands, as if believing her problems would disappear if she could not see them. Randall had frightened her. As well he should.

“I have given your two daughters the opportunity of a lifetime. If they refuse to marry whom I choose for them, I cannot be blamed. And I can no longer continue to support you financially, since I am in a financial bind of my own. If we sell the building, I can recoup my losses with the girls and you will have a tidy sum to live on. Do you understand what I am saying to you, Genevieve?”

Slowly she removed her hands from her face. “Yes, I understand. Bien sûr, je ne suis pas une imbécile.”

“You could buy a little cottage by the sea. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? The girls wouldn’t have to work in the bookshop anymore. You would be happy there.”

She pressed her fingertips to her temples and sighed melodramatically. “I do not know,” she wailed, her French accent becoming more pronounced. “Je ne sais pas quoi faire…”

The French always had to act with histrionics, Randall thought with disgust. He pressed his advantage, knowing he was close to her capitulation. “It’s the right thing to do and you know it. And we don’t have to tell Colette. We can tell her after it’s sold. She will most likely to be grateful to be relieved of the burden of managing the shop. We shall inform her of the sale after it is completed.”

The last thing Randall wanted to do was let Colette know he wanted to sell the shop. She was too smart and would fight him tooth and nail on that point. And she would find out the actual selling price and demand what was rightfully hers. He couldn’t allow that to happen. He deserved most of the money for all the trouble his brother and his family had caused him over the years. Besides, he needed the money to pay off the mountain of debt that Nigel had accrued this year.

“Oh, Randall, je vous en prie. Please do not make me do this!” she cried.

“I’m not making you do anything, Genevieve. I am simply guiding you to make a wise financial decision. If you give me the deed to the building, I will sell it for you. You will make a substantial sum of money, which will support you in your old age in a lovely cottage by the sea. You will not have to depend on me anymore. We would both like that, would we not, Genevieve?”

“You have never cared for me,” she sniffed with an injured air.

Ignoring her pout, he continued determinedly. “That is neither here nor there, my dear. I am offering you a chance to be self-sufficient and to take the burden of that pathetic bookshop off your daughter’s shoulders. Come now, Genevieve, admit it. You hate the bookshop almost as much as I do.” It was a stab in the dark, but he had had his suspicions over the years.

“Oui,” she confessed, almost relieved by the admission. “C’est la vérité.”

She looked at him with her wide azure eyes. Genevieve had been beautiful once, just as beautiful as her daughters, and what she ever saw in the insipid Thomas, Randall never understood, but now she was a mere shadow of her former self. Randall felt an overwhelming sense of pity for her.

“Thomas spent all his time down there. He was never here with me.”

“So sell the building. There is nothing to keep you here but sad memories. Move to the seashore with the girls.”

“Do you really think it will bring a good price?” she asked, and he had to contain his elation at her question. She was wavering.

“I know it will bring a fair price. The real estate in Mayfair has at least doubled over the years,” he lied easily.

“Truly?” she asked, unable to hide the glimmer of hope in her eyes.

“Yes. And didn’t my brother use your inheritance to buy the building in the first place?”

“Oui, without even consulting me when my mother left that money to me! It was my money!” she cried, the years of anger and resentment evident in her furrowed brow and pained expression. “C’était mon argent. I never wanted to live here.” She gestured in disgust toward the shabbily furnished rooms with a wave of her elegant hand.

“Then sell it. Give the deed to me, Genevieve.”

“I will,” she said, her eyes ablaze with emotion, murmuring rapidly in French. “Que Dieu me protège mais je dois le faire. Je vendrai donc ma librairie. I will sell the bookshop, Randall.”

He exhaled in relief at her answer. “I will take care of everything, Genevieve. But don’t tell the girls. It will only upset them. Especially Colette,” he warned.

“No, I shall not tell her.” She called in the direction of the other room, “Paulette! Paulette!”

A bedroom door opened and one of his nieces appeared. “Yes, Mother?” she asked, as she entered the parlor where he sat with her mother. “Good afternoon, Uncle Randall.”

“Good afternoon, Paulette,” he said to her. With her honey-colored hair and blue-green eyes and angelic features, she would be a beauty to match her older sisters when she was grown. It never ceased to astound Randall. He would give his brother credit for that at least, if nothing else. Thomas had somehow managed to produce five stunning daughters, each one lovelier than the next. They were fortunate in that. Randall shuddered at his plight had his nieces been homely…

“Go into my room, ma petite chérie, and in the top right drawer of my bureau are some papers. Will you bring them to me, please?” Genevieve asked.

“Oui, Maman.”

As Paulette ran to do her mother’s bidding, Randall wondered whether his French sister-in-law was truly incapacitated or simply acted that way for effect. He had not seen her outside the house in years, with the exception of Thomas’s funeral last year. She relied heavily on an ornate gilt cane and the assistance of her daughters, but she seemed mobile enough. He believed she rather enjoyed the attention her “infirmity” gave her.

“You are making a wise decision,” he reminded her encouragingly, as Paulette returned with a sheaf of papers and handed them to her mother.

“Merci, ma petite,” she kissed her daughter on the cheek. “You can go now. I shall call you when I need you.”

Paulette nodded obediently and left them. Genevieve shuffled through the papers in front of her. She squinted at them, her face puzzled. Sighing heavily, she finally handed them all over to Randall with a helpless look. “I do not know what it is I am looking for.”

Thrilled at his success, Randall flipped through the documents until he found the deed of ownership to the building. He gave the rest of the papers back to Genevieve.

“Remember, do not mention this to Colette, or any of the girls.”

“I shall not speak of it until it is over and done with.” Her mouth trembled slightly when she spoke.

Randall nodded his approval, pocketing the precious deed carefully in his coat. “I will sell only at the highest price, and you will have your little cottage soon enough and be rid of this place.”

“Je vais finalement m’en débarrasser.” Sadly she wiped a tear from her eye and sniffled. “Yes, I will be rid of this place,” she echoed him woodenly.

With her heart pounding rapidly and holding her breath so as not to be heard, Paulette Hamilton listened stealthily at the door to the parlor where her mother sat talking with Uncle Randall. She knew how wrong it was to eavesdrop, and she truly tried her best not to listen to her sisters when they were speaking privately, but she could not help herself from listening when Uncle Randall had unexpectedly knocked on their door earlier that afternoon. Colette was working downstairs in the shop and her other sisters were out, so Paulette was home alone taking care of their mother when he arrived. Immediately her mother dismissed Paulette from the parlor when Uncle Randall said he wanted to speak with her privately. She noted that Uncle Randall had entered their home though the private entrance, not through the shop, indicating that Colette was unaware of his visit. Alarmed by the situation, she had lingered on the other side of the closed door, listening.

Her mother was going to sell the shop! Not only was she selling the shop, she was selling the entire building and moving them to the seashore!

And her mother wasn’t telling Colette or any of them about it.

What did that mean? And more importantly, what should she do about it?

She should tell Colette. Colette would know exactly what to do.

Paulette felt a sharp pang of remorse. Poor Colette worried about everything. Ever since their mother had become ill, Colette had taken care of the family. And when their father died, she had taken on the entire responsibility of the bookshop, working endlessly to make it support them. When Uncle Randall offered to give Colette and Juliette their debut, she had gamely agreed, knowing that she was being sold in marriage for their benefit. She took so much upon her shoulders.

Paulette heard Uncle Randall leave and she sighed heavily, her head resting against the back of the door. Now she waited for her mother to call her. Her mother had a fear of being alone, and one of her daughters always had to be by her side. Minutes ticked by on the little clock on her dresser, and still her mother did not call to her.

She wondered at the significance of that as she waited and thought of what to do.

Even though she never intended to, Paulette overheard lots of conversations that she shouldn’t be privy to, but sometimes it was the only way to learn what was going on in her family. She had overheard Colette and Juliette talking about money and how dire their situation was and how worried they were. Paulette knew how hard Colette worked and how she never complained when she was tired or scared. Juliette handled things differently. She would laugh or act as if she didn’t care, but Colette made everything safe for her and Lisette and Yvette. Colette never wanted them to worry.

Paulette felt a pang of sadness at the thought of all her own hard work in the shop and all the lovely little signs she had carefully painted and tied with green ribbon.

As much as Paulette loved the bookshop with all her heart and would be sad to lose it, maybe selling it and moving to the seashore would be for the best. Of course, Juliette would be thrilled by the news of leaving the shop. And Lisette would support any decision their mother made, while Yvette was too young to care what they did. If they sold the shop and moved, they would no longer have to worry about money, and Colette would not have to work so hard.

Maybe Uncle Randall was right.

Maybe she wouldn’t tell Colette after all.

Chapter Ten

How May I Help You?

“Do we have a deal, then?” Colette asked, holding her breath in anticipation and fervent hope while staring at the barrel-chested man with wire spectacles standing in front of her. His impassive expression made it difficult for her to read his thoughts.

Mr. Kenworth paused, considering and weighing his options. Then he nodded slowly. “Yes, I believe we do, Miss Hamilton.” Still he did not smile. “As I have said before, I’m not used to doing business with a woman. But I am impressed with your changes to the shop thus far, so we shall begin on a trial basis. I shall have the rest of the stationery delivered to you tomorrow morning. It has been a ple”—he stopped himself before saying “pleasure”—“interesting doing business with you. I look forward to a successful partnership with your shop.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kenworth.” Colette could not help but grin, thrilled with the deal she had just negotiated to sell Mr. Kenworth’s fine stationery in the bookshop. He had been disinclined to work with her at first, but she finally won him over. She had already displayed some samples of his high-quality paper under the glass on the counter. Now her customers could order pens, ink, envelopes, and writing paper through her, and she would get a percentage of the profits from the Kenworth products.

They shook hands across the counter, and when he placed his top hat on his head and turned to leave, she saw Lucien Sinclair standing behind him. As the bells jingled above the door signaling Mr. Kenworth’s departure, Colette stared silently at Lucien, her heart in her mouth. She had not even heard him enter the store. How long had he been standing there watching her? Her heart pounded at seeing him for the first time since she had kissed him with such reckless abandon, and her cheeks flushed profusely at the memory.

“You do drive a hard bargain, Colette,” he stated, his eyes on her. “You’ll make a success of this shop yet.”

“That is the general plan,” she managed to say, feeling an enormous sense of pride at his compliment.

They both stared at each other. Lost in the depths of his green eyes, she knew instinctively that he was thinking about their wildly passionate kiss as well.

“What are you doing here?” she finally blurted out.

He laughed at her bluntness, his smile nearly knocking the wind out of her. “Isn’t the usual greeting in a shop, ‘How may I help you?’ Or do you greet all your customers this way?”

Colette flushed, her stomach fluttering with nervousness. “You know what I meant.”

“Yes, I did,” he admitted, “and in answer to your question, I’ve come to purchase more books from you.”

“Oh, forgive me. I thought because of the other night…” she stammered weakly in sudden mortification, wishing the wood plank floor would swallow her up whole.

“Yes. About the other night,” he began, his voice growing serious. “I owe you an apology for my behavior.”

“You have already apologized for kissing me,” she whispered, feeling even more humiliated by his words.

“You misunderstand. I’m not sorry I kissed you, Colette. In fact, I enjoyed our little interlude more than I care to admit. The fact is that I should not have taken such liberties with you in the first place.”

“I think I asked you to kiss me.”

He reached out a hand and tenderly brushed a stray curl from her cheek. His fingers massaged her skin, sending a thrill through her at his touch. “Perhaps,” he acknowledged with a slight nod of his head and a grin that melted her heart. “But I am a man who should know better.”

“Your gallantry in helping me with Baron Sheffield was most appreciated. The least I could do was offer a kiss in return.” She managed to smile back at him.

He was about to reply when the door to their quarters upstairs flew open and Paulette entered the shop.

“It’s time for supper, Colette—Oh!” She stopped abruptly upon seeing Lucien Sinclair standing beside the counter. A wide smile lit up her young features. “Hello, Lord Waverly.”

“Hello, Miss Hamilton.” He grinned warmly at her.

“I’ll be up in a few minutes, Paulette,” Colette said, coming out from around the counter. “I just have to get some books for Lord Waverly.”

“I have a wonderful idea!” Paulette exclaimed brightly. Giving Lucien an endearing glance, she asked, “Would you please do us the honor of dining with us this evening, Lord Waverly?”

Horrified at her sister’s invitation, Colette exclaimed, “I’m sure he has other plans for the evening.”

“Please?” Paulette asked, her eyes silently pleading with Lucien. “It would be lovely to have you dine with us.”

Lucien eyed Colette briefly, as if assessing her opinion, before he turned his gaze back to Paulette. “I could not refuse such a persuasive invitation. And since I have no plans until later this evening, I would be honored to join your family for supper.”

Stunned speechless, Colette stood frozen on the spot. Lucien Sinclair wanted to have dinner with her. And her sisters. And her mother. Why?

“Oh, that’s simply wonderful!” Paulette declared with a jubilant toss of her blond head. “We hardly ever have visitors. Let me run up and tell the girls.” With that Paulette disappeared upstairs, leaving them alone once again.

Colette looked at Lucien. “You are being very kind, but you really don’t have to stay to please my little sister.”

“I’m not simply being kind to Paulette. I’m curious. Will I meet all of your family if I venture up those stairs with you?”

“I’m afraid so,” Colette admitted with a rueful grin. “I can only imagine the furor going on up there when Paulette tells them the news. There’s still a chance for you to make a hasty exit while you can.”

“And miss my first occasion to meet all five of the Hamilton sisters at once? Not on your life!”

Colette felt an odd little thrill race though her at his use of the word “first,”’ which to her implied there would be more occasions to be with her family. Unable to ponder the meaning of that thought now, she said, “Just remember that you were fairly warned and you squandered your only opportunity to escape.” Colette stepped past him, intending to turn Paulette’s hand-painted ‘Open” sign on the front door of the shop to read “Closed.”

“Please wait,” Lucien called out to her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

She spun around in surprise, feeling breathless at the closeness of him and reeling from the contact of his hand upon her body. His eyes rested on hers, and her stomach flipped wildly. The flecks of black in the green of his irises made his eyes appear dark and mysterious. His face inched closer to hers and the crazy sensation that he wanted to kiss her again raced through her. God help her, but she wanted him to kiss her!

“May I do that?” he asked, pointing to the sign. “I’ve always wanted to.”

Relief and disappointment rushed through her, but she laughed at his unexpectedly playful attitude. “You may.” She stepped aside and watched as he flipped the sign with an extravagant flourish.

“Now what do we do?” he asked excitedly. With a look of delight on his face, Lucien appeared even more attractive, if such a thing were possible.

“You have to pull down the shade and lock the door. There, with that key.” She pointed to a large skeleton key hanging from a long green ribbon on the wall.

After locking up, he declared, “I’ve never closed a shop before.”

“Well, congratulations,” she said and closed the large leather-bound ledgers on the counter top, wondering at Lucien’s behavior. She had thought him a proper, stuffy lord, as Juliette called him. But he had handled Baron Sheffield like a prizefighter and kissed her as a thorough rogue would. Then he appeared in her shop, acting as excited as a little boy playing a game. And now he would join her family for supper. Nothing he did made any sense.

He followed her as she dimmed the lamps around the shop, helping her reach the higher lamps. As the light faded, her heart raced. Why is he staying? Why does he want to meet my family?

“Is that it?” he whispered close behind her, his voice as smooth as velvet.

Slowly, she turned around to face him. “Yes, that’s it. The shop is officially closed.”

In spite of the dimness she could see the angles of his face, the strong lines of his jaw, the planes of his cheekbones. He was so tall she had to tilt her head back to look at him. He made her feel incredibly small. He smelled good, of something clean but spicy. She suddenly found it hard to breathe as she stood with him in the growing darkness.

“Colette?”

She could feel his breath on her cheek as he whispered her name. With her heart pounding wildly, she carefully licked her lips, fighting a yearning desire to wrap her arms around his neck and pull him close to her. Tilting her head toward him in case he did intend to kiss her, she whispered in response to his saying her name, “Yes?”

“Shouldn’t we go upstairs now?”

Lucien followed Colette up the narrow staircase that led to the family’s living quarters above the shop. Not for the first time he wondered what the hell he was doing there. He had simply stopped by to purchase new books to read to his father. Now he had willingly consented to have supper with all the Hamilton women. What was he thinking?

That was just it. He wasn’t thinking. At all.

He’d been so tempted to kiss her just a few moments ago that he had to steel himself from doing what every nerve in his body cried out for. The feeling was even more overpowering now that he knew the delight of kissing her. He knew the feel of her sensuous lips, the seductive curve of her mouth, the taste of her sweet tongue. God, he wanted to taste her again.

And he sensed without a doubt that she wanted it, too.

She was truly a stunning woman. With her hair pulled back from her face and dressed in a businesslike shopkeeper’s attire, she was even more seductive than in the low-cut ball gown she wore the other night. Her high-necked dress only made him want to strip it off her, while loosening her long dark hair from its tight constraints and watching it tumble in silky waves to her waist. He wanted to crush her to him and…

“Mother, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Lord Waverly. Lord Waverly, this is my mother, Genevieve Hamilton.”

Lucien shook himself from his indecent thoughts of Colette as he stepped forward into a warm and inviting room to meet Colette’s mother. She seemed a frail woman and by all appearances, a neglected beauty. He immediately sensed a profound unhappiness within her as she gazed up at him from her place on the divan with the saddest eyes he had ever seen.

“Good evening, Lord Waverly. Thank you for joining us, but you must excuse our simple meal, since we were not expecting guests this evening.” Her voice held the trace of a French accent and she gave Paulette a meaningful look, as if to say she did not approve of unexpected visitors being asked to dinner.

Lucien smiled charmingly at her. “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Hamilton, but I could hardly refuse an invitation to dine with such lovely ladies. And if I may be so bold, it is quite apparent that your daughters inherited their beauty from their mother.”

A smile lit her face, and for an instant Lucien could clearly see the beautiful woman she had been in her younger days. “Ah, you are a rogue, are you not, Lord Waverly? Tu es bien le plus beau, Monsieur le Comte,” she asked, somewhat flirtatiously.

“Oh, he’s worse than that, Maman,” Juliette declared boldly from the small dining room. “He’s a gentleman!”

Lucien turned to her. “Good evening, Miss Juliette. How lovely to see you again.” His tone clearly stated the opposite.

She laughed, sticking her tongue out at him.

“Juliette Sara! Tiens toi bien. Ne me fais pas honte!” Immediately Genevieve scolded her daughter. “Behave yourself! Lord Waverly will think you are ill-mannered.”

Juliette flashed him a wicked grin. “He already knows that, don’t you, my lord?”

Placing a gentle hand upon Lucien’s arm, Colette interrupted them, preventing Lucien from flinging a deserved retort back at Juliette and requiring him to focus his attention back to Colette.

“I don’t believe you have met my sister Lisette.”

Another Hamilton sister stood in the doorway to the kitchen. Again Lisette possessed the same facial structure as her sisters, yet there was more of an innate sweetness about her than the others had. She smiled shyly at him, her eyes full of friendly warmth. At least this one wouldn’t be throwing daggers at him.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Lisette.”

“It’s wonderful to meet you also,” she answered. “I hope you like roasted chicken, for that is what we are having for supper.”

“If that is what smells so delicious,” Lucien said, suddenly aware of the grumbling of his stomach, “then I am surely in for a treat this evening.”

Colette continued the introductions, presenting yet another sister to him. “And this is the baby, Yvette.”

“I’m not a baby,” the youngest of the Hamilton sisters protested indignantly. “I’m thirteen!”

A smaller version of Colette, but with blond hair in long braids, stood before him. Yvette, too, would be a stunningly beautiful woman. Lucien could not help comparing all of them to Colette. In his mind, she was the original. The other sisters were all copies.

Yvette curtsied elegantly for him, stating with a dignified air, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lord.”

He took her tiny hand in his, making a grand fuss over her. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Yvette. It’s an honor to make the acquaintance of such a lovely young lady.”

Yvette preened and swished the skirts of her pink and white striped dress.

Paulette rolled her eyes at her little sister’s antics and took Lucien by the arm, dragging him toward the small dining room. “Lord Waverly, you can sit at the head of the table,” she declared possessively, “right next to me.”

Undoubtedly, Lucien had won over a devoted admirer in little Paulette.

As he stood at the head of the table, it occurred to him that this was most likely their father’s place, and a disconcerting twinge of melancholy pinched at his heart. But then a flurry of movement surrounded him as the girls each took on a responsibility. Lisette and Colette helped their mother from the divan to her seat at the opposite end of the table, while Juliette, Paulette, and Yvette scurried to bring steaming dishes of chicken, roasted potatoes, and fresh bread to the table.

Feeling rather useless, Lucien again wondered dazedly what he was doing there in this house with these six women. He really had no business being there at all. But there was no help for it now. In for a penny, in for a pound, as the old expression went.

When all the ladies were seated, Lucien took his seat. With Colette to his right and Paulette to his left, he was well situated and surprisingly more comfortable in this female gathering than he would have ever imagined. Yvette said a short prayer of grace and the food was served and passed around without preamble. He had never been a part of such a simple, homey meal in his life, with not a single servant in sight. Lisette popped up to the kitchen now and then to get more of something, but everyone just helped themselves. And the food tasted even more delicious than it had smelled.

“Monsieur le Comte, Colette has been rather reticent with the details on how you two met. Would you please enlighten me on how you happened to befriend my daughter?” Genevieve asked while moving the food around on her plate with her fork, but barely eating a bite.

Lucien found six pairs of eyes in varying shades of blue staring at him. They were an amazing family and he felt somewhat beguiled by them. Here in their small rooms above a London bookshop they had created a haven in which he felt unexpectedly at home.

“I had the good fortune of meeting your daughter one day in the shop while buying some books for my father, and then we became reacquainted at Lady Hayvenhurst’s ball, where I was introduced to Juliette as well.” He turned to Colette with a knowing smile. “And we seem to keep running into each other. We most recently met again in the garden at Lord Hutton’s.” He could not help but notice that Colette blushed at his secret reference to their kiss. He had wanted to see if he could get a reaction out of her and was pleased to see that he had.

“Do you know Lord Eddington?” Paulette asked him, her sweet face full of curiosity.

“Yes, he’s a very good friend of mine. Have you met him?”

“Yes, he is a member of our ladies’ reading circle.”

Lucien almost choked on the mouthful of wine he had just taken. “Is he now?” How very interesting. Jeffrey had only mentioned visiting the bookshop. The thought of Jeffrey as a member of some sort of reading group was ridiculous! What was he up to? And just which sister was he after?

Paulette explained animatedly, “Yes. At first the reading circle was supposed to be just women, but we all voted unanimously to keep Lord Eddington in our group.”

Yes, Lucien just bet it was unanimous where Jeffrey was concerned.

“He’s a remarkable man and very knowledgeable about literature,” Juliette said without glancing up from her plate.

“I had no idea,” Lucien remarked sardonically, detecting a suppressed smile on Juliette’s face.

“Yes,” Colette added, nodding. “Lord Eddington brought some valuable insight to our discussion.”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters, Lord Waverly?” little Yvette asked, looking at him with wide eyes.

“No,” Lucien responded to her question. When he was growing up he had always wished for a brother or a sister. “I am an only child.”

“I cannot even imagine not having siblings,” Lisette marveled.

“I imagine it all the time,” Juliette commented dryly.

“Oh, you do not!” the other four cried in protest at her remark, causing Lucien to laugh at their demonstration of family togetherness.

“All right, all right,” Juliette conceded, placing her hands up in defeat. “Having four sisters is the joy of my life. Let’s change the subject, shall we?”

“Yes, let’s,” Colette agreed readily, but her eyes were merry.

After a pause, Lucien volunteered a question. “Mrs. Hamilton, have you named all your daughters with the ‘-ette’ ending on purpose?”

Genevieve smiled lightly. “Oui, mais bien sûr, I did not know at the time that I would have five daughters. Although once I started, how could I not continue, eh, monsieur? I just wanted them to have something in common to unite them. I gave them French names, but their middle names are English.”

Lucien turned to Colette with an inquiring look.

She responded, “Elizabeth.”

Juliette said, “Sara.”

Lisette stated, “Annabelle.”

Paulette said, “Victoria.”

With a proud little nod Yvette added, “Katherine.”

“Well, they are all lovely names for very lovely ladies,” Lucien said, enchanted by this charming little family of women. Something about them touched him.

“Oh, Lisette, tell what happened to you today!” Yvette squealed with excitement. “We’ve been waiting for everyone to come home to share the news.”

Lisette blushed prettily and shook her head with a shy glance. “No, Yvette, not now, we have an important guest.”

“He’s not a guest, he’s just a man!” Juliette declared with a challenging look toward Lucien. “Tell us what happened.”

“Tu peux nous le dire. Tout ira bien, ma chérie. You can tell us, Lisette. It will be fine,” Genevieve encouraged her with a faint smile.

Lisette again protested, but before she could utter a single word, Yvette called out, “Henry Brooks finally asked her to go to the Willoughbys’ tea dance next week!”

Amid a chorus of squeals of excitement and shouts of congratulations, Lucien looked to Colette. “I gather this was a long-anticipated occurrence?”

“Yes.” Colette nodded, the happiness for her sister evident in her expression. “We’ve all known Henry Brooks for years, and he and Lisette have had feelings for each other for almost as long. We’ve just been waiting for Henry to make the first move. And it seems he finally has!”

“I see.” Being privy to a scene of intimate family life he had never experienced before, Lucien felt he belonged. The feeling of being part of a loving family was so unfamiliar to him, yet he found himself irresistibly drawn in by them, fascinated. As the commotion died down, Lucien offered his best wishes to Lisette. “Henry Brooks is an extremely lucky fellow.”

“Thank you, Lord Waverly,” she said with a shy glance in his direction.

“I received a letter from Christina Dunbar today,” Juliette said with more enthusiasm than Lucien had witnessed before in her. “She arrived in the United States and absolutely adores living there. She said that New York City is the most exciting place in the world, and that I would love it as much as she does.”

“Christina is a dear friend of Juliette’s,” Colette explained for Lucien’s benefit. “She’s newly married to an American gentleman.”

Juliette’s eyes sparkled. “She invited me to visit her.”

“You are not going to New York, Juliette!” Genevieve exclaimed with a vehement shake of her gray-haired head.

“Why can’t I?” Juliette challenged her mother, her face full of youthful determination. “It’s not as if I’m asking to go to Africa or India, for heaven’s sake!”

Genevieve gave her daughter a certain look that said in no uncertain terms that she would not engage in such a discussion with her at that moment.

Ignoring her mother, Juliette immediately turned to Lucien. “Have you ever been to New York, Lord Waverly?”

“No, I haven’t, but I too have a good friend who lives there.”

“I shall go there someday,” Juliette declared, her eyes flashing, defying her mother.

“And just how do you think you are going to manage that?” Paulette scoffed at her.

“I don’t know yet, but mark my words, one day I will!” Juliette’s statement left them all quiet.

Attempting to lighten the mood, Colette asked, “Did anything else interesting happen to anyone today?”

“No,” Paulette said slowly with a pointed look at Colette, “but Uncle Randall stopped by earlier.”

Lucien knew he did not imagine the pall that immediately fell over the table at the mention of their uncle. Genevieve’s face blanched, if it were possible for her to become any paler. Lucien had only met Randall Hamilton on a few occasions and had no particular liking for the fellow. Apparently, neither did his five nieces.

“What did Uncle Randall want, Maman?” Colette asked, her brow furrowed in concern.

“J’ai très mal à la tête. I have a terrible headache,” Genevieve whispered, her voice thin. “Lisette, help me to my room. Excusez moi, s’il vous plaît.”

“Why didn’t you mention Uncle Randall was here?” Colette persisted in asking. “What did he want?”

“He…he wanted to update me on your progress this Season,” Genevieve managed to say as Lisette helped her to her feet. She leaned on her cane and began to shuffle from the table.

Colette glanced hurriedly at Juliette, then back at her mother. “But what did he say?”

“He said that you are both misbehaving,” Genevieve admonished with more vigor than Lucien had thought her capable of. “Tu ne te trouveras jamais de mari à ce train là. Je ne veux pas en parler avec toi maintenant. You need to listen to your aunt Cecilia and uncle Randall’s advice. I shall speak no more of it in front of our guest. Bonsoir, Monsieur le Comte. Good evening.”

Both Colette and Juliette stared mutely at their plates, their heads down. Lucien would have laughed at seeing Juliette so chastised, but he did not care for the worried and anxious expression on Colette’s face. He rose to his feet to assist Lisette with her mother. Genevieve gratefully accepted his help, thanking him, as they both escorted her to her bedroom.

He returned to the dining room and the girls still sat speechless. Lisette followed close behind him.

“I suppose I should be going now,” Lucien said to the subdued group still seated at the table.

“Oh, no, Lord Waverly, I’ve made a lovely apple tart for dessert! You must stay and have some!” Lisette pleaded. “We would be terribly disappointed if you left now.”

“Yes, please stay!” Yvette and Paulette echoed.

Juliette and Colette remained noticeably silent.

Lucien glanced to Colette in question. She nodded, wishing for him to remain, and he felt oddly relieved that she wanted him there. Without a word, he returned to his place at the table. Lisette abruptly began clearing plates from the table and exited to the kitchen. Yvette followed her lead and began to help.

“Did you hear that Charles Dickens died yesterday?” Paulette blurted out.

“Yes,” Lucien said with interest. “I just read it in today’s Times.”

“What terrible news,” Colette murmured at the loss of the prolific writer.

“We must place all his books on the front shelf, Colette, because everyone will want to buy one now,” Paulette suggested.

“That’s a brilliant idea, Paulette!” Colette exclaimed, her eyes lighting up at the prospect of selling more books.

Within moments the conversation grew animated and the mood lightened.

By the time Lucien finished his delicious apple tart, he had confirmed that although the Hamilton sisters looked alike, they were decidedly different in personality. Sweet Lisette possessed a caring and unassuming manner, but seemed to be the one foremost to comfort the others. Paulette had a thoughtful and intelligent mind and a kind heart. Little Yvette was high-spirited and quick to laugh. Juliette, of course, rankled him endlessly, but he had to admit that she had her finer qualities. Even Genevieve Hamilton could be quite charming. The sisters were all endearing and amusing, and somehow they seemed to win him over with their candid honesty and good humor, while their strong sense of camaraderie and devotion to each other fascinated him. The only relationships Lucien had really experienced with women were with his mother, with Lady Virginia Warren, and with the type of pleasure seeking woman who shared his bed.

Never had he met women like the Hamiltons.

And then there was Colette…

Above all she intrigued him. He noted how she cared for her younger sisters. How she patiently tended to her ailing mother. How she worked in the bookshop to support the family. With their father deceased and their mother obviously incapable, Colette, in essence, had taken over the role of parent to the other girls. They all looked to her to make their decisions. But at twenty years old, Colette should be enjoying parties and balls and being courted by suitors.

Ah, but she was being forced to find a husband, wasn’t she?

As much as he hated the idea, it would probably be for the best. A husband would take her away from toiling in the bookshop and would look after her properly. But then what of her sisters if Colette married? He watched the four pretty girls laughing as they cleared the dishes. Any man who took Colette as a wife would undoubtedly undertake the responsibility of her sisters. And their ill mother as well.

And there was her uncle, parading Colette before a lot of ridiculous old fools. None of the men he had seen her dance with were half good enough for her. He made up his mind then and there to introduce Colette, and Juliette as well, to more suitable candidates for a husband.

As he took his leave from the charming Hamilton sisters, Lucien realized he had felt more relaxed and more at home with this little family that evening than he had in a very long time. In fact, he could not recall feeling that way ever, at least not as an adult. Colette walked him to the front door of the house and down the front staircase, which was a different entrance than through the bookshop.

When they reached the bottom landing, he said, “Thank you for a lovely evening.”

“Thank you for being patient with my sisters,” Colette said, tilting her head up to look at him. “And I apologize for the awkwardness with my mother.”

“There is no need for apologies.” He paused before asking, “Is everything well with your uncle? I couldn’t help but notice that you seemed very worried that he had come to see your mother.”

She hesitated slightly. “As you have seen, my uncle does not always have my best interests at heart when choosing a prospective husband, and I was just worried that he would try to convince my mother to persuade me to marry someone I had already refused to…”

“I understand now,” Lucien whispered. “You need not explain.”

She gave a half-smile as she gazed up at him. “You are very chivalrous.”

“No. No, I am not,” he said honestly, thinking that at the moment his thoughts of her were far from chivalrous. “Remember what I said to you, Colette. Make sure you choose a husband you want. Don’t let your uncle choose for you.”

“Thank you, Lucien,” she whispered. She nodded obediently and looked up at him in expectation.

The sound of his name on her soft lips and her beautiful face lifted to his in anticipation of a kiss sent a flood of desire coursing through him that was almost unbearable. Lucien craved nothing more than to pull her against him and place his mouth over hers, branding her in a searing kiss. He ached to push her up against the wall, right there in that tiny little vestibule, lift the skirt of her gown, and drive himself into her over and over again. God, but he wanted her. Unable to stop himself, he touched her cheek softly, tracing the line of her jaw to her chin. Knowing without a doubt that even one kiss, the lightest kiss, would push him over the edge of a dangerous precipice from which there could be no return, Lucien took a step back from her, his body trembling with torment.

“Good night, Colette,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and edgy with unquenched desire.

As he walked home that June evening, he wished the night air were much cooler.

Chapter Eleven

Pillow Talk

Exhausted, Colette snuggled under the pale yellow gingham quilt that covered her bed and closed her eyes tightly, but it was no use. She kept reliving the evening with Lucien Sinclair and the kisses that had almost happened.

Juliette entered the bedroom they had shared their whole life. It was a cozy room for all that it was small. Pale yellow wallpaper dotted with sprays of colorful flowers lined the walls, and a well-worn patterned carpet in shades of green and gold covered the floor. Four gilt-framed scenes of tranquil country life hung from ribbon above the mantel and a small writing desk stood in the corner. Juliette dimmed the light that rested on the nightstand between their two beds.

“Yvette needs new shoes,” Juliette said, climbing into her own bed. “She’s completely outgrown the ones we just bought her.”

Colette yawned. “I know. I already left money for Lisette to take her for a new pair tomorrow. Paulette will simply have to stay with Mother again while they are out, because I’ll need you in the shop with me tomorrow to help with the first delivery of the stationery.”

The empty silence declared Juliette’s ambivalent feelings of having to help in the shop. She would never shirk her share of responsibilities, but she made it very clear that she would rather be doing anything else but working in the bookshop.

“What do you think of Lisette and Henry Brooks?” Colette asked.

“I think Lisette will marry him eventually, but I don’t think she’ll be happy with him in the end.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s just a feeling I have. Henry is a nice enough man, but not quite right for her. But Lisette, just like Mother did in marrying Father, will settle for him because she is afraid to try for something better, and she will end up miserable. Which is something I for one don’t ever intend to do.”

No, Juliette would never settle for less than exactly what she wanted. She would never change or try to be something she wasn’t to please a man. Which made Colette wonder about herself. In attempting to marry to save her family and the bookshop, would she too be settling? How far would she go to save them? Up till now she had refused her uncle’s choices because she had found his choice of men unacceptable, indeed quite repulsive. But how long could that go on? She had to marry at some point.

“Why do you think Lord Waverly stayed for dinner?” Juliette asked in the darkness.

“Because he was hungry?” Colette answered with her eyes still closed.

A down-filled pillow landed smack on her face. Sputtering indignantly, she sat up and hurled it back at Juliette. “Go to sleep already!”

Catching the pillow, Juliette laughed before asking again, “Aren’t you the least bit curious as to why he was here tonight?”

“No,” she pronounced firmly. Colette did not want to think about it anymore. In fact, her head throbbed from puzzling over Lucien’s actions and wondering at his motivations.

“There is something you’re not telling me about Lord Disapproves of Everything Fun, isn’t there, Colette?”

“No,” she murmured guiltily, hiding her face in the blankets.

“Yes, there is. I know it. He suddenly shows up at the shop and joins us all for dinner for no reason? And we know it’s certainly not me he is interested in!” Juliette paused thoughtfully before asking, “Has he kissed you?”

“What makes you think such a thing?” Colette attempted to sound outraged by her sister’s question.

“He looks at you like he wants to kiss you. And your face was flushed all night.”

“Is it that obvious?” Colette whispered, grateful for the dark.

“So you did kiss him! I knew it!” Juliette declared triumphantly, and Colette knew she was smiling. “When did it happen?”

“That night in Lord Hutton’s garden.”

“Tell me everything,” Juliette demanded.

Relieved to finally share the experience, Colette confessed all.

Upon hearing the details of Colette’s romantic encounter with Lord Waverly, Juliette was almost speechless. “Aside from being appalled that Baron Sheffield thought he could have his way with you, I am very impressed with Lord Waverly’s rescue techniques.”

Colette said nothing.

After a tense silence, Juliette asked, “Did you like kissing him?”

“Yes,” she replied with an anguished sigh. “And, Juliette, I cannot forget about it, and I don’t know what to do.”

“About what?”

“That I liked kissing him and I want him to kiss me again. He wanted to kiss me tonight, I’m sure of it.”

“Did he?”

“No, but we came close a few times.” Achingly close.

“What do you think it means?”

“I haven’t a clue.” Whatever was happening between her and Lucien left her very confused. Colette had begun to anticipate his unexpected visits, found herself yearning to talk to him, and felt a desire to be near him. He seemed to care for her, seemed interested in her life and her family, and from the way he kissed her, he obviously found her attractive, but she did not know how he felt about her.

Juliette said with a superior air, “I’ve heard things about him.”

“Don’t tease me, Juliette. What do you know?” Colette had heard rumors of Lucien’s wild ways, but the stories seemed incongruous to the Lucien she knew. Well, except that night in the garden. Once again, nothing about Lucien made any sense.

“Well, I’ve heard that he has avoided marriage for years.” Juliette seemed reluctant to share this news. She sighed heavily. “But I think you should know that now he wants to settle down and marry before his father passes away.”

“I haven’t heard that,” Colette cried in disbelief. Lucien had never said a word to her about marriage. “Who told you such a thing?”

“Jeffrey Eddington.”

“Oh,” Colette murmured softly as realization dawned. “He would know better than anybody.”

“And Lord Waverly already has a lady in mind.”

Colette’s heart suddenly beat frantically in her chest. Lucien already knew whom he intended to marry? And he kissed her passionately only last week? She dared to ask, “Did Lord Eddington say who she was?”

Juliette hesitated before answering her. “Lady Faith Bromleigh.”

Colette mentally checked off a list of names of women she had met during the Season, but the name did not ring a bell. “I have never heard of her.”

“She’s a plain, quiet little thing. Her father is a known for being very protective of her.” Juliette was quiet for a moment. “Are you very disappointed?”

Ignoring the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Colette responded weakly, “Why should I be disappointed?”

“Because he kissed you, but he is interested in marrying another girl.”

Colette put up a brave front. “Just because I kissed him doesn’t mean that I’ve lost all my senses. I have no desire to be a countess or a marchioness someday. You know that means nothing to me. Yet I’m well aware of Lucien’s reputation and that he can have his choice of women. I don’t expect anything from him.”

“You call him Lucien now?”

“I suppose so,” Colette admitted quietly, surprised that she had referred to him that way to Juliette.

“He was engaged once before, you know, a few years ago,” Juliette continued. “To Lady Somebody or Other, but she broke off the engagement after some sort of scandal and left for Europe.”

Colette sat upright in bed once again. “How on earth do you know all these things?”

Juliette stated with a self-evident tone, “Because I ask.”

Colette wondered what type of woman this other lady was whom Lucien had wanted to be his wife. Was she prim and proper? And what had happened to end it?

“Colette, has Lord Waverly said anything at all to you about marriage?” Juliette asked in a thoughtful manner.

“He told me not to allow Uncle Randall to force me into marrying someone I didn’t want.” Her words echoed hollowly in her ears. If Lucien had been interested in marrying her, would he not have said something else to her?

“Well, it seems that absolutely nothing that stuffy lord does makes any sense. He disapproves of your working in the bookshop; he saves you from the likes of the fat baron, kisses you passionately in the moonlight, shows up at your house unexpectedly and dines with your family, but intends to court another girl. I think I might slap him if I see him again.”

Colette finally laughed. “He’s no more confusing than Lord Eddington.”

“At least he hasn’t kissed me! Or you, for that matter.” She gave Colette a sharp look. “Has he?”

“No! Lord Eddington is very charming and sweet, but I don’t think of him that way.”

“Me either. But I think he may have feelings for you, Colette.”

They were both quiet, each settling down among the covers, lost in her own thoughts. Juliette’s words spun around in Colette’s head. Did Lucien truly intend to marry Faith Bromleigh? Did Jeffrey Eddington have feelings for her?

“I don’t like that Uncle Randall was here today,” Juliette said ominously.

“Well, I don’t like that Mother didn’t tell us about the visit,” Colette added. “It makes me nervous.”

“I’m sure Uncle Randall is upset that we haven’t made suitable matches yet. What do you think he said to mother?”

“That he’s at the end of his rope with the pair of us.”

“Would you marry Lord Waverly if he asked you?”

Colette’s heart flipped over in her chest at the mention of Lucien’s name and marriage. Would she marry him if he asked her? “That’s a ridiculous question. He would never marry someone like me.”

“But it would solve your problems. He’d be a good husband. He’s powerful enough to tell Uncle Randall to go to the devil. He would take all us girls in, and we wouldn’t have to worry about money. And he is handsome, and by your own account, a very good kisser.”

“And he’d sell the bookshop right out from under me.”

“Oh, who cares about the stupid shop? It’s just a pile of moldy old books! I don’t know why you love it so much.”

The undisguised scorn in her sister’s tone of voice caused Colette to flinch. “I just do. You needn’t make fun of me simply because you don’t understand. Do I make fun of you for wanting to go to New York?”

Juliette remained oddly silent in response. Colette did love the shop and felt proud of the work she had put into redoing it. No one could take that away from her. And she would never settle for a man who wanted her to give it up either.

Chapter Twelve

For Sale

The bells above the door jingled as Lucien walked into Hamilton’s Book Shoppe a few days later. Surprised by the large number of customers in the shop, he glanced about, searching for Colette.

He caught her eye as she was helping a woman with a ridiculously feathered hat choose a picture book for her grandchild. Colette’s beautiful face registered her surprise at seeing him, and he felt a secret thrill at knowing he disconcerted her. He nodded to let her know that he would wait until she was finished.

Lucien was astounded by the changes Colette had made in the shop. A month ago it was a dismal mess. Now bright and airy, with the books attractively arranged and organized, the shop bustled with people eagerly buying books. Comfortable chairs were arranged for customers to sit in and read at their leisure. Fine stationery and pens were elegantly displayed in a glass-fronted cabinet. Fresh wildflowers filled a china pitcher, adding a cheerful splash of color on top of the counter. Colette had transformed the place. The old dark bookshop had changed into a friendly and inviting place to be. He watched as she sold books to six different customers, wrapping their packages with bright green ribbon.

When there was finally a lull she turned her attention to him, asking, “Back so soon?”

“You really must work on your greetings to customers.”

“Forgive me.” Colette shook her head and smiled ruefully. “How may I help you?”

“Now, that is more like it!” He grinned at her.

“Is there something you need?” she questioned him suspiciously.

“I never purchased any books the last time. You and your siren sisters distracted me.”

Her sweet laughter floated around him. “In that case, how may I help you today, Lord Waverly?” she asked in her most efficient shopkeeper tone.

Following her lead, he played the typical customer. “Well, Miss Hamilton, I would like to purchase more books for my father. I was thinking of some of Charles Dickens’s work.”

“Oh, I’ve just sold my last one! A copy of Bleak House,” she explained. “His books have been so popular since he passed away. I’ve ordered more, but they won’t be in for a few more days.”

“How unfortunate. I suppose I must wait and return when they arrive.”

Colette guided him to the counter and gave him a small white card. “If you fill this out with your address, we can have the books delivered to you.”

“You now provide a delivery service?”

She nodded with a look of pride. “Yes, I’ve hired a local boy. I am teaching him how to read, and in return he will run errands for me. In the meantime, I can help you choose something else to tide you over until the Dickens books arrive.”

He agreed to her suggestions as they made their way among the shelves. They were still selecting books for his father when the clock chimed four. Colette cried, “Good heavens! I’m late for my appointment with Mr. Kenworth! I must hurry.”

Hurrying to the door to their quarters upstairs, she called up to her sister. “Paulette? Can you come down here now?”

Lucien watched in fascination as Colette quickly grabbed her bonnet and gloves from the peg hanging on the wall. Tying the ribbons of the bonnet securely under her chin and tugging her gloves onto her hands, Colette murmured with a worried frown, “I really mustn’t be late. I promised I would be there at quarter past the hour.”

“Oh, Lord Waverly! I didn’t know you were here!” Paulette cried in delight as she entered the shop. “How nice to see you!”

“Good afternoon, Miss Hamilton.” Lucien couldn’t help but smile at her sweet face; she was so obviously happy to see him.

“Paulette, can you manage the shop by yourself until Juliette returns?” Colette asked, hastily gathering a sheaf of papers and placing them in a leather case. “She should be back shortly.”

Paulette, thrilled at being given such an important responsibility, stood straighter. “Of course I can!”

Uncomfortable with a fifteen-year-old girl alone in the shop, Lucien volunteered, “I can keep an eye on her until Juliette returns.”

Colette’s blue eyes widened at his words. “Thank you! Oh, and Paulette, make sure you wrap up Lord Waverly’s purchases. Tell Juliette I’ll be back before we close. Good-bye!”

With a little wave of her hand, she rushed from the shop. A strong sense of disappointment filled him at Colette’s departure. Lucien shook himself at the feeling, not liking it.

“Your sister works very hard, doesn’t she?” he remarked quietly to Paulette, who had gone to stand behind the polished counter, trying her best to appear professional.

“Yes, but it’s because she loves it.”

“Do you think she works too hard?” Lucien handed her the two books he had selected for his father.

As she slowly began to wrap the books, Paulette looked thoughtful. “Sometimes I do think she works too hard, and that’s why I’m in a terrible situation.”

Intrigued by the girl’s somber expression, Lucien took it upon himself to question her. “What terrible situation?”

“Can I trust you to keep a secret?”

“Absolutely.”

She gave him a measuring look as she weighed whether she would confide in him or not. Glancing nervously around the room to ascertain that no one was lurking nearby and listening to their private conversation, she dropped her voice to a faint whisper. Lucien had to lean in closer to hear her. “Well, I’ve learned something that will help Colette to not worry so much or work so hard, which is good. But it will also make her very sad, which leaves me rather torn. I don’t know if I should tell her or not.”

“Will she learn of the situation eventually?” he asked.

“Yes, but there is nothing she can do to prevent it, and it will only cause her pain to know about it beforehand.”

Touched by Paulette’s devotion to her sister, Lucien said, “In the meantime, this indecision is causing you some pain as well.”

She nodded sadly, her sweet face anguished. Her remarkable resemblance to Colette left him disconcerted. He wanted to help her. “Does anyone else know of this? Juliette?”

“No. No one knows. I only know because I was listening—that is, I overheard my mother and Uncle Randall talking the other afternoon.”

Recalling the strained and charged emotions at the dinner table when their uncle’s visit was mentioned, Lucien could only imagine what had occurred. He felt oddly concerned by Paulette’s dilemma. “Perhaps if you share this information with me, I could help you decide what to do. Also, I have found that sometimes just telling another person can make you feel better. And as an older and wiser adult, I can give you a more knowledgeable point of view upon which to base your decision.”

“If I tell you, you must promise me that you won’t go and tell Colette behind my back. You will let me decide what to do?”

He could tell that she was truly concerned about her sister and wanted his help, but was fearful of confiding in him. Her quandary pulled at his heartstrings. “As a man of honor, I vow to keep your secret. I will only offer my advice to you, which you may use as you see fit. I promise I will leave the final decision up to your discretion.”

Again, she looked him over as if weighing whether he were trustworthy enough and then glanced around the shop, which fortunately for them was still devoid of customers at that moment. “I shall tell you, then.”

“I am honored by your confidence in me.”

Rapidly the words rushed from her mouth, as if she feared she might change her mind before she could tell him. “My mother gave Uncle Randall the deed to sell not just the bookshop but the entire building, and she does not want Colette to know about it until after the sale is completed.”

Even Lucien, who instantly understood the financial and societal motivations Colette’s mother and uncle would have in selling the building and heartily agreed with them, could not help but grasp the devastating emotional impact such a sale would have upon Colette. And just when it seemed that the bookshop might actually be profitable. Colette would be heartbroken, and indeed, even if she knew about their plans, she could do little to prevent her mother from selling the shop. Mrs. Hamilton and their uncle had made a wise decision in not sharing the information with Colette, for she would surely try to change their minds about selling the building.

Paulette continued to explain her reasoning to him. “I know it would hurt Colette if they sold the shop, especially without telling her, because she loves it so. I love it too, but Colette lives for it. And it is beginning to make a small profit. But Colette works so hard, too hard. Uncle Randall and my mother think it’s the reason she won’t accept a husband. So maybe it would be good for her to not have the bookshop to distract all her time. Perhaps it would be better for her not to have all of us as a burden.”

“First of all,” Lucien finally interrupted her, “although I’ve only known her for a short time, I feel I know enough about Colette to tell you that you and your sisters are not a burden to her. She loves you. And she loves this little shop. And yes, I agree, she works entirely too hard, but I think your mother and uncle have only her best interests at heart. If I were you I would keep this information that you were not supposed to be privy to in the first place, to yourself. They are right. Do not tell Colette. If your mother is determined to sell the shop, and it is in her name, then she has every right to do so and there is nothing Colette can do about it.”

Paulette nodded sadly. “But I feel I should tell her. She’s made so many changes and put so much of herself into this bookshop. I can’t bear to think of how she will feel when she discovers that she has lost it.”

He patted her hand in comfort. “You’re a very good sister, Paulette.”

“I don’t feel like one.” She sighed heavily, as if the weight of the world were on her small shoulders.

“What do you think you shall do?”

“I’m not sure yet, but you don’t think I should tell her?”

“No. I believe it would be wiser not to.”

Once again she nodded thoughtfully. “Most likely.”

“Yes,” he agreed quietly.

She finished wrapping his books and he paid for them. As she handed him his change, Paulette’s youthful brow furrowed with worry and she whispered quickly, “You promise you won’t tell Colette?”

“I promise. I am a man of my word.”

“I thought you were a rake!” she blurted out, quickly covering her mouth with her hand.

“Eavesdropping again?” He gave her a knowing look, and from her flushed cheeks he knew he had guessed correctly. “But if you thought me such a scoundrel, why would you confide in me?”

“Because I like you, and I think you are a fine gentleman, no matter what Juliette says about you,” she declared fervently.

He laughed loudly at her comment. He definitely had a devoted little friend in Paulette Hamilton.

Juliette entered the shop then. She immediately took in their conspiratorial stance and their laughter and assumed the worst. With her arms folded across her chest, she eyed them suspiciously. “I heard you say my name and I just know you both are saying dreadful things about me.”

“Not every conversation is about you, Juliette!” Paulette responded and gazed back at Lucien with serious eyes. “Thank you, Lord Waverly.”

“I think you may call me Lucien at this point.”

Her thrilled grin lit up her face and Lucien felt rewarded.

“What have the two of you been up to?” Juliette asked curiously.

“I’ve told Paulette my deepest, darkest secrets and she has promised not to tell anyone. Good afternoon, ladies.” Taking his prettily wrapped books, Lucien winked at Paulette, placed his hat on his head, and left the shop, leaving a bewildered Juliette and a smiling Paulette behind.

As he walked toward his carriage, he lost himself in thought. Colette had put a tremendous amount of work into improving the store, and from personal observation the changes seemed to be profitable. She had expanded business and skillfully promoted the shop to increase sales. For a woman, she had made incredible strides in a short amount of time. Hell, even for a man! He had to admit he was impressed by her remarkable innovations. It would be a shame to see all of her hard work wasted.

Suddenly it occurred to him what he could do to help, not just Colette but all the Hamilton sisters.

Although he couldn’t prevent Genevieve Hamilton from selling the building, there was definitely something he could do to make sure Colette did not lose the bookshop. He had the means at his disposal and he could have his solicitor arrange the transaction anonymously. Yes, the more he thought about it, the better his idea seemed. Although he did not dare examine why it was so important to him to help Colette Hamilton.

Chapter Thirteen

Biting the Bullet

Utterly uncomfortable, Lucien sat in the dimly lit drawing room in the home of Lord Cedric Bromleigh. He had just stated his intentions toward Lord Bromleigh’s only daughter, Faith.

“Quite honestly, I am taken aback by your interest in my daughter,” Lord Cedric Bromleigh said, looking Lucien up and down in confusion. “You are not what we had in mind for her.”

Not what they had in mind for her? Bloody hell! Lucien knew he was one of the best catches of the year. Most families would be thanking their lucky stars to have their daughter chosen by him. And just who did they expect was going to marry Faith, anyway? She barely opened her mouth and no one took notice of her because she blended into the wallpaper. Which is exactly why Lucien chose her.

The older man looked down his long nose at Lucien and continued his speech. “Lord Waverly, I’m a typical father in that I love my daughter more than anything on this earth. But I must tell you that I’m not typical in other ways. I allow my daughter to have her own opinions. As for myself, I would be more than happy to have you as my son-in-law. But this is not my decision to make.”

Lucien bit his tongue. After his drastic decision yesterday to help Colette Hamilton and his questionable motivation for doing so, he needed to be safely wed to Faith Bromleigh as soon as possible. Or at least be engaged to her, before he did anything more impulsive over Colette Hamilton again.

Before he did something even more dangerous.

As he sat in the chair across from him, Lord Bromleigh continued, “My daughter is an angel, pure of heart, and as good as gold. Her sweet, obliging nature and unsullied character would make any man proud to call her his wife. Faith knows how to run a home perfectly. She is intelligent and well read. I freely admit, she may not be the finest rose in the garden, but she is special and beautiful nonetheless. I would say she is a daisy. Plainly pretty, hearty, and constant. There will be no thorns from Faith, of that a man can be sure. Now, my fine Lord Waverly, you have a grand estate, a noble lineage, and great wealth. But if you have serious intentions of wedding my cherished and only daughter, you must prove yourself to her first.”

“Prove myself?” Lucien shook his head in disbelief. He had to prove himself to Faith Bromleigh? Was the man unbalanced? What was there to prove? By all accounts he was handsome, charming, wealthy, and an earl. And would be a marquis when his father passed on. Why wouldn’t she want to marry him?

“Yes,” Lord Bromleigh explained further. “You have proven yourself to be a good judge of character already by choosing Faith in the first place. Only a very wise man can see past the exterior façade of beauty to the true beauty within a human being’s soul, and I give you credit for being able to discern that Faith would make an admirable marchioness for you. I have no doubt of that. Now I need to know that you are her choice.”

“Her choice?” Again Lucien echoed Lord Bromleigh.

He gave Lucien a very serious look before saying, “Unlike most fathers, I do not intend to hand over my most prized possession to a man my daughter has no desire to marry, no matter how lofty his rank or title or how grand his wealth. I need to know that she cares for you, that marrying you is her choice.”

Suddenly relieved by that bit of news, Lucien relaxed. Well, that was different. He would have no problem on that score! Of course Faith would want to marry him. There were very few women he couldn’t persuade to marry him.

Lord Bromleigh tilted his head to one side and nodded. “You may court her if she wishes. But I will not force her hand on this issue.”

“Of course not,” Lucien agreed heartily, more at ease than he had felt a moment ago. “And I have no indication that she would be disinclined to such a match with me. Although I should inform you that I wish to marry her soon. By the end of the summer.”

“Why is that?” the man asked, his eyebrows narrowed in suspicion. “Why would you rush?”

“I am sure that you are aware of my father’s illness, but I’ve kept quiet how seriously ill he truly is. I would like him to attend my wedding, but I don’t think he will last much longer…” And I will surely do something I regret with Colette if I don’t get married soon. That temptation motivated him to marry just as much as his father’s illness.

“Ah, I see.” Lord Bromleigh’s head bobbed up and down. “Yes, that is a very commendable reason, but I would prefer to see you court my daughter steadily and seriously. I wish for her to know you well before she makes the decision. She should be sure you are the one she wants to spend the rest of her life with.”

Lucien was sorely tempted to walk out and forget the whole thing. To spend months and months courting? To marry a girl who should be thrilled at the chance to marry him, the Earl of Waverly and heir to the Marquisate of Stancliff? The situation was laughable. He had no doubt he could sweep Lady Faith Bromleigh off her feet in an afternoon. Or less. Besides, he hadn’t the heart to sort through wallflowers again. He just wanted the whole issue to be settled as soon as possible.

“I shall court your daughter. But as soon she agrees to marry me,” Lucien said to Lord Bromleigh, “I must insist that we have a very short engagement. And in the interest of time, I will procure a special license.”

“I have no objections to a quick and quiet wedding, but again, Lord Waverly, that would be Faith’s decision to make. Women set such a store on weddings. In the meantime, you may only escort my daughter to functions at which I will be present,” Lord Bromleigh stipulated.

“Of course.”

“My wife and I shall be attending the opera tomorrow evening with Faith, and you are welcome to join us.”

“Thank you. I would be honored to join you.”

“Good luck, and good day to you, Lord Waverly.” Lord Bromleigh shook Lucien’s hand.

Ignoring the tightening sensation of a noose around his neck, Lucien shook Lord Bromleigh’s bony hand. In two months’ time, the man would be his father-in-law. As Lucien left their house, a strange feeling settled in the pit of his belly.

He climbed into his waiting carriage and instructed the driver to take him home. When he arrived at Devon House, he went straight into his private study, shutting the door behind him and pouring himself a glass of scotch. Seated at his polished cherry wood desk, he stared out the window, not really seeing the people that walked by outside as his mind warred with his heart.

He had made the right decision, he told himself over and over. Why didn’t he feel better about it? Ignoring the images of Colette Hamilton that kept intruding on his thoughts, he turned his attention to the stack of letters waiting for him on his desk. Maybe work would take his mind off the hollow feeling welling up inside.

As he leafed through the letters, he could not concentrate on any of them and gave up, tossing the pile aside in frustration. One letter fell to the floor. He glanced at it and stopped cold. He recognized the handwriting immediately, for he had received a letter from her once already. The feminine script was elegant and dramatic, just as she had been.

His mother.

Good God, she had sent him yet another letter. He sighed, his heart heavy with trepidation. What more could she have to say? His hand shook slightly as he broke the wax seal.

My Dearest Lucien,

You have not responded to my last letter, which I can only assume means that you do not wish to see me. But I implore you, as your mother, to relent and allow me to visit. I don’t ever expect you to understand or forgive me for what I have done, but please give me this one opportunity to see you. I am aware your father is ill and perhaps has not much time left. Please, Lucien. I must see you both.

I am, as always, your loving

Mother

Unmoving and staring at the words, Lucien clutched the note in his hand. When he had ignored her first missive, he assumed that would let her know that he did not wish to see her and she would not contact him again. Now it seemed he would have to respond to her in some way. His father did not have the strength to see her, of that he was sure. But what if what Jeffrey suggested proved correct? Perhaps seeing his mother again would give his father some small measure of peace before he passed away.

And what about himself? Did he want to see the woman who abandoned him when he was ten years old? What could she possibly have to say for herself after all that time? How could she justify leaving her husband and son and running off with another man? Did she expect their forgiveness? Their understanding? As far as he was concerned, there was no excuse for her behavior.

Lucien crumbled her letter in his hand. Taking a clean sheet of paper from the desk drawer, he dipped his pen in the inkwell and began to write.

Chapter Fourteen

A Night at the Opera

As guests filled the theater, Colette sat with Juliette, Jeffrey Eddington, Uncle Randall, and Aunt Cecilia in the private box of the Duke of Rathmore. She and Juliette giggled with delight when an invitation had been sent to Uncle Randall requesting that he and his two nieces join the Duke of Rathmore and Lord Eddington at the opera. Unable to turn down a coveted invitation from the powerful and influential duke, Uncle Randall and Aunt Cecilia accepted eagerly, anxious to elevate their social standing. When they arrived at the theater they were a bit disappointed when Lord Jeffrey Eddington begged their forgiveness at the fact that his father had suddenly taken ill, and offered his deepest regrets.

Even without the duke actually present, Aunt Cecilia still preened ridiculously, giving herself airs with the fact that she at least was sitting in the duke’s private box. She missed the sly wink Jeffrey gave to Colette and Juliette. Juliette could barely suppress her amusement at Jeffrey’s little trick that enabled him to spend an evening at the theater with her and Colette.

Once again Colette found herself wondering just what Lord Jeffrey Eddington’s intentions were in pursuing them in such a way. In any case, she was content to be out with him for he was such fun, and her uncle could not reprove her for this night at least.

Colette leaned over the railing to peer at the audience members below, admiring the lovely gowns and fancy attire. The theater overflowed with guests eager to see the latest Italian opera that evening. Elegant lords and ladies tried to appear important and acted as if they truly cared about the opera but were really only there to see and be seen. Heavy matrons and elderly noblemen sat looking bored in their seats. Giddy debutantes, preening in their newest fashions, surreptitiously attempted to flirt with handsome young men under their mothers’ watchful eyes. The chatter reached a fevered pitch but no one was talking about the opera. It was a typical night in London.

As her gaze drifted up to the boxes across from where they sat, Colette’s breath caught as she noticed a familiar figure. Lucien Sinclair. He appeared to be with an older couple and a young lady in a green silk gown, while he sat rather impassively, making polite conversation with the older gentleman.

Juliette leaned close to her and whispered in her ear so their aunt and uncle could not hear. “Do you see who Lord Waverly is sitting with? That is Lady Faith Bromleigh, the one I told you about. Those are her parents.”

Colette mumbled, “They make a nice pair together.”

Juliette shrugged as if she did not agree. “You must be blind. Do you think he kisses her in dark gardens? I doubt it.”

Colette shook her head, ignoring the sudden nauseous sensation in her belly. Although she could not picture Lucien Sinclair kissing Lady Faith the way he had kissed her, she did not like to picture him kissing anyone else.

Had she only imagined the feelings between them? Perhaps she had read too much into his attention to her. He had not made any formal overtures to her or asked to court her, as he had obviously done with Lord Bromleigh’s daughter. He had not asked her to the theater. He had not asked her to go riding in the park. He had not formally called on her in any way.

No, he had just kissed her passionately. And his kisses left her weak, shaking, and hungry for more.

Yes, it was the kissing that gave her pause. Others might say that he kissed her because he was a rake, but somehow, deep down, she knew there was something more between them. It was the way he had kissed her. The way he held her in his arms. And how he said to her afterward that kissing did not always feel that special. She believed him.

Or was she simply a fool who wanted to believe him?

Her heart sank as she watched Lucien sit with Lady Faith at his side. She was a true lady. And not just because of her title either. Colette knew that Lady Faith Bromleigh, with her modest clothes and shy demeanor, would never deign to work in a bookshop as Colette did. She would never dirty her hands working for a living. She was the perfect earl’s wife. Something Colette could never be. And that was why Lucien was sitting in the theater with Lady Faith Bromleigh and not Miss Colette Hamilton.

“Would you care to borrow my opera glasses?” Jeffrey asked her with an innocent grin. “You would be amazed at how much clearer everything is with these.”

Unable to stop herself, she murmured, “Thank you.”

She took the small brass binoculars from him and held them to her eyes, peering at the people below, attempting to gaze nonchalantly around the theater, as she gradually moved her line of vision to the Bromleighs’ box. She took a closer look at Lady Faith Bromleigh, the woman whom Lucien intended to marry.

The girl was passably attractive. With her pale blond hair parted severely down the middle, she could not quite be called pretty for she had not enough light in her blue eyes or a hint of a smile in her expression. It was difficult to imagine her doing anything but sitting with her hands folded primly in her lap.

No, she was not fashionable nor elegant in the least. Faith’s dark green gown was high-necked and plain, quite different from Colette’s off-the-shoulder gown in a delicate shade of blue, edged with a darker blue lace. Earlier Juliette had remarked that the color emphasized her eyes as well as her bosom and Aunt Cecilia had said the gown was the height of fashion, so Colette had felt quite flirtatious wearing it. Now however, seeing the somber way in which Faith Bromleigh was attired, Colette suddenly felt overexposed and flashy. Obviously Lucien preferred women who dressed modestly, without drawing any attention to themselves.

Very slowly, without attracting attention, she moved her line of vision to peer at Lucien, who sat beside Faith Bromleigh.

Her heart nearly stopped beating and she suppressed a horrified squeal as she found him staring directly at her with his own pair of opera glasses. Startled and embarrassed to have him catch her spying on him, she hurriedly dropped the glasses in her lap just as the house lights dimmed. Grateful for the dark, she wished she could crawl under the chair and hide. How mortifying to be caught looking at him! It was not until the orchestra began playing that it suddenly occurred to her that she had caught him looking at her, too. She smiled.

Colette did not know Italian, but it hardly mattered, for she became lost in the beautiful singing. Able to discern the poignant love story, she became riveted by the action on the stage and was startled at the drawing of the velvet curtains at intermission.

Jeffrey and Uncle Randall left the box to bring the ladies some refreshments.

“Which one of you does he fancy?” Aunt Cecilia hissed as soon the men were gone. Almost as tall as Uncle Randall, Cecilia possessed severe facial features that only accentuated her haughty demeanor: a long pointed nose, sharp cheekbones, and thin lips that pursed into a perpetual frown. Her wheat blond hair was pulled tightly from her face.

“What do you mean?” Colette asked, knowing full well to what her aunt referred.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Aunt Cecilia said flatly. “Lord Eddington is obviously interested in one of you enough to extend an invitation to your uncle and me tonight. I would simply like to know which one of you it is.” Her keen eyes flicked back and forth over them.

“I have no idea.” Colette told the truth.

“Well, perhaps he is still making up his mind between you,” Aunt Cecilia ruminated aloud. “If either of you can bring him up to scratch, that would be something! For all that Lord Eddington was born on the wrong side of the sheets, his father is still the Duke of Rathmore. Imagine marrying into that family! Has he said nothing to indicate interest in either of you?”

Colette shook her head. Juliette kept her mouth closed, oddly enough.

Aunt Cecilia continued, “He’s a charmer, that one. And quite handsome, too.”

A look came over her aunt’s face that Colette had never seen before. A little sparkle appeared in her eyes and she almost smiled.

“Perhaps your uncle will be able to get some information out of him while they are alone,” she continued, wrapping her shawl tightly around her shoulders. “Still you must be careful with a man like Eddington. People can easily get the wrong idea.”

Before Colette could respond, Lucien Sinclair opened the curtains to their box. Looking more handsome than ever in his fine evening clothes, his virile presence engulfed her.

“Good evening, ladies. I happened to notice you from across the theater and thought I would stop by to say hello.”

“Hello,” Colette said. She could barely breathe at the sight of him and she did not imagine that his gaze rested on her longer than necessary. The stunning emerald green of his eyes and his thick lashes startled her.

An actual smile appeared on Aunt Cecilia’s face. “Why, Lord Waverly! What a pleasant surprise to see you here.”

Lucien said, “You ladies look lovely this evening.”

Aunt Cecilia beamed at his compliment while Juliette rolled her eyes in an unladylike manner, but Colette felt he was looking only at her.

“How is your father, Lord Waverly? Is he well?” Aunt Cecilia questioned him.

“Thank you for asking, Lady Hamilton. He is much recovered.”

“I am delighted to hear it.”

“Have you enjoyed the opera so far?” Colette asked, hating how ridiculously nervous she felt in his presence. The strange tension between them seemed more heightened than usual.

“Not particularly,” he said, his expression unreadable.

“No?” Judging from the subdued demeanor of the Bromleigh family, Colette could not help but believe he referred to the company he kept rather than the opera performance itself.

Lucien explained, “I do not seem to be in the mood for opera this evening.” He paused before looking directly at Colette. “Are you enjoying the view from here?”

Colette did not know whether to cringe or laugh at his reference to their little exchange with the opera glasses. “The view has been quite lovely,” she managed to reply.

A seductive smile swept his face and Colette felt her pulse quicken in response.

“How are the Bromleighs?” Juliette asked pointedly.

Lucien turned to her with a direct gaze, although he seemed almost surprised to hear the Bromleigh name mentioned. “They are quite well, thank you.”

“How is Faith enjoying the opera?” Juliette pressed him, possessing a talent for goading people.

“She adores it. In fact, I must return to her now. I wish you ladies a good evening.” Lucien bowed elegantly and took his leave of their box. To Colette, it suddenly felt as if the sun hid behind a cloud.

After he left and the red velvet curtains swung back into place, Aunt Cecilia declared, “Now that man would be a feather in our family cap indeed.”

“I thought you disapproved of him!” Juliette exclaimed.

“Of course not! He is the heir to a wealthy marquisate,” she said with calculated practicality, her hard eyes glittering at the prospect. “For all his scandalous reputation, any girl would consider herself lucky to land him. Although I too have heard rumors he is about to settle down with that quiet Faith Bromleigh and his presence with them this evening does lend credence to that rumor, I do wonder at his visit to us. He certainly did not stop by to chat with me. I wonder which one of you has captured his interest?”

Colette could not answer her, for she honestly did not know what to say to her aunt in response. She dared not tell her that she had captured Lord Waverly’s interest while kissing him in a secluded garden.

“Hmm,” Aunt Cecilia pondered, her eyes still on them. “That would be something if he were to marry one of you. On the other hand, you must guard your reputations. Oh, here is Lord Eddington now. I must say, I do so enjoy his company.”

Their conversation came to an abrupt end as Uncle Randall and Jeffrey returned, bringing them each glasses of lemonade. As Colette sipped the sweet liquid, she could not stop herself from glancing across the theater in Lucien’s direction. He had returned to his seat beside the staid Faith Bromleigh and Colette found him staring blatantly back at her. His gaze unwavering, Colette forced herself to look away from him, a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach.

As the second act began, she could feel his eyes on her, even in the dark.

Chapter Fifteen

Special Delivery

The doorbell rang at Devon House, but to Lucien, preoccupied with balancing accounts for the estate in his study, the sound of the bell barely registered in his consciousness. Fully immersed in adding up figures and comparing his sums to those of Mr. Kirby, his estate manager, he moved his pen with quick precision across the paper as his mind calculated the large sums with skilled ease.

A knock on the door of his private study prompted him to call, “Come in,” but he did not look up from his books. There was an error in Kirby’s accounting, and Lucien was determined to find it.

“My lord, you have a visitor.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Lucien murmured in response to Granger, the Devon House butler. He continued to work at the long column of numbers on the sheet in front of him.

“It’s a young lady.”

Lucien still did not respond, his head bowed over the ledger in front of him.

Granger cleared his throat rather loudly. Having been with the Sinclair family since before Lucien was born, he felt he had certain privileges within the house. “My lord, there is a young lady here to see you. A Miss Hamilton.”

“Who do you say?” The name had finally penetrated Lucien’s preoccupied brain. He immediately closed the leather-bound ledger and placed his pen back in the inkpot on his desk. “Miss Hamilton? Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Is she alone? Where is she now?”

What on earth is Colette doing at my house?

Granger seemed taken aback by Lucien’s sudden barrage of questions. “She’s waiting for you in the front parlor. And yes, she is alone. Apparently she has come to deliver some books you ordered from her shop.”

A sudden excitement racing through him at the thought of Colette at Devon House, Lucien rose to his feet in front of the great mahogany desk where his father once sat. He had immediately assumed it was Colette who was waiting in his parlor, but perhaps it was one of her sisters. “You say it was Miss Colette Hamilton?”

“Yes, I believe that is the name she gave. She’s quite a pretty lady, my lord.” Granger grinned, obviously understanding Lucien’s interest in the young woman.

“Yes, well, that she is.” Lucien smiled ruefully. “Thank you, Granger. I’ll see to the lady now.”

As Lucien made his way to the front parlor, he realized his heart was beating faster than usual. Surprised by and annoyed with himself for the obvious sign of excitement at seeing her, he tried to relax and breathe calmly before he saw her.

Colette stood waiting by the large window overlooking the street, with her back turned partially to the room. She had not heard him come in. Her profile, the elegant outline of her face, was visible under the pretty yellow bonnet that covered her rich hair, and he thought how beautiful she was simply standing there. She wore a simple dress the color of pale daffodils, which only emphasized the blue color of her eyes and set off her figure to perfection. A figure that would make any healthy man’s blood boil. She was gut-wrenchingly attractive. He recalled what it felt like to hold her in his arms and kiss her senseless, touching her and kissing her.

He did not like how she made him feel.

She haunted his thoughts night and day.

Lady Faith Bromleigh did not inspire such feeling within him, which was exactly why she was the perfect choice to be his bride. There would be no pain, no drama, and no heartache with that marriage. With Faith, he would be safe.

Unlike Colette, who left him feeling off balance, somewhat vulnerable, and always so damned aroused. Yet he had never met a woman he’d wanted to learn more about. A woman he wanted to talk to, wanted to kiss, and wanted to make love to and hold on to. A woman he wanted to pull into his arms that very moment and crush her to him—Bloody hell!

The object of his lustful thoughts and sensual fantasies turned to look at him. For a moment all he saw were her incredible blue eyes, and he could not breathe.

“Good afternoon,” she said hesitantly, unsure of her welcome. She gestured to a bundle wrapped in brown paper resting upon the side table. “Your Charles Dickens books arrived. You haven’t been by the shop recently, so I thought I would bring them to you myself.”

“Thank you, Colette,” he managed to say. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

“You’re welcome. It was no trouble, really. I needed to go for a walk and get out of the shop for some air anyway.”

“You brought no chaperone with you?” he questioned.

“No,” she responded crisply. “I am a businesswoman conducting business, and I do not require the presence of a chaperone. This is not a social call.”

“I see.” But he did not. She should not be venturing out unescorted no matter what her reason. He searched for something to say to her. “Did you enjoy the opera the other evening?”

“Yes,” she said, her face lit from within. “It was my first time at the opera and I found it quite lovely.”

“You and Juliette were there as guests of Lord Eddington?”

“Yes, his father invited my aunt and uncle.”

“I see,” he said. She seemed to withdraw from him at the mention of the opera. An awkward silence ensued for a few moments.

She began to walk toward the door, as if to leave the room. “Well, I should be returning to the bookshop now. I—”

“No, please stay,” he protested, placing his hand on her arm to stop her, suddenly loath to see her leave. He had barely recovered from the shock of seeing her in his home, and now she wanted to leave before he’d had a chance to talk to her.

Startled by his words, she froze and looked up at him, her expression confused. “Why?”

Realizing his hand was still on her arm, he still did not remove it, relishing the warmth of her skin through the soft yellow material of her dress. An image of him sliding that dress from her curvaceous body flashed through his mind, causing him to shake himself back to the present. He should send her home, safely on her way. After that night in the garden, he was too tempted by the sweetness of her mouth. For both their sakes, he would be wise to have her leave.

“Because I have wanted to show you our library and I would like your advice about what books might be a good addition to our collection,” he heard himself saying.

She hesitated. “I’m not sure if I should…”

“I could really use your help,” he cajoled.

“Well,” she murmured, a shy smile appearing on her face. “I suppose it would be all right. Shall we bring the new books to the library?”

“Absolutely.” He retrieved the package from the table.

Ignoring the little thrill he felt that he had successfully persuaded Colette to stay, he escorted her from the parlor and down the main hallway of Devon House to the library. He swung open the heavy double doors.

“Well, what do you think?” he asked her.

Thick, dark wood shelves lined the walls of the massive room, while tall arched windows framed the fourth wall. Half the shelves were completely empty. A white marble fireplace flanked by bookshelves dominated the main wall. A few leather chairs were scattered about and a wooden ladder rested against one of the shelves. The floor and windows were bare, devoid of carpet and draperies. The heavy odor of fresh paint lingered in the air.

He watched her expression as she inspected the shell of a library.

“It will be an impressive room when it is finished,” she remarked bluntly, “but it is definitely in dire need of more books.”

“Yes, it is,” he admitted with a chuckle, and then explained. “We used to have a full library with some wonderful first editions. But apparently there was a leak behind one of the walls. A very slow leak. With my father so ill, I didn’t notice it until the damage was done. The shelves had buckled and the books became wet and molded, especially after that bad rainstorm we had last fall. They had to gut the room, rip out the old shelves, and repair the walls. Now that the library has been completely redone, we are in the process of restocking the new shelves.”

“What a sad loss! I hate the idea of books being destroyed. It’s as if a little part of history is being erased.” A shadow crossed her face.

“You do love books, don’t you?” he asked, oddly touched by her statement.

“I do,” she acknowledged readily. “And I envy you the freedom of stocking your personal library full of books that you love. In the shop I have to stock books that other people might like. But to have your own library, and one as lovely as this, that is a special treat.”

“Yes, but I have no idea what to choose, how to choose, or how to arrange and organize the books that I do have. As you can plainly see, I am in desperate need of assistance, and who better to help me than you?” What the hell was he doing? He’d just given Colette Hamilton leave to come to his house again. He needed to stay away from her, not invite her in!

The smile that she gave him lit her face from within. Her blue eyes sparkled with excitement. “I would love to arrange your library and select the books! Provided,” she paused and eyed him levelly, “provided that you buy all the books through Hamilton’s. What we don’t have in stock I can order for you.”

Admiring her determination to succeed, he had to admit, “You are an astute businesswoman, aren’t you, Colette?”

She gave him a challenging look. “Are you just realizing that?”

“I think so. You drive a hard bargain, but it’s agreed. I admit that I am relieved to have help. This is a rather large library, and I’ve been at a bit of a loss with what to do with it.”

“Oh, it’s a perfect room!” she cried, hurrying to the shelves. She ran her hand across one empty shelf, testing its weight and durability. She moved to the books that were stacked rather haphazardly on one shelf. Picking up a few, she read the titles and set them back down. She backed up and eyed the room carefully, turning in a slow circle, sizing up the room through a professional eye.

“You will need a vast amount of books to replace your collection.” She pointed to the shelves one by one, her mind moving quickly. “We’ll put fiction on those shelves, beginning with the classics. That area will house the books on history and art. Over there we’ll put scientific and reference materials. And you will definitely need a thick carpet to warm up the room and to muffle the noise. A wide desk should go there, as well as a seating area with large comfortable chairs near the windows to take advantage of natural reading light. And yes, more lighting needs to be addressed. I can have Paulette do the lettering on small cards we can place in brass-plated cardholders to label the different subject areas, just like we do in the shop, only on a smaller scale. Oh, and I know a wonderful printer who makes the most elegant bookplates, and I can have them engraved with Devon House—” She suddenly stopped mid-sentence and turned to him with a sheepish look in her face. “I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”

“Not at all.” Lucien had found himself enjoying her enthusiasm for the venture. The woman loved what she did. A little thrill raced through him at seeing her so obviously happy. He was also impressed with her expertise, recognizing the fact that she seemed to know exactly what to do. In a matter of minutes she had elegantly refurbished the entire room.

“Well, I shall draw up a list of essential books that you should begin with and have some sent over as soon as possible.”

“I believe,” he said slowly as an idea formed in his mind, “that this could be a lucrative sideline for you to have, Colette. Helping people stock their private libraries.”

She looked at him curiously. “You are serious, aren’t you?”

“Yes. You could use me as a reference.”

“I thought you didn’t approve of women working?”

“I don’t,” Lucien quipped. “But you are working, whether I approve or not—”

“My lord?” Granger asked, standing hesitantly in the doorway.

“Yes?” Lucien responded rather brusquely.

Granger explained his interruption. “Your father has been ringing for you. It’s your usual reading time. Shall I tell him that you are otherwise engaged?”

“That is not necessary, Granger. Please tell him I will be up directly.”

The butler exited the room, and Lucien turned his attention back to Colette. “Would you like to come with me?”

“To where?” she asked.

“To read with my father. I would like to introduce you to him.” The words were out of his mouth before he could consider what he was saying. He felt as if he were completely incapable of controlling himself when he was in her presence. Why does that happen with Colette?

As she wavered with the decision to go with him or not, he realized just how much he wanted his father to meet her.

“I would be honored to meet your father.”

“Thank you,” he whispered, pleased by her response.

“Is he very ill?” Concern crossed her beautiful features.

Lucien nodded. “He has suffered an apoplectic attack. It was rather severe, causing him to lose control over the right side of his body. He cannot move his right arm or leg, and he has difficulty speaking since the right side of his face is paralyzed. His speech has improved somewhat since it first happened a few months back. I’ve learned to understand what he is trying to say.”

“Oh, how dreadful for him. Is he terribly depressed?”

“Yes, I believe so. That’s why I try to spend as much time with him as I can. I read to him, talk to him about current events, and attempt to entertain him a little. His mind is still quite sharp. It’s just that his body does not do what he wants it to do.”

A look of sympathy swept her delicate features. “I can imagine that must be quite frustrating for him. Are you sure he will not mind my intrusion?”

“No, in fact, I believe it might cheer him. He has not had visitors since this happened, and has refused to see anyone he knows. But he has not met you, so how can he refuse your company?”

Colette nodded in helpless agreement with his winning logic. Then she paused. “And what of your mother?”

Since the age of ten Lucien had learned to deftly answer that particular question. With his cool and calm manner, he never revealed the devastation his mother had inflicted upon his life. But now when Colette asked, his gut clenched and he gave her a rather flippant response. “Surely you’ve heard the story of my mother from someone by now. It’s infamous.”

She regarded him intently, her gaze full of concern. “You needn’t tell me, if you don’t wish to.”

Something in her manner calmed him, and for the first time in his life Lucien wanted to share what happened to him that day when the world as he knew it ended. “For all the scandal it caused, it’s a very short story. Of course, I didn’t learn the truth until later. My mother ran off with another man when I was ten. One morning I woke up and my father told me she had gone away. We never saw her again. As I’m sure you can imagine, the social and emotional ramifications were horrendous.”

“Do you still miss her?” she asked quietly.

He sighed heavily, running his hand across his chin. “I used to. For years I used to pray for my mother to come home.” He paused thoughtfully. “Over the years I suppose I simply grew accustomed to life without her.”

Her eyes grew softer as she watched him. “Oh, Lucien, I’m sorry,” was all she said.

Her use of his first name almost undid him. The softness, the tenderness, the aching compassion in the way she whispered his name almost brought him to his knees.

“Let’s go upstairs now, shall we?” he suggested abruptly. The tightening sensation in his chest made him uncomfortable.

Colette seemed surprised by the sudden end to their conversation but nodded her assent. Lucien took her arm and led her from the library and down the corridor. Silently she followed him up the wide and curving front staircase and along the upstairs hallway until they reached the doors to his father’s suite of rooms.

Colette gave him a nervous glance and he squeezed her arm reassuringly before he guided her to where his father sat huddled in a large leather chair beside the mantel. In spite of the warm June weather, a blazing fire roared in the grate and a gray woolen blanket was wrapped around his thin shoulders. His rheumy eyes narrowed at the sight of Colette.

“Father, I have brought a visitor to meet you. This is Miss Colette Hamilton. She is the lady who has been choosing the books I’ve been reading to you. Colette, this is my father, Simon Sinclair, the Marquis of Stancliff.”

“Good afternoon, my lord,” Colette said warmly, taking his outstretched left hand in hers. “I’m honored to meet you, for your son has told me such wonderful things about you.”

His father nodded in greeting and there was a hint of amusement in his eyes as his gaze flicked in brief question to Lucien and then back to Colette.

“Miss Hamilton’s family owns a bookshop and she has graciously agreed to advise me on how to restock our library.”

“Oh, Lucien!” she cried suddenly, turning to him. “We left the Dickens books in the library. You were going to read one to your father!”

“I’ll go get them,” he said, grateful for a moment to himself to regain his footing. “I’ll be right back.”

As Lucien returned to the library to retrieve the books, he wondered how his world had suddenly turned upside down since the doorbell rang. How did he end up inviting Colette to restore his library? She would be visiting the house regularly. It was insanity. Then he confided in her about the day his mother left, when he had never discussed that with another soul. Now she was upstairs with his father! How had he allowed this to happen? He should have simply accepted the books and let her go on her merry way.

He knew the decisions he had just made regarding Colette were going to be grueling and thorough tests of his strength and self-control. He had just allowed the woman who tempted him above all others into his home.

Good God, what was he thinking?

When he returned to his father’s room, he stopped short at the scene before him. Colette had pulled up a small damask-covered chair beside her father and sat talking to him. The two looked rather comfortable together. Due to the extreme warmth in the room, Colette had removed her little yellow bonnet and her light summer shawl. The firelight glistened on her rich brown hair, and her creamy skin looked as if it were fine alabaster. The soft cadence of her voice drifted through the room as she spoke.

Lucien’s heart constricted strangely at the sight of Colette and his father together, but he stood silently so as not to interrupt them. Leaning against the door frame, he just watched. And listened to her as she spoke cheerfully about her beloved bookshop. Her face was animated as she described her work at Hamilton’s. Her warmth and charm brightened the dim room to which his father had been relegated these past months in a way he had never been able to lighten them, and he felt immensely grateful to Colette for doing so. His father smiled crookedly, but not disapprovingly, at the fact of her managing a business on her own. With a surprising sense of ease, she conducted a perfectly intelligible conversation with a man who could not speak clearly and whom she had just met.

Colette never ceased to amaze him.

Something made her glance back and spot him in the doorway. “Oh, hello, Lucien. I was just telling your father about my little shop. Come and join us.” She smiled invitingly.

Once again he felt an unusual sensation in his heart. “Would you care to read to him this afternoon?” he asked her. “I think my father is tired of hearing my voice and would enjoy a change, wouldn’t you, Father?”

Simon nodded as enthusiastically as he could, obviously agreeable to this suggestion.

“I would be honored to read to you, Lord Stancliff,” Colette answered graciously, looking into his eyes as she did.

Lucien handed her one of the books they had chosen. His fingers brushed hers lightly as she took it from him, sending a thrill through him. Their gaze held for a moment and he felt that special something pass between them again. That something that had been there from the very first. Something he could not describe. A feeling. A knowing. An understanding. An attraction. Shaken by the fact that he instinctively knew that she felt it too, Lucien held his breath. Colette quickly averted her eyes and settled back in to her chair, opening the leather-bound copy of David Copperfield.

“Lucien tells me that you have never read any of Charles Dickens’s work before, my lord,” she said with a bright eagerness. When his father shook his head, she continued, “Well then, you are in for a wonderful treat, because Mr. Dickens was an amazingly gifted storyteller.”

Her eyes briefly glanced in Lucien’s direction over the rim of the open book and he smiled at her in encouragement. She then focused all her attention on the task at hand as if she read to his father every day. Without interrupting her, he took a seat near them and listened intently. As she read with genuine inflection and emotion, Lucien found himself caught up in the story, which he had never read either. Now he began to understand why Dickens was so popular. But perhaps it had more to do with the reader than the author who had him spellbound.

He could not keep his eyes off Colette.

Her graceful neck arched forward, and her full lips moved enticingly as she read the pages. Her lips fascinated him. Now that he knew the sweet taste of those lips, they tempted him all the more. He imagined them pressed heatedly against his mouth, nibbling along his jaw, leaving a trail of heavenly soft kisses across his chest, moving lower…

Good God! The woman is reading to my father!

Lucien forced his lustful thoughts to the back of his mind only by closing his eyes and losing himself in the story.

Colette read five chapters before Nurse Fiona, the capable and kind Scottish woman Lucien had hired to look after his father, entered the chamber. “It’s time for Lord Stancliff’s supper,” she announced, her soft Scottish burr evident in her speech.

Simon made an erratic motion to them with his good hand. “S-supper, supper.”

“Yes, it’s time for supper now.” Colette grinned at him, closing the book and placing it on the end table. “And it is time for me to be on my way.”

“S-stay for supper,” Simon Sinclair uttered rather clearly. Lucien was impressed.

“Oh, thank you very much for the invitation, Lord Stancliff, but I really ought to be going home now.” Colette began, rising to her feet. “I’ve intruded long enough.”

“Nonsense,” Lucien declared decisively. “We’ve taken advantage of your kindness this afternoon. The least we can do is offer you some refreshment. Please stay and have supper with us.”

“It’s rather late,” she said hesitantly, glancing between him and Simon. “I only meant to drop off the books, and here I am still, hours later. My sisters must be worried about me.”

It was oddly comforting having her there with his father and it surprised Lucien how much he wanted Colette to stay. He had already joined her family for dinner, and now he wanted her to spend time with his family. Such as it was. “That is easily remedied. I will have a footman send a message around to inform them. Surely you can have a light supper with us?” He gave her his most persuasive smile.

He saw the indecision on her face, and she clutched her bonnet and shawl tightly against her chest. “I don’t know…”

“Then it’s settled,” he said. “Nurse Fiona, please have Granger send a footman to Hamilton’s Book Shoppe, just off Bond Street, to let Mrs. Hamilton know that her daughter is dining here this evening with my father, and that I shall escort her home later. And please arrange to have supper for the three of us served up here in my father’s sitting room.”

“Very good, my lord.” The tall nurse exited the room to follow Lucien’s instructions.

Lucien turned back to look at Colette, who had not moved an inch. A mix of emotions crossed her features, and he was thrilled to note that pleasure was one of them.

“There,” he declared with a wave of his hand. “You see? It’s all taken care of. You can stay for supper. And then I shall take you home in my carriage afterward.”

The early summer sun set with long golden rays that reached into Simon Sinclair’s sitting room, bathing the chamber with warm hues. A simple meal was served at a small but elegantly set table near the fire, so Simon would not get too chilled. They dined on roasted lamb and fresh green vegetables, Lucien having discovered early on that very rich meals had a deleterious effect upon his father. He poured a glass of wine for Colette and himself, and a small amount for Simon, whose eating skills had improved somewhat over time as he learned to use his left hand instead of his right. Simon still needed some assistance now and then, which Lucien provided.

Once she conceded to stay for supper, Colette immediately relaxed.

“Father,” Lucien began the conversation, “Colette is the oldest of five daughters.”

Simon’s lopsided grin appeared on his gaunt face. “A-all p-pretty, too?”

Lucien caught Colette’s embarrassed glance and enjoyed causing her more embarrassment. “They all look remarkably alike, and yes, they are more than pretty. In fact, they are beauties. And they all have French names as well. One day we must have the Hamilton sisters over for a visit, Father. I’d hazard to guess they would cheer up the place.”

Colette’s light laughter warmed him. “Or we would give your poor father a dreadful headache!”

“I recently had the good fortune to dine with Colette’s family. Their mother is from France.”

Simon’s eyes lit up. “Ah,” he sighed. “T-the F-french.”

“My father loves France and anything French,” Lucien added.

“My mother was born in Paris and came to London to visit her cousins when she was eighteen,” Colette told them. “She met and married my father and never went back to France.”

“She swept your father off his feet?” Lucien asked.

Colette remarked, “It seems that way.”

Simon grinned gleefully. “French women!”

Lucien and Colette exchanged amused glances.

“Do you all speak French?” Lucien asked her.

“Bien sûr, je parle français de temps en temps lorsque je suis en famille,” Colette uttered with flawless ease. “But my father did not speak a word of French. My mother still speaks French to us from time to time.”

“Father spent a year in France when he was younger, and he has never recovered,” Lucien explained for his father. “He fell in love with their language and culture. And I daresay the women, too.”

Simon surprised them both with a very hearty growl, leaving no doubt in their minds how he felt about the females in France.

Colette’s sweet laughter brightened the room. “Why, Lord Stancliff,” she said in mock innocence and gave him a sly wink, “I’m shocked!”

Simon actually winked back at her as Lucien watched the affectionate interplay between them with undisguised amusement. His father genuinely liked Colette, and Lucien couldn’t help the profound pride he had in her at that moment.

“Enough about my family,” Colette said. “Please tell me about Devon House.”

“It’s been in our family for years,” Lucien said. “It was designed and built by my father’s grandfather, Henry Sinclair, back in 1780.”

Over the years Devon House had become something of a local landmark, and many an aspiring artist, intrigued by the beautiful design, had sketched the magnificent home. Five stories high and almost a block long, the white Georgian-style building had tall Palladian windows on the first floor, leading up to gabled windows on the top floor, and possessed a grand and symmetrical sophistication. A black wrought-iron fence with intricate scrollwork intertwined with delicate vines and leaves outlined the perimeter of the house and a curved marble staircase led up to the front entrance of double doors of polished mahogany with a fan light window above them. The classic and well-designed structure graced the quiet lane with its elegant lines and columns. But to Lucien, it was simply his home.

“Why is it called Devon House?” she asked.

“Because it was named after Henry Sinclair’s mother, Margaret Devon.”

Simon interrupted, his eyes alight with amusement. “G-grandmother’s m-money!”

“Yes,” Lucien nodded, surprised at his father’s blatant honesty about a fact he usually liked to keep quiet. “It was Margaret Devon’s money that saved the Sinclair family from financial ruin years ago.”

“It was money well spent,” Colette remarked with un-abashed warmth. “It’s such a grand and lovely house.”

“Once the library is complete,” Lucien added, with a pointed look at Colette.

They then began a lively discussion of books and their plans for the library. After a light dessert of glazed pears, Simon made a weak gesture with his hands. Before Lucien could explain what it meant, Colette knew instantly.

“I see we have tired you, my lord,” she said quietly. “I shall take my leave now.”

His father struggled to speak, his watery eyes staring intently at Colette. “C-come b-back?”

“You would like me to come back?” she questioned him.

He nodded with a lopsided smile.

“I would be honored to come read to you again, Lord Stancliff.”

His father looked toward Lucien and again struggled to speak. “M-marry her?”

Lucien jumped to his feet. Damn. His father thought Colette was the woman he intended to marry. “No, Father,” he said hurriedly, shaking his head and hoping that Colette had misconstrued what he said. But judging from her downcast eyes and flushed cheeks, he feared she had heard quite clearly. “You’re tired and need your rest, Father. Miss Hamilton will visit you again when she is able.”

“Of course I shall,” Colette said brightly, eager to change the topic of conversation. “We have the rest of the book to go yet! And so much more happens in the story! I’ll return in a few days to help with the library, and I shall come read to you then. I’ve so enjoyed your company, Lord Stancliff.”

She reached out her hand to him, and his father grasped it weakly in his own gnarled one. “Th-thank y-you.”

“Thank you,” she returned, giving his hand a squeeze.

With a trembling motion, Simon brought Colette’s hand to his lips, placing a light kiss upon her fingers.

“Now I shall definitely return, for how can I resist such a gallant and handsome gentleman?” Her flirtatious tone brought another half-smile to Simon’s face.

Lucien silently blessed her for being so good with his father. He hadn’t seen Simon so alert and alive looking in a long time. Her vibrant and lovely presence had truly brightened his father’s spirits.

Colette gathered up her things, thanked them both for a wonderful evening, and with another affectionate farewell to his father, followed Lucien from the room.

Together they walked the length of the elegant, Persian-carpeted corridor. It had been a memorable evening. The last time Lucien had enjoyed himself this much was the night he spent with Colette and her sisters. He had not felt such a strong sense of home and belonging since before his mother left.

Before they reached the top of the staircase, Lucien placed his hand lightly on her shoulder. She paused and faced him. “You were wonderful with my father, Colette. You made him feel good today. I cannot recall seeing him so happy. We owe that to you. Thank you.”

Her loving smile caused his heart to turn over in his chest. “He’s a sweet and charming gentleman, Lucien. It was my pleasure to read to him.”

“It was our pleasure to have you with us.”

“I truly had a lovely time this evening.”

Their gazes locked as she tilted her head up to look at him, and they stared into each other’s eyes. Neither moved. Neither blinked. Lucien suddenly found it difficult to draw breath into his lungs.

“I really should be going now,” she whispered so softly he could barely hear her. Fascinated by the way her lips moved, he knew she spoke, but the words had no meaning for him. The silence in the long, empty hallway echoed deafeningly in his ears. They were completely alone.

“I should go,” she murmured again, her aquamarine eyes still on his.

“Don’t go yet.”

He stepped closer to her, causing his heart to pound in his head. Every single nerve in his body tensed at the closeness of her. Maybe it was the wine he had with supper. Maybe it was her light, sweet violet fragrance that surrounded him, enveloped him. Maybe it was inevitable. But he had to kiss her just once, and then he would send her home.

Just one kiss.

In one quick movement, his arm reached out and encircled her, pulling her up against his chest, and his mouth came down over hers possessively. As he lost himself in the feel of her seductive lips, the soft silken touch of her mouth responding wildly to his, he held her even tighter, the length of his body pressed intimately against hers.

He had Colette Hamilton in his arms just feet away from his bedroom.

He knew then with a dreadful certainty that this would not end with just one kiss.

Chapter Sixteen

Once a Rogue

Colette couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t think. She could only hang on and kiss him back. Her knees trembled and she doubted she had the strength to stand if she did not wrap her arms around his neck for support. The scent of him, something clean and spicy and distinctly male, enveloped her and she lost herself in the sensation of his insistent mouth on hers.

As she had when he kissed her the first time, she instinctively opened her mouth to him in invitation. His low growl of approval excited her almost as much as the feel of his warm tongue penetrating her mouth. Filled with satisfaction at having pleased him, she pressed closer to him, loving the contact with his broad chest. His lean, muscular arms encircled her easily, pulling her closer still.

Oh, God, she should not be doing this…

But how could she not?

Lucien’s warm hands cupped her face and he continued kissing her. Her world seemed to tilt and spin crazily around her as she clung madly to his broad shoulders for support. Her legs shook. His long fingers threaded into her upswept hair, gently loosening the pins that held her wavy locks in place. As her long hair fell like a dark curtain around her, his kiss deepened. His mouth locked on hers, devouring her, with a hunger that matched her own. His kiss demanded all of her, and she surrendered on a sigh, giving herself to him freely, eagerly.

Slowly he backed her up until she found herself against the wall, her hips pressed against the wainscoting. And still his lips never left hers. A crazed and ravenous sensation overtook her, until all she could think of was Lucien. Lucien’s seductive lips, hard and insistent on her mouth. Lucien’s rough stubble, rubbing the tender skin on her face, branding her. Lucien’s strong hands—caressing her cheek, entwined in her hair, locked around her waist, now moving around the curve of her hips.

Still linked tightly around his neck, her hands found their way into the soft mane of his hair. Marveling at the feel of the softness of his dark curls, she splayed her fingers around the curve of his head while his hand slid up higher and cupped her breast. She sucked in her breath at the intimate contact. He gently squeezed her, kissing her lips even harder.

Suddenly he pulled his mouth away from hers, and her arms fell reluctantly to her sides. Without his support, her head fell gently back against the wall. An overwhelming sense of loss encompassed her at being deprived of his touch.

“Open your eyes and look at me,” Lucien whispered, his voice ragged and out of breath.

Pressing her bruised lips together and soothing them with her tongue, she could still taste him. Her lips felt full and heavy. Again it felt as if she were waking from a deliciously warm dream on a cold winter morning, and slowly she opened her eyes. His face was so close to hers, his green eyes intent, urgent. She blinked at him, her own breath coming in short gasps, and glanced away.

He took her chin in his hand and tilted her head to face him. His fevered eyes pleaded with her. “Leave now, Colette. Leave now while I can still let you go.”

Lucien was right, of course. She was inexperienced, to be sure, but she was not dim-witted either. She knew this was treacherous territory for a female and instinctively felt that her heart, her reputation, her future were all at risk. Logic and good sense demanded that she leave that instant and run all the way home as fast as her feet could carry her, locking the door behind her.

Yet here she stood. Still. With this powerful man who made her heart race. With this man she could not resist. With this man who elicited feelings in her she’d never felt before. She was tingling with life, every sense in her body heightened when she was with him, her nerves stretched taut with anticipation and desire. Oh, yes, she should definitely run.

Yet Colette could not move a muscle. She stood perfectly still, rooted to the floor, holding her breath.

“Please…Colette…please…go…” He leaned in nearer once more, his mouth brushing ever so lightly against her cheek, hovering near her lips, so close she could see the fine dark stubble along his jawline. The stubble that she had felt scratching against her own skin just seconds ago. The sight of it excited her. He nudged her lightly with the tip of his aquiline nose. “Colette.” Her name became a plea and a caress against her cheek. Her heart pounded wildly.

“I don’t want to leave,” she breathed, her voice a mere whisper. Unable to resist being with him, she reached up and put her arms around him again, and she kissed him. She brazenly kissed him, disregarding every ounce of good sense she possessed.

“Oh, God, Colette,” he growled into her mouth, kissing her hotly. He suddenly lifted her from the floor, sweeping her into his strong arms.

Surrounded by Lucien, she gasped. The sensation of being held by him left her breathless. Resting her head against his massive wall of a chest, she clung to him as he walked, knowing exactly what his intended destination would be.

Colette surrendered herself willingly then. And God help her, completely.

He carried her on long strides to his bedroom, the sound of their heartbeats echoing wildly in her ears. Once inside, he kicked the door closed behind them. Fleeting images caught her eye as they crossed the expanse of his chamber. High windows covered in long drapes. A thick woolen carpet, dark paneled walls. One very large four-poster mahogany bed. He laid her on the heavenly soft bed, her head cradled by downy pillows. It smelled deliciously of Lucien, warm and masculine. Lying beside her, he sought her mouth hungrily, as if they hadn’t just been kissing madly moments before. She relished the taste of him on her tongue once again and sighed, wrapping her arms around his neck. With a swift and sure movement, he eased on top of her, his long male body covering the length of hers.

The magnificent weight of him above her left her feeling light-headed. She was in Lucien Sinclair’s arms. She was in his enormous bed. His bed! This was how wayward girls got into trouble, she thought, suddenly sympathetic to their plight. Lucien had her in his bed. And he was about to do things to her that no man had ever done before. The enormity of what she had just consented to washed over her in a tidal wave of emotion.

He must have feelings for her. He must. He could not do this with her if he did not. Could he? Oh, she wanted him to have feelings for her! Her own heart felt close to bursting with the roiling emotions contained within. But God help her, even if he did not love her, she wanted this moment with him. Wanted to be with him any way she could.

If she ended up marrying some dreadful old nobleman to save her family, then at least she would have had this one night with Lucien Sinclair.

Unconsciously she arched her body against his, wanting something, yearning for something only he could give her. His swift intake of breath encouraged her untutored movements and she writhed restlessly beneath him. Wanting more, she pulled him tighter to her, while his mouth still kissed hers relentlessly. Lost in their melting lips, he rubbed himself against her, his legs intertwined with hers. At the intimate pressure, she gasped into his mouth and he caught her breath with his. Heaven help me! Her body turned to liquid as the intense sensation poured from her waist to the tips of her toes. He pressed himself between her thighs again and she felt faint at the pleasure he caused and eagerly lifted her hips to meet his. Their frantic movements increased their pace, and still they kissed.

His hands ran over her body, feeling her curves through the cover of her daffodil yellow gown. Then he eased his body from hers, and very gently, he turned her over onto her stomach, Colette’s body pliant to his demands. Undoing the buttons down the back of her bodice, his fingers worked effortlessly and rapidly, until the dress was loosened and tugged from her overheated body. Her petticoats followed rapidly until she lay back on the bed with nothing but her sheer undergarments covering her, grateful for the dimness in the room. Practically naked, she looked up at him, feeling shy, but at the same time surprisingly at ease with him.

“No corset?” he whispered, leaning back over her, his eyes pinning her in place.

She despised corsets. “Only when I’m wearing a ball gown.”

“Thank God.” He placed a light kiss on her cheek, another on her lips.

She reached her hands around his neck and pulled him to her, yearning to continue where they left off.

He bent his head and took her mouth savagely, kissing her lips in with all the power in him, and she matched him. If she kissed him ceaselessly for years, she doubted she could get enough of him. Their tongues twisted together in the wet heat of their mouths, exploring and plundering each other in a frantic dance. They devoured each other, each taking as much as they could.

Coming up for air, he suddenly pulled away from her mouth, panting heavily. Her eyes flew open in protest at the loss of his kiss but fluttered closed in relief after she saw the impassioned look in his face. Cradling her face in his hands, he gentled his assault on her senses and touched his lips to hers, softly, ever so tenderly. He then rained feather-light kisses all over her face, as if he needed to taste every inch of her. Lucien’s delicate kisses fell on her forehead, her cheeks, her eyelids, the tip of her nose, the curve of her ears, and the point of her chin, along her jawline. He kissed and nuzzled the soft length of her neck down to the hollow of her throat, moving lower to her chest, licking a burning trail of languid pleasure. The exquisite caress of his skilled tongue on her hypersensitive skin left her shaking.

Her breathing became more frantic as he slowly inched the thin material of her chemise even lower, exposing her bare breasts to his gaze. The heavy rise and fall of her chest only emphasized their rounded weight. She watched as he cupped one breast firmly with his warm hand, pressing his lips to the soft flesh. Oh God. Stroking her heated skin with his amazing tongue, he traced a swirling path around her nipple, teasing the sensitive peak until it hardened in his mouth.

Colette closed her eyes in quivering pleasure and lost herself in the mind-numbing sensation of Lucien’s lips and tongue on her breasts. Drowning in a deliciously intimate sea of warmth and kisses, her very flesh tingled and her body ached with a growing need. She yearned for more of him, to be closer to him. Her fingers wrapped in his thick hair again, breathing in the scent of him as his dark head bent over her chest.

“Lucien,” she whispered, feverish for something she couldn’t define, opening her eyes again to look at him.

Sensing her need, he lifted his head and gazed at her wordlessly, his eyes heavy lidded and dark with desire. She had to feel him against her, to feel his bare skin pressed to hers. He rose above her and she tugged at the buttons of his white shirt until the wide expanse of his chest was open to her. His body, perfectly muscled and toned, reminded her of a statue at a museum. She raised herself to press impassioned kisses against his warm flesh. The pounding of his heartbeat echoed through his chest and she held herself tight to him to listen. Never had she felt this close to someone, and the power of the contact had her reeling.

Together they lay back among the fluffy pillows before he rolled over on top of her again, positioning his still-trouser-clad body firmly between her legs. As before, Colette gasped at the exquisite feel of his hardened body pressed so intimately to hers. Looking into her eyes, he rubbed against her, and as she quivered, his mouth covered hers in a searing kiss. Good heavens! It was all too much. She felt a hot, yearning ache pooling deep within her, and her body trembled with unexplored need and untamed desire.

And still he kissed her as if she were his very reason for living.

Mindlessly her hands caressed the bare planes of his back, feeling corded muscle tense with exertion under soft skin. The male body fascinated her; he could be so strong and hard and still feel smooth and soft. His mouth left hers again and she wanted to cry with the loss of it. He murmured hoarsely, “God, you’re beautiful.”

She thought her heart would burst with the emotions it contained. Pressing kisses into the hollow of his shoulder, Colette clung to him, not entirely sure what would happen next or how it would make her feel. But she trusted him, trusted him to take care of her and guide her where she needed to go.

“I want you,” he whispered in her ear before he rose from the bed. Feeling cold and bereft as he left her, she watched while he unfastened the ties at his waist. As he removed his trousers, her eyes were riveted to the bottom half of his body. The sight of his fully aroused male form made her mouth go dry and left her dizzier than she had been from his kisses.

Once more he covered her body with his in a way that now seemed achingly familiar, and she almost cried out with the intimacy and tenderness of it. In this sacred position, she instantly grew warm again, heated by the contact of skin against skin. His soft, full lips began their sensual magic on her eager mouth, his tongue delving within and dancing with hers. He positioned himself between her legs, and the sensation melted her mind completely. She could not think a single coherent thought. All she could do was feel, feel Lucien above her, around her, touching her, kissing her, caressing her.

And still it was not enough.

She wanted more of him. Her hands seemed to move of their own volition, for she certainly did not consciously make them, running up and down his back, pressing her fingers into him, in an attempt to bring him closer to her. She squirmed beneath him, and he ground himself against her, causing her to stop breathing for one heavenly moment. Ripples of pleasure slid up her body, leaving her yearning and aching for more. He did it again. And again.

“Lucien…I want…Lucien…”

He pressed his forehead against hers, his breath coming in heavy pants. They stared at each other in the shadowed light, the evening darkness covering them. Then he took her hand in his and slowly guided it lower, between them, to grasp the hard length of him. Stunned by the heated silkiness of his skin, she gently traced the tip, and down the thick shaft, growing bolder as her touch became firmer, more controlled. His eyes closed and his head fell back. Fascinated by the shape and feel of his body, she stroked and caressed him, her fingers moving up and down, gently squeezing, but his sharp intake of breath caused her to stop. With a soft kiss on her lips, he drew her hand away from him and settled himself on the bed beside her, his head propped up by his arm, and he stared at her with a wicked grin. She clung to him, in protest, wanting him, the weight of him, above her again.

Tenderly he kissed her cheek and wrapped one arm around her waist to calm her. Waiting nervously for she knew not what, she gazed back at him. Then the hand at her waist began to move. Lazily he stroked the flat length of her quivering stomach, with gentle, easy motions. His fingers worked a sensuous path across the curve of her hip, down her thigh to her knee, and back up, across her stomach and down the other leg. Warm, soothing caresses continued, up and down, back and forth, down and up, veering ever nearer to the present center of her being. Unable to move, to think, to speak, and barely able to draw a breath, she was weak with anticipation. All feeling, every nerve in her body, focused on the growing all-encompassing need within her. Closer and closer, he teasingly massaged her skin. Oh God, this, this, was unimaginable, unbearable, unstoppable. Never had she dreamed this… When Lucien’s fingers finally touched the soft curls between her thighs, and with infinite tenderness, delved within the slick, aching folds, Colette practically flew out of her skin. One intent finger sank into the depths of her, the core of her, and she thought she would shatter into a million pieces right there on the bed.

“More?” he breathed in her ear, his voice raspy and low.

Unable to speak, a faint little sigh escaping her, she nodded in assent to make sure he knew she was definitely agreeable to more. With his face close to hers, his mouth sought her lips in a heated kiss while he pressed another finger deep within her. Enflamed by the exquisite pleasure of Lucien touching her that way, her body burned. She clung to him frantically, for he was the only solid thing in her spinning world. He was her world. The all-encompassing, all-consuming need that racked her body could only be assuaged by Lucien. She needed him. All of him. More of him.

“Please, please…” she whimpered softly as his fingers moved within her, making every bone in her body melt.

With his kisses hot on her fevered cheek, he continued to stroke her. The sensations created by his fingers within her caused her hips to move in unison with him. An intense longing built within her, and she pressed herself against his hand, searching for a release. On and on it went, until she thought she would go mad from it all. Time lost all meaning. All that mattered was his mouth on hers, his naked body beside her, and his exquisite fingers. Just when it seemed she could not endure another moment of waiting, a sudden intense burst of pleasure spread through her with such fervor that she cried out for him.

Lucien held her close to his chest then, cradling her in his arms, kissing her hair, soothing her as she regained her senses. She breathed him in as she lay in his arms, wondering at her own body. No one had ever explained that to her. Then again, how could they? What had just happened between them defied words. It had been heavenly. Yet strangely enough, that exquisite release had left her still wanting more.

Her mouth sought his and he responded to her overture with an eagerness that excited her. Their lips clung to each other ravenously. In a sudden and swift motion, he rose above her, separating her legs with his knee. Colette thrilled at the inevitability of what would come next, the anticipation almost too much to bear. He pressed himself against her, and her breath came in shallow pants. Waiting. Wanting. Wishing.

“Colette?” he asked in an anguished voice, his green eyes heavy with desire for her.

Looking up at this man poised above her, his handsome face looking intently at her, his voice saying her name, his breath mingling with hers, the broad expanse of his chest touching the tips of her breasts, and his legs interlocked with hers, there was only one reply she could give. Fear, shame, shyness, and regrets were feelings for another time. Right now, right here, with this man, she wanted this. She wanted him. All of him.

“Yes.” The word escaped her mouth in a hiss, and she pulled him to her, pushing her body toward him at the same time.

A throaty groan tore from his mouth and he plunged into her with a quick and sure motion.

Colette cried out, not so much from the pain but from the surprise. The surprise of how he felt inside her, of the physicality of being so close to a man. This man.

Lucien stilled at her cry, sheathed within her.

Not wanting him to stop, instinctively she thrust her hips against him. That was all it took before he continued this dance. Slowly and gently he moved within her, rocking her in a steady motion. The sensation took her breath away and began to build in intensity. She wrapped her arms around him, gripping him tightly, knowing he was taking her into the unknown, but she felt safe going with him. As his thrusts grew more urgent, deeper, more forceful, she welcomed them with a fervor that matched his.

Once again she sought the blossoming sensation of pleasure that grew insatiably within her body. Her movements mirrored his, arching her back and meeting him thrust for thrust. Her mind lost all sense when he placed his hand between them, right where their bodies were joined. He touched her expertly, and the ache that had built to a fevered pitch finally exploded in a burst of pleasure so exquisite, so blissful, and so enrapturing it felt as if a million little sparkling stars fluttered around her. As she called his name, he called hers, and continued to drive into her.

Over and over again.

Reeling from the assault on her senses and overwhelmed by the tremendous emotions that flooded her, Colette felt molten tears spill down her cheeks.

She loved him. The complete sense of peace and rightness and belonging enveloped her being. She belonged to Lucien. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this feeling with Lucien. Nothing she had read in books compared to the intense emotions that surged within her heart for this man.

Lucien’s movements became more frantic and a fine coating of sweat covered him as he labored over her. She kissed his face, his neck, clinging to him, urging him, tears flowing from her eyes.

“God, Colette,” he exclaimed in a growl as he gave one final, deep thrust, before he shuddered and collapsed above her. They both panted and gasped for breath for some time, their arms and legs wrapped around each other.

The room was now in complete darkness and hushed in quiet. Lucien finally lifted his head and moved off her, kissing her cheek tenderly as he did so. He pulled her into the crook of his arm, pressing kisses in her hair.

“Are you crying?” he asked, his voice soft and remorseful. He touched a gentle finger to her cheek, following the path of tears.

“No.” She sniffled a little and gave a nervous laugh, wiping at her tears with her hands. “I’m fine.”

“You are crying, Colette.”

“But not because I’m sad or hurt,” she explained hurriedly. “I’m just crying because…I don’t know. I suppose because it was just so beautiful and I never knew anything could be so special.”

“Ah, Colette.”

She shrugged, feeling awkward and suddenly shy with him, as if she had angered him somehow. “I’m sorry I cried.”

He rested his head on the pillow beside her, taking her hand in his and placing it on his chest. “You have no reason to be sorry. I am the one who should apologize.”

“Apologize for what?” Her heart resumed its frantic pounding pace. Oh God, he regrets being with me already. Mortification and an alarming sense of humiliation overwhelmed her being.

“Apologize for what?” he echoed her question in disbelief, frowning. “For what just happened here between us.”

After a sickening pause, she managed to ask, “Are you sorry it happened?”

He paused for a thoughtful minute. And another. She waited, holding her breath, her heart in her mouth.

Finally he muttered, “I don’t know.”

“Well, I’m not,” she said in a small voice.

He said nothing else. An uncomfortable silence settled over them. What happens now? Suddenly she did not know how to act with him. He did not seem like the same Lucien who had kissed her senseless and just made love to her. A distant, cold stranger had taken his place.

“I should go,” she murmured, with the forlorn thought that she wished she were already at home in bed with him right here. How heavenly to be able to curl up next to him in this very bed and sleep with his strong arms about her all night long. A dream that would never come true either.

At her words he did not let go of her, but neither did he encourage her to stay. “Colette?” Her name sounded like a cry of pain.

She waited for him to continue, wishing she could see his face in the darkness. Oh, Lucien, her heart cried, heavy with raw emotion. Was he angry with her? Sad? Regretful? The room seemed too silent, too full of shadows.

“Colette…” he began again, his voice tinged with bitter remorse. “You deserve so much better from me. I shouldn’t have let this happen. It was wrong and I knew it when I kissed you the first time. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you—”

“Stop,” she interrupted him as stinging tears threatened anew. Sitting up, she clamped her hand over his mouth. She could not bear to have the most incredible and beautiful experience of her life with the man she loved reduced to nothing more than a mere lack of willpower on his part. How could he not feel the way she did about it?

“Don’t say any more and listen to me. You did not take advantage of me, Lucien Sinclair. When I said I wanted to stay, I meant it. I wanted this as much as you did, if not more. So please don’t be sorry, because you did not make me do anything I didn’t wish to do. I don’t regret it, not one minute of it. It was heavenly. The most thrilling, and most wonderful, and most amazing, and…and…I…I need to go home.” The last words were uttered on a sob as she pulled away from his embrace and rose from the bed as quickly as she could.

“Colette,” he called after her as she fumbled in the dark to find her clothes.

I will not cry again, she instructed herself, taking a deep breath as she found a bundle of her clothes on the floor. I will not cry. Feeling for her chemise, she flung it over her head hurriedly. She had to leave before the tears began. And this time the tears would be because she was sad and hurt.

Lucien had followed her off the bed and lit a lamp on the bedside table. The dim light cast a yellow glow in the room. He pulled on his trousers and Colette turned her back to him and continued dressing as fast as she could, thankful once again that she did not wear a corset regularly, for it would only have slowed her down. Still, she needed him to fasten the back of her dress.

He came up behind her and wrapped her in his arms, pulling her against his chest. “Wait,” he whispered in her ear.

At his touch she almost melted in his arms, dangerously close to crying in great, wrenching sobs.

“Listen to me.” He spun her around gently, so she faced him. His green eyes bored into her as he spoke. “I did not mean that I was sorry I made love to you. This was different for me, too. That’s because it was with you.” He paused and placed an emphatic kiss upon her lips. Pulling back, he looked at her meaningfully. “But you have to understand the great mess we’ve just created.”

Her head swam with what he said. He felt something, too. “What do we do now?” she asked, her heart racing.

“What do we do now?” He blinked. “I don’t know yet.”

He doesn’t know! The man who always had an answer for everything suddenly had no answers when it came to her. Her tears dissolved instantly. Irritated with him, she demanded, “Well, what do you usually do?”

“What do I usually do?” he echoed her in confusion.

“Yes, you’re the one with the reputation. What do you usually do in these situations?” she questioned him harshly, and then added, “And stop repeating everything I say.”

He loosened his hold on her, and she took a few steps away from him. She bent to retrieve her shoes. Angrily shoving her foot into her low-heeled slippers, she snapped, “Well?”

“In spite of your lurid imagination, I am not usually in ‘these’ situations. In fact, I have never been in a situation like this before.”

“Because now you’re expected to marry me?” She challenged him with her directness.

“Yes,” he admitted quietly, but did not look at her.

“And you won’t?” The stinging behind her eyes returned and she blinked rapidly.

He did not answer her, and in an instant her heart, brimming with tender new emotions, shattered like fine crystal upon a slate floor. She had been a complete and utter fool. He didn’t want her, and he certainly did not love her.

His inability to respond to her question was more than answer enough.

Chapter Seventeen

Regrets Only

“Where have you been?” Juliette demanded when Colette finally arrived home later that night.

Juliette had been given the responsibility of closing the bookshop, not a task that that she relished with great joy. When Colette had gone out earlier that afternoon to deliver books, Juliette had counted on her returning right away. Instead Colette had been gone far longer than necessary and then sent the surprising message that she would not be home for supper at all, which irritated Juliette even further.

The night had grown late. Their mother had retired for the evening, complaining of her usual headache. Lisette, Paulette, and Yvette were already in the room the three of them shared, but Juliette had waited up for Colette. Now she followed Colette into their bedroom, wanting some answers as to why her sister had been gone so long and why she looked so oddly disheveled.

“You received my message, didn’t you?” Colette asked, carelessly tossing her bonnet and shawl on the chintz-covered chair in the corner.

Juliette’s eyes narrowed. Her very meticulous sister never threw her belongings. She always hung everything neatly in the wardrobe, taking great care of her possessions, especially with their new clothes their uncle had purchased. Juliette continued suspiciously, “Yes, but that does not answer my question.”

“You knew I was at Lord Waverly’s house. He just escorted me home in his carriage.”

“But that doesn’t explain why you are so late coming from his house. Or why you left to deliver a few books and returned over six hours later.”

“How did you fare in the shop tonight?” Colette changed the subject.

“Fine. We had quite a few customers, and two more ladies signed up for the reading circle. Everything is taken care of and properly locked up for the night.”

“I know,” Colette admitted. “I checked before I came upstairs.”

“I never doubted you wouldn’t.” Juliette flopped down on her quilt-covered bed and curled her legs under her lawn nightgown. Colette never trusted her alone in the shop for long, and she wondered why she had done so this evening.

With a weary sigh, Colette sat on her own little bed across from Juliette’s and removed her shoes, kicking them across the room. “How are Mother and the girls?”

Juliette noted her sister’s actions with a growing sense of unease, but answered calmly. “They are fine. We had stew for supper. Lisette still had nothing to wear to go to the dance with Henry, but I gave her that pink gown of mine. You know that new one with the little puff sleeves? It never suited me anyway. Paulette annoyed me all evening long. Yvette is getting a cold. And Mother is suffering from her usual headache. There. That’s all there is to tell. Now, stop evading and tell me what you’ve been up to this afternoon.”

Ignoring her sister’s demands, Colette asked, “Did Mother ask where I was?”

Juliette shook her head. “Of course not. Does she ever? She assumed you were working down in the shop all evening.” Noticing Colette’s red-rimmed eyes and haunted expression, she suddenly had a feeling that more had happened at Lord Waverly’s than she suspected. And that something was not good. “Did Lucien kiss you again?”

Colette buried her face in her hands.

Juliette jumped off the bed and flew to her sister’s side. Placing a consoling arm around her, she asked, “What happened?”

“I don’t know if I can talk about it yet,” Colette confided in an anguished whisper.

“Why not?”

“It’s too dreadful, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Well, then you had definitely better tell me. Honestly, Colette, I can’t imagine you doing anything that’s so bad that you couldn’t tell me about it.”

“I’ve made a terrible, irrevocable mistake.”

“Take a deep breath, and start from the beginning,” Juliette instructed soothingly.

She listened while Colette haltingly began to explain the events that occurred after she delivered the books to Devon House. It all seemed perfectly fine. “So you met his father and dined with them. Agreeing to refurbish his library was a brilliant stroke of business genius. The shop will make a mint of money from his book orders alone! Even I can see the sense in that. So far, I see no problems. Supper is over, you said good-bye to his father, you’re on your way out the door, and what? He kissed you?”

Colette nodded imperceptibly and whispered, “Yes.” Her cheeks flamed scarlet.

“You kissed him before, so that can’t be what you’re upset about. What else happened?”

“We did more than just kiss.” Once again Colette hid her face in her hands after her guilty admission.

Stunned by the news, Juliette pondered what “more” referred to exactly. Over the years she had had her share of fleeting romances with eager boys who fancied themselves in love with her. She had let them kiss her once or twice and she had been unimpressed by them, and therefore had never ventured on to “more” than kissing. Now her imagination raced.

“What did you do?” Juliette asked in a hushed tone, fearful their sisters might overhear their conversation. Especially Paulette, who possessed exceptionally keen little ears.

“I cannot even say it,” Colette whimpered, her voice muffled in her hands.

Juliette thought for a moment, her imagination running wild. “All right, then, if you can’t tell me what you did, then at least tell me where you did it.”

Colette mumbled something unintelligible through her fingers.

“Say that again?”

“In his bed.”

Her sister’s voice was so soft Juliette thought she had not heard correctly. Surely Colette didn’t mean that! For Juliette knew what those words implied. Years ago she and Colette had hid behind a back shelf in the bookshop and furtively read about human reproduction in one of the large, leather-bound medical texts in the shop. A Complete Study of the Human Anatomy and All Its Functions by Doctor T. Everett had explained the act in detail and she and Colette had thought it all quite bizarre and cold, definitely not something one would engage in willingly.

“Oh, Colette,” Juliette whispered. “Are you okay?”

Colette groaned with a sheepish expression.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Juliette advised dryly.

“I feel sick to my stomach.”

Alarmed, she asked her, “Was it that terrible?”

“It’s not like the book at all,” Colette murmured under her breath.

Stunned by that bit of information, Juliette could only wonder, “Is it worse?”

Colette lifted her head, wiping stray tears from her red-rimmed eyes. She sniffled. “No. It was actually wonderful.”

Left speechless, Juliette stared wide-eyed at the implications of this development. “He didn’t…He didn’t force you to do it, did he?”

“No!” Colette responded so vociferously that Juliette was taken aback. “Lucien would never do that.”

She regarded her sister with a sense of wonder, having no frame of reference to guide her. “Well, what happens now?”

Colette’s face clouded with sadness. “That’s what I asked him.”

“And what did he say?”

“He won’t marry me.”

“He said that?” Juliette asked.

“Well, not in those exact words, but that’s what he meant.”

“But, Colette, do you want to marry him?” That was the more important question to Juliette’s way of thinking.

“Yes, I suppose,” she sighed. “But it’s pointless. He will never marry me. He wants a traditional wife. He disapproves of my working in a bookshop. I could never give up the shop, and he knows that.”

“You and the shop!” Juliette muttered in scorn. “Sell the shop and marry Lucien. It’s obvious that you’re in love with him.”

Colette’s tears began. “That’s the thing, Julie, I think I am in love with him, but he’s not in love with me.”

“But he should marry you. He’s a gentleman and it’s the right thing to do.” Growing angry, Juliette wanted to throttle Lucien Sinclair. How dare that man take advantage of her sister in such a way and then not have the decency to offer for her!

“He won’t,” Colette sniffled. “He’d rather marry that Faith Bromleigh.”

“He’s afraid of you, Colette!”

Colette shook her head. “No, I don’t think that’s it. He’s been with so many other women and I’m simply another one on his list. In any case, I would more than likely not make a good countess or an eventual marchioness. I don’t think he loves me. If he did, none of the other things would matter all that much.”

“Maybe he loves you and just doesn’t know it yet?”

At Colette’s dire look of exasperation, Juliette continued, “Men often have difficulty recognizing their own feelings. Perhaps Lucien is just slow to warm up.”

“After what we just did this evening, I don’t think warming up is his problem.”

Juliette giggled helplessly at her sister’s little innuendo. “What was it like?”

Colette had always been forthright and honest with her. They had shared confidences about everything since the time they could talk. But ever since she met Lucien Sinclair, Juliette had sensed a reticence, a preoccupation, about Colette. She was not her usual self. It was as if Lucien had placed a spell over her, changing her somehow. Falling in love must have something to do with it, Juliette surmised. It seemed that Colette felt her feelings would be tarnished in some way by sharing them with her. Looking at her bright eyes and flushed cheeks, one would think she had a fever. Juliette knew instinctively that she would get no details on the subject of male and female sexual interaction from her.

“I can’t talk about it.” Colette’s voice filled with anguish. “Oh, Juliette, what am I going to do? He doesn’t want to marry me, and who will want to marry me the way I am now?”

“This is a problem.” Juliette nodded sympathetically. “Yet I’m still a little surprised that it’s your problem and not mine, quite frankly.”

Colette laughed a little and gave a halfhearted smile. “Me, too.”

“Well, I think you need to marry someone who may not know the difference or who would not really care that you’ve already been with someone else.”

“There is no such man,” Colette scoffed.

“Yes, there is.”

“Who?”

“Jeffrey Eddington.” Juliette’s words had an instant impact on her sister.

“That’s impossible!” cried Colette. “He would know right away if a woman was experienced or not, because he is so experienced. And a man like Jeffrey, just like any other man, would expect his wife to be a virgin.”

Juliette shook her head. “Not Jeffrey.”

“How would you know such a thing?”

“We talk about a lot of different things.” Juliette truly adored Jeffrey and they had become rather good friends over the last few weeks. It was nice to have a male who was completely candid and honest with her, who spoke his opinion and did not sugarcoat everything for her like other men did. Jeffrey was not in love with her, nor she with him. Most men of her acquaintance panted after her, trying to persuade her to marry them. But not Jeffrey Eddington.

Juliette knew she was beautiful and that men fell in love with her easily, but she had no use for most of the men she met. They bored her. They treated her as if she were made of glass and the slightest upset might shatter her. They didn’t understand her or believe that she had a brain and thoughts and opinions of her own. When she let loose her caustic wit, they did not know how to respond to her and fled. Now she had earned herself a reputation as a heartless flirt.

It was why she appreciated Jeffrey Eddington. He treated her like an equal, while always behaving as if she were a lady.

“You talk about such things with him?” Colette asked, her mouth gaping wide, scandalized at the idea.

Juliette gave her a meaningful glare. “I only talked with him about intimate activities between men and women. Unlike you, I have not engaged in those activities.”

At Juliette’s riposte, Colette could say little in her own defense. Deflated, she said, “You are right. Forgive me. I have no room to criticize you after my own behavior. Please tell me what Jeffrey said.”

Feeling justified and somewhat superior to her older sister for the first time, Juliette explained, “He is of the opinion that a woman’s past is her own business.”

“That is surprising.”

“Not once you get to know him better. It must have something to do with his mother and her affair with the Duke of Rathmore. Jeffrey has had an unconventional family life, and that has opened him up to a wider range of thinking. I think you should marry him.”

“Jeffrey Eddington?” Colette’s voice almost rose to a screech.

“Yes. I believe he has some tender feelings for you. And he’d be a wonderful husband.”

“Tell me how he would feel knowing I have been intimate with his best friend?”

“Yes,” Juliette acknowledged with a frown, “that might be a little tricky.”

“And you are forgetting that I don’t love him.”

“Love has little to do with anything in many marriages, Colette. You know that as well as I do. And you have precious few options as it is. For all that he is an illegitimate rogue, Jeffrey is young and handsome, in addition to being wealthy, smart, humorous, and kind. You couldn’t do much better than him.”

Colette was silent for a few moments. “Do you really believe he has feelings for me?”

Nodding, Juliette suddenly realized what she had to do to save her sister. She needed Jeffrey’s help, but she was not certain she would get it. Given the right opportunity and timing, this idea could work…

Chapter Eighteen

A Cottage by the Sea

Colette sat frozen in place, not believing what she heard, too stunned to move. The pretty cabbage rose–patterned wallpaper in the parlor blurred in front of her, forming a hazy sea of red before her eyes. Her heart hammered wildly and her hands shook in her lap. Staring numbly at her mother and Uncle Randall, she could barely make her mouth form the terrible words. “You sold it? You sold the shop? Our home, the building, everything?”

“We had no choice, Colette. Money had to be gotten from somewhere. You and your sister turned down half a dozen offers of marriage. Selling this building was the most logical solution.” Uncle Randall’s voice seemed hollow and surreal to her. The spider veins on his nose seemed more prominent and his bushy eyebrows narrowed over his cold eyes.

“Who bought it?” Colette could focus on nothing but the fact that she’d lost the bookshop. Her mother and her uncle had betrayed her. She had suddenly lost everything she had ever worked for. They had not even consulted her before ripping her heart out.

“That is the strange part,” he explained, sitting back in the armchair near the mantle. “It was bought, for a higher price than we asked for I might add, under the strict condition that the buyer remain anonymous.”

“What in heaven’s name does that mean?” Colette cried in confusion.

Uncle Randall shrugged. “It’s none of my business why, but someone wishes to keep the fact that he bought this building a secret. So for the time being there is no rush. The contract stipulated that the new owner was not interested in occupying the space anytime soon, so no changes are necessary right away. Ample notice will be given before they even require you to vacate the premises, which means that your mother can choose a new house with ease. Isn’t that right, Genevieve?”

Swallowing against the wave of nausea that flooded her, Colette could not look at her mother. Genevieve had sold the shop without a word to her eldest daughter, knowing how much it would hurt her. After all Colette had done to support the family. The feeling of betrayal knifed her heart deeply. Her mother had given Uncle Randall her consent to sell, when she had promised Colette that she would not.

“C’est pour le mieux.” Her mother’s weak voice wafted over from the velvet chaise where she reclined in her usual debilitated pose. “It is all for the best, Colette.”

Ignoring her, Colette asked a question of her uncle. “Does that mean I can at least keep the shop open until I hear otherwise from the new owner?” If the new owner had no imminent plans to occupy the building, then perhaps Colette had a chance to try to buy or even rent the shop back. However remote such a possibility was.

“I suppose so, although why you are spending your time there baffles me,” her uncle said gruffly. “You need to put your energies into finding a husband, not managing a bookshop. You should be grateful to be rid of the place.”

“Your uncle is right.” Again her mother chimed in. “It is high time you were married and had a husband to look after you.”

Colette still refused to look at her mother or even acknowledge that she had spoken. An anger, a white-hot rage, that she had never before experienced flooded every fiber of her being. Suddenly unable to speak for fear she would begin screaming, she stood without a backward glance to her mother or uncle and left the room, slamming the door behind her. She raced down the steps and out the front door.

Once out on the street, she was not sure where to go. She stood looking up at the small dark green building she had loved her entire life. The sight of the elegantly scripted letters that spelled out “Hamilton’s Book Shoppe” above the front window brought the sting of tears to her eyes. She stood there for some minutes, staring until she could bear it no longer. But the pent-up anger and frustration within her compelled her to go somewhere. Anywhere but where she stood.

Turning hurriedly, she walked ahead blindly, blinking back tears, not seeing the ladies and gentlemen strolling by or hearing the large omnibuses loaded with passengers clambering along the street. The dusky sun lowered behind a cloud-strewn sky. Shops closed their doors for the night. Lamps were being lit in the windows of the houses. Colette kept walking, oblivious to where she was going. Her steps became more hurried as she went. She had to think what she would do next.

Mother sold the shop. Mother lied to me. Mother sold the shop. Mother lied to me. The words repeated over and over in her head, becoming louder and louder. She’d lost everything, everything she had worked so hard for, all for a little cottage by the sea. Not only had she lost the bookshop, but she had made a complete fool of herself over Lucien Sinclair. Now she would be reduced to an old maid in a cottage by the sea, spending the rest of her life living with her mother. Tears ran down her face as she made her way along the street.

Her mother, her bitter mother who carelessly dropped the responsibility of raising her children on Colette’s shoulders, who could not be bothered with the tedious task of paying the bills or managing the bookshop, suddenly felt she knew what was best for Colette and sold the shop. The woman who cried, fainted, and pleaded a headache at the slightest inconvenience, the woman who avoided financial matters, the woman who had not left the confines of her house in years and was content to let her daughters manage everything on their own—now she knew how to make a business decision without consulting Colette?

Her anger at her mother seethed and roiled within her.

In one calculated move, her mother had swept away the one part of Colette’s life that she had made her own.

She ignored the strange looks she received from passersby, not caring what anyone thought of her. She simply needed to get away. Away from her mother. Away from her uncle. Her sisters. The shop. But where could she possibly go? It did not really matter as long as it was not home. For an instant she thought of walking to Devon House to see Lucien, and then just as quickly as she considered it, she dismissed the idea. She had not seen Lucien since their passionate night together, and her pride would not allow her to go crawling back to him. She would not go back to Lucien, however much she longed to be held in his arms.

She crossed the crowded street and continued up the avenue, just walking.

“Miss Hamilton! Miss Hamilton, over here!”

The fact that someone was shouting her name slowly registered in her angry fog-shrouded brain, and she turned to see who had called to her.

His black top hat perched jauntily on his head, Lord Jeffrey Eddington waved to her from inside his fine carriage, smiling broadly. Pulled by two ebony horses, the shiny black-lacquered carriage came to a stop before her. Jeffrey’s charming grin disappeared and his handsome face clouded with concern as he drew closer. In an instant the door flew open and he bounded to the sidewalk beside her.

“Here now, Colette. What’s happened? You look dreadfully upset.”

She hastily wiped the tears from her eyes, suddenly aware that she had fled the house without a hat or gloves. She must be a sight! “I’m fine, thank you,” she whispered.

His keen eyes missed nothing and he shook his head. “No, you’re not fine at all. Come with me.”

Before she knew it, Jeffrey had whisked her into his carriage and they were moving down the road. Not caring where they were going, she allowed Jeffrey to take over. She sat opposite him, and he stared at her, his longs legs stretched out in front of him.

“What’s wrong?” His light blue eyes peered at her intently. “Has something happened to you or one of the girls? Juliette?”

She thought about saying nothing. She thought about telling him it was none of his business. She thought about making something up. Her pride almost kept her from revealing the truth, but she was suddenly too tired.

“My mother sold the bookshop.” The words hurt as she said them aloud, but they still did not seem any more real.

“What do you mean?” His shocked expression conveyed more emotion than his words did.

Colette nodded sadly and her voice cracked as she explained. “She sold it without even consulting me. It no longer belongs to us, and she’s moving us all to the seashore.”

In a quick motion Jeffrey moved to sit beside her, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and pulling her against his broad chest before Colette could even make protest, had she wanted to. In actuality she was more than a little grateful for his comforting presence.

“That’s terrible news. Surely there must be something we can do.”

She shook her head. “It’s already done. My mother and my uncle just told me about it this afternoon. I was so upset I simply ran out of the house. I didn’t even know where I was going, but I had to get away, and that’s when you found me. I’ve lost everything, Jeffrey. Everything.”

He continued to hold her, his hand gently patting her back with long strokes. The swaying of the carriage rocked them back and forth in a gentle motion, and Colette relaxed against him. How odd to be held by Jeffrey Eddington! Yet the oddest part was that it was very nice. More than nice. There was a good, clean scent about him, and his arm felt strong and protective around her, giving her a wonderful sense of calm.

Usually cheerful and full of amusing stories and laughter, Jeffrey now seemed grave and serious. She had not witnessed this side of his personality before, and it surprised her.

“You haven’t lost everything, Colette. You still have your sisters and your friends.”

“Yes,” she agreed wearily. “It’s not the same, though. I love the bookshop. I was the one who worked in it every day. I was the one who took care of everything. I made it mine, and she had no right to sell it.”

“Your mother is just looking out for you,” he said soothingly, his expression kind. “That’s what mothers do.”

“She’s looking out for herself,” Colette couldn’t help but snap, feeling small and petty as she uttered the words.

“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But I’m sure she did not reach the decision to sell the shop easily. She had to know that doing so would hurt you. Did you talk to her about why she didn’t tell you?”

“No,” she admitted. “I was too angry to speak with her after I found out the shop had been sold.”

“Maybe you should try.”

“I suppose.” Colette nodded weakly, before tears suddenly spilled down her cheeks. Overwhelmed by all that had happened and Jeffrey’s unexpected kindness, she wailed, “What shall I do now?”

Without a word, he reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a linen handkerchief. Handing it to her, he pressed a light kiss to her forehead. Almost stunned enough by the kiss to stop crying, Colette accepted his monogrammed handkerchief, which smelled pleasantly like Jeffrey, and wiped the tears from her face, sniffling.

“What do you wish to do, Colette?” he asked, his voice soft and full of concern.

She gave a half laugh, half sob, shaking her head. “I don’t know anymore, and it doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve lost everything I care about. Everything.”

“This isn’t just about the bookshop, is it?”

No, Colette’s tears were not just about the bookshop. The tears were the ones she had not shed when her father died. They were the tears she had kept locked inside over the frustration of dealing with her self-absorbed and bitterly dramatic mother, of handling the responsibility of caring for her younger sisters, of the strain of knowing she had to make a financially successful marriage, and over the constant worry of managing the bookshop on her own. She was crying about everything that had occurred over the last few months. But most of all, the mortifying pain of what had recently happened with Lucien hurt more than anything else. Now, at the first sign that someone seemed to care about her enough to ask what she wanted in her life, hot tears flowed down her cheeks. Overwhelmed by emotions too numerous to name, she simply told Jeffrey the truth.

“It’s about losing the bookshop after working day and night to make it a success. It’s about my mother thinking only of herself. It’s about my uncle pressuring me to marry.”

“I see.” Again Jeffrey was surprisingly quiet. For a man who was usually quick with a wicked retort or a joking response, he was oddly reticent to say anything to her.

“I know I ought to be married by now, but I don’t wish to have a husband look at me merely as someone he can order about.”

“Has your uncle found someone suitable for you?” He eyed her carefully.

“Not yet. He’s still looking, although I’m sure he despairs of anyone marrying me or Juliette.”

“I understand his concern for Juliette. Her fierce independence and sharp tongue would scare off even the heartiest male. But you, on the other hand, you should have had a multitude of offers by now from suitable gentlemen.”

“Not as many as you would think.”

“That’s because your uncle is an idiot.”

She could not help the laugh that escaped her. Leave it to Jeffrey to make her laugh. She dried her tears, then clutched his handkerchief tightly in her palm. Colette settled into the feel of Jeffrey’s arm around her. How heavenly it would be to have someone to hold her like this whenever she was upset or worried. What a luxury that would be!

If only that someone could be Lucien Sinclair.

When Lucien had held her, she felt as if nothing bad could ever happen to her. Being in his arms had been absolute heaven. But he did not want to be with her. He had made that abundantly clear on that dreadful night. Lucien would marry a proper, traditional woman who did not enjoy running a business. He wanted a woman whose virtue was not so easily given away. A woman who would not be overcome by passion, as she was.

She cringed at the memory of the few words they had exchanged after an awkwardly tense silence in the carriage the night he took her home. Now days had passed since she had seen or heard from him.

The conversation that she had with Juliette flashed through her mind. Juliette believed Colette should marry Jeffrey Eddington. Could that even be a possibility when her heart longed only for Lucien Sinclair?

Jeffrey was a good man. Undoubtedly he would be a kind husband and would always treat her well. Handsome, witty, and fun, he also cared for her and her family. Marrying him would not be the worst decision she could make in her life. She had never been the type of woman driven by a desire to marry into an elevated social position. Even though she sensed that deep down it bothered Jeffrey, and some women would not even consider marrying him because of it, the facts of his illegitimate birth meant nothing to her.

But what would Jeffrey think of her if he knew the truth of what she had done with Lucien? For all that Juliette described him as understanding and forgiving of women’s indiscretions, Colette did not believe he would easily overlook such an intimate past between his best friend and his wife.

Jeffrey was being so sympathetic and comforting that for an impulsive moment she considered telling him about what happened with Lucien. Although she would love to hear his thoughts on the matter, she could not bring herself to say the words aloud. What she had done with Lucien was too humiliating. Too ruinous. And Jeffrey did not need to be burdened by such information about his closest friend.

While she sat with this wonderful man’s arms around her, she longed for the arms of another man. She felt dreadful.

“Jeffrey?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry…I…” she stammered awkwardly. “I…Forgive me. You have been very sweet to me, and here I am burdening you with all of my problems. You must have been on your way somewhere this evening, before you saw me running down the street like a complete madwoman. You were very kind to stop and help me, but I’ve taken up enough of your time. Could you please take me home now?”

Jeffrey nodded and gave instructions to his driver to go to Hamilton’s. He then turned to her, demanding her attention with a glance. “I didn’t stop to help you simply to be kind, but because I care about you very much, Colette. You are a special woman. I admire all that you have done with the bookshop and I am terribly saddened to see you lose it. I am not giving up hope that there still is not something we can do to rectify the situation.”

“Thank you, Jeffrey.”

“Does Juliette know about the shop being sold?”

“I suppose she does by now, and she is probably out of her mind with worry, wondering where I am.”

“Yes, I’m sure she is worried. However, before we get you home, I wish to say something to you.”

Sensing a seriousness in him, she nodded to let him know he had her full attention.

“I want you to know that you can count on me for anything you need. You can come to me any time of day or night and I will help you.”

When Colette looked at him he was staring at her with a look on his face that puzzled her. He really was a handsome man. Oh, not handsome in the same way Lucien was. Lucien was more—oh, Lucien was just Lucien.

At Jeffrey’s gallant offer of assistance she could only murmur once again, “I will. Thank you.”

He was very close to her and he used that to his advantage as he leaned even closer to place a kiss her lips. It was a sweet kiss, gentle and tender. His lips felt warm and inviting. If Lucien had not passionately and thoroughly kissed her a number of times already, Colette might have enjoyed this lovely little kiss from Jeffrey. Slowly he pulled away from her. She gazed at him in the dim light of the carriage.

“I’m sorry,” he said, easing his head back against the seat. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why do men insist on apologizing after they kiss me?” she blurted out before she could stop herself.

He turned, eyeing her curiously, the glimmer of a smile on his mouth. “Well, well, well. Just how many men have you kissed, Colette?”

Nervous laughter bubbled from her and she shook her head. “Not that many.”

The carriage came to an abrupt halt, jostling the two of them.

With his arm still around her, Jeffrey asked softly, “Would one of those men happen to be Lucien Sinclair?”

Feeling her cheeks warm in mortification at his question, Colette merely nodded and whispered a faint, “Yes.”

“I thought that might be the case. It seems you are quite the irresistible woman.”

She gave an inelegant, helpless shrug.

Suddenly Jeffrey cupped her face in his hands and kissed her again, this time a more aggressive kiss, a more demanding kiss. His mouth covered hers heatedly, his arm pulling her tighter against his chest. Inexplicably, she kissed him back, her hands reaching around his neck. They clung to each other, their lips locked together. Just as she realized how breathless and dizzy she felt, he released her. Stunned by the impact of his kiss, she stared helplessly at him. Although his kiss was wonderful, she knew that something was lacking. The special connection she shared with Lucien had made their kisses more powerful, more intense, and so overwhelming. She forced herself to suppress the feeling that she had somehow betrayed Lucien by kissing Jeffrey.

Lucien does not care whom I kiss, because Lucien does not want me.

Giving her a crooked smile, he uttered in a low voice, “And I’m not apologizing for that one.”

Completely sympathetic now to all the women who had ever swooned at Jeffrey Eddington’s feet, she returned his smile. “I don’t wish for you to.”

He chuckled deep at her remark. Removing his arm from around her, he sat up straighter. “You should go back inside now and talk things out with your mother.”

“Thank you, Jeffrey.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it affectionately. “For everything.”

“You are very welcome. I may have to leave for France in a few weeks, but please remember that I am always here for you if you need me, Colette. You simply have to send word to me.”

Thinking it a somewhat odd statement for him to make—although very sweet—she could think of nothing to say but, “I will.”

With that he escorted her out of the carriage, helping her to the ground. He gave a little wave to her as he climbed back inside. Before Colette entered the shop, she turned back toward him with a heavy heart and watched his carriage drive away.

Chapter Nineteen

Mama Mia

Lucien ascended the wide curving staircase of Devon House and headed to his father’s suite to read to him. He had returned home earlier than he had expected and thought he would use the time to begin their reading session. Just as he approached his father’s room, he heard the murmur of a soft female voice. Immediately ruling out the voice as Nurse Fiona, for she possessed a rather gravelly voice and this one was definitely pleasant, he wondered who had come to visit his father. The realization dawned on him before he actually saw her.

His heart pounding like thunder in his chest, Lucien stared at Colette Hamilton. She sat before the fire with his father, her head bent over the copy of David Copperfield. Reading aloud softly, her dulcet voice filled the room. In a lovely day gown of deep rose, with a matching jacket and her lustrous sable hair swept artfully off her neck, revealing smooth white skin, she looked incredibly beautiful. He fought a crazy impulse to kiss the back of her elegant neck.

What was she doing there? Why was she reading with his father, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to be doing? How could she sit there and act as if nothing had happened between them just days ago in this very house? In his own bed, for Christ’s sake!

Lucien had not slept since the night of their earth-shattering encounter. He had not decided if his sleeplessness was caused by his blatant stupidity in having bedded her or by the haunting memories of the exquisite passion they had shared together. In truth the decision hardly mattered. He had made a terrible mistake with her and he did not know how to correct it.

Yes, he ought to marry her. She deserved that much respect from him. She had been an innocent and he had pressed his advantage with her, no matter how willing and enticing she had acted that evening. He had told her to leave and yet she had only pushed him further beyond his limits of self-control by willingly agreeing to continue.

Just what was she doing visiting his house unchaperoned that afternoon anyway? This was what came from women being independent and was exactly why he believed women should not be running their own business. It was simply wrong. There was no reason for her to be traipsing around town, visiting men in their homes! A beauty like Colette could wreak havoc upon the city. She was a walking temptation.

He still could not believe that it had even happened.

She had been astonishingly uninhibited and eager, kissing him passionately and relishing every caress. She had loved it just as much as he had, and her heartfelt words haunted him. “I don’t regret it, not one minute of it. It was heavenly. And the most thrilling and most wonderful, and the most amazing…” And he had humiliated her afterward.

He let her believe that she meant nothing to him.

Letting her believe the worst of him was easier than facing the truth himself. In all honesty, being with Colette had been like nothing else in his life.

And now she hated him. Her icy silence in the carriage when he took her home that night had been cold and final and told him in no uncertain terms what she thought of him.

The ironic part was his reputation as a rake. He had earned such status a few years ago when he had quickly and effortlessly taken any woman who glanced at him in encouragement. His affairs had been meaningless and heartless, as he desperately struggled to satisfy the aching void within him to forget his disastrous relationship with the beautiful Lady Virginia Warren.

He conceded that he had a very public but brief affair with a famous opera singer, a fling with a lovely and talented actress, a few weekends in the country with a sweet tavern wench, and a rather long stint with a widowed duchess. And for the most part that was it. Which in his mind did not signify him as a rake, for he never seduced innocents. But after his well-known break with Virginia Warren the word spread, apparently from the young widow, who was not happy when he ended their affair, that Lucien Sinclair, the Earl of Waverly, had a way with women. Because his close friend was Lord Jeffrey Eddington, and Jeffrey did dally with scores of women, and being that society loved to suspect the worst of people, they readily believed that Lucien was more of a scoundrel than he actually was. Granted, his penchant for enjoying himself did nothing to quell the rumors either.

All had been done in an effort to rid his memory of Virginia Warren.

Now there was a woman he never should have gotten involved with. Virginia spelled trouble right from the start, but he had been blinded by her sultry beauty and his own ardor.

And he would not let that happen to him again. Which was why he could not let down his guard with Colette. Especially the modern, forward-thinking, independent, and beautiful Colette. If someone like Virginia could devastate him so thoroughly, then Colette Hamilton would surely destroy him for good.

Now debating whether or not to let his presence be known, he observed the scene for a while longer, oddly enjoying Colette sitting with his father. Perhaps she sensed him, but she suddenly glanced toward the doorway and stumbled over the words on the page, losing her place. His father turned toward him and offered a lopsided half-smile.

“Good afternoon,” Lucien said.

Colette nodded at him and closed the book, directing her gaze toward her father. “I would so love to stay and continue reading with you, Lord Stancliff, but I should be going now, for it is later than I realized. I shall return again next week.”

Simon held out his hand to her and Colette took his gnarled hand in hers, smiling at him. Touched by the affection between them, Lucien muttered, “I did not mean to intrude. You may continue reading if you wish, Miss Hamilton.”

Without meeting his eyes, Colette rose from the chair and gathered her things. “I’m sorry, but I really must be going home now.”

She brushed by him as she passed through the doorway. Lucien stood immobile for a moment, gave an apologetic glance to his father, and then hurried after her. Colette had continued walking at a brisk pace along the corridor but he managed to catch up with her at the top of the staircase. Reaching out, he touched his hand to her shoulder. She paused, but still did not look at him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked softly.

Colette flinched away from him, shrugging her shoulder to avoid contact with his hand. Taking a step down the stairs, she finally looked back up at him. “I was not expecting you to be home, but I was here doing the job I agreed to do.”

What was she talking about? What job? His perplexed look annoyed her.

“Your library, remember?” she prompted him, her tempting mouth frowning.

He shook his head in blank puzzlement.

“I was working in your library this afternoon, and I thought I would visit with your father before I left since I promised him that I would the last time…”

Stunned, Lucien stared at her in mute surprise. He had completely forgotten about his hasty invitation to help select books. Given what they had shared later that night, he would have expected her to disregard their earlier agreement about his library. Besides, he did not think he could bear the temptation of having her in his house. “After what happened between us, why would you do such a thing?”

“Why?” she echoed in affronted outrage.

For a moment he thought she might slap him, but then she squared her petite shoulders and held up her chin proudly. God, she was gloriously beautiful. Standing there on the staircase, poised to defend herself, she was a woman unlike any he had ever known. The overwhelming desire to pull her into his arms and kiss her once again washed over him in staggering waves. The memory of being buried deep within her and the sound of her voice crying out his name called to every nerve in his being. He clenched his hands tightly to keep himself from grabbing her and doing just that.

“Contrary to what you believe about women,” Colette began, her voice laced with passion, “I gave you my word that I would help with the library, and I committed to read to your father. What kind of businesswoman would I be if I let my emotions guide me? Since you seem incapable of answering, I shall answer for you, Lord Waverly. If I allowed myself to cry and wail anytime my feelings were hurt by a man, I would not remain in business very long. However, no matter how fervently I wished never to see you or set foot in this house again, I did not let my emotions overrule my business decision.”

Impressed by her argument more than he wanted to admit, he remained silent as she stared at him, her incredible blue eyes flashing with anger.

“With Granger’s consent this afternoon, I have arranged for the library furniture to be delivered next week, and I shall return in a day or two to oversee the stocking of the shelves with the first book delivery. Good day, Lord Waverly.” She turned with an imperious toss of her silky curls and began to descend the stairs.

Lucien stood motionless, watching her go; fighting the urge to reach out and grab her, to stop her from leaving by carrying her back up to his bed and making love to her for days and days.

“Colette, wait, please,” he called after her.

She was midway down the long winding marble staircase when Granger hastened to answer the doorbell. Colette had just reached the last step as Lucien caught up with her and Granger opened the front door.

“Colette,” he began again. “Just give me a moment. I’m sorry—”

Lucien stopped abruptly at the sight before him, his mouth frozen in mid-sentence.

Lenora Sinclair stood in the doorway. Lucien recognized her instantly, for his mother had barely aged in fifteen years. As beautiful as ever but smaller than he remembered, she entered the house that had been her home for the first eleven years of her marriage to Simon Sinclair.

It had been a decade and a half since the venerable Devon House butler had opened the door for Lenora Sinclair, the Marchioness of Stancliff. Unruffled by this dramatic turn of family events, Granger calmly waved his arm to allow her entrance and closed the front door as if serving his long-absent mistress were an everyday occurrence.

“Hello, Granger,” Lenora Sinclair said, with an unsure smile, staring up at the tall, craggy-faced butler whom she had known since before Lucien was born. “I hope you have been well.”

“Welcome, my lady. It’s wonderful to see you again,” he murmured in his usual dignified tone. “Shall I bring you some tea? No cream, with two sugars?”

“Oh, you remembered…How thoughtful! Thank you, Granger, that would be lovely.” As Granger made a dignified exit and left them standing in the marble entrance hall, Lenora turned to her son. Her eyes softened and she uttered faintly, “Hello, Lucien.”

Her anxious expression and tentative smile made her seem fragile, not at all the forceful whirlwind of stylish glamour and sparkling brightness he remembered from his childhood. She stood about as high as his chest, the dark hair piled upon her head and hidden by a frivolous bonnet adorned with a peacock feather. A gown of deep blue draped over her still slender form. Her face had grown fine lines, but the porcelain creaminess of her skin had not faded over the years. Lucien figured his mother had to be closer to fifty than forty by now. Her upturned nose and wide emerald-hued eyes, the same shade as Lucien’s, had always been Lenora’s most praised features, and they had held her in good stead over the years. She was still a very attractive woman.

“Hello, Mother.”

How odd to say those words after so many years. Hello, Mother. Mother. He had imagined her return thousands of times when he was a young boy. His favorite fantasy consisted of his waking one morning to find his mother sitting calmly beside his father at the breakfast table as if she had never left, asking brightly, “What would you like to do today, my darling boy? Shall we go riding together? Or go on a picnic?” The very ordinariness of that domestic scene had been such a perfect antidote to the empty chaos his life had become when she left. Of the various scenarios of his mother’s grand return he had alternately prayed for and wished for over the years, none of them ever involved him as a grown man standing awkwardly with her in the elegant hall of Devon House.

He had absolutely no idea what to say to her. She was his mother, but he did not know the woman in front of him.

“I was not expecting you today,” he said woodenly, for lack of anything better to say.

“I’m sorry for calling unannounced like this. I know we planned for next week, but I…I just couldn’t stay away any longer.”

“Yes, fifteen years is a long time to stay away from your husband and son.” The sarcastic remark escaped his lips before he could stop himself. Honestly, what was her impatience to see them after all those years? She couldn’t wait a few more days to arrive at the time he had agreed to meet her? When he could have been more prepared to see her?

His mother stared pleadingly at him while an awkward silence descended upon them.

A sudden poke in his ribs jarred him back to his senses. He had completely forgotten about Colette. She stood quietly beside him observing the entire Sinclair family drama unfold. Colette’s face, now devoid of her earlier anger, possessed a look of surprised interest and even concern. Lucien’s infamous mother had finally come home. No doubt all of London society would hear of the news by sundown.

“Excuse my rudeness,” Lucien said, noticing the curious looks between the two women. “Mother, may I present Miss Colette Hamilton, a very good friend of mine. Colette, this is my mother, Lenora Sinclair, the Marchioness of Stancliff.”

“I am very happy to meet you, Lady Stancliff,” Colette said with a polite smile.

His mother gave an eager nod, seemingly relieved to hear a kind word. “And I am pleased to meet you, too.”

Another awkward pause lengthened between the three of them. Lucien could not help but note the very odd trio they made: himself and the two women who ironically tortured his thoughts.

“Lucien, why don’t you escort your mother to the parlor now where you can sit comfortably and Granger can serve tea?” Colette proposed softly.

More grateful for Colette’s calming presence and sensible attitude than he realized, Lucien instantly agreed to her suggestion. “Yes, let’s do that, shall we?”

Colette shook her head and stepped away from him, her motive clear. “I really should be going. It was lovely meeting you, Lady Stancliff.”

He reached out and took her hand in his. Wrapping his fingers around hers, he squeezed her hand in appreciation, his eyes lingering on her. “Thank you, Colette.” To his surprise, she squeezed his hand back before pulling away from him.

“I’ll see myself out,” she said as she walked to the massive front door. As always, her graceful movements mesmerized him. He watched the door close softly behind her.

“She seems to be quite a lovely young lady.” His mother’s voice interrupted his errant thoughts, which had magnetically followed Colette from the house.

“Yes, she is,” he agreed. “Shall we?” Without another word she followed him to the front parlor. He wondered idly if it felt strange for her to be back inside the house which was once her home. He certainly knew it felt strange for him to have her here.

She seated herself on a burgundy velvet divan, nervously arranging her trailing peacock blue skirts flecked with golden thread. Choosing a high-backed brown leather chair across from her, Lucien waited patiently for her to explain herself.

“Is Miss Hamilton a close friend of yours?”

“I don’t wish to discuss her with you.”

“Fair enough.” She smiled anxiously at him, her hands twisting the gold-colored gloves in her lap. “My, but you’ve grown so much, Lucien. You’ve become a handsome man. You’ve definitely got the look of your father about you.”

He merely nodded.

Her voice became soft. “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

“Make what easy for you, Mother?”

“My return. The fact that I wish to see you again and try to explain some things to you, now that you are old enough to understand—”

He interrupted her more heatedly than he wished to. “Understand what? Why you left us? Why you abandoned your ten-year-old son? No, I don’t understand, but maybe you can understand why I don’t wish to make this little tea party easy for you, because it sure as hell isn’t easy for me.”

After a pause, she looked back up at him. “Yes, you have every right to be angry with me. You were so young when I left, and couldn’t possibly understand my reasons at the time, but I am terribly sorry for what happened. You have no idea what a painful decision leaving was for me to make. And I know that you must have suffered dreadfully, Lucien. I know because I suffered, too. I lost all those years with my little boy, just as you lost them with me. I realize nothing can make up for the choices I made or replace the years we’ve lost together. I do wish for you to know that I missed you every minute and thought about you and worried about you. And that—”

Again Lucien interrupted her. “So worried about me that you never once wrote me a letter or a note in all this time? Do you know what that would have meant to me?”

“Yes, I…It’s just that…You see…” she stammered awkwardly.

Granger chose that moment to enter the parlor with the tea. As the butler silently busied himself preparing their refreshment, Lucien seethed with years of hurt and anger at his mother. How dare she waltz back into his life and expect him to make it easy for her! Did she think he could suddenly forgive her, just like that? Welcome her home with open arms?

Lenora’s hands shook as she picked up the teacup, spilling tea down the front of her gown. She gasped and dropped the cup on the carpet. Granger fussed over her, helping to clean up the mess, as the black liquid seeped into her peacock blue dress.

“I should go,” she murmured hastily, rising to her feet. “Perhaps you are right. I should not have come.”

“Sit down, Mother, and tell me why you are here.” Lucien’s tone of voice brooked no argument.

Slowly sinking back to the divan, his mother stared at him. After an uneasy glance between the two of them, Granger wisely left the parlor, closing the door behind him.

“You’ve written me three times in the past month, and you came here unexpectedly today because apparently you could not wait another minute to see us. After over fifteen years, what could be so damn important, Mother?”

She breathed deeply and looked as if she might cry, which Lucien fervently hoped she would not. How much was he to bear?

“There is no excuse for what I’ve done. None at all, so I will not try to make one. I only wanted to see you again, and to say that I am sorry, Lucien. I bitterly regret leaving you and your father. I owe you both at least that small offering. That is all.”

“Where have you been?” He had heard all the rumors, of course. Everyone had. Yet he wanted to hear the truth from her.

“In Europe. Italy mostly. I only returned to England last month. That was when I first wrote to you.”

“Have you always been with him?”

She had the decency to look embarrassed at his reference to the man she ran away with. “Yes, for many years.”

“And now?”

“Now he is dead. And I am alone. Although he left me a very wealthy woman.”

“Father was not wealthy enough for you?”

“Money was never the issue, Lucien…”

“Then what issue was strong enough to lure you away from your husband and child?”

A pained expression crossed her face. “That is between your father and me.” She paused. “Which I can now deduce that he never explained to you.”

“I didn’t need Father to explain to me. I didn’t need anyone to explain to me when every socially aware person in London knew what happened. You ran off with Count Acciani, breaking Father’s heart—”

“Breaking your father’s heart?” She rose abruptly to her feet, her face full of sorrow. “Breaking your father’s heart?” she echoed in disbelief. “There are two sides to every story, Lucien, and you have only ever heard your father’s side. He left me no choice. He forced me to go with Antonio!” She paused and asked breathlessly, “Is he still in his room?”

Lucien stood, and put out a hand in an attempt to calm her. “As I informed you in my letter, Father is not well. You cannot just barge in on him without warning. He has no idea you’ve returned. An upset like this would—”

Interrupting him again, her voice rising in pitch as she cried, “I don’t care! He is still my husband and I have a right to see him. He cannot keep me away this time. I came all this way to see Simon and I will see him!” She pushed his arm away and rushed from the parlor, running along the hallway. Stunned by his mother’s outburst, he followed her up the stairs and down the corridor to his father’s room.

With Lucien close behind, Lenora flung open the heavy doors intent on her mission to confront her husband. She suddenly halted, stopping in her tracks. Her eyes widened. She stared in shock at the drastically changed sight of a wizened Simon Sinclair sitting hunched before the fire with a shawl around his shoulders.

“Oh, Simon,” Lenora whispered, her expression one of utter devastation. Tears welled in her eyes. “I had no idea…”

Startled by the commotion, Simon glanced up, his expression one of confusion. If he was surprised at his wayward wife’s sudden presence in his bedroom, he did not show it. They both simply gazed at each other in silence, until tears began to trickle down his gaunt cheeks. Slowly and with great care, he stretched out his good arm to her. With a little gasp, Lenora fairly flew across the room to him, sinking to the floor at his feet. She buried her head in his lap. Simon’s hand stroked her hair.

Shocked by the scene in front of him, Lucien was speechless. Somewhere in the far reaches of his mind, he realized his mother was right. Whatever happened to cause her to leave her husband all those years ago was between the two of them, and only they understood why. Obviously his father forgave more easily than Lucien, and for his part, he did not know if he could ever forgive his mother. Feeling as if he were intruding, he softly closed the doors to his father’s suite, allowing them some privacy.

For some time Lucien stood motionless outside his father’s room, unable to move.

Chapter Twenty

What Are Friends For?

“Come now, Jeffrey, please tell me you’ll do it,” Juliette cajoled with her most winning smile as she stood behind the counter of the bookshop. It was rather late in the afternoon and the bookshop was devoid of people beyond the two of them.

“I don’t know if such a scheme will work.” Jeffrey smiled back at her even though he disagreed with her plan.

“Of course it will work!” she exclaimed in defense. A plan of her creation would not fail. “It’s obvious. Don’t you see they just need to be nudged in the right direction?”

“And you think jealousy is a tactic that will work on Lucien Sinclair?”

She arched an elegant brow at him and gave him a knowing look. “Jealousy works on every man, Jeffrey, no matter what his status or rank. Haven’t you learned that by now?”

He gave a low whistle. “You are a dangerous woman, Juliette Hamilton.” He shook his head in amazement, a helpless smile on his handsome face.

Ignoring his comment, she continued, “If Lucien thinks that you are seriously pursuing Colette, he will certainly want her enough to realize Faith Bromleigh is the most ridiculous choice for his bride.”

“How do you know I don’t seriously want to pursue Colette myself?” he challenged her.

Juliette scoffed at him with a laugh. “I would tell you that you are wasting your time. Colette is head over heels in love with Lucien Sinclair.”

“I don’t think she’s quite as far gone as you claim,” he said, his eyes not meeting her gaze. “She’s not immune to my charm, you know.”

Juliette observed him carefully. “No one is immune to your charm, darling Jeffrey. I cannot deny that. Except of course for myself, that is. I have the power to resist you, just as I can easily resist most of the male population.”

He rested his chin on his hand, flashing her a devastating smile. “Now why is that, Juliette?”

“For the reason that all of the men I’ve met border on complete stupidity, utter dullness, or total lecherousness. I’ve been unimpressed with them.” She amended agreeably, “Present company excepted.”

“Oh, I am honored to make your short list,” he gestured gallantly. “So then explain why you can resist me, since I am neither stupid or dull? Although I must admit to having some lecherous tendencies.” He gave her a sly wink.

Juliette laughed lightly at him. “Because, Jeffrey, you are not the type of man I wish to marry.”

“And what type would that be?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Juliette answered thoughtfully. “Someone different and unconventional. Perhaps even dangerous. When I meet him, I’ll just know he’s the one.”

“You are dreaming of a romantic highwayman, Juliette.” He paused before adding, “I hope you find who you are looking for.”

Juliette was surprised with his sincere tone. Perhaps she did have the makings of a highwayman in her mind. “Well, thank you, but we’re not talking about me. This is about Colette.”

“And your plan is for me to court your sister to make my best friend jealous?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure he’s in love with her?”

She nodded with conviction. “Of course he is. Who wouldn’t be in love with her? But he’s afraid of her and that’s why he’d rather have the insipid Faith Bromleigh, because she’s safe. He will be doomed to a life of utter dreariness if he marries her! Am I wrong?”

Jeffrey shook his head. “No. I’ve tried to talk him out of this alliance with Faith Bromleigh from the beginning, but he’s determined to go through with it. Lucien wants to marry while his father is still alive to see it happen, and he wants a wife who won’t upset his tea cart.”

“That’s exactly what he doesn’t need and why it’s up to us to wake him up before it’s too late. If he thinks there is a serious contender for Colette’s hand, he might realize what he stands to lose.”

“How do you know Colette is in love with him?”

“A sister knows these things, so believe me when I say that she’s besotted with him.”

“Shouldn’t we let Colette in on this little plan of yours?”

“Heavens no! If she knew, she’d have no part in it! She must not suspect you are pretending with her, Jeffrey. Neither of them must ever suspect what we’re doing.”

“I love that this is now ‘our’ doing. How are you so sure what ‘we’re’ doing will work?”

“I just know.” Juliette watched Jeffrey’s face closely as he considered her words. She needed Jeffrey’s help. Her plan would not work without him.

“I have a feeling I may regret this, but I’ll do it.”

She leaned across the counter and placed a soft kiss on his cheek. “You are a true friend.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he uttered, his smile rueful. “I just hope this crazy scheme of ours doesn’t come back to haunt me. What about your uncle?”

“He has lightened up on us somewhat since selling the shop.”

“So he’s given up on you and your sister snaring rich husbands, has he?”

“For now, anyway.” Juliette shrugged carelessly. “At least until he needs more money.”

“Well, I can only help you for a little while. I’ll be leaving for France before the summer is over.”

Curiosity got the best of her. “Why are you going to France? Have you a secret love hidden there?”

“Yes, more than one actually.” His rakish grin disappeared and he added, “I have some important business to attend to.”

Juliette’s light laughter bubbled forth at his explanation. “Business? What kind of business? Following a pretty actress or a young widow to Paris is not business, Jeffrey.”

He gave her a deep look. “It’s business and it is very private.”

She tried to imagine Jeffrey working at something important and could not quite do it. He enjoyed pleasure too much to take anything seriously. She highly suspected there was a woman involved. “You are not going to tell me, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Very well then, Mr. Mysterious. You may keep your little secrets to yourself. Just remember to uphold your part of the bargain.”

The door to the upstairs opened and Colette entered the shop. After exchanging a complicit glance, Juliette and Jeffrey immediately stood up straighter and guiltily assumed an air of feigned innocence.

“Good afternoon, Colette.” Jeffrey grinned at her broadly.

“Good afternoon,” she greeted them as she came closer. Juliette noted an enigmatic look on her sister’s face. Luckily Colette seemed too distracted to notice their sudden jump in posture and awkward expressions.

Colette announced, “You’ll never guess whom I just met.”

“Who?” Juliette and Jeffrey asked in unison.

Unable to keep the news to herself, Colette did not encourage them to name any possible contenders. She blurted out, “Lucien Sinclair’s mother!”

“You’re jesting!” Juliette cried. Of course she, like everyone else, had heard the scandalous stories of Lenora Sinclair, but had believed that the woman lived on the continent somewhere with her lover, the count of something or other.

Jeffrey responded more calmly than one would expect at hearing the news of his best friend’s mother. “I was aware that she had been in contact with Lucien recently, but I did not know she had arrived so soon.”

Colette began, “She surprised him and simply showed up unannounced at his door as I was about to leave. I was introduced to her just a short while ago.”

“Why were you at Devon House?” Jeffrey asked. Juliette did not miss how his blue eyes narrowed at the idea of Colette at Lucien’s house.

“I was reading to Lucien’s father and working in their library.” There was a defensive tone to Colette’s words that surprised Juliette. Her sister’s sensitivity to any mention of her and Lucien Sinclair was quite obvious.

“What was she like? Lucien’s mother, that is?” Juliette asked.

“She is beautiful, and I could definitely see a resemblance between them. I only stayed a short time because it was very tense between them. Lucien did not seem happy to see her.”

“Do you blame him?” Jeffrey questioned.

“Not in the least,” Colette responded. Her fine brows narrowed. “I actually felt sad for the two of them.”

“I wonder what caused her to return after all this time,” Juliette ruminated aloud. “Do you have any idea why she came back?”

Colette shook her head. “No, nor am I sure how Lord Stancliff will react to seeing her. If Lucien was not overjoyed, I doubt his father will be happy when he sees her. He’s so frail, I worry about him.” Colette paused and glanced between Jeffrey and Juliette, suddenly sensing something between them. “And what have you two been up to while I was gone this afternoon?”

“Oh, the usual,” Juliette answered carelessly. “We’ve been giving away kisses to anyone who buys a book. I kissed the male costumers and Jeffrey kissed the females. You wouldn’t believe how many books we’ve sold!”

Jeffrey held up his hands in mock seriousness. “But I only kissed the pretty ones, I swear.”

Colette shook her head in exasperation. “I don’t know what to do with the pair of you.”

“Well, I have no idea what you should do with your rapscallion of a sister,” Jeffrey began good-naturedly ribbing Juliette, “but I, on the other hand, am another matter altogether. I propose you join me at the theater tomorrow evening.”

Colette’s startled expression at Jeffrey’s invitation turned to one of seriousness as she considered his request. She glanced briefly at Juliette and then said, “Yes, Jeffrey, I would love to go with you.”

“Wonderful.” A warm smile spread across his face. “I shall come by with my carriage to pick you up then, around seven.”

“Thank you.”

Looking for all the world like the cat that ate the canary, Juliette grinned at her sister.

Chapter Twenty-One

Still Waters Run Deep

Lucien stifled another yawn as Lord Bromleigh droned on about the type of trees he had recently planted on his estate in Sussex. Lord Bromleigh had told this exact same story two nights ago, and Lucien still could not fathom what the man was talking about. He had been invited to dine with the Bromleighs for the second time that week and he was having difficulty keeping his eyes open. Good Lord, but the man was an utter bore.

Faith nodded eagerly as her father continued his dull discourse on the advantages and disadvantages of maples and oaks. “Yes, Papa. The trees will be lovely and I shall greatly enjoy the shade they will provide.”

Lucien’s intended bride was seated across from him and had worn another dull and serious gown of an indeterminate shade of taupe. The odd thought that once they were married he might suggest that she visit a more flattering dressmaker crossed his mind. She might actually be pretty in a light shade of blue or pink, to bring out some color in her face.

But then again, it did not really matter what Faith looked like.

What mattered most now was banishing Colette Hamilton from his mind. He had not seen her since his mother returned to Devon House, but she continued to haunt his thoughts every waking moment. Lucien had no need to be haunted by a woman. He had had quite enough of that in his life, thank you. The sooner he married Faith Bromleigh, the better off he would be. A peaceful coexistence would suit him best. He could not bear a tumultuous marriage like his parents had.

Nor could he explain the strange reconnection the pair was experiencing now.

The change in his father since his mother’s return had astounded Lucien. It seemed as though the man suddenly became ten years younger. His speech had improved dramatically and he was attempting to walk. In spite of Lucien’s fears, Lenora’s return seemed to have had a healing influence on Simon. Now his mother and father were inseparable, closeted in his room for hours at a time, talking and crying. Lucien supposed they had a great deal to discuss, but unlike his father, he was not so ready to forgive his mother.

“Lord Waverly?”

Lucien was startled to discover that Lord Bromleigh had addressed him directly.

“Yes?”

He eyed Lucien sharply. “I asked if you would like to escort my daughter for a short walk in the garden?”

Ignoring the knot forming in the pit of his stomach, Lucien nodded at Lord Bromleigh’s question, and turned to Faith, whose face had turned a remarkable shade of pink. “Yes, I would love some fresh air, wouldn’t you, Lady Faith?”

With her eyes downcast, she merely lowered her head in acquiescence. Lucien dutifully escorted Faith Bromleigh from the formal dining room and out the French doors to the patio and garden beyond.

The awkward silence grew as they walked the neat flag-stone path; only the sounds of their shoes on the stone echoed around their ears. Lost in his own thoughts, Lucien was content to walk in wordlessness for as long as he could.

“Did you enjoy supper, Lord Waverly?” Faith asked.

Surprised by her attempt at conversation, he answered, “Yes. It was delicious.”

They continued walking slowly.

“My father said you wish to marry me.”

Now completely stunned by her, Lucien stood still and stared at the plain woman beside him. “Yes. Your father spoke the truth.”

“May I ask you a frank question?”

“Of course.” Wondering what the timid miss would ask him, he felt somewhat bemused by her. For the first time since he met her, she looked directly into his eyes, and he was taken aback by the intensity he saw within the pale blue depths.

“Why?” she asked.

“Why what?”

“Why do you wish to marry me?”

“Why do I wish to marry you?” he questioned her in return.

Faith gave him a look that bordered on exasperation. “I may be shy, Lord Waverly, but I assure you that I am not stupid. I am quite aware that I’m not the epitome of fashion or the wittiest or prettiest female out this Season. However, you are a most eligible bachelor and could have your choice of any of the beauties. So why would you care to marry me?”

For the first time they were alone together and actually having a conversation without either of her parents hovering over them. He had to admit he admired her candid approach, even though he would not have expected it of her. Perhaps there was more to her personality than he had given her credit for. “Since you wish to be forthright, let me ask you this question first, Lady Faith. Am I someone you would consider as a husband?”

She paused longer than he would have suspected, which irritated him. She should be jumping at the chance to marry him. She just said he was one of the most sought-after bachelors in London!

When she finally responded, her answer surprised him. “I’m not entirely certain. To all outward appearances we are quite different in our tastes and interests, and I’m not sure we have much in common. I have no idea what you would expect in a wife, nor if I could successfully fulfill the role of countess and eventually marchioness. I must admit, Lord Waverly, I harbor serious and grave doubts about whether we would suit each other as husband and wife.”

The longest speech he had ever heard from her almost knocked him off his feet. Was the girl refusing his suit before he had even asked for her hand? The very thought boggled his mind.

“Would you please kiss me, Lord Waverly?”

Certain that he had not heard correctly, Lucien asked, “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me,” she said softly. “Please don’t make me repeat myself.”

He could not conceal the incredulousness in his voice. “You wish for me to kiss you?”

“Yes.”

Lucien cleared his throat. “May I ask why?”

She gave him a funny little look, as if she had proven her point. “If you have to ask why, then it is evident that you have no desire to kiss me.”

At her words, Lucien suddenly leaned down and pressed his lips to hers, catching her somewhat off guard. He held her close for a moment, feeling the softness of her body. There was no rush of feeling, no overwhelming passion possessing his body. He was in complete and utter control. Oh yes, he would be quite safe with Faith Bromleigh. Not a doubt about it.

When he released her, she took a little step back from him. Lucien stood straight and smiled at her, expecting her to be swept off her feet.

“Well,” she said matter-of-factly, biting her lip. “It’s just as I feared.”

Confused, Lucien stared at her. She did not seem the slightest bit flustered by his kiss.

“That was nice enough,” she continued, her expression serious, her brows drawn together. “But it had none of the magical feelings I would expect to have when kissing my future husband.”

Left speechless, Lucien was dumbfounded by this unassuming young woman. No, he had not felt that wild flood of desire when kissing Faith, nor had he expected to experience that with her. But he never imagined that she would not feel desire for him.

“I should have felt something. Don’t you agree?” she asked, tilting her head up to look at him.

“I suppose I do,” he admitted reluctantly.

She shook her head slightly. “No, there was nothing special in that kiss. Do you believe it is possible that such a feeling might grow to be there between us?”

“I don’t know,” he stated, feeling quite foolish. He had never been attracted to her, but never suspected that it especially mattered to her. Apparently it did.

“Lord Waverly, I am not a horse to be bought at auction,” Faith declared fervently. “I have feelings and thoughts of my own. Before we pursue this relationship any further, I believe we should be honest with each other.”

“Yes…” He waited to hear what she would say next, certain that it would not be something he wanted to hear.

“Perhaps we could give it a little more time?” she asked.

Not sure if he felt a sense of relief or disappointment at her suggestion, Lucien agreed with her. Maybe time could make things better between them. “Yes, I believe that might be a good idea.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Silence Is Golden

Colette still had not spoken to her mother. Ever since she discovered that the shop had been sold, she and her mother had maintained a cold silence in each other’s presence. Colette had actually been surprised by her mother’s tenacity because she had half expected to see her teary and apologetic when she returned home that first night and had been somewhat disappointed in her mother yet again that she had not expressed some remorse. Naturally the atmosphere in their little house had grown tense and strained, leaving Juliette, Lisette, Paulette, and Yvette caught in the middle of the acrimony between their mother and their sister. Colette continued to stay away from her mother as much as possible by keeping busy in the shop, where Genevieve never ventured.

Colette was satisfied by another day of brisk sales. The books seemed to fly off the shelves lately. Her ladies’ reading circle had grown to over twenty members and had now become weekly meetings filled with quite lively discussions. The stationery and writing supplies she stocked from Mr. Kenworth were selling even better than she had hoped.

After the last of the customers left for the day, she had sent Juliette and Paulette upstairs to have supper. Now she sat quietly at the counter, going over the accounts, and was thrilled to see that she had earned yet another modest profit that week. However, the joy came on a bittersweet wave in the knowledge that she would soon be losing the store.

Sighing heavily, she wondered when the new owner would contact her. Uncle Randall had said the buyer was not in a hurry to take over the store. Although she thought that somewhat odd, the fact that she had more time to make a success of the shop inspired her. Knowing that this might be the only chance she ever had to be in control of a business, as well as her own life, however long or short that time turned out to be, she was determined to leave on a triumphant note just to prove to herself that she could do it. And in spite of almost everyone being against her, the shop was becoming a success. She had attracted far more costumers than her father ever had.

“Colette?”

Her mother stood before her, clutching a shawl around her thin shoulders and leaning on her gilt cane.

“Maman?” She could not hide the shock at seeing Genevieve in the bookshop. When Colette had been younger, she recalled a vicious argument between her parents, in which her mother vowed never to set foot in the shop. Immediately after, Genevieve became ill and took to her room, and indeed had not entered the shop again. Until now.

Her mother did not speak at first, but gazed in amazement at the changes Colette had made to the store. She seemed like a small child, staring in wonder. “You have done all this?”

“Yes,” Colette admitted proudly. “With help from the girls.”

“I had no idea…None whatsoever. I never knew. I never dreamed the place could be transformed in such a way. Je n`aurais jamais imaginé que la librarie puisse être aussi belle…” Genevieve continued to look around at the attractively organized bookshelves, the charming signs hanging from green ribbons, the inviting arrangement of comfortable furniture, the gleaming glass cabinet full of beautiful paper and expensive writing tools. It was not the same shop at all.

“Did you not ever listen to Paulette and me discussing the changes we were making?”

“I suppose…I did not really pay attention…” Again her mother demonstrated her breathless and dramatic flair by waving her hand in a grand gesture and then placing her hand over her heart. “C’est tout simplement ravissant, Colette. Lovely.”

“Thank you. It’s a shame you have waited so long to see it.”

The fleeting smile on her face disappeared. “I know you are angry with me for selling the shop.”

“You did not even consult me about it, Mother.”

“It is not your shop,” Genevieve said with indignation. “It belongs entirely to me, not you. C’était mon argent. It was my inheritance, my money, which purchased it. I may do with it what I please.”

The strength in her haughty demeanor surprised Colette, who had not witnessed this side of her mother’s character in years. However, it did not dispel her anger either. “Out of courtesy to me, out of respect for all I have done, for managing every aspect of the business since Father died, I think you could have at least consulted with me about it first.”

“Non.” Her mother waved her hand adamantly. “No. You would only have caused a scene. I knew you wished to keep it. However, I did not. I have hated this shop since the day we moved in and I am thrilled to be rid of it.”

After a long pause, Colette asked quietly, “Even though you know it breaks my heart to lose it?”

“It broke my heart to live here, year after year, watching my life pass me by. Your father promised me—” Genevieve stopped in mid-sentence, obviously thinking better of what she had planned to say. “Ce qui est fait est fait. That is between your father and me. As it is, I have had to live my life denied of anything I ever wanted and abide by the decisions made by others. Now it is my turn to decide. I am done with this little house, this dreadful bookshop, and this filthy city. I received more than twice what we paid for the shop, and now I wish to leave. With Randall’s help, I have purchased a small house in Brighton and I have instructed your sisters to begin packing. We shall leave in two weeks.”

Colette’s head spun. Leaving? Two weeks? Brighton? What is Mother thinking? All this time Colette had been so concerned about losing the shop, she had not given any thought about where they would live. A cottage by the sea sounded vaguely pleasant, but now they had a small house in Brighton. A definite place. Their new home. Her mother planned to take the family away from London.

Colette had lived her entire life above Hamilton’s Book Shoppe. As a little girl she had learned to read and write at her father’s side in the back room of the shop. She and her sisters had played hide-and-go-seek among the bookshelves too many times to count. She loved the scent of paper and ink and leather-bound books. The shop was her home. She did not know if she could survive without it.

“Why Brighton?” Colette managed to ask, her heart in her throat.

Her mother said simply, “I wish to be by the sea and breathe fresh air for a change.”

The woman who had not left the house in years suddenly craved sea air. Colette could not quite believe what she was hearing. “What about the Season?” Colette murmured, her mouth dry. Neither she nor Juliette had secured a marriage yet. Surely her mother did not wish to lose the chance of marrying off two of her daughters?

Genevieve gave her a hard look. “Randall said no one suitable has offered for you, and you have refused the matches he has suggested.”

Colette wanted to protest, but Uncle Randall had spoken the truth. She and Juliette had spurned all the men he had presented to them, albeit they were all horrid and repulsive, but no one else had asked for either of their hands in marriage. They had both failed miserably on that count.

“He feels he has spent enough time and money on you and Juliette,” Genevieve began irately, her French accent becoming more marked as she spoke. “He is frustrated with your progress and he is blaming me for letting you both run wild. Now that he has recovered his losses with a portion of the sale of the building, he washes his hands of both of you. I too am disappointed at your lack of effort in finding a husband. You have squandered a great opportunity in your life, Colette, the gift of a London Season. You had the chance to marry well and reside in luxury for the rest of your life. And what do you do? You throw it all away on this pitiful bookshop, for nothing. I ask you, how will you ever find a suitable husband now?”

Colette hung her head, unwilling to meet Genevieve’s disapproving gaze. The anger she felt with her mother for selling the shop evaporated as a deep shame crept over her. If her mother even suspected what Colette had done with Lucien, she would die of humiliation. And her mother made a good point.

How would Colette find a husband now?

Even though Jeffrey Eddington had been more attentive to her of late, it did not mean he had intentions of marrying her, and Colette could not in all good conscience marry him, even if he did ask her. The only man she wanted to marry was determined to marry someone else. And the main reason the man would not marry her was because she ran a business, a business that was no longer hers to oversee. The absurdity of the situation would have made her laugh if she were not so distraught over it.

“If you wish to join us in Brighton, we shall leave two weeks from today on the train.”

“What do you mean, if I wish to join you?” Colette asked in confusion.

“You have made your feelings for me quite clear, so naturally I assumed you would not wish to stay with me. Will you be coming with us?”

Colette grew silent at her mother’s martyrlike stance and wished she did have somewhere else to go. Two weeks. She had only two weeks to do something to change her life. “Of course I will. I could never leave the girls…or you. Besides, where else would I go?”

“You are such an independent woman, I thought perhaps you would find a place for yourself.”

Colette was stunned by her mother’s cold words. “I had no choice but to be independent, Mother. What would have happened to us all had I not been?”

“I would have handled it,” she spat back, stepping closer to the counter where Colette sat.

Colette’s outrage finally broke free. “Such as you did handle it, Maman, with fainting and headaches and hiding in your room, while conveniently leaving all the responsibility of caring for this family to me?”

In a sudden move Genevieve reached across the counter and struck Colette across the face with a stinging slap. Shocked and breathless, Colette stared in horror at her mother. In all her life her mother had never struck her. She blinked back tears as Genevieve turned and left the shop without a single word.

Trembling, Colette rubbed her cheek and sat in stunned silence, staring at the glass window facing the front of the store. The blinds had been drawn, but she knew just outside, just beyond that thin pane of glass, the street beckoned. She could walk out that very door and do as she pleased. But how? Where would she go? What would she do? She might be able to obtain a position at another bookshop in town and support herself. The thought of her four sisters tugged at her heart and she knew without a doubt that she could never leave them.

With a forlorn little sigh, she wished she could talk to Lucien. Somehow she felt he would know what to do in this situation. He just had that way about him. He made her feel safe, secure. It was a shame things had changed between them since that night at his house.

Not that she regretted that night at all, not really. Since she had not been raised in a conventional manner, how could she be expected to behave conventionally? She ran a business. She took care of her family. Would she ever find a man who was comfortable with and accepting of her abilities? Would she ever find a man who was willing to marry her knowing she would not change who she was? More than likely not. So why not take her pleasure where she could find it?

And being with Lucien had certainly been a pleasure.

But it was more than that with Lucien. She felt an intense connection with him. She wanted to share her dreams with him. She loved him.

Unaware how much time had passed, she startled when Juliette quietly entered the room. She came right over and sat upon another stool beside Colette.

“She told you about the move to Brighton?” Juliette asked softly, her eyes full of concern.

Colette merely gave a sad nod in answer to her sister’s question.

“She broke the news to us at supper.” Juliette sighed in resignation. “I cannot believe I’m the one to say this, but I think I’m going to miss this old shop after all.”

The comment was ridiculous enough to make Colette smile ruefully. “Whatever shall we do in Brighton?”

Juliette shrugged. “I suspect much the same that we do here, except we can swim in the sea.”

“I had a terrible argument with Mother.”

“I know,” Juliette confessed. At Colette’s questioning glance, Juliette explained, “Paulette was listening at the door and came and told me.”

“I should have known.”

“Are you all right?”

Colette merely nodded.

“Well, at least we have one more ball to attend before we leave. Jeffrey is escorting us both to the Hayvenhursts’ party next week. It might be our last opportunity to meet the men of our dreams before we are forced to leave the city.”

Juliette’s comment was meant sarcastically, but Colette knew it to be true. Chances were good that Lucien would be there. It might very well be her last chance to see him.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Will That Be All?

Lucien entered Hamilton’s Book Shoppe hesitantly, glancing around for Colette. He still had not been able to talk to her privately since that night in his bedroom, but felt safer seeing her at the shop. Since it was almost closing time, he hoped he would have a chance to talk to her privately.

Seated atop a tall stool behind the counter, Paulette lit up when she saw him and she gave a little wave. “Hello, Lord Waverly! I mean, Lucien.”

“Good evening, Paulette.” He returned her smile, intrigued by her animated little expression. “Are you minding the store alone again?”

“Yes.” She nodded proudly, straightening her shoulders. “I’m quite accomplished at it.”

“Where are your sisters?”

“Upstairs. Colette will be down in a minute to close up.”

“I see.” He looked around the shop, still marveling at the incredible changes Colette had made over the weeks. She had truly accomplished so much since the first time he had visited there. Her ability to make her dreams a reality impressed him.

“Are you here to buy books or to see Colette?” Paulette asked with an arch look.

The impish gleam in her pretty eyes caused him to smile in spite of himself. He had been fairly caught by a fifteen-year-old. “I confess. I am here for the sole reason of speaking to your sister,” he admitted.

She grinned knowingly. “I thought as much.”

“Do you mind if I wait here for her?” He placed his hat on the counter.

Paulette nodded affirmatively. “I must warn you though, you should hurry, you don’t have much time left before we leave.”

What was the girl talking about? “Time for what?”

“Time to ask Colette to marry you.”

Stunned, Lucien could only stare at her for a moment. “However did you get that idea into your head?”

“Well, isn’t that why you are here all the time, because you are in love with her?”

Lucien shook his head in mute silence. Because he was in love with her? He was not in love with Colette!

Giving him a skeptical look, Paulette uttered with complete confidence, “It’s obvious to me that you are both in love with each other.”

“Is it, now?” To think he had once believed Paulette to be a highly intelligent and reasonable child. Now she was talking complete nonsense. He was not in love with Colette, nor was Colette in love with him. Was she? Which led him to ask another question, “What do you mean before you leave?”

“Hasn’t she told you yet? Uncle Randall finally sold the shop and my mother has purchased a house for us in Brighton. We’re moving there soon, so it would be best if you proposed to Colette before we leave.”

Ignoring her remark about proposing, he asked, “Brighton? Are you all really moving there?” It had never occurred to him that they would leave London.

She nodded, somewhat sadly. “That’s where our mother wishes to live.”

He was surprised Colette had not mentioned this to him, but then again, things had not been the same between them since the night at his house. She must be devastated. “Is Colette terribly upset about losing the shop?”

“Of course she is. I knew she would be. But she is handling it quite well.”

“Yes,” Lucien mumbled, lost in his thoughts. This was not turning out as he anticipated.

“Hello.”

Turning around at the sound of her voice, Lucien faced Colette, looking lovely in a simple dress of dark burgundy, her full breasts outlined temptingly. Her long chocolate-colored hair was pulled loosely back from her face. Lucien found himself aroused just looking at her, amazed at the force of his desire. He took a deep breath. He’d been half expecting her to toss him from the shop on sight; her neutral greeting gave him hope that perhaps the evening might be pleasant after all.

With a warm smile, he nodded to her. “Good evening.”

Colette turned to her younger sister, looking at her pointedly. “Run along upstairs, Paulette.”

Putting up a protest, Paulette began valiantly, “I was just speaking to Lord Waverly and tell—”

“Go upstairs now, Paulette,” Colette repeated, her voice edged with impatience.

“Fine,” Paulette muttered with a beleaguered sigh, knowing she was defeated. She slid off the stool on which she had been perched and made her way reluctantly around the counter, bidding them both good night.

“It was lovely talking with you, Paulette,” Lucien said kindly. “Good night.”

“And don’t listen at the door!” Colette called after her sister as she reached the staircase.

“I wouldn’t dream of such a thing!” Paulette cried indignantly with her hands on her hips. With an affronted sigh, she closed the door firmly behind her.

“Oh, wouldn’t she, though,” Colette retorted as she silently raced back to the door and yanked it wide open. A flabbergasted Paulette jumped guiltily back from where she had been poised to listen.

“Aha!” Colette pronounced triumphantly. “Now go upstairs!”

As Lucien laughed out loud, Paulette fled up the steps and Colette closed the door behind her, locking it for good measure. “That should hold her for a while. It’s a terrible habit she has,” she explained as she made her way back to where Lucien had been waiting.

Still amused by the scene, Lucien had to come to Paulette’s defense, for he had benefited from at least one of her eavesdropping sessions. “Yes, but she has good intentions.”

“No, she doesn’t!” Colette cried, and then laughed in spite of herself.

“Your sisters are all wonderful,” he remarked earnestly. “You must know they love you very much.”

She nodded in agreement. “And I love them.”

“Your family is very important to you.” He stated the obvious. To know Colette was to know she loved her sisters. Enjoying the easy moment between them, Lucien hesitated to bring up the reason for his visit, and suddenly held the vain hope that she would not ask why he was there in the shop.

“Speaking of family,” she began quietly. “How was the visit with your mother?”

He sighed heavily, recalling the dramatic changes that had occurred at Devon House. A month ago he never would have thought it even a remote possibility. “It has not been easy for me. My mother and I are still working things through.”

“I would imagine you have a lot to catch up on. She’s been gone for a long time.”

“It’s strange to see her again,” he admitted. “I don’t know quite how to treat her.”

“Of course it must be awkward between you. Has she seen your father?”

“Surprisingly enough, she and my father have reconciled.”

Colette’s eyes widened. “He forgave her for leaving?” she asked incredulously.

Lucien nodded. “Apparently there is more to their story than I had been led to believe all these years.”

“I wonder what happened between them to cause her to leave a man like your father. Still, I don’t think I could forgive my husband for leaving me for someone else for years,” she murmured, shaking her head.

He looked at her curiously, intrigued by her comment. “Would you ever stray in your marriage, Colette?”

“Of course not.” She hesitated, and then questioned him, her blue eyes inquisitive. “Would you?”

“No.”

She glanced away and said nothing. They stood there in the empty shop, neither one addressing the issue that mattered most to both of them.

“I should close up now,” she murmured.

Without a word, Lucien assisted Colette in the now familiar process of shutting down the bookshop for the night. They worked together in companionable silence and once the front door was finally locked and the lights dimmed, she turned to him.

“Thank you for your help, but I think it is time for you to go,” she said, looking hesitant.

He did not want to leave. His desire to stay with her superseded all other feelings. “You haven’t asked why I came by to see you,” he stated in a low voice.

Keeping her eyes on his, she whispered, “Because I don’t wish to know.”

“Don’t you?” On an impulse he reached out and took her hand. Her elegant fingers, so surprisingly soft, felt ridiculously small and delicate in his. It amazed him that such small, feminine hands could accomplish so much. But Colette’s hands seemed capable of anything.

Colette shook her head, a silky tendril of her hair shaking loose, framing her face. She did not want to hear why he had come to see her, but she did not pull away, allowing him to hold her warm hand within his. Slowly his fingers threaded with hers, locking their hands together. An overwhelming sense of belonging settled over him. His thumb gently caressed her hand, stroking the soft skin of her palm.

She knows, Lucien thought, with a pang of remorse. Colette had sensed what he had come to say; that he was sorry for what happened that night at Devon House, and that he wanted to help her somehow and make it up to her. And she did not wish to hear it from him. Could he blame her? He realized then that he was a complete idiot. He needed to say those things to her simply to assuage his own guilt. It would only make him feel better, not her. Aside from asking her to marry him, there was nothing he could say to her. He should not have even come.

Their fingers still intertwined, they stared at each other in the dimness of the empty shop. The clip-clop of a horse’s hooves on the cobblestone street outside echoed faintly through the room. Otherwise it was silent. Colette’s beautiful face tilted up to him, the shadowy light falling across her flawless cheeks, her expression full of sorrow.

Feeling unbearably responsible for the sadness in her eyes, Lucien pulled her to him, enfolding her in the comfort of his arms. Again, she did not resist, but almost seemed to welcome his embrace.

With her head resting against his chest, she melted into him. She felt like heaven in his arms. Gently he stroked the length of her back. The floral scent of her hair flooded his senses and he could not help but press a tender kiss to the top of her head, holding her tight.

“I’m so sorry, Colette.”

She looked up at his whispered words, her cheek pressed against his jacket. “Please don’t say that to me again.”

He looked down at her beautiful face, with her sensuous lips that beckoned to him, and his heart skipped a beat in his chest. He had never intended to hurt her. He wouldn’t knowingly hurt Colette for the world. He wished he could take back what happened that night at Devon House. No, perhaps he wouldn’t go that far. He reluctantly admitted to himself that he was glad he had made love to her. He simply wished he could take away the consequences of his impulsive actions that night. As he held this amazing woman in his arms, he marveled at how she made him feel.

And then he did it.

He leaned his head forward and covered her mouth with his. Unable to restrain himself, he kissed her with a heated intensity built up over days of not being able to see her or touch her except in his tormented dreams. He could not get enough of her. As his mouth took possession of her, a little sigh escaped her and he groaned. Something about Colette stoked a need for her in him that was out of his control, out of his realm of knowing.

Everything about her was wrong for him.

Colette Hamilton was too beautiful and too independent and too full of modern ways and notions. She voiced her opinions and made business deals and managed to take care of her family. She was too passionate and unrestrained in her emotions. She blatantly refuted every single one of his beliefs about what constituted a woman’s role in life. Still, he found himself irresistibly drawn to her. He felt strangely protective of her, even responsible for her. And yet, he desired her more than any woman he had ever known. God, but he desired her. Colette was a dangerous combination, and the truth be known, she terrified him.

And there he was kissing her. Yet again.

As his lips and tongue seared her, she responded eagerly, her hands snaking their way around his neck, her fingers splaying into his hair. She felt so good, so incredibly perfect in his arms, while her luscious tongue explored his mouth and her full breasts pressed against his chest. Her lithe little body beckoned to be touched and caressed and his hands ran the length of her, circling her slender waist and resting on the curves of her hips. He knew he was making another mistake in kissing her, but he could not rein in his impulses around her. He could not. He wanted to kiss her. Hold her. Touch her. Remove every shred of her clothing and kiss her all over. He wanted to drive himself into her sweet body over and over again until he couldn’t think about anything else. He just wanted her.

Oh, this was dangerous, he knew. Very dangerous. But he was beyond caring.

All he could see, feel, hear, touch, and taste was Colette.

His hands moved lower over her the delectable curve of her bottom. With his hands he squeezed and pressed her hips firmly against his. A soft moan escaped her and she rubbed herself against him and he caught his breath. Inflamed by the intimate contact, they kissed wildly, their passion for each other increasing with each gasping breath.

Colette tugged frantically at the collar of his jacket. At first he thought she grabbed him for support, and then the thrilling realization dawned on him. She was trying to remove his jacket. God help him!

They were surely lost now, for how could he resist her?

With an eager groan, he shrugged his dark gray jacket from his shoulders, dropping it to the floor without losing contact with the sweetness of her mouth. The brass buttons of his silk waistcoat were her next focus, and soon the waistcoat joined his jacket in a pile on the floor. The sheer excitement of having Colette in a frenzy to undress him aroused him beyond belief. With mounting impatience, she hastily unfastened the buttons of his shirtfront, spreading the white linen wide, her hands running over the smooth planes of his chest.

Practically bare-chested now, his shirt gapping open to his waist, he began to walk her backward toward the bookshelf. She took awkward steps, her hands clinging to his naked shoulders beneath his open shirt, her lips still joined with his. He walked her in reverse until her back was against one of the bookshelves. His body trembling, Lucien could not get enough of her mouth and the heady, sweet taste of her. Her kisses were all-consuming. It was almost as if they feared that losing contact would break the seductive spell they had fallen under.

What am I doing?

Feeling as if he were in a dream, there in the darkened bookshop in the history section with her family just upstairs, Lucien kissed Colette with a wild urgency and a desperate need that completely overwhelmed him.

Ignoring his pounding heart, he finally broke their prolonged kiss and cupped her face in his hands. Staring into her eyes, he knew he should end this. But the look of impassioned longing on her face, her dark, heavy-lidded eyes full of desire, and her heated body pressed eagerly against his weakened already thin resolve. Still breathing heavily, he murmured her name as a question.

For an endless moment she stared back at him, and he was mesmerized by her. Her lips, reddened and swollen from his kisses, trembled in hesitation. He should turn away, but he couldn’t. He was rooted to the floor, fascinated by the passionate look of intent in her eyes. Was it sparked by desire? Was it daring? Without uttering a single word, Colette slid her hands ever so slowly from his shoulders. Her fingers, smooth and silky, glided with a feather-light touch down his chest. He dared not move a single muscle although every nerve in his body tensed with eager anticipation as the tips of her fingers gradually caressed the taut skin of his stomach. His skin burned where she touched him, inflaming his need for her. When she dared to lower her hands over his hips to the hardened bulge straining at the front of his trousers, Lucien sucked in his breath. Christ! She was not making this easy. He was already rock-hard with desire; the bold touch of her fingers through the fabric of his pants found him close to bursting.

With an anguished groan, he covered her mouth in another searing kiss just as her fingers firmly closed around him. He was lost. He pressed her up against the nearest shelf, her bottom resting on the edge. Leaning her back, his tongue still possessing her mouth, he lifted the skirt of her burgundy gown and ran his hand up the length of her stocking-clad thigh. Colette clung to him, breathing heavily. With one touch of his finger, he knew she was ready for him, wanted him. The thought drove him mad. She had already freed him from the constraints of his trousers, amazed at how easily something so illicit could be accomplished. Within a matter of seconds he had thrust himself deeply inside her. Losing himself in the incredible heat of her body, he could think of nothing but the woman who arched against him, wanting him as much as he wanted her. It was the most erotic moment of his life. As they moved against each other, their pace increasing, their movements grew more urgent as he sought to give her the pleasure she was giving him. Her head fell against his shoulder and the warmth of her breath heated the skin of his neck. She clung to him with both long legs hitched tightly around his waist as he thrust into her over and over again. Books fell to the floor around them, their pages carelessly tossed open, as he rocked against her.

For an endless while there was just the two of them, their hearts pounding, their mouths gasping, their bodies embracing. With no words to describe his feelings for her, Lucien just knew that he never wanted to let Colette go. She belonged to him. Suddenly Colette’s breathing became more rapid, her movements more frantic until she cried out his name into his mouth. With a few more grinding thrusts, Lucien immediately followed her into bliss.

They held on to each other for some time, trying to regain their composure, each loath to let the other go.

In the dimness of the empty and silent shop, they slowly slid from their awkward position on the bookshelf and began to arrange their clothes into some semblance of decency amid an epic silence before facing each other. With his pants closed and his shirt buttoned once again, Lucien collapsed into the nearest seat, an overstuffed armchair in the corner, and pulled a limp Colette onto his lap, wrapping his arms around her.

“Oh, God, Colette,” he whispered, overwhelmed by his feelings for her and unable to define them. What had they just done? Again.

She rested her head against his, and he breathed in her sweet scent. She felt like heaven in his arms and he could not resist another kiss on her lips.

“This isn’t the reason you came to see me tonight, is it?” she asked in a weak attempt to lend humor to their situation.

With a rueful half-smile, he gave his head a shake. “No, I must say, it was not.”

She hesitated before saying, “But you did come to apologize for the last time this happened.”

“The last time this happened at least I took you in a civilized manner, in a bed. Not a bookshop.”

Seeming flustered and charmingly embarrassed by his referral to their erotically charged, and quite reckless, encounter, Colette hid her face against his chest. He shook her lightly and squeezed her in comfort, kissing her again. He could not kiss her enough.

With her soft voice tinged with regret, she whispered, “And you’re going to apologize to me for this time, too?”

“No, I’m blaming you entirely for this one.”

Unsure if he was teasing her or not, she gave him a puzzled look. On some level he wasn’t joking. She had been rather bold with him this evening and he could not fight his desire for her. Not that he would have minded under normal circumstances. But this…this encounter, this madness, which had been more phenomenal and passionate and amazing than anything he had ever experienced in his life, should not have even occurred in the first place. He shouldn’t be having sexual liaisons with Colette at all. Period. This was a godawful mess, this was.

He kissed her cheek, softening his words to her. “No, this was entirely my fault. But this can’t keep happening with us, Colette.”

“No,” she murmured low in agreement. “It can’t ever happen again. It won’t.”

He held her tightly, enjoying the feel of her body cradled intimately across his lap. He could hold her like that forever. “When were you going to tell me that you and your family were moving to Brighton?”

She pulled away from him, sitting up. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it does,” he said soothingly, pulling her back toward his chest. He needed to hold her close. “Do you want to live in Brighton?”

“No,” she admitted with a heavy sigh, relaxing against him once again. “But there is not much of a choice for me in the matter. It seems my mother, with Uncle Randall’s help, sold the shop.”

Lucien paused, his heart suddenly pounding. “Which brings me to the other reason I wished to speak to you tonight.”

She looked at him curiously.

“I’m the man who bought the building, Colette.”

Her shocked expression was not unexpected, but the scrutiny in her narrowed eyes caught him off guard.

“You?” she breathed. “You bought our shop?”

“Yes, to help you,” he explained. “And your family.” He had not intended to ever reveal his identity as the anonymous buyer, but then he had not anticipated her family relocating to Brighton either.

She stared at him in disbelief and something akin to horror shadowed her delicately formed features.

Lucien assumed Colette would be relieved, perhaps even delighted by the news. Her silence worried him. When he’d purchased the building, he did it because he felt protective of the Hamilton girls. He did it anonymously so as not to cause them to feel indebted to him. With the unnamed buyer not requiring them to vacate the premises and allowing the bookshop to remain open, he felt he would be easing their financial burden while allowing them to maintain the status quo without ever knowing he was the one who helped them. He rather thought he had done a good deed and had been pleased with himself over it. Now, however, he had second thoughts about his little plan. Colette seemed strangely withdrawn and quiet.

“Aren’t you relieved you can stay in London? And that you can keep the shop open now?” he suggested hopefully.

The slap stunned him, for he didn’t see it coming. Her hand flew across his cheek in a stinging blow. He instinctively grabbed her wrist before she could hit him again, which she clearly had every intention of doing. Pulling her hand from his grasp, she sprang from his lap, scurrying away from him. She was furious.

“What the hell was that for?” he asked, frowning and rubbing his cheek in confusion. It was definitely not the response he had expected from her.

“Get out,” she uttered with a coldness and finality in her tone that chilled him.

Wondering what the devil had gotten into her, he rose from the chair and followed after her. “Colette?”

She picked up his jacket and waistcoat from the floor where she had removed them so seductively only moments ago and flung them at him. “Get out, and don’t ever try to see me again.”

Catching the garments before they hit his face, he made another attempt to discover what was going on in her pretty head. He thought he had done something nice, but apparently he had offended her. “What is the matter?”

Colette saw his hat resting on the counter and threw that at him, too. She then marched determinedly to the shop door and reached for the key. Her hands trembled as she turned to face him. “I don’t know who you think I am, but you cannot buy me off.”

Incredulous at her words, he asked again, “What are you talking about?”

“Apparently I’m good enough for you to bed, but not good enough for you to marry. You have made that point abundantly clear to me, Lucien, and I accepted it. I am a working woman and you are an earl, and as the heir to a marquis you have higher expectations in a wife. Fine. I wish you luck with Faith Bromleigh. But I will not be paid for services rendered with my own shop like some wharf-side doxy so you can walk away from me with a clean conscience. You can keep the building and the bloody shop and let it rot for all I care. I’ll be leaving with my family, and you need never trouble yourself over me again.” She took a gasping breath before unlocking the door and swinging it wide open. “Now get out of here this minute.”

“Colette, I—”

“Don’t speak to me. I can’t bear it.”

“It’s not what you think, Colette,” he attempted to explain, unable to bear the pain in her expression. “I didn’t buy the building to atone for sleeping with you at all. I bought it be—”

“Get out before I scream.”

“Fine,” he said as he stalked through the doorway. As he turned back to say one more thing, the door slammed in his face. Stunned, Lucien stood there, clutching his waistcoat and jacket in his arms, staring at the “Closed” sign swinging wildly in the door of Hamilton’s Book Shoppe.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Table for Two

The next evening Lord Jeffrey Eddington escorted Colette and Juliette to their last ball before moving to Brighton. Once again, Lady Hayvenhurst was hosting the final of her lavish parties of the Season, and her many guests crowded the grand ballroom.

Colette had no desire to attend such an affair, but Juliette had cajoled her for hours until she had consented to accompany her and Jeffrey to the party.

“Really, Colette. This is our last chance for a bit of fun in town before we are relegated to the country. Who knows what can happen tonight? Forget about Lucien Sinclair and the bookshop and just enjoy yourself,” her sister had suggested earlier that evening.

If only she could forget Lucien Sinclair. Colette had been unable to think of anyone or anything but Lucien Sinclair for weeks now. After their scene in the bookshop the night before, she truly never wanted to see him again. Not only did she cringe at the memory of her own behavior, but the impact of Lucien’s words had left her sick to her stomach.

Dressed in her best gown of ice pink with a little bustle covered in baby rosettes, she had allowed Lisette to curl her hair in an elegant arrangement down one shoulder. Carrying a pink silk reticule and a lacy fan, she attempted a smile as Jeffrey handed her a glass of sparkling champagne.

“Are you smiling at me or the champagne?” he questioned her with a gleam in his eye.

She really did smile then, even laughed, for Jeffrey’s lighthearted mood was contagious. “At the champagne, of course.”

“Not me?”

He did look remarkably handsome in his black evening clothes. His dark hair was neatly combed and his clean-shaven face accented the masculine lines of his face. “I wouldn’t wish for you to get an inflated head, my dearest Lord Eddington.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” he scoffed easily. “Now drink up. We’re going to have fun this evening! Let’s celebrate your last evening out in London with a little style.”

Jeffrey tipped his glass to hers and Colette mimicked his motions, taking a sip of the cool and sparkling liquid. She smiled brightly and made a concerted effort to have fun, even if it killed her. She scanned the crowded ballroom, wishing to see Lucien and yet dreading it at the same time.

“Where has Juliette wandered off to now?” he asked.

“My aunt and uncle have cornered her, wishing to introduce her to Count Someone. It’s my uncle’s last attempt to marry one of us off.”

“Well, she is in good hands, and you are stuck alone with me. Now, let’s go outside for some air, shall we?”

Placing her hand on his arm, and careful not to spill her drink, she followed Jeffrey out to the veranda. They found two unoccupied chairs arranged around a small, round wrought-iron table in a secluded section of the veranda and made themselves comfortable. A cluster of candles flickered in glass holders in the center of the table. A long reflecting pool at the edge of the veranda had been filled with floating candles and, as if Lady Hayvenhurst had ordered it herself, hundreds of stars glistened in the warm summer sky. It was a lovely spot. They could enjoy the night air and still hear strains of the music from the orchestra.

“You look quite stunning this evening,” he said.

“You are very kind,” she responded. She would have thought she might feel uncomfortable being alone with him after their kiss in his carriage, but he had a way of making her feel entirely at ease. He possessed the kind of charm that instantly won people over. She paused before saying, “There is something I’ve been wondering about you, Jeffrey.”

“What is that?”

“Why is it you have not married yet?” Colette asked, suddenly curious.

He winked at her. “Are you asking me to marry you, Colette?”

She laughed at his teasing. “I asked you a serious question.”

He inclined his head to her. “I’ve yet to meet a woman I cared to make my wife.”

“Ah. So you are optimistic that a bride is in your future?”

“Absolutely. I’m just not ready to settle down yet.”

“Lucien is ready, though, isn’t he?” Colette could not help herself from questioning his friend.

“Supposedly,” Jeffrey said. “But I for one think he is making a terrible mistake.”

“A mistake in getting married or in his choice of a bride?”

“Faith Bromleigh is not the right woman for him.”

Colette silently agreed with him, although she kept that opinion to herself. “Wasn’t he engaged once before?” She casually sipped her champagne, surprised to see that she had almost finished the glass.

“Yes.” Jeffrey rolled his blue eyes skyward in disgust. “Now that engagement was an unmitigated disaster!”

“What was she like?” She had tried to imagine the type of woman Lucien might propose to and could not picture one.

“Virginia Warren was beautiful, witty, very sophisticated. Lucien was head over heels in love with her.”

Even though she was still enraged over his callous treatment of her in trying to buy her off with the shop, her stomach knotted in reflex at the thought of Lucien in love with another woman. A beautiful, clever, and sophisticated woman, no less. She did not believe he was truly in love with Lady Faith Bromleigh and suspected that he was interested in marrying her only because Faith was everything Colette was not. But head over heels in love? Lucien? How would he act? What would he say? How would one detect that he was head over heels in love?

She questioned Jeffrey, “Why didn’t they get married if they were so in love?”

“I said Lucien was in love. I didn’t say Virginia was,” he remarked cryptically.

“Oh…” Colette let that bit of news sink in before daring to ask, “Can you tell me what happened? Who broke off the engagement?”

Jeffrey glanced around the veranda at the various people milling about and lowered his voice, leaning his head closer to Colette’s to avoid being overheard. “First tell me why you wish to know.”

She sat up straight, blinking.

He placed his hand gently over hers, which rested on the table between them. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

“I hate him.”

He shook his head knowingly. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” she reiterated firmly.

“You can’t fool me, Colette.”

“Fine. Think what you like, but tell me what happened.”

He gazed at her intently before resuming his story. “Virginia was a spoiled, malicious woman who was never satisfied with what she had. Nothing was good enough for her, not even Lucien. I tried to warn him, but sometimes not even your closest friends can save you from disaster.”

Fascinated, Colette nodded for him to continue.

“Lucien will never talk about her, but I made no such promise myself.” Jeffrey flashed her a wicked, secretive grin.

“Go on,” she prompted, dying to know what happened between Lucien and this woman.

Jeffrey’s smile disappeared and again his voice dropped to a low whisper. “At first there were rumors about Virginia’s behavior, which Lucien flatly denied and deliberately ignored. I had heard from a reliable source that Virginia had entertained, shall we say, a certain gentleman who was an acquaintance of mine. I warned him, because I had sensed she was nothing but trouble from the start, but Lucien was blind to everything except the exotic and sultry Virginia. They scheduled the wedding, which was heartily approved by both families. The week before the wedding, he caught her with the aforementioned gentleman.” He paused pointedly. “And I am providing you with the edited version of the events.”

Colette gasped and covered her mouth hastily with her elbow-length-pink-gloved hand. “Oh, that’s dreadful.”

“Believe me, it was. I had the unfortunate honor of being present when Lucien discovered the truth. He would never have told me about it otherwise.”

Colette sat unmoving. A part of her felt sorry for Lucien, but a bigger part of her was thrilled that Lucien had suffered the pain of heartbreak. It was only fair, since he had broken her heart. Still the entire story left her feeling oddly unsettled and conflicted.

“And being the gentleman he is,” Jeffrey continued, “he let everyone assume he was the one who broke off the engagement. He protected Virginia. He took on the scandal, while Virginia’s parents packed her off to Europe, ostensibly to mend her broken heart.”

“I had no idea,” she breathed. This glimpse into Lucien’s past had surprised her. Lucien seemed so confident and sure of himself, it was difficult to imagine him wounded in such a way. If Virginia Warren’s reckless passion had devastated him, what about her own reckless behavior with him? What must he think of her?

Jeffrey leaned in closer to her, his forehead almost touching hers. “Virginia broke his heart, and Lucien’s never quite been the same since. Until he met you, Colette.”

She glanced away from Jeffrey. Until he met me? Is Lucien in love with me? As she let all this sink in, she finished off the last of the champagne in her glass.

“Don’t look now, but you will never guess who just stepped out on the veranda,” Jeffrey whispered low.

Of course, Colette could not help but look. There was Lucien Sinclair, the Earl of Stancliff, with the pale Faith Bromleigh by his side. She had hoped against hope that Lucien would not be in attendance that evening. Apparently luck was not on her side. And Lucien looked stunningly handsome, his height and broad shoulders accentuated by his elegant black suit. Vivid images of those naked shoulders, the strong muscled arms, and the smooth planes of his chest assailed her, causing her to suck in her breath at the sight of him. Only last night those arms were around her, holding her, pulling her against him. Only last night he made passionate love to her. Against a bookshelf, for heaven’s sake!

And then he thoroughly humiliated her by presenting her with the bookshop to compensate for his unwillingness to marry her.

Desperately wishing she could simply disappear, Colette had no choice but to remain where she was, watching in utter dread as Lucien and Faith Bromleigh advanced toward the little wrought-iron table where she sat with Jeffrey. The air suddenly grew charged with a palpable tension.

“Good evening, Lady Faith,” Jeffrey said, his hand still covering Colette’s before he stood to greet her. “Hello, Lucien.”

Lucien nodded to Jeffrey, but his dark green eyes remained locked on Colette as he made the introductions. “Faith, this is Miss Colette Hamilton. Miss Hamilton, this is Lady Faith Bromleigh.”

With her heart flipping wildly in her chest, Colette could not look away from him. Lucien’s eyes raked her body as if he could see through her pink gown, and she felt herself grow heated under his intent gaze. She could still feel his insistent lips on hers, his gentle hands caressing her, his hardened body moving within her, her legs wrapped around his hips. Oh God. Torn between wanting to slap his handsome face or throw herself in his strong arms, she could only stare helplessly back at him.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Hamilton,” Faith said softly.

A wave of nausea so strong she feared she might be sick right then and there washed over Colette as she murmured a faint greeting to the woman Lucien intended to marry. Completely unsure of what she said and barely able to look at Faith Bromleigh, Colette could only endure the powerful force of Lucien’s gaze on her as she struggled to maintain her composure.

“Miss Hamilton, I must admit that I have heard wonderful things about your bookshop.”

“Oh?” Colette mumbled awkwardly, still staring at Lucien.

“Yes, perhaps I shall stop by.”

“That would be lovely,” Colette heard herself say. The thought of Lucien’s future bride visiting Hamilton’s left her cold inside. Yet it hardly mattered to her at this point who came to the shop, since she was leaving for Brighton.

“Are you enjoying Lady Hayvenhurst’s party?” Jeffrey came to her rescue by asking Faith a question.

“Yes,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

“We were just coming out for a bit of air,” Lucien explained hurriedly. “We did not mean to intrude.”

“You weren’t intruding,” Jeffrey said in an easy tone. “Colette and I were simply discussing our futures.”

Finally breaking his gaze with Colette, Lucien actually flinched at Jeffrey’s cryptic remark. “Well, we shall let you resume your conversation, then. Good evening.”

As Lucien and Faith made their way along the crowded veranda, Jeffrey sat back down, once again placing his hand over Colette’s in a touching show of support. “Are you all right?” he asked, his eyes narrowed in concern.

The compassion in his voice made her feel even more like crying than she already did from Lucien’s presence. Colette merely nodded, unable to speak.

“Have another glass of champagne,” Jeffrey suggested. “You look rather pale.” He motioned to a passing footman, taking two more crystal champagne flutes from his silver tray. He placed one glass in front of Colette. “Drink.”

With her hand trembling, she sipped the cool liquid a little more quickly than she had intended to.

“Easy there.” Jeffrey took the empty glass from her with a grim expression. “I didn’t mean for you to polish off the entire thing.”

Feeling dizzier than she had before but slightly calmer, she gave Jeffrey a blank gaze.

“Oh, my beautiful Colette. You have it bad,” he said sympathetically, leaning his head closer to hers and patting her hand.

“I’m fine,” she said, although it felt as if her tongue had suddenly grown heavier.

“I’ve known Lucien for a very long time,” Jeffrey confided. “He’s one of the most intelligent men I’ve ever met, and he’s my best friend. Yet I can’t help but think he’s a complete idiot.”

Colette raised her eyes to him. “Because of me?”

“Yes, because of you,” he confirmed heartily. “He’s a fool to let you go.”

“It’s most likely for the best,” she said with a weary sigh. “We’re so different, we probably wouldn’t suit anyway. He would make me give up the shop. I’m not at all like Faith Bromleigh. She’s a lady,” she managed to say before a slight hiccup escaped her. She covered her mouth with her hand, hoping Jeffrey had not noticed.

“I hadn’t realized you’d never met her before,” Jeffrey remarked. “She’s terribly wrong for Lucien. However, their engagement is not official in any way. Lucien has not even asked her yet, so there’s still time.”

“Time for what?” She felt so light-headed it was difficult to focus on what Jeffrey was saying to her.

“Time for him to come to his senses and realize that you are the woman he should marry.”

Jeffrey was so sweet to worry about her, but he did not know the truth. She had to break the news to him. “Well, that is never going to happen, Jeffrey. Lucien practically told me so already.” Colette picked up Jeffrey’s full glass of champagne and took a rather large sip.

Jeffrey took the glass of champagne away from her, his look quite intent and questioning. “What have you discussed with him?”

Jeffrey was so easy to confide in because he really cared about her. She suddenly felt she could tell him anything. The words rolled off her tongue quite effortlessly. “Lucien won’t ever marry me, Jeffrey. Even after what happened with us that night at Devon House, he said so. Even after what we did last night…” She reached for his champagne again.

This time Jeffrey simply handed the glass to her. “Oh, Colette,” he whispered, his expression unexpectedly somber. “This has gone further than I thought.”

“What has?” Colette managed to ask before hiccupping loudly. She took another gulp of champagne.

“Good heavens, Jeffrey! Did you get my sister intoxicated?” Juliette cried in a shocked whisper as she joined them at the table.

Jeffrey gave Juliette a grim look. “Not intentionally, but she does seem headed that way. Although it proved to be a most enlightening conversation for me.” He glanced back toward Colette. “Are you feeling well?”

“I am perfectly fine.” Colette’s words sounded slurred even to herself, but she felt absolutely wonderful. She lifted the glass to her lips and took another swallow, finishing off the last of the champagne.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” With a swift movement, Juliette swiped the champagne flute from Colette’s grasp, as well as the empty one from the table, and handed both to a footman, instructing him to bring glasses of water. Quickly. “Honestly,” Juliette remonstrated them, “must I do everything myself?”

“Do what?” Colette murmured, vaguely irritated that her sister would not allow her to have any more lovely champagne. She blinked, her head spinning slightly.

“Never mind,” Juliette instructed her, focusing her attention on Jeffrey. “He saw you together?”

“Most definitely.” He nodded. “And he was not pleased.”

“Then now is your chance. I just saw them saying their farewells, and their daughter was with them.”

Although she felt rather woozy, Colette still grasped that something odd was going on. They were referring to someone she should know. “Whom are you talking about?”

Ignoring her question, Jeffrey stood. “You’ll excuse me, ladies, won’t you?”

“Of course we will,” Juliette said, taking his seat at the table with Colette. “I’ll stay here with my sister.” She gave Jeffrey a disapproving glance. “And make her drink some water.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Green-Eyed Monster

Lucien intended to leave the Hayvenhursts’ house after he bid the Bromleighs farewell, but first he needed to find out what Jeffrey had been up to, sitting so intimately with Colette on the veranda. The pair had looked quite cozy together, sitting alone in the shadows, whispering and drinking champagne. Almost romantic. Ignoring the strange pang of longing that gripped him, Lucien stood in the hallway and scanned the packed ballroom for Jeffrey and Colette, hoping they had finally come inside.

After last night in the bookshop Lucien could not get Colette out of his mind, nor had he recovered from the event. Tonight, she looked more beautiful than ever. He wished he had been the one sitting with her at that little table in the candlelight. He wished he could waltz with her, holding her body close to his as everyone watched. He wished he could escort her home, right into his bed, and make love to her all night long.

He had made a mistake with Faith Bromleigh. He could barely summon the wherewithal to engage her in conversation. Her somber expressions and calm manner, which at one time seemed to be her greatest asset, now irritated him beyond belief. He could not continue his courtship of her and she knew it, too. Faith had even stated as much to him earlier in the evening. A life with her might be calm and uneventful, but he doubted he would ever be happy with her.

Colette made him happy.

The errant thought stopped him dead in his tracks. Colette?

That woman had more of a hold on him than he realized. And it terrified him. He had to get Colette out of his system. But how?

His mind spun with vivid images of her. Colette’s beautiful blue eyes. Colette smiling at him. Colette atop a ladder in the bookshop, laughing. Colette teasing her sisters. Colette reading to his father. Colette kissing him. Colette naked in his bed. Colette unbuttoning his shirt. Colette slapping his face. Colette whispering with Jeffrey.

He ought to warn Jeffrey away from her. She was too fragile right now. Lucien had already hurt her enough, and Jeffrey would only wound her even more with his charmingly careless ways. Jeffrey should not be flirting with her.

He decided to make his way back out to the veranda to see what the two of them were up to, when Lord and Lady Maywood, an older couple, stopped him to say hello.

“How is your poor father?” Lady Maywood asked, her sharp gray eyes inquisitive.

Lucien had answered this question at least a dozen times already that evening. He knew everyone was really asking about his mother. Lenora Sinclair’s unexpected return to Devon House had caused quite an uproar. Tongues had been wagging ever since the news got out, although everyone at Devon House had attempted to keep it as quiet as possible for as long as they could. But typically, word had somehow managed to spread, and ever since then calls were made to the house for the first time in months as the curious and gossipy society matrons attempted to inveigle their way in to see the infamous Lenora Sinclair. They had been steadfastly turned away by an impervious Granger. The Marquis and Marchioness of Stancliff were not accepting calls.

Lucien had known Lady Maywood since he was a young lad and he had never particularly cared for her or her husband, finding them both to be overbearing and pretentious. As he had done all evening he responded to them coolly but politely, not wishing to invite more scandal on the family name. “My father is much improved, thank you.” His eyes continued to scan the room for Colette.

“I’m so glad to hear it,” Lady Maywood uttered in a tone that belied her words. She then asked pointedly, “And how is your mother, Lord Waverly?”

Lucien had been expecting this question, too. “My mother is quite well, thank you.”

“Lenora Sinclair! What a shock to have her return after, what has it been? Fifteen or so years since she ran off?”

Lady Maywood’s malicious and vindictive undertone suddenly enraged Lucien. He had spent his life in the shadow of his mother’s notorious abandonment and was now expected to live down her equally scandalous homecoming. He had had enough.

“There is no need for you to feign concern regarding my family’s well-being, Lady Maywood,” he said pointedly. “So go ahead and spread your vicious rumors and gossip. I’m honored my family could provide you with enough scandalous fodder to keep you busy over the years. With any luck, there will be more to come. Good evening.”

Satisfied with the expression of complete astonishment on her pinched face, Lucien stalked off toward the veranda, leaving a flabbergasted Lord and Lady Maywood utterly speechless.

Feeling somewhat lighter than he had a few moments earlier, Lucien finally caught up with Jeffrey at the entrance to the veranda. He stepped outside and Jeffrey joined him.

“Where’s Colette?” Lucien demanded, his voice sounding edgier than he intended.

“She’s with her sister.” Jeffrey motioned a short distance away to the little table where Colette and Juliette sat together on the veranda.

Lucien then saw her, just as Jeffrey said. She and Juliette had their heads close together and were whispering. He felt relieved that she was no longer alone with his best friend.

Jeffrey casually leaned his shoulder against the brick wall of the townhouse, folding his arms across his chest, and countered with a question of his own. “Where is your future bride?”

“She has left with her parents already,” Lucien responded hurriedly, dismissing the fact as unimportant. “Listen, Jeffrey, I saw you with Colette just now, and there are some things you need to know.”

“Yes?” Jeffrey gave him an expectant look, almost challenging.

Lucien did not need to go into the intimate details about his relationship with Colette. He had to protect her reputation at least. “Well, it’s personal, but I can assure you that she’s been through quite a lot lately, and I don’t think you should be trifling with her.”

Jeffrey’s eyes narrowed. “Who says I’m trifling with her?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No. Actually I don’t.”

Put off by Jeffrey’s attitude, Lucien grew agitated. “I am merely pointing out that Colette is a very special woman, and I wouldn’t want to see her hurt in any way.”

“I’m not going to hurt her,” Jeffrey said smoothly. “I am going to marry her.”

Lucien’s laugh was loud enough to cause a few heads to turn in their direction. “You? You’re going to marry her?”

“Yes.”

At the seriousness of his friend’s tone, Lucien’s laughter died in his dry throat. Jeffrey marrying Colette was completely out of the question. It was unthinkable as far as he was concerned. “You cannot marry Colette.”

“Of course I can. She has already said yes.”

“Since when?” Lucien demanded in disbelief. It was impossible. Colette would never marry Jeffrey. Would she? He had made it more than clear to her last night that he wouldn’t marry her himself. Why wouldn’t she marry Jeffrey if he asked her? A sudden cold rush of fear washed over him. Colette is mine.

No. No, she isn’t. Not really. He had given her away. Pushed her away. He felt sick inside.

“Well, I haven’t actually asked her yet,” Jeffrey explained. “Well, not formally, anyway. But she gave me every indication her answer would be yes if I asked her.”

“She did?” Lucien was stunned, absolutely stunned, his heart suddenly beating rapidly. He’d just made love to Colette last night. Together they had made history in the history section of the bookshop, for Christ’s sake! Had that encounter meant nothing to her? How could she possibly agree to marry another man, only one night later?

The same way he had introduced her to his intended fiancée only this evening.

Jeffrey responded matter-of-factly, “Yes, she did.”

Jeffrey seemed so self-satisfied that Lucien wanted to knock him down. Instead he reiterated his main point. “I’m telling you now that you cannot marry her.”

“Why can’t I?” Jeffrey demanded angrily.

“Because she’s mine!”

The words were out of Lucien’s mouth before he realized what he had said. The thought of Colette, his beautiful, independent, passionate Colette, in the arms of his best friend almost stopped his heart cold.

“She doesn’t belong to you, Lucien,” Jeffrey uttered with a deadly calm. “She can marry whomever she chooses. As can I. Besides, what does it matter to you who Colette marries? You’re going to propose to Faith Bromleigh. Aren’t you?”

Lucien did not answer, although he had already made up his mind that he no longer had any intention of marrying Faith after all. In fact, they had parted that evening on good terms, but with the clear understanding that their brief courtship had ended. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, which did nothing to ease the anger building within him, he curled and uncurled his fists at his side.

Jeffrey’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Do you have some prior claim upon Colette I should know about?”

“My claims on Colette are none of your concern,” Lucien ground out between tightly gritted teeth. Did knowing the way Colette’s heart-melting smile lit up a room demonstrate that he had claims over her? Did kissing her passionately? Did making love with Colette in his bed or in a darkened bookshop? Did knowing just where she liked to be touched to make her cry with pleasure constitute claims? Lucien believed they did, but he was not about to enumerate them to Jeffrey. Especially when the subject of their conversation sat a few feet away from them. Instead he demanded, “What is your interest in her all of a sudden? I thought you were not planning on getting married for years.”

“Meeting Colette and her sisters has changed my mind.”

“Aren’t you leaving for France soon?”

“Yes, but not for two or three more weeks. I intend to wed Colette before I go. I’ll set her up in my house and then she can have her family stay with her or she can go to Brighton with them until I get back.”

Lucien shook his head in disbelief. This was a new Jeffrey. A Jeffrey that had made concrete plans with a woman for the future. “You’re serious about this?”

“Yes. I’ve thought it all out,” Jeffrey explained calmly. “I’m going to take care of her and her sisters. Once she’s my wife, she won’t have to toil in the bookshop any longer. Not that it matters now, since the shop has been sold.”

“Yes, I know,” Lucien said. “I’m the one who bought the shop.”

Stunned by Lucien’s comment, Jeffrey stood up straight, moving away from the wall. His lazy posture completely vanished. “You? Why would you buy the shop?”

“Because her mother was selling it and it would have broken her heart to lose it.”

Jeffrey’s voice lowered and he seemed preoccupied. “I hadn’t thought of doing that.”

“No. But I did,” Lucien stated.

“Well, once she’s my wife, she won’t have time to work any longer. I’ll keep her too busy.”

Jeffrey never even saw the solid punch that landed him flat on his back on the slate floor of the veranda. Immediately a commotion erupted. Shocked gasps and startled cries filled the night air.

“She’s fainted!” he heard Juliette cry.

Lucien turned around and saw Juliette kneeling over Colette, who lay on the ground also. Her aunt and uncle came rushing to their aid as some of Lady Hayvenhurst’s guests began to help Jeffrey to his feet.

Well, he had given the gossips quite a show that evening. Too angry with himself and the entire situation to care, he ignored the calls to him. Without a backward glance Lucien walked from the veranda as a crowd gathered around Jeffrey and the Hamilton sisters.

Later that evening, Lord Eddington’s black carriage pulled up in front of Hamilton’s Book Shoppe. Juliette Hamilton sprang from the carriage and hurriedly unlocked the door while Jeffrey half carried Colette out of the carriage and inside the shop. The one lamp that Juliette carried cast a yellow path of light as the three of them stealthily made their way to the back room of the silent bookshop.

“Sit her here,” Juliette instructed Jeffrey in a brisk whisper as she hastily removed a small stack of books from a tattered armchair in the corner of the room.

Jeffrey led a still-woozy Colette to the chair and let her fall limply onto it. Colette’s head fell back and she closed her eyes with a muffled little sigh. She was sound asleep.

“I had no idea she could get so foxed so fast,” he said in amazement, shaking his head at Colette’s helpless form.

“It’s all your fault, giving her so much champagne. Good heavens, Jeffrey! Your face!” Juliette cried, staring at the ugly purple bruise forming around his eye and upper cheekbone.

“I am a handsome devil, aren’t I?” he asked with a wicked grin.

“Oh, it looks so much worse than when we left Lady Hayvenhurst’s!” She reached out her hand and gently touched his swollen cheek with her fingers.

“Don’t press on it!” he cried out, flinching away from her. “That hurts!”

“I’m sorry!” Pulling her hand back hastily, she shook her head and bit her lip. “It’s going to look even worse tomorrow.”

“But it can’t hurt any worse than it does right now.”

“I’m afraid I have nothing down here for you to put on it. I can’t risk going upstairs just yet. Not with Colette like this,” she said worriedly. If her mother or one of her sisters happened to be awake and saw Juliette, they would wonder where Colette was. And Colette was in no shape to be seen by her family.

“That’s all right. My valet makes an excellent poultice. He’ll fix me up when I get home.”

“Can I offer a kiss to make it better?” Juliette offered with a mischievous smile.

“It can only help.” His eyes twinkled at her, making the bruise almost disappear.

Juliette rose on tiptoe and placed a soft kiss on the bruised area of Jeffrey’s face.

Crestfallen, Jeffrey frowned. “I thought you were really going to give me a kiss.”

Juliette began to giggle. “You’re so obvious, Jeffrey.” She flashed him a grin. “It seems Lord Waverly has quite a punch.”

“We both did a bit of boxing back at Oxford.” Jeffrey tenderly moved his jaw and stiffened cheek. “I’m not a bad shot myself, but I didn’t even get a chance to take a swing back at him.”

Oddly intrigued by the thought of those two fine examples of masculinity battling each other in a test of strength, Juliette mused, Which one would win that fight?

Lucien and Jeffrey’s little scuffle had caused quite a scene on the veranda. When a woozy Colette had jumped up to see what had happened, she tripped and fell. Due to Juliette’s quick thinking, everyone assumed Colette had fainted because of the altercation. Aunt Cecilia and Uncle Randall did not suspect that Colette had had too much champagne, although Uncle Randall had given her a skeptical glance, as if to imply that Juliette had done something to cause the row between Lord Eddington and Lord Waverly. When everyone was assured that Colette and Jeffrey were fine, they bundled Colette up, and she and Jeffrey hurried from Lady Hayvenhurst’s party and into Jeffrey’s carriage. Juliette was sure the gossip would be quite rife with speculation over the cause of the fight between the two friends. “I’m confident you could knock the lights out of Lucien Sinclair,” Juliette teased him.

“At times your considerable charm leaves much to be desired, Juliette,” Jeffrey remarked dryly.

Laughing at him, Juliette glanced at Colette. Her sister had chattered incessantly the entire carriage ride home. Still suffering the ill effects of too much alcohol, she now slept peacefully in the chair. “At least we can talk without Colette hearing us.”

“She’s going to have a terrible headache in the morning,” Jeffrey predicted with a regretful expression.

“The poor thing,” she murmured softly. Colette rarely appeared vulnerable, and in this instance it left Juliette feeling more than a little anxious.

“Oh, fine. She gets your sympathy, but I take a punch in the face for following your little plan and I get laughed at.”

“It’s for a noble cause, Jeffrey.” She smiled sweetly at him. “You know how much I appreciate your help.”

He gave her a skeptical look, and then they moved to sit on two overturned crates. Usually Juliette avoided the back room of the shop as much as possible. The overcrowded, windowless space used to make her feel claustrophobic. But she had to admit that it was not as bad now as she recalled. Colette had been unable to spruce up the back room as much as she had the main shop, but at least it was cleaner and more organized than when their father was alive.

“What a scene that was! What luck Lucien hit you when he did! No one noticed my intoxicated sister. If Lucien hit you, he must have been jealous,” Juliette whispered excitedly. “What did you say to him?”

Jeffrey rubbed his cheek with an unconscious motion, obviously recalling the dreadful incident. “Oh, I hit a nerve all right. I told him that I intended to marry Colette and that she had practically said yes.”

Thrilled by this development and the probable success of her plan, she laughed at the thought of Jeffrey taunting Lucien. “Oh, my! He must have believed you!”

“I don’t think he was quite sure at first, but then I convinced him.”

“Did you truly ask Colette to marry you?”

“Of course not. Even if I did, she would refuse me. She is head over heels in love with Lucien.”

“I told you she was. And this evening simply goes to prove that Lucien is in love with her, too. If he didn’t care about her, he wouldn’t have hit you.”

“They are quite serious with each other,” Jeffrey ventured quietly with a knowing look at Juliette. “If you take my meaning.”

Of course Juliette knew, but she was stunned that Jeffrey knew how intimate Colette and Lucien had become. “How did you find out?”

He motioned his head toward Colette with a wry look. “Apparently too much champagne makes your sister rather talkative.”

“I can’t believe she told you something like that.” Knowing that Colette would be mortified when she realized what she had revealed to Jeffrey, Juliette cringed.

Jeffrey seemed a little offended by her remark. “I’m a trustworthy fellow.”

Juliette apologized. “I didn’t mean that as a slight against your character, Jeffrey. It’s just that Colette is so private, I am shocked she told anyone besides me.”

He nodded. “Lucien did not tell me, either, if that is what you were thinking. He’s too much of a gentleman.”

Juliette wondered how much of a gentleman Lucien was if he refused to marry her sister after taking her virtue.

Jeffrey quietly inquired, “Were you aware that Lucien purchased the bookshop?”

Blazes! If Jeffrey had told her that he had suddenly sprouted wings and had learned to fly, she couldn’t have been more astounded. Unable to speak, Juliette simply stared at him.

An amused smile flickered across his handsome face. “Well, well, well. It seems I finally knew something before the infamous Juliette did.”

“He didn’t really buy the shop, did he?” she asked breathlessly, still in awe of the earth-shattering news he had just shared with her. “Lucien is the anonymous buyer?”

“That’s what he told me, and I have no reason to believe that he’d lie about something like that.”

“No, of course not. If Lucien told you, then I’m sure he did buy it. But why would he do such a thing?”

“To prevent Colette’s heart from being broken,” Jeffrey clarified. “Or so he told me when I asked him.”

Juliette was stunned. “He said that? That he purchased the shop to protect Colette?”

“Yes, he did. If you did not know Lucien bought the shop, the real question is, does Colette know?” he asked.

“She would have told me something so important!” Wouldn’t she? Perhaps Colette didn’t know either. Although they now knew whom the anonymous buyer was, questions upon questions still niggled at Juliette. Why did Lucien keep it a secret? What had he intended to do with the building? Had he wished for the shop to stay in Colette’s care, since she was the motivation behind his purchase?

“So what happens now, Miss Master Plan?” Jeffrey interrupted her thoughts.

“Now, we wait.”

“Wait for what? For Lucien to beat the devil out of me?”

“No.” She managed a wry smile. “But you do need to stay away from him for a while until he discovers that you have no true designs on Colette. In the meantime, I have a feeling things will happen rather quickly.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

The Plot Thickens

About to begin their reading session, Lucien sat with Simon in his bedroom. Exhausted after a seemingly endless and sleepless night, Lucien found himself at loose ends the next day and wandered into his father’s chamber.

For the past week his mother had spent much of her time with Simon. To Lucien’s complete amazement, she had moved back into Devon House with his father’s blessings. The two of them acted as if the years of separation had not happened. Lucien could not quite understand it. Too much had happened too quickly for him to absorb. “You and Mother seem to be getting along well. It’s almost as if she never left,” Lucien remarked to his father. Lenora had gone out shopping that afternoon and Lucien used the time to visit with Simon alone.

His father smiled brightly, appearing more alive than he had in months.

“You’re not going to explain to me what happened with you and Mother, are you?”

Simon shook his head. “It’s p-private. Sh-she knows the truth. I know the t-truth now.”

Lucien tilted his head, feeling somewhat angry. Her devastating departure had affected him just as much as, if not more than, his father, and they did not see fit to explain to him why. “And am I never to know the reason my mother left me for most of my life?”

Simon actually looked embarrassed, his head hung low. “M-maybe Mother will tell you.”

“Well then,” Lucien picked up David Copperfield, idly running his finger across the golden embossed lettering. “I suppose there is nothing left to say, is there?” With a heavy heart he held the book that Colette had been reading to his father, suddenly feeling her absence like a knife in his side.

“Marry her.”

Startled by not just the clarity of Simon’s words but their implications, Lucien glanced up. He knew his father referred to Colette, but it seemed he was under a misguided impression.

“She’s going to marry Jeffrey Eddington.” Lucien still could not believe it. If he had not heard the words directly from Jeffrey himself he would not have believed the story at all. The very idea of the two of them together made him feel like hitting Jeffrey again. Apparently last night’s pummeling of his oldest friend did not quite satisfy him.

Lady Hayvenhurst’s had been a disaster. He had caused a scene and enough gossip and speculation to keep society wagging its tongues for weeks.

At least he had finally seen through the folly of thinking he could spend his life married to someone like Faith Bromleigh. She was a sweet girl, to be sure, but completely wrong for him. He simply couldn’t do it.

But learning that his best friend intended to marry the woman who tempted him above all others left him still in shock.

“No.” His father shook his head adamantly. “No, she won’t. She loves you.”

Granger stepped into the room. “Excuse me, my lord, but there is a Miss Hamilton waiting to see you downstairs. She’s in the blue drawing room.”

Stunned, Lucien stood up with a jolt, the copy of David Copperfield falling to the floor at his feet. Colette has come to see me? The sudden pounding of his heart startled him. He felt like a giddy schoolboy at the mere thought of seeing her.

His father’s broad smile lit up his face. “Hurry. G-go to her,” he instructed with a wave of his good arm.

Leaving his father in Granger’s care, Lucien wasted no time in getting downstairs, yet the whole time his mind was spinning with questions. Why has she come? What does she want from me? Admittedly he still felt angry with her for her bitter reaction to his buying the bookshop. And he was none too pleased with her for practically agreeing to marry Jeffrey Eddington less than twenty-four hours after they had been so intimate in the bookshop.

Yes, he had quite a few things he wanted to say to Miss Colette Hamilton.

He eagerly opened the door to the blue drawing room and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Juliette Hamilton seated calmly upon the velvet sofa, regarding him with something akin to amusement.

“Juliette?” he questioned, unable to conceal the surprise in his voice and overwhelmed with disappointment that it was not Colette who had come to see him.

“Good afternoon, Lord Waverly.”

Her superior smile gave him pause and, as was usually the case whenever Lucien was with Juliette, irritated him. “What are you doing here?”

“Were you expecting Colette, perhaps? I’m terribly sorry to disappoint you.”

Her sarcastic yet deadly accurate assessment of the situation only further irritated his already frayed nerves. Devil take her! What did Juliette Hamilton want with him? He advanced farther into the drawing room, stopping near the sofa.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest. She looked directly at him, her blue eyes so similar to Colette’s that he almost fell over. Did all those Hamilton sisters have to look so disconcertingly alike?

“I thought we should have a little chat.” Her voice was soft.

“Why do you and your sister insist upon going out without a chaperone?” He frowned at her.

Ignoring his question, she inquired instead, “Aren’t you the least bit interested in what I have to say?”

“No,” he snapped in frustration.

“Please sit down, Lucien, and listen to me.”

Struck by the unexpected pleading note in her tone, Lucien felt a sense of unease grow within his chest. Perhaps something happened to Colette. “Is Colette well?”

Juliette flashed a funny little smile. “She’s feeling a little under the weather today, but she will no doubt recover soon enough.”

Perplexed by Juliette’s attitude and at her very presence at his house, Lucien figured he had better find out what she was up to. And with Juliette, it could be anything. Seating himself on the striped damask chair nearest the blue sofa upon which she sat, he commanded, “All right, then. Enlighten me as to the purpose of your visit, Juliette.”

She took a deep breath before beginning. “I have something important to share with you, but before I reveal it, I wish to confirm a few points with you first.”

Something important? It can only be about Colette. Why else would Juliette be here? Intrigued more than he cared to admit, Lucien wordlessly motioned for her to continue.

“Is it true that you purchased the bookshop from my mother?” she asked.

So Colette had told her. Lucien wondered how the rest of her sisters felt about the news. Hopefully they were happier than Colette was when she found out. “Yes, I did,” he stated.

“May I ask why?” She arched a delicate eyebrow in his direction.

“I thought that was obvious. I purchased the shop because I wanted to help your family.”

“And Colette?” she asked in a manner meant to prompt more of a response from him.

“Yes, of course, I did it to help Colette as well.”

“I know you have feelings for her, Lucien.”

“Why are you here, Juliette?” He uttered the words edgily, not wishing to discuss his feelings for her sister when he was not sure of them himself.

Juliette became a little nervous, which was unusual for her. “Well, it seems I find myself in a situation.”

“Why does that not surprise me in the slightest?” he asked dryly. Juliette was a master at creating situations.

She ignored his barb and continued. “I know you are in love with Colette, a fact that was made even more obvious to me by the fact that you bought the shop for her. My sister tells me everything, so I know she is in love with you, but you are both too blind to admit it to each other.”

Lucien had had just about enough of the Hamilton sisters declaring they knew his feelings better than he did. First Paulette told him he was in love with Colette, and now Juliette had the audacity to come to his own home to tell him how he felt. What was it about that family? They had gotten under his skin somehow and he couldn’t shake them. His feelings for Colette alone had him in knots. Good God, he hoped Colette had not told Juliette everything they had done! “Are you quite through?”

“No.”

Juliette’s blatant answer caught him off guard. “No?” he echoed.

“No,” she said with determination, her small chin rising up. “I’m not finished yet.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you,” he flung back at her.

“You aren’t going to marry Faith Bromleigh after all, are you?”

He could not lie. “No. We agreed we did not suit.”

“Thank heaven for small favors!” Juliette exclaimed with a great sigh. “I thought you had taken leave of your senses when I heard you were interested in marrying that one. Really, Lucien, she would have bored you to an early grave—”

“Aside from annoying me, is there a point to your being here, Juliette?” he interrupted with an impatient look, very near the end of his tether with her bold statements and attitude.

“I am only trying to help you.”

“If this is your idea of helping me,” he said with a grimace, “I shudder to think what you would do if you were trying to do me harm.”

Juliette actually laughed, the light sound filling the room. “Well, you do possess a sense of humor after all. I had my doubts that you had one, Lucien. Now would you like me to tell you something that would ease your mind?”

“That would be refreshing.”

Again she smiled, tilting her head to the side. “I’m beginning to like you.”

“Juliette?” he prompted with impatience. Would the chit never get to the point?

“Very well, then.” She swallowed nervously before she spoke. “We are all quite aware of your feelings for Colette and hers for you—”

“Have we not covered this already?”

“If you would you let me finish?” she countered evenly.

“Fine.” Jesus, but Juliette Hamilton could drive a man to drink.

“And knowing as we did that you were making a terrible mistake with Faith Bromleigh, Jeffrey and I thought we could do something to help.”

His eyes narrowed and he looked at her suspiciously, a gnawing feeling of concern building within him. “To help me?”

“Yes, to help you from making a mistake that would haunt you for the rest of your life,” she said simply. “I had this brilliant little plan that if you were led to believe that Colette was going to marry Jeffrey, you would become jealous enough to ask her to marry her yourself, which is what you should have done in the first place.”

“You mean to say that you wheedled Jeffrey into lying to me last night about his interest in Colette?” Lucien could barely contain his anger enough to utter the words.

She nodded in admission of her part in the scheme. “But we didn’t expect you to flatten him.”

“So you and Jeffrey have had quite a good laugh at my expense.”

“No! Not at all!” she protested her eyes growing wide. “Honestly, Lucien, Jeffrey and I did this only with the best intentions. We just wanted you and Colette to be happy together.”

Lucien’s head fell in his hands and he rubbed his eyes with his fingers. He’d made a spectacle of himself last night and punched his best friend, for no apparent reason. No, perhaps there was a good reason. Jeffrey deserved a good wallop for tricking him so cruelly. Wearily he lifted his head and looked at Juliette. “Does Colette know about this?”

Juliette pressed her gloved hands tightly together and leaned forward, her expression quite earnest. “She has no idea, and she had no part in any of this. I swear to you, Lucien. The plan was only between Jeffrey and me. Colette had so much champagne last night, I doubt she is even aware that Jeffrey took us home. She doesn’t know anything of what Jeffrey said to you about the two of them, or that you hit him because of it. She would more than likely be angry with us both, if she did know.”

“And you think I’m not going to be angry with you?” he snapped.

“I was hoping you would understand that no harm was intended.”

“Well, you hoped wrong.”

They sat in tense silence for some minutes. Lucien was angry on many levels. At Juliette for meddling. At Jeffrey for conspiring against him. He felt betrayed and manipulated by both of them. But for all that, he could only think of Colette. It seemed he was in love with Colette, and apparently everyone knew it but him.

Finally he looked at Juliette. “So what was your purpose in telling me this now?”

She relaxed somewhat at the softness of his tone. “I wanted to apologize to you. I realize it was a mistake. And I could not bear for you to stay angry with Jeffrey when he was completely innocent in all this.”

“I would not say he was completely innocent. He did go along with your scatterbrained scheme to dupe me.”

“Yes, he did,” she agreed, “but only because he knew, just as I did, that it was for the best. He truly has no interest in marrying Colette. He just said that to rile you up.”

“And sitting intimately with her on the veranda? I’m sure you had to twist his arm to do that?”

“Well, we had to set it up.” She shrugged helplessly. “You had to believe something was happening between them. We didn’t expect Colette to drink so much and confide in him.”

He had a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. “What exactly did Colette confide in Jeffrey?”

Juliette became somewhat flustered, but managed to convey the crux of Jeffrey’s conversation with Colette. “Uh…that the two of you had been rather…intimate of late and—”

“Jesus!” he cried. Did the whole world need to know his private business? Now Jeffrey knew about his relationship with Colette. Now that he thought about it, he was surprised Jeffrey hadn’t punched him in the face.

“Lucien,” she said soothingly. “I realize you don’t have any brothers or sisters—”

“For which I am eternally grateful.”

Juliette continued as if he had not interrupted her. “My point is that siblings help one another. At least, that is the way it works in my family.”

“Yet I assume Colette has no idea you are here with me right now, does she?”

“Of course not.”

“So once again, you are taking matters into your own hands and meddling where you don’t belong.”

She bristled at his criticism. “I wouldn’t quite put it that way.”

Lucien rose from the chair, looming over her. “Well, I would and I have had quite enough of it. I’ll not listen to another word from you. Go home now. And keep your mouth closed and keep yourself out of my business.” He turned and pulled the long cloth-covered cord that rang a bell in the servants’ quarters.

Unfazed by his ire, Juliette stood and eyed him levelly. “What do you intend to do now?”

“That is none of your business. Go home, Juliette.” Lucien strode purposefully to the drawing room door and opened it wide, giving her a clear indication that he wished her to walk through it.

“Fine,” she muttered in a bit of a huff, stepping toward the door. She turned back to him before making her exit and added, “Just remember that Jeffrey and I were only trying to make sure you and Colette didn’t ruin your lives.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Oh, yes, you most certainly do!” she cried vehemently.

“Good afternoon, Miss Hamilton,” he said with finality.

“Good afternoon, Lord Waverly.” Her frosty tone left no doubt as to her feelings for him. A footman appeared to escort her to the front door.

With a weary sigh, he shook his head at the strange encounter with Colette’s sister. Just as he had guessed, Juliette Hamilton and Jeffrey Eddington together were a dangerous combination. Between them there existed no sense of caution or common sense. What a mess they had created!

Walking toward the window, he pulled back the long silk drapes and peered out at the cobblestone street below. Rain had begun to fall. People with umbrellas hurried by, going about their daily business, living their own lives, trying not to get drenched in the downpour. He pressed his head against the cool pane of glass streaked with raindrops, sorely tempted to put his fist through it in frustration.

Colette. Colette.

Lucien did not want to wed Faith Bromleigh and Jeffrey did not want to marry Colette. It should all be so simple. Unfortunately it was not. They said Colette loved him, but Lucien was not quite so sure.

And they all believed that he was in love with her. Was he? He had not felt this way when he was wildly in love with Virginia Warren. He felt a thousand times more for Colette than he ever had for Virginia. That should tell him something.

And it did.

His intense feelings for her told him to run as fast as he could from Colette Hamilton.

“Lucien?”

Not turning around at the sound of her now-familiar voice, Lucien stood still and did not immediately answer to the call of his name.

“Lucien, may I come in and speak to you for a moment?”

“Of course, Mother, “he murmured absently, still not facing her, his eyes riveted on the street below and the people walking by, the muffled sound of their footsteps on the wet road.

“I couldn’t help but notice Miss Hamilton leaving. She is the sister of your friend Colette, is she not? The one who reads to your father?”

“Yes.” He finally turned to look at her. His mother. Lenora stood before him, her eyes full of concern and a yearning that he could not define. Lucien had still not grown accustomed to her constant presence in his home.

“Lucien, I know I have not earned the right to be treated as your mother, but I would desperately like for us to be friends.”

“Sit down, Mother. If you wish to have a talk, we might as well be comfortable.” With a resigned sigh, he motioned for her to sit. Then he made his way to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of whisky from the crystal decanter. He took a long gulp.

“You’re drinking so early?”

He did not even acknowledge her.

Lenora took Juliette’s place on the blue sofa and Lucien reluctantly returned to his place on the chair. With his drink still in his hand, he looked at her expectantly.

Lenora wrung her hands in a nervous motion. “You were so young when I left that now I’m not sure how to resume our relationship. You are not a little boy anymore, but you are still my son.”

Good Lord, what did she want from him? Hadn’t she hurt him enough over the years? “What is it that you want, Mother?”

“I…I’m not sure entirely. I suppose I want us to at least be friendly to each other. Your father has forgiven me, and I have forgiven him, which has eased my heart greatly as well as his.” She gazed at him, her fine brows furrowed in sorrow. “But you…I don’t know how to make it up to you, Lucien. How can I atone for deserting you, my own little son, who was innocent of any wrongdoing?”

Lucien remained quiet for some time, lost in memories of his childhood. There were times he wished his mother had simply died. It would have been easier to bear had that been the case. Easier to explain to his friends. Easier to hold his head up. Then he could have cherished her memory instead of being tormented by her absence. At least he would have understood her death as something beyond his control, whereas he had taken her abandonment personally. He had believed he had been the cause of her flight, for what mother would ever leave a child she loved? “Perhaps you could explain to me why you left? As the innocent party, as you say, I think I have a right to know.”

She nodded sadly, her green eyes full of regret and pain. “Yes, I suppose I owe you that much. It’s a complicated story, and even when I look back now I don’t understand why I did what I did, or why your father did what he did for that matter. We were both foolish and stubborn…”

He waited for her to continue, anxious to know what had happened all those years ago to cause her to leave him.

A soft expression came over her face as she spoke. “I fell in love with your father the moment I met him at my coming-out ball when I was eighteen, and I just knew from the first time he held my hand that I wanted him to hold me forever. Simon was charming and handsome and full of life. We married a few months later in a very small, quiet affair. Simon and I were ridiculously happy together and we were over the moon with joy when you were born, Lucien.”

Her look of adoration moved him more than he cared to admit. “Go on.”

“Oh, how we both doted on you! You were an amazing child, Lucien, truly. So sweet and funny, and so smart. You constantly delighted us. Simon and I wanted to have more children, but I had…I could not…I lost…For years we tried but, for some reason…God chose not to bless us with another baby. It was a very stressful and heartbreaking time for me, and your father and I began to have…well…difficulties, shall we say? Because of that he turned to another woman for comfort. Unfortunately that woman was a dear friend of mine. A very dear friend. When I found out, I became incensed. In an attempt to hurt Simon I became involved with Count Acciani, who was in London visiting his sister. Antonio was young and handsome and madly in love with me, so it was easy enough to make Simon jealous with him. Naturally Simon was furious when he discovered me kissing Antonio one night. We fought bitterly. Terribly. Oh, this is not easy to explain, Lucien.”

His mother paused for a moment, unsure if she should continue. With her cheeks flushed pink, her embarrassment was evident.

“Go on, Mother. It’s all right,” he urged her, fascinated by this glimpse into his parents’ past.

“Well…Then a small miracle happened, and I discovered I was going to have a baby. I suppose I had made your father a little too jealous, because he refused to believe the child was his, even though it was. I knew without a doubt it was Simon’s baby, for Antonio and I had not…we had only kissed…well…you understand how I could know such a thing. Simon, in a rage, did not believe me and had me thrown out of Devon House. He refused to let me see you. Oh, what a terrible scene that was!”

Lucien placed the unfinished glass of whisky on the table and stared speechlessly at his mother. He tried to recall when she left, but could not remember a particular night or event. She was just simply gone one day, like the sun disappearing behind a dark cloud. He felt oddly conflicted at her story. Not knowing what to expect when she began her tale, he was certain he had not expected this.

Her voice grew low. “I had no money and nowhere to go, since my own parents had passed away, and your father had turned all our friends against me, painting me in the worst light. Who else could I turn to but the other man who loved me? Antonio, dear sweet Antonio, took me in when no one else would. I was carrying my husband’s child, but no one believed me. Except of course, for Antonio, because he knew the truth. He knew, just as well as I, that it was Simon’s child. He even attempted to tell Simon, but Simon would not believe him. So we fled to Italy. I had no other option. It tore my heart out to leave you and your father, but I had no choice. He would not let me back. I wrote you both, letter after letter, for years. But Simon never responded to me, and obviously he did not allow you to see any of my letters to you. I suppose it was easier for him to let you believe your mother was a heartless creature rather than to explain his own jealous rage and stubborn pride. Oh, Lucien, you have no idea how I cried every day, endless tears, over missing you.”

Reeling from these revelations, Lucien began to feel tendrils of sympathy grow for his mother for the first time in his life. “And the child?” he asked, his throat dry.

Lenora’s eyes became misty. “Oh, I had the child. Simon’s child. A beautiful little girl. I named her Katherine, after my mother. Antonio adored her and treated her as his own daughter. We lived in a small villa in Tuscany and everyone just assumed Antonio was my husband. But he knew I was still legally wed to and in love with my husband. He loved me anyway, and he was good to me.”

Astounded to learn that he had a sister, a little sister who had to be close to Paulette Hamilton’s age, Lucien’s head spun. For the last fifteen years he’d had a sister he knew nothing about. “Where is Katherine now?”

“Last year she and Antonio caught a fever…” Lenora choked on a sob and fumbled for a handkerchief. “I lost both of them within days of each other.”

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, feeling a strange overwhelming sense of loss for the sister he had never known. And somehow, in his mind’s eye, he could not help but picture his sister looking like Paulette Hamilton. “I had no idea.”

“Of course you didn’t,” she sniffled, dabbing her eyes with her monogrammed handkerchief. “You were too young to know when I left. And all these years, I stayed foolishly hidden. I should have stood my ground with Simon and let him see Katherine for himself. For all that I named her after my mother, she was the spitting image of Simon’s mother. He would not have been able to deny her as his child had he seen her. But I was too afraid he would deny her, too. It was only after I lost Katherine and Antonio that I realized I had nothing to lose by returning to London. And only my son to gain.”

He gazed at his mother as if seeing her for the first time. His heart broke for her.

“I returned to London determined to see you and your father, but once I arrived I was overcome with trepidation. I had no idea what Simon had said to you, and I assumed you hated me. When I learned that your father was ill, it only made me more anxious to see him. And you. But it was you I feared the most. I was long accustomed to Simon shutting me out of his life, but if you shut me out too, I didn’t think I could bear that hurt. That’s why I wrote you first. When you didn’t respond I was devastated. And when I finally received your letter, it gave me a glimmer of hope and I could not wait any longer to see you.”

That day conjured mixed emotions within him, the joy at seeing his mother again and the anger at her for years of desertion.

She continued to wipe her tears as she spoke. “Seeing your father so changed was quite a shock to me. I still pictured him as I did when I left, young and vital. He is so weakened and frail now.”

“He has improved dramatically since you’ve been here,” Lucien stated softly.

“I believe we have come to find a sort of peace between us now. We have been talking about everything that has happened. And I have told him about Katherine, his daughter. Years of pain and regret tend to wear a heart down, making it easier to forgive…” Her voice faltered as she looked at Lucien.

Filled with a profound sadness, Lucien moved to sit beside his mother on the sofa and put his arm around her. He held her awkwardly at first. She felt tiny and fragile. Then she kissed his cheek and hugged him to her in a tight embrace.

“I am so sorry, Lucien,” she gasped with an agonized sob, finally releasing him. “Your father and I have made a such terrible mess of your life.”

“I know now that was never your intention.” Feeling the years of heartbreak and the terrible sadness that had affected each of their lives, he was overwhelmed.

“Can you ever forgive me?” she asked, searching his face with her eyes.

He nodded, unable. “I don’t know. But I feel better at least knowing the truth.”

“Perhaps we can start over? We can at least try to get to know one another again.” Her voice was full of hope.

After spending his life wondering what had happened to her and if she had ever really loved him, a small degree of peace settled within Lucien’s heart at having her with him once again.

“I know you don’t need a mother at your age,” she continued, “but I can try to be a mother to you anyway.”

“I would like that.” He smiled at her, and Lenora began to cry with happiness.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Morning After

Colette held her hands to her throbbing temples. Good heavens, but her head ached. She had vague memories of the night before and did not care for any of them. She also had the distinct impression that Jeffrey and Juliette had been secretive about something that had to do with her. Try as she might, she could not recall what it was about.

However, she clearly remembered seeing Lucien with Faith Bromleigh on Lady Hayvenhurst’s veranda. Wishing that was the image she could not recall, she rubbed her forehead with the pads of her fingertips as she leaned against the counter. She was grateful for the pouring rain outside, if only for the fact that it meant few if any customers would be visiting the shop that day.

“No, Yvette. Don’t put that there,” she called to her sister.

Yvette spun around, her long blond hair pulled back from her face with a wide cherry-colored ribbon that perfectly matched her dark blue dress with vertical red pin stripes. “Oh. Where does it go, then?” she asked, holding the science textbook in her hand.

“If you can climb the ladder, it belongs on the top shelf. Over there in the science section. Do you see?”

Yvette nodded eagerly. “Oh, I can climb up there.”

Her little sister was desperately trying to help her in the shop, something Yvette rarely volunteered to do. Colette had the sinking suspicion that Juliette had put her up to it, for some reason. As Yvette climbed the ladder, Colette folded her arms on the counter and rested her pounding head in them.

She would never drink champagne again for as long as she lived.

Last night had been dreadful.

But not as dreadful as the coming week would be. She did not even know why she bothered having Yvette reshelve the science book, since everything would have to be packed into boxes soon. What difference did it make? They were leaving London and the shop.

She groaned audibly at the thought of the work involved in closing up the bookshop.

“Colette, are you all right?” Yvette yelled from the top of the ladder.

Her sister’s shrill voice almost split Colette’s skull in two. She mumbled a faint yes, her head still buried in her arms. The light jingling of the bells over the door, which sounded like the clanging of the gates of hell, brought forth another moan from Colette as she slowly raised her head to see who entered the shop.

“Oh, it’s you,” she whispered and managed to hold up her head with her hands, her elbows resting on the counter. She could not help but notice the ugly bruise under his eye. “What happened to your face?”

“I’ll explain that later.” Jeffrey shrugged off his wet overcoat and placed it with his hat on the brass hat rack near the door. Turning back to face her, he asked cheerily, “And how are we feeling today?”

His amused smile did not amuse her. “This is all your fault,” she muttered.

“I don’t recall forcing you to drink that much champagne.”

“No, but you started it.”

“Now that I will take credit for.” He laughed at her then, but added sympathetically, “I know it does not feel that way at the moment, but you will feel better again soon.”

“Hello there!”

Jeffrey spun around at the sound of Yvette’s voice. She still stood at the top of the ladder, looking down at them both most curiously.

Jeffrey glanced between Colette and Yvette, blinking in surprise. He said to Colette, “I don’t believe I have met this one yet.”

“This is Yvette. The baby of the family,” Colette whispered wearily.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get over how much the five of you girls look alike,” Jeffrey marveled, shaking his head at Colette. “She looks like a miniature version of you with blond hair.”

“And I’m not a baby. I just happen to be the youngest,” Yvette declared from her perch on the ladder.

Jeffrey made his way over to her. “And I am honored to meet you, Miss Yvette. I am Lord Jeffrey Eddington.”

“Oh. So you’re Jeffrey Eddington. I’ve heard my sisters talk about you,” Yvette murmured, somewhat in awe. If Colette had not felt so terrible, she might have laughed in amusement at the spellbound expression on Yvette’s face.

“Good things, I hope?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye.

“I think so,” she said hesitantly. “Mostly good things.”

Laughing out loud at the implications of her innocently uttered words, Jeffrey gave Yvette the thrill of her life when he gallantly held out his hand to help her from the ladder. With a smile of adoration on her face, she took his hand and gracefully stepped down the wooden rungs.

“Why thank you, Lord Eddington. It’s so refreshing to meet a true gentleman,” Yvette stated with a touching sincerity that only a thirteen-year-old could show. As if she were the grandest lady in the land, she gave him a proud look.

Jeffrey intuitively sensed how important it was for Yvette to be taken seriously. “I must say it’s refreshing to meet a young lady who can recognize a true gentleman when she meets one.” Releasing her hand, he bowed elegantly.

Jeffrey certainly had a skill for winning women over with his charm, and Colette knew there would be no living with Yvette after this little interlude. The sophisticated airs she would put on for the next few days would be insufferable.

Yvette asked, “How did you get such a terrible bruise?”

“It seems I accidentally stepped on someone’s toes,” he explained vaguely.

The door to the shop flew open, bells clanging wildly, and Juliette rushed in, the sound of the rain splashing in the street suddenly louder until she closed the door with a slam. They turned to look at her.

“Oh, it’s simply dreadful out there! I’m drenched.” And indeed, the hem of her gown was damp past her ankles. Juliette tossed her wet umbrella to the floor with a grimace and glanced up in surprise. “Jeffrey! I didn’t know you were here!” she cried.

“I just had the pleasure of meeting Miss Yvette Hamilton,” Jeffrey announced to her.

“That’s nice,” she murmured distractedly. “Yvette, I need to speak to Colette and Lord Eddington privately.”

“And you wish for me to go upstairs?” Yvette asked with a gracious tone.

“Would you please?”

“Of course. Again, it was an honor meeting you, Lord Eddington,” she said, bowing prettily.

“The honor and the pleasure were all mine. Good afternoon.” Jeffrey beamed at her as she turned and left them in the shop. “She’s quite a little lady, that one, isn’t she?”

“I don’t know how you could keep a straight face with the way you spoke to her, Jeffrey,” Colette murmured before placing her head back down on her arms.

“Because she is an adorable child,” he defended himself. “And your sister.”

“Wake up, Colette. I have something to tell you, and it’s just as well that Jeffrey is here,” Juliette announced as she moved nearer to the counter.

Once again Colette made the tremendous effort to lift her throbbing head. “What?” she asked, noting the guarded glance between Juliette and Jeffrey. “If this is about last night, I don’t believe I have the strength to hear it.”

Juliette sighed heavily. “It’s about more than last night. I think I’ve made a terrible mess of things.”

“What things?” Colette asked in confusion.

Juliette flashed a nervous glance once again at Jeffrey before answering. He shrugged innocently and held up his hands without guilt. Juliette began slowly, “I just came from Devon House.”

Colette felt her pulse quicken at the mention of Lucien’s home. What had Juliette done? Had she spoken to Lucien? The worried expression on her sister’s face caused an uncomfortable unease to spread within her. “What on earth were you doing there?”

“Trying to explain to Lucien that Jeffrey has no intention of marrying you.”

Stunned, Colette stared at Juliette blankly, trying to take in what she said, but her aching head seemed to make no sense of the words. “What did you say?”

Jeffrey spoke up. “Last night I gave Lucien the idea that you and I were going to wed. As you can see,” he pointed to his face, “the idea did not sit well with him.”

“Lucien hit you?” she cried incredulously, her head spinning with their descriptions of the event. She recalled a commotion while on the veranda, and everyone thinking she had fainted. She cringed at the memory. “I don’t understand any of this. And I honestly don’t think I want to hear any more.” With a groan she put her head back down.

“You had better explain it to her from the beginning, Juliette. It’s not fair to confuse her when she’s in such a bad way.” Jeffrey walked toward the counter and began to rub Colette’s back. “Poor girl.”

Juliette came around and sat on the other stool. She leaned in close to Colette and said, “All right, then. I confess that I should have minded my own business and left things to work out for themselves between you and Lucien.”

Colette’s head flew up so fast she almost fell off the stool. With her pounding head and pounding heart, she could barely see straight. What had the two of them been up to? And what did anything have to do with her and Lucien? “Between me and Lucien? There is nothing between me and Lucien!”

“There’s no need to get so upset,” Juliette attempted to soothe her. “We know everything, Colette. We know Lucien bought the bookshop.”

The appalled look on her face must have given them both pause, because they looked remorseful. “What have you done?” Colette whispered.

Hesitating and reluctant to reveal the truth, Juliette began slowly. “We knew that Lucien was making a terrible mistake in marrying Faith Bromleigh when he is so obviously in love with you, and we thought we would help the situation along a little, by making Lucien jealous.”

Jeffrey continued to rub her back. “So I told Lucien last night that I had suggested marriage to you and you agreed.” He smiled wickedly at her and motioned to the marks on his face. “You see how he reacted to the thought of you with another man?”

Feeling nauseous now, Colette wanted to cry. “Are you sure he didn’t simply hit you because you are annoying?”

Jeffrey laughed. “That thought did cross my mind, but as I was lying on Lady Hayvenhurst’s veranda, it occurred to me that in all the years I’ve known Lucien Sinclair, he has never hit me. Not once. Not even when I more than likely deserved to be hit. No, Colette, this reaction could only have been prompted by his feelings for you.”

Colette had no response. She did not know what to say. Did Lucien have feelings for her? Had Lucien truly hit Jeffery out of jealousy over her?

Although she knew Juliette and Jeffrey, sweet Jeffrey, were only trying to help her, their meddling in her affairs made her angry.

“After Lucien hit Jeffrey, I realized perhaps that things had gone too far and I went to speak to Lucien this afternoon,” Juliette confessed.

“Oh, you didn’t!” Colette cried in despair.

Juliette stated tersely, “I did.”

“And just how did that go?” Jeffrey asked curiously.

“Not well. He was less than thrilled with our little plan,” Juliette explained. “But I think he will calm down and come to his senses eventually. The good news is that he is not going to marry Faith Bromleigh.”

Stunned, Colette stared at them. “He’s not?”

“No, he is not,” Juliette said. “And he told me so himself.”

“There, you see?” Jeffrey added with a grin. “He’s in love with you.”

Too weak to respond, Colette put her head back in her arms.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

A Change of Heart

“Where have you been?” Lenora asked with a worried expression. “You’ve been gone for three days.”

“I am well aware of how long I’ve been gone,” Lucien responded, continuing up the front staircase of Devon House, carrying a small suitcase.

“But you didn’t tell us you were going anywhere.” His mother followed close behind him, her anxious words hovering around him.

“I sent word.” Unused to having a mother check up on him, he almost wanted to laugh at her anxiety. For over fifteen years she had no idea what he was doing at any given time. Now she was worried.

“Yesterday! Last night we finally received word that you would be home today. Your father and I were worried about you. Where have you been all this time, Lucien?”

He strode into his bedchamber and tossed his bag on a nearby chair. “I just needed to clear my head. I needed to get away. As you can see, I am fine. There is no reason to worry.”

Lenora sighed with resignation. “Well, I suppose not, but still…We were concerned. Your father said it was not like you to just leave without word. Is everything all right?”

Was everything all right? Lucien was still not even sure. He had left in an attempt to get some clarity, some perspective on things. Time away had only made him more confused. He could not stop thinking of Colette. He had not seen her since the terrible night at Lady Hayvenhurst’s when he had punched his best friend. But Jeffrey’s words had echoed over and over in his head. As well as Juliette’s.

He needed to see Colette. Three days of contemplating his situation with her had left him maddeningly frustrated and still unclear of what to do about any of it. The only blessing was that he had the foresight to end his ridiculous association with the Bromleighs. Nice people though they were, he and Faith would be miserable together.

Colette was something else altogether. He could not stop thinking of her and wanting to be with her. He adored her family, in spite of Juliette’s meddling. Colette had completely won over his father. She loved her family, and her loyalty to them was astonishing. He found her intelligent and charming. Lucien respected and even admired her ability to manage the bookshop. She was witty and fun to be with, and of course, there was the sex. He desired her more than any woman he had ever known.

And after his jealous reaction to Jeffrey’s plan to marry her, he finally came to the realization that perhaps he was in love with her after all.

He was in love with a woman he was terrified to marry and who, at the moment, wanted nothing to do with him.

“Will you be joining us for dinner?”

Distracted, Lucien glanced at his mother as if just noticing her presence for the first time. “I’m sorry. No. No, I don’t think I’ll be able to join you this evening.”

“Are you going out again?”

“Yes, I suppose I am,” he replied slowly.

“Are you going to see Miss Hamilton?” she asked.

He did not answer.

“She was here yesterday.”

He eyed his mother sharply, his heart suddenly racing. Colette had come to see me?

She looked at him knowingly and continued talking. “Yes, Miss Hamilton came by to finish the library before she leaves town. In fact, she was here most of the day. She had dozens of books delivered, along with the rest of the furniture. The library looks quite grand now. Wait until you see it. She even read to your father.” Lenora paused, thoughtfully tilting her head at him.

Lucien still said nothing, somehow not surprised by Colette’s determination to finish the job she agreed to do in spite of their differences. He had grown to admire that quality in her.

“She’s a lovely girl. We had a nice little chat, she and I.” His mother turned to leave the room. She gave him an enigmatic smile. “Good luck, Lucien.”

Looking back at her, Lucien grinned.

The elegant sign on the door of Hamilton’s Book Shoppe had been turned to read “Closed,” but Lucien ignored it and opened the door anyway. The bells jingled a now-familiar tune as he let himself in the little shop. He should warn Colette to always lock the door when the store was closed. What if a thief wandered into the store with Colette there alone? It was too careless of her not to lock the door.

He stopped short in surprise as he looked around him. Four pairs of blue eyes stared at him. Juliette, Lisette, Paulette, and Yvette Hamilton stood looking at him curiously. Colette was nowhere in sight. They were in the process of packing books into crates, obviously preparing for their move to Brighton. But what they were planning to do with all the books he had no idea, for certainly they could not fit them all into a little cottage. It pained him to see the shop being packed up.

“Good evening, ladies.” He stepped farther into the shop, feeling the chilly reception in their silent and awkward stares.

“In case you couldn’t read, Lord Waverly, we are closed,” Juliette said in a clipped tone, obviously still angry over their little discussion a few days ago.

“Then you should have locked the door,” he rejoined lightly, enjoying the spark that flashed in her eyes when she could not think of a witty response. He looked toward Paulette with a grin and said, “Hello there.”

When his faithful ally turned his back on him, Lucien knew he was in trouble with the Hamilton sisters. Then little Yvette, too, turned up her nose and looked away. Something was definitely wrong. To his surprise, the usually reserved and shy Lisette walked forward to greet him with a hesitant smile.

“Good evening, Lord Waverly. Please excuse my sisters. We are a little overwhelmed with packing for our move to Brighton. It is fortunate you are here, since as the new owner, we had no idea what you wanted to do with the bookshop.”

He gave her a pointed stare. “I don’t wish to do anything with the shop. I want it to remain the way it is. That is why I purchased it, Lisette.”

The quizzical look in Lisette’s eyes gave him pause. She said nothing and glanced away uncomfortably.

“Ladies, the reason I bought the shop was so that you could remain here,” he announced to all of them.

Stony silence filled the room.

Had Colette poisoned all their thoughts against him? He understood, partly, why Colette was angry with him, but he could not fathom why all four sisters looked daggers at him. What had he done that was so terrible?

“You can stop packing the books,” he continued. “I wish for them to stay in the shop. Where is Colette?”

Paulette finally spoke to him, her expression searching and apologetic. “Upstairs with Mother.”

“May I go up and see her or should I wait?” he asked in a tone that left no doubt in their minds that he would be doing one or the other.

“Monsieur le Comte, I believe you may see my daughter now.”

Genevieve Hamilton stood tall in the doorway, her hand resting on her ornate, gilt-handled cane. She looked more alive than he had seen her before, more alert. Colette stood beside her.

Lucien could not keep his eyes from Colette. The unreadable expression on her beautiful face made him wonder what she was thinking. Was she glad to see him there? Surprised? Her clear blue eyes stared back at him with a magnetic force, drawing him in. Seeing her chocolate-colored hair pulled up revealing her graceful neck, he was stuck by the overpowering desire to pull her into his arms and hold her to him.

“Good evening, Mrs. Hamilton,” he said. “Colette.”

“Good evening, Lord Waverly. Nous voudrions parler en privé. Monte dans ta chambre. Girls, please leave us. We wish to speak privately. Go upstairs now,” Genevieve commanded. Without a word, Colette’s four sisters scurried from the room.

Lucien motioned toward a chair for Genevieve to sit. She shook her head. “Merci, mais je ne préfère pas. I shall not stay long. I only wish a moment of your time.”

“Of course, Mrs. Hamilton,” Lucien agreed. He glanced at Colette, hoping to get an idea of what her mother wished to speak to him about. Wondering what and how much Colette had told Genevieve about their relationship, he asked, “How can I help you?”

“Well, monsieur, I have learned that you are the gentleman who has purchased the bookshop from me.”

“That is true, yes.”

“I see.” She gazed at Colette for a moment, then her eyes refocused onto his. “I assume you had good reason for doing so?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hamilton,” Lucien said pointedly. “I had excellent reasons. Six of them.”

Genevieve smiled faintly. “Yes, that is what I thought, although perhaps one reason motivated you more than the others.” She paused in thought, glancing between Lucien and her daughter. “You wish for the bookshop to remain open and for Colette to continue on as she has?”

“That was my intention, yes,” Lucien stated.

“We have some arrangements to make, and Colette and I were just discussing them. You have made it possible for my daughter to keep this shop, which she loves so much, while setting me free. And for that I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

“You are very welcome.”

“I believe you two have some important matters to discuss, so I shall leave you now. Bonsoir, Monsieur le Comte. Je vous remercie du fond du coeur. Good evening.” With that Genevieve Hamilton turned and walked from the room, leaving him alone with Colette.

They stood awkwardly with each other, before Lucien reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers tied with a ribbon. “I have something for you, Colette.”

“I don’t want anything from you.” Her words were terribly cold and nothing less than he expected from her.

“I realize that, but please take this anyway.”

Hesitantly, her hand reached out to take the papers. Before she had them in her grasp, he pulled them back and grabbed her hand in his. Slowly he dragged her toward him. Her feet reluctantly stepped forward across the wooden plank floor. When she was close enough, he cupped her face in his hands. “I know you are angry with me, and you have every right to be, because I have behaved like a fool. But I want you to know something first.”

Colette glanced up at him, eyeing him suspiciously, but he noted that she also seemed nervous.

“I love you, Colette Elizabeth Hamilton. I love everything about you, from your pretty blue eyes to your sexy mouth to your adorable, meddling sisters to your working in the bookshop to the way your kisses drive me wild. I love the color of your hair and the shape of your nose. I’ve made myself crazy thinking it would never work between us. I have tried for weeks to deny my feelings for you, and I simply cannot do it any longer.”

Colette couldn’t breathe. A million thoughts raced through her head, not one of them coherent. Had Lucien just said the words she had longed to hear? “Lucien, I…I think…”

“Don’t speak yet.” He pressed the papers into her hand. “Look at this before you say anything.”

With her heart thumping wildly in her chest, her fingers trembled as she untied the ribbon and unfolded the pages he had given her. At first she could not believe what she was seeing. She glanced up at him in uncertainty. His gorgeous green eyes twinkled in response. She returned her gaze to the sheet of paper in front of her on which Lucien had written her favorite poem, Who Ever Loved That Loved Not at First Sight? by Christopher Marlowe. The first line, “It lies not in our power to love or hate…” swam before her eyes.

“I think I fell in love with you the moment I met you, Colette, but I was too blind to recognize the truth.”

“Lucien,” she began, but he interrupted her again.

“And just so you are aware, I did not buy that poetry book for a ‘lady friend,’ as I led you to believe. I kept it for myself and read page seventy-four thinking of you. I could not get you out of my mind from the day I saw you here in the disordered shop with dust in your hair and dirt on your face. You were still the most beautiful creature I had ever laid eyes on.”

Speechless, Colette stared at him. Lucien Sinclair loves me? And had loved her from that first day? She could not take in such momentous news.

“Look at the next page,” he coaxed her with a warm smile that caused her heart to flutter wildly.

She shifted the papers and read the next page, recognizing it immediately as the deed of ownership to the bookshop. However, what caused her to catch her breath and almost sink to her knees was her name. There in black ink on a white page was printed the name of the new legal owner of Hamilton’s Book Shoppe. It was her name, Colette Elizabeth Hamilton. Lucien had put the shop in her name when he bought it. It now belonged to her.

“Lucien?” She could barely speak, for her throat had gone as dry as a desert.

“Yes, it is yours.” He placed a sweet kiss on her lips. “I realize that you are under the mistaken impression that I bought the shop as a way to compensate for not marrying you after that night we were together. But, Colette, I bought the shop before anything happened between us. Weeks before we became intimate, if the truth were told. I never thought you would end up in my bed, and I never would have purchased the bookshop as a way to ‘buy you off,’ as you so eloquently phrased it one time.”

Colette actually blushed at his words. “Why did you buy it, then?” she managed to ask when she was able to breathe again.

He looked flustered and then admitted, “At first I told myself I bought it to help your family. Which is true to an extent. I care for your sisters very much, and I thought it would make things easier for all of you if I were to help. When I learned that your mother was selling the place, I knew immediately how devastated you would be. I wanted you to keep the shop and make it the huge success I knew only you could make it. I didn’t want any of you to feel indebted to me in any way, so I kept it anonymous.”

Pausing, Lucien took a deep breath and gazed at her with longing that she felt to the tips of her toes.

Overcome with emotions, Colette noted the date at the bottom of the page. He had purchased the shop before they had made love together that night at Devon House. He bought the shop for her, knowing just how much it meant to her.

“That is the sweetest and the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me,” she whispered breathlessly, afraid she might burst into tears. “I don’t even know what to say to you.”

“Say that you will marry me.” With his green eyes pinned on her, she could not move, could not think of anything but him.

“You want to marry me?” Her voice quaked and her heart flipped over.

“Yes.”

It suddenly seemed as if the world as she knew it had simply turned upside down and nothing made sense anymore. She began to babble, “But the bookshop is…I thought…I want to work…You want—”

“I want you, Colette.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and she shivered from the contact. “I’ve come to realize that I am proud of you and the work you have accomplished here. I want you to continue making the bookshop a success.” His tone was filled with determination.

“But a countess…a marchioness…Your wife cannot work in a shop.”

“My wife certainly can if she wants to. If you want to, Colette. I have no doubt that you can do anything you put your mind to doing.”

Colette opened her mouth to speak. She closed her mouth. She opened it once again and then closed it, unable to utter a single word. She was stunned. Lucien loved her and wanted to marry her, and it did not matter to him if she still worked in the bookshop. My bookshop. He had given it to her. He made it possible for her to keep the shop forever. Her heart flipped over in her chest.

“Oh, Lucien, do you mean that?” she finally gasped, her voice surprising her by sounding higher than usual.

He pulled her into his arms, the papers spilling unheeded to her slippered feet on the floor. He leaned in close to her, slanting his mouth over hers, and crushed a kiss to her lips. “Yes, I mean that.”

With her mouth close to his, inhaling the scent of him, she whispered on a shaky breath, “Thank you.”

“What about ‘yes’?”

“Yes?” she asked, confused by his question.

His emerald green gaze penetrated her entire body. “Will you marry me?”

Recognition dawned. “Oh, yes!” She pulled his head to hers, spreading her fingers into his thick, dark hair, and kissed his lips. This was what she wanted more than anything in the world. “Yes, I will marry you.”

“I love you, Colette.”

“And I love you, Lucien, with all my heart.”

And that heart of Colette’s pounded with anticipation as Lucien’s mouth covered hers with a kiss. Slowly he began to walk her backward in the direction of a certain bookshelf in the history section.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Family That Plays Together…

Colette grinned while her husband laughed with her sisters as they all gathered around him for a photograph. After their wedding ceremony earlier that morning, Lucien had specially arranged for one of the city’s best photographers to come to Devon House to take a family portrait. The new art of photography was all the rage in London, and Lucien wanted a photograph of the entire family to commemorate the occasion. With Genevieve, Juliette, Lisette, Paulette, Yvette, Simon, and Lenora standing beside them, she and Lucien posed in front of one wall of fully stocked bookshelves in the newly renovated Devon House library.

The rather short and anxious photographer instructed them to hold very still while he arranged the camera. The large wooden camera rested on a tripod, and he fiddled with brass knobs before he lifted a dark cloth and huddled beneath it.

Before he could take their picture, however, Juliette called out, “Wait! Where is Jeffrey? He needs to be in this picture, too.”

“Yes, he should be with us,” Colette agreed, moving from her carefully posed position beside Lucien. After all they had been through together, Colette now considered Jeffrey as not just a friend but as a part of her family. She also sensed how much it would mean to him to be in this family portrait with them. And he had just returned from Paris to attend their wedding and serve as Lucien’s best man.

“You cannot move!” the photographer wailed.

“I’ll go and get him,” Lucien volunteered, lifting his hand from where it had been strategically placed on Colette’s shoulder, but not before caressing her lightly. “I shall only be a moment,” he explained to the photographer.

He left the library to retrieve Jeffrey, who was more than likely still mingling with the other wedding guests in the grand salon. After Juliette’s little scheme to make Lucien jealous, which actually had some merit to it after all, Lucien and Jeffrey had enjoyed a good laugh over Jeffrey’s part in it.

“Don’t anyone else move!” the frustrated photographer pleaded with them, throwing his hands up in the air at the groom’s departure.

Of course no one listened to him. Juliette immediately began telling Lisette that she was blocking her, while Paulette and Yvette giggled. Lenora, Simon, and Genevieve chatted amiably together.

Lucien returned momentarily with his friend following behind him. Jeffrey looked slightly befuddled and somewhat embarrassed. “I thought this was a Sinclair-Hamilton family portrait. Are you sure you wish for me to join you?”

A resounding chorus of “Yes!” answered his question. He smiled and thanked them, following the photographer’s anxious instructions for him to stand behind Yvette.

“Now, you must not move again. Remain very, very still,” the photographer murmured before diving beneath the camera cloth again.

Adjusting the long train on her sumptuous bridal gown of embroidered white silk and satin, Colette smiled as Lucien once again placed his hand upon her shoulder. This photograph, the first Colette had ever had taken in her life, marked a special day. It was not just her wedding day, but the beginning of her new life. With Lucien’s encouragement and support she could now make Hamilton’s Book Shoppe the premier book store in the city. There was nothing she could not do.

She stood perfectly still waiting for the photograph to be taken.

Everything had turned out so well. Her sisters would now be living with her and Lucien at Devon House. Simon, her new father-in-law, had been thrilled at not only gaining Colette as a daughter-in-law, but in also gaining her four sisters. Lenora had been warm in her welcome of Colette into the family, and Colette knew instinctively that they would become good friends. And even Genevieve was happy with the union. She had agreed to spend part of the year in Brighton and part of the year in London with them. Uncle Randall and Aunt Cecilia, who had attended the wedding, were more than pleased with Colette’s marriage to Lucien. Aunt Cecilia had actually kissed her on the cheek with glee!

But the best part of all was Lucien.

She glanced up at him just as the photograph was finally taken.

“And that is it!” the photographer shouted gleefully.

Lucien kissed her, whispering, “I love you.”

Happy beyond words to be married to the man she loved, she kissed him back, not caring that their parents and her sisters were all watching them. As everyone began to move from his or her positions an overwhelming sense of love flooded Colette.

Lucien took her hand in his, pulling her to his side. She moved toward him eagerly. “Doesn’t the Countess of Waverly look beautiful today?”

“Oh my, that’s me, isn’t it?” she murmured, still not used to the idea of being a countess. But it was exciting to be a countess in charge of a bookshop!

“Yes, that’s you,” he whispered in her ear.

A little thrill went through her. She had fallen in love with Lucien Sinclair that first day he entered her bookshop, and now he was her husband. Nothing could make her happier.

She tilted her head up to his, ready for another kiss.

And he kissed her.

Dear Readers,

Thank you for reading When His Kiss Is Wicked. I hope you enjoyed meeting the five Hamilton sisters and reading about Colette Hamilton and the Earl of Waverly as much as I enjoyed writing about them.

But what about the other four sisters, you ask? Do Juliette and Lord Eddington ever get together? Does Hamilton’s Book Shoppe become a success? Here’s a sneak peek at the first chapter of my next, as yet untitled, book. As you recall, Juliette Hamilton is as passionate as she is rebellious. She is determined to live her life her way, without anyone telling her what to do—which will bring her a great deal of excitement and romance, not to mention a few harrowing misadventures. Of course, the irrepressible Lord Jeffrey Eddington plays a special role, as well as a few unforgettable new characters, including a very handsome, very sexy sea captain with a secret of his own.

So read on to get a little preview of the next story in the Hamilton series…

Thanks for reading!

Kaitlin O’Riley

www.KaitlinORiley.com

London, England

Summer 1871

The evening Captain Harrison Fleming came to supper at Devon House was the night Juliette Hamilton finally made up her mind to run away.

That had been three weeks ago.

Now Juliette held her breath, her heart pounding an erratic rhythm against her chest, waiting silently in the shadows as the small group of sailors, laughing and talking in boisterous tones, walked by oblivious to her presence. Oh, God, she was really doing this. She was actually leaving. Leaving her sisters. Her family. Her home. A strange thrill coursed through her veins and she took a deep breath of the briny night air to fortify her shaking legs. She peered cautiously from her hiding space on the dock behind a stack of large oak barrels filled with she knew not what. The moonlit water glistened as still as glass beside the now empty dock.

All her planning had come to this moment.

There was the Sea Minx, docked just where Captain Fleming had said it would be.

When the last sailor had disappeared up the gangway of the ship, Juliette pulled the black cap down over her head to heighten her boyish disguise and took another deep breath, before scurrying on silent feet after them, up the ramp onto the deck of the Sea Minx.

Juliette had somehow managed a minor miracle by reaching the dock and boarding the ship without being detected. Now began the more challenging aspect of her plan. She needed to remain hidden until they were well out to sea, when it would be too late for Captain Fleming to turn back and bring her home. Unsure where to go next, she hesitated for an instant before she ducked through a low doorway into a narrow, dimly lit passageway. Hearing male voices and heavy footsteps approaching she opened the nearest door in a blind panic and quickly found herself inside what appeared to be some sort of small storage room.

Unpleasant smells accosted her immediately, and once again she held her breath, not daring to move until the voices passed by, as her eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness. When the passageway quieted and she no longer heard voices, Juliette softly exhaled before daring to draw another breath. Now what? Her plan had not been so detailed as to exactly what she would do once she finally boarded the ship, aside from keeping out of sight until they had already set sail. Now she fumbled about in the cramped, dark space awash in sour smells until she found a small wooden crate upon which to sit. Thrilled with this bit of good fortune, she sat and nervously patted the little satchel she had brought with her.

She had brought enough food to last her a few days if she ate sparingly, a photographic card of her family which was taken at her sister Colette’s wedding last fall, letters with her friend Christine Dunbar’s address, some clothes, and her savings. Once she reached New York she would seek out her friend.

Then her adventure would really begin.

She had finally done it! She had successfully boarded Captain Fleming’s ship! She hugged herself in disbelief, a little stunned that she had actually accomplished her goal.

A rather strong pang of regret filled her at the thought of her four sisters when they discovered her note of explanation she had left in her bedroom. By morning her sisters would undoubtedly be overcome with worry and panic at her unexpected departure, but there was no help for it. It was time. Juliette had had to seize this opportunity to leave. She simply had to. She wanted to be free and independent and this was the only way.

As she sat in the dank and malodorous gloom, she felt the ship suddenly begin to rock beneath her and pitch forward. Loud shouts and excited cries could be heard above deck. Her heart lurched. This was it! There was no turning back now. The Sea Minx was sailing out across the Atlantic Ocean to America. Her fate was sealed, for better or for worse. For a fraction of a second she regretted her crazy desire to venture out and see the world, but then she held up her chin and grinned to herself in the dark.

She had always longed for an exciting adventure, a chance to visit exotic locales, to meet new people. However, she had not envisioned doing so in such furtive secrecy.

But that night at Devon House three weeks earlier she knew within an instant that Captain Harrison Fleming had unwittingly presented her with an advantageous opportunity to escape her regimented existence.

Perhaps it was when Captain Fleming described his beautiful clipper ship, the Sea Minx. The color of his eyes seemed the exact shade of the ocean on a stormy gray afternoon. Or maybe it was when he regaled them all with tales of his life at sea and his adventures in ports around the globe. He had actually been to exotic and foreign lands. India. China. Africa. America. The Caribbean. Captain Fleming was living the life she had only dared to dream of and it fascinated her to hear him speak.

Juliette’s brilliant scheme came to her in bits and pieces throughout the lengthy eight-course meal. She could not quite pinpoint the exact moment that the idea to stow away on his ship popped into her head, but by the end of that intimate supper party at Devon House, the beginnings of her plan had everything to do with the charismatic Captain Fleming. As soon as she learned that the adventurous sea captain planned to return to New York shortly, Juliette knew just what she had to do. She might never have this chance again.

He was her only means of getting to New York. She had to sail with him.

She had barely been able to finish her dessert for containing her wild excitement at this revolutionary idea.

“Look at Juliette, would you? She looks like the cat that ate the canary,” Lord Jeffrey Eddington had remarked to everyone gathered around the dinner table, an amused smile lurking on his boyishly handsome face, his merry eyes dancing. “Tell us now what is going on in that pretty head of yours, Juliette. Whatever are you scheming about now?”

Juliette had flashed him an irritated glance while trying to maintain an innocent expression. Leave it to Jeffrey to notice the slightest bit of change in her. In spite of being her dearest friend, he could be quite exasperating at times. If Jeffrey even suspected what she was plotting to do he would see to it that Juliette was locked in her bedchamber and under twenty-four-hour guard for the rest of her life.

She had to be very careful with him. He could spoil everything.

“I simply enjoy listening to Captain Fleming’s adventures of life at sea,” Juliette had answered Jeffrey cooly, glancing toward the tall and rugged looking man who sat to the right of her sister, Colette. They had all just been introduced to Captain Fleming that evening, because her brother-in-law, Lucien Sinclair, the Earl of Waverly, had invited him to stay at Devon House while he was conducting business in London. Apparently the two men were good friends, although Juliette had a difficult time imagining her staid and very proper brother-in-law being friends with the rather daring captain.

At her remark to Jeffrey, Captain Fleming questioned her across the long, elaborately set table. “Is that so, Miss Hamilton? And just what part of my story did you find so interesting?”

His exotic accent added to his charm, Juliette acknowledged. He sounded very American, which, of course, was only natural considering he was born in New York, but she found it intriguing nonetheless. He was vastly different from any man she had ever met in London. Juliette stared boldly into his stormy gray eyes. “I believe it was the part where you described your journey from New York to San Francisco. I felt as if I were on your ship.”

He smiled at her, and Juliette felt her heart flutter erratically. How peculiar! She had never met a man who made her heart race before. Nor had she ever expected to. At least not here at Devon House.

But she had always held out a vain hope. All through the Season last year, when her Uncle Randall had forced her and Colette to find husbands, every man she had met had bored her to tears. While Colette had been fortunate enough to fall in love with the wealthy Lucien Sinclair, the Earl of Waverly, and rescue the family from financial ruin and save the family bookshop, Juliette had had a more difficult time. Aside from becoming fast friends with Jeffrey Eddington, she had not met a single gentleman who held her interest for more than a minute. To be completely honest with herself, she knew she scared the trousers off most of the men and she took a perverse delight in doing just that. All she had to do was say something even remotely opinionated and they did not k now what to do with her. Despite her behavior, most of them became besotted with her anyway, declaring their love in the most embarrassing manner. The rest saw her as a challenge, something that they could tame or subdue. Juliette despaired of ever meeting a man who lived up to her expectations. Not even her darling Jeffrey.

No. She needed to leave London.

Not that her life in London was at all terrible. Leaving was something she simply had to do. She had harbored this unappeased restlessness inside of her for as long as she could remember and she felt smothered. If she didn’t get away from London, away from the tightly bound rules of society, even away from her family as much as she loved them, she knew she would go mad. Stark, raving mad.

Now she found herself on a ship captained by a man she barely knew. What would Harrison Fleming do when he discovered her? Would he be angry with her? Most likely. Would he punish her somehow? Perhaps, but she doubted it. Most men were full of bluster but would never lay a finger on her. Would he immediately turn the ship around and drag her back in humiliation to face Colette and Lucien? She could bear almost anything rather than that. She had come so far. She could not return now. All she had to do was remain undetected for a day or two. Aware that Captain Fleming had a schedule to keep and needed to arrive in New York before the end of the month, she doubted he would lose valuable time by sailing back to London simply to return her.

At least Juliette fervently hoped he would not.

She presumed he would be forced to keep her until they arrived in America with a plan to send her back on another ship, but by then she would have arranged to stay with her friend Christina. It was a good plan. In fact, it was the most daring she had ever come up with.

She sighed heavily, wondering how long she would have to remain in this squalid hole, but she would stay there a month if she had to. If that was what it took to get her to New York, she would gladly do it. Her legs were slowly falling asleep and her lower back was beginning to ache. She managed to lean the satchel behind her as a sort of makeshift cushion for her back. That helped a bit. There being nothing else to do, sitting there in the dark, she closed her eyes. Allowing the gentle sway of the ship to lull her, she drifted asleep.

Suddenly the door flung open with a clatter. Surprised by the unexpected intrusion, Juliette screamed shrilly, covering her mouth with her hand in a belated attempt to silence herself. She could not be found yet. It was too soon! Filled with bitter disappointment, and admittedly fear, she glanced up at the person responsible for ruining her hiding place.

A young man, his face awash with disbelief, stood in the dim lantern light of the passageway, startled speechless by her presence in the storage room. They stared mutely at each other for a moment before he recovered his senses. With a disapproving frown, he cried, “Hey now there, lad! We don’t allow stow-aways on board the Sea Minx.”

He obviously referred to Juliette’s disguise. Having sweet-talked one of the storter stable boys from Devon House into giving her his old clothes, she had donned trousers, a shirt, and a tweed cap. She thought she looked quite passable. And wearing trousers was most freeing, making her feel even more reckless and independent. No wonder men wore them! This sailor naturally assumed she was a boy. Juliette did not dare to move.

“You’ll have to come with me to see the captain.” The young man grabbed Juliette’s arm and yanked her roughly to her feet. As she stumbled into the passageway and the light fell across her face, he shouted, “Bloody hell!” He snatched the cap off her head, and her long dark hair fell in soft waves to her waist. “You’re a girl!” He stepped back from her in astonishment, his eyes round.

“Of course, I’m a girl, you simpleton,” she snapped at him, irritated that she should be found out so soon by this mere slip of a boy. Her entire plan was ruined. All her dreams now destroyed. She would never get to New York. Harrison Fleming would surely to take her back to Devon House this very night for they couldn’t be more than an hour or two out to sea by now.

“Wait until the captain sees you,” he whispered, shaking his head.

Reaching down to grab her tapestry-embroidered satchel, she thought to herself, “Yes, just wait until the captain sees me.” Juliette cringed inwardly at the thought of facing him. There was no help for it. Besides, he was merely a man. Like all the other men she had ever known. She could handle him easily enough. There wasn’t a man yet that she hadn’t. She squared her shoulders and followed the young sailor down the narrow passageway toward the captain’s cabin.

The door opened into a gorgeous anteroom with wood-paneled walls and gilt-framed maps. A round table with six leather-backed chairs dominated the room. Another door opened partially to reveal the captain’s private quarters. She could see a large bed within. Her eyes flashed back quickly to the oak desk, behind which stood Captain Harrison Fleming.

“I found a stow away aboard, Captain. A girl. She was hiding in the storage room,” the sailor explained.

Ignoring her rapidly beating heart, she stared up at the imposing figure who was in charge of the Sea Minx and, unintentionally, Juliette’s fate.

“Thank you for bringing our unexpected visitor to my attention,” Captain Fleming said with an even-toned voice, although his intent sea colored eyes never left Juliette’s face. “You may leave us now.”

As the young boy respectfully nodded his head and quit the room, Juliette was left alone with Captain Fleming for the first time. She had been in his company on many occasions during the past few weeks while he visited London, but never alone. Each time she had thought him quiet and somewhat disinterested in her, which had been surprising. Every man she had ever met could not seem to help but lavish her with attention, even the painfully shy ones. Now it seemed that the aloof Captain Fleming was finally giving her his undivided attention. And that made her uncharacteristically nervous.

He continued to stare at her. His stormy gray eyes, with startlingly long lashes, bored into her. She waited in silence, a strange tingling sensation building within her.

Juliette suddenly came to the realization that he was made of sterner stuff than she was accustomed to seeing in most men. He had the bearing of a pirate and beneath his cool surface he seemed to possess a sense of tightly leashed desire as if he kept this emotions on a close rein. With a high forehead, aquiline nose and rakish mouth, he exuded a rugged, very masculine handsomeness. He was quite taller than average, with broad shoulders, sun-streaked hair and gray eyes. His bronzed skin declared boldly that he spent much of his days out of doors. Yet for all his commanding presence, there was nothing aristocratic about him.

“Well, Juliette, it seems you have created quite the situation on my ship.”

She raised one eyebrow at him for stating the obvious while noting he had dispensed with any formality by not addressing her as Miss Hamilton. Being that she had brazenly stowed away, she supposed the need for propriety had passed.

“I merely wish to go to New York to visit a friend.”

“Why didn’t you simply ask me to take you?”

Most men she knew would be beside themselves by now, yet Captain Fleming seemed remarkably calm at her presence. That impressed her. “My family would never allow me to go. In fact, my mother expressly forbade my going to New York.”

“Ahh, I see.” He nodded his head, crossing his arms across his broad chest.

His white shirt was partially unbuttoned and Juliette could not help but notice the bare expanse of tanned skin. She swallowed and forced herself to focus on his face. But that also was dangerous. He was a very handsome man. Yes, he was. Definitely.

“I should take you home directly.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” she managed to respond. If he took her back now, she would die of disappointment.

“Your family must be sick with worry by now.”

Once again guilt surged within her at the thought of leaving her sisters in such a manner. But truly, she had no other recourse. “I wrote them a letter, explaining what I was doing and asking them not to worry about me. They won’t find it until the morning when I don’t appear at breakfast.”

“Well, you have thought of almost everything.”

She challenged him. “Almost?”

“Everything except one.”

They stood in tense silence, regarding each other with undisguised wariness. Her heart hammered erratically in her chest. Oh, she had definitely underestimated Captain Fleming. Of course he would never harm her. He was a friend of her brother-in-law and had been a guest in their house. Still, a strange sense of nervousness engulfed her at his masculine presence and she trembled. Odd, she had never felt nervous with a man before.

Stepping from behind the desk, Captain Fleming moved closer to her and she sucked in her breath at his nearness. He loomed over her and the mysterious scent of him made her weak-kneed.

“It seems you did not consider me in your little plan to flee to New York,” he breathed. He leaned in closer to her face.

Unconsciously she inched away from him. He pressed closer, his intense gray eyes on her, his lips hovering near her cheek. The heat of his breath made her shiver and his whispered words left her speechless. She had backed up against the table and could retreat no farther. She had no choice but to face him.

“You did not factor me into your plan, Juliette.”

She stared helplessly at him. This handsome sea captain who held her fate in his hands. This man who embodied all the adventurousness she harbored in her soul. He was close enough to kiss her and for a wild, panicked moment Juliette hoped he would.

His whispered words brushed her lips, causing her to stop breathing altogether.

“Or what I plan to do with you.”

About the Author

Kaitlin O’Riley fell in love with historical romance novels when she was just fourteen years old, and shortly thereafter she began writing her own stories in spiral notebooks. Fortunately for her, none of those early efforts survive today. She is still an avid reader and can often be found curled up on a sofa with a book in her hands. Kaitlin grew up in New Jersey, but now she lives in sunny Southern California, where she is busy writing her next book. Please visit her on the web at www.KaitlinORiley.com.

Mastering The Marquess

Vanessa Kelly

DESIRED BY THE MARQUESS

“Please forgive me,” Meredith said. “I know how inappropriate it is for me to indulge in such strong displays of emotion.”

Silverton laughed softly. “Ah, Miss Burnley,” he murmured, his voice whispering like silk across her skin, “sometimes a strong display of emotion is precisely what the situation calls for.”

He closed the distance between them and slid a hand up her arm to caress the bare skin of her shoulder. Tiny shocks sparkled along the path traced by his fingers. Meredith looked up into his eyes, and this time she did gasp, completely undone by what she saw in them.

He looked ready to devour her, his gaze so incredibly fiery as it roamed over her face that her dazed mind imagined it might actually leave a mark on her flesh. She no longer harbored any doubts that he wanted her, and he wanted her very badly….

This book is dedicated to my husband,

Randy,

and my father,

Phil.

They are the finest men I know.

Many thanks to the three wonderful women

who first read my book:

Anne, Barb, and Kate.

Many thanks to my sister,

Patricia,

who is always there for me.

Many thanks to my friends and mentors in ORWA,

especially Teresa, Elizabeth, and Ellen.

Many thanks to my agent,

Margaret Hart,

and my editor,

John Scognamiglio,

for getting me on the path.

And special thanks to Julianne MacLean,

who pointed me in the right direction

in the first place.

Last but not least,

a bushel full of thanks to

my angel posse.

You know who you are.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

Prologue

Wiltshire, 1815

Meredith Burnley hated spring. All the bad things in her life happened to her on beautiful April days like this.

She stood on the edge of a dirt path, staring at bluebells that swirled into the dense woods encircling her family’s manor house. Sunshine peeked through the overhanging branches, sparking a patchwork of blue petals and young green grass into a living mosaic of light-dappled color.

It really was lovely, she thought gloomily.

With a resolute sigh, she thrust painful memories into the dark corners of her mind and resumed her brisk pace through the trees, wanting to return to the house before Annabel awoke from her afternoon nap.

Her half sister’s mysterious ailment had returned with a vengeance these last few months. Although Annabel had seemed much improved last year, a strange decline had now taken hold, in spite of treatment by a specialist, Dr. Leeds, from Bristol. Meredith couldn’t understand it, and anxiety for her sister shadowed every waking moment.

She emerged from under the ancient copper beeches, catching sight of the pale stone gables of the Jacobean manor that had been her home since she was a little girl. Swallow Hill had been a welcome and necessary refuge for as long as she could remember.

But as she approached the house, Meredith drew in a startled breath at the sight of a groomsman leading a curricle and pair away from the front door. They were not expecting visitors, and only the doctor ever called without notice. She lengthened her stride, cutting across the lawn in her hurry to reach the front steps. The old fear clutched at her heart—had Annabel taken a turn for the worse?

The soles of her half boots rang on the shallow marble steps as Meredith dashed through the oak doors standing open to the warm April weather. The stooped figure of her butler emerged from a doorway at the back of the entrance hall, his wrinkled face creased in a benevolent smile.

“Good afternoon, miss,” said Creed. “How was your walk to the village?”

“My walk was fine.” Meredith yanked her gloves off, tossing them onto a side table by the door as she struggled to repress her impatience with the elderly retainer. “Do we have visitors, Creed?”

“Yes, miss. Your cousin, Mr. Jacob Burnley, has just arrived from Bristol.”

“My cousin!” She frowned, slowly untying the ribbons of her bonnet. “Aunt Nora didn’t mention he was due for a visit.”

“No, Miss Burnley, she did not.”

Meredith turned on her heel at the sound of the drawing room door opening behind her. Jacob Burnley sauntered out, still dressed in his caped greatcoat and boots.

“Well, little cousin,” he drawled, “it’s been months since I’ve seen you. Why you bury yourself in the country all the time when you could come to Bristol for a bit of fun is beyond me.”

Meredith greeted him with a smile. “Jacob, how are you?”

She extended her hand but was stunned when he grabbed her shoulders and yanked her to his chest, lowering his head as if to kiss her on the mouth. Meredith shied away, feeling his moist lips press against her face. He laughed softly as her cheeks flared with heat.

“Come now, Cousin,” he murmured in a low voice. “You don’t have to be so squeamish. Aren’t you happy to see me?”

She pushed herself out of his arms. “Of course I am, but that doesn’t mean you have to maul away at me, Jacob!”

Something ugly flashed across his face, surprising her.

“Pardon me, Merry,” Jacob said. “It’s been quite a long time, and I’d forgotten what a very fine woman you are.” His eyes raked over her figure with a look she had never seen before.

“Oh, now I know you are teasing.” Meredith laughed uncertainly but took a few steps away from him.

She cautiously eyed the man who had always treated her with an affectionate but casual regard, never displaying any evidence he was attracted to her. In fact, although they had once been close, they had drifted apart over the last several years. Jacob had developed into a stocky, strongly built man with blunt features and thick, dark brows. Meredith secretly thought his character had grown coarse as well, which made her feel guilty and disloyal.

She retreated a few more steps, her mind seized with the unwelcome possibility that he might be flirting with her.

Jacob rolled his eyes and chuckled. “Lord, Cousin, you look like a dunce standing there, staring off into nothing. Been out in the sun too long?”

Meredith shook her head and smiled. That sounded more like the Jacob she knew. “No, no, I’m fine. I’m just surprised to see you. I thought that with Uncle Isaac away from the mill, you would not be able to visit Swallow Hill this spring.”

“Oh, things are quite in hand in Bristol! No need to worry about that. Wouldn’t think of missing time with the family.”

His manner was hearty, but he refused to meet her eyes. She had a strong suspicion he was being evasive. Normally, Isaac Burnley was adamant that either he or his son be present at the wool factory throughout the year. Meredith had been dismayed when her uncle and his wife had moved some months ago to Swallow Hill, but it seemed even more unsettling now that Jacob had suddenly appeared.

As she strove to identify exactly what bothered her about the situation, a piercing voice rang out from the upper gallery.

“Jacob! My darling boy, here you are at last.”

Aunt Nora’s high-pitched, nasal tone had its usual grating effect on Meredith’s nerves. Jacob also winced.

“Yes, I’m here, Mama. There’s no need to screech so loudly,” her son responded irritably.

“I’m just so happy to see you!” She hurried down the wide oak staircase. “Meredith, is it not lovely to have the whole family together again?”

“Yes, lovely, Aunt Nora.”

Even at her most charitable, Meredith still could not think of the thin, pinched-faced woman standing before her as part of the family. Her uncle’s wife had never shown her or Annabel the least bit of affection.

“Meredith, have you greeted your cousin properly? Does he not look handsome in his driving rig? I vow, Jacob, it is no wonder you are quite the most popular bachelor in Bristol. I’m sure all the young ladies must be devastated by your absence. Don’t you agree, Niece?”

Meredith struggled to keep the amusement from her voice. “Yes, Aunt Nora.” She glanced at her cousin, knowing he would be annoyed by the inane flattery.

“Don’t be such a fool, Mama.” Jacob glared at his mother.

Aunt Nora’s thick brows snapped together. She sucked in an angry breath as she prepared to embark on what would, no doubt, be a tiresome lecture on her son’s manners.

Meredith hated these scenes between mother and son, so she quickly intervened. “Pardon me, Aunt Nora, but I must see Annabel before I change for dinner. I know you will not want me to be late, especially with Jacob now here to stay.”

Aunt Nora’s jaw locked for a moment, but then she tried to compose her crabbed features into a pleasant expression. She failed miserably.

“Of course, my dear,” she said, displaying her yellowed teeth in what passed for her as a smile. “If I may, Meredith, I’d like to stop in for a chat before dinner. It will only take a moment, but I have something most particular I wish to discuss.”

Meredith couldn’t imagine what that might be but simply nodded her head and escaped up the polished oak stairs to the open gallery that led to her sister’s bedroom. When she reached the top, she glanced back down to the foot of the staircase. She almost tripped over her feet, stunned by what she saw there.

Aunt Nora appeared to be studying her, her narrow features twisted into a bitter expression of anger and contempt. But Jacob’s face gave Meredith an even greater shock, for he looked at her with a ravenous and strangely desperate gaze, as if he would devour her whole.

“He wants to do what?”

Meredith’s jaw dropped open, the impact of her aunt’s words reverberating through her. Her hands froze in the process of removing her walking dress, as she briefly lost all sensation in her body.

“Don’t be a ninny! You heard what I said. Jacob intends to ask for your hand in marriage this very evening. I certainly hope you have the good sense to accept his proposal. You have been on the shelf for so long, it’s a miracle he would choose to marry you at all. Certainly no one else wants to.”

Meredith ignored the insult, dazed by the notion of marrying her cousin. She hoped for a wild moment her aunt was making a jest at her expense, but the other woman seemed to be unnervingly serious.

“Forgive me, Aunt Nora, but why should my lack of offers require me to marry my cousin?”

“Meredith, your father died three years ago. Until your uncle and I came here to stay, you had only that old governess to lend you the appearance of propriety. It’s simply unreasonable to expect us to give up our life in Bristol just to play chaperone to you and your sister.”

Meredith almost exclaimed that she had never asked them to give up anything, but she bit her tongue before the hasty words could escape. Aunt Nora would only berate her for her lack of gratitude.

“Your uncle and I have given up much to be at Swallow Hill,” her aunt continued. “It would relieve us greatly if you would accept Jacob’s offer. You must do something, Niece. You cannot continue in this fashion any longer.”

“What fashion?” asked Meredith, completely bewildered by the strange conversation.

Aunt Nora stood in front of a chest of drawers, her restless fingers fidgeting with the various toiletry items and jewelry boxes laid out on top. She spun around, her voice rising to a shrill pitch.

“Two unmarried girls living together, with no wedding in sight for either of them.” She cast a contemptuous gaze over Meredith, lips curling into a sneer. “When was the last time anyone even looked at you with interest? You should be grateful such a fine young man as Jacob would consider taking you as his wife.”

Her aunt’s vulgarity shocked her, but Meredith knew the unfeeling words held an element of truth. She had been pursued by a fair number of admirers when she was younger, but nothing had ever come of it. Unfortunately, her reserved manner seemed to intimidate potential suitors. Meredith didn’t mean to offend people, but she was impatient, and sometimes the idiocies of courtship were just beyond her.

“You know how much I care for Jacob, but I have never looked at him as anything other than a dear friend and relation,” she finally blurted out. “Jacob has a very”—Meredith frantically searched her mind for the words to refuse him in a way that would not offend her aunt—“robust personality, while I have—”

“Be quiet!” her aunt snapped. “You must get ready for dinner. Your uncle does not like to be kept waiting. Take off that dress, and I will help you to change.”

Meredith let the gown slide to the floor and turned to face the mirror of her dressing table as her aunt came up behind her to retie the laces of her stays.

“There is another matter your uncle wishes to discuss with you,” Aunt Nora said, tugging the laces as tightly as she could across Meredith’s back. “It’s obvious that Annabel’s condition is deteriorating. We have discussed the matter with Dr. Leeds, who agrees her recovery while living here at Swallow Hill is most unlikely. He advises that Annabel be placed in a private asylum, where she can be properly attended.”

Meredith gaped at her aunt’s sallow face reflected in the mirror. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about?” she managed to ask.

Aunt Nora gave another vicious tug on the stays. “Your uncle and I will be returning to Bristol very soon. Annabel can no longer stay here with you. She must go to a private asylum where she will receive proper care, or…”

A cunning look spread across the older woman’s face. Meredith waited, dumbstruck by what she was hearing.

“Or you could marry Jacob. Both you and Annabel would then be under his protection, and you could take your sister to Bristol with you. The city has many fine doctors who could treat her.”

Meredith watched the blood drain slowly from her reflection in the mirror. Lightheaded, she sank into the low chair in front of the dressing table.

“Oh, my dear,” cooed Aunt Nora, her face smug with satisfaction, “I must have laced your stays too tightly. Please forgive me. Let me loosen the strings so you can catch your breath.”

Aunt Nora’s lips parted in a ghastly leer as she finished adjusting Meredith’s stays. “There, that’s better. After all, you must look your best for your cousin tonight. Sometimes men do need a little encouragement, you know, to express their affection. Not that Jacob has ever had any problem with the ladies.”

A wave of nausea swept over Meredith, forcing her to swallow a hot rush of bile in her throat. The thought of Jacob touching her in that way sickened her—he had always been like a brother. How could this be happening?

Standing up, Meredith fought to regain her composure and steady her uneven breathing. When she turned to face her aunt, she struggled to speak in her usual controlled fashion.

“I’m sorry, Aunt Nora, perhaps I have misunderstood you. Are you saying that my uncle will confine Annabel to an asylum unless I marry Jacob? Surely that is not what you meant to say.” In spite of her intention to remain calm, Meredith’s voice rose, and she spoke more forcefully than she wished.

Aunt Nora’s false smile disappeared, replaced by a barely concealed anger.

“Meredith! Your uncle is Annabel’s guardian and wants what is best for her. Your sister is very ill and needs the care of good physicians in a quiet and secluded place. You have been used to having your own way for too long. If you will not submit to the guidance of those who know better, then matters will be taken out of your hands. Whether you marry Jacob or not, you and Annabel will not be allowed to go on in this scandalous manner.”

Meredith reached out to grasp the post of her bed, each word a blow that threatened to drive her to her knees.

Her aunt looked at her with open contempt. “I suggest you wear your prettiest gown this evening. Jacob could marry any girl in Bristol or Bath. You should be grateful he has decided to have a woman no other man wants.”

She stalked out of the room, banging the door shut behind her.

Meredith sank in a boneless heap to the floor, trying to fathom what had just happened. What possible reason could Uncle Isaac have for wanting to confine Annabel to a private madhouse? Yes, the girl was sick, but clearly not insane. And why in heaven’s name did her sister’s safety depend on her own marriage to Jacob?

She glanced out the window at the beautiful April afternoon. A tiny corner of her mind dispassionately acknowledged the fact that spring was here and, yet again, disaster had befallen her.

A quiet tap sounded on the door. Meredith slowly pulled herself up, stiff and cold in spite of the day’s warmth. With shaking hands, she smoothed her crumpled undergarments and went to open the door. Her maid bustled in, tut-tutting at her mistress’s state of undress. Meredith barely noticed as the girl tied her gown and finished combing her hair. Her thoughts ran in circles as she tried to formulate arguments to change her uncle’s mind. For once, she was grateful Annabel rarely joined them for dinner.

Soon set to rights, Meredith could no longer delay joining the others in the drawing room. She trudged along the upstairs gallery and down the wide stairs, feeling as if she were being forced to attend some freakish and ghastly trial.

Coming to a halt outside the drawing room, she listened to her uncle’s harsh voice demanding to know what the devil was keeping her. Aunt Nora began to argue with her husband until Jacob interrupted his mother with a callous disregard. Meredith’s heart constricted as the rough, unfeeling voices washed over her. For a moment, she was tempted to turn and flee back to her bedroom. Instead, she gathered her courage, expelled the breath she suddenly realized she was holding, and walked into the room.

Her relatives turned as one to stare at her in silence. She looked at their faces: her uncle’s cold and unyielding, her aunt’s disfigured with open hatred.

But Jacob’s hot gaze alarmed her the most. A prickling flush spread up her neck and over her face. Meredith felt as if he had stripped the clothes from her body, leaving her completely exposed and at his mercy.

As a sense of paralyzing fear swept through her, only one coherent idea began to form in her mind. Escape, she thought frantically. We must escape.

Chapter One

London, 1815

Stephen Rawlings Mallory, fifth Marquess of Silverton, felt a familiar sense of resignation and boredom creeping over him. Of course, no one observing him would have known that he wasn’t listening attentively to his uncle. Silverton had exquisite manners. He would never commit an act of rudeness unless the recipient of such an act deserved it.

“Are you listening to me, Silverton?” snapped General Stanton. “Have you even heard a word I said?”

“Of course I have, sir. You know how much I value your thoughts on this and any subject you may care to discuss.”

“Don’t try to pull the wool over on me, boy. I’m not your aunt or your mother, and I know you bloody well don’t care what I have to say about you,” his uncle retorted. “You’re nothing but a popinjay who don’t give a damn about what he owes to the title or to his family!”

Silverton’s young cousin, Robert Stanton, had been sitting quietly in the corner, displaying uncommon good sense in keeping his mouth shut during his grandfather’s tirade. But the unjust attack on his mentor and idol proved to be too much of a provocation for Robert, and Silverton could see he was about to come to his defense. He shook his head slightly, willing Robert to silence, but the young man either failed to see or to understand the small gesture. Silverton sighed inwardly, lamenting the fact that his cousin had neither the wit nor the sense of self-preservation to avoid bringing his grandfather’s wrath upon himself.

“No, really, sir, that’s just not fair. Stephen, a popinjay!” exclaimed Robert. “You must know he is one of the best sportsmen in the country, not to mention having some of the finest horseflesh and hounds in all of England. Really, Grandfather, to compare him to a dandy is just too much!”

The general’s head swiveled around to his grandson, iron gray eyebrows bristling with irritation as he trapped his next victim in his sights.

“No, you young jackanapes! That honor in the family belongs to you. Look at you. You can barely turn your head in that ridiculous neckwear. You look like a stork peering out of its nest. And all your poetic airs and lamentations! It is enough to drive me to an early grave. No, you are indeed the dandy in the family, and just as useless when it comes to finding a wife and doing your duty to your name.”

Robert turned bright red, sputtering a confused defense that he was still too young to get married. He was easily cowed by his grandfather and particularly sensitive about both his appearance and his literary aspirations. The lad did not actually write any poetry but firmly believed that he only awaited the arrival of his muse to unleash what would undoubtedly be his artistic genius. In the meantime, he read Byron, spent an inordinate amount of time on his clothes, and generally comported himself in a harmless manner with several fashionable young men whose families the Stantons had known forever.

Silverton understood, however, that General Stanton would no longer tolerate this harmless but idle life. He deemed it time to intercede before the squabble developed into a full-out row.

“Now, Robert,” he interjected in a soothing voice. “Uncle would never call me a dandy, and I’m sure he appreciates my horseflesh as much as the next person. But you can’t blame him for wishing to see us settled, although I do agree you are a bit young to be pushed into the parson’s trap.”

“Not at all,” exclaimed the general. “I was only nineteen and your aunt only seventeen when we tied the knot. I’m sure she has never had any cause for complaint since that day.”

“Perhaps we should ask her,” muttered Robert.

The general whipped his gaze back to his grandson. “What was that?” he growled.

Silverton hastily intervened. “Yes, well, be that as it may, God knows it’s not easy to find a woman with Aunt Georgina’s qualities. You must admit, sir, you were exceedingly lucky to snag such a prize so early in life.”

General Stanton grunted his reply, mollified as always by the thought of his wife. Silverton knew that in spite of the gruff response, his uncle was inordinately fond of Lady Stanton and cherished her in his own inarticulate manner. He also knew his uncle was dismayed that he and Robert did not seem the least bit interested in settling down and starting families of their own.

The three men sat in the library of General Stanton’s richly appointed townhouse in Berkeley Square, shortly before noon on a warm April morning. Silverton thought it much too early in the day to endure a dressing-down, but ignoring his uncle’s summons would only have postponed the inevitable. He was, after all, almost thirty-five, and it was indeed high time he took himself a wife.

For many years now he had allowed his mother and aunt to drag him to Almack’s, and from one subscription ball to another, in the hopes of finding a woman whom he could imagine living with on a permanent basis. He had met many charming young ladies and enjoyed several delightful flirtations. But over time his willingness to be pleased had evaporated, replaced by a cynical amusement with the relentless machinations of the marriage mart.

The fault lay not with the numerous debutantes thrown his way, who were as trapped by the subtle yet unbending rules of the ton as he was. In fact, in his more generous moments he even felt sympathy for the girls whose parents drove them to hunt him like a prized stag. Mostly, though, he felt irritation and contempt, and not much else.

Silverton had come to the conclusion long ago that he was by nature a cold person or, at the very least, lacking in strong feelings. He enjoyed many things—his horses, his dogs, and his friends. He was fond of his mother and adored his Aunt Georgina. But he could never seem to muster any real attraction toward the fluttering girls paraded before him and honestly had no desire to feel otherwise.

When he thought of marriage at all—which wasn’t often—it invariably left a dull, faintly sour taste in his mouth. But Silverton knew it was only a matter of time before he must resign himself to a suitable alliance. Duty required him to marry, and marry he would, but he had no expectations for his own happiness.

Silverton listened absently while his uncle berated Robert. Since it didn’t really seem to matter whom he married, he had compiled a list of eligible candidates in his head to present to the general for discussion and approval. Now seemed as good a time as any to make the decision.

He was about to open his mouth when he heard a commotion out in the hallway and the raised voice of Tolliver, his uncle’s excruciatingly correct butler. The door to the library flew open and Tolliver exclaimed, “No, no, miss. Wait! You cannot go in there!”

All three men turned their heads toward the door and were met with the astonishing sight of an unknown young woman striding into the room. When she found herself confronted by their shocked gazes, she stopped in her tracks. Tolliver followed closely behind and only just managed to avoid barreling into her.

Silverton rose slowly to his feet. Robert seemed paralyzed, but he finally remembered his manners and sprang to attention. For one long moment, they all remained trapped in a stunned silence before the general finally found his voice.

“Who the devil are you?”

The intruder’s eyes quickly surveyed the room, skipping Robert and coming to rest on Silverton. Their gazes locked on each other. He felt as if he had been nailed to the floor, so captivated was he by the sight of the feminine whirlwind who had swept into their midst.

A tall, long-limbed creature, her shiny black hair curled out from under a sturdy country bonnet. Although she seemed no more than twenty-one or twenty-two, her self-assurance in confronting a roomful of strangers suggested she could be older.

But more than anything, her eyes captured him by surprise. They were extraordinary: large under straight, determined brows and framed by thick black lashes. It was their color, however, that had caught his attention so forcefully. They were gray, but not the insipid, neutral color one associated with the term. No, they reminded him of a winter rainstorm—turbulent, untamed, and full of secret depths.

He stared at her, dimly aware he was probably making an ass of himself, but it seemed impossible to look elsewhere. She, too, seemed unable to break away, her eyes widening as a faint flush bronzed her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. For just a second, he thought the darkness in her gaze transmuted into something lighter, a brief flash of silver in the deep. Silverton could not seem to assemble his thoughts into a coherent order, but it occurred to him that she looked like a young goddess, magnificent and full of righteous anger.

Then she blinked, the spell broke, and she turned to face his uncle.

“I am most sorry, General Stanton,” said Tolliver, who wrung his hands in distress over this astounding breach of etiquette. “I tried to tell this young…woman that she could not disturb you, but she waited until my back was turned and then…”

He trailed off into silence, too distraught to even finish his sentence.

The general impatiently waved his hand at the butler. “Yes, yes, well, you may go, Tolliver. I’ll deal with this situation.”

“Yes, sir.” The butler tottered out of the room, clearly shattered by the disturbance to his well-ordered household.

General Stanton focused his gaze on the young woman standing before him.

“Now, miss,” he said, “perhaps you will be so good as to explain your extraordinary behavior.”

Silverton again saw the faint flush color the woman’s pale complexion, but it was apparent by the way she held her ground that the general’s irascible demeanor failed to intimidate her.

“I am Meredith Burnley, sir,” she replied in a quiet voice. “My stepmother was your daughter, Elizabeth, and your granddaughter, Annabel, is my half sister.”

Another stunned silence fell over the library. If she had shot a cannonball through the room, the shock could not have been any greater. Silverton grimaced, bracing himself for the inevitable explosion as General Stanton confronted the stepdaughter of his bitterly estranged and long-dead child.

The old man was, indeed, turning an alarming shade of red as he rose from his chair to contend with this obviously unwelcome spectre from the past. In fact, he appeared on the verge of an apoplectic fit. Silverton cast about for a way to divert his uncle’s attention, but his mind at the moment felt approximately as agile as a snail crawling through two feet of mud.

“How…how dare you enter this house?” General Stanton finally managed to blurt out. “By God, woman, what right do you have to disturb my peace after your father ruined my daughter’s reputation and her life? A tradesman’s son to marry my child! Her mother and I have spent many years trying to forget our loss. And now, after all this time, you dare come here…to my home!”

The general shook with rage, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. “He ruined her life, I tell you, and it broke her mother’s heart!”

For a few seconds, General Stanton glared at the silent young woman before turning his back on her. Miss Burnley staggered under the impact of the old man’s wrath, swaying a bit as if she might faint. Repressing a curse, Silverton moved quietly across the thick Aubusson carpet until he stood behind her. He could think of no other response to his uncle’s shocking outburst, but at least he could catch her if she swooned.

Fortunately, Miss Burnley remained on her feet.

“I am here, sir,” she replied in an unexpectedly sharp voice, “because I have no choice. I wrote to you after our father died, hoping you would realize how much your granddaughter needed the protection of her family. You chose to ignore us, and she has been forced to submit to the direction and guardianship of a man who does not have her best interests at heart. I have imposed myself only to implore that you intervene on Annabel’s behalf to prevent a most unhappy fate from befalling her.”

Miss Burnley struggled to maintain her composure. She clamped her arms tightly against her sides, attempting to subdue the tremors shaking her body. Silverton felt an oddly powerful impulse to take her in his arms and soothe her. He fought the unfamiliar urge as the young woman deliberately straightened her spine and cocked her elegant chin. Instead of retreating, she stepped closer to the desk, leaned into it, and fixed her implacable gaze on his uncle.

“General Stanton, I must insist that you listen to me. If you do not, Annabel likely will not survive this threat to her well-being. She is very fragile.”

The general finally looked at her, hostility etched in every line of his face.

“You must help her,” she implored again. A note of faint panic seemed to thread her voice. “I would not have disturbed you if there had been any other way to save Annabel. I cannot lose her. She is all I have.”

Her voice caught, and she fell silent. Miss Burnley clutched her reticule in a tight fist and turned away from the general as if embarrassed by her loss of control. She gasped when she discovered Silverton standing so closely behind her, taking a hasty step back to regain her balance.

Grasping her elbow, he gently steered her to one of the leather club chairs to the side of his uncle’s desk. “Miss Burnley, won’t you sit down? You may tell us everything you need to regarding your sister, but I insist you have some refreshment first.”

Silverton glanced at his cousin, who was glued to the spot, mouth hanging open and eyes popping from their sockets. “Robert,” he admonished, “do stop catching flies and ring the bell for some tea.”

The lad snapped his mouth shut and hurried over to yank vigorously on the bell cord.

Silverton returned his gaze to Miss Burnley, who sat bolt upright on the edge of her chair, eyes lowered as she grasped her handkerchief in a death grip. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she looked up to meet his eyes.

“Thank you, sir. I should be most grateful for a cup of tea.” Her soft mouth trembled into a tentative smile.

He blinked as the force of that shy smile lanced through him. The unexpected jolt of emotion was both surprising and irritating.

General Stanton forcefully cleared his throat, jerking Silverton out of his momentary reverie. After briefly examining Miss Burnley’s pallid complexion, he crossed to a mahogany sideboard holding a collection of decanters and crystal glassware. Silverton poured a small glass of sherry and returned to her side.

“Yes, tea will be just the thing, but I fancy you could use something a bit more fortifying while we wait.”

“No, I’m fine,” she protested. “I don’t need that.” She took another deep breath, folding her hands carefully in her lap.

“Yes, you do,” he replied in a firm voice, willing her with his eyes to take the drink. “Come, Miss Burnley, I insist.”

She looked at him doubtfully. He nodded his encouragement, and she again offered him that painfully sweet and tentative smile. Miss Burnley took the glass and sipped, casting her gaze up as if seeking his approval. Silverton found himself riveted by the luscious tremor of her full pink lips and the burnished silver of her amazing eyes.

Under the circumstances, his reaction was obviously most inappropriate.

He mentally shook his head at the day’s unexpected turn of events. He had reluctantly dragged himself to Stanton House this morning to meet his uncle. Completely unawares, he had been pitched right into the middle of what his mother called the Great Family Scandal. No one spoke of the estrangement between the general and his daughter. It had always seemed like ancient history to Silverton, especially since Elizabeth Burnley had died so many years ago. But part of that ancient history had come back to life today, and with a vengeance.

He looked thoughtfully at the striking young woman perched on the edge of her seat, cautiously drinking her small glass of sherry. In spite of the obvious distress of all the parties in the library, Silverton had to admit this was much more fun than talking about his impending immolation on the matrimonial altar.

Especially when one of the parties involved was Miss Meredith Burnley.

Several minutes passed in silence as the anxious Miss Burnley sipped her sherry. His uncle continued to fume behind his desk, and Robert fidgeted in the corner. Silverton, however, decided to disregard his relatives until she recovered herself. He was pleased to see the color finally returning to her cheeks.

“Miss Burnley, if you are quite recovered,” he said, moving to stand over her, “perhaps you might explain to us why you need the general’s help.”

Her brows drew together in a worried frown. “I would be happy to, sir, but it is a private family matter and I don’t know…” Her cheeks turned bright pink as her voice trailed off.

Silverton nodded his head in sudden understanding. “Of course. You don’t know who we are. I am the Marquess of Silverton. General Stanton is my uncle. The unnaturally silent young man in the corner is Robert Stanton, the general’s grandson and your sister’s cousin.”

Unfortunately, this information did not appear to assuage her doubts. Her eyes earnestly searched his, and from the expression on her face, he could tell she was trying to decide what to do.

“Come, Miss Burnley.” He arched his eyebrows at her hesitation. “I assure you, my cousin and I are quite able to keep our own counsel. We cannot possibly assist you until we know the nature of the problem.”

Silverton ignored the murderous look cast his way from behind the massive desk. He also decided to ignore the desperate-sounding squeak that came from Robert’s corner.

Miss Burnley paused a moment longer before bowing her head in agreement. She placed her sherry on the red lacquered side table next to her chair and began to speak, hesitantly at first but more strongly as she went along.

“As you may or may not know, my lord, my sister and I have been almost alone in the world since the death of our father three years ago. I achieved independence a few years before that, but Annabel was only fourteen when our father died. Because of the estrangement between our families”—she paused and cast a wary glance at the general—“my father’s will stipulated that Annabel fall under the guardianship of his brother, Isaac Burnley. That guardianship also includes control of her fortune, which she inherited on the death of her mother, Elizabeth Stanton Burnley.”

“Aye, and that money was the cause of all this misfortune and trouble in the first place!” General Stanton burst out. “Without it she would never have been able to run off and leave her own family.”

Miss Burnley’s cheeks turned an even brighter shade of pink than before. She and the old man glared at each other, and it seemed that open warfare would break out any moment between the combatants.

“Uncle!” Silverton uttered only the one word, but the warning in his voice was clear.

The old man grumbled something under his breath before settling into his chair.

Silverton turned back to the young woman. “Please continue, Miss Burnley.”

She nodded. “As I was saying, this guardianship includes control of the fortune bequeathed to Annabel by her mother.” She paused to glance cautiously at the general before continuing. “Which also includes the management of our estate at Swallow Hill. Until quite recently, my uncle was content to leave Annabel’s welfare to me, as he and my aunt live in Bristol and were much occupied with their own affairs.”

Her features were suddenly infused with a look of anguish as her eyes glittered with unshed tears. Silverton wondered what the devil could plague her to bring such despair so easily to the surface. She looked so beautiful and so lonely that his heart, not easily touched by the emotion of others, began to feel a reluctant tug of empathy.

“Annabel has always been frail,” she said, looking at him earnestly, as if willing him to understand. “When my father died, she suffered greatly, and I have been forced to safeguard her carefully ever since. Last year her health was improving. But lately, well, her spirits are much depressed again.”

She stopped, and Silverton watched with dread as tears began to well from her eyes. He wasn’t really afraid of weeping females, but this situation was so bizarre he was uncertain how to respond to her.

Fortunately, she blinked away the offending moisture and resolutely carried on.

“A few months ago, my aunt and uncle decided to join us at Swallow Hill. Uncle Isaac has finally asserted his guardianship over Annabel, which has included decisions about her illness. These decisions, I believe, have been very detrimental to her well-being. I’m convinced that her recent decline is the result of this interference, but I’m powerless to stop it.”

Miss Burnley paused again, as if collecting herself for what came next.

“Just a few days ago,” she explained, staring at Silverton as if her life depended on it, “my uncle made what could surely be called a threat to Annabel, a threat I fear will destroy her completely. We had no choice but to flee our home and throw ourselves on the mercy of Annabel’s family.”

She twisted in her chair to face the general.

“Please, General Stanton,” she implored, “if you have any charity in your heart toward Annabel or toward the memory of her mother, you must help her. I believe you are the only person who can defy my uncle and prevent him from doing what he clearly intends, and which I am certain will be the death of her!”

Miss Burnley’s eyes blazed with a desperate determination as she pleaded with the general. The old man looked stunned, shifting uncomfortably in his leather chair.

Silverton had always prided himself on his understanding, but he couldn’t imagine what could lead an obviously well-bred young lady to make such an impassioned statement. He was used to his mother’s domestic dramas and occasional histrionics, but Miss Burnley did not strike him as a woman given to hysterics. Quite the contrary, he was willing to bet she would be as levelheaded a woman as one could meet.

The situation was rapidly spinning out of control. His uncle was struck dumb, and Miss Burnley seemed unwilling to provide any more clarity to a story positively gothic in nature. Obviously, he had to try and get to the bottom of this before it got any murkier.

“Miss Burnley.” Silverton forced his voice to remain gentle. “If you could reveal the exact nature of this threat, it would help us to better understand your sister’s predicament.”

Her shoulders slumped in weary resignation against the back of the club chair. “My uncle wishes to confine her in a private lunatic asylum.”

Silverton felt his temples begin to throb as he realized what would happen next. He bit back a curse as he looked at his uncle, who was doing a passable imitation of one of Congreve’s rockets about to explode. Any amusement he had felt toward the day’s proceedings had just gone up in a puff of smoke.

“A madhouse?” The general practically levitated out of his chair. “Do you mean to tell me the girl is insane?” His face mottled with fury as he pointed a shaking finger at Miss Burnley. “This is what comes from marrying inferior blood! I won’t have it, I tell you. I won’t have a madwoman in my family. Your family obviously carries the taint, and your uncle must deal with it as he sees fit. You will leave the Stantons out of it.”

Silverton, dimly aware of Robert gulping like a stranded fish in the corner, felt paralyzed both by Miss Burnley’s words and by his uncle’s furious outburst. If she didn’t swoon now, it would be a miracle.

She did appear stunned, but her shock was rapidly displaced by a growing wrath. Her hands clenched into fists, and her face turned ghostly pale but for two patches of red flying high on her cheekbones. Silverton watched, reluctantly fascinated as she flexed her hands and wrestled her anger under control. She stood, drawing herself up to her full and imposing height. In spite of the awfulness of the situation, he couldn’t help but think that Miss Burnley looked absolutely magnificent, with her generous bosom heaving and her silver eyes luminescent with fury.

“General Stanton,” she said in an icy but surprisingly well-modulated voice, “you will note the only person in this room lacking control is you. Your behavior is, I think, quite mad! I must conclude that if there is a taint of insanity, it resides in your branch of the family, not mine. As you can see, I am perfectly rational and in control.”

As if to prove her point, she folded her hands in a ladylike clasp and sat primly back down in her seat.

“Perfectly rational, perfectly rational!” roared the general. “By God, I’ll have you thrown out into the street before you insult this family again.”

Silverton managed to recover the movement of his limbs, stepping hastily forward to stand between Miss Burnley and his uncle’s desk.

“You’ll excuse me, sir, but I hardly think this discussion will benefit either you or Miss Burnley. I urge you to sit down. You do not look well.”

The general opened his mouth as if to argue the point, but he looked truly overcome by the events. He bobbed his head once and sank back into his chair.

“Miss Burnley,” Silverton said, swiveling his head to capture her attention, “I would take it as a great favor if you would refrain from insulting my uncle any further.”

“But…,” she began to protest.

“No, Miss Burnley,” he said in a quietly lethal voice.

She glared at him, but he simply returned her torrid gaze with a cool and steady regard. Somewhat to his surprise, she gave a stiff nod and dropped her eyes. She sat with her back ramrod straight, staring at the floor as she struggled to rein in her temper.

Silverton turned to his uncle and lifted an eyebrow. The general was muttering to himself again but did not seem inclined to launch back into the fray.

“Thank you,” Silverton responded to no one in particular.

Now that he had established a fragile peace, he took a moment to study the two angry faces before him. The thought crossed his mind that Miss Burnley and his uncle were remarkably alike. How odd that they weren’t even related, Silverton reflected. They might have been taken for father and daughter.

He shook his head, crossing to the mahogany sideboard to pour himself a glass of port. Robert sidled up to him and hissed in his ear, “Damn it, Stephen, what do we do now?”

As Silverton pondered the answer to that question, the door to the library opened behind him.

“My goodness!” exclaimed a gentle, feminine voice. “What is happening in here? Arthur, what are you yelling about now?”

Silverton repressed the inclination to roll his eyes up to the ceiling. God only knew how his Aunt Georgina would react to the unexpected resurrection of the Great Family Scandal.

Chapter Two

Meredith almost collapsed with relief as she followed Lady Stanton from the library. Her legs were shaking so badly she wondered if she could walk at all.

She had been so angry with the general she’d been tempted to slap him. That was mortifying enough, but her response to Lord Silverton had been even more appalling. One kind word from him and she’d practically melted into a sticky puddle at his feet.

Never in her life had she reacted that way to a man, and Meredith had the awful impression he’d sensed exactly how she felt. Even worse, she suspected he’d found the entire horrid scene more annoying than anything else. She groaned inwardly, recalling the arrogant arch of his brows when he’d practically ordered her to tell him about Annabel. Having to reveal her darkest family secrets to a man like him made her want to crawl into a closet and never come out.

Lord Silverton was, quite simply, the most perfect man she had ever seen in her life. When Meredith had stormed into the library, she hadn’t noticed anyone but the general, so intent was she on her mission. But then she turned and saw him and thought she had stepped into a fairy tale or an ancient legend. Her overactive imagination had decided on the spot that the golden-haired man looked exactly like a valiant knight of old.

He was tall, broad shouldered, and had the powerful physique of a sportsman. But it was his classically handsome face that had stopped her in her tracks. Her artistic sensibilities had compelled her to mentally trace the sharply defined cheekbones, aquiline nose, firm mouth, and strong chin. His eyes were incredibly blue—cobalt set against the faint bronze of his tanned complexion. His thick, wheat-colored hair had reflected the sunlight shafting through the library windows, brushed back from a widow’s peak before falling in soft waves to his collar.

And although she had been too upset to notice many details of his attire, she had been aware that he carried himself with a masculine power and grace she had never encountered before.

Most disturbing of all, when he had finally allowed himself to smile, her knees had actually wobbled.

Meredith shrugged her shoulders impatiently, irritated by her own foolishness. Then again, she reflected, perhaps it was the strain of the last few weeks that had made her so susceptible to his potent male charm. She had been very anxious about meeting the general and the rest of Annabel’s family, which might explain her odd reaction to the situation.

That and the fact that Silverton was the most dazzling man she had ever met, she thought dryly. In all fairness to herself, however, handsome London noblemen were actually rather thin on the ground in her part of rural Wiltshire.

Meredith studied the back of Lady Stanton’s upright figure as she climbed the imposing central staircase behind the older woman. Glancing around, she noted the high ceilings and marble columns gracing the front hallway of the Palladian-inspired townhouse. The footman who had opened the front door stood impassively at the foot of the stairs, but she had little doubt he too thought her a lunatic for pushing her way into General Stanton’s inner sanctum.

What a commotion she had caused! She had gambled everything on her ability to convince her sister’s family they must come to Annabel’s rescue. If the general’s response was any indication, their future seemed increasingly dependent on the goodwill of her cousin Jacob. Her heart shriveled at the thought, and she gave a despondent sigh as she trudged behind Lady Stanton. Her ladyship cast a look over her shoulder, her lips parting in a generous smile.

“Not much farther, my dear. Then you will be able to have a nice cup of tea and explain how I can help you.”

At those gentle words, Meredith’s heart began to lift, and for the first time in days she allowed herself to hope she had found an ally in her battle to keep Annabel safe.

The butler, who had preceded them up the stairs, now opened the door to Lady Stanton’s sitting room, bowing to his mistress and then escorting Meredith through it. A footman carrying a large silver tea service followed them through the doorway. He placed the tray on a low table in front of a divan at the far end of the room.

“Thank you, Tolliver,” said Lady Stanton. “That will be all.”

The butler bowed once more before he and the footman left the room.

Meredith inhaled deeply, pausing to take stock of her surroundings. In truth, she needed a few moments to compose herself, and looking around the room gave her that much needed opportunity. As she gazed at Lady Stanton’s particular retreat, she suddenly experienced a disorienting wave of longing for Swallow Hill.

They were in a smallish, narrow room that ended in a set of graceful bay windows overlooking the gardens at the back of the house. The walls were a delicate shade of pale blue, set off by gray trim and elaborately detailed white plastered ceilings. Floral-patterned Oriental carpets covered the polished floorboards. The furniture looked both comfortable and cheery, upholstered in soft fabrics that matched the gold and cerulean shades in the carpets.

In spite of the small space, the effect was one of airiness and light. Although it looked completely different, the colors and sense of calm that pervaded the room reminded Meredith of her stepmother’s bedchamber. She found herself blinking back tears at the unexpected, bittersweet memory.

Lady Stanton examined her with a look that managed to be both shrewd and kind. Seating herself on the richly padded silk divan, the older woman indicated the matching armchair placed on the other side of the low, deeply polished table.

“Come, Miss Burnley, do sit down. You have nothing to fear from me.” She smiled invitingly at Meredith. “You see, I have been expecting your visit for quite some time.”

Meredith was about to sink into the chair, but she froze, stunned by Lady Stanton’s remark. “I don’t understand,” she replied slowly. “None of your family has been in communication with mine since my father and stepmother were married.”

Lady Stanton again waved her hand at the chair. Meredith sank down into the soft cushions as the older woman prepared two cups of tea. She was taken aback by her ladyship’s comments but squashed the impulse to demand an immediate explanation, not wanting to offend the one person who seemed most willing to help her—even after Lord Silverton’s terse explanation of events in the library a few minutes ago. So Meredith waited, trying not to fidget, as she studied the woman across from her.

Her ladyship was slight of figure, but had a graceful, upright carriage. Her hair was silvery white, and something about her suggested frailty, but her fine-boned face was un-lined and her kind blue eyes, though faded, were sharply observant. Those eyes watched her now with a combination of acumen and sympathy that made Meredith want to squirm in her seat. Her patience finally ran out.

“Pardon my impertinence, your ladyship, but could you please tell me why you’ve been expecting my visit? The general”—she hesitated, not wanting to offend Lady Stanton—“the general certainly did not appear to be anticipating my call.”

“My husband does not know I was in regular communication with my daughter from the time of her marriage to the time of her death.”

Meredith almost dropped her teacup.

“Everyone supposes that all contact between us ceased after your father and my Elizabeth were married,” Lady Stanton continued calmly. “I would not allow that to be so. I knew, however, that the general would not countenance a correspondence between us. As much as it pained me to deceive him, I kept it secret. It was my impression Elizabeth did not want to appear disloyal to your father, either, so she kept our correspondence secret from him as well.”

Lady Stanton smiled wryly at Meredith, who knew she looked as stunned as she felt.

“You are, perhaps, shocked by this. We knew the situation was not ideal, but my daughter and I were very close. The thought of never communicating again was not something either of us could bear.”

Suddenly, Lady Stanton looked very weary and much older than she had a few minutes ago. She closed her eyes and took a sip of tea, as if to revive herself.

Meredith reached over and fleetingly touched her hand. “I can only imagine the grief the separation must have caused you.”

Lady Stanton carefully set her teacup into its saucer, the look of melancholy on her face gradually softening with relief. “Thank you, my dear. She loved you very much, you know. My Elizabeth took just as much pride in your accomplishments as she did in Annabel’s. And you, I believe, were very close to her as well.”

There was a hint of a question in Lady Stanton’s voice. Meredith’s throat tightened as she recalled those long-ago days when she had felt safe and loved.

“Yes, my lady. She was the best of mothers. You must understand that I was quite wild when she took me in hand. My own mother died in childbirth, and Papa was a very indulgent father.”

Meredith shook her head as she thought of how defiant she had been when Elizabeth Stanton had exerted her gentle control over her errant stepdaughter. “I owe everything to your daughter, ma’am, and I revere and miss her every day of my life.”

“She would be happy to know that,” replied Lady Stanton. “I know she would be very proud of you for taking such good care of your sister. When we have time, you must tell me about your life together.”

Her ladyship set her teacup on the table with a little clatter.

“Now to the business at hand. The reason I have been expecting you is that I wrote to your father after Elizabeth’s death, offering him any assistance he might need for you and Annabel. He never replied, but I have always held out hope that you or my granddaughter would someday find your way to me.”

Meredith thought for a moment she had not heard correctly. How on earth could Papa have neglected to tell her something this important! Immediately she felt guilty. Her father had been so broken by his wife’s death, he had barely been able to care for his own children.

“I wrote General Stanton after my father died,” Meredith replied slowly. “I thought he would want to know. I was sure you both would want to see Annabel—perhaps ask me to bring her to London. But he never replied.”

A shadow of bitter regret flitted across the older woman’s face. “I’m sorry, my dear. I never knew. My greatest fear has always been that you and your sister resented the estrangement and had no desire to ever contact me. If I had only known.” She shook her head in exasperation, obviously frustrated by so many lost opportunities.

The tension that had gripped Meredith since entering Stanton House began to ease. It seemed she had an ally after all. The only question remaining was whether Lady Stanton would defy her husband and agree to help her granddaughter.

“You know we need your help.” Meredith’s heart pounded erratically. “Annabel will be lost unless your family intervenes. I have no rights of guardianship, either to her person or her fortune. My uncle is a determined man, and I know that only someone more powerful will be able to stop him from confining Annabel to an asylum.”

Meredith could hear her voice starting to tremble. The other woman reached across the table and took her hand.

“There is no question, my dear. Annabel is safe now. Her family will take care of her, and you may rest assured I will never let her uncle harm her, or you.”

It was too much for Meredith. All the pent-up emotion could no longer be contained. She broke down and wept as Lady Stanton rose from the divan and hugged her. For the first time in years, she had someone older and wiser to lean on.

Lady Stanton stroked Meredith’s face with a soft hand and dried her eyes with a napkin.

“Come, my child. There is no need for any more tears. My granddaughter has finally come home, and we must see what we can do to help her.”

Meredith struggled to regain her composure, taking a sip of tea in an effort to clear her throat. It was rather tiresome, she admitted to herself, to act so continuously like a watering pot.

Lady Stanton swished gracefully back to her seat, an engaging twinkle lighting up her eyes. “I suspect you already have a plan, and you simply need me to put it into motion.”

“Yes, my lady. I have given the matter much thought,” said Meredith, dabbing at her runny nose with a napkin. “What Annabel needs is a Season. In fact, what she really needs is a husband.”

For just a second, Lady Stanton looked astonished. Then she began to laugh with delight. Meredith felt dizzy with relief at the other woman’s evident approval.

“Brilliant, my dear! I wish I had thought of it myself. If Annabel marries, then her guardianship and control of her fortune passes to her husband. Your uncle will never be able to touch her.”

Meredith nodded thoughtfully, relieved Lady Stanton’s thinking confirmed her own. There was, however, one thing still troubling her. “My greatest fear is that we will never be able to get my uncle to agree to her marriage,” she confided. “I would hate for Annabel to have to elope to Scotland.”

Lady Stanton waved her concern away with an airy gesture. “Special license,” she said succinctly.

Meredith hesitated, unwilling to disagree with her ladyship, but her doubts must have been clearly written on her face.

“Don’t worry, my dear,” Lady Stanton said dryly. “We know the archbishop.”

The crushing fear that had weighed so heavily on Meredith began to dissipate. Elation replaced despair as she realized all the risks she and Annabel had taken just might have been worth it.

Lady Stanton rose from the divan, her quick movements belying her age. She walked briskly to the bell pull and tugged on the cord. “Now, my dear Miss Burnley, with your permission I should like to visit my grandchild.” An exultant expression suffused the older woman’s features. “I have been waiting a very long time for this day to arrive.”

The door to the sitting room quietly opened and Tolliver stepped in. Lady Stanton swung around to face him.

“Tolliver,” she exclaimed in a commanding voice, “my carriage. Immediately!”

Chapter Three

Meredith sat bolt upright in the elegant, burgundy-colored landau, trying to ignore the assault on her senses as the carriage threaded its way along the busy street. The midday chaos that surrounded them gave her a headache—an unwelcome distraction as she struggled to compose her turbulent emotions. Much to her surprise, she hated London. The noise, the dust and dirt, the myriad of smells that to her were mostly unpleasant, made every trip from their small set of rooms an experience to be endured rather than enjoyed.

Her sister’s reaction to the city had been completely the opposite. Annabel reveled in the events that, to her, seemed an adventure rather than an escape. The girl was more animated and healthier than Meredith had seen her in months.

Annabel had eagerly accompanied her on the few errands that had been necessary since their unexpected arrival four days ago on the doorstep of Miss Noyes, their former governess. Meredith, unfortunately, struggled to contain her fears every time they left the sanctuary of the house. She constantly looked over her shoulder, expecting any minute that Uncle Isaac would track them down and drag them back to Swallow Hill.

Closing her eyes on the bustle surrounding the carriage, she recalled their flight from the only home they had ever known. Meredith still couldn’t believe they had managed to do it. Annabel had displayed real fortitude and unexpected physical endurance. With the assistance of Creed and their old coachman, John Ruddle, they had slipped away to catch the night mail from the neighboring town of Cross Keys. Ruddle had stayed with them, refusing to leave his young mistresses unprotected. Meredith’s concern for the old family retainer was just one of the many worries that haunted her sleepless nights.

But now she found herself ensconced in the Stantons’ luxurious town carriage, which smoothly conveyed them through the city to the modest but genteel neighborhood of Hans Town. Meredith sat opposite Lady Stanton, who maintained an entertaining flow of chatter as she pointed out the various landmarks that might interest a newcomer to London. Young Robert Stanton trotted beside them on a beautiful bay mare.

And sitting next to his aunt, taking up far more space than Meredith liked, was the Marquess of Silverton.

After coming downstairs from her ladyship’s sitting room, Meredith had inwardly groaned when she saw Lord Silverton exit the library, pulling on his gloves as he watched her through narrowed eyes. He had handed Lady Stanton into the landau and then turned with a cool smile to assist her. Meredith had blushed hotly and dropped her eyes, silently berating herself all the while for acting like a foolish schoolgirl.

Now Lord Silverton lounged at his ease next to his aunt, his golden hair curling out from under the brim of his rakishly tilted hat. His eyes gleamed with obvious interest as he studied her. Meredith found it extremely annoying that he inspected her so carefully, almost as if she were some exotic species of insect under glass.

She stole a peek at him from under her lashes, deciding that Silverton reminded her of a cat. A giant, golden cat—sleek, contained, and supremely self-confident. She even wondered for a moment if he was going to purr at her.

She suddenly realized that Lady Stanton looked quizzical, waiting for her to respond to a question she had just asked her. Dragging her mind away from the glorious and altogether disconcerting male animal before her, Meredith smiled apologetically to the other woman.

“I beg your pardon, your ladyship. I still find myself somewhat distracted by all the bustle of the city. Did you ask me a question?”

The older woman smiled kindly. “Yes, London does tend to overwhelm if one is not used to it. You will become accustomed sooner than you think. I was asking, my dear, how you traveled from Hans Town to Stanton House today?”

Meredith frowned, surprised Lady Stanton would care about something so trivial. “My coachman fetched me a hired hack.”

Her ladyship hesitated, her aristocratic brows drawing together in a frown. “Miss Burnley, did you not think to have your maid come with you to Stanton House? Or, failing that, have your coachman accompany you and wait outside? It concerns me that you were traveling in a public conveyance without an escort.”

Meredith jerked her head back, stung by the implied criticism. For many years she had been managing her own life and the lives of those who depended on her. Then her aunt and uncle had bullied themselves into her household, forcing her to submit to their will. And although Lady Stanton clearly meant well, Meredith was tired of people telling her what to do.

“I don’t require a maid to accompany me,” she said, more abruptly than she intended. “I am far from being a schoolgirl and have been managing my own affairs, as well as Annabel’s, for years.”

Meredith glanced at Lord Silverton, who regarded her with an impassive expression on his face. She bit her lip in vexation, ashamed at how ungrateful she sounded. Lady Stanton gave her a small but uncomfortably astute smile.

“Forgive me, my dear. I have no wish to offend or interfere where it is neither desired nor necessary. You must please yourself, of course.” Her pleasant expression grew serious. “I would imagine, however, that my daughter, Elizabeth, would have viewed the matter differently.”

Meredith blushed as she thought of Elizabeth Burnley. Her stepmother had drummed into her head all the rules of propriety that would protect her daughters from the kind of gossip and scandal she had been subjected to. As a child, Meredith had been defiant, her will clashing with Elizabeth’s gentler, but immovable, force of character.

Those early years had been trying for Meredith, and both mother and daughter had shed many tears. But the lessons were valuable, and Meredith knew she would need to adhere to them even more strictly if her sister had any hope of making a good match. The ton had a long memory, and one scandal in the family was quite sufficient.

She smiled ruefully as she met Lady Stanton’s shrewd gaze, aware the older woman had masterfully backed her into a corner. “Yes, my lady, she would have agreed with you.”

Lady Stanton rewarded her with a warm smile. “Come, Miss Burnley, you speak of yourself as if you were an aging spinster, which I know you are not. I do not believe you are more than four and twenty. Is that not correct?”

Meredith again became intensely aware of the golden-maned lion sitting opposite her. She felt a burning flush heat her cheeks. How mortifying to be forced into such an intimate discussion in front of the self-possessed Lord Silverton. Was there not one humiliation to be spared her this day?

He observed her carefully. Lord Silverton must have read her thoughts, for he smiled at her in that dazzling way that made her knees turn to pudding.

“Don’t mind me, Miss Burnley. After all we have been through today, you must surely consider me as part of the family.”

He leaned forward, his cobalt blue eyes narrowed slightly against the sun. His voice dropped a notch to a low, seductive timbre that seemed to curl its way up her spine. “You should know that my aunt has been managing all of us for as long as I can remember. I assure you, it is pointless to resist.”

Meredith looked at the pair of them sitting next to each other, so different yet remarkably alike in their self-assured, engaging, and thoroughly aristocratic manner. She sighed and gave up.

“I am almost five and twenty, my lady.”

Lady Stanton laughed. “My dear child, you are in your prime. You must not be so eager to climb onto the shelf. You haven’t even had a Season in London, which is something I know my daughter intended for you.”

Meredith froze, wondering for an awful moment if the older woman was joking. She cast a doubtful look at Lord Silverton, but he didn’t seem to find the remark amusing, either. In fact, he studied his aunt with an intensity that Meredith found a bit unnerving.

“A Season! Surely you must be joking, ma’am.” Meredith gave an uncertain laugh. “I am nothing but a wool merchant’s granddaughter from Bristol. I have no acquaintance in London, only my half-sister’s family. You may be gracious enough to acknowledge Annabel, and indeed, I am eternally grateful for that, but who would sponsor a nobody like me?”

Lady Stanton’s eyes sparkled with a mischievous gleam. “Well, Miss Burnley,” she gently retorted, “as far as I am concerned, you are a part of this family. And as to who will sponsor your Season, there is simply no question. I will.”

Meredith found herself speechless once again—a condition that, as far as she was concerned, had struck her all too frequently this day. She breathed a sigh of relief when the carriage slowed to a stop in front of a small house.

A groomsman let out the steps of the carriage, and the marquess took one long stride down to the pavement. He extended his hand to Lady Stanton to assist her. Meredith was next. Lord Silverton squeezed her hand slightly as he helped her down, startling her with what seemed to be an expression of support.

She hesitated on the stoop of the house, glancing back at the dignified old woman leaning on her nephew’s muscular arm. Taking a deep breath, Meredith knocked on the front door. Almost immediately it swung open, and Miss Noyes’s young housemaid, Agatha, ushered them into the cramped hallway. The girl’s eyes popped wide as she took in Lord Silverton’s polished magnificence. She dropped a hasty curtsy and rushed ahead to open the doors to the small sitting room.

Lady Stanton advanced into the room, tightly clutching Lord Silverton’s sleeve. Her face was pale, and Meredith could see her fine-boned hands were trembling.

Annabel sat next to Miss Noyes on a shabby couch at the other end of the simply furnished room. She had obviously been trying to distract herself with some needlework. The poor girl gripped the material so tightly Meredith was amazed it didn’t shred in her grasp. Annabel blinked anxiously at her grandmother, her pretty face a bleached white except for a faint blush high on her cheekbones.

Lady Stanton suddenly looked decades younger, her care-worn expression replaced with one of beaming joy.

Annabel came slowly to her feet, her eyes starting to shimmer with tears. “Grandmamma?” she asked softly, taking a small step forward.

Tears began to course down Lady Stanton’s cheeks. She dropped her hand from Lord Silverton’s sleeve and, without uttering a word, opened her arms wide. Annabel flung aside her embroidery and ran across the room, throwing herself into her grandmother’s embrace.

No one spoke. The only sounds in the room were the sobs of the young girl and Lady Stanton as they clung to each other, the older woman reaching up to stroke her granddaughter’s vibrant auburn hair.

Meredith stood in the doorway and let their happiness wash over her as she fought to hold back the tears constricting her throat.

And just like that, all the years of grief and worry finally came to an end. Meredith and Annabel were no longer alone.

Meredith sighed as she surreptitiously blotted her nose with her already tear-dampened handkerchief. Little doubt remained that today’s events had turned her into a watering pot.

Annabel and Lady Stanton were still locked in a tight embrace, and no one witnessing the scene could remain unaffected. Miss Noyes wept into her handkerchief, and young Robert shuffled his feet and rubbed his eye as if a cinder had lodged itself there. Even Lord Silverton had lost his guarded and rather hard expression. The corners of his sculpted mouth curved into a genuinely charming smile, surprising Meredith with its warmth. The reunion, by any measure, seemed to be a complete success.

But even as Lady Stanton petted and soothed her, Annabel continued to sob dramatically. Meredith began to worry her sister was on the verge of hysterics. She stepped forward and placed a hand on Annabel’s shoulder.

“Come, darling, you mustn’t cry so hard. You will make yourself sick. Why don’t you and Lady Stanton sit together on the sofa while we wait for tea?” Meredith pointedly nodded her head at the maid, who hovered nearby with a look of eager curiosity on her face. Agatha reluctantly bobbed a curtsy and backed out of the room.

“That is a very sensible suggestion, Miss Burnley,” said Lady Stanton, her voice reedy with emotion. “It will do us all a great deal of good to sit and rest for a few minutes.” The old woman led Annabel to the sofa. Miss Noyes pulled a handkerchief from her enormous tatting bag and offered it to Lady Stanton.

“Don’t weep so, darling. All will be well,” Lady Stanton murmured. Annabel leaned against her grandmother’s shoulder and allowed her to dry her tears.

Meredith turned to Lord Silverton and Robert. “My lord, Mr. Stanton. Please do be seated.” She cast a doubtful glance around the sitting room, acutely conscious of how small and shabby it must appear to their guests. Miss Noyes barely had enough furniture to seat everyone.

But if Lord Silverton was offended by the modest nature of their accommodations, he didn’t show it. He bowed gracefully to Miss Noyes, smiling kindly at the flustered woman. “Good afternoon, ma’am. I am Lord Silverton, and this is Robert Stanton. We have the honor of being Miss Annabel’s cousins.”

Meredith swallowed a groan, conscious that her manners had once again gone missing. “Do forgive me, gentlemen, Lady Stanton. Allow me to introduce our former governess, Miss Noyes. She has most kindly given us shelter since we arrived in London.”

“Yes, Grandmamma,” Annabel hiccupped. “We don’t know what we would have done if she hadn’t taken us in.”

Lady Stanton smiled graciously at the governess. “Then you will always have my gratitude, Miss Noyes, for taking such good care of my granddaughter and her sister. You must be sure to tell me exactly what I can do to help you.”

“Oh, no thanks are necessary, your ladyship! There is nothing I would not do for my dear girls. I mean…of course, I…for Miss Burnley and Miss Annabel.”

Miss Noyes was a gentle mouse of a woman, painfully shy at the best of times, and Meredith feared so many visitors all at once in her tiny sitting room would provoke a spasm. She searched her mind for an errand that would allow Miss Noyes to escape the room.

“Miss Noyes,” Lord Silverton said, unexpectedly taking charge of the conversation, “I noticed you and Miss Annabel were engaged in needlework when we entered. That is certainly a very fine piece of embroidery my cousin is sewing. I presume you taught her the skill when you were her governess?” He sat next to Miss Noyes, picking up Annabel’s work and inspecting it as if it were a fine piece of art.

Meredith watched in amazement as the nervous little woman visibly relaxed and began to extol her former student’s talents. As their governess pointed out the beauty of Annabel’s small stitches, Lord Silverton looked up to meet Meredith’s gaze. His eyes flashed with mischief, and the brief dazzle of his smile left her breathless. But he immediately returned his attention to Miss Noyes, leaving Meredith to wonder if she had imagined his teasing glance.

She sighed, irritated by her foolishly overactive imagination. Turning back to Annabel, Meredith was pleased to see the young girl drying her eyes, allowing herself to be comforted by Lady Stanton’s gentle embrace. Robert carefully sat down on a spindly cane chair next to the marquess, and Miss Noyes, encouraged by the two men, proceeded to embark on a detailed description of her methods for teaching female students.

Meredith thought it was the strangest afternoon she had ever spent in her life.

With a rattle of dishes, Agatha hurried through the door with the refreshments. The sturdy maid hoisted a large tray across the room and plunked it with a loud clatter on an ancient gate-leg table by the sofa.

“Will there be anything else, ma’am?” Agatha barely glanced at Miss Noyes before turning her gaze to Lord Silverton, clearly transfixed by his masculine splendor. His eyebrows moved up a notch when he noticed the maid’s admiring stare.

Meredith winced. “No, Agatha,” she interjected before Miss Noyes had a chance to respond. “That will be all.”

“Yes, miss.”

The girl smiled broadly at Lord Silverton as she retreated from the room. Meredith caught the amused look on his face and resigned herself to a day of apparently endless humiliations. She hurried to the tea table, eager now to get on with the business of settling Annabel’s living situation. The sooner her sister could move to Stanton House, the better. Meredith would miss her terribly, but there was no help for that.

“Your ladyship,” Meredith said, once she had served everyone a cup of tea, “please forgive me for being forward, but I would like to discuss Annabel’s living arrangements.”

“Not at all, my dear. It is why we are here.”

All at once, the atmosphere in the sitting room became very serious. Annabel sat up straight, staring anxiously at her grandmother. Lord Silverton looked enigmatic, while Robert stared avidly at Annabel.

Meredith frowned, startled by the young man’s demeanor. Now that she thought about it, Robert had been gazing at Annabel with just such a look of fervent admiration ever since he had entered the room.

“Please continue, my dear,” prompted Lady Stanton.

Meredith yanked her attention back to the older woman, trying to collect her scattered wits. “Forgive me, your ladyship. I will get right to the point. I have given the matter a great deal of thought, and I believe it would be best for Annabel to move into Stanton House with you and the general.”

Lady Stanton and Lord Silverton glanced at each other, their expressions similarly inscrutable. Robert jerked his head away from his contemplation of Annabel and gave a startled snort.

“Oh, I say! Bad idea, that.”

“Robert,” Lady Stanton admonished, “please mind your manners.”

The young man flushed and ducked his head. “Sorry, Grandmamma.” He grinned sheepishly at Annabel, who surprised Meredith by giggling back at him. Meredith stared at her sister for a moment before switching her gaze back to Lady Stanton.

“I’m sorry, your ladyship,” she continued, puzzled by the lack of enthusiasm for her suggestion. “Is this not what you would advise? She would be safe from our uncle at Stanton House, and it is the logical place from which she could make her debut.”

“And where would you stay, Miss Burnley?” inquired her ladyship.

“Here with Miss Noyes, of course.”

Annabel squirmed, pulling herself from Lady Stanton’s embrace. “No, Meredith! I won’t leave you.”

“Darling, it would be for the best.” Meredith tried to be encouraging, even though her heart ached at the thought of separation from her sister. “We could still see each other almost every day. Besides, you will be so busy with your grandmother, you will hardly miss me.”

Annabel shook her head, a mutinous frown wrinkling her youthful brow. “I won’t leave you, Meredith.” She turned to Lady Stanton. “I’m sorry, Grandmamma. Not even for you will I allow myself to be parted from her.”

“Of course not,” her ladyship replied calmly. “You and your sister must take a townhouse in Mayfair, close to Berkeley Square. I hope Miss Noyes can be prevailed upon to act as chaperone until a more permanent situation can be arranged.”

Meredith’s jaw almost dropped open at the shock of Lady Stanton’s suggestion. Before she could raise any objections, however, Miss Noyes launched into the conversation.

“Oh, my lady, what a wonderful idea! I can be ready at a moment’s notice to assist the dear girls in any way I can. As long as they need me, I will be happy to stay. No sacrifice will be too great!”

Meredith hastily broke in. “Surely this is not necessary, your ladyship. Annabel will be quite happy to live at Stanton House, once she has grown used to the idea. In any event, I would not be able to support a household in Mayfair on my income. And you know we cannot touch Annabel’s fortune.”

Why wouldn’t they understand? Annabel needed more protection and guidance than Meredith could provide. She glanced at Lord Silverton, who looked as if he were trying not to laugh.

Meredith gritted her teeth and stubbornly carried on. “I believe Annabel should be with her grandparents. That is clearly the best solution to our problem.”

Lady Stanton wrinkled her nose in gentle dismay. “I’m sorry, my dear, but that is just not possible. You saw how strongly the general reacted to your visit this morning.” Annabel peered at her grandmother, who patted her hand reassuringly. “While I have no doubt my husband will accept Annabel into our family, he is not amenable to sudden changes in the household.”

She paused delicately. “It would be better, for the moment, if you were to set up your own establishment. There will be no difficulty in keeping you safe, I am sure. You cannot stay here if Annabel is to have a successful Season. And since we are speaking so frankly, my dear Miss Burnley,” Lady Stanton continued dryly, “you must know the Stantons are well able to support both you and your sister in the appropriate style.”

Meredith sighed. In all the excitement of the last hour, she had forgotten her ladyship’s intention to launch her into society.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” she said politely but firmly, “but as I said in the carriage, there is no reason for me to have a Season. I must reiterate that I do not wish it.”

Her ladyship cheerfully waved away her attempts at refusal and began to discuss townhouses in Mayfair with Lord Silverton and Robert. Annabel chimed in excitedly, and even Miss Noyes ventured to make a few hesitant suggestions. None of them even glanced at Meredith as they debated the merits of possible living arrangements and how soon they could move from Hans Town. She had the distinct and unpleasant impression she had somehow become invisible.

“Silverton.” Lady Stanton smiled at her nephew. “I would be most grateful if you could take this in hand and find the girls a suitable house.”

Meredith felt ready to shred her bonnet in frustration. Obviously she had lost the battle to settle Annabel at Stanton House, but to be further indebted to Lord Silverton didn’t bear thinking about. He was so dangerously attractive, the less she had to do with him, the better.

“Lady Stanton,” she exclaimed, “I am most grateful for all your kindness, but it isn’t necessary for his lordship to put himself out on our behalf. I will make suitable arrangements for Annabel and myself.”

Lady Stanton glanced at Lord Silverton, lifting one brow in a question. He briefly returned his aunt’s look before sweeping an imperious gaze over Meredith.

“There is no need to worry, Miss Burnley.” Meredith could swear she heard a faint note of mocking laughter in his voice. “My secretary, Mr. Chislett, will be the one to suffer the inconvenience, since he will conduct the search, not I.”

That silenced her, as she could think of no polite way to respond to such irritating condescension. Since Meredith had not the faintest idea how to go about renting a house in London, she grudgingly supposed she must bow to the inevitable and do it with as much good grace as she could muster. In any event, she didn’t have the energy to wage another battle today.

Lord Silverton must have read her thoughts, for his cynical mouth curved into a lazy and seductive smile that scattered her wits like buckshot. She felt as if she had just toppled off a cliff, a sensation she found both disconcerting and extremely annoying.

Meredith repressed a sudden and childish impulse to box Lord Silverton’s ears as she wondered how a man she had met only a few hours ago could so easily bring out the worst in her.

Chapter Four

Silverton lifted a hand in farewell to the Burnley sisters as they stood on the front stoop of Miss Noyes’s tiny house, their arms wrapped securely about each other. Annabel looked like a child beside the statuesque Meredith. She was slender and pretty, carrying herself with a sylphlike grace that would attract bachelors like flies to sugar water. Meredith would also attract her share of suitors, he knew, but for entirely different reasons.

The woman was, quite simply, the most physically captivating female he had met in years. Her extraordinary eyes and ivory complexion, her glossy black hair—all those things painted a most fetching portrait. But it was her superb figure that would stop a man in his tracks. She had a beautiful body, with generous breasts and rounded hips that flared luxuriously from a slim waist. Even more compelling, Meredith exuded a subtle yet powerful sensuality that promised a myriad of delights to the man lucky enough to bed her.

Yes, Silverton had thoroughly enjoyed studying Meredith’s lush beauty, even though he knew his attentions had made her shift uncomfortably in her seat.

The afternoon—for many reasons—had proven to be as diverting as he had hoped it would be. He had, of course, been truly touched by Aunt Georgina’s meeting with her granddaughter and delighted to see them united. And he was genuinely pleased to meet his newfound cousin Annabel.

But the real fun had come from teasing Meredith. Silverton had been unable to resist. Despite her masterful ways, her naïve assumptions had made it difficult for him not to laugh at her. To expect that Annabel could move directly to Stanton House, especially after the general’s reaction this morning…Well, in spite of all her self-assurance, Meredith was obviously a babe in the woods. The scandal of Elizabeth Stanton’s elopement had been enormous, and although the gossip had faded years ago, the ton had a very long memory. The appearance of the long-lost grandchild would cause a great deal of chatter, something General Stanton would surely loathe.

Aunt Georgina was right. The sisters needed a quiet house in Mayfair and a gradual introduction into society. Annabel’s debut would be difficult enough, but the obstacles facing Meredith were even greater.

His aunt’s insistence that Meredith also be launched on the marriage mart had startled him. Silverton honored her for doing it, especially since the general would no doubt react with fury to the idea. After all her sacrifices for Annabel, Meredith deserved more than a solitary life as a country spinster, and her respectable fortune should be able to attract the attention of at least a baronet or a knight. Her beautiful face and form would do the rest.

Silverton moved restlessly on the plush velvet cushions of Lady Stanton’s landau, frowning down at his hands as they suddenly clenched into fists. It struck him rather forcefully that he didn’t much like the notion of other men courting Meredith.

“Well, Stephen, what do you think?”

Silverton blinked. He had almost forgotten his aunt’s presence in the carriage.

“I’m sorry, Aunt Georgina,” he apologized with a smile. “What do I think about what?”

She glanced from the open carriage to Robert, who rode next to them on his bay mare. Aunt Georgina obviously didn’t want the lad to overhear their conversation.

“What do you think about your cousin Annabel, Stephen?”

“She seems a perfectly delightful girl. I’m very happy you have found each other.”

His aunt’s joyous smile practically blinded him. “Thank you, my dear. And thank you for coming with me today. I appreciate your assistance, especially since the general did not wish me to visit our granddaughter.”

“No thanks are necessary, my lady. You know that you have only to command me.” Silverton meant every word. Aunt Georgina had been the touchstone of his life for as long he could remember, and he would do almost anything for her.

Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. “Hmm,” she murmured. “I wonder…”

“I beg your pardon?” He straightened in his seat, startled by the intensity of her gaze. He had seen that look before, and it always meant trouble—trouble for him, anyway.

“Annabel is very pretty, is she not?”

“Yes, my lady. Very pretty.”

“And she seems to have a very sweet character—loving, loyal, and kind.” Her voice was deceptively bland.

Silverton cautiously nodded his agreement, certain now that his aunt was up to something.

“And such a large portion, too—at least ten thousand a year that her mother inherited from my sister, Regina.”

He was familiar with the history of Annabel’s inheritance. Regina Compton was the oldest daughter of a very wealthy earl, and had never married. When she died at the age of forty-five, she left her entire fortune to her favorite niece, Elizabeth Stanton. Elizabeth’s financial independence had allowed her to defy General Stanton’s wishes and elope with Thomas Burnley, the handsome son of a wool merchant from Bristol. That fortune, after the death of both her parents, had eventually come to Annabel.

“Such a generous portion will make her vulnerable to fortune hunters,” Aunt Georgina mused, her eyes darting over the busy street as if she were searching for something.

He sighed. “My dear ma’am, what exactly are you trying to say?”

She fidgeted with her reticule. The small movement alarmed him; his aunt never fidgeted.

“The girl needs a husband, and soon.”

Prickles of warning rippled down his spine. “So I understand,” he replied slowly.

“And you, my dear nephew, are in need of a wife.”

Silverton bit back an oath. Surely his aunt could not be serious. Either that, or the shock of meeting Annabel had caused her to lose her wits. “I hope you aren’t proposing me as a candidate, my lady.”

She looked imperiously down her nose at him. “Stephen, that is exactly what I am suggesting. She is a delightful girl, as you said yourself, and would make you a perfectly lovely wife.”

“My dear aunt, she is just a child!”

“Who will soon grow into a beautiful young woman. You know as well as I, these types of alliances can greatly strengthen the bonds in a family like ours. The general and I are second cousins. As you know, our parents arranged the match, and it was of great benefit to both of us.”

Silverton’s amazement grew. “Good lord, Aunt Georgina, surely you are not comparing Annabel and me to you and my uncle. May I remind you, I’m thirty-four and she is barely seventeen. I’m almost old enough to be her father. Forgive me, but the idea is simply ludicrous, and I’m sure my cousin would agree.”

His aunt lifted her eyebrows in a polite but incredulous expression. “Really, Silverton, I have little doubt you could make Annabel love you, once you set your mind to it. In any event, it’s not the least unusual to see such a disparity in age between husband and wife, and you know it. I begin to wonder if there is some other reason, besides her age, why you don’t wish to consider my suggestion.”

Silverton was beginning to ask himself the same question, but he hardly felt inclined to discuss a possible explanation with his aunt.

The silence between them lengthened. Aunt Georgina continued to study him with an enigmatic expression. He sighed inwardly, knowing how determined she could be when she had the bit between her teeth.

“Stephen,” she eventually said, “you know very well it is long past time for you to start a family. I don’t believe that waiting any longer will make a whit of difference to you. No woman in your past has ever come up to scratch. At least,” she paused meaningfully, “none since Esme Newton.”

Silverton jerked his head back, astounded that his aunt would dare to broach that particular subject. He clenched his teeth against the quick surge of anger and wounded pride that flowed through him at the painful reminder of his youthful infatuation.

Several heartbeats later, he had himself under sufficient control to respond in a suitably bored voice to her insightful but unwelcome remarks. “My dear ma’am, surely you have not forgotten that even the lovely Esme failed to come up to scratch.” He met Aunt Georgina’s eyes with a steady but defiant gaze, silently daring her to contradict him.

She stared back with a veiled expression on her face, but her lips were compressed into a thin line.

“You are the Marquess of Silverton. You have a duty to your name and estate. This would be an excellent match and would heal the wounds that have festered in our family for many long years. Annabel needs a powerful man to protect her, and you need a wife who is worthy of you. The marriage would be of great benefit to the entire family.”

She sighed, worry lines reappearing on her brow and around her eyes. “And you know as well as I that we can only do so much to protect Annabel. Isaac Burnley is her legal guardian. He could make our lives very difficult if he chose to do so.”

Silverton had to acknowledge the truth of that, as well as the urgency of the situation. He nodded reluctantly, even though he hated every word she said.

Lady Stanton finally relented. “My dearest Stephen, you are not a boy like Robert. You are a man who must make his own decisions, ones that are appropriate and honorable. All I ask is for you to spend time with Annabel. Perhaps you will find courting her not as difficult as you think.”

Silverton grasped her hand and raised it to his lips. “Of course I will consider it, Aunt Georgina. I never want to disappoint you, or my family.”

She smiled gratefully at him and turned the conversation, perhaps sensing that further discussion would only increase his resistance. Silverton lapsed into thought as he tried to imagine what it would be like to court Annabel, perhaps even wed her.

But another image—an incredibly compelling image—pushed its way into his mind, and he feared it would come to haunt him in the days ahead. Only one woman interested him now, and she was, both by his and the ton’s standards, completely unsuitable.

That woman, God help him, was Meredith Burnley.

Chapter Five

Meredith heard Annabel’s silvery laughter drift down the hallway a full minute before her sister entered the room. She marveled again at the girl’s seemingly miraculous recovery since reaching London. Meredith couldn’t begin to describe her own sense of relief, but she still puzzled over the extraordinary changes in her sister’s behavior.

Why had Annabel been so ill at Swallow Hill? Their uncle had maintained that she would never regain her health at home, and Meredith grudgingly admitted he was right. But she also had no doubt that committing the girl to a private asylum would have killed Annabel. Clearly Dr. Leeds was sadly mistaken, and Meredith had no regrets she had fled with her sister to London.

Annabel skipped into the breakfast room, waving several brightly colored fabric swatches in her hand. “Meredith, Miss Noyes wants you to come to the drawing room and pick out the new draperies for that room and the dining room. She says so many choices are likely to give her a spasm if someone doesn’t help her.” She laughed again.

Meredith’s chest constricted with an almost painful love. The girl looked so delicate and beautiful in a dainty primrose morning gown, her fashionable new haircut swept back off her neck with matching ribbons. She, in contrast, was wearing her oldest gown and had pulled her hair back into a simple knot at the nape of her neck in order to keep her hair out of her face as she worked.

There were times when her sister’s youth and beauty forcibly reminded Meredith of her own rapid advance into spinsterhood. Annabel meant the world to her, but never had she felt so keenly the differences between them.

She put down her basket of linens and forced herself to smile. “Yes, darling. Tell Miss Noyes I’ll be with her in a few minutes. I just need to organize the mending and give Cook the shopping list for the next few days.”

“All right, Meredith, but please don’t be long. You promised we could go for a walk in the park this afternoon. It’s been ages since we’ve been able to go outside.”

Annabel whirled around and dashed out of the room, her eager steps fading down the hallway to the front of the house. Meredith shook her head at the girl’s exuberant energy, contrasting it with her own sense of exhaustion after the tumultuous move to their new townhouse near Berkeley Square.

She hated to admit it, but Lord Silverton had found exactly what they required. Discreetly situated on a quiet street, removed from the noise and bustle of the city, the house afforded them the privacy and security they needed until Annabel was ready to make her debut.

Meredith turned a critical eye on the small, cheerful breakfast parlor situated at the back of the house. It was flooded with sunlight for a good part of the day and just far enough from the other main rooms to be private. She had decided to convert it into a studio where she could paint and Annabel could draw and read her novels without being disturbed by the rest of their small household.

She inspected the contents of the wooden chest beneath the south-facing window. Meredith grimaced at the meager collection of brushes and paints she had managed to acquire in the mad rush of the last few days. It had pained her greatly to leave her supplies and sketchbooks behind when they had fled their home. And she didn’t even want to think about what her aunt and uncle might do to her work—the precious paintings that had given her so much comfort during the dreary years after her father’s death.

In the depths of her soul, Meredith was an artist. She knew she had talent. As a child, her father and stepmother had always encouraged her, allowing her to spend hours on end in a tiny, makeshift studio next to the schoolroom. But although they had approved of her passion for her art, they had often deplored the subject matter.

Meredith sighed as she reflected on the fate of one of her favorite pictures. Just before her father’s death, she had completed a large canvas that depicted the birth of Athena, springing full-blown from the head of Zeus. Miss Noyes had screamed when she saw it, and her father had claimed it gave him the headache. It had been banished to the attic, along with a number of other works that had suffered a similar fate.

Since they had come to London, Miss Noyes had gently suggested she turn her mind to more cheerful subjects, encouraging her to paint a portrait of Annabel. Perhaps she would. It would be lovely, she mused, to capture her sister in such happy spirits.

Meredith closed the chest of art supplies and shoved it back under the window. She picked up the overstuffed linen basket and lugged it down the cellar steps to the kitchen as she mulled over her instructions for the new cook. It was remarkable how quickly they had acquired their kitchen staff. Another testament, she supposed, to the efficiency of Lord Silverton’s secretary.

As she thought of the marquess, a faint but disconcerting heat flushed her limbs. Lord Silverton had intruded much too frequently in her thoughts these last few days. Meredith had vowed repeatedly to squash what was rapidly becoming a ridiculous schoolgirl crush.

Her uncomfortably warm feelings for him had surprised her, since more often than not she had found him to be arrogant and condescending. Besides, she reminded herself, it was most unlikely that a man like him would feel any kind of attraction to an aging spinster like her. Meredith simply refused to be any more foolish about him than she already was.

A distant knock echoed down the hallway just as she pushed through the door into the kitchen. Puzzled, she set the basket down on a stool by the door and automatically smoothed her hair back from her face. Who would be calling so early in the day?

The new cook, Mrs. Biggs, up to her elbows in flour, kneaded pastry for the apple tart she was preparing.

“Well, it seems as if you’ve got your first visitors already,” she exclaimed as she wiped pastry crumbs from her beefy hands onto a towel. “Now, Miss Meredith, you just give that list to me and I’ll take care of the shopping as soon as I finish my pies. You best get that apron off and give your hair a brush before you go see who’s calling so early in the day.”

Meredith smiled at the woman’s warm, homespun manner. Mrs. Biggs had come highly recommended, and, more importantly, Meredith had liked her immediately. She removed the list from the pocket in her gown and handed it to the cook.

“Very well, Mrs. Biggs. I will speak to you later this afternoon.”

She shook out her skirts before hurrying to the stairs, determined at least to brush her hair before joining her sister and Miss Noyes in the drawing room. Their former governess should be able to maintain a polite conversation for a few minutes, and it would do Annabel good to be forced to play hostess without Meredith constantly hovering in the background.

As she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, she heard an angry masculine voice coming from the drawing room. Meredith froze, then turned around and rushed down the stairs. Agatha came running down the hallway, casting a frightened glance at Meredith before stumbling to a halt in front of her.

“Oh, miss!” she cried. “You must come right away. Some bad men forced their way into the house. One of them is yelling at Miss Annabel!”

Meredith’s heart kicked into a gallop as she realized her uncle had found them. She grabbed the maid by the shoulders and shook her slightly to get her full attention.

“Agatha,” she rasped, hardly able to overcome the dryness in her mouth, “you must run immediately to Lady Stanton’s house and tell her my uncle has come to take Annabel away. You must make sure she gets the message. Don’t leave until you know someone will come to help us, understand?”

The girl nodded her head. Miss Noyes had obviously told her about their situation, and she needed no further instruction.

“Yes, miss, you can be sure I will bring help.”

Agatha’s skirts flew as she raced for the front door. Meredith hurried to the drawing room, sick with fear. What a fool she had been to think they were safe from discovery in this quiet little house. But how had her uncle found them so quickly?

She could hear Isaac Burnley’s guttural voice berating Annabel. Suddenly her fear evaporated, replaced by a rage that made her jaw lock and her stomach clench. She flung open the door and charged into the room.

The small group before her froze into a horrid tableau. Her uncle loomed over her sister and the governess, who were huddled against the fireplace screen at the end of the room. Annabel looked scared to death, but her posture was erect and Meredith was amazed to see her standing squarely in front of Miss Noyes, as if to protect her. The poor little woman trembled so badly the ribbons on her cap fluttered.

Jacob Burnley stood beside the door. Meredith’s rattled mind registered that her cousin looked uncomfortable, his shoulders hunched up around his ears as if he were embarrassed. At the sound of the door opening behind him, Isaac wheeled around and stared at her, an expression of ferocious satisfaction on his face.

“Well, there you are, Niece. Run to ground at last,” he snarled. “You thought you could defy me and make fools of us all. We’ll see how clever you are after you feel the back of my hand on your face.”

His nostrils flared as he took a slow step toward her, his large hand curling into a massive fist. Meredith gasped with horror as she realized he actually intended to strike her. Miss Noyes shrieked, and Annabel cried out as she tried to pull from her governess’s arms to come to her sister’s aid.

“No, Annabel!” Meredith commanded. “Stay where you are.”

She closed her eyes as she tried to prepare herself for the blow. If she could draw all his anger, then he might leave Annabel untouched. Meredith could bear the pain if it gave them more time before help arrived.

“Father, stop!”

Meredith’s eyes flew open at the sound of Jacob’s voice. He lunged in front her, shielding her behind his own body. Father and son glared at each other, Isaac red-faced with rage.

“Get out of my way, boy. She needs to be taught a lesson,” he growled.

“Not this way,” Jacob replied, shaking his head.

They were both large men, but Jacob was bigger and in superb condition. Meredith had no doubt he could stop his father from hurting her.

Isaac’s huge fists opened and closed as he stared at his son. For a moment, Meredith thought he would try to force Jacob out of his way to reach her. Instead, he slid his furious gaze over her once more before sharply nodding his head and dropping his hands to his sides. He moved back toward the fireplace and Annabel.

Meredith slid by her cousin, taking a wide berth of her uncle as she crossed the room. She knew her only chance now was to delay Isaac—do anything to prevent him from taking Annabel before help could arrive. Meredith had to hope that Jacob’s obvious discomfort with his father’s behavior would give them the time they needed.

“How dare you come into our house and threaten us,” she challenged. “Your authority may extend to Annabel, but it does not extend to me. This is my house and you are not welcome here.”

Meredith felt her resolve ebb as her uncle’s face again darkened with rage. But as Annabel’s icy little hand slipped into hers, she realized how much she loathed being intimidated by Isaac. Meredith looked down her nose with as much contempt as she could muster, surprised to hear her voice cold and steady as she addressed him.

“I have no doubt General Stanton will take whatever action is required to protect his granddaughter from your cruelty. He is on his way here at this very moment to see Annabel and, if necessary, remove her to his own household.”

As soon as Meredith saw the vicious grin on her uncle’s face, she knew she had overplayed her hand. His harsh laugh ground across her frayed nerves like glass shattering against pavement.

“If Annabel is under his protection, then why is she here with you instead of with him? No, girl, I’ve had enough of your nonsense. You and your sister will go pack your bags now, or I will drag you both out of this house so fast your heads will spin off your necks.”

Meredith felt Annabel jerk against her. As she looked at her uncle’s sneering face, a cold rage swelled in her chest.

“What kind of man are you that you would threaten defenseless women?” she retorted. “You sicken me! Annabel and I will never go willingly with you. You will have to drag us out onto the street for all the world to see what kind of monster you truly are.”

“Meredith, don’t be a fool,” Jacob blurted out, clearly exasperated by her defiance.

Isaac Burnley bared his teeth in a ghastly smile. “As you wish, Niece. I am only too happy to oblige.” He moved across the room, large hands outstretched to grab them.

As Meredith shrank back against Annabel, she heard a clattering from the hall. A flustered Agatha materialized in the doorway. Casting a frightened glance about the room, she bobbed an unsteady curtsy and announced in a breathless voice, “Lord Silverton is here, miss, and Mr. Robert Stanton, too!”

Chapter Six

Meredith stared at Agatha, who stood panting in the doorway, her hair tumbling out of her now-askew cap. She heard a firm, masculine tread out in the hallway and almost collapsed with the sheer relief that help had arrived so quickly.

Silverton appeared in the passageway behind Agatha. He gently placed his hands on the maid’s shoulders and moved her as he stepped into the room, followed closely by his cousin Robert.

“Thank you, Agatha,” he said, his eyes fixing on Meredith. “You may go now. Please shut the door behind you.”

“Yes, my lord.” Agatha bobbed again, backed out of the room, and shut the door quietly behind her.

Silverton stood silent and motionless, but his eyes moved from Meredith and came to rest on Isaac. His cobalt gaze turned wintry, and his patrician features grew haughty as he returned the older man’s glare.

“Who the devil are you?” growled Isaac. He planted his big fists on his hips, his stance both aggressive and insolent as he confronted Silverton’s obviously aristocratic presence.

The marquess leisurely reached for his quizzing glass, raising it to his eye and deliberately perusing Isaac from head to toe. The older man’s face mottled a bloody red.

Silverton dropped his quizzing glass and looked at Meredith, a hint of a smile touching his hard mouth.

“Miss Burnley,” he said in a bored tone of voice, “please forgive me if we have interrupted a private family discussion. Perhaps you will be so good as to introduce us to your guests.”

She gaped at him in astonishment. One of his eyebrows quirked up, and the smile that played around his lips grew genuinely amused. That look finally galvanized her into action.

She walked swiftly across the room, her arm outstretched to return his greeting. Silverton took her hand in a strong clasp and squeezed it slightly before letting it go.

“Lord Silverton, I am most happy to see you.” She smiled tremulously at him and then glanced at Robert, who stared grimly at her uncle, a look of murderous intent on his normally boyish face.

“And you, too, Mr. Stanton. Indeed, your visit is most welcome.”

She turned to face her uncle, who had moved across the room to stand by his son.

“This is my uncle, Isaac Burnley,” she said, hardly able to contain her anger. “And this is my cousin, Jacob Burnley. Jacob, Uncle Isaac, these are Annabel’s cousins, Lord Silverton and Mr. Robert Stanton. They have been most helpful in assisting General and Lady Stanton to place us in our present situation.”

She glared defiantly at her uncle, feeling infinitely more secure now that Silverton stood by her shoulder. Meredith didn’t know why she felt that way, given the gravity of the situation, but she was absolutely sure the marquess would allow no harm to come to her or to Annabel.

Isaac ignored the introduction as he scowled at the unwelcome visitors. Jacob, however, threw a cautious glance at Meredith and sketched a small bow in Silverton and Robert’s direction.

“My lord, Mr. Stanton,” he said. Silverton acknowledged the greeting with a remote nod of the head.

A quiet sob snapped Meredith’s attention back to her sister and Miss Noyes. Annabel was still dreadfully pale, but she bravely stood her ground, her arms wrapped around the small governess, who wept into her handkerchief. Meredith crossed the room and led the two women over to the sofa, murmuring encouragement as she gently pressed them to sit.

She glanced at Silverton. His mouth thinned with displeasure as he observed the scene through narrowed eyes. Meredith took a deep breath.

“Lord Silverton, we are in need of your assistance once again. My uncle is insisting that Annabel and I leave this house immediately and move with him to Swallow Hill. I have tried to explain we are under the protection of General and Lady Stanton, but my uncle refuses to acknowledge that we are perfectly safe here and that he must abide by the wishes of Annabel’s family.”

Isaac spun around surprisingly quickly for a man his size.

“Don’t get impudent with me, girl. Annabel is under my command, and if I wish her to come with me, then come she will. I have the legal right of her and that is the end of it.”

He sneered and took a step forward, as if he meant to grab her sister and make good on his threat. Annabel shrank back against the sofa cushions and Miss Noyes wept harder than ever.

As Meredith braced herself in front of her sister, Silverton’s voice whipped through the room like a lash, causing her uncle to halt in his tracks.

“I would advise you to stay where you are, Mr. Burnley, or you may well regret the outcome of your actions.”

The marquess walked slowly toward Isaac, but the way he held his body was anything but relaxed. Meredith became aware, not for the first time, of how very tall and muscular Silverton actually was. He also exuded a subtle but commanding force of presence that made the other men in the room look smaller than they were.

Isaac stared incredulously at Silverton. He laughed harshly at first, but his brow furrowed with anger when he perceived the look of cold disdain on the other man’s face.

“I don’t know who the hell you think you are to order me around,” her uncle growled, “but I can assure you, I have the legal right to take the girl with me now. She is under a doctor’s care at home and will come with me immediately.”

Robert, quiet until now, uttered a smothered oath and stepped hastily forward, apparently ready to charge across the room and attack Isaac.

Silverton’s hand shot out and grabbed the boy’s wrist in a tight grasp, locking him by his side. Robert started to protest, but his voice died when he looked at his cousin’s face. Silverton’s gaze remained fixed on Isaac.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Burnley,” he replied, not sounding disappointed at all, “but neither Miss Annabel nor Miss Burnley will be leaving this house or London until they choose to do so. They are under my uncle’s protection and, by extension, mine as well.”

He glanced over at Meredith and Annabel, and his eyes grew even colder.

“It is obvious that you have distressed the ladies enough for one day. I suggest that you and your son remove yourselves immediately. If you wish to talk about their situation in greater detail, you may accompany me to my house, where, perhaps, we can discuss this as civilized men.”

Isaac’s beefy hands clenched into fists. Meredith closed her eyes, sick with fear that a terrible brawl would erupt right in the middle of her sitting room. At least, she thought desperately, that might give her the chance to get Annabel out of the room and out of the house.

Her eyes snapped open and she grabbed her sister’s arm, ready to drag her out to the hall as soon as the fighting began.

But the mayhem failed to materialize. Much to Meredith’s surprise, Jacob suddenly gripped Isaac’s arm.

“Father.” He uttered only the one word, but the warning was clear in his voice.

Isaac impatiently tried to shake the restraining hand from his arm. Jacob tightened his grasp and refused to let go, willing his father to meet his gaze. Isaac finally switched his attention from Silverton to his son. For a few moments they simply stared at one another as an unspoken communication passed between them.

Meredith darted a glance at Silverton, who stood calmly in the center of the room, continuing to hold Robert’s wrist in a light clasp. In spite of herself, a hysterical urge to laugh bubbled up within her. Silverton was utterly serene in the face of her uncle’s frightening behavior. In fact, she thought as she peered at him, he was beginning to get that increasingly familiar look of boredom on his face. She almost expected him to extract his snuffbox and inhale a pinch, simply for lack of anything better to do.

The tension in her body began to ebb.

Isaac finally shook his arm free of his son’s hold. He glowered at Silverton but had obviously given up the idea of resorting to fisticuffs.

“You may be unaware, my lord,” her uncle spat the title out with contempt, “but I am Annabel’s legal guardian and have full control over both her person and her assets. Do you care to dispute that in a court of law?”

Silverton dropped Robert’s wrist, his eyes suddenly gleaming with amusement.

“By all means, Mr. Burnley,” he responded affably. “I know several magistrates at the Court of Chancery who will be happy to see us, if I make such a request. You will be relieved to hear that I have a personal acquaintance with many of them. I am sure I can arrange for the particulars of this situation to be heard without any further delay.”

He paused, and Meredith couldn’t quite believe her eyes when he actually did extract a snuffbox from his coat pocket and flip it open, availing himself of a tiny pinch with an elegant flick of his wrist.

“Of course,” he mused thoughtfully, “I will feel it necessary to inform the magistrate—Sir Reginald Phillips comes to mind as one who might be available—that you intend to incarcerate your niece in a madhouse when she is quite obviously not a lunatic.”

Meredith glanced warily at her uncle, who looked as if he wanted to wrap his fleshy hands around the marquess’s throat and throttle him.

Silverton returned his snuffbox to his pocket. “If you are ready, Mr. Burnley, perhaps we can adjourn to the Inns immediately. I fail to see the point in letting this unpleasant situation go unresolved any longer. If you care to follow me, then we can just step up the street and hail two hackneys.”

Silverton continued to stare impassively at Isaac, although a slight smile softened the edges of his mouth. “I will be sure to give the hackney driver exact directions so that you will not get lost driving through the city,” he finished helpfully.

Guttural noises emerged from Isaac’s throat. He spun around and glared at Meredith and Annabel.

“This isn’t over. You may think you have the high and mighty to protect you now, but the law is on my side. And you,” he said, sneering at Meredith, “you will find that you don’t belong here. They will run you out, just like they did your father, and then who will you have to come to?”

Meredith could feel what little blood was left in her face drain away. “Not you, Uncle,” she managed to gasp out around the catch in her throat. “It will never be you!”

She turned from Isaac, her legs trembling as she finally gave in to the weakness she had kept at bay as long as Annabel was in danger.

“Mr. Burnley,” said Silverton, and the affable tone was now replaced by one that was glacial. “Either avail yourself of my invitation to see the magistrate or leave immediately. I will not repeat myself.”

A small frisson tingled up the back of Meredith’s neck at his threat of implied violence. It occurred to her that the soft-spoken marquess would make a powerful enemy to anyone who dared to cross him.

Her uncle spun on his heel and strode out of the room, brushing by Silverton as he did so. The marquess simply shrugged his shoulders. He looked inquiringly at Jacob.

“Mr. Burnley, do you intend to join your father, or is there something you wish to add to this discussion? An apology for his behavior, perhaps?”

Jacob threw him an impatient glance. “In a moment.” Looking at Meredith, he seemed to hesitate before clearing his throat.

“Meredith, it wasn’t my idea to come here like this today. You know I would never hurt you or Annabel.”

Silverton’s eyebrows shot up and he opened his mouth, but Meredith lifted a hand to stop him from responding. He clamped his lips shut, frowning his displeasure with her unspoken request.

“Jacob, I am grateful you prevented your father from hurting us,” Meredith said, “but why would you come with him and force your way into my house for the sole purpose of taking Annabel from me?” She stared at him reproachfully.

He took an eager step forward, his hand outstretched to take hers, but stopped when she shrank away from him.

“Cousin, you must not be afraid of me. I came to London to prevent my father from acting so rashly. You know what he is like. He would have come regardless, and I thought to prevent him from taking you once we got here. Merry”—he looked earnestly at her—“you know I’m your friend. You must believe I wouldn’t let him hurt you.”

Meredith studied him, trying to read his mind in his countenance. These last few weeks had seen her world thrown into chaos, and she hardly knew whom to trust anymore. But she had known Jacob all her life. He had always been her companion and protector, rescuing her from any number of childhood mishaps.

As Jacob held her gaze, Meredith was forced to admit he had rescued her that last terrible night at Swallow Hill, as well. When Isaac had turned his wrath on her, Jacob had intervened, insisting that his father leave her alone. He and Meredith would, he had told his parents, discuss any pending nuptials in the morning, after she had rested.

That conversation, of course, had never taken place, since she and Annabel had fled their home that very night.

“Meredith, did you hear me?”

She started as Jacob’s voice abruptly recalled her to the drawing room.

Silverton was still scowling at her cousin, his eyes glittering with an unspoken but obvious challenge. Jacob ignored him, looking impatiently at her as he waited for an answer to his question.

“I’m sorry, Jacob. What did you say?” Meredith tried to gather her scattered wits, suddenly aware that everyone else had fallen silent while they waited for her to reply—except, of course, for Miss Noyes, who continued to sob into her handkerchief.

“I said,” Jacob frowned at her, “that I’ll be back in London on business in three weeks. It would please me greatly if you would allow me to visit you when I’m in town.” His expression softened. “I give you my word I will not allow Father to accompany me or bother either of you again.”

She glanced at Silverton to gauge his reaction. His mouth had thinned into a hard, skeptical line. Obviously he disapproved, but Meredith couldn’t really believe her cousin had any desire to hurt her or Annabel. Jacob was a gruff man and could be callous, but she felt certain he disagreed with his father’s actions. She trusted him when he said he would try to protect her and Annabel from Isaac’s anger. Whether he could do so was another matter entirely.

Exhausted and numb, Meredith wished everyone would go away and leave them alone. She didn’t want to make any more decisions today. Unfortunately, Jacob looked to be growing irritated, and Silverton seemed to be on the verge of opening his mouth, no doubt to argue with her cousin. Perhaps she was a coward, but she simply couldn’t bear any more upsets.

She forced herself to smile at her cousin.

“Yes, Jacob, you may call when you return to London. I shall be happy to see you.”

Some of the tension seemed to drain from Jacob’s body.

“Thank you.” He reached out and lightly touched her shoulder. “Write to me in Bristol if you need anything at all, Meredith. And don’t worry about Father.”

He nodded brusquely to Silverton and, without another word, strode out of the room.

Meredith allowed herself to collapse on to the sofa, next to her sister. At the same time, Miss Noyes finally gave full vent to the hysterics she had been trying to suppress for the last half hour.

Chapter Seven

Silverton forced himself to unclench his teeth as he studied the three women huddled on the sofa. Miss Noyes wept uncontrollably. Annabel threw herself on the floor in front of her, stroking her hands and murmuring quietly as she attempted to soothe the overwrought woman.

Meredith seemed completely detached from the little scene playing out beside her. Her shoulders were slumped, and her hands had dropped loosely into her lap as she stared absently out the sitting-room window. She looked to be in a state of shock.

Not surprising, Silverton thought, after what she had just been subjected to. Now that the immediate danger had passed, all the courage and defiant determination she had displayed in the face of her uncle’s wrath seemed to have drained out of her.

He also realized that Annabel’s attempts to calm her governess were singularly unsuccessful, as the mousy little woman grew ever more hysterical.

There were few things in life Silverton loathed more than copious displays of weeping, having been subjected to them by his mother for as long as he could remember. Unfortunately, all attempts to soothe Miss Noyes apparently made it worse. Meredith seemed oblivious to the commotion—extraordinary, given the wails coming from beside her.

Sighing, Silverton turned to Robert, who, once again, was frozen in place like the proverbial pillar of salt. What was it about the Burnley sisters that threw his young cousin into such a state of paralysis?

“Robert,” he prompted. The boy did not respond, and Silverton noticed that he was fixated on Annabel’s graceful figure kneeling on the floor.

“Robert,” he repeated, more loudly this time. His cousin jumped with a guilty start.

“Oh! Sorry, old fellow. Did you say something to me?” He grinned apologetically at Silverton.

“Yes, dear boy, I did. Will you please ring the bell and see if we can get some assistance for Miss Noyes?”

“Oh, of course! How stupid of me not to have thought of it before.” Casting a lingering look at Annabel, he rushed over to the corner of the room and rang the bell pull.

Silverton crossed the room to Meredith. He went down on one knee so that he could look directly into her face.

She was pale and her eyes were unfocused, her pupils dilated so much that her gray eyes appeared almost black. He reached out and took her cold hands gently between his own, keeping his movements slow and steady so as not to alarm her.

“Miss Burnley, how are you?”

She did not respond. His concern grew as he chaffed her fingers in an attempt to give her some warmth and comfort.

“Miss Burnley,” he repeated gently. “Is there anything I can get for you?”

She sighed, a wavering exhalation of breath that quivered just on the edge of a sob. The sound of it wrenched at his heart, and he involuntarily tightened his grasp on her hands.

That small movement seemed to bring her back to herself. She sat up straight, her eyes finally resting on his face. Meredith stared back at him for a moment before blushing to a rosy hue. She carefully tugged her hands out of his grip and reached shaking hands up to smooth her disheveled hair.

Not wanting to embarrass her any further, Silverton stood and stepped back from the sofa.

“No, my lord. Thank you. I am quite well.” Meredith attempted a trembling smile. Pushing herself to her feet, she turned to her sister and the still-weeping governess.

“Annabel, my love, perhaps it would be better if you took Miss Noyes up to her room so she could get some rest.”

Surprisingly, Annabel rolled her eyes at her sister, as if annoyed by the suggestion.

“Yes, Meredith, that would be best, but I can’t seem to get her to listen to me. I think it would be wise to ring for Agatha. She will know what to do.”

Silverton swallowed a laugh at Annabel’s tart rejoinder. It would seem the girl had more backbone than her sister gave her credit for.

“I have just rung for her, Miss Annabel. She should be here momentarily,” Robert piped up eagerly from the corner of the room.

Annabel threw him a grateful smile before returning her attention to Miss Noyes. Silverton couldn’t help but notice that Robert continued to stare at his fair cousin with an expression of dazzled adoration on his face.

Before he could think about that further, Agatha appeared in the doorway. Standing behind her was a remarkable-looking creature—a large, florid-faced woman covered in flour and clutching a rolling pin in her massive hand.

“Ah, Agatha, there you are,” said Silverton as he stared uncertainly at the other woman in the hallway. “Your mistress would appear to be in need of some assistance.”

Agatha hurried across the room, pulling a vial of smelling salts out of her pocket. “Yes, my lord. I was afraid something like this would happen.”

She dropped to her knees next to Annabel, opened the vial, and began to wave the salts under Miss Noyes’s nose. “The poor lady is prone to upset, and I thought those horrible men were like to kill us if you hadn’t come when you did.”

“Yes, and we shall see what happens if they dare to show themselves in this house again,” exclaimed the flour-covered woman as she waved her rolling pin menacingly. “I didn’t spend ten years following the drum to put up with the likes of those hooligans. If I had known what was happening I would have been in here in a trice. Bullying my poor young ladies!”

Silverton blinked at the outburst. “I’m sorry, madam, I don’t believe I know you.”

“Oh, forgive me, Lord Silverton.” A flustered Meredith spun around, skirts swirling. “This is our new cook, Mrs. Biggs. Your secretary recently hired her for us, and she has been most helpful in setting up our establishment.”

Mrs. Biggs dropped an awkward curtsy, impeded as she was by her rolling pin.

“And I’m honored to meet your lordship, seeing as how you rescued the young ladies. You can be sure the next time those ruffians appear on the doorstep, I’ll vouch for it that they won’t touch a hair on my ladies’ heads.” She shook her flour-covered rolling pin with an exaggerated flourish, as if to illustrate exactly what she would do to anyone who threatened Meredith or Annabel. Tiny bits of pastry scattered on the polished floor.

Silverton was dazed by the image of Mrs. Biggs beating Meredith’s uncle about the head with a baking implement. He silently reminded himself to commend his secretary for finding such a remarkable character. Struggling to compose his face, he nodded gravely to the cook.

“I have no doubt you would be successful in protecting the ladies, but I feel confident that Miss Burnley and Miss Annabel are no longer in danger. Mrs. Biggs, would you please bring some tea? I’m sure your mistresses could both benefit from the refreshment.”

“Oh dear! I beg your pardon again, Lord Silverton.” Meredith actually wrung her hands as she cast him an anxious glance. He thought she looked adorably apologetic.

“Yes, Mrs. Biggs, please bring tea and some refreshment to the drawing room as soon as you can. Anything simple will be fine.”

“Nay, miss, don’t you worry about simple or not. I knows how to put together a proper tea tray, and I’ll be back with it in a twinkle. You just let Agatha get Miss Noyes up to bed and I’ll fetch her a cup of tea, as well.”

Mrs. Biggs looked thoughtfully at Miss Noyes, whose hysteria, thankfully, was beginning to abate. “Mayhap a splash of gin in her cup will do the poor soul some good.”

Silverton almost laughed out loud as he heard Meredith smother a groan.

“Yes, Mrs. Biggs,” she agreed hastily. “Thank you very much. I’m sure that will be most helpful.” The cook bustled from the room.

Annabel and Agatha managed to get Miss Noyes to her feet. The maid looped a sturdy arm around the little woman’s waist and practically carried her from the room. Silverton couldn’t help but wince sympathetically at Miss Noyes’s ignominious exit. Mostly, though, he was just grateful.

A profound silence fell over the room. Those left behind stared uncertainly at each other, as if they couldn’t quite believe all the turmoil had finally come to an end.

Silverton looked enquiringly at Meredith, who dropped her eyes to the floor as she bit her lower lip.

“My lord,” she began. Her voice trailed off, as if she could not think of a single thing to say that would explain the mortifying events of the afternoon.

“Good Lord, Miss Burnley,” Robert burst in, clearly unable to contain himself any longer. “Pardon me for saying so, but you do seem to have the most appalling relations.”

Meredith flushed a bright pink as she turned her face away, obviously unable to deny the truth of his tactless statement. Annabel glared at Robert and moved swiftly to her sister, wrapping an arm protectively around her waist.

Silverton studied the two girls standing side by side—so physically dissimilar but tied to each other by a devotion forged through years of emotional hardship and solitude. He turned to Robert and raised his quizzing glass.

“Too true, dear boy, too true,” he said in a tone of withering sarcasm. “It’s one of life’s greatest misfortunes that we must be saddled with relatives we would rather not have to acknowledge. Take me, for instance. Lord only knows what social crime I have committed to be saddled with an overdressed, inconsequential fribble such as yourself for a relation.”

His cousin gaped at him and then looked embarrassed enough to cut his own tongue out of his mouth. Annabel peeked over her shoulder and began to giggle.

“Oh, curse you, Silverton,” Robert exclaimed. “You’re right, as always.” He bowed gracefully to the girls, a rueful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Miss Burnley, Miss Annabel, please accept the apology of a witless dolt. I had no right to make any kind of judgment on you or your family. Please forgive me.”

He was rewarded with a brilliant smile from Annabel, which brought a flush to his cheeks as he stared bemusedly into her pretty face.

Meredith turned around to look at Robert, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears.

“No, Mr. Stanton. It is I who should apologize to you for subjecting you and his lordship to such a disgraceful scene,” she replied in a husky voice. “I cannot, however, regret your timely intervention, and Annabel and I can never begin to express our deepest gratitude.” She walked slowly over to Silverton.

“Indeed, if you had not come I suspect things would’ve ended very badly for us,” she said softly, eyes like burnished silver gazing earnestly into his. “I can never thank you enough for your kindness.”

The intensity of those amazing eyes tugged at something located in the vicinity of his heart. For a moment they stared at each other, and then Silverton busied himself with polishing his quizzing glass.

“Your thanks are not necessary,” he replied brusquely. “I acted only as my aunt would have wished. Lady Stanton would have expected nothing less.”

Meredith stole a bit closer as she reached out and fleetingly touched his arm.

“Nevertheless,” she murmured, “I shall always be grateful for your assistance.”

He realized with a slight shock that she was gazing at him with an expression of fervent admiration on her pale but lovely face. It startled him. It should have made him nervous. But if he were honest with himself, Silverton had to admit it was remarkably pleasant to bask in the glow of her approval.

Even more strangely, though, it made him feel, well, amorous. All he wanted to do right now was find a dark corner to pull her into, push her skirts up, and explore all those lush curves and velvet skin with his mouth and hands.

Good God, he thought irritably, he was becoming positively deranged. Perhaps he was the one who should be committed to a lunatic asylum.

Silverton hated feeling so out of control. From the moment he had entered the drawing room he had been flooded with a wash of extreme emotions. First, he had wanted to pummel Isaac Burnley into a bloody pulp, especially when he had turned on Meredith and mocked her common birth. Then, when her cousin Jacob had insisted on seeing her again, Silverton had been overcome by a violent wave of jealousy. He had wanted to pummel Jacob, too. And now, when Meredith looked at him with that achingly sweet expression on her face, he could barely keep his hands off her. He needed to master these idiotically primitive instincts, and soon.

Especially since the purpose of this visit had originally been to visit Annabel. What a tangle the entire situation had become.

The door opened and Agatha reappeared in the room, laden down with a large and very full tea tray. Struggling under its weight, she carried it to a small table by the sofa and deposited it with a less than graceful thump. Meredith hurried over to assist her.

“Thank you, Agatha. I don’t know what we would do without you.” She smiled kindly at the girl as she helped her unload teacups and plates onto the table. “How is Miss Noyes?”

“She’s resting, miss. I mixed up some of those sleeping powders the doctor gave us the last time she was feeling poorly,” Agatha exclaimed cheerfully. “Gin doesn’t really agree with Miss Noyes, in spite of what Mrs. Biggs might think.”

“Yes, well, thank you, Agatha. That will be all for now,” Meredith replied in a faintly horrified voice. “Lord Silverton, Mr. Stanton, please be seated. You, too, Annabel. I’m sure we have all been standing about long enough.”

Robert hurried across the room to sit next to Annabel on the sofa. His cousin seemed to be developing a marked taste for the girl’s company, Silverton thought, and that was a complication he really didn’t need.

He sat down in an overstuffed floral armchair, murmuring a quiet thanks when Meredith brought him tea but declining an offer of a thick slice of plum cake. Both Annabel and Robert enthusiastically accepted plates loaded with cake and scones topped with thick-clotted cream. Clearly, the distressing events of the last hour had done little to dampen their youthful appetites.

Stirring his tea, he stared thoughtfully at Meredith as she served the others.

“Miss Burnley,” he began, after she had taken the seat next to him, “it occurs to me that you’re in rather desperate need of a footman, preferably one who is both large and able-bodied. You must allow me, or, rather, Mr. Chislett, to find you one immediately.”

Meredith toyed with her teacup for a moment before replying in an apologetic but firm tone of voice.

“I’m sorry, my lord. I don’t think that is possible. As you know, we intend to live modestly and quietly. Agatha is more than capable of answering the door and running any necessary errands. I’m quite certain that we don’t need a footman.”

Her tilted chin suggested resentment that she had been forced to admit they could not afford the extra help.

“I feel certain my aunt would think it improper for you to be without a footman to take on those duties,” he persisted. “You need someone who is capable of turning away unwelcome visitors from your doorstep.”

Meredith’s sweet mouth pursed stubbornly at his refusal to drop the subject.

“We do have Mrs. Biggs,” she blurted out defensively.

She did have a point, but Silverton doubted even the masterful Mrs. Biggs could subdue both Isaac and Jacob Burnley at once.

“As capable as Mrs. Biggs is, I still believe it’s not fitting to have no male servants in your household to assist you,” he replied dryly.

She brightened at this last comment.

“Oh, but we do, Lord Silverton,” she exclaimed as she unleashed a dazzling smile in an obvious attempt to placate him. “Our coachman, John Ruddle, is normally about to assist us with anything we might require. I simply needed him to conduct some business in the city today. That is why you don’t see him.”

Silverton squashed a growing sense of irritation. Clearly the lady was used to ordering the household in her own way and did not take kindly to any interference. Especially, he suspected, of the masculine variety.

Of course, it was rather puzzling that he seemed compelled to direct her living arrangements to his own satisfaction. He felt vaguely uneasy as he tried to reason out the answer to that question, until he remembered he might be a candidate for Annabel’s hand. Surely that gave him the right to ensure the girl’s safety, and that of her sister.

“John Ruddle,” he finally replied. “Is that the elderly man we saw at Miss Noyes’s rooms in Hans Town last week? The one with the slight stoop and the arthritic limp?”

Meredith frowned down her elegant nose at him. “John Ruddle has been with my family since I was a child. He is both loyal and extremely dedicated. In fact, we wouldn’t have been able to escape from Swallow Hill without his assistance.”

Silverton drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair. “Perhaps you can enlighten me as to how loyalty will enable an elderly man to keep your various unworthy relations from forcing their way into this house.”

He found it immensely annoying that Meredith could be so naïve. Did she not understand how vulnerable she and her sister were, given the uncertainties of Annabel’s legal situation?

Meredith glared at him, her eyes narrowing in a mutinous gaze. He had seen that expression before, in his uncle’s study. How was it that only a few moments ago she had been gazing at him with a look of adoration and now she appeared ready to box his ears? She really was one of the most irritating women he had ever met in his life.

Meredith thrust her elegant little chin up defiantly.

“Lord Silverton, not everyone can afford vast fleets of servants who can be deployed in response to their master’s every momentary whim,” she said in a frosty voice. “Some of us are required to make do with the economies that have been forced upon us by circumstances. It is entirely unnecessary for you to trouble yourself with our domestic arrangements.”

She positively glowered at him. “But I thank you for your generous concern,” she finished in a politely clipped tone that utterly failed to disguise her vexation.

Robert and Annabel, who had been chatting merrily away in the corner, had fallen silent and were now staring uncertainly at their elders. It occurred to Silverton they must appear to be out of their minds to be arguing over servants, and he suddenly started to laugh. Meredith looked at him with surprise, but as he continued to laugh, her mouth grew thin with disapproval.

Silverton threw up his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “Miss Burnley, I suggest we cease this discussion before we fall into an unseemly brawl. Surely we can come to some kind of arrangement that will satisfy both my concerns for your safety and the demands of your pocketbook.”

He leveled his most compelling smile at her, the one that never failed to render young women totally compliant.

“You know Lady Stanton will be most alarmed by this day’s events. If not for your own sake, then think of her feelings at the thought of her granddaughter left so unprotected.”

She continued to frown at him, obviously immune to either his smile or his reasoning.

“Meredith,” Annabel interjected in a hesitant voice.

Meredith pulled her gaze reluctantly away from Silverton to look at her sister.

“I must confess that I would feel better with a proper footman at the door. It is, perhaps, not fair to ask Agatha or John to be so responsible for our safety,” Annabel finished softly.

Meredith thawed immediately. She cast a guilty look at Silverton, blushing in that enchanting manner he was beginning to find insidiously captivating. Biting her lip, she paused for only a moment before responding.

“Annabel is right, of course,” she said, smiling apologetically at him. “Please don’t think I’m not grateful for all you have done for us. We are already so obliged to you and Lady Stanton for all your many kindnesses.”

“There is no obligation, Miss Burnley.”

He didn’t want her to feel indebted to him, Silverton realized with a jolt. He wanted her to be so taken with him that she would do whatever it was he wanted her to do. That thought finally alarmed him. He could feel himself sliding into very dangerous territory.

“I feel certain we can come to a satisfactory arrangement,” he continued, making a point of smiling at Annabel. “Let me speak to Lady Stanton about what I feel is necessary to safeguard you and your sister.”

“Thank you, my lord. Whatever you think is necessary.” Meredith reached for his cup to pour out more tea. He gently waved her off.

“No more for me, I thank you. Robert and I have imposed on you long enough,” he said as he rose to take his leave.

His cousin reluctantly stood up from the sofa, staring wistfully at Annabel for a moment before moving to stand by Silverton. Robert was about to make his bow to Meredith when he smacked himself on the forehead.

“I completely forgot what I wished to say to you,” he exclaimed. “Miss Burnley, Miss Annabel, the purpose of my visit this morning was to invite you to accompany me and my sister, Sophia, to Green Park. I have told her all about you, and she is most eager to meet you. We were on our way here to extend the invitation when Agatha came racing up the street to fetch help. That’s why we were able to respond to your summons so quickly.”

Meredith cast a speculative glance at Robert, and then to her sister, who was clapping her hands in pleasure at the unexpected invitation.

“Oh yes,” cried Annabel, her eyes sparkling with joy at the idea of finally getting out of the house. She was practically bouncing up and down in her seat with excitement. “May we, Meredith? I’m sure we’ll be perfectly safe with Robert and his sister.”

Meredith hesitated. Silverton could tell she didn’t want to ruin Annabel’s fun but was reluctant to expose her sister to any unnecessary risk. The words were out of Silverton’s mouth before he had a chance to think.

“Miss Burnley, I will be happy to escort you and your sister to the park with Robert and Sophia, if that will ease your mind.”

The worried frown on her face disappeared, replaced by a grateful smile.

“If you wouldn’t find it too irksome, my lord, we should be pleased to see you.” She turned to Robert. “And delighted to meet your sister.”

Robert and Annabel grinned at each other. Just like silly puppies, thought Silverton with a trace of irritation. Why he had agreed to be part of what would surely be a tedious family outing was beyond his understanding.

Oh well, he thought with resignation, at least he could spend some time with Annabel. That would make Aunt Georgina happy.

But as he watched his cousin chatting eagerly with Annabel and her beautiful sister, he chided himself for being a fool. He knew exactly what he was doing and why, and it had everything to do with a certain obstinate, countrified spinster whom he couldn’t seem to shake out of his mind.

Chapter Eight

Meredith stole a glance at Lord Silverton as he pointed out to Annabel the small herd of milk cows clustered by the picturesque dairy. Her sister clung lightly to his arm, and his head bent gracefully as he made some, no doubt, charming remark that caused her sister to giggle. They made a very handsome couple, she realized with an unexpected stab of jealousy.

Appalled by the wayward direction of her thoughts, Meredith tried to think of something more pleasant. Unfortunately, dark images flooded her consciousness all too frequently these days—the result, she was sure, of the nightmarish encounter with Uncle Isaac.

She also found herself jumping at the slightest sound, and looking over her shoulder whenever they left the safety of their small house on Hill Street. Meredith knew that it was ridiculous to be so nervous. She had given her overactive imagination any number of scoldings, but with little positive effect. Only when Annabel was safely married could she afford to let down her guard.

“Meredith! Do come see these sweet cows. The milkmaids are just about to bring them in, and Lord Silverton says we can even have a fresh cup of milk.”

“Yes, dear. We’re coming,” Meredith called to her sister.

“I say, Miss Burnley, your sister seems to be having a bang-up time today, doesn’t she?”

Robert gazed eagerly at Annabel while offering his arm to Meredith. As they walked over to join the rest of their party, he dropped his voice to a whisper, turning his head slightly away from his sister, Sophia.

“No ill effects from the other day, I hope? Shocking incident! Truly shocking to treat a lady so cruelly!”

“I thank you for your kindness, Mr. Stanton,” Meredith answered him in a low voice. “Annabel and I are both quite well.”

“Robert! Whatever can you be muttering about? Don’t you know how rude it is to whisper?”

Sophia frowned at her brother in mock anger, but her expressive hazel eyes gleamed with mischief.

“Oh, hang it, Sophie,” Robert grumbled. “You don’t have to know every little thing that goes on in the world, do you? What a busybody you are.”

“Dear brother, you know for a fact that I do need to know everything about absolutely everyone. And if you don’t want to tell me what you are whispering about now, then I shall winkle it out of you later when we are alone. You know that you can never keep anything secret from me.”

Robert muttered something uncomplimentary about sisters under his breath, and both Sophia and Meredith burst into laughter.

Sophia Stanton was as friendly as her older brother, and her lively manners had immediately put Meredith and Annabel at ease. A slender girl of medium height, Sophia had an abundance of curly auburn hair, and almond-shaped eyes set under delicate brows. Her face was fine-boned and elegant, and the artist in Meredith fancied that she looked like an angel in a Botticelli painting.

Unfortunately, she also had poor eyesight and usually wore a pair of thin, gold spectacles. That had surprised Meredith, as she had never seen a woman so young wearing spectacles. But Sophia seemed to be completely unaware of her looks, and her lack of vanity was a quality that made her even more attractive. She was just the kind of girl Meredith wished to be friends with Annabel.

As their small group caught up with the others, Annabel dropped Lord Silverton’s arm and skipped over to join Meredith.

“Is this not the dearest little park that you could ever have imagined? I never dreamed there would be a real farm in the middle of the city. Please, Meredith, can we go to the dairy to see the maids milk the cows?”

“Darling, we can do whatever you wish.”

Annabel whirled away to join Robert and Sophia, and the three young people marched up the gravel path to the small barnyard and dairy situated in the middle of the park.

Silverton smiled at Meredith and offered her his arm.

“Shall we accompany the children on their rustic adventure, Miss Burnley?”

She hesitantly placed her hand on his sleeve, unable to ignore the acceleration of her own heartbeat as she felt the hard strength of him through the luxurious material of his finely tailored coat.

Meredith had never known a man like the Marquess of Silverton. He was so handsome and so elegant that just looking at him made her feel bedazzled. As they followed along behind the others, her eyes involuntarily dropped down along the length of his body. She couldn’t help but notice the long, powerful legs tightly sheathed in breeches and top boots, corded with hard muscles that he must have developed from hours spent in the saddle.

Meredith yanked her gaze back to the gravel path, mortified by the inappropriate and unladylike thoughts that seemed to invade her mind whenever she was with him. And even, she was sorry to say, when she was not.

Meredith sighed, finally acknowledging to herself that she was completely fascinated by him. Her new feelings both troubled and excited her.

Never once in her nearly twenty-five years had she experienced even a schoolgirl infatuation for any man. Not one of her former suitors—not that Lord Silverton could be considered a suitor—had ever evoked any feeling in her other than mild affection or, more rarely, respect.

She had always been frustrated by this, and wondered if she lacked some vital component most other women seemed to have. One after another her friends in the country had married, and all had seemed content. Only she remained a spinster, and during the past few years loneliness had grown inside her like a bitter weed.

Meredith ached to know, just once, what it was like to feel genuine passion.

Now it appeared that her wish had finally come true, and she couldn’t think of a more inappropriate target for her unruly affections than the elegant and worldly Marquess of Silverton. She devoutly prayed that she would be able, at least in his presence, to preserve a calm demeanor so that neither he nor anyone else would ever know how foolish she had become.

“Your sister seems to have remarkable recuperative powers.” Silverton studied Annabel closely as she chatted gaily with her cousins. “It seems impossible she could have been so ill only a short time ago.”

“I assure you, my lord,” she exclaimed, startled by the implications of his comments, “Annabel was very ill only a few short weeks ago. Indeed, I have no explanation except to say that the change of scenery and her reunion with her grandmother must have spurred her recovery.”

“Forgive me, Miss Burnley. It was not my intention to criticize you or cast doubt on your sister’s behavior. I am sure she was as ill as you say she was. It does seem strange, however, that her health should improve as a result of moving from the country, which is surely a more healthful environment, to the dirty air of London.”

A teasing smile lifted the corners of his well-shaped mouth.

“I suspect that you would agree with me, Miss Burnley. You do not seem as fond of the city as your sister does.”

“I hate it!” Meredith blurted out and then grew warm with embarrassment when he started to laugh.

“That is to say,” she added hastily, “I have not yet grown used to the noise and the crowding. You must understand that Annabel and I led very quiet lives at Swallow Hill. I am sure, in time, I will come to enjoy London as much as my sister apparently does.”

“Do not apologize, Miss Burnley. I find London to be a vastly entertaining and stimulating city, but any reasonable person will find it occasionally taxing to the senses.”

“If you say so, my lord,” she replied politely. Meredith found it difficult to imagine that someone like Lord Silverton could ever be content to live a peaceful country existence.

They lapsed into silence while they strolled over to the dairy.

“Miss Burnley,” Lord Silverton began, but then paused. She was surprised to see him frown.

“Yes, my lord?” She wondered what made him look so serious.

“I have no wish to offend, but I hoped I could prevail on you to explain the exact nature of your sister’s illness.”

She gazed at him, unsettled and puzzled by his persistent questions regarding Annabel’s state of health. Why would he be interested in something like that?

Some of her bewilderment must have shown on her face, because he briefly pressed the hand that clasped his arm.

“I assure you, my curiosity is neither idle nor vulgar. I wish to understand why your uncle is so adamant that Annabel be treated with such extreme measures.”

Meredith found she had to resist the urge to tell him everything. But she was uncertain that she should expose Annabel’s intimate history to anyone other than Lady Stanton.

He waited patiently, not seeming the least bit troubled by her reluctance to speak.

As Meredith pondered how to respond, she realized that his assistance and protection required her to answer most any question he might care to ask. More than that, in the short time she had known him, she had already grown to trust him. Like most men of the ton Lord Silverton probably led a life devoted to the pursuit of masculine pleasure, but he had stood beside her as a friend when she most needed one.

Meredith lifted her face to the warm afternoon sun. She closed her eyes as her mind drifted back to the events of three years ago.

“After my stepmother died—she succumbed to a fever seven years ago this spring—my father and sister became inseparable. They were much alike, and enjoyed spending hours together in the woods on our estate. My father was a devoted bird-watcher and he liked to take Annabel with him, especially in the spring when the birds were nesting.”

She glanced nervously at him, her stomach beginning to twist as the memories came flooding back. Silverton listened calmly, with a detachment that she somehow found reassuring.

“Three years ago this month they were out for a morning ramble, not far from the house but deep enough into the woods that they could not be seen or easily found. I was in my sitting room, going over the menu for the day with our housekeeper…”

Her voice faded as the terrible images of that day cascaded through her mind.

“Yes?” he gently prompted.

“It was a warm day and the windows facing the woods were open. I heard a shot and then a horrible scream. It took me a few seconds to realize the cry was Annabel’s. She continued to scream for several minutes, the sound unlike anything I have ever heard in my life, and I hope never to hear anything like it again.”

She shifted her gaze to her sister and her companions as they disappeared into the artfully pretty dairy covered in tumbling rose vines.

“The sound of Annabel’s screams allowed us to find them. I ran from the house, as did our butler and footmen, and the men working in the stables. We found them in a small clearing. A poacher had shot my father in the chest. It was obvious he died instantly.”

She fought back the anguish, which was almost as powerful now as the day it had happened. Gritting her teeth, Meredith resumed speaking in a voice that was clipped and unfamiliar even to her own ears.

“By the grace of God, Annabel was unharmed. But she had thrown herself across my father’s body and was covered in his blood. I tried to pull her from him, but she would not let go. It took three of us to disengage her. By the time she was carried to the house, she had stopped screaming. In fact, she said not another word and barely made a sound for a fortnight after that. I was afraid she would never speak again. She was only fourteen years old at the time.”

A cold heaviness invaded her limbs, as it always did when she recalled her father’s death. Meredith felt paralyzed by a familiar darkness that threatened to overwhelm her, and drag her down to the hollow and dreary place deep within.

A pair of large, strong hands settled on her shoulders. Silverton turned her gently around and away from the gray emptiness. Meredith looked up into his eyes. They reflected bright sunlight and an emotion she didn’t recognize.

In that moment he looked like summer to her—glorious, golden, and full of heat. Meredith drew in a shuddering breath. The chill that had seeped into her body faded away, replaced by a warmth that curled through her stomach, down her legs, and out through the soles of her feet.

“But she did speak again, and you have cared for her and nursed her back to health, have you not?”

Meredith nodded, unable to look away from the compelling eyes that drove away the icy despair. Silverton placed her hand back on his arm, gently urging her down the path to the dairy.

“What happened next?”

“Annabel fell into a profound melancholy for over two years. She rarely left her room and slept many hours each day. Our local physician counseled patience, that Annabel’s natural youth and vigor would eventually reassert itself and that she would recover from the shock of our father’s death. He was right. Last year, her spirits began to return, and I was so hopeful she would be herself again. But then—”

Meredith broke off, puzzled as always by Annabel’s strange relapse a few months ago.

“But then?”

“But then my aunt and uncle came this winter, insisting that Annabel be treated by a new doctor. Her illness returned in force and has not abated until these last few weeks in London.”

She shook her head in frustration at her inability to understand her sister’s condition.

“Do not misunderstand me, my lord. I am grateful beyond measure that Annabel has recovered. But I can never be quite easy. I cannot rid myself of the fear that she might become ill again. More than anything I wish to understand the nature of her malady, and what I can do to prevent a relapse.”

They strolled down the path, Silverton gazing thoughtfully into the enclosed meadow by the dairy.

“Thank you, Miss Burnley,” he said after a minute. “I know how difficult it must have been for you to tell me. You may be certain I will preserve both your and your sister’s privacy.” His serious expression lightened with an easy smile. “And now I suggest we join the children, who must surely be wondering why we have dallied.”

Meredith gratefully let the subject drop. As they strolled down the path to the dairy, she peeked at him from under her lashes. He had listened to her gruesome story so calmly—sympathetic, but without any uncomfortable expressions of pity or distaste. In fact, she was amazed by his casual acceptance of her family’s lurid history. Meredith hated telling people how her father had died. Most were shocked and strangely fascinated, and all too curious to know details that were incredibly painful to relate.

But Silverton had just listened, and that simple act had somehow made the burden that Meredith carried all these years seem lighter. She decided to let go the memories of the past, at least for now, and try to savor the beauty of the warm afternoon.

As they approached the dairy, Meredith couldn’t help but think how odd it was to encounter a working farm so close to St. James’s Palace. She was fast realizing that her limited experience of life had left her woefully unprepared for the eccentric complexities of London and, most particularly, of its upper class inhabitants.

As a child, she had always longed to visit the city. Now that she was finally here, she couldn’t wait to return home to the country. Her response surprised and frustrated her, especially since Annabel had embraced their new life with courage and enthusiasm.

Meredith knew her reaction was unfair, since they had barely begun to sample the delights of London, or the diversions of the Season. Unfortunately, thinking about the balls, routs, and musicales they would soon be attending only depressed her. She knew she had little chance of success among the glittering sophisticates of London’s elite and shrank at the thought of making her debut. All of her hopes were for Annabel. The sooner her sister found an eligible suitor, the sooner Meredith could return to Swallow Hill, where she belonged.

“Why so quiet, Miss Burnley? I sincerely hope you do not find my company tiresome, although I am afraid your heartfelt sigh sadly indicates just that.”

Meredith gave a guilty start. What a peagoose she was to forget herself in Silverton’s presence. She had been completely distracted by her gloomy reverie, one that he had obviously been too polite to disturb.

“Oh, no, my lord, how can you think it? I was simply trying to fathom the purpose of an ornamental dairy and farm in the middle of London. It is yet another aspect of the city I find most amazing and difficult to explain.”

His eyes widened in mock astonishment. “Do you mean to tell me that you do not understand the function of a decorative farm in the middle of London? Why, Miss Burnley, surely you know that Green Park is our own Petit Trianon!”

He made a sweeping gesture to draw her attention to the royal palace at the other end of the park.

“In the days when our unfortunate king was in residence, the ladies of the Court used to toddle over to the farm to watch the cows being milked. In fact, some of the fair ladies even delighted in playing dairymaids themselves. It has been said that Beau Brummell first met the Prince of Wales when His Royal Highness escorted the Marchioness of Salisbury on a visit to the dairy.”

His lips curled in a sardonic smile. “O happy day for the Prince.”

Meredith blinked, thunderstruck by the bizarre image of members of the royal family trotting off to a farmyard to milk a cow. She caught his sly smile as he anticipated her reaction. Her own lips twitched in response as she struggled to contain a laugh.

“Isn’t that just the sort of thing that cost the Queen of France her head?” she asked dryly as she observed the absurdly bucolic scene before her.

Silverton burst into laughter. “Fortunately, Miss Burnley, the English peasantry seem to be much more enlightened than their continental counterparts.”

His intensely blue eyes gleamed with amusement as he grinned at her. Meredith’s heart skipped a beat, and she suddenly felt as if her lungs had ceased to function. She forced herself to breathe out as she followed Annabel and the Stantons toward the dairy.

“Of course,” Silverton mused, “if Prinny had been their king, one could hardly blame them for wanting to chop off his head.”

Meredith gasped at the seditious remark.

“I’ve shocked you, haven’t I?” He looked like an unrepentant schoolboy caught in the midst of a prank.

Meredith wondered how many women had lost their heads when confronted with the devastating sensuality of his charming smile. It suddenly made her quite cross to think of him flirting with other women.

“I assure you,” he continued, obviously unaware of the tumult in her brain, “when you meet the Prince and, indeed, most of the members of the Royal Family, you will understand exactly what I mean.”

Meredith frowned at his easy assumption that she would be presented at Court as part of Lady Stanton’s plan to bring her out. The unwelcome reminder was like a slap in the face with a cold cloth.

“I very much doubt, my lord, that I will have the opportunity to meet the Prince or any other member of the Royal Family,” she said in a clipped voice. “I will, however, be both happy and grateful to see Annabel presented at Court one day. That will be satisfaction enough for me, I assure you.”

His handsome face suddenly looked shuttered and remote. Compared to the way he had grinned at her just a few moments ago, it was like the sun had moved behind a cloud.

“I stand corrected, Miss Burnley,” he drawled in what she had come to think of as his bored voice. “Shall we join the children now?”

“As you wish, my lord.”

Silverton’s affected and haughty manner never failed to irritate her, but she was really angry with herself. He had been nothing but kind, and she had responded by biting off his nose. For the life of her, Meredith did not understand why he often made her feel so defensive and argumentative.

Since she had no answer for that, she allowed him to lead her into the dairy, silently castigating herself for failing to control her lamentably unguarded tongue once again.

Chapter Nine

Silverton wanted to curse. He had made a mull of things with her, once again. Every time he managed to convince Meredith to confide in him, he invariably said something that put her back up and prompted her to retreat behind a prickly exterior. In so many ways the blasted woman plagued him, and he wondered why he simply couldn’t leave her alone.

But as he glanced down at her elegant profile, framed by her untrimmed poke bonnet, he recalled her steadfast courage in the face of her father’s appalling death and Annabel’s illness. He had wanted to do more than just listen while she related the awful series of events, but sensed that any overt expression of sympathy would make her uncomfortable. Instead, he was forced to resist an unfamiliar and powerful surge of protectiveness that made him want to wrap her in velvet and silk and never let anything hurt her again.

It wasn’t, however, just her defiant vulnerability that appealed to him. She also made him laugh. Meredith’s reaction to the history of Green Park had been all that he hoped for. Her quicksilver eyes had glimmered with intelligence and amusement, while her beautiful, laughing face had made his whole body tighten with a heavy desire.

Which was an entirely different reaction from the one he experienced in Annabel’s company.

Silverton admitted to himself that his little cousin was sweet, lively, and very pretty. But she was young, so young that he felt a vague sense of distaste at the thought of her in his bed. Of course, men his age married very young girls all the time. He just knew with a depressing certainty that he didn’t want to be one of them.

Suppressing an irritated sigh, he glanced at the woman whose slim fingers rested so lightly on his arm. She was fast becoming a puzzle that he felt compelled to decipher.

Meredith’s resistance to Aunt Georgina’s plans surprised him. He suspected she was shamed by her common birth, and now he also knew that she longed for her old life in the country. Even so, most girls would leap at the chance for a Season sponsored by one of the most powerful women in the ton. Meredith obviously didn’t want it, and that was just one of the things that made her completely different from any other woman he had ever known.

She was a beauty, too, and that disturbed his peace of mind more than anything else. Her cherry red velvet spencer shaped her generous breasts and framed her hips to perfection. He wanted to stroke her all over, run his fingers through her glossy black hair, over her womanly curves, all the way down to her elegantly shaped feet encased in sensible half boots.

Clearly, it was time to get a grip on his wayward imagination. He had promised his aunt that he would seriously consider courting Annabel, and he meant to do just that.

Silverton ushered her through the double barn doors into the ridiculously pretty and tidy dairy. Robert sat in a stall, straddling a low stool as he attempted to milk an obviously unhappy and uncooperative cow. Annabel and Sophia were doubled over, clutching their sides as they shook with helpless laughter. A long-suffering dairymaid stood at the cow’s head, patiently trying to explain the proper technique for extracting milk without harming either the animal or the man.

“No, sir, do not yank on the teat like you was trying to rein in a horse!” she exclaimed, nervously eyeing the cow as it stamped its very large back hooves.

“Well, I say! If the silly beast would just stay still for a moment then I wouldn’t have to keep trying to grab hold of the blasted thing every time it slips out of my hands!” Robert declared loudly.

His frustration set the two girls off into more peals of laughter, and Silverton could see the dairymaid was reaching the end of her tether. More to the point, it was clear that the cow’s patience was waning also, and Robert was in imminent danger of a nasty kick.

“Robert, do stop torturing that unfortunate animal,” Silverton ordered. “If you continue on as you are, we will be taking you home on a stretcher!”

Robert looked up, gratitude and relief evident in every line of his face and body.

“Well, you two certainly took your time getting here,” he grumbled, leaping up from the stool and away from the cow. “I’ve been left alone to amuse these two horrible girls, and they both insisted I try to milk the silly beast, because everyone knows how easy it is to milk a cow!”

“Annabel, how perfectly awful of you,” cried Meredith, although Silverton could see that she was trying not to laugh. “You know how difficult it is to milk a cow.”

“You do?” Robert stared at Annabel with a stunned look on his face. “Well, I say, Miss Annabel, you could have said so before Sophia insisted I make a complete cake of myself.”

“Oh, but it is easy,” Annabel giggled at him. “Look, I’ll show you.”

She sank gracefully down onto the stool, looking as comfortable as if she had been sitting in her own drawing room.

“Are you sure you want to have a go at this, miss?” the dairymaid asked doubtfully.

“Oh, yes. I know exactly what I am doing.”

She murmured quietly to the restless animal, petting it soothingly before placing her hands under its belly. In a moment, she was quickly and efficiently drawing milk from its teats into a large copper pail. The cow lowed contentedly, swished its tail, and leaned gently into Annabel’s shoulder as she continued to milk.

“Well done, miss!” cried the dairymaid, releasing the cow’s head and coming around to watch.

Robert’s eyes popped out of his head, and Sophia laughed again, clapping her hands in appreciation for Annabel’s skill.

“I say, Miss Annabel,” Robert exclaimed, “I’m beginning to think there isn’t anything you can’t do!”

Silverton had to laugh. If Sophia had bested her brother in the milking competition, the boy would have been mortified. “Your sister is a constant revelation to me, Miss Burnley,” he said. “She does seem to act in the most unexpected ways for such a shy and retiring girl.”

Meredith nodded as she watched her sister with a strangely wistful expression on her face. “Swallow Hill is a small but very self-sufficient estate. My stepmother was very proud of her dairy and home farm, and Annabel and I were allowed to spend a great deal of time there when we were children.”

She looked at him, her eyes soft as mist as they reflected the memories of those clearly happy times.

“Annabel loves all living creatures. She was constantly bringing home sick animals to nurse back to health—baby birds that had fallen from the nest, injured rabbits, stray dogs. And they never tried to bite or escape, either. I have even seen her put her hand down on wasps and never get stung. It’s almost as if they know how much she loves them.”

Meredith inclined her head toward him, speaking softly so that only he could hear her.

“Now that you know her a little, perhaps you can understand why I worry so about her. Annabel is an extraordinarily sweet and sensitive girl, and I would do anything to protect her.”

Silverton nodded thoughtfully as he looked from Meredith’s earnest face to the petite, unaffected girl sitting on the stool. He believed her, having already seen the lengths that Meredith would go to in order to guard her little sister. He was also coming to realize he would probably do almost anything to help her achieve that goal.

This urgent protectiveness he felt toward Meredith and her sister startled him, unused as he was to feeling such powerful emotions, even toward his own family. Then again, he had never before been forced to worry about the safety of anyone he cared for.

Silverton couldn’t imagine how someone as young and sheltered as Meredith had carried on for so long—and all alone, too. Well, he thought grimly, that was going to change. He would convince her that she and Annabel were no longer alone, and that he and his aunt would do everything in their power to help them.

He turned his back to the others, wishing no one but Meredith to hear him.

“Yes, I do understand why you worry. And I swear to you, Miss Burnley, you and your sister are safe. I will not allow any harm to come to you, and neither will my aunt.”

Her eyes flew to his face.

“I swear it,” he repeated in a quiet but firm voice.

A rush of pink sped over her cheekbones, and she closed her eyes against a sudden sparkle of tears. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. It was like daylight breaking free of the smoky mists of a winter morning.

“I believe you, my lord,” she whispered in a husky voice. “And thank you most gratefully for your friendship to us both.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Silverton noticed that Sophia was studying them, her expressive face signaling surprise and curiosity. Annabel had finished milking the cow and now chatted merrily to the dairymaid. Robert stood next to her, staring at her with what Silverton suspected was a burgeoning affection.

It was obviously time to go.

“Robert, if you are finished playing Farmer George, perhaps you could compensate the dairymaid for her patience and we can be on our way.”

Robert extracted a few coins from his tailcoat. “Capital idea, old fellow. If I never see another cow again, it won’t be a moment too soon.”

Silverton offered his arm once again to Meredith, although he knew he should take Annabel by his side instead. He appeased his guilty conscience by swearing to himself that he would take his young cousin for a drive in Hyde Park very soon.

“Now, Miss Burnley,” he said as he led the party from the building, “I thought you and Miss Annabel might like to visit Sir Thomas Lawrence’s studio on Bond Street. I understand he is currently working on an interesting portrait of the Prince Regent. You can see for yourself if I exaggerate the Royal defects.”

“Oh, yes, my lord! I have read about Sir Thomas’s studio and have always longed to visit. You are much too kind, sir, to both of us.”

Her eyes were alight with enthusiastic approval and warmth. It was a look he found himself growing addicted to, despite knowing that he played with fire by encouraging her innocent admiration.

Silverton knew he was being selfish, but right now he wanted to be her knight in shining armor. He would worry about the future later.

“No, Miss Burnley,” he murmured in reply, leading her down the gravel path toward Piccadilly. “I am anything but kind.”

Chapter Ten

Meredith smiled politely at Lady Bellingdon. The countess had been expounding for several minutes on the benefits of mustard poultices as opposed to other, apparently useless, remedies for arthritic complaints. Her small audience listened with rapt attention—not surprising, since they were all quite old and seemed to suffer from a variety of joint ailments themselves.

Meredith wondered, not for the first time, how she invariably found herself in the company of aging spinsters, dotty widows, and elderly bachelors. She sighed to herself, supposing that fate had already ordained the course of her life, which apparently dictated a future spent with the likes of Mr. Bolland.

“Fenugreek tea, Miss Burnley!” that worthy gentleman had declared just moments ago. “It is the only reliable beverage for the treatment of gaseous stomach disorders.”

The occasion for all this gaiety was their first foray into polite society, at a very select dinner party at Stanton House. The guests were all highly influential members of the ton and, Lady Stanton assured them, extremely loyal to the family. A great deal of time and effort had gone into choosing just the right sort of people.

Although still early in the evening, Meredith was already wracking her brains for suitable topics of conversation besides her health. She had withdrawn completely from society after the death of her father and Annabel’s subsequent illness, so her party manners had grown exceedingly rusty. And other than the Stantons, she didn’t know a single person in the room.

She couldn’t help but feel relieved, then, when Silverton finally appeared in the doorway, his eyes roaming over the ornately formal salon in search of his aunt. He strolled toward Lady Stanton, pausing to acknowledge the greetings of his acquaintances but steadily making his way through the small crowd. Bowing first to General Stanton, he took his aunt’s gloved hand and brought it to his lips, smiling gently into her upturned face.

Meredith covertly studied the openly affectionate expression on his countenance as he greeted Lady Stanton. She had never met a man so self-assured in demonstrating his fondness for his family. Sometimes, as in the case of Robert, it manifested itself as a teasing camaraderie. To his uncle he was respectful but never obsequious, and the women were treated as gently as if they were made of the finest Chinese porcelain.

No wonder she found him so attractive, Meredith thought ruefully. A woman would have to be blind or deranged not to notice and desire that kind of attention.

Over the last several days she had been forced to admit she was in the grip of a dangerous attraction. She also forced herself to admit that Silverton likely treated her no differently than any other woman he knew. In fact, he often paid a great deal more attention to Annabel than he did to her. That was only natural, she supposed, since her sister was part of his family. Whereas she, well, she didn’t even count as a distant relation, no matter what Lady Stanton said.

Still, her stubborn imagination couldn’t help but recall that day in the park and the way he had looked when he promised to protect her and Annabel. His expression had been anything but distant. Rather, the heat in his gaze had ignited a corresponding warmth in her chest, which had spread like wildfire to her limbs.

Meredith took a deep breath. Better not think about that now or she would never be able to carry on a rational conversation with him—or anyone else, for that matter. Especially since he looked so handsome in his severe but beautifully tailored black coat and slim-cut trousers that covered but could never disguise the masculine power of his sportsman’s physique.

Appalled by the direction of her wayward and uncomfortably warm thoughts, Meredith decided to stop thinking about Silverton at all. She turned deliberately in her seat and focused on Annabel, perched beside her on a red lacquered chair, chatting with one of Lady Stanton’s oldest friends.

Meredith’s heart swelled with pride as she listened to her sister easily deflect Lady Delfort’s pointed questions.

“Oh, yes, my lady,” Annabel said cheerfully, “General Stanton has been kindness itself since we have arrived in London. He and Grandmamma have done so much to make us feel welcome. In fact, just yesterday my grandfather invited Meredith to make free with his library and take home as many volumes as she desired.”

Meredith almost laughed out loud at Annabel’s look of sparkling mischief. Nothing could be further from the truth. The general had vociferously objected to the notion of her taking even one book from his precious library. Only the prompt intervention of his wife had prevented yet another row between them, something that had grown to be a fairly regular occurrence at Stanton House.

Oh well, thought Meredith with a tiny sigh, at least he had stopped threatening to throw her out on to the street. And, she acknowledged, he had easily accepted Annabel’s presence into his household after only a token resistance.

“Miss Burnley, why is it that every time I see you, you feel compelled to emit a heartfelt sigh? If you are not careful, you will begin to wound my confidence, and I fear that I shall fall into a decline.”

She jumped slightly in her seat and looked up to meet Silverton’s quizzical smile. Meredith quickly recovered, extending her hand to take his in a friendly handshake. To her surprise, he raised it to his lips and dropped a light kiss on the back of her hand before returning it to her lap. She felt the hot rush of blood to her cheeks.

“Why, my lord,” she said, making a determined effort to rally, “I was convinced that no weapon could ever pierce your formidable armor. Perhaps I have confused you with someone else.”

He laughed as he sat beside her on the ivory-striped silk settee.

“You wound me to the quick, Miss Burnley. Believe me, my vanity is just as sensitive as the next man’s, especially when it comes to the ladies. One cutting look from your keen eyes is all that is necessary to slay my pretension. I will then be forced to rusticate in the country for months to recover from such a deadly blow.”

“Come now, Lord Silverton,” she responded in the same playful spirit. “I begin to think that you confuse me with Mr. Brummell or some other member of the dandy set.”

“I assure you, madam, there is no chance of that. The Beau is not nearly as interesting as you, and after years of close acquaintance, one has grown weary of his particular brand of wit.”

“Do you know him well, sir?”

“All of London is acquainted with the Beau.”

She hesitated for a moment because he seemed to be displeased by the turn in the conversation.

“I have heard that one must still make a favorable impression on Mr. Brummell if one is to be accepted in the ton.”

His brows lifted in surprise. She arched her own eyebrows in return.

“My lord, even in the wilds of Wiltshire we have heard of the influence of the great Beau Brummell on polite society.”

A faintly cynical smile lifted the corners of his aristocratic mouth. It made him look even more handsome, if that was possible, but also both proud and untouchable.

“Fear not, Miss Burnley, your sister’s beauty and innocent character, combined with the support of her grandparents, will be all that Annabel needs to assure her success on the marriage mart. That, and her considerable fortune,” he finished dryly.

Meredith smiled gratefully at him, her misgivings over Annabel’s future easing considerably at his reassurance.

“Oh dear, are you two speaking of Beau Brummell?”

Annabel had finally escaped Lady Delfort’s interrogation.

“I have heard continuously that we must seek his approval at all costs,” she said, rolling her eyes. “That, and the patronesses at Almack’s, if we are to have any hope of receiving a voucher to that holy of holies.”

Silverton gave Annabel what Meredith thought was a strangely stiff bow. “I have no doubt you will charm all the patronesses, Miss Annabel. You will likely receive your voucher as soon as you make your appearance at the Countess of Framingham’s ball next week.”

“And Meredith, too,” insisted the young girl, a note of defiance in her usually sweet voice.

Silverton hesitated and glanced from Meredith to her sister, clearly trying to weigh his next words.

“Now, Annabel,” Meredith smoothly interjected. “You know we have discussed this. Given my parents’ lineage it is extremely unlikely, if not impossible, that I will receive a voucher to Almack’s. Nor, may I add, do I desire one.”

Annabel’s pretty eyes narrowed ominously.

“My dear.” Meredith forestalled her sister’s interruption. “You know I am right. There is no use to wish for something that cannot be attained. Lady Stanton has explained the situation, and we must acknowledge her experience in this, as in every other matter, is superior to ours.”

Annabel looked mutinous for a moment longer. Then her eyes widened and she let out a frustrated sigh.

“Yes, I know,” she grumbled. “But it is so unfair. Don’t you think so, my lord?”

The girl’s eyes pleaded with Silverton to agree with her.

“Yes, Miss Annabel, it is unfair. I know the exclusion must grieve you, but I believe that Lady Stanton is correct in her assessment. The patronesses are very unlikely to extend their approval to your sister. But,” he said, dropping his voice as he leaned across Meredith toward Annabel, “you must remember it is all a game. An important one, but a game nonetheless. Your sister’s worth is not diminished because she lacks the approval of a small group of arrogant women who would not recognize true character if they fell over it.”

Meredith once again felt a blush prickling across her cheeks, both at his nearness as he leaned over her and at his seemingly heartfelt praise. She didn’t know how to respond, so she fastened her gaze rather desperately on Annabel, who smiled approvingly back at Silverton.

“You are right, sir. I am a selfish creature, and I want her to be there with me for my own sake.”

Annabel darted a sly glance at Meredith.

“If truth be known, my lord, Meredith would rather eat gruel for a week than go to Almack’s. I think if she did receive a voucher she would probably fall into a panic and lock herself in her room.”

Meredith frowned at her sister with pretend outrage.

“Really, Annabel, you will give Lord Silverton a very poor idea of my courage. I do not wish to go to Almack’s because I have heard that the refreshments are barely tolerable and the entertainment boring. I would much rather stay at home with Miss Noyes than spend the evening trying not to trip over my own feet or those of my unfortunate and usually much shorter dance partners.”

“Almack’s! Lord, you don’t know how lucky you are to avoid it, Miss Burnley,” Robert exclaimed as he joined them. “It’s the most boring evening you could imagine. Why anyone needs the approval of that old group of dragons is beyond me!”

“Why, Mr. Stanton,” Annabel replied with a saucy tilt of her head, “you know how important it is that I don’t disgrace the family name by forgetting my dance steps.”

“Lord, no chance of that, Miss Annabel. You and your sister are the epitomes of grace and deportment.”

Annabel laughed outright, her eyes sparkling at the young man.

“I suspect our dancing master may have something to say about that,” Meredith responded tartly. “I’m sure the poor man has been driven to desperation by our inability to comprehend the basic figures of the quadrille and our uncanny genius for running into each other despite his direction.”

Robert blew out an exasperated breath. “Oh, hang the man. I’ve never met such a mincing, pompous fool in all my life! It’s appalling, really, to have a French caper-merchant ordering you about for half the day.”

Silverton extracted his snuffbox and offered a soothing pinch to his aggrieved cousin.

“I wasn’t aware that you were taking dancing classes, Robert. Surely that is one skill you have already mastered?”

“I should say so, my dear fellow. I am simply assisting Miss Burnley and Miss Annabel in their lessons at Stanton House. Grandmamma insisted, and, I must say, I do think it’s rather good of me to spend hours prancing around the drawing room.”

He cast a swift and apologetic glance at Annabel. “Not that I’m not delighted to help in any way I can. Enchanted, I assure you.”

Meredith waved her finger at him. “Please don’t apologize, Mr. Stanton. If not for your support, I fear that Monsieur Renault would have decamped back to France long ago.”

She glanced at Silverton, who was observing her with an amused expression on his face.

“I’m afraid the poor man is terrified I will crush his feet. After all, he is at least three inches shorter than I.”

They all burst into laughter as Meredith sadly shook her head.

“You must be sure to save me a waltz at Lady Framingham’s ball,” said Silverton.

“A waltz! My lord, Monsieur Renault has not yet been able to force himself to make the attempt. He says that first we must cease stomping about the room like a tribe of savages before he will even consider doing so.”

“Meredith, you are a beautiful dancer,” cried Annabel. “You know that I am the one who can’t stop laughing long enough to follow his instructions.”

“Well, who can bear to listen to that intolerable mushroom!” Robert sprang to Annabel’s defense.

Meredith laughed, touched by Robert’s fierce loyalty to her sister.

“Well, Mr. Stanton, I suppose I should be grateful I will be spared the rigors of Almack’s. On the night of Annabel’s debut there, I will think of you all with a great deal of pity as I pass a cozy evening at home with Miss Noyes and a good book.”

“You display your usual excellent sense, madam,” said Silverton. “I only wish I could join you.”

As he gazed at Meredith, the laughter in his brilliant blue eyes slowly transmuted into something deeper, more intense.

“And I have no doubt, Miss Burnley, that if given half the chance, you would cast every other woman at Almack’s into the shade.”

His voice slid up her spine like a piece of brushed velvet. Her eyes locked on his face, and she couldn’t look away. Awareness sharpened to a pinpoint as she saw only him and the heat of his gaze that trapped her so completely.

At that moment, and with a frightening sense of inevitability, she understood that what she felt for him was not a schoolgirl’s crush or a spinster’s foolish infatuation. After all these years, and with a finality she knew spelled her doom, Meredith realized she had fallen madly and irrevocably in love.

Chapter Eleven

“Come closer, my dear, and let me get a proper look at you.” Lady Stanton, dressed in a lacy wrapper, reclined on a silk chaise in the small but elegant sitting room attached to her private suite of apartments.

The old woman looked pale and exhausted. Clearly, the bustle and excitement leading up to Annabel’s debut had worn her out. General Stanton, always worried about the frail state of his wife’s health, had insisted that her physician examine her this morning. Much to everyone’s dismay, Dr. Gates had ordered her to remain at home for several days of strict rest.

Meredith quailed at the thought of attending the Framingham ball without Lady Stanton by their side, but nothing could be done to remedy the situation. She and Annabel would simply have to muddle through it on their own.

Lady Stanton had sent round a note earlier in the day, asking Meredith and Annabel to wait on her before the ball. Meredith suspected she wanted to give them a few discreet words of advice, now that the day of reckoning was finally upon them.

“Oh, my darling girl,” Lady Stanton cried softly as Annabel rotated slowly in front of her. “You look beautiful. Your mother would have been so proud of you.”

The girl was truly lovely in her gown of pale green net over a white silk underdress. Her hair had been cut in the latest style and swept into a shiny mass of curls on top of her head. Strands of delicate seed pearls threaded her auburn locks, completing the ethereal look that so well complemented Annabel’s petite figure. Meredith was convinced that no other girl would appear to greater advantage than her sister did tonight.

“Meredith, step closer, please. I want to get a good look at you as well.”

She obediently crossed the room to Lady Stanton. Meredith’s hopes for the evening were all pinned on her sister, but she could not deny the pleasure she had felt when putting on the new gown. It had been a long time since she had worn anything so lovely, and she had dressed with extra care. She had even made Agatha pull down her hair three times until she was certain that her new coiffure suitably matched the understated elegance of the dress.

“That gown is wonderful, my dear. It perfectly suits the color of your eyes.”

Meredith carefully inspected her appearance in the large pier glass mounted on the wall. Her gown was made of pearl gray gauze, with pink satin trimmings under the low bodice and on the tiny sleeves. She wore matching pink dancing shoes and long, gray gloves made of the finest kid on her arms. Agatha had woven silver ribbons through her glossy locks, and a few black curls tumbled artfully around her neck and shoulders.

After a long and critical look, she decided that any flaws in the picture were the result of her own defects and not of the gown or her coiffure.

“You are both astonishingly beautiful, and I have every expectation that by the end of the evening all the men in London will be paying court to you.” Lady Stanton’s eyes twinkled with merriment. “You must be careful not to break too many hearts your first night out.”

“Oh, Grandmamma, now you are being silly. I only hope I have enough partners for the evening. I simply dread the idea of standing about in the corner while everyone whispers behind their hands at the dowdy country wallflower.” Annabel peered around Meredith to stare at her own reflection in the glass, patting her curls into place for at least the tenth time since she had entered the room.

Meredith could tell by Annabel’s voice that she was very anxious. They were both painfully aware of how important this evening was to the young girl’s future.

“Annabel, my dear, I assure you, there is absolutely no chance of that. Simply be yourself and everyone will love you.” Lady Stanton smiled reassuringly at her granddaughter. “I know you are not used to this kind of event, and that you are experiencing some apprehension, particularly since I cannot be with you tonight.”

Annabel nodded solemnly, her hazel eyes grown wide with appreciation for the import of the occasion.

“If you have any questions or doubts about anything, do not hesitate to ask Lady Silverton for advice. She may be a very silly woman in some respects, but there is nothing she knows so well as the ton, and how to move through it. Her sponsorship and my nephew’s escort are all you need to make an initial good impression.”

Meredith’s stomach fluttered at the thought of spending the evening in such close proximity to Silverton. He and his mother were arriving shortly at Stanton House to drive them to the ball. His presence, she finally admitted to herself, was the real reason she had dressed so carefully tonight.

She squashed that thought immediately. Her ridiculous feelings for Silverton did not matter; only Annabel’s success did.

“My cousin, Lady Framingham,” continued Lady Stanton, “has been most gracious in inviting us to use her annual ball as the opportunity for your coming-out. She will do whatever she can to assist you, but she will be very busy and cannot look after you. If Lady Silverton is not by, then you may also rely on Robert and Sophia’s mother for guidance. Her judgment can be depended on completely.”

Lady Stanton raised her eyebrows pointedly at Annabel.

“I know you are excited, my dear, but please remember that you must not talk across the dinner table, no matter how interesting you find the company on the other side.”

Annabel giggled. She had a lamentable tendency to forget the strict rule of conversing only with those seated right next to her at dinner.

“Yes, Grandmamma, I promise.”

“Meredith, I expect you to keep a watchful eye on your sister. She is very young, but I know you are sensible enough not to be dazzled by a lot of handsome young men and their flattering ways.”

No, thought Meredith with a stab of guilt—just one charming and virile marquess.

“Yes, my lady,” she replied, simultaneously swearing to herself that she would not let Annabel out of her sight all night.

“Well.” Lady Stanton sighed. “I’ve done all that I can. The rest is up to you. Annabel, my love, would you please go to the library and say good-night to your grandfather? He is waiting to speak to you.”

Annabel dropped a kiss on her grandmother’s cheek and hurried from the room. Meredith lifted an enquiring brow at Lady Stanton, who clearly wished to speak to her in private.

“Meredith, I know you are nervous about tonight, and I am very sorry that I will not be with you.”

“My lady, please don’t worry. I will keep a strict watch on Annabel. I know how important this evening is to her future.”

“Yes, my dear, it is important. But try not to reflect too much upon it. Annabel will be loved wherever she goes, and I have no doubt she will attract her fair share of admirers tonight.”

Lady Stanton rose from her chaise and wandered over to her dressing table. She cast an enigmatic glance at Meredith, who felt a frisson of foreboding trickle down her spine.

“And even if Annabel doesn’t find an eligible suitor in the next little while, you must not worry.”

Meredith wrinkled her brow. “Why is that, my lady?”

“Because I believe that an excellent match can be made for Annabel within our own family. We need not depend on the vagaries of the marriage mart to secure her future.”

“Do you mean one of Annabel’s own relations?” Meredith’s sense of foreboding grew even stronger.

Lady Stanton nodded.

“Do you mean Robert?” She had noticed in the last few days that Robert had become quite attached to Annabel.

The older woman broke into a pealing laugh.

“Goodness, no! Whatever the general thinks, Robert is still too young to get married. No, there is someone else in the family who would be a fine husband for Annabel. But since he must first make the decision for himself, I will say no more. I only wanted to tell you that you must not worry so much. Our family will see to Annabel’s future, no matter what happens tonight.”

For an interminable moment, Meredith’s brain refused to function. She heard a buzzing sound in her ears, and the floor tilted under her feet. Silverton, she thought. She means Lord Silverton.

“Meredith, is something wrong?” Lady Stanton’s voice cut through her daze.

“No…no, my lady. I’m fine.” Meredith struggled to compose herself, even though her whole world had just been spun around like a top.

Could this really be happening to her? Could she really have fallen in love with a man whose family intended him to marry her sister? What else had her foolish infatuation blinded her to?

“Are you sure, my dear? You look very pale.” Lady Stanton’s sharp gaze studied her.

“I’m simply thinking about Annabel and her future, that’s all,” she hastened to reassure the other woman. Panic ripped through her chest. Oh Lord, please don’t let anyone realize how I feel!

“Well, don’t think too much. All will be well. Now, go join your sister, and say good-night to the general.”

Meredith somehow managed a credible curtsy and blindly reached for the doorknob.

“Oh, and Meredith…”

She looked over her shoulder at Lady Stanton, wondering bleakly what other revelations might be forced on her tonight.

“Don’t forget to have a good time.”

Meredith nodded and escaped from the room. She managed to make her way to the library, although she had no recollection of doing so until she stood outside the door. Before she could even catch her breath, the footman opened the door and bowed to her across the threshold.

“Ah, there you are,” rumbled General Stanton in his gruff voice. “I thought you had changed your mind and decided to stay at home like a sensible woman instead of running all over town with my silly granddaughter.”

Silverton leaned against his uncle’s desk, the height of masculine elegance in his impeccable attire.

Meredith almost stumbled when he turned and smiled at her. His gaze swept over her body, and the naked intensity of that look stoked a reluctant heat that curled down from her stomach to the top of her legs.

How could he look at her that way if he planned to marry Annabel? Perhaps, she thought, with a faint dawning of hope, she had misunderstood Lady Stanton. Perhaps her ladyship intended someone other than Silverton for Annabel.

“Really, Arthur,” exclaimed Lady Silverton from her perch on one of the leather club chairs. “How can you be so old fashioned? Annabel is over seventeen and Miss Burnley is well past the regular age of making her debut. It is more than appropriate they should be going out into society.”

“Age has nothing to do with it,” retorted the general. “Damned disrespectful to be carousing all over the place, what with the Monster on the loose again in France.”

“You are right, of course, Uncle,” interjected Silverton. “But the war has been going on for so many years that one cannot expect society to come to a complete halt. We can only hope that Wellington and the allies will soon be able to stop Bonaparte’s advance across the continent once and for all.”

Lady Silverton ignored the general completely as she rose to greet Meredith.

“Well, Miss Burnley, you look very nice this evening. And Annabel, I am in transports over your gown! You are to be commended on your excellent taste. I have every confidence that you will be the most beautiful girl at the Framingham ball.”

Annabel smiled with relief at Lady Silverton’s effusive praise. She got on extremely well with the dowager marchioness, who treated her with a careless affection.

Her treatment of Meredith was an entirely different matter. Lady Silverton was very high in the instep, and Meredith knew she would have preferred to grant her sponsorship to Annabel alone. Although never rude, whenever she talked to Meredith the cool reserve in her manner suggested a faint but clear disapproval. In spite of herself, it stung her to realize that Lady Silverton thought so poorly of her.

“Are you ready Miss Burnley? Miss Annabel?” Silverton’s engaging smile encompassed them both as he draped his mother’s spangled gauze scarf over her shoulders.

Meredith busily arranged her own light shawl, and Annabel flitted around the desk to drop a kiss on her grandfather’s cheek. He murmured gruffly into her ear, but his concerned gaze followed her slender figure as she joined the others by the door.

“Take care of ’em, Silverton. They are both too green to look after themselves, and I daresay they’ll get into trouble if someone doesn’t keep them under a close watch.”

Silverton glanced at Meredith, his cobalt eyes almost black in the flickering candlelight. A smile quirked the corners of his mouth, almost as if he were enjoying a private joke.

“No need to worry, Uncle,” he replied, a hint of laughter in his well-bred voice. “I won’t let them out of my sight.”

Meredith barely heard a word at dinner. The elderly gentleman seated to her left was a cultured baronet with a passion for Renaissance art. Once he discovered that she painted, he proceeded to lecture her on the merits of the Flemish School versus the Italians. She tried to pay attention, but the interminable meal with its astounding number of courses passed in a complete blur.

Fortunately, Silverton sat at some distance from her, giving her the opportunity to recover from the short but nerve-wracking journey from Stanton House.

He had remained silent for the entire carriage ride, observing her intently as his mother and Annabel chatted amicably. Even in the dim light of the carriage lamps his eyes had seemed to pierce her, and there was an unfamiliar stillness about him that set her nerves on edge.

At one point Meredith saw the marchioness study her son through narrowed eyes, a slight frown creasing her brow. A peculiar frozen expression had crossed Lady Silverton’s face when she noticed him watching Meredith so closely.

On their arrival in Grosvenor Square, the Countess of Framingham had swept them all into a large group and Silverton had not come near her again.

But dinner was now over, and their hostess had risen to lead the guests from the dining room. Meredith sighed with relief as she saw Silverton walk ahead of her, deep in conversation with a handsome, dark-haired man. She hoped he would be too busy with his friends to take much notice of her for the rest of the evening.

As she strolled with the elderly baronet up the wide marble staircase to the ballroom, she suddenly realized that Silverton would surely ask both her and Annabel for at least one dance.

She swallowed a startled gasp as butterflies took flight in her stomach. Part of her longed for his attention, although it provoked a terrible sense of yearning she knew could never be appeased. A man like him—one of the highest peers of the realm—could never be with a woman like her.

Even worse, how could she allow herself to feel this way if there was any possibility that Annabel might have to marry him? And how did Annabel feel about him? Although certain that her sister knew nothing of her grandmother’s plans, Meredith could easily imagine Annabel falling in love with Silverton.

“Is there a problem, Miss Burnley?” Meredith had come to a stop near the top of the staircase, the baronet waiting patiently by her side.

“Goodness, no, Sir Phillip,” she replied hastily. “I was simply admiring the beauty of this magnificent staircase and the unusual frescoes on the ceiling.”

Fortunately, her elderly companion saw nothing odd about this explanation. Instead, he launched into an enthusiastic description of the types of Italian marble that had been used in the construction of the grand staircase and imposing entrance hall. Breathing a sigh of relief, Meredith allowed him to guide her to the entrance of the ballroom, where Annabel eagerly awaited her.

Her sister stood in the doublewide doorway, her eyes as round as dinner plates as she gazed into the brilliantly lit room. Meredith halted next to Annabel, amazed by the ostentatious and riotous splendor of the Countess of Framingham’s ballroom.

The huge space was lit with several gigantic crystal chandeliers and a dozen gold candelabras placed on large alabaster side tables. The walls were covered in panels of burgundy velvet surrounded with white satin damask, the whole then bordered with burnished gold moldings. The draperies were scarlet silk lined with snowy white taffeta, trimmed with numerous gold fringes and tassels. An elaborate frieze scrolled across the ceiling, displaying a veritable jungle of painted foliage.

And on either side of the doors were two gigantic stone lions, carved so as to appear ready to spring on the unsuspecting guests.

To complete the fantastical effect, large pier glasses hung on those parts of the walls not covered in velvet, reflecting the glittering throng in an endless profusion of light and color.

It was vulgar and absurd, but the artist in her could not help responding to the stimulating nature of such an overwhelming spectacle.

Annabel began to laugh. Meredith smiled, her troubled heart soothed by the girl’s amused delight.

“Oh, my goodness!” Annabel exclaimed as she reached over and grabbed Meredith’s hand. “This is going to be fun!”

Chapter Twelve

Silverton brooded. He leaned against a massive gilt column in the corner of Lady Framingham’s ballroom and brooded. He never brooded. He never crossed his arms over his chest and scowled moodily at his friends when they tried to talk to him.

But when Nigel Dash had sauntered up to say hello, Silverton had practically bitten his head off. His old friend had beaten a hasty retreat, but not before uttering a smothered laugh.

Silverton knew he was acting like a madman, but as far as he was concerned she had driven him to it.

The source of his uncharacteristic behavior was currently gliding across the dance floor with her latest partner. Meredith’s delicate gown of silky gauze whispered over her body, clinging lovingly in all the right places. Her luscious white bosom rose above her low-cut bodice, displaying what he considered an unreasonable amount of smooth, tempting flesh.

She looked like a princess, although in this particular version of the fairy tale her highness was not a demure innocent but a voluptuous and bewitching woman.

He did not, however, feel like the prince to Meredith’s fairy-tale princess. Silverton knew he was really the big, bad wolf, and he wanted nothing more than to snatch up his prey, throw her over his shoulder, and carry her off to some secluded corner of the garden where he could devour her in peace.

He snorted at the absurdity of the image, and at this ridiculous struggle to control his baser instincts. But that was how she made him feel—base and primitive. He had never felt primitive before in his life, not even at Eton when he had been forced to pummel the occasional tormenting older classmate into submission.

Since that moment when Meredith had drifted on a silver cloud into his uncle’s library, he had felt overcome with a ravenous hunger. He had already danced with her twice, but if he didn’t get his hands back on her soon, he would go insane with jealousy and frustration.

Silverton frowned when he thought about her response to him during those dances. When he claimed her hand, she had risen from her chair with friendly anticipation, smiling rather shyly as he led her onto the floor.

But once there, she had acted like a skittish colt whenever his body brushed hers as they moved through the intricate figures of the dance. Her hands had trembled through her fine kid gloves, and he had seen a hectic flush come and go across her clear skin. When the dances were over, she had seemed as eager to return to her chair as she had been to leave it.

Now all he could do was watch as one man after another eagerly led her onto the dance floor.

Of course, he had no business playing the jealous fool. He should be glad for Meredith’s success tonight. Her beauty and intelligence would surely attract at least one man who might come up to scratch as a husband. Since he couldn’t marry her, why should he begrudge her the opportunity to find an eligible suitor?

But as far as Silverton was concerned, there wasn’t one man in the room worthy to kneel at her feet.

He also forced himself to acknowledge that he was doing his best to ignore a nagging sense of guilt. He should be talking to Annabel, not mooning over her sister like a love-struck calf. The young girl had already danced a quadrille with him, and he knew he should solicit another dance before the ball was over.

But Silverton didn’t care about Annabel, or any other woman in the room for that matter. He cared only about Meredith.

He sighed with relief as the violins scraped out their final notes and the cotillion finally came to an end. Meredith curtsied to her partner, the Earl of Trask, who led her from the floor to rejoin Annabel and Robert.

When the earl’s hand moved up to rest lightly on Meredith’s back, Silverton felt a sudden urge to throttle him. He pushed away from the column and stalked across the room to join the others.

“Ah, Silverton, here you are.” Trask welcomed him with a friendly smile. “I was wondering where you were hiding yourself.”

“I’m sure you weren’t wondering at all, since you were draping yourself all over the prettiest woman in the room,” Silverton retorted.

Meredith’s eyes opened wide. Trask’s left brow shot up as the smile froze on his face.

As Silverton glared at his oldest friend, he reflected briefly on the fact that Trask was one of the few completely reliable people in his life. But at this particular moment he had strong doubts that he could depend on the earl’s reliability. He saw the way Trask looked at Meredith. He knew what it meant, and it made him want to haul the man outside and draw his cork.

Silverton bitterly acknowledged that it didn’t get much more primitive than that.

The two men eyed each other for a moment longer before Trask grinned and moved slightly away from Meredith.

“Good God, man,” exclaimed the earl, “what the devil is wrong with you? You look like you want to pound someone into the dance floor. Is your mother trying to force you to make the usual round of hen-witted debs again?”

Trask’s dark eyes gleamed with mischief. Meredith glanced uneasily between the two men, a slight blush staining her ivory cheeks.

Silverton ground his teeth together to hold back the scathing retort his friend so richly deserved. “Trask, I haven’t a clue what you are talking about.”

The earl rolled his eyes but held his tongue, clearly deciding it was time to sound the retreat.

Before the situation could deteriorate any further, the orchestra struck up the opening chords of the first waltz of the night. Trask swept a graceful but careless bow over Meredith’s hand.

“If you will excuse me, Miss Burnley, I am promised to Lady Randolph for the waltz.” He nodded at Silverton and strolled away to find the voluptuous countess who all the gossips claimed was Trask’s latest mistress.

Meredith peeked at Silverton, her cheeks still flushed with a charming shade of pink. When he met her eyes, she bit her lower lip and turned quickly to speak to Robert.

“Mr. Stanton, since we must sit out the waltz, I hoped to prevail upon you to escort me to the punch bowl.”

Robert immediately offered his arm. “I should be delighted, Miss Burnley.”

Meredith smiled at Annabel and made a point, Silverton thought, of avoiding his gaze. It annoyed him that she appeared so eager to leave him alone with her sister.

He glanced at Annabel. She stood quietly by his side, tapping her little shoe as she stared wistfully at the dancers gliding through the waltz. She caught his eye and laughed.

“Yes, I know I shouldn’t be so envious, but it does look like such fun, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, most vexing, isn’t it,” he agreed amiably. “But as soon as the patronesses of Almack’s give you permission, you may waltz to your heart’s content. And when they do, your sister will be able to join you without any reservation.”

Annabel nodded, looking up at him with a perfect, innocent trust. “I am sure you are right, my lord, as you always are.”

Silverton felt another stab of guilt lance through his chest. Annabel really was a beautiful, sweet girl, and he hoped like hell she wasn’t falling in love with him.

He turned his head and scanned the room, searching for her sister. Silverton knew he should be concentrating on Annabel, but Meredith was a lodestone that drew all his attention. He easily picked out her tall, graceful body from the colorful swarm that surrounded her.

Silverton noticed that several other men seemed to be aware of Meredith, too, following her progress down the room with open interest. His jaw tightened in response, and a faint red mist appeared around the edges of his vision.

“Meredith looks to be enjoying herself, doesn’t she?”

Silverton jerked his head back to Annabel, who studied him with a merry twinkle in her eye. He smiled ruefully back.

“Yes, she certainly does.”

“I’m so glad. It worries me that Meredith is sacrificing so much on my account. She misses our home in the country, even though she never says a word to me about it.”

“I’m sure that you both do. But, in any event, it’s not possible for you to be at Swallow Hill for some time to come. You are safer here, and that is what is most important to your sister.”

“Yes, I know.” Annabel looked solemn, following her sister and Robert with her eyes as they made their way to the refreshment table.

They both lapsed into silence. Silverton couldn’t think of a single topic of conversation, so he decided to ask her a question that had been bothering him for several days.

“Miss Annabel, I hesitate to bring up an unpleasant topic, but have you heard at all from or had any dealings with your uncle or cousin? I hope you would tell me immediately if you did.”

She shook her head vigorously. “We have heard nothing from Uncle Isaac, thank God. I believe that Jacob will be calling sometime next week, but you already know that. I am sure Meredith would send for you immediately if she had any fears.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

Actually, Silverton had several questions about Isaac Burnley’s bizarre and vicious behavior. He had been reluctant to broach the subject, particularly when the sisters were readying for their debut. But as time passed, he felt a growing urgency to have a thorough conversation with Meredith about her family. Perhaps he might do so when her cousin Jacob came to town. Now that he thought about it, he just might insist on being present for that particular interview as well.

He was racking his brains to think of a way to question Annabel about Meredith’s relationship with Jacob when the music came to an end. Glancing over at the refreshment table, he noticed that Robert and Meredith were now talking to Sophia. Trask, who had apparently abandoned Lady Randolph, strolled up to join them.

Silverton was gripped by a sudden desire for watered-down, pink punch.

“Miss Annabel, would you like to join your sister for a cup of punch?”

Annabel dimpled at him. “That would be delightful, my lord.”

They made their way slowly around the edges of the packed ballroom, joining the others just in time to interrupt an argument between Sophia and Trask.

Silverton couldn’t help grinning at his young cousin as she gently poked her slender index finger into the earl’s massive shoulder. Having known Trask since childhood, Sophia apparently felt no discomfort in lecturing him, even though he was a good nine years her senior.

“Really, my lord. Your aunts are longing to see you. It has been months since you have been to Bath, and they are all too aware of every passing week that you fail to do your duty by them.”

“Oh, hang it, Sophie,” grumbled Trask. “Why can’t you mind your own business?”

“I should be happy to mind my own business if you would mind yours,” she replied in a pretty voice that did little to disguise her iron will.

Trask glared at her, but Sophia ignored him, smiling in the vague way she did when she wasn’t wearing her spectacles. Robert grimaced sympathetically at the earl when his sister turned away to speak to Meredith.

“Beastly girl, ain’t she?” he said in the most affable tone imaginable. “Best to do what she says or you’ll never hear the end of it.”

“You’re her older brother, Stanton,” growled Trask. “Why don’t you keep her nose out of other people’s business?”

“I’ve tried, Lord knows I’ve tried.” Robert casually shrugged his shoulders. “But she doesn’t listen to anyone, including Mama.”

“Well, someone should have the schooling of her,” Trask exclaimed testily.

“Feel free to try, my dear fellow. Just don’t get your hopes up.”

“Hallo, Trask, haven’t seen you in an age.” Nigel Dash strolled up and clapped the earl on the back. “What’s the matter, old fellow? You look like you’ve swallowed a wasp.”

Silverton and Robert burst into laughter.

“Maybe I have,” muttered Trask.

Nigel looked befuddled for a moment, then shrugged and turned to address the ladies.

“Miss Sophia, you are looking in prime twig tonight. And I must say, Miss Burnley, Miss Annabel, you are both looking first rate, too. And Miss Annabel, I saw you dance the quadrille. You were the most graceful lady on the floor. Don’t know how you two managed to pull all this off in so short a time.”

Meredith smiled at Nigel as she gently waved her silver and lace fan. “You are kind, Mr. Dash, but the credit belongs to Lady Stanton. I know the general is the military strategist in the family, but her ladyship’s campaign skills and organization are worthy of Wellington himself. We could not have come so far in so short a time without her able guidance.”

Meredith glanced mischievously at Silverton from under her thick black lashes. That simple look was all it took for the blood to heat up in his veins.

“And,” she continued, amusement lighting up her smoky gray eyes, “when her ladyship issues a command, we are all compelled to obey. Is that not correct, Lord Silverton?”

Silverton struggled to collect his wits, which had seemed to evaporate under the impact of her bewitching gaze.

As the violins began to play the opening bars of the next waltz, he forced himself to look away before he made a complete fool of himself. Fortunately, Sophia and Trask were arguing again, providing the distraction he needed to pull himself together.

“My lord, going to visit them in Bath every six months is not enough!” Sophia put her hands on her hips as she peered at the earl.

“Oh, Sophie, please stubble it,” Trask retorted. “Maybe getting you out onto the dance floor will silence you.”

“I doubt it,” mused Robert as Annabel giggled beside him.

Ignoring Robert and grabbing Sophia’s hand, the earl dragged her out onto the dance floor.

“But I can’t see a thing without my glasses!” she cried as he led her away.

“You won’t need to,” Trask growled in reply. He pulled her into his arms and swept her down the length of the ballroom.

“I say, Miss Annabel, since we can’t waltz, perhaps you would care for a stroll around the room?” Robert gallantly offered his arm to his cousin.

“Oh, that would be most refreshing!” Annabel blew her sister a kiss and strolled off with Robert in search of entertainment.

Silverton switched his attention back to Meredith. She stared longingly at the dancers as they circled the floor in a swirl of shimmering fabrics and glittering jewels. A small, wistful sigh escaped her lips. Suddenly, he couldn’t stand it a minute longer. He had to hold her now or he would surely go mad.

He gently slid his gloved hand down Meredith’s arm and took her hand. She shivered at his touch.

“Lord Silverton,” she began, but her voice trailed off when she saw the expression on his face. For a long moment she gazed at him, her breath escaping much too quickly from between parted lips.

“Miss Burnley.” He smiled down at her as he held her hand in a possessive grip. “May I have the honor of this waltz?”

Her mouth dropped open with unladylike surprise. Silverton wanted to laugh; he seemed to have a knack for making her forget her manners. But his amusement faded as her pink tongue slipped out and dampened her lower lip with a nervous flick.

“I…I…,” she stammered, her eyes jumping around the room.

Nigel, who had been leaning idly against the wall, straightened up. Concern replaced the usual good-natured expression on his face.

“Stephen, old man,” he began.

Silverton just looked at him, and Nigel’s next words died on his lips. Silverton turned back to Meredith, whose entire body seemed rigid with tension.

“Well, Miss Burnley, shall we throw caution to the winds?” He smiled coaxingly at her. “How bad can it be? After all, you are no green debutante like your sister.”

Something vivid flashed in her eyes, an expression that almost looked like pain. Her chin tilted up, and for a charged moment she met his gaze with what he could have sworn was defiance. But then her face softened with longing and a sweet vulnerability that made his heart thump in his chest. Her lips trembled into a dazzling smile as she stepped confidently into his arms.

His body blazed to life at the touch of her silky warmth, and he pulled her against him as he circled smoothly through the first turn. She breathed a small but voluptuous sigh of satisfaction, her eyes dreamy and unfocussed as she allowed herself to relax into the dance. Everything faded away but the sensations of holding her so closely—the soft swish of her gown as it wrapped itself around his legs, and the gentle pressure of her hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

Without warning, Silverton had a vision of that slender hand curled tightly around his neck, her naked body lying beneath him in the huge mahogany bed at his estate in Kent.

He blinked in surprise. Of course, it was entirely reasonable he should be having lurid fantasies about Meredith. But what startled him was the absolute clarity of that image of her in the family’s venerable old marriage bed.

Right then and there, Silverton knew he could never marry Annabel, no matter what Aunt Georgina might have to say about it.

He inhaled a sharp breath. Meredith looked up, her eyebrows raised in an unspoken question. Silverton realized he was holding her much too tightly, so he eased his grip as they swept slowly down the room. He searched for an innocuous comment to break the physical tension building relentlessly inside him.

As they rotated through a turn at the bottom of the room, he caught a glimpse of Annabel leaning on Robert’s arm, laughing gaily as she looked up into the young man’s face. Meredith followed the direction of his gaze.

“Annabel is having a wonderful time,” she exclaimed. “I have never seen her as animated as she is tonight.”

Silverton stared at his two cousins as they strolled through the crowd. How odd that he’d never really noticed before how happy Annabel and Robert were in each other’s company. In fact, they seemed to positively sparkle with life whenever they were together.

“So is Robert,” he replied thoughtfully. “It’s funny, but whenever he’s with Annabel he acts as if he’s been knocked on the head. What little wit he has seems to pour straight out of his ears and onto the floor.”

An arrested expression crossed Meredith’s face, as if the thought had never occurred to her. She twisted around in his arms to stare at the young couple before looking up at him doubtfully.

“Truly?”

He nodded solemnly as he struggled to keep the smile off his face. “Dicked in the nob, poor boy. I begin to suspect that he is completely mad for your sister. Don’t forget, she did convince him to milk a cow.”

A great surge of relief coursed through him as he realized that Robert just might be the solution to Annabel’s problem of finding a husband. After all, one cousin might do just as well as the other.

Meredith looked shocked, but then she tilted her head back and broke into laughter. She had a full, throaty laugh—not the simpering titter of a nervous miss—and he gloried in the husky sensuality of her response. Several heads swiveled to look at them, but Silverton didn’t care. He tightened his arms around her as he swung her into the final turn of the waltz.

As the music ended, he brought her to a gentle halt. Her cheeks were flushed with exertion, and her eyes sparkled with an enjoyment he rarely saw in her. He slipped her hand through his arm and escorted her back to where her sister stood with Robert. Annabel chatted with Sophia and her mother, who had just joined them. Nigel was also there, engaged in a whispered conversation with Trask, who glanced at Silverton with a startled expression on his dark face.

“Oh, my dears, there you are!” exclaimed Mrs. Stanton. “I didn’t realize you were waltzing. I must say, Stephen, you surprise me.”

Robert and Sophia’s mother was both doting and kind, and she readily extended her affection to her children’s friends. At her gentle admonition, a look of dismay dimmed Meredith’s happy expression.

“The fault was mine, Aunt Agnes,” Silverton interjected smoothly. “You know that I can never resist a waltz.”

“That’s right, Mama,” Robert agreed hastily. “No point in making a fuss about it.”

“Oh, my dear children,” Mrs. Stanton protested. “I wouldn’t dream of making a fuss! It’s just that…well, never mind. It’s time for supper, and we really should be going down if we wish to secure a table. Lady Framingham always invites so many people that it’s a miracle we don’t all get trampled underfoot.”

They moved through the crush of bodies toward the doors leading to the supper room. Meredith and Annabel, who had linked arms, were suddenly jostled by the crowd and pressed against an older gentleman and his companion, a formidable-looking woman with a severe expression on her face. Silverton froze in his tracks when he realized the woman was Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, the coldest and most judgmental of the patronesses of Almack’s.

“Oh, I beg your pardon!” Meredith smiled at the stern-faced woman. “I do hope I didn’t step on your foot.”

The gentleman seemed about to reassure her when Mrs. Drummond-Burrell’s piercing voice rang out clearly above the chattering throng.

“Such manners! I really wonder what the world is coming to when the Countess of Framingham allows a vulgar shopgirl to attend an affair like this. Whatever could be next, I wonder? I vow, I do not understand how General Stanton can bear to have the forward creature in his house.”

The crowd around them fell silent. Then someone laughed, and the chattering resumed at an even louder pitch as the callous remark passed quickly around the room. Silverton’s lips drew back in a snarl, and he began to push his way through the mob toward Meredith. She and Annabel were stricken into immobility, their faces pale with astonishment and wounded pride.

Silverton looked at Mrs. Drummond-Burrell’s cruel, self-satisfied expression and wanted to kill her. The intention must have been evident on his face because Trask suddenly materialized by his side and grabbed his arm.

“Try not to be a complete fool,” his friend hissed in his ear. “You’ve done enough damage for one evening. Let Nigel and Robert take the girls to supper and we’ll follow behind.”

Nigel gently took Meredith’s arm and led her away, conversing cheerfully as he hurried her through the supper-room doors. Annabel followed behind, Robert and Sophia flanking her in a protective stance.

Trask gave Silverton’s arm one last warning squeeze before releasing him.

“Well, old man, shall we follow the ladies down?” the earl enquired in a jovial voice, as if nothing had happened, as if Meredith’s world had not just come crashing down around her ears.

Silverton’s eyes swept the crowd. He could already see and hear the malicious gossip cresting like a foul wave. There was no choice but to ride it out. Later, when the black rage in his head had subsided, he would figure out exactly how to bring Meredith and Annabel back to safe harbor.

Returning Trask’s steady gaze, Silverton forced himself to adopt the attitude of cool self-possession that had served him so well during his years in the haute ton.

“Lead on, my dear Trask,” he said calmly. “Lead on.”

Chapter Thirteen

Meredith was blind, deaf, and dumb. The noise, the suffocating press of people, the chaotic colors that swirled around her, all faded away into a gray and soundless fog. The only thing she could hear was the beating of her heart as it pushed the blood through her veins in an angry, hectic surge.

When she had seen the look of shock in Annabel’s eyes, seen her turn pale as if she had been struck, Meredith had experienced a flash of rage so strong it had made her dizzy.

Lady Stanton had warned her. She had told her the ton would be callous, that nothing pleased them more than the cold barbs and destructive gossip that seemed as necessary to their existence as food and drink. But until she had heard the cruelly uttered words drop like venom from the lips of the stern-looking woman, she had never understood it for herself.

Perhaps she and Annabel had been too sheltered. Everyone they had met so far had been, if not kind, then at least correct and courteous. She realized now that it was for Lady Stanton’s sake she had been treated so carefully. It had all been a polite ruse, and the first time they had ventured out without the older woman’s protection their hopeful little fantasy had been sliced apart with the precision of a stiletto blade.

Her fantasy, at least, if not Annabel’s. What a fool she had been to allow Lady Stanton to convince her to come here tonight.

As cruel as these people were, what stung her most was that the evening’s debacle was her own fault. She had let her guard down. Meredith had permitted herself to be lulled by the beauty and gaiety of the evening, and by the deceptive charm of the magnificent surroundings.

Worst of all, she had let him lure her in. For one glorious moment, she had permitted her feelings for Silverton to swim to the surface, for him and all the world to see. Meredith had lost herself in the blue heat of his eyes, and she had allowed herself to believe it had all really meant something.

And for one brutally stupid moment she had let herself imagine that she could actually have a life with him. That it was her he wanted, not Annabel. When he had clasped her against his powerful body and spun her across the dance floor, she had believed that anything was possible.

She would never make that mistake again.

“Miss Burnley, please sit down.”

Nigel’s soothing voice penetrated the daze permeating her brain. “Allow me to fetch you and your sister some refreshment.”

Meredith forced herself to smile as he guided her to a spindly gilt and fruitwood chair. Inhaling a quavering breath, she finally looked around for Annabel. For her sister’s sake she must brave the public humiliation that made her want to flee London and never look back.

Annabel had followed closely behind into Lady Framingham’s formal salon, which had been converted into a supper room for the several hundred guests. Sophia’s arm circled Annabel’s waist as she murmured quietly into the girl’s ear. Her sister looked strangely blank as she joined Meredith at the little table placed near a Chinese screen and several large potted ferns.

Nigel had chosen well; they had as much privacy as they could under the circumstances.

Meredith took her sister’s hand. “Are you all right, dearest?” she asked, trying to keep her worry for Annabel out of her voice.

Annabel’s gaze focused sharply, and the strange expression in her eyes blazed into furious passion. When she spoke, she carefully enunciated each word.

“I want to kill that woman for what she said about you. If I had a pistol, I would shoot her myself.”

Meredith gaped at her sister, a sudden spurt of hysterical laughter welling up as she returned the fierce look. She forced herself to swallow it and tried to answer Annabel with her usual calm.

“No, darling, you must not be so upset. I don’t care what she said about me. I only care how this will affect you. Try not to worry. Lady Stanton will know what to do.”

Annabel blinked rapidly as she nodded in agreement, her body vibrating with the effort to maintain her composure. Guilt burned through Meredith like a flaring torch. If her sister suffered a relapse because of the events of this evening, Meredith would have only herself to blame.

As she patted Annabel’s hand, she noticed Mrs. Stanton speaking in a restrained but urgent manner to Robert. Her son nodded, cast a troubled glance at Annabel, and then left the room. Meredith surmised that his mother had instructed him to order their carriage. As far as she was concerned, deliverance from this awful little drama could not come a moment too soon.

“My dear girls,” Mrs. Stanton said kindly, “we will only stay a few minutes longer. Robert has gone to arrange for our carriage. You will both have a cup of punch while I speak with a few of our acquaintances, and then we will leave.”

The older woman gently touched Annabel’s cheek.

“Please, my child, try to compose yourself,” she encouraged. “The best thing for us to do right now is to appear as unconcerned as possible. Mrs. Drummond-Burrell is not universally admired. She is abominably high in the instep, and there are many who find her conduct capricious and cruel.”

With those comforting words, she hurried away.

Meredith was both surprised and impressed by Mrs. Stanton’s able handling of the situation. In the last few minutes, she had come to realize that Lady Stanton’s assessment of her sister-in-law’s character was justifiably accurate. Now that she had a few moments to reflect on the situation, she realized that Mrs. Stanton’s conduct was in sharp contrast to that of Lady Silverton, who seemed to have disappeared. Given that the marchioness had agreed to be their chaperone, Meredith found it alarming that she had abandoned them.

She sat with Sophia and Annabel in troubled silence until Nigel returned, followed by a footman carrying a tray holding glasses of champagne punch.

“This will make you feel much more the thing,” he exclaimed heartily.

Meredith forced herself to take a sip of the iced punch even though her throat was so constricted she could barely force it down.

When she glanced up to thank Nigel for his kindness, she spotted Silverton and Trask making their way through the crowded room to their table. Her heart, which had only just started to regain a steady rhythm, kicked painfully in her chest and began to race.

To the casual observer Silverton looked as collected and cool as ever, seemingly unaware of the numerous glances and whispered exchanges that followed his steady progress across the room. Meredith wished fiercely that she possessed his talent for unflappable self-control.

But as he neared their table she caught sight of his eyes; they glittered with a barely repressed fury, their gaze locked right on her.

Her vision blurred, her stomach twisting with a cold anxiety that made nausea rise in her throat. She had been so worried about Annabel she had not yet thought of his reaction to the events of the evening. Not only had she humiliated herself, her inappropriate behavior had obviously embarrassed him, too.

Meredith didn’t know why he had asked her to waltz, and he should not have done so, but the fault was hers for succumbing so readily to temptation. She had promised Lady Stanton she would see to Annabel’s good conduct, and yet her own behavior had been thoughtless and improper. Because of her weakness, Silverton must endure the gossip and slander right along with her. She was certain that he must be as disgusted with her as she was with herself.

Meredith turned away and desperately fastened her gaze on Annabel. She could not look at him, could not bear to see the disapproval in his eyes that she knew must be there. More than anything, that would shatter her fragile composure.

There was nothing to be done but gather the tattered shreds of her dignity and wait as patiently as she could for this terrible night to come to an end.

So she waited, and a few minutes later Robert and his mother came to fetch them all and finally take them home.

Silverton stared at the back of the Stanton’s town coach as he struggled mightily to conceal his growing frustration from his mother and her friends. The look of anguish on Meredith’s white face as he had tried to assist her into the carriage had struck him like a blow. Even worse, she had jerked her hand from his as if stung by an insect. She was building a wall around herself, and he couldn’t believe how swiftly their growing intimacy had evaporated into the cool night air.

He stifled a groan. Only an hour ago her warm body had snuggled in his arms as he swept her in lazy circles across the ballroom floor. Silverton had poured all his charm and energy into pleasing her, and he had succeeded beyond his wildest expectations. Meredith had melted against him as if she were made just for him—lithe, supple, and infinitely responsive to the slightest touch of his hand. He had reveled in the sound of her laughter, a simmering slurry of intoxication pouring like honey through his veins. She had a courtesan’s laugh, full and throaty, and it made him think of all the ways he wanted to possess her.

Silverton had noticed the heads of other dancers swiveling around to stare at them, but fool that he was, he hadn’t cared. He had focused completely on her, and all of London could have burned to the ground as long as Meredith remained in his arms.

“Stephen, our carriage is here.”

His mother’s voice pulled him abruptly back to his surroundings. He placed a hand under her elbow, helping her into the plush interior of their coach. As he climbed in after her, he felt worn down and impatient beyond measure with the dreary absurdity of his social life. He settled heavily into his seat, prepared to brood silently for the duration of the short ride home, while his mother engaged in her usual gossipy prattle about the evening’s events.

Silverton closed his eyes and tried to ignore her, but her mention of Meredith’s name yanked him out of his gloomy reverie. He listened with growing consternation to his mother’s unexpected and pointed criticism of Meredith and, by extension, his own outrageous behavior.

“Really, one cannot be surprised by Mrs. Drummond-Burrell’s remark. Annabel is a very sweet girl, but I find that Miss Burnley’s manner is quite forward and rather fast.” She tittered maliciously as she restlessly arranged the gold bangles bunched around her wrists.

“I vow, one can practically smell the shop on her. Stephen, how ever could you bring yourself to dance with Miss Burnley three times, much less one? I was ready to die on your behalf. I shudder to think what your friends must say about it.”

His mother sighed dramatically as she slid an assessing gaze to where he sat so silently. “How unfortunate for Annabel, indeed for us all, that we should be burdened with such an unfortunate relation.”

His temples began to throb as he listened to the spiteful undertones in his mother’s normally light and breathy voice. She never criticized him, at least not directly. And it infuriated him to hear her denigrate Meredith, who was so obviously a lady in every way that mattered.

The marchioness’s face was just visible in the intermittent gaslight that spilled through the carriage’s windows. A small, cruel smile touched her lips. She looked at him with an air of smug satisfaction that captured his attention more forcefully than her words.

The evening had developed into a series of revelations, and the most surprising one right now was his mother’s reaction to Meredith. He was ready to kick himself for his unthinking behavior.

As he stared at his mother through narrowed eyes, he tamped down the anger that flared within him. Silverton never lost his temper with his mother. Exasperation was an emotion he felt frequently in her company, and, occasionally, frustration. But never anger. Her petty cruelty toward Meredith, however, tested the limits of his patience.

As he watched her fuss with her jewelry, it dawned on him that her response was likely to be duplicated by almost every other person at the ball, especially the grande dames.

Silverton closed his eyes and shook his head. He had been so absorbed by his own emotions and so distracted by Meredith’s distress that he had failed to adequately observe the ton’s reaction to their tawdry little scene. His mother’s words made it abundantly clear that Meredith was in a great deal of trouble.

He cursed inwardly as he realized how unfair he had been to both Meredith and Annabel. He was so used to the world ordering itself to suit his needs and wants that he rarely gave a thought to the consequences of his own behavior. Their situation was precarious, however, and they would be the ones to suffer for his arrogance.

He was an ass, Silverton thought grimly, and he must do something to correct his mistake before Meredith and Annabel were ruined. He wasn’t sure yet how to accomplish that, but he could stop his mother, at least, from fueling the incipient scandal.

“The fault was mine, Mother,” he said, ruthlessly interrupting her silly chatter. “Miss Burnley was merely being polite when she agreed to dance with me. Her sister’s long illness and their difficult domestic situation have made it impossible for them to move in polite society. Any faux pas they make should be entirely understandable.”

His mother’s eyes widened with uncertainty. He returned her look with an unforgiving stare.

“I hope,” he continued in a cold voice, “you will be charitable enough to overlook any small errors on their part. One could suppose, in fact, that since you were their chaperone tonight, any whispers of scandal might possibly attach to you.”

He felt a grim surge of satisfaction as she bit back an exclamation of dismay.

“In addition, Mrs. Drummond-Burrell is not the kind of woman I would wish my mother to emulate. She is insufferably arrogant, mean-spirited, and boring. I avoid her company whenever I can. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I always thought you did, too.”

He lapsed into silence, holding his mother’s gaze as the carriage moved swiftly along the deserted streets of Mayfair. Silverton could barely make out the expression on her face, but he could guess how surprised and dismayed she was by the unexpected reprimand. He always treated her with an affectionate respect, but now he deliberately made his voice and manner both frigid and distant to shock her into complying with his wishes.

It worked.

“Oh, of course, my son,” she fluttered anxiously. “I have all the sympathy in the world for those poor, dear girls. You can rely on me to scotch any gossip that may arise from this evening’s events. You are absolutely right. It was most unseemly of Mrs. Drummond-Burrell to make such a fuss about nothing. After all, it was a private ball, and it’s not as if the waltz has not been danced at Almack’s these last two years. It’s too ridiculous!”

“Thank you, Mother,” said Silverton, allowing some warmth to creep back into his voice. “I knew I could depend on you.”

She quickly switched the conversation to another topic. He barely listened. Silverton again felt a surge of weariness and frustration overwhelm him. He leaned back into the velvet cushions and turned the night’s events over in his head, wondering how, exactly, he was going to make everything right again—for Meredith’s sake.

Chapter Fourteen

Meredith hadn’t wanted to get out of bed this morning. In fact, she wished she could lock herself in her bedroom and not come out for a week. Her night had been miserable and restless, and she had risen late with bleary eyes and an aching head. She had just made her way to the breakfast parlor of their little townhouse in Mayfair when the imperative summons from Lady Stanton arrived.

Now she and Annabel were back in her ladyship’s dressing room, but the mood was very different from what it had been last night.

Meredith leaned her head against the window in the bay alcove, sighing as she looked out into the garden. The cool glass soothed her pounding temples. Annabel murmured gently to her grandmother, but Meredith couldn’t find the energy to pay attention to what her sister was saying. Besides, there was nothing she didn’t already know, and nothing that could be said to cast the situation in a more favorable light.

The truth was, she had made a complete fool of herself. She had embarrassed her family, exposed her feelings to a man who would never be able to reciprocate them, and jeopardized her sister’s chances on the marriage mart before they even began.

Even worse, Meredith was now sure that Annabel would have to marry Silverton, whether she wanted to or not. If the scandal was as bad as it seemed to be, it might be impossible to find a husband for her sister as quickly as they needed to. Meredith’s unthinking behavior could either precipitate Annabel’s marriage to a man she might not love or place her at further risk from Uncle Isaac.

And although Meredith could bear anything if Annabel were safe, her heart broke at the thought of Silverton as her sister’s husband.

She sighed again as she turned away from the soothing image of Lady Stanton’s rose bushes to face the questions she hardly knew how to answer. London was a foreign country to her, and she despaired of ever being able to decipher its opaque and unforgiving social codes.

And she had no idea how to explain her own actions without revealing her feelings for Silverton to his aunt. Meredith prayed that she would have the self-control to justify her behavior in some kind of rational manner. She could not and would not betray the Stanton family’s trust in her by acting like a foolish and besotted girl.

Annabel fell silent. She gave Meredith a tiny smile, much calmer now that she had unburdened herself to her grandmother.

Actually, Annabel’s response had been the biggest surprise of the entire affair. After her initial outburst in the supper room last night, the girl had reacted with much less fuss to the unpleasant events than Meredith had expected. She had slept well, and seemed at ease and even cheerful this morning, more concerned for her sister than for herself. Meredith marveled at Annabel’s newfound ability to shrug off something that only a short time ago would have devastated her.

Lady Stanton smiled at Meredith as she patted the seat of her chaise lounge in an invitation to sit next to her.

“You needn’t say anything more, my dear,” she said as Meredith sat beside her. “Your sister and Mrs. Stanton have told me everything.”

The older woman took her hand and held it in her lap. She gently stroked it, as if she were comforting a frightened child. Meredith found the soft touch infinitely soothing.

“I’m so sorry that you had to be subjected to such callous and cruel behavior.” Her ladyship’s faded blue eyes glittered with righteous outrage. “Mrs. Drummond-Burrell is an extremely haughty woman who fancies that only she knows who is socially acceptable and who is not. But as Mrs. Stanton explained to you last night, she is not universally admired, and I feel sure we can weather this little storm with a minimum of fuss.”

She glanced over at her granddaughter, who watched them intently.

“Meredith, I know you never expected to receive a voucher to Almack’s.”

“No, your ladyship. I neither expected nor wished for it. I only hope I didn’t ruin Annabel’s chances to receive one.”

Lady Stanton chuckled, and gave her hand one more pat before she let it go.

“I don’t think we need worry about that. Lady Cowper is a dear friend of mine, and she has quite a talent for smoothing over disagreements among the patronesses. I know she will want Annabel to receive a voucher. And truth be told, Mrs. Drummond-Burrell has always had a soft spot for the general. I’m certain he can be convinced to help change her mind.”

Annabel’s eyes widened in surprise, and Meredith almost laughed at the idea of General Stanton engendering softer emotions in the forbidding woman she had seen last night.

Lady Stanton shrugged her shoulders at the irony of it. “I know it sounds absurd. It is because they are both such high sticklers. She does not, of course, have the general’s kind heart.”

Despite her misery, Meredith again felt the urge to laugh, but did not dare to under Lady Stanton’s perceptive gaze.

“How will Grandpapa be able to help?” Annabel tilted her head in curiosity.

“Never mind for now. I must think on it some more, but I’m sure we can manage this unpleasant affair to our complete satisfaction. I forbid you, my dears, to waste any more time worrying about it.”

Annabel grimaced, clearly wanting to ask more questions, but evidently Lady Stanton had finished with the subject. The older woman walked over to her granddaughter and patted her cheek.

“Now give your grandmother a kiss and go down to the general in the library. He is waiting for you. I want to speak to your sister for a few minutes.”

Annabel hesitated, her brow creased with concern as she looked at Meredith.

“Go on, Annabel,” Lady Stanton ordered in a gentle voice. “Meredith will join you shortly.”

“Do go down, dearest,” urged Meredith. “There are a few things I would like to discuss with her ladyship. Everything will be fine.”

Annabel stared suspiciously at them for a moment longer and then reluctantly capitulated.

“Well, don’t be long,” she said. “You promised we could go to the millinery shop this afternoon, remember?”

Meredith smiled at the obvious warning in the young girl’s voice. Annabel adored her grandmother, but she would not allow anyone, even Lady Stanton, to distress her beloved older sister. Annabel’s loyalty was a comforting balm poured into the bruised recesses of her heart.

After the girl left the room, Lady Stanton turned her full attention to Meredith.

“Annabel loves you very much.”

“Yes, your ladyship. Her affection and loyalty mean everything to me. My life without her would be empty.”

Lady Stanton gazed at her for an endless moment, her eyes piercing Meredith with a discomforting shrewdness.

“Yes, I know,” she finally replied, sitting once more on her chaise.

Lady Stanton did not invite her to sit with her again. Meredith began to feel as if she were a disobedient child about to be lectured. She clearly remembered standing in her stepmother’s bedroom, waiting for a gentle but firm reprimand after committing a childish prank. Her ladyship had the same look on her face as Elizabeth Burnley had on the numerous occasions when Meredith had misbehaved.

The memory of her much loved stepmother, combined with the guilt she felt over her own behavior, overwhelmed her. Tears prickled behind her eyelids, but she forced herself to blink them back. She would not act like a child. She would accept, with good grace, any criticism, and agree to whatever actions were required to rectify her mistakes.

Lady Stanton suddenly laughed. “Meredith, please, you look like a schoolgirl who is afraid she will be sent to bed without supper. I assure you, the situation is not as dire as you think.”

Meredith stared at the older woman in surprise, but when she saw the genuine amusement on Lady Stanton’s face, the tension in her own shoulders began to ease.

“If you say so, madam.” She tried to smile in return, but knew she failed miserably.

Lady Stanton’s amusement faded as she shook her head. “It is I who owe you an apology, Meredith. It is truly not your fault. I was not there to watch over you, and, after all, this was your first appearance at a ball. There were bound to be some missteps.”

The lines on the older woman’s face became stern. “I must say, however, that I’m sadly disappointed in Lady Silverton. From what Annabel tells me, she seems to have abandoned you for the evening. I expected better from her.”

Lady Stanton’s warm eyes turned a wintry blue. They looked so like Silverton’s that Meredith felt briefly disoriented. The same expression had been on his face when he had stalked toward her in the supper room last night. At the memory of it, a tiny shiver trickled down her spine.

She remained silent. Although she could not bring herself to defend the marchioness, the woman was mother to the man she loved, and Meredith would not criticize her.

“What I really can’t understand, however,” continued Lady Stanton in a musing tone of voice, “is why Silverton asked you to waltz in the first place, since he knew the patronesses of Almack’s had not yet given their approval. I find his behavior completely inexplicable, and I intend to ask him why he did it when he arrives here this morning.”

Meredith didn’t know what she found more appalling: that Lady Stanton would ask her partner in crime why he had danced with her, or that she might have to face him so soon.

“Oh, no, my lady,” she gasped, her heart beginning a panicky tattoo, “I’m sure he simply wasn’t thinking. We were all conversing and standing about when the orchestra began to play the waltz. It was just an idle and spontaneous request. No harm was meant by it.”

Lady Stanton’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Meredith had an overpowering desire to open the window and throw herself down into the rose bushes. A few broken bones would be infinitely preferable to the mortification she felt right now.

“I’m sure he didn’t mean to hurt you, but it’s quite obvious he wasn’t thinking clearly,” retorted Lady Stanton. “I have no wish to make you uncomfortable, my dear, but I think it necessary that my nephew explain his actions to my satisfaction.”

Meredith started to protest again, then bit her tongue, willing herself to be quiet. She would only expose herself if she continued to make objections that would be ignored anyway.

“Meredith, there is no way to pose this question without distressing you, so I will just ask. Have you developed an attachment to my nephew?”

Meredith closed her eyes. She should have known she couldn’t escape Lady Stanton’s keen observation, any more than she had been able to hide childhood secrets from her stepmother. Or else, she thought bitterly, her feelings for Silverton were so obvious that it was apparent to anyone who looked closely enough.

“Lady Stanton,” she said, hating the tremor in her voice, “I hardly know how to answer such a question. Both Annabel and I owe Lord Silverton a tremendous debt of gratitude. His friendship means the world to us.”

“Yes, yes, I know all that.” Her ladyship cut her off impatiently. “You are not a child, Meredith. You know what I am asking. Have you formed an attachment to Silverton?”

If someone had put a pistol to her head, Meredith knew she still would not answer the question. She could hardly explain her chaotic feelings to herself. Besides, her foolish infatuation would never amount to anything, anyway. There was no point in discussing the situation with another soul—not Lady Stanton, not even her sister.

“My lady.” She looked the other woman directly in the eye. “Annabel and I will always be grateful for your nephew’s friendship.”

She sealed her lips, vowing silently that she would never utter another word on the subject.

As Lady Stanton continued to examine her, her brows arched slowly up. Meredith returned her gaze with an impassive expression, determined to hold on to the last few shreds of her battered pride.

Quite unexpectedly, Lady Stanton nodded, seemingly satisfied by her answer.

“Very well, my dear, I will respect your privacy. But as the nearest thing to a mother that you have in this world, I am compelled to give you a word of advice.”

“Of course, my lady,” Meredith replied as she tried not to grind her back teeth.

“As a general rule, a lady should never reveal her feelings for a man until she is able to ascertain his feelings for her. It is the safest way to guard her own heart and to protect herself from unwelcome comment.”

Although Lady Stanton looked sympathetic, Meredith wished that the imaginary person holding the pistol to her head would simply shoot her and get it over with.

“I mean this, of course, as general advice and not specifically applicable to you.”

“No, of course not,” Meredith sighed.

“Well, that is enough on that subject!” Lady Stanton exclaimed briskly. “As I said before, you are not to worry about last night. I will take care of it, and you may be sure that Annabel will come to no harm as a result.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

Meredith tried to sound appropriately grateful, but all she wanted was to flee the room as quickly as she could. If it were only possible, she would walk right out of Stanton House and keep on walking, getting as far from London and Silverton as she could.

An impatient rap sounded on the door. Her stretched nerves practically snapped at the unexpected noise.

“Enter,” said Lady Stanton, looking vaguely surprised.

The door swung open and Silverton strode into the room. He approached his aunt and executed a correct but hasty bow.

“Please forgive the interruption, Aunt Georgina,” he said in a clipped voice. “I told Tolliver I would show myself up.”

Silverton halted in his tracks when he heard the small, stifled gasp behind him. He spun on his heel, his eyes immediately capturing hers. But Meredith ducked her head and quickly looked away.

That she still refused to meet his gaze made him both immensely frustrated and determined. Enough was enough. He had let her go without a word last night, but today he would make her see that she had no reason to avoid him.

“Stephen!”

His aunt’s warning tone recalled him to his surroundings. Without realizing it, he had started to reach for Meredith. Silverton forced himself to turn back to Lady Stanton, whose features were cold with disapproval.

“Forgive me, dear Aunt, I have forgotten my manners this morning.” He bent down to kiss the hand she extended.

“Good morning, Nephew. Thank you for responding so quickly to my note. I hardly thought to see you so early.”

Silverton reflected on the imperious nature of his aunt’s summons. He had already surmised the extent of her irritation from the coldly correct tone of her missive. Now she addressed him as nephew, something she only did when she was seriously displeased. Knowing he was in for a scolding, he only hoped that it would not take place in front of Meredith.

Not that he would blame his aunt one bit if she rang a peal over him. The recollection of his behavior at Lady Framingham’s ball had kept him awake much of the night—a good part of it in his library imbibing a generous amount of brandy in the hope that it would help him sleep. That had resulted in nothing but a dull headache. He awoke this morning feeling more restless and irritable than he could ever recall.

Silverton mustered what he hoped was an ingratiating smile; he must have failed miserably, because Lady Stanton continued to scowl at him.

“Dear ma’am, you know that I am always yours to command.”

She gave an uncharacteristic and grumpy hrumph, and glanced over at Meredith.

“Stephen, you may bid Miss Burnley good-morning,” she ordered.

He walked slowly over to Meredith, who looked ready to escape from the room at the first opportunity. When he stopped directly in front of her, she finally lifted her head. She met his gaze with a resolute and wounded dignity that wrung his heart.

“How are you this day, Miss Burnley?” He had to struggle to keep the roughness out of his voice, because the pain in her eyes made him want to break something.

“I am well. Thank you for your concern, my lord.”

Her voice was so soft and distant that he wanted to shake her and crush her in his arms all at the same time. He fleetingly touched her chin.

“I think not,” he said. “You look very pale to me.”

At the touch of his hand, her eyes slid away and fastened at a point somewhere over his shoulder.

“No indeed, sir,” she said very formally. “I am quite well.”

He dropped his hand.

“And how is Miss Annabel this morning? I hope she suffered no ill effects from the events of last evening?” The thought of Annabel and her fragile health had been one of the things keeping him awake all night.

She glanced at him, managing a small but genuine smile.

“Annabel is fine,” she said. “She is quite herself today, thank God.” Meredith inhaled a shaky breath and looked him directly in the eyes.

“Lord Silverton, I wanted to tell you how very sorry I am that I embarrassed you and your mother last night. There was no excuse…” Her voice faltered and she stumbled to a halt, obviously too humiliated to continue.

Shame clouded the burnished silver of her beautiful eyes. It nearly broke his heart.

“Miss Burnley,” he exclaimed, “you must not fret so. I should apologize to you. You are innocent of any wrong, while I behaved very stupidly indeed. If you remain in this room, you will be sure to hear my aunt give me a thorough and well-deserved trimming.”

At his words, the strained expression around her eyes began to ease.

“Do not refine too much on what was a distasteful but insignificant event,” he assured her. “All will be well, I promise.”

He silently vowed to do whatever he must to keep his promise.

“Meredith, my dear,” Lady Stanton’s voice gently intruded. “You may go down now and join your sister and the general.”

“Yes, my lady,” she replied quickly. “My lord.”

She sketched a quick curtsy and fled.

He sighed as he watched her hurry from the room. It was indicative of her discomfort that she responded with such alacrity to Lady Stanton’s command. Normally, Meredith would do almost anything to avoid the general’s company.

He turned back to his aunt, noting the cold expression that had returned to her face.

“I won’t ask you to explain yourself,” she said. “There is no justification for what you did. It was selfish and irresponsible—conduct most unbecoming in the head of the family.”

He didn’t bother to defend himself.

“Yes, I know you regret it now,” she said, waving her hand impatiently. “That is little consolation, however. Meredith and Annabel are both much too vulnerable. It is your duty to protect them, not injure them.”

As far as reprimands went, he had heard much worse from her over the years. But his aunt needn’t say any more, and she knew it. Silverton felt exactly as he did when he was seven years old and had pushed his sister into the lake at Belfield Abbey. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, but she had almost drowned. It had taken him weeks to recover from the shame and guilt.

“My dear.” His aunt’s voice had softened. “You know what is best for your own life. But I must remind you that Annabel needs you.”

He shook his head in exasperation.

“Aunt Georgina, has it ever occurred to you that Annabel might not want to marry me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“You overestimate my charms,” he replied dryly.

“I certainly do not. The girl has a great deal of admiration for you. A little more attention on your part, and I’m sure she would happily fall in love with you.”

“And I’m sure she would not.”

Although Silverton felt relatively certain Annabel had given her affections to Robert, he wasn’t ready to reveal that to his aunt. He wasn’t sure how she would react, and he suspected that the budding romance might not survive if Lady Stanton raised objections to it.

“Stephen.” His aunt regarded him severely. “You can no longer afford to indulge in meaningless flirtations. This is not a game.”

Silverton jerked his head up as if he had been slapped. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“I am aware of that, Aunt Georgina. I assure you, I do not take my responsibilities lightly.” In spite of himself, he could not keep the chill out of his voice.

One of her eyebrows shot up as if to express disbelief. A faintly disdainful smile lifted the corners of her mouth.

“I am relieved to hear it,” she said in what he privately called her queen-of-the-ruling-classes tone of voice.

He raised a mocking eyebrow in return, imitating her expression so exactly that she finally had to laugh.

“You are a dreadful boy,” she exclaimed. “Now, if you are finished teasing your elders, perhaps you could turn your mind to finding a solution to this problem.”

“I should be happy to do whatever you think best, Aunt Georgina. But I suspect you have already arrived at the solution yourself.”

“You are correct. I believe that Lady Cowper can be of assistance. I will send her a note immediately and call on her in the next day or so.”

Silverton nodded his approval and slowly began to pace the room.

“The entire family must be seen with the girls in public,” he mused. “One must never show weakness to the enemy.”

Lady Stanton laughed again. “I’m sure the general would say the same. In fact, I have plans for him as well. He has agreed to take the girls driving in Hyde Park this afternoon. You know this is a remarkable concession on his part, since he despises the entire nonsense of the afternoon parade.”

Silverton’s mouth dropped open in disbelief.

“He did?” He shook his head. “That is extraordinary.”

“Yes, I know,” she agreed. “But he seems to have developed a grudging respect for Meredith. He remarked the other day that at least she wasn’t a lily-livered miss.”

Now it was his turn to laugh. “High praise, indeed!”

“Yes, thank God.” She smiled in return. “One does get tired of the constant wrangling between the two of them. They really are too much alike.”

He grinned at the image of Meredith and the general suffering each other’s company as they were trotted out on display for examination by the ton. How he wished he could be there just to see the look on her expressive face.

Silverton glanced at his aunt. She seemed to be studying him very carefully, with a look that set off warning bells in his head. He swiftly composed his features into a bland expression.

“Is there anything you wish to discuss with me, Stephen? Anything of a personal nature?” Her faded but shrewd eyes probed him.

The directness of her question startled him, but he recovered quickly.

“No, Aunt. Except, of course, to discuss where you wish to present the girls in public.”

Lady Stanton gave a thoroughly ladylike and dissatisfied snort.

“Have it your own way, my dear, but I would advise you to watch your step. The situation is complicated enough as it is.”

He smiled blandly, refusing to take the bait. His aunt rolled her eyes at him, then stood and hurried over to her cream and gilt-edged writing desk.

“Now, as to other places to take the girls,” she said, “I have been thinking on that as well. It occurs to me that an evening at the theater might be an excellent place to start.”

Chapter Fifteen

Lady Stanton’s plan worked perfectly.

Two days ago, the general had driven Annabel and Meredith through Hyde Park in the family’s elegant landau. According to his granddaughter, he had nodded and waved regally in response to the slack-jawed reactions of those who assembled every afternoon to gossip, flirt, and, in the general’s opinion, act like a flock of bird-witted nincompoops.

Annabel had doubled over with laughter when describing to Silverton the pained expression on Mrs. Drummond-Burrell’s face when the Stanton carriage drew up next to hers. The general had genially inquired after the proud lady’s health and then made a point of introducing Meredith and Annabel to her as if the events at Lady Framingham’s ball had never occurred.

Mrs. Drummond-Burrell had returned a brief but icily correct acknowledgment. As Lady Stanton had predicted, she could not bring herself to publicly cut one of her oldest friends, a distinguished military man who also happened to be descended from one of the most respected families in the kingdom. Mrs. Drummond-Burrell might be high in the instep, but the general was higher.

Silverton was now charged with executing the next part of the plan. Annabel and Meredith were to be seen at a variety of social events, and the more public those events, the better. When the ton realized that both General Stanton and Silverton stood behind the Burnley sisters, the gossipmongers would grow bored and begin to seek more interesting game.

Lady Stanton had decided that she and Silverton should take Annabel and Meredith to an evening of theater at Drury Lane. No venue was more suited to a public display of familial unity and to illustrate to the fashionable world a casual disregard for mean-spirited gossip.

“You see, girls,” Lady Stanton explained as they rode to Drury Lane in Silverton’s town coach, “we must be above such pretension and petty jealousies. There is no family in the ton with a lineage as ancient and proud as the Stantons. If the general is willing to acknowledge Meredith, then that should be an end to the matter. Those who slight either of you shall no longer be welcome at Stanton House.”

Silverton handed the ladies down from the carriage and escorted them through the melee in the brilliantly lit lobby to the comparative quiet of his box.

The play that evening was Shakespeare, although Silverton doubted anyone could hear a word over the din of the crowd. The theater was a riot of activity as fruit sellers hawked their wares, footmen carried notes back and forth between genteel matrons, and dandies in the pit flirted with high flyers renting boxes near the stage in the hopes of attracting business.

Mrs. Stanton, with Robert and Sophia, joined them at the first interval. The ladies engaged in a flurry of greetings and soft kisses before organizing themselves in the luxurious but confined space.

“Do forgive us for being late, Grandmamma,” Robert apologized. “Sophia kept us waiting forever while she finished reading some blasted book! Can you imagine preferring some moldy old history to an evening at the theater?”

“But Robert,” Sophia replied with an innocent look, “it was a history of the fall of the Roman Empire, and I was just getting to the good part.”

Robert grimaced at Sophia, Annabel giggled, and Mrs. Stanton gently tut-tutted her son for teasing his sister so unmercifully.

Silverton smiled indulgently at his young cousins. After an uncomfortable few days, he felt remarkably content as he watched his family settle in around him. Mrs. Stanton chattered amicably to Lady Stanton, who listened with her usual quiet dignity. Robert tried his best to be charming and sophisticated in his ongoing attempt to impress Annabel, and Sophia, as always, was ready to be interested in whatever transpired around her.

Most importantly, he was sitting next to Meredith. It had taken some masterful arranging on his part to seat the group to his satisfaction. Now that all was composed to his liking, he prepared to focus his undivided attention on her.

Silverton had spent an inordinate amount of time these last few days thinking about her. His desire for Meredith’s company had become a compulsion, and he knew that ought to worry him. It went far beyond physical attraction, although that was fierce enough.

The problem—as he saw it—was that he genuinely liked her.

Liked her! He mocked himself for using such an insipid term. Obsessed with her was a good deal more accurate. He shook his head, wondering how he had gotten himself into this state.

The state of matrimony.

The words seemed to pop into his head out of nowhere. He glanced uneasily around the box, almost afraid that he had spoken the words out loud.

If he were honest, though, he would have to admit the thought had been lurking just beneath the surface for several days. Now that he no longer needed to worry about Annabel—careful observation had convinced him that she and Robert were smitten with each other—he could afford to ponder the very pleasing idea of Meredith as his wife.

The thought of his family’s reaction, however, was not so pleasing. His mother would go into hysterics, and the general, despite his grudging respect for Meredith, most certainly would not approve of her as the next Marchioness of Silverton.

Aunt Georgina, however, was another matter entirely. She had made it very apparent the other day she suspected him of flirting with Meredith, and had obviously felt protective toward her. Silverton suspected that as long as Annabel was safely bestowed in a suitable marriage, his aunt would not object to his taking Meredith as a bride. In fact, Lady Stanton could be a formidable bulwark against the censorious reactions of the ton if he did decide to pursue what his social equals would surely consider a misalliance.

He gave himself a mental shake, acknowledging that he was leaping much too quickly into an uncertain future. Nothing could happen until Annabel and Robert were married, so he needed to do everything in his power to encourage their budding courtship.

For now, though, he would push all thoughts of the future to one side and enjoy the evening’s entertainment. Shifting slightly in his seat, Silverton angled his body so that he could more easily observe the beautiful young woman sitting next to him.

Meredith looked good enough to eat in the lacy, peach-colored confection that draped her luscious figure. The neckline of her gown gently curved to reveal the swell of her generous breasts, and the tiny, lace-trimmed sleeves accentuated the creamy slopes of her white shoulders and slender arms.

He admired those breasts for a few moments until he noticed they were rising and falling much too quickly, as if she were breathing in a shallow and rapid manner. Surprised, Silverton examined her face, which was very pale. Her right hand gripped the railing of the box so tightly her glove looked like it might tear along the seam.

Glancing around the box, he made sure the others were occupied with their own conversations. He covered her slender hand with his and addressed her in a low voice.

“Is something wrong, Miss Burnley?”

She gasped in surprise and jerked her hand out from under his. “No, no, I’m fine,” she blurted out, but the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her.

“Come now, Miss Burnley,” he chided with gentle amusement, “you look as unhappy as Robert does when he is forced to spend the entire day with his grandfather. I know very well that something is wrong.”

She cast him a troubled glance before turning her eyes to stare into the pit. He leaned slightly forward, draping his arm casually along the back of her chair. She stiffened and blushed an enchanting shade of pink, obviously disconcerted by the feel of his arm so close to her bare shoulders and neck.

“You know you can count me as one of your most devoted friends,” he said softly. “Can’t you tell me what bothers you? Perhaps I may be able to correct it.”

He was riveted by the way she gently chewed on her lower lip as she pondered his words. Her full, cherry-ripe mouth tempted him almost beyond reason. He waited patiently, however, knowing that if he said or did anything more she would withdraw behind her cool, proper façade.

Meredith finally let out a small sigh and met his gaze.

“You will think I’m foolish, sir, but I’m generally not fond of crowds,” she admitted, making a small gesture to indicate all the people who filled the theater to bursting. “And all the noise they make, it’s, well, very…noisy.”

Her voice trailed off and she closed her eyes briefly, as if to block out the pandemonium swirling about them.

Silverton felt jolted by an awareness of his surroundings and how they must appear to her, a young woman whose entire life had been spent in near seclusion in the country. He became acutely aware of the heat, and how thick the air was with competing and almost overwhelming odors. The scent of heavy perfume, snuff, and wax candles barely masked the strong smells of sweat and alcohol that emanated from the galleries and pit. The theater shimmered, brightly lit by hundreds of dripping candles casting so much light that the patrons were as exposed as the performers on the stage. The restless movements and excited voices of the crowd ebbed and swelled, but were never less than a dull roar.

It was really quite appalling, he thought, surprised he had never noticed it before. No wonder Meredith looked like she wanted to bolt out the door.

As he studied the sensitive woman sitting beside him, the noise and turmoil faded away, just as it had the night of the ball when he had swept her into his arms. Silverton became almost painfully aware of her, and of how much he wanted to feel her warm, sweet body against his.

She suddenly looked at him, her eyes as beautiful and sad as a winter twilight. Those eyes seemed to capture and possess his soul, and he felt consumed with an insatiable need to possess her in return.

A loud laugh from the adjoining box roused him from his dreamlike state, and the heat and noise flowed back in a rush. Silverton forced himself to smile as he briefly pressed her hands. Releasing her, he picked up his quizzing glass and turned a critical eye on the mob below them.

“Well,” he drawled in a sardonic voice, “no sane person could blame you for disliking this particular crowd. A more ill-favored set of mushrooms and toadies I have never seen in my life.”

Silverton inspected the crowd disdainfully through his glass. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tiny smile begin to form on Meredith’s lips.

“And the din they make,” he continued in exaggerated tones of disgust, “is enough to drive a saint into a frenzy.”

He then spent the rest of the interval identifying various members of the crowd, interspersing his commentary with pointed remarks on his subjects’ morals, manners, and dress. He managed to make her laugh twice, although she protested each time that he was encouraging her to act as rudely as everyone else.

Diverted by his observations, Meredith gradually relaxed. When the actors returned to the stage she watched the play attentively and with, he thought, some appreciation.

He couldn’t help noticing, though, the numerous stares and pointed gestures directed at her and Annabel from the other boxes. The gossipmongers were making no secret of their interest in them, and the carefully rigid look on Meredith’s face told him that she felt their scrutiny, too.

At the next interval, many visitors came to their box. While all were friendly to Annabel, several ladies indicated a subtle disapproval of Meredith by barely acknowledging her presence. Silverton took note of the carefully blank expression on Meredith’s pale face as she listened politely to Mrs. Stanton’s chatter. Those who didn’t know her would think nothing amiss, but he knew how much it cost her to sit so quietly.

Moving across the box to his aunt, he stooped to murmur a few words in her ear. Lady Stanton glanced at Meredith and then nodded her head. She leaned across Annabel to address Mrs. Stanton.

“Agnes, my dear,” she said, smoothly interrupting her sister-in-law, “I am feeling quite fatigued. Silverton has graciously offered to escort me home. You may stay, of course, but if anyone wishes to go I shall be happy to drop them on the way.”

“Oh my,” cried Mrs. Stanton, “of course you must go if you are tired. But I’m sure the young people are having much too good a time to leave. After all, Annabel and Meredith have never been to the theater before.”

Sophia, Robert, and Annabel all cast pleading eyes in their grandmother’s direction.

“Of course the children must stay.” Lady Stanton smiled graciously at them. “I would not dream of ruining their fun.”

She looked at Meredith, who was already reaching for the wrap cast over the back of her chair.

“Well, Meredith, will you stay to enjoy the rest of the entertainment, or have you had enough merriment for the evening?”

Silverton almost laughed out loud at the look of dismay on Meredith’s face at the suggestion she might wish to stay.

“Thank you, my lady,” she said, choking out a polite reply. “I think I’ve had enough fun for the evening.”

Meredith glided past Silverton, casting him a grateful smile as she stepped out of the box. He gave her a bow and a roguish wink in return, pleased to see her eyes widen in surprise as a delicate flush bloomed across her cheeks. She had developed the most charming habit of blushing whenever he embarrassed her, which seemed to be quite often.

She ducked her head, quickly following Lady Stanton along the corridor and down the staircase to the waiting carriages. He prowled closely behind, admiring the sensual sway of her hips and the graceful turn of her head as she bent to listen to something his aunt said to her.

Unfortunately, he was also aware of the rude stares and muttered remarks that followed in Meredith’s wake as she passed by the throngs clustered outside the boxes and in the lobby.

Silverton felt his anger grow as he watched the casual display of cruelty, and he had to force himself to plaster a genial smile on his face as he returned the greetings of various acquaintances. Overtaken by a fierce sense of possessiveness, he realized he would like to do a great deal more than just protect Meredith from the harpies of the ton. But for now, all he could do was shield her as best he could from idle gossip.

It nagged at him that he had not yet had the chance to make a full apology to her for his actions at the ball. He felt a driving need to be alone with her—to see if she had really forgiven him. She had been so guarded in his presence these last few days that he found it difficult to read her emotions. And he sorely missed the look of sweet longing that used to shine in her eyes whenever she gazed at him.

Silverton had an almost irrepressible urge to grab Meredith and make her look at him, to force her to see how much he wanted her. But her eyes were fixed firmly ahead as she exited out the front doors and followed Lady Stanton to the carriage.

He stood quietly on the pavement, pondering his next gambit in this increasingly complicated and serious game. It was obvious that Meredith was determined to ignore him as much as possible, at least in public. In private, he thought, it might be a different matter altogether.

He laughed softly to himself, then gave the coachman a tersely worded order before leaping up into the carriage. Meredith glanced briefly at him before looking out the window, her face obscured by shadows in the flickering light of the coach lanterns. Silverton watched her in silence, content to bide his time.

She didn’t know it, but he was about to put his next move into play.

Chapter Sixteen

Waves of sensation rippled down Meredith’s spine, a restless heat that pooled like honey in the secret places of her body. All was velvet and charged silence in the darkened coach as it rolled through the deserted streets of Mayfair. Her palms grew damp with anxious awareness of the man seated opposite her, his presence filling the unbearably intimate space until she could hardly draw a breath.

The marquess, though, seemed to be his usual cool and confident self. He lounged gracefully on the padded bench, apparently unmoved by either the events of the evening or their conversation during the play.

Meredith, however, could barely sit still whenever she thought about that electrifying moment when his gaze had penetrated deep into her soul. As far as she was concerned, her escape from the theater had not come a moment too soon.

But she had almost gasped out loud when the carriage had pulled up first at Stanton House, and Silverton had quickly jumped down to assist his aunt to alight. Lady Stanton had looked momentarily stunned, but quickly recovered. She had bestowed a soft kiss on Meredith’s cheek and allowed her nephew to hand her to the pavement.

Her ladyship and Silverton had exchanged a few terse words, but Meredith had not been able to hear them. After escorting his aunt to the door of Stanton House, Silverton had returned to the carriage and leapt inside. He had then given her a slow, hot smile that wreaked havoc on her nerves.

Now all she wanted to do was get away from him, and as soon as possible.

Although separated by mere inches, she refused to look at him. But he was so big, and he radiated a seductive power in the small space; she could hear the siren call of his masculine sensuality in every part of her body. Meredith desperately fought the urge to crawl into his lap and curl herself around him, burrowing her face in his neck and inhaling the healthy male scent that affected her so completely.

Inwardly cursing her lack of self-control, she lectured herself for the hundredth time that a lady should be well able to control her physical passions. Unfortunately, her little scold failed to work, which didn’t surprise her, because it hadn’t worked all the other times, either.

She breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief as they slowed to a halt, the groomsman leaping from his perch to pull down the step. Silverton turned to help her, his long fingers wrapping themselves around her hand in a steady grip.

Meredith gulped, unable to repress a sudden image of that large hand curving over her breast. The very idea of that possession caused the heat in her belly and legs to flare up more hotly than ever before. She pulled her hand away, covering her confusion by rummaging in her reticule for the key to the front door.

After climbing the steps, Meredith spun awkwardly around and gave him her brightest smile. “Thank you, my lord, for seeing me safely home. Please accept my thanks for a pleasant evening.”

Silverton ignored her words as he frowned at the key in her hand.

“Why don’t you simply knock on the door?” he demanded. “Surely the footman is waiting up for you?”

Meredith almost groaned as she realized Silverton would surely be displeased that she had given Peter the night off.

Their new footman was a burly young man, seconded from the Silverton mansion with clear orders to provide security for their small household. Meredith hated to admit it but Peter’s bulky presence was a comfort, even though it chafed her to be in Silverton’s debt.

“Since we were to be out most of the evening, I told Peter and the other servants they need not wait up for us,” she explained patiently. “I knew that you or Mr. Stanton would be escorting us home.”

Silverton’s mouth thinned with displeasure. Without saying a word he plucked the key out of her hand, reached past her, and opened the front door.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said, trying to control the irritation in her voice. Meredith was about to bid him good-night when put his hand on her waist and gently pushed her through the door, following closely behind.

“Lord Silverton,” Meredith protested, “I am grateful for your protection but there is really no need for you to come in. I will wait up for Annabel, I assure you.”

He coolly removed his hat and stripped off his gloves, tossing them on the table by the door.

“And I assure you, Miss Burnley, there is every need to see you safely inside your house.” He bent his golden head close to hers, and his voice dropped almost to a whisper. “I thought we had reached an agreement about this.”

Meredith took a hasty step back, all too aware of the force of her attraction for him in the close quarters of the small hallway.

“Yes, well, be that as it may,” she stammered, “all is well now, and I will bid you good-night.”

“Not yet,” Silverton said. “I need to talk with you.”

“Now?” she questioned faintly. The thought of being alone with him in the dark and silent house was almost more than she could bear.

“Now,” he responded firmly.

An enigmatic smile played around the corners of his mouth, and the look on his face caused her to turn on her heel and walk to the drawing room with a hasty step. He strolled leisurely after her, but she had the oddest feeling that a wild beast stalked her footsteps. It did nothing to calm her disordered state of nerves.

This late at night, the drawing room was only dimly lit with a banked fire and a single candle under a lamp. She used the taper to light a branch of candles, refusing to look at Silverton until she had done so. He leaned casually against the doorframe, his muscular arms straining the material of his coat as he crossed them over his chest. The intensity of his gaze as his eyes followed her about the room caused her scalp to prickle with a strange mixture of apprehension and excitement.

Straightening her spine, Meredith took refuge in the self-control her stepmother had drummed into her so many years ago. No matter what, she would not allow him to see how greatly he affected her.

“Yes, my lord? What is it you wish to discuss with me?” Her voice sounded wary, even to her own ears.

Silverton pushed away from the door. Crossing to her, he tipped her chin up with his hand and forced her to look directly into his eyes.

The shock of his touch streaked through her like a bolt of summer lightning. Under his steady scrutiny, her cheeks burned with heat.

“My dear girl, you must think me a perfect ogre.” His voice was very soft, and his hand caressed her chin for a moment before he let her go. “I simply wanted to apologize for my inappropriate behavior the other night at Lady Framingham’s ball. I’m not sure you understand how sorry I am. It was my fault that you and Annabel were exposed in so painful a manner, and I beg you most sincerely to forgive me.”

Meredith stared back, stunned that a man like him would feel it necessary to apologize for his actions. In her experience noblemen rarely apologized, especially to someone from a lower social standing.

“Lord Silverton,” she exclaimed earnestly, “there is nothing to forgive. My foolishness was entirely to blame for the whole incident. I cannot even plead ignorance as an excuse, since Lady Stanton gave Annabel and me very clear instructions regarding our conduct. It was my fault entirely, and I regret that I have caused such inconvenience and trouble to you and your aunt.”

Silverton shook his head. He didn’t smile, but his eyes gleamed with a rueful amusement.

“I should have known you would take all the blame on yourself. Miss Burnley, I have never met anyone with such an exaggerated sense of responsibility. It would be refreshing if it were not so alarming.”

Much to her surprise, he laughed.

“If only the other members of the ton shared your sense of selflessness. Now that would be truly radical. Of course, if such a revolution were to occur, the nobility wouldn’t know what to do with itself, since there would be nothing to gossip about and no one to insult. I don’t think the Upper Ten Thousand could survive the shock.”

Meredith frowned, unable to share in his sardonic amusement. She could only feel anger and resentment as she recalled the whispered cruelties and mocking looks of the last few days. She turned from him, swallowing the bitter words that sprang to her lips.

“You must not be so hurt, Miss Burnley,” he added softly. “Believe me, those who have wounded you are not worthy of your notice.”

“Hurt!” she cried as she jerked stiffly around to glare at him. “I am not hurt. I am…furious!”

She began to pace around the room. “How dare they treat my sister that way? She is the sweetest, most innocent creature that ever lived!”

Silverton watched impassively as she pivoted on her heel to cross the room again.

“I don’t understand how you can bear such horrible people. They are petty, small-minded, and cruel!” Meredith flung the words at him, angry that he could be so dismissive of her pain. “They believe their aimless, selfish lives actually mean something, are of value to the rest of us. I see no evidence of kindness or compassion—even tolerance would do—but they lack that quality as well! Sometimes I think that I would like to…”

She stumbled to a halt, suddenly horrified by the words she had almost blurted out.

“Like to kill them?” Silverton inquired genially.

Meredith clapped her hand over her mouth, humiliated by her outrageous display of temper. Why did she find it so difficult to control herself when she was with him? All night long she had been tossed on a sea of turbulent emotions. A few moments ago she only wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and cover his cynical mouth with her lips, and now she lashed out at him like a madwoman.

Silverton, however, did not appear the least bit put out by her conduct.

“My dear girl, you must not be embarrassed on my account. I share your contempt for the privileged classes but must, alas, count myself as one of them. It’s my hope that when you get to know some of us better, you will not judge us so harshly. Surely we must have a few redeeming qualities. Perhaps if you look hard enough you will find them.”

He made no attempt to disguise the laughter in his voice.

Meredith blinked away angry tears, wishing that she were anywhere but here, exposed so completely to his amused regard.

She hesitantly met his eyes, miserably aware of the social and emotional distance between them. No matter how much she yearned for it, she could never be comfortable in his world, nor be the kind of woman he could possibly desire.

Besides, she remembered with a guilty start, she still didn’t know what he intended for Annabel. Why was she even talking to him like this? He must think her a complete hoyden.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” she managed to get past the lump in her throat. “You must truly be shocked by my outburst. You know the last few days have been very taxing, which can be my only excuse.”

When he didn’t answer her, Meredith couldn’t hold back a sigh. “Please forgive me. I know how inappropriate it is for me to indulge in such strong displays of emotion.”

Silverton laughed softly. “Ah, Miss Burnley,” he murmured, his voice whispering like silk across her skin, “sometimes a strong display of emotion is precisely what the situation calls for.”

He closed the distance between them and slid a hand up her arm to caress the bare skin of her shoulder. Tiny shocks sparkled along the path traced by his fingers. Meredith looked up into his eyes, and this time she did gasp, completely undone by what she saw in them.

He looked ready to devour her, his gaze so incredibly fiery as it roamed over her face and breasts that her dazed mind imagined it might actually leave a mark on her flesh. She no longer harbored any doubts that he wanted her, and wanted her very badly.

Meredith pressed cold hands to her flaming cheeks, stepping quickly away and stumbling over to the fireplace. She rested her forehead against the cool, marble mantelpiece.

“No, no, you don’t understand,” she said in a tremulous voice. “What I feel is…I can’t…”

She fell silent. Never had she been so unsure of herself, so trapped in a bewildering tangle of emotions. His desire stunned and frightened her, precisely because she longed for it more than anything else in the world. But how could they ever bridge their differences—differences arising from so many things she couldn’t even begin to count them.

And how could she betray Annabel, robbing her sister of Silverton’s protection when she needed it most?

He crossed the room to stand beside her and with a light touch on her shoulder turned her to face him. His long fingers stroked her cheek, gently urging her to meet his gaze.

She had to fight against an overwhelming desire to nuzzle her cheek into the warmth of his big hand. He made her feel so vulnerable, and she was both strangely thrilled and appalled by her impulse to surrender to him.

“What is it, Meredith?” His voice was a soft growl that sent shivers down her spine. “What are you afraid of?”

She refused to look at him, shaking her head against his hand, unable to voice her guilt and confusion.

“Tell me,” he whispered as he brushed his cool lips against her burning face.

She jumped back, stung by the gentle kiss.

“No,” she cried. “You mustn’t!”

To her surprise, he seemed more annoyed by her reaction than anything else. His eyes narrowed suspiciously on her.

“Meredith, tell me what troubles you.”

She recognized an order when she heard one. His perfect face, so often a mask of casual indifference, blazed with a potent combination of desire and anger, so intense it made the hair stand up on the nape of her neck.

“It’s Annabel,” she blurted out. “I know Lady Stanton wishes you to marry her—to keep her safe. You must not ask me to stand in her way! I could never hurt Annabel like that.”

He stared at her in disbelief and then shook his head, exasperation replacing anger on his features.

“Sweetheart, your sister doesn’t want to marry me. In fact,” he said wryly, “I think she would find the whole idea revolting.”

“But you know she must marry, and soon.” Meredith literally wrung her hands, desperate for him to understand what was almost impossible for her to explain.

“She will, darling, I promise,” he soothed, as his hand returned to her shoulder. “No harm will come to her. Please believe me.”

“But…”

“No, Meredith, no more questions.” His other hand wound around her waist, and he slowly but inexorably pulled her to him.

Meredith gave a breathless laugh, shivering as a wave of relief and shock washed through her. As she looked into Silverton’s ice blue gaze she could swear that his eyes glittered—actually glittered—just like frost on a bright winter’s day. He mesmerized her, and she tumbled, heart and soul, into his light.

His lips curved in a knowing smile as he lowered his head toward her mouth. Meredith knew she should turn away, step back from the grip around her waist—do something. But she couldn’t move, couldn’t deny the yearning to give in to his hunger, couldn’t help wanting to appease her own.

And so she stood captive to his slow advance. As his mouth met hers, her eyelids fluttered shut as if her mind had to block out anything that might distract from his touch. At first, his lips gently brushed her, barely kissing the soft bow of her mouth, just feathering the edges of her lips. Then his kiss grew firm, pressing insistently as his tongue slid along her lower lip.

How could something so soft be so hard? Tremors coursed through her body, down her legs, and she was forced to grab his waist to keep from staggering. His powerful arms wrapped around her, his hands on her back pulling her securely against him and more deeply into the kiss.

His tongue felt luscious! It glided over her lips, stroking and coaxing in a gentle but determined manner. Suddenly, Silverton nipped her lower lip, and when she gasped in surprise he surged in, stroking the inside of her mouth and tangling with her tongue. Her heart hammered in her chest, and her limbs turned heavy and oddly weak.

Meredith was stunned. Some small part of her mind registered astonishment that so intimate an act could be so pleasurable. She had a fleeting memory of her cousin Jacob thrusting his thick, wet tongue into her mouth when she was fourteen. It had disgusted her, and she’d kicked him hard in the shins.

Silverton’s kiss was velvet, dark, and smoky, and Meredith had not the slightest desire to kick him in the shins.

His long fingers were stroking, moving down her waist and hips, gently urging her body flush against his.

All at once, Meredith felt as if she were going up in flames. Consigning any unpleasant memories to the dustbin of history, she slid her arms around his neck and rose up on her toes, eager to increase the delicious pressure of his lips against her mouth.

Unexpectedly, Silverton lifted his head, and the sudden withdrawal wrenched a whimper of protest from her lips. He cocked his head, apparently listening to something out in the hallway.

As Meredith slowly came back to herself, she realized that she had curled herself around him, still sheltering in his possessive embrace. She finally heard what he did; a light step on the stairs as someone descended toward the drawing room. Cursing softly under his breath, Silverton carefully set her away from him. She stumbled slightly, and he put a hand under her elbow to steady her.

The footsteps came down the hall, and a moment later Miss Noyes entered the room, still dressed but with a large and ridiculously overtrimmed sleeping cap on her head.

“Oh, Lord Silverton!” she exclaimed, her eyes widening in surprise. “I thought I heard voices and assumed the girls had returned from the theater.” She cast a doubtful glance between the two of them. “I hope I am not interrupting a private conversation.”

Meredith was annoyed to see that Silverton had completely recovered himself, bowing gracefully to Miss Noyes as if nothing momentous had just happened.

“Not at all, my dear lady,” he said with an engaging smile. “I was just seeing Miss Burnley safely inside. Robert and his mother will be escorting Annabel home shortly.”

“Miss Burnley,” he said, turning back to her, “I will bid you good-night.”

Meredith found it a bit difficult to breathe, so she decided it best to say nothing at all. She dropped a brief curtsy, but he gently grasped her hand and carried it to his lips. He lingered there for a second or two longer than was absolutely necessary, which made her breath come in even shorter gasps. As he straightened up, she could see the devilish glint of amusement had returned to his eyes.

With a nod of the head, he strode from the room, and a few seconds later they heard the front door click behind him.

“Well,” said Miss Noyes, stifling a yawn, “you must tell me all about it in the morning. I’ll just go lock the door before I go back up to my bed.”

As she turned to leave the room, she paused and looked searchingly at Meredith.

“Are you sure you’re feeling well, my dear?” Miss Noyes asked anxiously. “You seem quite flushed and overheated. I do hope you have not caught something at the theater. Such a crowded place cannot be healthy!”

“Dear me, no.” Meredith tried for a hearty voice. “I’m sure it’s nothing that a good-night’s sleep won’t put to rest.”

She repressed an exasperated sigh, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that the memory of Silverton’s kiss would keep her awake for many nights to come.

Chapter Seventeen

Meredith huffed out a breath of relief as the Stanton carriage pulled away from the front step of the townhouse. She could hardly believe it, but Annabel was finally on her way to Almack’s with her grandmother.

“Oh my goodness, Miss Burnley,” exclaimed Miss Noyes, who stood beside her at the drawing room window. “Annabel looked just like an angel, did she not?”

“She did, indeed,” Meredith said with a smile.

Annabel had truly been a vision in a simple but elegant gown of white mull covered with silver tinsel embroidery. The curving neckline of the wrapped bodice and the gauzy puffed sleeves were the perfect complements to Annabel’s youthful beauty. Meredith had little doubt the girl would be a smashing success at Almack’s.

“It was so romantic,” Miss Noyes sighed dramatically. “Mr. Stanton was rendered speechless by her charms.”

Meredith laughed. “Dumbfounded, more like it.”

Robert had come upstairs to fetch Annabel, practically skidding to a halt when he first laid eyes on her. Silverton was right about Robert’s infatuation with his cousin. Meredith needed to think about that and whether it was a positive development. For tonight, though, she could put her worries aside and enjoy the triumph of Annabel’s formal debut into polite society.

As she watched the carriage roll away down the street, Meredith couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret that she would miss her sister’s debut. In spite of her protestations to the contrary, she did feel lonely, and more than a bit like Cinderella. But Meredith knew that even though she had found her Prince Charming, there was little chance the glass slipper would fit on her foot.

She plucked her sewing from her workbasket, determined to be satisfied with a quiet evening beside her own hearth. Now that the scandal resulting from her ill-fated waltz had faded, she really had no cause for complaint. All in all, they were very comfortably established, and Annabel seemed to be adapting to her new life extremely well. Meredith ought to be happy to spend the evening at home instead of traipsing about a crowded and overheated ballroom.

She tried not to think about the real reason she was so restless, but that grew harder with every passing minute.

Almost a week had passed since the night Silverton kissed her. He had not been at Lady Aldring’s dinner party three nights ago, though she was certain he had been invited. Then, after the vouchers for Almack’s arrived the next morning, she and Annabel were launched into a flurry of activity. There had been no time for visiting Stanton House as they dashed from one shop to the next in a mad rush to prepare for Annabel’s debut.

Now Meredith finally had time to catch her breath and think. And all she could think about was Silverton. How wonderful his strong arms had felt about her. How gloriously intoxicating his mouth had felt on her lips. For the last several nights she had awakened from muddled dreams that left her embarrassed and confused. Dreams about him that involved intertwined, naked limbs, rumpled sheets, and his hot mouth trailing wet kisses all over her body.

Meredith had been so flustered by the parade of images that each night she lit a branch of candles and ruthlessly turned her attention to an improving book. One night she had tried Milton, and another Richardson. Neither had proved salutary, since all she could think about—despite her best efforts—were Silverton’s intense blue eyes and how the heat in them made her soften like warm butter.

“Excuse me, Miss Burnley.”

Meredith jumped when Miss Noyes’s voice yanked her out of her evocative daydream. She smiled weakly at the little governess and rearranged her work materials to cover her guilty start.

“No, excuse me, my dear ma’am,” she replied. “My wits must be wandering tonight.”

“Well, it is no wonder,” Miss Noyes staunchly defended. “You have been working your fingers to the bone to prepare Annabel for this momentous event. Perhaps you should retire early this evening. In fact…” She paused, looking anxiously at Meredith.

“My dear Miss Noyes,” she responded instantly, “you look exhausted. Please go to bed. I shall be fine. There is quite a bit of needlework to go through, and if that fails to hold my attention I can always work on my painting.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“Absolutely.” Truthfully, Meredith would rather be alone than make labored conversation with Miss Noyes for the rest of the evening.

“Well then, I’ll bid you good-night, Miss Burnley.” Miss Noyes bustled out in a flutter of skirts and tatting material.

The oak and gilt-bronzed clock on the mantel ticked the minutes slowly by as Meredith applied herself to her sewing. She sternly bid her restless mind to cease pining for Silverton or worrying about Annabel’s progress at Almack’s.

It took a great deal of discipline, but she finally completed the set of table linens she had been stitching for several weeks. She folded the material and stood, pressing her fists into her back to ease the strain from sitting for so long.

Meredith began to wonder if she should go to bed herself, when a loud knock at the door made her start with surprise. Who could be calling this late at night? She hurried to the small pier glass hanging in the corner, smoothed her hair and straightened her wrinkled skirts. A masculine voice rumbled in the hallway, followed by a quiet knock on the door.

“Enter!” she called.

The door swung open and their footman stood on the threshold.

“Your cousin, Mr. Jacob Burnley, to see you, miss,” announced Peter, his voice heavy with wariness.

Her heart dropped to her feet. She had forgotten about Jacob’s promised visit. Had it already been three weeks since that horrible scene with her uncle? She didn’t feel prepared to face her cousin just yet, especially alone, but it appeared she had no choice.

Taking a deep breath, Meredith nodded her head at the burly footman.

“Thank you, Peter. You may let my cousin in.”

“Yes, miss.”

Peter stood aside, glowering fiercely as Jacob strode into the room. The footman’s demeanor radiated suspicion, and Meredith was suddenly very thankful that Silverton had insisted on his presence.

“All right, Peter.” She smiled at the young man. “You may go. I’ll call if I need you.”

For a long moment, Meredith and Jacob eyed each other.

“Hello, Jacob,” she finally managed in a polite voice. “It’s good to see you.”

Her cousin glared at her, his face set in rigid lines.

“Is it?” he demanded. “Is that why you didn’t bother to write me, even though I asked you to?”

He stood much too close, looming over her in an intimidating manner. She masked her confusion by stepping away and stacking her needlework neatly in her basket.

“Would you like some tea?” she asked in a calm voice. Meredith had no intention of offering him a brandy, since she could already smell alcohol on his breath.

Jacob muttered a curse. “No, Meredith, I do not want any bloody tea! I want you to come to your senses and return home where you belong.”

He began to stalk her across the room, forcing her to retreat behind the sofa.

“My home is with Annabel,” she replied, grateful to hear the steadiness in her own voice. “As long as your father continues to threaten her, we will stay in London under the protection of Annabel’s grandparents.”

Meredith folded her arms and stared back at him, determined to appear strong. Jacob made an impatient gesture with his hand.

“Do you take me for a fool? I would not have come here if I thought Annabel had anything to fear from my father,” he retorted. His eyes flickered over her body. The look on his face changed from one of irritation to something much more disturbing.

“You should be grateful to me, Meredith. Father has allowed me to decide what to do about Annabel.” He continued his slow stalk around the sofa. “There is no reason to be afraid. I’m sure we can come to an agreement on what is best for everyone.”

She started to move away, but his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. Meredith gasped as he began to draw her closer.

“Don’t you want to come home, my girl?” His voice had dropped to a husky growl. “You must miss Swallow Hill. I know how much you love it in the springtime.”

The thought crossed Meredith’s mind that her cousin really didn’t know her at all if he believed she liked anything about spring. But that brief reflection dissipated when he captured her other hand and pulled her toward him.

“I…we are very content here in London,” she stammered as she tried to wrestle her hands from his grasp.

Jacob laughed contemptuously. “That’s hard to believe. You will never be accepted by the fine folk of the ton, and you know it. In their eyes, you’re nothing but a shopgirl—fit only to be a fancy piece for their men, not a wife.”

His words infuriated her. She fruitlessly yanked her hands away from him again before staring sullenly at the floor.

“Well, well,” Jacob said softly, “sits the wind in that quarter, does it? The swells have already let you know you’re not good enough for their sons, eh? What a surprise. Did you really think they would?”

Bitterness wrapped itself around her heart, his words resurrecting the ugly memories of Lady Framingham’s ball and its painful aftermath. Meredith barely noticed when Jacob slowly pulled her against his chest.

“They don’t want you.” His mouth brushed against her ear, sending a cold shiver down her spine. “They’ll never want you, and you’ll never be happy here. But I want you and I understand you—I always have. I know exactly what you need.”

Ice water seeped through her veins, and his words pressed on her so heavily she could hardly breathe.

“Enough is enough, my girl,” he whispered. “Time to come home.” Quite suddenly, he reached up into her hair and pulled her head back, his lips pushing wetly against her mouth.

His touch, so different from Silverton’s, shattered her paralysis and she pushed back with all her might. Wrenching an arm free, she slapped his face as hard as she could. Her fingers stung with the force of the blow.

Jacob fell back, stunned for a second, but then his face blackened with rage. Despite his momentary shock, he didn’t lose his iron grip on her other wrist. He shifted his hands to her upper arms, clutching her in a punishing hold.

“You’ll be sorry for that, Cousin,” he snarled.

She struggled to break away but was powerless against his brute strength. Meredith opened her mouth to scream just as he fastened his lips to hers, trying to force his thick tongue into her mouth. A wave of nausea swept through her and, for a terrible moment, her vision blurred with panic.

As she fought back, trying to free herself, she heard the door open and a firm bootstep cross the room. Jacob was pulled away from her body so forcefully that she staggered and almost fell.

Meredith looked up just as Silverton delivered a powerful blow to Jacob’s face, driving her cousin to his knees. The marquess glanced over his shoulder at her, his eyes shimmering with a cold light she had never seen before.

“Are you all right?” His voice sounded as hard as iron, but his hand was gentle on her arm.

Meredith nodded, unable to speak. Carefully setting her out of harm’s way, Silverton turned back to her cousin, who was dragging himself up off the floor.

Jacob’s nose bled profusely. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and swiped his face, smearing blood across his mottled cheeks.

“I’ll kill you, you bastard,” he rasped.

“I should be interested to see you try,” Silverton responded softly, his hands clenching once more into fists.

Meredith came to life, knowing that she had to intervene before the two men tore each other apart.

“Jacob!” she cried. “You will do nothing of the sort.”

Her cousin ignored her, twisting his huge body into a fighter’s crouch as he advanced toward Silverton.

Meredith stepped between the two men, raising her hands imperiously in the air.

“Stop!” she commanded Jacob. “There are four here, and only one of you. If you do not leave my house immediately, I will call the night watch and have you taken to Newgate.”

Jacob halted and glanced around him, finally noticing Peter and Mrs. Biggs in the doorway of the drawing room. The servants looked more than capable of wrestling her cousin to the floor.

“I would advise, Mr. Burnley,” Silverton added in that voice like iron, “that you take the lady’s suggestion to heart while you can. My patience is almost at an end.”

Jacob looked ready to explode, but he obviously knew he could not overpower both Silverton and Peter. His gaze swept over Meredith, and the hatred she saw in his eyes froze her deep in the bone.

“You’ll regret this, girl,” he flung at her. Jacob turned on his heel and stumbled to the door, pushing past Mrs. Biggs and Peter as he left the room.

Silverton cocked his head at the footman. “Make sure the door is locked after him.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Now that the danger had passed, Meredith’s legs began to tremble so forcefully she could hardly stand. Silverton took one look at her and steered her by the shoulders to the sofa. Mrs. Biggs bustled over, her round face crimson with outrage.

“There now, dearie,” she exclaimed, flapping her apron in Meredith’s face, “I’ll wake Miss Noyes and fetch her smelling salts. You just rest here on the couch till I get her.”

Meredith practically bolted off the sofa at that suggestion. Silverton pressed her back down.

“No, no, Mrs. Biggs,” she gasped. “Please don’t wake Miss Noyes—she’ll be terrified, and I couldn’t bear that tonight. I’m fine, truly.”

“I would second that opinion,” Silverton opined dryly. “Mrs. Biggs, why don’t you fetch some tea for your mistress. I’m sure that will be more refreshing than Miss Noyes’s smelling salts.”

Mrs. Biggs looked doubtful as she inspected Meredith’s face. The cook glanced over at Silverton and then nodded reluctantly, deferring to his authority.

“Right you are, my lord. And mayhap a splash of brandy in that tea will be just the thing to set Miss Burnley to rights.” She lumbered to the door. “I’ll be back with your tea before you can say jack rabbit.”

“What a remarkable woman,” mused Silverton after the cook had exited the room. “I really must remember to thank my secretary for engaging her.”

Meredith let out a tremulous sigh and collapsed into the cushions. She gazed up at Silverton. He stared back at her, his face still marked with the residue of his anger.

“If you had not come when you did…” Her voice broke. She blinked rapidly to stem the tears that threatened to fall from her eyes.

Silverton muttered something under his breath. He reached out an arm to hook the back of one of the glazed cotton armchairs, pulling it toward him and in front of her. He sat and took her hands in a comforting grip.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” he murmured. “He can’t hurt you again. I won’t let him.”

Meredith sat up straight and tried to smile back. She thought her face might shatter from the effort.

“My lord, I fear you must be growing tired of coming to my rescue. I hardly know how to thank you again.”

The ice in his eyes began to melt. “You know I will do whatever is necessary to protect you and Annabel.”

Despite her best efforts, a few tears escaped and rolled down her cheeks. He released one of her hands and extracted a handkerchief from his pocket. She took it and dabbed her eyes. Part of her was mortified to be crying in front of him, but another part felt infinitely soothed by his protective attitude.

“Tell me what happened.”

In a halting voice, Meredith told him. As she talked, his face grew dark and his mouth set with anger, but he refrained from comment. Just as she finished, a light tap sounded on the door and Mrs. Biggs entered with the tea tray. Silverton waved Meredith aside when she tried to serve him, preparing her a cup himself. He urged her to drink, holding back any questions until she had taken several sips and Mrs. Biggs had left the room.

Feeling more herself, Meredith set her cup aside and frowned.

“What is it?” asked Silverton.

“Well, what I have never been able to understand is why Jacob and Uncle Isaac would act like this in the first place. Neither of them ever expressed any interest in Annabel or her health until just recently.”

She raised her eyes to his, and she saw her own concerns reflected there.

“In fact, until three months ago, we never saw Uncle Isaac and Aunt Nora more than once or twice a year. It’s a complete mystery to me. And as for Jacob wanting to marry me”—she paused, noting with interest how Silverton’s eyes flared with heat—“he never expressed any desire to do so until a month ago.”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees as he stared absently at the polished floorboards. She listened to the quiet tick of the clock, reluctant to disturb his ruminations.

“Meredith,” he said abruptly, “I don’t wish to pry, but I would like to know how things stand with you financially. I know Annabel inherited a large fortune from her mother. I also assume you have a separate income to support you. Is that correct?”

“Yes, my lord,” she answered readily. “Annabel inherited ten thousand a year from her mother. My father left me fifteen hundred a year, which passed to him from my grandfather, who, as you know, established a wool mill in Bristol.”

“And the mill is now run by your uncle, is it not?”

“Yes, sir. As the oldest it passed to him. My father had no head for business and never displayed any interest in the mill. Jacob, however, joined his father as soon as he came of age.”

Silverton once more lapsed into thought. Meredith hated to bother him, so she allowed her restless mind to wander instead. After a few minutes, she stole a glance at his handsome but distracted countenance. It finally occurred to her how strange it was that he had come calling so late in the evening.

She started to fidget, all too aware of his muscular leg brushing up against her skirts. He glanced up, his expression alert.

“What is it?”

She hesitated for a moment but couldn’t seem to prevent herself from asking the question.

“My lord, why did you come to call tonight?”

Meredith regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth. Most likely he was simply being polite, taking pity on her as she sat at home with only Miss Noyes for company. She winced at the idea that he would only come to visit because he felt sorry for her.

She started to turn her head to the side, but he captured her chin between his fingers. His eyes were warm, and she had the feeling he was trying not to laugh at her.

Again.

Meredith stifled a groan, all too aware that she always seemed to amuse him. But the laughter in his eyes died away and became something else—a smoldering gaze that sent heated tendrils crawling up her legs to the junction between her thighs. Now she couldn’t help but fidget in her seat.

“I came to speak to you about something of great interest to us both.” The dark purr in his voice made her stomach feel strangely muddled. “And I wanted to do so without an audience of curious relatives.”

“Is that why you haven’t called on us since…”

“Yes, sweetheart, that’s why you haven’t seen me for several days. I didn’t think I’d be able to control myself if I were in the same room with you.”

Silverton gently stroked her cheek with his big hand. His lips curled in a smile that dazzled her with its sensual fire. More than anything, Meredith wanted to fasten her mouth on his and draw all that spectacular warmth into herself.

“But I think,” he continued as his hand slid around to the sensitive skin at the back of her neck, “that you have had enough excitement for one evening. We will continue this discussion later.”

Her eyelids drooped as his head slowly descended to hers. His mouth brushed across her lips, nuzzling her with a tender kiss that still managed to be completely possessive.

Meredith had just started to lean into him, clutching at his shoulders, when he pulled back. His eyes danced wickedly as she fought to stifle a whimpering protest. One last soft stroke of her cheek with his fingers, and then he stood. She couldn’t help sighing regretfully as he prepared to take his leave.

“I want you to get some rest, Meredith,” he ordered gently. “You must be exhausted. We will continue this conversation soon enough. And when we do, I promise you that we will finish what we started the other night.”

Chapter Eighteen

He leapt up the imposing marble stairs of Stanton House in two bounds.

A footman had arrived with the summons just fifteen minutes ago—a hastily scrawled note from his uncle informing him that Lady Stanton had fallen gravely ill. Silverton had practically run most of the way to Berkeley Square, his fear causing him to ignore the calls of several acquaintances as he dashed past them.

Tolliver opened the door, his normally impassive face marked with pinched concern. That was a bad sign. Silverton didn’t wait to be announced, hurrying through the entrance hall to his uncle’s library.

He paused on the threshold to catch his breath and observe the scene before him.

General Stanton stared in grim silence at the polished surface of his desk. Meredith and Annabel sat together on the red velvet settee in front of the fireplace, clutching each other’s hands. Robert stood in one of the window alcoves, anxiously tugging at his waistcoat as his eyes flickered between Annabel and his grandfather.

Meredith looked his way when she heard the door open, greeting him with a smile that seemed mostly composed of relief. Not surprising, given the level of tension in the room.

“My dear sir.” Silverton strode to his uncle’s desk. “Please tell me how the situation stands with Aunt Georgina.”

“She has caught a lung infection, that is how the situation stands,” the general managed in a strangled voice. “I knew all that damned gallivanting about town would come to no good end. And this is the result of it. She is ill, Nephew, very ill!”

Silverton heard a horrified gasp and turned to see Annabel raise a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob, looking absolutely guilt stricken. Meredith hugged her sister close, casting a resentful glance at the general as she did so. Robert rolled his eyes at Silverton, silently pleading with him to manage the volatile situation.

Sighing inwardly, he turned back to his uncle. The general’s eyes were filled with anguish, and Silverton’s heart was wrung with pity for the stern old man who loved his wife above all else. For the first time in his own life, he understood how a man could feel like that for a woman.

“I assume the doctor has been to see her. What is his prognosis?” he asked in a calm voice. Obviously someone had to keep his wits about him today, and he suspected it would probably be him.

The general’s jaw worked mightily, but no words came out of his mouth.

“The doctor is still with her,” Meredith spoke up from behind him.

Silverton turned and leaned his hip on his uncle’s desk as Meredith released Annabel and rose to her feet.

“Lady Stanton returned home from Almack’s last night complaining to her dresser that she felt short of breath. She passed a restless night and was very unwell this morning. The general sent immediately for the doctor, and then sent a note to us. We came as soon as we received it. That is all we know at the moment.”

“It was too much for her!” The exclamation was wrenched from his uncle. “I knew I should have ordered her to stay home last night—I could see her fatigue. Stubborn woman will never say so, but you know she ain’t strong, Silverton. Fool that I was, I said nothing!”

“Oh, no, Grandpapa,” Annabel cried. She sprang from her seat and flew around the desk to the general. The girl dropped to her knees before him and took his hands in a convulsive grip. “It was my fault. Grandmamma was only trying to help me. I’ll never forgive myself if anything happens to her.”

General Stanton stared in helpless dismay as his granddaughter struggled to choke back her escalating sobs. Silverton pushed away from the desk, ready to pull the weeping girl away from his uncle, when Meredith’s steady voice intervened.

“Annabel, my dear, you must try to control yourself. We don’t know for sure the nature of Lady Stanton’s illness. In any event, falling into hysterics will certainly not improve the situation. Please, get up off the floor. Mr. Stanton”—Meredith glanced at Robert—“will you be so kind as to pull a chair over so Annabel can sit by her grandfather?”

“Of course, Miss Burnley!” Robert responded with alacrity. He hurried to drag a fretted Chinese sidechair over to the desk.

“General Stanton,” Meredith continued in the same levelheaded manner, “I know you are worried, but the doctor will return soon. Perhaps we should refrain from envisioning grim scenarios until he finishes examining her ladyship.”

The general’s eyes snapped with anger, but Meredith returned his look with a serene countenance. Much to Silverton’s surprise, his uncle did not rip into her. Instead, some of the tension seemed to drain out of his body. Reaching down, General Stanton grasped Annabel’s hands and helped her sit in the chair Robert had placed beside the desk.

“That’s right, my dear,” he said to his granddaughter, patting her hand as she attempted to swallow her tears. “No use letting yourself fall into a flap—it ain’t good for your health, either. Dr. Sibley has been taking care of your grandmamma for years. We can depend on him completely.”

Annabel gulped as she leaned over to rub her cheek against her grandfather’s shoulder. Meredith watched them with a satisfied expression before glancing at Silverton. He lifted his brows, silently expressing his admiration for her adroit handling of the emotional eruption. She bowed her head in acknowledgment before sitting quietly back down on the settee.

She really was a magnificent woman, he thought. No wonder he couldn’t keep his hands off her.

They waited in nervous silence until the doctor slipped through the door of the library to join them. Dr. Sibley brusquely waved Meredith aside when she offered to ring for tea.

“No need, young lady. I have a birthing to attend to, and I must return home first to make up a tonic for Lady Stanton.”

“Blast you, Sibley,” growled General Stanton. “Don’t keep me waiting! How is my wife?”

The doctor ignored the old man’s bad temper, clearly inured to such behavior after so many years.

“Well, General, she has taken a severe cold. Normally I would not worry, but Lady Stanton’s weak heart and chest make her susceptible to fever. She needs careful watching over the next few days if she is not to fall into a decline.”

Dr. Sibley didn’t need to explain that such a decline could be fatal.

“I will send over the tonic immediately and return later this afternoon. But it’s imperative that an experienced nurse attend her constantly over the next few days.”

“Her dresser has seen her through several illnesses,” said the general. The color had leached out of his face, leaving it a pasty gray. “I’m sure she will know what to do.”

Dr. Sibley frowned. “Tillman is not young, and your wife will need to be watched most carefully at night. If there is no one else to assist, then I shall send over a nurse to help.”

Silverton bit back an objection. The last time Lady Stanton had been ill, the night nurse had fallen asleep after taking one too many nips from a flask of gin she had concealed in her apron.

“Absolutely not!” roared the general. “I’ll not have another drunken slattern anywhere near my wife.”

Annabel flinched at his outburst, while Robert shook his head in consternation. Meredith crossed her arms over her waist and frowned thoughtfully at the floor.

“General Stanton, be reasonable,” sighed Dr. Sibley. “Your wife needs someone used to caring for sick people. Tillman cannot possibly watch her day and night.”

The general opened his mouth to argue, when Meredith interrupted him.

“I will nurse Lady Stanton,” she said.

The doctor tilted his head, studying her carefully as if assessing her fitness for such a task.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” snapped the general. “What kind of experience would a girl like you have?”

Meredith raised her eyebrows as the older man bristled at her. “As a matter of fact, General,” she replied in a slightly superior voice, “I have a great deal of experience caring for sick people, including your granddaughter.”

“Oh, yes, Grandpapa,” Annabel said eagerly. “Meredith took care of me for years. You know how sick I was. Dr. Bailey always said he never knew a finer nurse than Meredith. And she was very good whenever one of the servants fell ill, too. She took care of all of us. Please let her help Grandmamma!”

General Stanton glowered at Meredith, his natural suspicion at war with his concern for his wife.

“Miss Burnley,” asked Dr. Sibley, “have you nursed someone with an infectious complaint?”

“Many times, sir,” she replied in a confident voice. She stood quietly while Dr. Sibley observed her for a few more seconds. He nodded his head as if satisfied.

“You’ll do. Come with me to Lady Stanton’s room, and I will give you and Tillman instructions. Work it out between yourselves who will sit up with her at night. She is not to be left alone for a minute until I am certain the fever does not take hold.”

“I understand, sir.” Meredith followed in the doctor’s wake as he walked from the room.

“Wait!” cried General Stanton. Doubt and fear clouded his features. As Meredith visibly struggled to control her impatience, she turned and stepped back to the general’s desk.

“Sir, I know we do not always see eye to eye, but I beg you to allow me to help Lady Stanton,” she implored in a quiet voice. “Believe me, I know all too well the effects of a violent cold on a weakened system. I assure you I will care for her ladyship as if she were my own mother.”

Meredith obviously sought to remind the old man of his own daughter’s untimely death. Silverton had to admire her unconventional tactics.

General Stanton gazed searchingly into Meredith’s eyes and then finally bobbed his head once in acquiescence. She gave him a gentle smile. Without uttering another word, she spun on her heel and left the room, sparing not a glance for Silverton or anyone else.

Chapter Nineteen

“I love him, Meredith, I really do!”

Meredith gaped at her sister, stunned into immobility by the unexpected declaration. Annabel’s eyes were wide and un-blinking as she anxiously waited for her sister’s response.

“Are you sure?” Meredith managed to croak.

The girl nodded her head vigorously. “Oh, yes. I’ve known for days now that I will love him forever. He understands me so well, and he makes me feel safe.” Annabel’s voice dropped to a whisper as she reached out to fleetingly touch her sister’s hand. “Meredith, are you very angry with me for not telling you before?”

Meredith couldn’t actually find any words to describe what she felt. Fatigue crushed her in a massive fist, and until a few moments ago, her mind had been fully occupied with the details of Lady Stanton’s care.

She had spent the last six days in her ladyship’s sickroom, nursing the old woman through the illness that had wracked her frail body with feverish chills. The crisis had passed only yesterday, when Dr. Sibley declared the fever had finally broken. Even so, Meredith had spent the night by Lady Stanton’s side—as she had the last five nights—and Tillman had come only a few minutes ago to relieve her of her duties. She desperately wanted to crawl into bed, giving in to the stupefying exhaustion that permeated every part of her body.

But Annabel had stationed herself in her grandmother’s dressing room, nervously awaiting an opportunity to speak with her. Her sister had pleaded for just a few minutes of time, anxiously clutching her hands in her dainty sprig muslin skirts.

Meredith had bitten back a curt refusal, remorsefully aware that she had virtually abandoned her sister during Lady Stanton’s illness. She had dredged up a smile to assuage the wounded look in Annabel’s eyes and led her over to sit on the white silk chaise.

And at that point the girl had lobbed the emotional cannonball, blowing Meredith’s wits to the four winds.

“Meredith, please say something!” Her sister’s eyes shimmered with tears.

Meredith struggled to disperse the wooliness in her brain, forcing herself to pat Annabel’s hand in a comforting manner.

“No, dear. Of course I’m not angry with you, just surprised. When did all this happen?”

Annabel perked up, a shy smile lighting her heart-shaped face. “Well, as you know, Robert, Sophia, and I are very close. When Grandmamma fell ill, and you were so taken up with caring for her, we spent even more time together. I tried to be with Grandpapa as much as possible, but sometimes he was too agitated to sit with me.” Her voice grew wobbly. “That upset me very much because, well, I don’t think Grandmamma would have gotten sick if she hadn’t been trying to bring me out.”

“Darling, you mustn’t feel that way,” Meredith exclaimed, her chest muscles constricting with painful guilt. “This is not the first time your grandmother has fallen ill, and she certainly wouldn’t want you to blame yourself. I’m so sorry I didn’t take the time to explain that to you. It’s all my fault that you have been feeling so badly.”

“No, Meredith, don’t you see?” Annabel responded, bouncing slightly with excitement. “You didn’t need to tell me—Robert did! He has been with me almost every waking moment, telling me that Grandmamma will be fine, that I was not to blame myself for anything. And he’s been so wonderful with Grandpapa, too. If only you could have seen him taking care of both of us this last week—you would have been so proud of him!”

Annabel’s eyes now shone with fervent and wholly committed admiration. Meredith recognized the look immediately. She suspected she displayed the same kind of expression whenever she thought of Silverton.

“Darling.” Meredith hesitated. “I don’t mean to pry, but has Robert actually asked you to marry him?”

The light in Annabel’s eyes now suffused her face. “He asked me last night! And he bought the most beautiful ring, but we agreed I shouldn’t wear it until he asked Grandpapa for permission.”

Meredith sighed. It had all sounded much too easy. Obviously Robert had not thought to discuss the matter with his grandfather first.

“What’s wrong?” Some of the joy faded from Annabel’s face. “Please tell me you approve, Meredith. I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t.”

Meredith thought longingly of bed and the escape of deep slumber, but immediately shoved the temptation to the back of her mind. She had to find a way to deal with this situation now.

“Annabel,” she said, looking her sister earnestly in the eye, “Robert is a wonderful young man, but you have just begun your Season. Are you sure about this? Are you ready to love him above all others, committing to him for the rest of your life?”

Her sister gazed solemnly back at her with eyes that held a wisdom beyond her years. Although only seventeen, Annabel had endured much in her life, and Meredith knew the girl already possessed a maturity tempered by tragedy and illness.

“Yes, Meredith, I do love him, and I’m ready for a life with him. You must trust me.”

She thought about that for a few moments, realizing she did trust her sister’s judgment. And, after all, the point of their escape to London had been to find Annabel a husband. Robert was young, but Meredith had little doubt he would develop into a fine man, and he had adored Annabel from the minute he laid eyes on her. If General and Lady Stanton granted their approval, Robert and Annabel’s marriage would be the solution to many of their problems.

Unfortunately, Lady Stanton had other plans for Annabel. Plans that included the Marquess of Silverton.

The guilt in her chest tightened another notch, but Meredith decided to hold her tongue. No good would come of telling Annabel of Lady Stanton’s plans for her, since nothing would come of them anyway. Annabel loved Robert, and Silverton—well, she knew that Silverton didn’t love Annabel. That didn’t mean, however, that Lady Stanton would approve of the events that had transpired during her illness.

As for what Silverton’s plans were, Meredith hadn’t a clue, since they hadn’t exchanged more than a few words in the last week. Truth be told, she didn’t really know what he thought about her, other than he seemed to like to kiss her. And she had a very strong suspicion that Lady Stanton wouldn’t approve of that, either.

She sighed, the muddle in her head growing worse by the second. With Annabel waiting anxiously for her response, Meredith decided she could only deal with one problem at a time. She took a deep breath and forced a smile.

“Annabel, my love, if you are sure of your feelings, then I will do all in my power to support you. But”—she held up a hand to forestall Annabel’s attempt to throw her arms around her—“I insist that you and Robert wait a few days before speaking with the general. He will no doubt want to discuss the situation with Lady Stanton, and she must be allowed to rest before he speaks to her about this.”

Annabel subsided back onto the chaise. She frowned before glancing at Meredith, her reluctance to comply clearly written on her face.

“Annabel, you must learn patience.”

The girl sighed and slumped against the upholstered cushions. “I know. You’re right, Meredith, and it’s ghastly to be thinking only of myself. I’ll tell Robert we must wait for Grandmamma to recover.” A mischievous gleam crept into her eyes. “He won’t like it, but I think I know a way to keep him quiet.”

“Annabel!” Meredith blinked, shocked by the knowing expression on her sister’s face.

Annabel laughed, kissed her on the cheek, and danced over to the door of the dressing room. “You’re not the only one who knows what it’s like to have a beau, you know. The only difference is, some of us don’t try to keep it a secret!”

Meredith groaned and rubbed her throbbing temples, wishing she were in bed, with the covers pulled safely over her head.

Silverton stretched his top-booted legs toward the low flames flickering in the cast-iron grate. He swirled his brandy in the crystal glass, sprawling against the pillows of the plush, red velvet settee. The general had just retired to his chambers for the night, leaving Silverton alone to nurse his drink in the library.

He supposed he ought to get his coat and stroll the few blocks to his own mansion, but he couldn’t seem to rouse himself from his comfortable position in front of the fireplace.

It was the first time in a hellish week that he could finally relax. The first time since Aunt Georgina had fallen ill that they knew she was really on the mend. And the first time he could think clearly about the night he had rescued Meredith from Jacob Burnley’s assault.

Silverton grew cold at the thought of what could have occurred had he not arrived when he did. The bastard was lucky he hadn’t killed him.

He shook his head, still puzzled by the aggressive attempts to force Meredith and Annabel back to Swallow Hill. He had his suspicions, but he needed more information about the Burnleys and the state of their finances before he could develop a concrete theory.

Silverton had been forced to postpone any investigation, however, when Lady Stanton had taken ill. The ensuing week had been marked by several crises, as Lady Stanton’s infection developed into a dangerous fever. Meredith had spent every night with his aunt, but he knew she had also passed many hours of the day in the sickroom as well. Her devotion and careful nursing had won even the admiration of Tillman, Lady Stanton’s long-time, fiercely possessive dresser.

In fact, the entire household had come to depend on Meredith. It seemed a gradual but natural process when the servants began to ask her to resolve a variety of domestic questions during Lady Stanton’s illness. She responded to every problem with a quiet, unassuming ability that had won the respect of all the inhabitants of Stanton House, including the general.

Meredith had gracefully risen to every challenge. Silverton no longer harbored the slightest doubt about her ability to function as his marchioness. She might not believe she was fit to move among the ton, but in every way that mattered she was more a lady than any woman he had ever known.

Yesterday, Meredith and Dr. Sibley had come to tell the general that Lady Stanton’s fever had broken. By this morning, she had improved so much that Sibley declared her out of danger. Annabel wept tears of joy, and his uncle had practically wrung the doctor’s hand off his wrist.

“Don’t thank me,” said Sibley, “thank Miss Burnley. Her expert care made all the difference to your wife’s recovery. You should be exceedingly grateful to her.”

Silverton had smiled while his uncle hemmed and hawed, still reluctant to express his gratitude to Meredith but fair enough to know he should.

Later in the day, he had sat with his uncle in the library while Annabel and Robert huddled on the settee, their heads together as they perused Meredith’s sketchbook. The girl had decided they all needed a distraction after the week’s ordeal and proposed that her sister paint a portrait of General Stanton.

“She’s awfully good, you know,” Annabel explained after fetching the sketchbook from their townhouse. “I’m sure she would be happy to do a painting of Grandpapa. Grandmamma told me she has wanted to get a portrait of him forever, but he will simply not sit still for it.”

Silverton smothered a laugh at the appalled look on his uncle’s face as he flipped through the sketches. Meredith had talent, but her chosen subjects were not what the general would consider appropriate for a genteel young lady.

A sly grin crossed Robert’s face as he inspected a graphic depiction of Theseus slaying the Minotaur. “I say,” he said, pointing at the snarling beast Meredith had created, “that does rather resemble the expression on Grandfather’s face first thing in the morning!”

Only Annabel’s immediate and stern rebuke had saved Robert from General Stanton’s wrath.

Yes, everything seemed to be returning to normal. Now he could turn his full attention back to Meredith and the questions tugging persistently at the edges of his mind.

Silverton exhaled a tired breath as he placed his snifter on the low table in front of the settee. Standing slowly, he reached his arms over his head, gradually stretching the knots from his cramped muscles. Despite the brandy his nerves felt raw. He suspected the only remedy for that irritation would be the sensation of Meredith’s lush body against his, and the taste of her sweet tongue in his mouth. That was not to be his luck tonight, however, so he might as well take himself home.

Silverton glanced around for the coat he had tossed on a chair earlier in the evening. As he crossed the floor to retrieve it, the flames of the candles suddenly flickered as the library door opened quietly behind him. His senses leapt to full awareness at the sound of a quickly stifled gasp. He pivoted quickly on his heel, knowing precisely who would be standing before him.

Meredith paused just inside the doorway. Her mouth dropped open in startled surprise, and he could see in the reflected light of the candles that her eyes were wide and wary. He slowly but deliberately crossed the room to her.

As he did, Silverton took the time to appreciate that his luck was finally about to change.

Chapter Twenty

Meredith’s eyes darted nervously around the room. She took a small step back toward the door as Silverton approached her.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she apologized as she touched her hand fleetingly to her hair. “I didn’t realize anyone was still in the library.”

Silverton held his tongue as he studied her. Although still dressed in the same burgundy silk gown she had worn for dinner, she had released her hair from its pins. The glossy, sable waves tumbled around her shoulders and flowed down her back to her elbows. Her hair was unfashionably long, and for that Silverton was exceedingly grateful. All that glorious, unbound beauty made him think of bed things, and what he would do once he got her into his.

“There is nothing to forgive, Meredith.” He smiled down at her as he smoothly crowded her body against the doorframe. The faint scent of violets wafted up from her thick hair, teasing his nostrils with a delicate sweetness. “I’m very pleased to finally have you to myself, if only for a little while.”

She blushed and looked doubtfully up at him. He grasped her by the elbow, drawing her gently but inexorably into the room.

“Lord Silverton,” she protested faintly as he shut the door behind her, “I really don’t think it proper that you call me by my first name. Lady Stanton would surely object.”

“Well, since she isn’t here,” he replied, “I suggest that we not worry about it.”

He quickly turned the key in the lock before guiding her to the settee. Although he could feel the tension in her arm as she tried to pull away, he ignored her attempt to resist him. With an irritated sigh, Meredith reluctantly gave in to his superior strength.

“I take it the general has gone to bed?” She cautiously scanned the darkened room.

“Yes, my dear,” he murmured. “You are, for the moment, safe from any criticism or evaluation, artistic or otherwise.”

She grimaced at him but acknowledged the hit with a short laugh. Silverton released her arm and nudged the small of her back, urging her to sit down on the settee. She complied, although she threw him a dubious glance as she did so.

“I suppose I should be grateful life is beginning to resume its regular course,” she muttered with a sigh, relaxing back into the overstuffed cushions.

Silverton took a moment to appreciate the contrast of her shimmering mane against the crimson velvet of the settee.

“Thanks mostly to you,” he said as he crossed the room to the sideboard holding a number of crystal decanters.

Meredith leaned her head against the back of the settee. She closed her eyes and exhaled a long, whispering breath, as if all the week’s tension were suddenly flowing out of her.

“Dr. Sibley is an excellent physician.” She stifled a yawn. “And Tillman is an experienced and devoted nurse. I don’t know what we would have done without her.”

Silverton didn’t comment. It was in Meredith’s nature to be self-effacing, and he knew she would argue with him if he tried to praise her any further. Instead, he poured a small glass of sherry and brought it to her. As he reached the settee she raised her lids, focusing on him in spite of the fatigue that clouded her silvery eyes.

He paused for just a few seconds, carefully studying the face that had become so dear to him. Her pale complexion made the dark smudges under her eyes stand out like painful bruises. His heart wrenched with compassion.

Poor darling. She’s obviously exhausted from nursing Aunt Georgina. With a sigh, he consigned his amorous plans to a future time when she was not half-dead with fatigue. He handed her the glass, and unlike before when he had brought her a drink in this very room, she didn’t refuse him. She sipped and closed her eyes again, murmuring her appreciation softly in her throat.

Silverton’s gaze drifted down to the generous curves of her breasts, which were snugly framed by the shimmering delicacy of the lightweight silk. He could feel the ache in his groin slowly beginning to build, along with the frustration of his continually thwarted desire. If he didn’t get some relief soon, he was sure he would end up a cripple.

He muttered a curse under his breath and seated himself at the other end of the settee, careful to keep at least two feet between them. Silverton grabbed his brandy from the table and took a large gulp, hoping the burn of alcohol would somehow cancel out the fire that coursed through his veins.

Meredith slowly opened her eyes and moved her head against the cushions to look at him.

“Did you say something, my lord?”

“It’s late, Meredith,” he replied abruptly. “You should be asleep by now. I understood that Tillman would stay in Aunt Georgina’s dressing room tonight so you could get some rest. Surely it’s no longer necessary for you to sit up all night with her?”

She smothered another yawn behind a slender hand. “No, Lady Stanton is much improved. I looked in on her, and she is sleeping peacefully. Dr. Sibley said she should be well enough to travel into Kent in a few days time.”

The doctor had advised that Lady Stanton remove to the country for several weeks to aid her recovery. The general and Silverton had decided the entire family would decamp to Belfield Abbey, Silverton’s closest estate, rather than to Stanton Park in Yorkshire. The Abbey was an easy journey from London—one that could be accomplished in less than a day, placing as little stress as possible on his aunt.

Silverton again inspected the smudges under Meredith’s eyes. She looked like she needed rest as much as his aunt.

“Meredith, you should be in bed,” he repeated. Preferably with me, he added mentally, but that would have to wait until they were at the Abbey.

“I know,” she sighed, “but I just can’t seem to sleep. Perhaps I have become too used to being up at this time of night. I did try to lie down, but that only made me feel more awake than before.”

She glanced at him, touching her hair again as if embarrassed that he should see her in such a state of disarray. “I only meant to borrow a book from the general’s library and take it back to my room.”

For long moment they stared at each other. Silverton swore he could feel a lash of heat whip between them. Meredith wrenched her gaze away to stare into the fire, a sweet blush flaring across her cheeks.

“But, somehow,” she said, swallowing nervously, “I seem to be much too restless to even read.”

Silverton smiled to himself. He slid over to her end of the settee, plucked the glass of sherry from her hand, and carefully set it down on the table. Snaking his arm behind her, he reached his fingers into her hair and gently combed them through the silky mass.

Meredith jumped slightly in her seat, but did not pull away. A myriad of emotions flickered across her face until they settled into one clear expression of mute and almost desperate yearning.

“I…I should probably go upstairs now,” she stammered as her eyes dropped to his mouth.

Silverton could feel his lips curve into a rapacious smile as he wrapped his other arm around her waist.

“In a minute, my sweet,” he whispered before swooping down to capture her strawberry-colored lips under his mouth.

Meredith felt herself opening to him like a flower opens to the morning light. All the fatigue and tension that had dragged on her for days was suddenly blasted away by the exhilarating heat of his kiss. She opened her lips and his tongue surged into her mouth. He devoured her like a man who had not taken sustenance for a week.

She whimpered, collapsing slowly back into the cushions. Silverton answered with a low murmur deep in his throat, and the sound of it was so delicious her stomach clenched with an unfamiliar excitement. Her legs grew so weak she knew she could not escape him even if she wanted to.

Meredith had nearly fainted when she saw him standing in the gleaming light of the fire, his golden hair burnished to the color of flame. He had looked so big and powerful, like an ancient god or spirit who had come to sweep her away to his enchanted realm. Her instinctive self had told her to flee the room before he could dominate her, but her rational mind had argued that she had the fortitude to resist him. She reasoned that no harm could result from spending a few stolen moments in his company.

Now she knew how foolish it was to think she could ever say no to him. And she knew in the depths of her soul that she didn’t want to, because Silverton was everything she had ever longed for.

Meredith clutched his arms, digging her fingers into the soft linen of his shirt. He lifted her hand and placed it around the back of his neck, shifting her closer into his embrace. The tender swell of her breasts brushed against his satin waistcoat, the rasp of her nipples against the fabric like nothing she had ever felt before. Hard and pointed, they tingled with an intensity that was almost painful.

She pressed against him urgently, seeking to ease the delicious agony.

Silverton seemed to know exactly what she needed. As he invaded her mouth with the stroke of his tongue, his hand smoothed over the front of her bodice until he captured her right breast between his long fingers. When he touched her nipple, it beaded even more tightly. That obviously pleased him, because he made a humming noise deep in his throat as he rolled it between his thumb and forefinger.

Meredith pulled back and stared at him, shocked by the stab of sensation that jolted straight to her loins. Silverton’s blue eyes had darkened to indigo, and the expression on his face was so fiercely exultant that she quailed before the force of it. He gazed back, his eyes softening as he sensed her trepidation.

“Easy, love,” he whispered in her ear. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I just want to hold you tonight—taste you a bit and soothe you so you can sleep.”

His hand rested quietly on her breast as his mouth moved in soft kisses over her cheek, her ear, and down her neck. She relaxed under his soothing caress, the tension once more flowing from her body as he cuddled her against him. Her momentary flash of anxiety faded, banished by the feel of his strong arms enfolding her so securely.

Meredith began to breathe in long, slow surges as she slid her hands up his chest. As if they had a will of their own, her fingers unbuttoned his waistcoat, parting the material to stroke the hard muscles through his shirt. Silverton’s hand left her breast, reaching up to tug the knot in his cravat, pulling it away from his neck and tossing it on the floor. She slowly walked her fingers to the opening of his shirt and slipped them inside.

Meredith marveled at the coiled strength she sensed in him, at the heat that flowed into her tired body as she nestled in the crook of his arm. She stroked and played, weaving her fingers through the wiry blond hair scattered over his bronzed skin.

He stilled beneath her hands, letting her explore him. Pleasure built inside her as she felt his muscles flex under her sensitized fingertips.

Meredith couldn’t resist stretching up and touching the edge of her tongue to the base of his throat. She tentatively licked the rapid pulse that beat there as she whispered an incoherent appreciation for his intoxicating and potent masculinity.

For a long moment he seemed to freeze. Then, in a movement so swift that she felt it before she saw it, he dragged her across his lap, settling her on his thighs. She opened her mouth in a surprised squeak, but he dipped between her lips, ruthlessly capturing her breath and drawing it into him. One hand wrapped hard around her shoulders, keeping her still, while the other grasped her hip, stroking and kneading through the thin layers of her dress and chemise.

Meredith felt as if she were melting, the soft flesh between her legs turning hot and damp. She wanted to writhe against him even as she thought she might collapse into his arms in a heated swoon.

Silverton’s kiss tasted like hot brandy. He smelled faintly of the spice of his snuff, and something intangible and yet so wonderful she wanted to burrow against him like a kitten searching for warmth.

She returned his kiss with an eagerness that some dim part of her mind knew she should be ashamed of. But instead of shame she felt only growing excitement and need—a sense that she was about to launch herself off a precipice into a glittering place where every sense would be heightened, every feeling magnified.

Grasping the edges of his open collar, she pushed herself into his kiss, sucking his tongue in a wicked imitation of what he had done to her only moments ago. Silverton pulled back gently and nuzzled her cheek, pushing her head sideways to expose the side of her neck to his questing mouth. He made her shudder with pleasure as he hungrily licked and bit the sensitive flesh beneath her ear.

Meredith let her head fall back, the slide of his wet tongue across her skin so intense that it made her dizzy. Her eyes were shut now, but she could feel his hand move leisurely to her bodice, clever fingers searching, tugging at ties and pulling the delicate silk away from her breasts. She forced herself to raise her lids as something inside compelled her to watch his face as he exposed her body to his gaze for the first time.

He cradled her on his lap, one hand moving up her back to hold her steady across his thighs. His other hand pulled at the ribbons of her chemise, carefully lowering the lace-trimmed garment to her waist.

Meredith couldn’t help but moan at the feral expression on his face—a mewling sound that brought his eyes up to hers. His features were as hard as granite, but his eyes shone with a tenderness that made her want to weep. He lowered his mouth to hers, brushing a gentle kiss across her lips as if to reassure her. But he immediately returned his gaze to her breasts, and she understood that he would not be distracted again until he had gotten exactly what he wanted from her.

With an almost painful sense of anticipation, she watched him study her. Meredith was ashamed to admit it, but she loved the covetous look on his face as he gazed at her body. His hand finally moved back to her breast, his fingers stroking upward from the plumpness beneath her nipple. She panted as he teased her, embarrassed that she couldn’t control her uneven breathing. His lips parted again in a mesmerizing smile as his fingers circled her nipple, making her wriggle her bottom against his muscular thighs.

She suddenly became aware of his erection nudging against her as he slightly parted his legs so that she rested more heavily against his lower body. Meredith felt the moist heat grow between her legs, and she was afraid he would sense the dampness through the thin fabric of her gown.

But in the next instant he lowered his head to her breast, taking the hard peak of her nipple and sucking it into his mouth. She jerked in his arms, choking back a cry of astonishment at the streak of sensation she felt all the way to the center of her womb.

Silverton raised his head at her smothered shriek, his eyes filled with laughter, an expression of mock alarm on his face.

“Hush, my darling,” he exclaimed softly. “You must not cry out so loudly.”

“I’m sorry,” Meredith gasped, mortified by her lack of control. “I just can’t seem to help it.”

“I’m depending on that,” he murmured before lowering his head back to her breast.

She was about to ask him what he meant when his teeth closed around her nipple. He tugged on her flesh so sweetly that she could swear it plumped more fully into his mouth. Meredith tried to swallow the moans forced out against her will as he licked and nipped the tight bud, stopping occasionally to blow air on it before sucking it back into his mouth. Just when she thought she would lose her mind, he switched to the other breast, swirling his tongue in luxurious strokes that built up the tension in the pit of her belly to almost unbearable levels.

“Please!” she gasped, not understanding quite what she wanted but certain he would know exactly what she needed. “Please!”

Meredith arched her back, deliberately pushing her breast against his rasping tongue. He made a low purring sound, like a giant cat, feasting on as much of her softness as he could pull into his mouth. She writhed in his lap, pressing against an erection that felt rock hard and startlingly large against her bottom.

He lifted his head with a gasp, his face branded with a flush of desire that made her heart pound even harder. Silverton looked into her eyes; his expression was both rampantly possessive and achingly tender at the same time.

Meredith suddenly realized with a bone-deep conviction that he would do everything in his power to protect her. She lay across him, completely vulnerable and open to his touch, completely at his mercy, but feeling safer than she had at any other time in her memory.

“God, Meredith.” His deep voice reverberated through her body. “You are so beautiful I can hardly bear it.”

The words were almost as good as his touch. Her eyelids fluttered shut when his mouth returned to her lips.

As he slipped his tongue inside, his hand moved under her dress and up her thigh. His touch was not so gentle now, his fingers firm against her leg as if he could barely restrain himself. He moved past her garter to exposed skin, sliding upward until he reached the damp curls between her legs.

She could hardly breathe as she inhaled in ragged sobs, her emotions a dizzying combination of eager impatience and a stunned bashfulness that made her want to shrink from his commanding touch. But Meredith knew he would not stop, nor would she ask him to.

Silverton stroked through her curls and probed carefully, pressing a long finger into tender folds that seemed to melt as he pushed farther inside her. She was no longer a woman of reason and control, but a creature of sensation, and only he could satisfy her spiraling need.

He stroked her sheath, a knowing hand fondling her drenched softness. Meredith trembled under the onslaught, her body straining to understand what his hands were teaching her.

Silverton suddenly withdraw his finger from inside her. At the loss of his touch, she opened heavy lids to look at him. His eyes swept across her, and she felt incredibly wanton as she lay against his thighs and chest. The curls between her legs glistened with moisture, her breasts, tipped with hard pink nipples, still wet from his mouth. A soft growl rumbled in his throat as his eyes lifted to meet hers.

He held her gaze as he deliberately, relentlessly pushed her thighs wider with the hand that still played between her legs. Stroking once more into her curls, he found the most secret part of her, an aching sensitivity hidden in the folds of plump flesh. Parting her once again, his fingers caressed and gently rubbed the swollen bud. She began to shiver deep inside, the sensation both unbearable and glorious.

She couldn’t stand it, couldn’t take any more. As if he knew, he pushed a long finger back inside her as he simultaneously exerted a steady pressure on the little bud. She arched her back, completely unraveled by the intensity of the pleasure radiating from her very core, rippling out in shuddering tremors through her body.

Meredith parted her lips to cry out just as Silverton brought his mouth down on hers—hard, dominating, taking into himself the sweet, sweet blessing of the astonishing release.

Silverton fell back against the cushions as Meredith collapsed in a trembling heap on his lap. It was a miracle he hadn’t come himself, what with her delightful bottom wriggling so sensuously against his cock. He continued to gently stroke her butter-soft flesh, and he kept the bounty of her full breast captured possessively in his hand. Silverton had no idea how he would ever let her go, when all he wanted to do was pull her down on the floor and bury himself in all that satiny heat.

But he wouldn’t take her in his uncle’s library, especially not the first time. Part of him couldn’t believe he had pushed her as far as he did, but his accumulated frustration had collided with her sweetly offered desire, and his control had melted like ice in a spring thaw. He knew that the next time he held her like this, there would be no holding back for either of them. Still, he reminded himself, it wouldn’t help Meredith to be discovered in so compromising a position.

With one more lingering look at her glorious body, Silverton smoothed her dress and pulled her chemise and bodice over her breasts. Meredith, who seemed to be in some kind of floating daze, began to move as she felt him rearrange her clothing. Her eyelids fluttered open and he saw consciousness returning, along with a dawning expression of incipient panic.

She began to struggle against him as she attempted to sit up. He bit back an oath as he clamped her firmly in place.

“Stop struggling, sweetheart.” Silverton fought to speak in a soothing voice. “Just rest in my lap for a minute to recover yourself.”

She continued to squirm, forcing a groan from him as she pressed down on his aching cock.

“Meredith,” he growled, “sit still.”

She froze at the sharp command in his voice, a look of consternation spreading across her face. He sighed and sat up higher, easing her into a more comfortable position on his lap.

“I didn’t mean to alarm you, my sweet, but if you keep moving like that I cannot be held responsible for my actions.”

Meredith frowned, not comprehending the pain she caused him. But then she glanced at his face. Blushing, she dropped her gaze as she clumsily began to tie up her bodice.

“Let me help you, sweetheart,” he said, brushing aside her shaking hands. “You need to be still for a minute, give yourself a chance to regain your, ah, poise. After all,” he smiled at her, “you just had your—”

“No, no, don’t say it,” she cried in a flustered voice. “I don’t want to know what it’s called! Please, my lord, you must let me up.” She wiggled against his groin as she attempted to rise.

Silverton involuntarily tightened his arms around her in response. “Meredith,” he ground out between clenched teeth, “please stop calling me my lord.”

“Well, I don’t really know what else to call you, except Lord Silverton,” she protested as she pushed ineffectually against his chest.

Hoping to quiet her, he nuzzled his mouth against her neck. For a moment, she did stop squirming. Silverton lifted his head, pleased to see her lips parting as her eyes turned the color of velvet mist.

“You could try calling me Stephen,” he murmured. “At least when we’re alone.”

Her body stiffened as she resumed her struggle to get up. “My lord, we cannot possibly be alone like this again. I shudder to imagine what you must think of me, but I assure you I have never done anything like this before in my life. You must let me up—now!”

He muttered another oath, releasing his grip around her waist and shoulders. Meredith pushed herself from his lap in a tangle of flailing limbs and skirts. She stumbled as she came to her feet, and he reached out quickly to steady her.

Rising, Silverton scowled as she bent to rummage around on the floor for the slippers that had fallen off her feet.

“Meredith, we need to discuss what happened here tonight.”

She shook her head vigorously as she yanked on her soft shoes. “No, my lord, we have no such need. This was a mistake. I don’t blame you for dallying with me….”

“I am not dallying with you! What in God’s name are you talking about?” Try as he might, Silverton could not hold back his resentment that she would think so poorly of him.

Meredith edged away from him.

“I know you meant no harm, my lord.” She avoided his eye, hastily tying up the tapes of her gown. “And I know that you do have some feelings for me….”

“Feelings for you!” he thundered. “Is that what you call it?”

“Keep your voice down,” she hissed, looking over her shoulder at the door.

Silverton stalked across the room and grabbed her chin in his hand. He tilted her head up, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“Explain yourself,” he demanded.

She stared back at him, her face a study of conflicting emotions. “I know you meant no harm. I know that you even care for me. But it’s wrong to indulge ourselves in this way, and…” Her eyes slid away from him.

“And what?”

“You must not toy with me,” she whispered. “I couldn’t bear it.”

Silverton felt his mouth gape open in shock. How in God’s name had she come to such a wrongheaded conclusion?

Snapping his mouth shut, he released her chin and grasped her by the shoulders. “Meredith, I’m not toying with you. What kind of man do you take me for?”

Her eyes flew up to his face, her gaze wide and startled.

“I want to marry you, foolish child.” He could hear the growl in his voice. “I never would have touched you if that were not my firm intention.”

She stared at him for a moment. Her lips, still swollen from his lovemaking, parted in what looked like dismay. Before he could stop her, she wrenched herself from his arms and backed quickly to the door.

“No, no, Lord Silverton, you must not—it’s impossible. Think of what you are saying! Please, I must go.”

He stood frozen to the spot as he listened to her flustered rejection of his admittedly clumsy offer. She fumbled briefly with the key before wrenching the door open in her hurry to escape.

Meredith spun back to face him. As he watched in disbelief, she dropped him a lopsided curtsy.

“Please excuse me, my lord,” she exclaimed in a breathless voice. “I will bid you good-night.”

She turned and fled the room, leaving him in a state of near befuddlement. In spite of what had just happened between them, in spite of Meredith’s obvious mortification and panic, she had still felt obliged to observe the forms of propriety. Although he was beyond frustration, his groin throbbing with an unremitting ache, Silverton couldn’t help but laugh. He would cherish her ridiculous curtsy for the rest of his life.

Now he simply had to ascertain what troubled her about their proposed marriage. After tonight he was convinced she loved him, so he suspected her refusal stemmed from the unfamiliar emotions and sensations she had just experienced. The whole situation had obviously overwhelmed her.

Not to mention the fact, he thought ruefully, that his proposal had been as inelegant as it could possibly be. He would have to make amends for that bit of stupidity.

Fetching his coat, Silverton slipped it on and strolled from the library. He let himself out through the massive front doors of Stanton House, knowing that Tolliver would lock up behind him. As he strode down the deserted streets of Mayfair, he began to formulate a plan to pursue Meredith and to assuage any doubts she might have about their union. He looked up at the dusky night sky and laughed softly. First he would get her to Belfield Abbey, and then he would woo her, wed her, and bed her.

But not, Silverton promised himself, necessarily in that order.

Chapter Twenty-One

Feminine laughter mingled with the dainty clink of Sèvres teacups on saucers, drifting across the cavernous space of the drawing room to the large French doors that opened to the terrace. Silverton stood in the doorway, gazing out over the deer park cloaked in the lengthening shadows of the early summer evening.

He caught the occasional snatch of conversation but couldn’t make out the thread of any particular discussion at this distance from the main group. The Elizabethan salon was large enough to billet an entire regiment, and he had never been fond of the gilded and intensely overwrought style of its grandiose décor. Why his mother chose the enormous room for such a small party was beyond him.

He supposed that she wished to impress the guests—a few of the local gentry, Sophia and Robert, Trask, and the Earl and Countess of Wrackley and their two children. The latter family was a surprising addition to the group, since his mother rarely went to the trouble of socializing with their closest neighbors.

The Wrackleys’ estate ran parallel to Belfield Abbey along the North Downs. The earl held an ancient and distinguished title but was a spendthrift and a poor manager, and his lands had suffered from years of neglect. Everyone knew the family was in the hunt for a lucrative alliance for their daughter, Isabel, still considered a diamond of the first water even after three years on the marriage mart.

As Silverton observed the company from his post by the door, he acknowledged a sneaking suspicion that he was the Wrackleys’ chosen prey. His mother’s newfound liking for the countess, a woman she normally despised, confirmed this assumption. He also suspected that the source of his mother’s odd behavior lay in her disapproval of his discreet attempts to court Meredith. She clearly hoped to distract him from that objective by dangling the beauteous Isabel right under his nose.

He sighed, convinced that his mother’s all-too-obvious dislike of Meredith was one of the reasons his sweet girl had proven so elusive. Although they had been living in the same house for almost a fortnight, Meredith had managed to evade any attempt on his part to be alone with her. She had spent most of her time with Lady Stanton, attending to his aunt’s needs as she recovered from her illness.

Against every single one of his natural inclinations, Silverton had not pressed her. But he hated that she shied away whenever he approached, likely mortified by her loss of control in his arms that night at Stanton House.

He glanced covertly across the room at her, where she sat on an ebony and purple silk settee conversing with the Earl of Wrackley’s young son, Viscount Tuddler.

The memory of Meredith’s erotic surrender still had the power to arouse him. It had taken enormous discipline on his part these last few weeks not to pounce on her and drag her off to the nearest bed. Instead, he had waited patiently. Now the excuse Meredith had used so effectively to avoid him was gone—literally. General and Lady Stanton had departed for Brighton this morning. His aunt loved the sea, and the general had determined that a trip to the seaside resort would help restore his wife to health.

Meredith had wanted to go with them, but, much to Silverton’s delight, Lady Stanton had insisted she and Annabel remain at the Abbey.

“No, my dear,” his aunt had replied firmly when Meredith tried to protest the decision. “You’ve been waiting on me hand and foot for three weeks. It’s time for you to enjoy yourself a little, and the Abbey is delightful at this time of year. There are many lovely prospects and opportunities for both you and Annabel to paint and sketch. I absolutely insist that you remain.”

Meredith had seemed to submit with good grace, but she had not been able to stop herself from sliding a nervous glance at Silverton. That shy look had strengthened his resolve to get her alone as soon as possible.

He snapped out of his pleasant musings when he saw Tuddler lean close to Meredith and murmur something in her ear. The youthful viscount had been flirting with her all evening, just skimming the boundaries of acceptable behavior. Silverton wanted nothing more than to grab the pimply faced boy by his absurdly high collar, drag him out to the terrace, and pitch him over the balustrade into the prickly rosebushes below.

Fortunately, Meredith’s cool response to the young man’s advances managed to allay Silverton’s primitive impulses. Right now, she inspected Tuddler as if he were a species of exotic toad that had somehow hopped its way into the drawing room.

“Silverton, do stop making an ass of yourself,” Trask brusquely interrupted his murderous fantasy. “The girl is clearly impervious to anyone else’s advances but yours.”

Silverton grinned ruefully at the earl. “That obvious, am I?”

His friend snorted in derision. They both watched Meredith, who, at that moment, pointedly turned her back on Tuddler to speak to Annabel. The two men looked at each other and broke into laughter.

“For God’s sake, man,” exclaimed Trask after his amusement had subsided, “when are you going to put us out of our misery and ask Miss Burnley to marry you?”

“I’ve been trying,” grumbled Silverton, “but she won’t let me get near her.” He frowned as he studied the object of his thwarted affections. “She has gotten the notion into her head that I’m toying with her.”

“And what have you done to dispel that notion?”

“Well…” Silverton hesitated, fearing he would sound ridiculous. “I’m wooing her.”

“Wooing her! What in blazes are you talking about? Any idiot can see you are both well beyond that point. Just tell Miss Burnley how you feel and be done with it.”

Silverton shook his head. “I don’t think that would suffice. The scandal at Lady Framingham’s ball, and its aftermath, deeply affected her. She hates the life of the ton, and I suspect she is having some difficulty imagining herself as the Marchioness of Silverton.” He hated to even acknowledge that thought, but his instincts—and Meredith’s behavior—told him that he was probably right.

“Well, Tuddler’s mother doesn’t seem to have any difficulty imagining it,” retorted Trask.

Silverton narrowed his eyes as he studied his mother and Lady Wrackley seated together on the other side of the room. They were engaged in a quiet but intense conversation, the countess occasionally glancing with smug satisfaction at her son’s efforts to engage Meredith’s attention.

“Indeed,” murmured Silverton. “That is odd.”

“I believe your mother is responsible for that. Lady Silverton has obviously encouraged the countess to see her son’s pathetic attempts to flirt with Miss Burnley as a diversionary tactic. If Tuddler can woo her away from you, then the beautiful Isabel will have a clear field to reach her objective. And”—Trask grinned wickedly—“in case you haven’t noticed, that objective is you.”

“I noticed,” Silverton responded dryly.

“I take it that Lady Silverton would object to Miss Burnley as a daughter-in-law?”

“What do you think?”

Trask’s lips curled with a subtly expressed contempt. “Permit me to say with all due respect, Silverton, that your mother is a fool.”

“Trask, you are stating the obvious. You are aware, however, that as devoted as I am to her, I rarely listen to my mother.”

“I’m glad to hear it, particularly in this case. Miss Burnley is a rare prize.” Trask’s eyes returned to his appreciative study of Meredith. “In fact, if you are not successful in your attempts to pursue her, then perhaps I might be inclined to take up the chase.”

“Don’t even think about it,” growled Silverton, not bothering to hide his reaction to his friend’s jest.

Trask rolled his eyes, but Silverton no longer cared that he acted the part of a wild animal protecting his mate. When it came to Meredith, he was long past the point of hiding his possessive instincts.

“Well, in that case,” the earl mused, “you clearly need another plan.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Why don’t you just bed her, and then she’ll have to marry you.”

“You don’t know Meredith,” Silverton replied, refusing to meet his friend’s eyes.

Trask stared at him for a moment, and then gave a low hoot of laughter. “Come now, Silverton, don’t tell me that your vaunted skills have failed to have the desired effect?”

“Can we please change the subject?” Silverton ground out between clenched teeth. “Although you may not believe it, I invited you down here not for the dubious pleasure of your company, but because I need your advice on a matter of some import.”

Trask grinned but refrained from any more lewd comments. “I am yours to command.”

Casting a quick glance around to ensure their privacy, Silverton launched into a brief recitation of the events that had occurred the night Jacob Burnley forced himself on Meredith. The smile faded from Trask’s face as Silverton also related Isaac Burnley’s attempt to control the sisters, and his threat to incarcerate Annabel in an asylum.

“What possible reason could he have for wanting to do that?”

“That’s what I need to find out,” answered Silverton. “The Burnleys are prosperous wool merchants and tradesmen. I believe the uncle is sole owner of a large factory in Bristol. Given that you have investments in the trade, I hoped you could use your contacts to determine the state of the family fortune. The uncle and son, apparently, had no interest in either Meredith or Annabel until a few months ago. Something must have changed to precipitate their rash behavior.”

Understanding dawned on Trask’s face. “Annabel is a considerable heiress from her mother’s side, is she not?”

Silverton nodded. “Ten thousand a year. And although Meredith’s income is much less, it would still provide a tidy sum for a business that may be encountering difficulties.”

“Leave it with me. I’ll be going back to London in a few days; there are one or two people in the city that might be able to provide some answers. In the meantime, I’ll write to my contacts in Bath and Bristol. If there is anything to know, I will find it.”

Silverton was about to reply when his mother drifted over in a cloud of peach and gold silk. The two men turned politely to greet her.

“You are both very naughty boys,” she purred as she wrapped her hand around Silverton’s forearm. “My son, you are sadly neglecting your guests. Lady Isabel has most graciously consented to play the pianoforte for us. You must know how accomplished she is, and her singing voice—simply divine!”

Trask pointedly raised his eyebrows. Silverton gave him a sardonic smile in return.

“In that case, my lady, I’ll rejoin the others.” The earl escaped across the room to take a seat next to Sophia.

“Stephen,” Lady Silverton asked with an imperious look on her delicate features, “would you be so kind as to open the instrument for Lady Isabel? You have been ignoring her all evening, and I assure you, the poor girl is most conscious of the slight.”

Silverton studied his mother’s haughty expression.

“Well, we certainly can’t have that.” He arranged his features into their habitual social mask and allowed his mother to lead him over to the young lady waiting eagerly by the pianoforte.

Meredith had spent the last two weeks trying to forget the life-altering encounter that had occurred in the library at Stanton House. That, of course, was impossible. Every time she looked at Silverton the memories came flooding back, along with a liquid heat that threatened to melt her from the inside out.

She had done everything she could to avoid him—no mean feat given they were living in the same house—but her bulwark and shield had departed this morning in a traveling coach to Brighton.

Meredith dragged her attention back to the absurdly dressed young man who had spent the evening flirting with her. Viscount Tuddler had been a nuisance ever since the men had joined the ladies in the drawing room after dinner. The murderous glares Silverton directed at the viscount were the only consolation she had for the purgatory of his company.

She cast a surreptitious glance at her host as he stood deep in conversation with the Earl of Trask. Meredith tried mightily to suppress the wistful longing she felt in his company, a longing that had only grown more intense during these last few weeks at his estate.

Imposing and beautiful, Belfield Abbey had appealed immediately to her artistic sensibilities. Meredith would never forget her first glimpse of the manor house. Both she and Annabel had gazed impatiently out the windows of the chaise as it bowled up the long drive through the enormous, lushly wooded deer park. Suddenly, the trees had parted and the Abbey had revealed itself in all the venerable splendor of its Tudor glory.

She spent many secret hours wandering the house and grounds, the majesty and ancient history of the estate exerting a powerful influence on her imagination. Meredith couldn’t help yearning for a life here with Silverton, raising children and weaving herself into the fabric of generations that had come before and would continue unbroken for years to come.

But her wistful fantasies must remain just that—fantasies. Whenever she thought about what life would really be like as the Marchioness of Silverton, she was swamped with anxiety and a bitter sense of her own inadequacy. And even though Silverton might not realize how ill equipped she was for the position, his mother certainly did.

Lady Silverton had been icily polite for the past two weeks. The woman’s obvious dislike of her too clearly reminded Meredith of the reception she would receive from the ton if she were foolish enough to marry Silverton. She didn’t even want to imagine how poorly her ladyship would react if she knew that her son had already proposed marriage.

Fortunately, Meredith would never find out, since she had no intention of accepting his offer. She lay awake at night thinking of little else, and there was no doubt in her mind that if she married him it would only be a matter of time before he grew bored with her. Even worse, she would eventually irritate him with her lack of social polish, an essential quality in the circles in which he moved. He needed a true lady accustomed to the ways of the ton, one who wouldn’t embarrass him with repeated social blunders.

He needed someone like Lady Isabel.

Just looking at the elegant young woman made her stomach curdle with resentment. The Wrackleys’ daughter was a stunning beauty, petite and slender, with classical features and a tea-rose complexion. Next to her, Meredith felt like a gawky, aging spinster.

Even worse, when Lady Isabel had chatted with Silverton before dinner, Meredith couldn’t help but notice what a striking pair they made. Apparently, Lady Silverton thought so too because she had done everything she could to throw them together, including seating the earl’s daughter next to him at dinner.

And to make the evening just as horrible as it could possibly be, Meredith also had to suffer the plague of Lady Isabel’s encroaching toad of a brother, who clearly thought his tasteless advances were every woman’s dream.

“Ah, Miss Burnley,” the viscount suddenly murmured in her ear, “the evening air whispers of fragrance and romance! I insist that you join me on the terrace—your dusky beauty will surely outshine even the glorious rays of the setting sun.”

Meredith’s hands itched to box the side of his head.

“Thank you, my lord, but no,” she said firmly, turning her back to him as Annabel came to sit beside her.

“Sophia told me to come over and rescue you,” Annabel whispered. “That horrid boy has been nattering at you all night. Do you want me to try to draw him away? I’m sure I could persuade him to come out to the terrace with me, if you like.”

Meredith laughed. “No, darling, but thank you. I suspect that if you did, Robert would be very unhappy. He’s glowering at us both this very instant.”

Annabel glanced over at her fiancé and giggled. “Oh, dear, I hadn’t thought of that. He’s really getting terribly possessive, isn’t he?”

“Getting possessive?” retorted Meredith. “Really, Annabel, it’s a miracle he hasn’t locked you in a room by now. He’s been devoted to you from the first, but now he’s become positively proprietorial.”

The two sisters looked at Robert, who gazed at Annabel with a look that managed to be both stern and adoring at the same time.

Meredith chuckled. “Robert seems to have undergone quite a change in the last few weeks, ever since your grandfather gave him permission to marry you. I think he would carry you around in his pocket, if you let him.”

A silly grin spread across her sister’s face. “Yes, I know. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Yes, darling, it is.” She smiled at Annabel, but inside she wrestled with a stabbing pang of regret at the thought of losing her sister so soon.

Much to Meredith’s surprise, General and Lady Stanton had given their unqualified approval to the match. Her ladyship never said another word about her plans for Annabel to marry Silverton, apparently content with the young couple’s decision. In fact, the relationship between Annabel and Robert seemed to bring a sense of closure to the tragic estrangement that had sundered the family for so many years. Everyone rejoiced in their happiness. Meredith tried to rejoice, too, but she dreaded the years of lonely solitude stretching before her like a blank canvas that would never see color.

Taking a deep breath, she gave herself a sharp little scold, resolving to drive such gloomy reflections from her mind. Annabel was radiantly happy and healthy, and that was all that mattered.

“Attende, everyone!” Lady Silverton stood in the center of the drawing room, gently clapping her hands to silence the quiet chatter. “Lady Isabel has agreed to play for us tonight. I assure you, we are in for a rare treat.”

Annabel murmured a swift apology before slipping away to join Robert, who impatiently awaited her return. Meredith sighed, resigning herself once again to the torture of Viscount Tuddler’s undivided attention. She wondered how much worse the evening could get.

She had her answer a moment later, when Silverton took Lady Isabel’s hand and escorted her to the pianoforte. The young woman murmured something to him and then laughed; it was a delightfully light sound that caused Meredith’s chest to constrict with pain. A knowing smile curved Silverton’s lips as he gazed down at her, and he said something in response that made her laugh again.

“What a lovely couple they make, don’t you agree, Lady Wrackley?” Lady Silverton settled gracefully into the chair next to Meredith.

“Simply charming!” With a flick of her wrist, the countess motioned to her son to vacate the seat on the other side of Meredith. The young man glared at his mamma but took himself off to join his father, who seemed to be happily drinking himself into a stupor.

“Miss Burnley, do you play?” enquired Lady Wrackley as she fussily arranged her draperies.

“No, your ladyship, I do not,” Meredith replied quietly.

“Miss Burnley is an accomplished artist, however,” said the marchioness, “although some might say that the subjects of her paintings are rather odd, especially for a young lady.”

Meredith could hear the undisguised contempt in Lady Silverton’s voice.

“Dear me,” tittered Countess Wrackley. “How unusual. My Isabel, as you will hear, plays and sings like an angel. She is much sought after for musical evenings in London.”

At that moment, the angelic Isabel brought her hands gracefully down on the keyboard and began to play a popular aria by Handel. Oh God, thought Meredith, swallowing hard, she really does play amazingly well. Even worse, Lady Isabel looked serenely beautiful as she proceeded to dazzle the guests with her musical prowess.

“Isn’t she divine, Miss Burnley?” asked Lady Silverton in a stage whisper. “So accomplished, so very much the lady. She is just the kind of woman I would wish my son to marry.”

Struck dumb by that comment, Meredith simply nodded her head.

“Her deportment is perfect, and she would make him an excellent hostess. More importantly, she would never inconvenience him. My son hates to be inconvenienced.”

“What do you mean?” Meredith inquired faintly. She knew Lady Silverton was baiting her, but she still couldn’t stop herself from asking.

Lady Silverton’s well-bred laugh trailed shivers down Meredith’s spine.

“Surely, my dear, you are aware of Silverton’s reputation. He is a notorious flirt who has broken any number of hearts over the years.”

In all fairness, Meredith had never seen him flirt with anyone but herself, although what had occurred in the library two weeks ago was certainly a great deal more than flirtation. She looked at him as he stood by the pianoforte, an easy smile on his perfect face as he turned the music for Lady Isabel. All at once, Meredith came to the realization that she had been an absolute fool.

“A man like Silverton cannot be expected to change his nature simply to please his wife. And a young woman like Lady Isabel will never be so foolish as to embarrass him with displays of passion, or intemperate behavior.” Her ladyship gave a delicate shudder. “Such displays are, of course, repulsive to any man in Silverton’s position. It would make him a laughingstock amongst his acquaintance.”

The marchioness inspected Meredith from beneath her eyelashes. Obviously satisfied by what she saw, she leaned back in her seat, languidly fanning herself as she nodded in time to the music.

Meredith, however, found that she could only stare blindly at the floor as the cold despair inside her effectively turned whatever heat remained into an impenetrable block of ice.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Silverton tried manfully to focus his attention on his land agent’s droning voice. Normally, he would have listened with great interest to Peterson’s report on the expected yields of the apple orchards this fall. Kent was famous for its orchards, and the fruit from the Abbey provided a lucrative source of income for the estate.

But Silverton’s mind had drifted away from the ledger books an hour ago, when he saw Meredith and Annabel emerge from the house and walk down the terrace steps. Through the open windows of his library, he had watched them amble across the lawn on their way to the wooded path leading to the north escarpment.

The sisters had carried baskets full of art supplies. They were followed by two footmen who fairly staggered under their loads of easels, stools, and other accoutrements necessary for a morning of artistic activity. Meredith had turned around to talk to the men, gesturing at the unwieldy burdens each of them carried. Silverton hadn’t been able to hear her, but she had obviously offered to help them with their loads.

His servants had declined, of course, shaking their heads vigorously in reply. No wonder his staff had become so devoted to Meredith, he thought. She treated them with a quiet courtesy that unintentionally illustrated the obvious lack of such conduct in Lady Silverton.

He frowned when he thought of his mother and her behavior at last night’s dinner party. She had been positively effusive toward the Wrackleys, doing everything in her power to throw their daughter in his path. It had been impossible for him to avoid Lady Isabel. His mother had made sure that any attempt on his part to elude the girl’s company would have been perceived by the other guests as an obvious slight by their host.

Even more disturbing to him was the look on Meredith’s face during Lady Isabel’s performance. His insides had twisted with frustration as he had helplessly watched his mother and Lady Wrackley drip poison in her ear. He could only guess what they had said to her, and the misery on Meredith’s face had made him feel wild. It had taken all his willpower to remain at Lady Isabel’s side, calmly turning the pages of her music like a trained monkey.

Unfortunately, as soon as the performance was over, Meredith had excused herself and fled the room, evading him once again.

Today was the day, however, that all such evasions would come to an end. Silverton vowed to himself that he would track her down this very afternoon and explain to her in no uncertain terms her future as his wife. He knew Meredith loved him; it was long past time that her doubts about him were laid to rest. His mother would have to be dealt with, of course, but convincing Meredith of his affection and loyalty claimed priority over anything else.

Besides, his primitive self was becoming increasingly unmanageable. He needed to feel Meredith’s soft body melting against his, needed to feel the lush warmth of her perfect lips as they gently returned his kisses. That and only that would satisfy the predatory urges he struggled to control.

“I beg your pardon, my lord.” Peterson’s monotone voice recalled him to his surroundings. “Have I failed to make myself clear?”

Silverton smiled apologetically at the plainly dressed man who sat on the other side of the old-fashioned, carved oak desk. “Forgive me, Peterson, what did you say?”

Extending his arm across the desk, Peterson indicated a row of figures in the ledger. “If you will compare the numbers in this column, Lord Silverton,” he intoned, “to the numbers in the next column, you will see the projected income that will result from the increased crop yields at harvest this year. These projected yields seem to bear out the efficacy of the changes we have made in the management of the orchards on the south estate.”

Peterson was an exemplary land agent—honest and thrifty to a fault. But he had to be as boring as any man that had walked the earth since the days of Adam. Today was worse than usual, and Silverton simply could not get his intellect to cooperate with the task at hand.

His gaze drifted again to the view out the window. He came alert when he saw Annabel emerge from the woods and cross the lawn, swinging her bonnet in her hand. She climbed up the steps to the terrace and disappeared into the house.

Meredith was alone at the escarpment.

Silverton was just about to dismiss the land agent when he heard another pair of footsteps on the flagstone walk that led to the kitchen gardens. Rising from his chair, he strolled to the open window. A footman appeared around the corner of the house, carrying a small tray with two glasses and a pitcher full of an iced beverage.

The servant hurried toward the path that Annabel had just returned on. His obvious destination was the escarpment, and, just as obviously, Meredith had no intention of returning to the house anytime soon.

“Peterson.” Silverton ruthlessly interrupted the endless recitation of facts and figures.

“My lord?”

“That will be all for today.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

Peterson methodically gathered up his papers, stacked the ledgers, and solemnly bowed before exiting the room. Sighing in relief, Silverton strode over to the library’s French doors and stepped outside.

He turned his face up to the early afternoon sun, absorbing the heat and light that reflected off the white marble of the terrace. Stretching his cramped arms, he pulled in a deep breath, inhaling the humid air scented with the heavy aroma of cut grass and blooming rosebushes.

Silverton never minded the summer heat. He loved the country in all kinds of weather as long as he could be outside—cantering on his roan hunter through the deer park or the woods of the Abbey, talking to his groundskeepers or tenants, riding with the hunt during the season—he loved it all. As much as he enjoyed the tumult and excitement of London, it was here at Belfield Abbey that he found contentment. Even more importantly, he was never bored.

Except, on occasion, with Peterson, he admitted wryly.

He crossed the terrace and ran down the steps that led to the broad lawn ringing the manor house. Striding across the grass, he entered the woods and took the narrow path now used only by the groundskeepers but which had once been the entrance to the magical forest of his childhood.

Silverton had spent endless hours playing in these woods. He had launched countless quests for the Holy Grail or embarked on hunts for treasure hidden deep in Merlin’s cave. His childhood innocence had faded years ago, but the dense and shadowed forest with its long ago memories still exerted a subtle pull on his imagination.

He hunted again today, but this time it was a not a game for children, and he knew exactly where to look for his elusive prey.

Deep in the woods, he paralleled the regular path that led to a small meadow on the edge of the escarpment. Although it was after noon, the strong light of the sun only dimly penetrated the thick canopy of ancient oaks. The air was still, the heat having silenced most of the birds and small animals. Silverton heard only the sound of his boots crushing the dried leaves on the overgrown path, and the occasional rustle of a squirrel or vole burrowing through the undergrowth.

Suddenly, he heard loud footsteps pounding down the other path, coming from the direction of the escarpment. Through the trees, he glimpsed a man in footman’s livery, running as if he were in a panic. It must be the servant who had brought the drinks to Meredith, but shadows cast by the heavy oak canopy obscured his face.

Silverton frowned to himself, struck by the footman’s strange behavior. He froze in his tracks, wanting to observe the servant without alerting him to his presence.

The man stumbled to a halt, turning to stare back along the path to the meadow as if waiting for something to happen. The sounds of his labored breathing echoed harshly through the quiet of the deep woods. Before Silverton could identify him, the footman pivoted and raced back down the path toward the Abbey.

He stood for a moment, watching the servant disappear into the trees. Then he turned and strode quickly through the undergrowth, cutting diagonally from the path in his hurry to reach the meadow. His desire to see Meredith became acute, underscored by an apprehension created by the footman’s flight through the woods. He accelerated his pace, the oaks around him beginning to thin as he neared the edge of the escarpment.

Bursting through the tree line, Silverton jerked to a stop as his eyes adjusted to the glare of the midday sun after the gloom of the forest. He blinked, and the meadow slowly came into focus. His gaze swept across the space before him, and he saw her sitting peacefully in the sunshine. He bent over and rested his hands on his knees, catching his breath as a hot rush of relief flowed through his body. God only knew why the footman had acted like a madman—he would have to find out later—but Meredith was clearly fine.

Forcing himself to inhale a slow breath, Silverton willed his muscles to relax before stepping away from the trees to cross the meadow to join her. She had her back to him, perched on a wooden stool before her easel, only a few feet from the edge of the escarpment. Annabel’s easel was close by, her empty stool serving as a table for the tray that contained the drinks.

The setting could not have been more idyllic. The meadow, dotted with red and white wildflowers, overlooked the undulating chalk hills of the North Downs of Kent. It was a landscape made for artists, a varied expanse of woodlands, pastures, and orchards, with the occasional church spire rising in the distance.

Silverton walked slowly across the meadow, allowing his boots to rustle in the grass so she would hear him coming up behind her.

Meredith’s nose practically touched the canvas, so absorbed was she in her work, but at the sound of his footfall she put down her brush and turned in her seat. A ready smile began to light her face.

That smile faded as soon as she saw him, replaced by a somber expression he found both surprising and annoying. Clearly she had been expecting Annabel. Even more clearly, he was not a welcome substitute.

Silverton smothered an irritated groan. He knew Meredith had been upset when she fled the drawing room last night, but he had hoped a good-night’s sleep would have lightened her spirits. Now, instead of enjoying the luxury of finally having her to himself, he would be forced to devote most of his energy to discovering her reasons for avoiding him.

Perhaps, he briefly reflected, he should simply pull her down into the grass and remind her of the heat that had scorched them both that night at Stanton House. But as Silverton observed the firm set of her elegant jaw, he realized that such a decisive strategy would likely meet with limited success. Reigning in his impatience, he forced himself to smile as he sat on the ground beside her.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” she said in a tight little voice before returning her attention to the painting.

“Good afternoon, Meredith.”

Silverton stretched up to inspect her work. He experienced a shock. Instead of a sunny rendering of the bucolic vista stretched out before them, Meredith had chosen to paint the gently rolling hills as covered in a blanket of snow and ice. It was grim depiction—gray, lifeless, and chill.

Puzzled, he tilted his head in an unspoken question, but she ignored him. He decided, for the moment, to let her do so, leaning back on his arms to give himself a better view of her face.

She carefully dipped her brush into a small pot of paint and leaned forward into the canvas, her brow wrinkling in concentration. Silverton thought she looked adorable, with her hair swept back from her face in a loose knot, her nose crinkling as she pondered the next brushstroke.

He loved the focus and intensity of her gaze, remembering the last time he had seen that look. It had been in the library at Stanton House, when she had lain half-naked and panting across his lap. He couldn’t wait to have her in his arms again, when he would unleash all that intensity for himself as he slowly penetrated her silky flesh.

Silverton luxuriated in that delightful image for a few minutes, allowing the silence to stretch between them.

“Meredith,” he finally said, letting his eyes roam over her face, “I wanted to speak to you last night but you left the room before I had the opportunity to do so.”

Her hand froze in midair. She cast him a veiled glance before resuming her work on the canvas.

“How odd,” she murmured, her voice and expression revealing nothing. “I would think you had many opportunities both before and after dinner to do just that.”

“Yes. Well…” He hesitated, searching for the right words to explain the situation. “You might think so, but the situation was not…convenient.”

Once again she paused in midstroke, frowning intently at her painting as if she expected it to begin speaking to her. Then she calmly resumed her work.

“I’m not surprised,” she eventually replied.

This time he had no trouble hearing the frigid tones in her voice.

“Lady Silverton told me that you never inconvenience yourself for anyone’s sake.”

“What?” He sat up straight.

“Would you like me to repeat myself?” she asked politely.

“No, thank you,” he muttered. This was not the conversation he had anticipated when he had come searching for her. He stared at her, willing her to look at him so he could gauge the intention behind the remark.

Meredith kept her face turned away, concentrating on her work. She seemed almost disinterested in the conversation in general, and in him in particular.

Silverton felt his lips curve in a humorless smile. He had never thought of himself as vain, but her unexpected comment stung his pride. He pulled one leg up and rested an arm on his knee, pondering the situation.

“My family has, on more than one occasion, seen fit to label me as a selfish creature,” he said.

“Oh, no,” she responded absently, still not looking at him. “Not selfish—spoiled.” She leaned back from the easel to inspect the canvas. “There is a difference, you know.”

Silverton’s jaw dropped open, but he quickly snapped it shut. He fumed for a minute, irritated not only by her impertinent pronouncements but also by the fact that she still refused to look at him.

“Well,” he finally ground out, “what is the difference?”

Meredith carefully mixed another color on her brush and reapplied herself to the painting. He thought her hand trembled a bit, but her voice sounded oddly detached.

“People who are selfish lack generosity of spirit. They are spiteful and mean, and can only really love themselves. You, on the other hand, are a kind and generous man. You care for your family and friends. But because of your position in society and your”—she hesitated, and he saw a blush creep up into her cheeks—“your personal attributes, you have been given everything you could ever desire or need. No one has ever said no to you. You have never really had to work for anything. In truth, no one could blame you for being spoiled, since it is due entirely to the circumstances of your life.”

Why doesn’t she just drop an anvil on my head, he thought, dazed by her comment. She had delivered a devastating analysis of his character as calmly as if she had been commenting on the weather. No one except his aunt and uncle had ever dared speak to him in such a fashion. He had, of course, endured the vulgar taunts and jests of his friends, but that was different. That was simply how men spoke to each other.

In fact, he had always been comfortable with his place in the world: confidently at the top of the pile. But Meredith made him feel like a callow youth. It astounded him that an inexperienced young woman from the country could make him so bloody unsure of himself.

“You’re wrong, you know,” he finally replied. He needed her to understand that the social mask he sometimes wore was simply that: a mask. “There are those who have said no to me before, many times. Aunt Georgina in particular has always tried to impress upon me the wisdom of putting the needs of others before my own. Since I am the head of the family, she has always wished me to cultivate a more serious and determined character. I regret you think she failed in that endeavor.”

In spite of his good intentions, Silverton felt a twinge of satisfaction when he saw her shift uncomfortably on her little stool. He leaned over and inspected her face, certain now that she regretted her candid remarks.

“In fact,” he continued, unable to repress the desire to exact a small measure of revenge, “you remind me greatly of Aunt Georgina. You’re so solemn that you sound remarkably like her. Even your countenance has the same stern, disapproving expression.”

Meredith bit her lower lip. He watched with interest as her shoulders moved up around her ears.

“Lord Silverton.” Her voice sounded tighter than a drum. “Please forgive me. I have grown too accustomed to thinking of myself as a member of your family. I had no right to say what I did. There is no doubt you fulfill all your duties exactly as you should.”

He didn’t reply, determined to force her to reveal what she really thought of him. Long moments stretched by as Meredith fiddled with her brush.

She cast him a hunted look. “It’s just that sometimes you seem to lack…” She ground to a halt. Silverton suspected that she was now truly cursing her unruly tongue.

“Lack seriousness of character?” he prompted.

“No,” she blurted out. “Seriousness of purpose.”

Silverton frowned and leaned heavily back on his hands. He didn’t know how to respond, since he was genuinely puzzled by her remark. There was no doubt Meredith had suffered much heartache over the years, but he thought it unnatural that a beautiful and wealthy young woman should hold such a grim view of life. It seemed to him that she actively resisted enjoying herself.

He cocked his head to one side and studied her face, which had turned rosy with embarrassment. “Meredith, considering that we have been blessed with such privilege, don’t you think we should try to enjoy ourselves, just a little?”

“You seem to enjoy yourself too much,” Meredith retorted. Her eyes flashed with anger before she turned away, as if conscious that she had revealed more than she wanted to.

He realized with a jolt of understanding that he had just found the trail of breadcrumbs through the forest.

“And when do I enjoy myself too much, Meredith?”

She hunched a shoulder at him, refusing to answer.

“Did I enjoy myself too much last night?” he persisted. “Did I enjoy myself with Lady Isabel?”

Meredith jumped up from her seat and began hastily collecting her brushes and wrapping them in rags. Silverton pushed himself up from the grass, eyeing her closely as he brushed the dirt from his buckskins.

After a few moments he gently grasped her arm, taking the brushes from her with his other hand. Meredith froze at his touch, her color coming and going with a hectic flush. He slowly raised her hand to his lips, brushing it with a soft kiss.

“I may sometimes enjoy life too much,” he said, “but you, my dear girl, do not enjoy it nearly enough.”

She looked up to meet his gaze, her quicksilver eyes reflecting a tumult of conflicting emotions. To Silverton’s dismay, those eyes began to fill, tears sparkling on her thick black lashes. Meredith blinked rapidly, turning her head to the side to hide her face. She tugged her arm, trying to escape his grasp, so he forced himself to let her go.

As he watched her grope in the pocket of her gown for a handkerchief, Silverton racked his brains, wondering what he could possibly do to ease a pain that he suspected had very deep roots.

He hated the sight of her tears, and he had never felt so helpless in his life.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Meredith pulled away from Silverton, unable to bear the look of sympathy on his handsome face. She hated it when people felt sorry for her. That it was Silverton made it even worse; he would never feel pity for a woman like Lady Isabel.

At the thought of that dainty beauty and her flirtation with Silverton, Meredith found her emotions suddenly veering off in another direction, rapidly converting to anger. She hastily reached down and retrieved a brush from her basket, plopping back onto her stool. If she pretended to paint, then at least she wouldn’t have to directly confront Silverton’s aristocratic arrogance when she answered him.

“Tell me, my lord,” she exclaimed, “what has there been to enjoy in my life so far? While it is true that Annabel and I are fortunate not to suffer impoverishment, there has been little else in our existence, to this point, to make us happy. I have only two things that give me joy—my sister and my painting.”

The tears were welling up in her eyes again, and she blinked hard to keep them from falling onto her cheeks. She cursed inside, having known all along that it would be a mistake to allow herself to talk to him.

Her heart had dropped to her shoes when she saw him striding across the meadow, his long, muscular legs eating up the space between them. Meredith had never expected him to follow her all the way out here, assuming he would eventually grow bored with the chase and leave her in peace.

Especially since the sainted Lady Isabel resided only a short distance away. After last night, Meredith had been sure he would prefer to spend time with someone more suited to the life he seemed to enjoy so much.

Instead, for reasons she couldn’t fathom, he had chosen to violate her sanctuary and crash through her hard-fought reserve, just as he always did. And she had responded in the worst possible way, by insulting his character, his way of life, almost everything about him.

Why didn’t she just dump a pot of paint on his head and be done with it, Meredith sighed to herself, clenching her brush in her fist. He unfailingly brought out the worst in her, especially after that unforgettable night in the library. She couldn’t think of that encounter without feeling hot and restless, and angry at him for making her so uncomfortable with herself.

She glanced sideways and saw that his features were etched with gravity, but his beautiful eyes were softened with a warmth and kindness that soothed her wounded pride. When he looked at her like that she had to struggle against an overwhelming urge to throw herself into his arms, ignoring all the warnings that swirled constantly in her head.

But she couldn’t do that, no matter how much she wanted to.

Meredith knew that someday soon she would return to her solitary life at Swallow Hill. Despite his promises to her in the library, she knew how unlikely it was that Silverton really wanted to marry her. And even if he thought he did, she had no doubt his mother would strenuously oppose it. Lady Silverton had made that perfectly clear last night. Meredith also couldn’t imagine that General and Lady Stanton would approve of the match, either, not after the pain their daughter—her stepmother—had caused them so many years ago.

No, Meredith knew she must continue to try to ignore him. Difficult, to say the least, since he would not go away and leave her alone.

“Meredith.”

She stifled a gasp. Silverton had moved very close, looming over her as he thoughtfully studied her work. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, head tilted to the side as if he were puzzled.

“Why do you paint such unsettling pictures?”

She blinked at him, surprised that he asked the question so bluntly. Most people danced around the subject, worried they might offend her or, even worse, that she might actually tell them why she did so.

“It’s difficult to explain,” she hedged.

“Try,” he ordered gently.

Meredith glanced up at him, afraid she would see either amusement or disdain on his features. He gave her a steady look in return, and she had the feeling he wouldn’t let her go until doomsday unless she made some attempt to answer his question.

“Well,” she said, swallowing against a sudden constriction in her throat. Picking up her glass from the other seat, she sipped, grimacing slightly at the bitterness of the drink. She was momentarily distracted by the thought that it was the worst lemonade she had ever tasted.

“Well,” she started again, “I don’t intentionally select a particular scene in order to disturb anyone. My ideas usually stem from something I am feeling at the time….”

She trailed off, realizing how inadequate any explanation must sound. How could she convey to him the grief and anger that often surged within her when she painted? How to describe the relief she experienced when she allowed that terrible power to flow through her fingers and manifest itself on the canvas? There had been many days when her painting had been the only thing that made her feel alive and capable of going on.

Silverton didn’t move or make a sound, obviously determined to wait her out. Meredith bit her lower lip and tried again.

“I know it might seem strange, but I often think of my parents when I paint. Sometimes I feel overcome with sadness, and this is the only way I can seem to express it.” She stared into the distance, vaguely aware of the beauty of the rolling hills and the luminescent green of the early summer foliage that covered them. “I suppose it’s the grief and sorrow that make me paint this way.”

She shrugged and finally looked at him, certain that a man who so thoroughly controlled his world could never understand what she was trying to say.

Silverton met her gaze, the intensity in his searing blue eyes seeming to reflect the hot summer sky. He reached down and gently stroked her cheek.

“My dear girl, is it only the pain you remember? Only the grief and bitterness you keep alive in your mind? Why can’t you remember the affection your parents must have felt for you and your sister? There is no doubt in my mind that they loved you very much and that you will be loved again like that in the future.”

His words penetrated the icy barriers she had desperately erected around her vulnerable heart. She felt the terrible weight of her yearning for him, a burden she knew she would carry for the rest of her life.

“I don’t know,” she said softly. “Perhaps I don’t know how to do that. I have lost three parents. Losing two is tragic. Losing three is…simply absurd.”

Meredith lowered her eyes, noticing with surprise that she gripped her brush so tightly her nails dug into the palm of her hand. Taking a deep breath, she relaxed her fingers while struggling to keep from bursting into tears. She hated that he could make her feel so mawkish about her life.

Suddenly, she became immensely annoyed with herself and with him. Could anything be more ridiculous than whining self-indulgently about the past? It didn’t really matter what Silverton thought about her paintings anyway, or about anything else, for that matter.

Not really.

Meredith sat up straight on her stool. “This is what I feel,” she said defiantly, looking away from him and returning her gaze to her canvas. “This is what feels true and right to me. It is how I choose to remember my life.”

Silverton didn’t answer, and the silence between them lengthened. Strangely, it did not feel uncomfortable to her. They did nothing for several minutes but listen to the occasional trill of a lark and the buzzing of the honeybees in the wildflowers of the meadow. Meredith felt the tension begin to drain slowly from her body.

She eventually worked up the courage to look at him. He stood quietly beside her, his manner subdued. She arched her eyebrows in inquiry, and his well-shaped mouth quirked into a devastating smile, igniting in her the slow burn of sensual longing that always remained so close to the surface.

“Meredith, has anyone ever told you what a terrifying creature you are? I feel the cold, dread fingers of a miserable fate creeping up my spine at this very moment.”

She reluctantly returned his smile, unable, as usual, to resist the pull of his warmth.

“Come,” he said. “It’s much too hot out here in the sun—you are turning quite pink. Finish your drink, and I will take you for an exceedingly dull and merely pleasant walk through the dovecote garden. Not very exciting, I know, but I feel sure the insipid nature of our stroll will vastly improve the tone of your mind.”

Meredith took another cautious sip from her glass, wrinkling her nose at the strange taste.

“As you wish, my lord, but I would prefer not to finish this. I vow, it is the oddest-tasting lemonade I have ever had. And it smells bitter, too. I wonder if some of the lemons were rotten.”

Silverton had just extended a hand to help her up, but he paused at her words and plucked the glass from her instead. He brought the glass to his nose and sniffed. A gasp escaped his lips.

His other hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. “How much of this did you drink?”

Meredith tried without success to tug her hand from an unbreakable grip. She suddenly felt oddly hot, and slightly sick to her stomach.

“Just a few sips. I told you, I didn’t like it.”

He dragged her to her feet. “Come,” he said urgently. “We must get back to the house immediately.”

“Why?” she protested, casting a glance at her wet canvas. “I don’t understand, my lord.”

His manner had changed so quickly that it began to alarm her. She had no choice but to follow him as he towed her across the meadow to the break in the trees.

Silverton glanced down at her face, his mouth set in a grim line. “How do you feel?”

He tried to hurry her along, but Meredith’s legs began to feel very heavy and strangely detached from the rest of her body. She stumbled against him.

Silverton stopped, his eyes skimming over her, his expression even darker than it had been a minute ago. A prickling wave of apprehension washed through her.

And her stomach was beginning to churn with a burning nausea.

“Now…now that you mention it,” she stammered, “I don’t feel very well.”

She grabbed his other arm and swayed against him. “I…I think I need to sit down.”

Silverton fought back the terrible fear rising in his throat. Meredith’s face had gone dead white, the pupils of her eyes so large that all he could see was blackness limned with a thin circle of gray. She sagged heavily against him.

“What’s happening?” she whispered.

Sweeping her into his arms, he stalked down the path as he held her tightly against his chest. He struggled to contain the volatile mix of rage and fear that threatened to overtake him; he must reassure her, not frighten her.

“The lemons must be rotten,” he said, his voice surprisingly steady. “You’re obviously feeling the effects of that, and you’ll have to rid yourself of the drink before you can feel better.”

Silverton couldn’t bear to say what he really thought. She had been poisoned. The bitter scent in her glass had told him all he needed to know: someone had dosed the lemonade with cyanide.

“I’m sorry, Meredith.” He cradled her gently as he hurried through the woods. “When we get back to the house you’ll have to take a purgative.”

She whimpered and turned her face into his waistcoat. “I’m going to be sick,” she gasped. “Put me down.”

He lowered her to the ground and quickly untied the ribbons of her bonnet, which he tossed aside into a pile of leaves. She tried to turn away, and he knew she was mortified at the thought of being sick in front of him.

“Don’t be embarrassed, sweetheart,” Silverton murmured. “You’re not the first person I’ve seen cast up his accounts.”

Meredith leaned forward and retched, her body twisting with the force of the spasm. Liquid spewed from her mouth onto the ground.

Relief surged through him when he saw a fair amount of liquid come up. She continued to retch and gag, bent over double, her hands digging into the dirt with the force of her body’s contractions. He held her gently, stroking her hair back from her face as he murmured soothing noises.

Watching her hunched over on the ground, gasping breathlessly, was the worst thing Silverton had ever seen and almost more than he could bear to witness. He wrapped his arm carefully around her chest to give her more support. Her heart pounded like a hammer against him. His own heart, in turn, felt squeezed in the grip of some awful, sympathetic agony, keeping measure with hers in a rhythm of fearful emotion.

She can’t die. He repeated it in his mind, over and over again. He simply wouldn’t allow it, he told himself as he gently rocked her in his arms.

Silverton knew in that instant that if anything happened to Meredith, his life would be finished. She had become essential to his existence—a meaningful existence, anyway. He would gladly give his life for hers, but for now all he could do was hold her and pray this crisis would pass. Black rage hovered at the edge of his consciousness, but he pushed it back, focusing all his energy on the shivering body clasped in his arms.

After a few minutes her shuddering seemed to ease, and her pulse gradually began to slow to a more normal rhythm. He eased her upright against his chest, letting her lean back against him. Her thick hair fell in a wild tangle around her shoulders. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and gently blotted her face and mouth.

“How do you feel now, my poor darling?”

Meredith took a tremulous breath and shifted in his arms. She had to swallow several times before she could answer.

“I would be very grateful if you would carry me back to the escarpment and throw me over the edge,” she whispered in a hoarse voice.

He smiled and felt the vise around his heart begin to loosen. If she was able to joke, she must be feeling better.

Silverton wrapped his arms more tightly about her and stood, pulling her with him to her feet. He slipped one arm beneath her legs and swung her up against his chest.

“Just a few more minutes, my love,” he murmured in her ear, “and you’ll be able to rest.”

She was silent, huddled against him as he strode quickly down a side path leading directly to the kitchen gardens, the fastest route back to the house.

As they emerged from the trees, he saw Cook and the head gardener conferring just outside the entrance to the pantry. Cook turned her head and gave a cry, clearly startled by the sight of the master carrying one of the guests. She and the gardener hurried toward them.

“Lord Silverton.” Meredith stirred against his shoulder. He bent his head to hear her more clearly.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“It wasn’t just the lemons that made me sick, was it?”

He hesitated, reluctant to cause her any more distress. But she was no fool, and he could not keep the truth from her and keep her safe.

“No, Meredith, I don’t think so.”

Her head drooped back down. She began to shiver as she absorbed the meaning of his reply. He glanced up. Cook and the gardener would be within hearing any second.

“Meredith,” he said in a low, urgent voice. “Don’t say anything about this to anyone but your sister. Say that you ate something that did not agree with you. I will deal with this situation, but you must be quiet, for now.”

She nodded her head, seeming to shrink into him as he clasped her more tightly against his body.

Silverton struggled to rein his anger onto a tight leash, not wanting to frighten her any more than he already had. But someone would pay dearly for this day’s work. Someone would die for almost killing the woman he loved.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“There is no trace of the footman.”

Silverton looked up from his letter as the Earl of Trask stalked across the library to the carved walnut trolley holding several decanters of spirits. Trask poured himself a generous glass of brandy and tossed back a healthy swallow, grimacing slightly as he did so.

The earl had yet to change from his riding clothes after returning from the search for Welland, the footman who had disappeared after Meredith’s poisoning. Trask looked exhausted after two long days searching the surrounding countryside. His dark eyes were ringed with circles, and harsh lines bracketed his hard mouth.

Silverton pushed back from his desk and walked over to join his friend by the trolley. After pouring a brandy for himself, he waved Trask into one of the comfortable wing chairs placed by the marble fireplace.

“Sit down, Simon. You look as if you’ve been in the saddle for a week.”

Trask threw him a sardonic look. “Well, some of us had to do the dirty work, while others chose to stay home with the ladies.”

Silverton smiled briefly, knowing his expression was devoid of amusement.

“I could not leave Meredith or Annabel unprotected,” he answered quietly.

Trask gave a tired grunt by way of reply.

“Besides,” continued Silverton as he settled into the matching wing chair on the other side of the mantel, “you wouldn’t think that if you’d been forced to spend the last few days listening to my mother’s litany of complaints. You’ve no idea how gruesome it’s been around here since the whole thing happened. She’s reduced half the maids to tears, and Cook even threatened to quit and join her brother at his coaching inn in London. I had the devil of a time persuading her not to do so.”

Trask laughed, his countenance lightening for the first time since he entered the room. “I can only imagine the techniques Lady Silverton employed to make her feelings known,” he replied, stretching his booted legs out as he massaged the muscles of his thighs. “But interrogating every innkeeper and barmaid within a twenty-mile radius is not an experience I’ll remember with any fondness. Chawbacons—the whole lot of them.”

“Even the barmaids?” Silverton innocently inquired.

Trask snorted and slumped into his chair. “Especially the barmaids. I heard so many Banbury tales I thought my brain would explode. I hope Peterson had better luck than I did.”

Silverton shrugged. “Not by much. He did get a sighting in Aylesford. The keeper of the Hare and Crown said he was almost certain Welland came into the pub a few times, although he wouldn’t swear it to a jury. According to him, Welland met two men one afternoon about a week ago. They spent an hour huddled in a corner with their heads together. He remembers because one of the strangers bristled up at his wife when she asked if they wanted any food. Told her to mind her own damned business. The innkeeper said he threatened to toss them out if they didn’t keep a civil tongue in their heads.”

Trask sat up, looking interested now. “Any descriptions?”

Silverton shook his head. “Not much to go on. One older, one younger. Big men, well dressed. The innkeeper did find it odd that Welland would be drinking with two swells, as he called them.”

“Do you think it was Jacob and Isaac Burnley?”

Silverton expelled a frustrated breath. “Yes, although I don’t see what good it will do us, at least not yet.”

“Do you know why Isaac Burnley would try to poison Meredith?”

Silverton shook his head. “Meredith has not yet left her room, and Annabel has spent most of that time with her. I’ve been reluctant to question them until Meredith recovers. My first concern has been to keep them safe.”

He stared into the small fire that had been lit against the mild chill of the early summer evening. “My guess, though, is that the poison was not meant for Meredith, but for Annabel. I suspect that Welland bungled his assignment, and he knew it.”

Silverton thought back to the footman’s panicked behavior. The man had likely been shocked on arriving at the meadow to discover that Annabel had already returned to the house.

“As soon as she is able, I will ask Meredith to explain the exact disposition of Annabel’s finances,” he continued. “In the meantime, I’m writing to General Stanton and asking him to make some inquiries with Annabel’s bankers. Since he is her grandfather, he might be able to persuade them to illuminate the situation.”

“I have no doubt he will succeed in doing just that,” Trask replied dryly.

The two men subsided into a companionable silence, listening to the gentle creaks and moans of the old house as it settled in for the night.

“So, what else has been happening back here?” Trask eventually asked, idly swirling the brandy in his crystal tumbler.

“Chaos,” replied Silverton.

“Do tell.” His friend grinned back at him.

Silverton rose from his chair and began to slowly circle the library. A gnawing restlessness made it impossible for him to sit for any length of time. Even though Meredith was safe, at least for now, he knew anxiety would continue to eat at him until he eliminated the threat against her.

“I had the kitchen torn apart. It was necessary to tell Cook, the housekeeper, and my butler what really happened—Cook was outraged at the very notion that her food made Meredith ill. And it would be difficult to explain why no one else got sick.”

Silverton shook his head, recalling the looks of horror on the faces of his senior staff when he revealed that Meredith had been poisoned. “We inspected and disposed of any food or drink not in sealed containers, or under lock and key. All the dishes were scrubbed, all the open liquor discarded. Although there seemed to be no trace of poison anywhere but in the original pitcher of lemonade, it seemed a wise precaution.”

He continued his restless circle of the room, forcing Trask to swivel in his seat to follow him.

“What did you tell the others?”

“That something had gone off, but that Cook was unsure of what it was. My mother, of course, greatly objected to the upset and inconvenience to her daily routine, although one wonders how she was actually affected. She let me know in very clear terms that she held Meredith to blame for all the fuss and bother, as she called it.”

“Imagine my surprise,” Trask replied, his upper lip curling in contempt.

Silverton didn’t answer. His mother’s atrocious behavior had shocked him, even though he had thought, after all these years, he had grown impervious to her selfishness.

“Really, Stephen,” Lady Silverton had complained that first day when dinner had been delayed, “that young woman creates a great deal of turmoil. How dare she put everyone to such trouble? I don’t know when we are going to eat tonight, and the servants are in such an uproar I swear it will be a miracle if I don’t get the headache.”

Silverton had barely managed to contain his temper, already stretched to its limits by the worst day of his life. His anger must have been clearly written on his face, because his mother had taken a hasty step away from him before he even opened his mouth.

“She almost died, ma’am,” he had said in a tightly controlled voice. “Would that have pleased you?”

Her eyes had widened in horror, and she had babbled her apologies, assuring her son that no inconvenience was too great for the comfort of their guests. Silverton had broken in with a curt thanks and left her bedroom as quickly as he could. His mother had subsequently done her best to placate him, although her improved behavior had not extended to the servants.

After enduring two days of his mother’s domestic mayhem, Silverton had finally escaped by shutting himself up in his library to attend to his correspondence. Only the earl had dared to interrupt his solitude.

“Well,” Trask yawned as he stretched his arms over his head, “you have my heartfelt sympathies. I’d love to stay and chat about your mother, but I’ve had enough for one day. In any event, it seems likely that Welland is at least a hundred miles from here by now. I suggest you contact Bow Street. They may have better luck tracking him down.”

“I have already done so.”

“Good.” Trask yawned again and stood. “Besides, you’re like watching a top spin around the room. In my condition, I’m liable to become dizzy.”

“Simon.”

The earl paused on his way to the door, looking back at Silverton with raised eyebrows.

“Thank you.”

Trask nodded brusquely and left the room.

Silverton returned to his desk and attempted to focus on his letter to General Stanton. After a few minutes’ struggle, he threw down his pen and sighed. He found it impossible to concentrate. If he didn’t see Meredith soon, he would go mad with frustration.

She had not left her room since he had carried her there two days ago. The local physician, Dr. Thatcher, who had served the estate for years, had given her a tincture and ordered her to rest. According to Annabel, Meredith had fallen asleep almost immediately, sleeping through the night and much of the next day. Dr. Thatcher had come again this afternoon, informing his patient that she was recovering nicely and could leave her bed tomorrow.

On hearing the news, Silverton had been overwhelmed with relief, and seized with a growing impatience to be with Meredith again. That feeling had only grown more acute as the day wore on. As he listened now to the chimes of the mantel clock sound the midnight hour, he decided he’d waited long enough.

He pushed back his chair and stood. Striding across the room and out into the great hall, he swiftly climbed the massive oak staircase and turned into the east corridor. Meredith’s bedroom was at the very end of the hallway, facing south over the gently rolling slope of the deer park. Silverton told himself he would simply make sure that she was recovering and then leave her alone until morning.

But as he stood outside her door, his hand poised to knock, he knew he lied. He needed to feel her in his arms, to know that she was really safe and that she belonged to him.

Silverton leaned his head briefly against the heavy door, trying to quiet the pounding of his heart. She held such power over him, making him feel like nothing more than a callow youth. And yet the need to claim her in the most elemental and primitive way crashed through his veins, arousing his body in an instant.

Inhaling deeply, he knocked softly on the door, praying that she was still awake. And alone.

After a short pause, he heard her gentle reply.

“Enter.”

He opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit room. His eyes flew to the large canopied bed, but it was empty. Closing the door gently behind him, he looked around to find her seated in a comfortable bergère armchair pulled up beside an open window.

For a moment she looked startled, but then her face lit up with a radiant smile. She rose gracefully from her chair as he walked across the room to stand before her.

God, she’s so beautiful, he thought.

Meredith wore a delicate lawn nightrail, her generous curves softly outlined by the fine weave of fabric skimming her body. She clutched a wine-colored silk shawl around her shoulders, but it did nothing to disguise the fact that she was naked underneath the gown. Her lustrous hair tumbled down her back, blue-black highlights gleaming in the light cast by a branch of candles on a nearby table.

She looked like a goddess, and not one of the virginal ones, either. Silverton couldn’t imagine how he could keep his hands from her lush body. He felt quite certain that he wouldn’t even try.

“I am very happy to see you, my lord.” Meredith extended a slender hand in greeting. “I have wanted to thank you so much for taking care of me. Indeed, these past few days I have thought of little else.”

Even in the flickering light he could see that she blushed, but the look she gave him was open and warm. When he took her hand and raised it to his lips, her blush deepened to a rosy pink.

“I, too, have thought of little else but you, Meredith, these last two days.”

With a soft touch, he urged her to sit back down. Glancing around, he grabbed a lap rug that had been folded across an ottoman and draped it around her legs. He pulled the ottoman over to sit in front of her.

Taking her hands in his, Silverton carefully inspected her face. Her eyes were clear, her complexion its usual combination of porcelain and roses.

“How are you feeling?”

“I am well, my lord.” She smiled sweetly at him. “The doctor says I can leave my room tomorrow.”

“Only if you feel well enough to do so,” he gently admonished as he played with her fingers.

She scrunched up her nose. “I think I have slept enough to last me a month. Besides, I am sure the housekeeper and the maids are quite tired of waiting on me.”

“They are all happy to do so.”

She sat quietly and watched him stroke her fingers. Her smile faltered, and she seemed to hesitate, as if afraid to voice her thoughts.

“What is it, my sweet?” He squeezed her hands gently to encourage her.

Her eyes rose to his, and he was distressed to see a flash of anguish in the silver depths.

“Can you tell me now what happened to me?” she asked.

He sighed and gripped her hands more firmly. “Annabel didn’t tell you?”

She shook her head. “She didn’t want to worry me. In truth, I think she was too upset to talk about it, so I didn’t press her.”

He nodded and raised her hands to his mouth, pressing a tender kiss on them before returning them to her lap. “The lemonade was poisoned with cyanide. Dosed, we feel sure, by the footman who brought the drink out to the meadow.”

The blood drained from her face. “Why didn’t it kill me?”

Silverton had to close his eyes against the rage that threatened to seize him whenever he thought of how close she had come to death. He took a moment to bring his emotions under control. “Fortunately, the man proved to be inept. He put too much in the pitcher, making it so bitter that you were able to taste it. Thank God you drank as little as you did.”

She shook her head impatiently. “I don’t understand. Why would anyone want to poison me?”

“Not you, my love,” he said quietly, trying to soften the blow. “Annabel.”

Meredith’s eyes grew wide for a moment, before narrowing into angry slits. “Uncle Isaac!” She practically spat his name.

“I’m afraid so, although we don’t, as yet, have any evidence to prove it.”

“Tell me what you’ve done.”

In spite of himself, Silverton had to repress a smile. Meredith sounded so imperious that she really did remind him of Aunt Georgina. He had half expected her to fall apart when he told her the truth; of course, he should have known better.

He related the events that had occurred over the last few days, including the likelihood that Welland had met her uncle and cousin in Aylesford. She listened intently, interrupting once or twice to clarify a point. When he told her the trail had gone cold, a fierce scowl wrinkled her brow.

“This is simply intolerable,” she exclaimed, wrapping her shawl tightly around her body. She was angry, but he could see her begin to shiver. Despite her brave demeanor, she was obviously frightened.

“Surely there must be something we can do. Can you not go to the magistrate and swear out a warrant on my uncle?”

“We need some hard proof, my love, before we can do that. All we have right now is a vague description from an innkeeper, and a missing footman.”

“What about his threat to incarcerate Annabel in an asylum?”

He shook his head. “Your uncle would simply say he was acting on the advice of her doctor. He is, after all, her legal guardian.”

Meredith fumed silently, an angry flush staining her cheeks. “But you are the Marquess of Silverton!” she finally blurted out. “Surely the magistrate will listen to you.”

“On an attempted murder charge, even a marquess needs evidence that will stand up in a court of law.” He smiled ruefully at her. “I’m sorry, Meredith. You mustn’t think I’m doing nothing about it, but for the moment I must wait for some answers from London. I know it’s very difficult, but try to be patient.”

She subsided into her chair with a grumble. “It’s very hard to be patient when one has been poisoned.”

He instantly felt a stab of guilt. “I know, my sweet, and I am a brute to lecture you so. Surely you know I will do everything in my power to protect you and Annabel.” He stroked her cheek, and the rebellious look on her face vanished. Her eyes turned soft and smoky.

“I know,” she whispered.

He leaned forward on the ottoman, brushing back the glossy hair that tumbled around her shoulders. “You must forgive me for not taking better care of you,” he murmured. “If anything had happened to you…”

She placed her fingers on his lips. “But you were there. You did take care of me, and I am fine.”

At the touch of her warm hand on his mouth, all his senses flared to life. “Meredith,” he said hoarsely, “you must believe me…”

“Hush,” she murmured. She placed her smooth, fine-boned hands on his face and pulled him down so that their mouths almost touched.

“No more talking,” she said. Her lips parted, meeting his in the sweet, hot kiss he had been dreaming about for the last two days.

Chapter Twenty-Five

As Silverton’s hands closed around her shoulders, Meredith pressed herself against him, desperate to assuage the powerful yearning that possessed her, body and soul.

When she had been so ill in the woods, overwhelmed with nausea and fear, only the feel of his strong arms about her had made it bearable. His strength had sliced through her terror, and on a level deeper than thought, she had known he would keep her safe.

Her memories after their return to the house were disjointed—cries of alarm, servants rushing past them as Silverton carried her up the stairs, Annabel holding a cool cloth to her burning forehead. But what she remembered most was the emptiness inside after Silverton gently placed her on the bed and stepped away, allowing his housekeeper to tend her. She would never forget the tortured look on his face when the older woman shooed him from the room. If Meredith had been able to speak, she would have begged him not to leave her.

But now he was here, and she wouldn’t let him leave again until she showed him how much she loved him.

She hesitantly touched her lips to the edge of his mouth. He instantly took control of the tentative kiss, sliding his tongue across her lips and into her mouth. The taste of him made her head spin. She remembered the flavor of brandy and smoke, and a heat she had secretly craved since the first time he had kissed her.

Silverton broke the kiss, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to her feet. The movement brought her into sharp contact with his erection; she gasped at the thick, hard feel of it against her stomach. Her breasts slid across the brocade of his waistcoat, and she reveled in the slippery, satin feel of it. Meredith couldn’t help squirming in his arms as she tried to ease the ache of her puckered nipples against his hard body.

Silverton growled low in his throat. He unexpectedly broke from her, lifting his head to stare into her face. His skin—already tan—flushed a deeper bronze, and his eyes glittered with a fire that made her knees tremble and weaken. She would have slithered to the floor if he had not been holding her so securely.

He took a deep breath and put her slightly away from him. “Meredith,” he murmured in a husky voice, “are you sure this is what you want?”

His cobalt eyes raked her body with a dark intensity. He stroked her hips through the thin fabric of her nightrail, his long fingers sending waves of heat coursing between her legs.

“Once we start this, there is no going back, for either of us.” His voice held a dark note of warning, bringing her eyes up to meet his.

There was no trace of a smile on his face. In fact, he looked almost savage, and she sensed that he struggled to keep his emotions tightly leashed. She experienced a flash of trepidation at the thought of what would happen to her once she surrendered to his arousal.

But as Silverton’s blazing eyes searched her face, Meredith suddenly found herself swept away by an unfamiliar sense of joy. Since the day she had met him, Silverton had only ever protected and cared for her. Even now, after everything that had led them to this moment, he still offered her the opportunity to step back.

Meredith leaned into him, acutely aware of the coiled tension in his muscles, the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Her desire to say yes—to give in to all that masculine energy—was so powerful she could hardly breathe.

Unable to speak past the tightness in her throat, she raised her head and nodded, hoping the look on her face conveyed the depth of her own desires. It must have done so, because a smile lifted the corners of his mouth, and the hard look around his eyes began to ease.

“Come with me, darling.” He took her hand and led her to the ornate, satin-draped canopy bed.

Her legs felt boneless, but she managed to follow him without stumbling over her own feet. Silverton turned her to face him, plucking the silk shawl from her suddenly nerveless hands. He grasped the hem of her nightrail and slowly pulled it up to her waist. She closed her eyes, not yet brave enough to meet his gaze. As the material rustled over her head she heard him expel his breath in a slow hiss.

“God, Meredith,” he said hoarsely, “I really don’t know how I managed to keep my hands from you all this time. You are perfect.”

The tone of his voice as much as his words encouraged her to peek up at him. His eyes were glittering with the same intensity as before, but his smile now held a warmth that eased her trepidation.

She met his gaze with a smile of her own, knowing that she would trust him with every last secret of her soul. “What do you want me to do?” she asked, desiring at this moment only to please him. To her surprise, he shook his head and laughed softly.

“My darling girl,” he said, his face lighting up with amusement, “for once you are to do nothing but lie back and enjoy yourself. Do you think you’ll be able to do that?”

Meredith wrinkled her brow. “Well, I’ll try, but I don’t really know what is expected of me.” She smiled apologetically at him.

“Don’t worry,” he reassured her as he helped her climb onto the high mattress. “I know exactly what to do.”

Meredith settled against the pillows as Silverton quickly divested himself of his coat and cravat. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she couldn’t help but feel a small twinge of fear for what would come next. She took a deep breath, trying to relax, trusting that he would do all he could to ensure her comfort.

It took him just a few moments to shed the rest of his clothing. He was half turned away from her as he stripped out of his breeches. The uneven light thrown by the fire rippled across the muscled contours of his athletic body, polishing his skin to the color of burnished gold. His broad shoulders flexed when he tossed his clothes on a nearby chair.

Meredith’s heart melted at the sight of him. In her imagination he was like a large, sleek cat, sheathing his claws only for her. To the world, he was a wealthy and sophisticated aristocrat. But Meredith saw beneath the smooth surface to the elemental man. To her, Silverton radiated intense power and a primitive sense of possessiveness toward everything that belonged to him.

Now she knew that possessiveness included her.

He turned back to the bed, and her mouth suddenly went dry. Meredith had a general idea what to expect, but she experienced a small and very real jolt of alarm at the size of him. She glanced anxiously at his face, wondering if she should say something, although she couldn’t imagine what.

Fortunately, her common sense quickly began to reassert itself. Meredith reminded herself that men and women had been engaging in relations since the time of Adam and Eve. Most certainly nature had designed her to accommodate him, even though he did seem very large.

She welcomed him into bed with a hesitant smile, pushing back the gold satin coverlet and fine linen sheets as he climbed in beside her. Silverton murmured his satisfaction as he pulled her into his arms, gently pinning her lower body to the mattress with his legs.

“My sweet, you can’t imagine how long I have been wanting to do this.”

“Actually,” she confessed, “I think I can.”

He laughed softly and then brought his mouth down onto hers. She sank into the pillows, shuddering with pleasure as he skimmed a hand over her breasts and down to her waist. He slipped his other arm under her back, holding her still as he nuzzled her cheek, beneath an ear, and down to her neck.

The restless sensation she had experienced once before grew within her as he kissed his way to the base of her throat and across the top of her breasts. When his tongue dragged slowly over her nipple, she whimpered with pleasure. The slow ache in the hidden place between her thighs began to intensify, the feel of it building in a moist, hot surge.

Meredith’s hands, quite of their own volition, began to roam over his body, stroking up his back and neck to delve into his thick hair. Silverton muttered something against her breast before sucking her pebbled nipple into the wet heat of his mouth.

She stifled a small shriek, jerking her body up off the bed to follow his mouth. He suckled her relentlessly, the rasp of his tongue against her nipple so acutely pleasurable that she could hardly stand it. When he bit down, gently tugging on her swollen flesh, a cry broke from her lips.

He raised his head, eyes blazing down at her. “I can’t wait much longer, Meredith.” His voice was a deep, feral growl. “You test my patience beyond all endurance.”

She groggily lifted her eyes, so dazed by the sensation of his mouth and tongue on her naked body that she barely comprehended what he said. She only knew she would die if he didn’t continue.

“Don’t stop,” she panted, trying to pull him back down. “Please don’t stop.”

His eyes turned black, and he reached down to push her legs apart. Long fingers trailed over the soft skin of her inner thighs, sending shivers deep inside her. Meredith made no attempt to resist, pulling her knees up to open herself more fully to his touch. He stroked into the damp curls between her legs. She couldn’t help squirming against his hand.

“My God, Meredith.” He briefly rested his forehead on hers. “You are so hot…so wet. You drench my hand with your dew.”

She retreated against the pillows, embarrassed by his comment and her body’s uncontrolled response to him. But her mortification fled instantly when his hand delved farther between her thighs. He found the small bud hidden there and gently circled it. She wriggled against his hand, moaning as she sought relief from the almost unbearable feeling of tension deep in her womb. Meredith opened her legs even wider, inviting him to do more—to do what he must to bring her relief.

“Yes,” he purred against her ear. “You’re ready for me, my love.”

He shifted over until he lay cradled between her legs, his erection probing the entrance to her body. He gently undulated his hips, sliding his hard length across her little wet bud. Meredith wanted to weep, consumed with an urgent need to be possessed by him, to be his in every way possible. She heard herself plead with him, the words incoherent as she slid her arms around his neck.

“Open your eyes, Meredith,” Silverton ordered in a husky voice. “Look at me when I come into you.”

She hadn’t even realized her eyes were closed, so lost was she in the sensations coursing through her body. He caught her head between his hands and tenderly forced her to look at him. Meredith smiled tremulously into his handsome face, now hard with desire for her, his jaw set like granite. She knew all the love in her heart was reflected back in the brilliance of his gaze.

“I’m ready,” she whispered.

He clenched his teeth and slowly penetrated her, pushing relentlessly and deeply into her damp flesh. Meredith gasped in shock at the brutally sharp pain lancing through her sheath as he claimed her.

“Lord Silverton!” Her voice was high and sharp with protest.

He winced, resting on his elbows as he held himself motionless within her. The expression on his face was both regretful and, it irked her to notice, slightly amused.

“I’m sorry, my love,” he soothed, but his voice contained a hint of laughter. “I know it hurts.”

“A great deal more than I expected,” she grumbled, irritated he had neglected to tell her about this part.

“The pain will ease momentarily, Meredith, I assure you.” He reached down and grasped her knee, nudging it up to his hips. “Wrap your legs around me, sweetheart.”

His voice was thick and dark, and in spite of her discomfort it sent a pulse of heat snaking through her belly. She hesitated for a moment and then complied with his gentle command, wrapping her legs over his muscular buttocks.

The pain between her thighs eased dramatically. Silverton remained propped on his elbows, stroking her tangled hair as he gazed down at her.

“Now stop holding your breath.”

Meredith let go the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and loosened her convulsive grip on his shoulders.

“Is that better?” he asked as he smiled at her.

She looked at his face and then let her eyes drift across the hard, perfect body looming over her. Meredith suspected that if she were a weaker woman, she would have swooned from the overwhelming nature of their physical intimacy. Trapped beneath him as she was, she had never felt so vulnerable in her life. But she knew with an unshakeable conviction he would never willingly hurt her again, especially now he had claimed her for his own.

Meredith felt joy pulse through her again as she realized that, for the first time in her life, she truly belonged to someone and he belonged to her. She relaxed and allowed herself to sink into the soft mattress, luxuriating in the feel of his body covering hers. She smiled up at him.

“Oh, yes, my lord.” The husky purr didn’t even sound like her. “That is a great deal more comfortable.”

He bent his head to nibble her mouth before feathering light kisses across her cheeks. “I’m so glad,” he whispered in her ear. He slowly began to move his hips against her.

Her residual pain faded away as the sensual stroke of his arousal ignited the heat between her legs. She pushed up against him, loving the feel of her erect nipples brushing through the coarse hair on his chest.

“Meredith!” he groaned, dipping his head briefly to suck the beaded nub into his mouth. She tilted her pelvis against him, instinctively trying to relieve the growing ache between her thighs.

He withdrew almost fully from her body, and then pushed heavily back into her—the stroke harder now—but with the same slow rhythm that twisted her insides into a tight heat. She fell back onto the pillows, forcing her drooping eyelids open to look at him. Silverton gazed back with an expression that was both fierce and heartbreakingly tender. She reveled in the sense that he so thoroughly dominated her, quivering at the sight of his body moving over her, the feel of his thick hardness sliding inside her.

An unfamiliar weakness began to invade her limbs, captivating her with a delicious sense of enervation as her hips rose to meet his languid strokes. Meredith had imagined their first joining as breathless and wrenching. Instead, she felt herself melting beneath him in a luxurious swirl of acute sensation.

She slowly arched into him, dizzy with the joy of it, the feel of his utterly masculine body pressing her woman’s softness into the cool linen sheets. Enveloping her so completely she thought she might actually swoon from the sheer physical pleasure of the act.

Silverton bent to capture her lips as he began to thrust more quickly and powerfully into her body. She cried out softly in surprise as the tip of his erection nudged her womb.

“God, Meredith,” he moaned into her mouth, “I want to devour you.”

The tight heat coiled unbearably within her, and she heard herself pleading once more for release. He reached a hand down, found the little bud nesting in her drenched curls, and gently rubbed it. Her climax suddenly burned through her. The sweet fire poured through her trembling limbs as he continued to drive into her.

She could feel the soft flesh of her sheath contract around him, as if to draw him more deeply into her. He cried out her name as he thrust—hard—one last time. He buried his face in her neck, wrapping his arms tightly around her shoulders as he ground his hips in a shuddering release.

For several seconds, the only sound in the room was the gasping of their mingled breaths.

Then Meredith curled tightly around him and surprised herself by bursting into tears. She could hardly believe it, but her heart had finally torn free of the terrible loneliness that had plagued her for as long as she could remember. She was no longer alone.

Her emotional outburst had startled him. Silverton had barely caught his breath when Meredith had buried her face in his chest and started to weep. Given her passionate response to him only moments ago, he felt relatively certain his lovemaking was not the cause of her distress. But when he had gently prompted her to tell him why she cried, she had simply huddled close and sobbed even harder.

He had petted and soothed her, of course, murmuring soft love words as he rocked her in his arms. She managed to hiccup out a few broken sentences, claiming only that she was exhausted by the events of the last few days. And although he suspected there was more to it than that, he decided to leave any questions for a later, less emotional time.

Instead, he had stopped her tears by rolling her onto her back and making love to her once more. She had caught fire with a sweet ardor that drove him wild. Silverton knew he could never get enough of her.

The intensity of their lovemaking had not surprised him. He had always known Meredith held great passion within her. Indeed, nature would not have made her so lush if it had not intended her to respond sexually to the right man.

And Silverton knew beyond all doubt he was that man.

As far as he was concerned, it was only a short matter of time before she became his wife. No other man would ever enjoy the pleasure of her intimate companionship, the sweet generosity of her sensuality, or the riches of the body that currently rested under his hand.

Meredith had surrendered heart and soul to him, and he would never let her go. She had truly astonished him by holding nothing back, boldly initiating their lovemaking and sweeping aside his worries that he might hurt her. More than that, when finally sheathed inside her, he had experienced a sense of rightness and belonging he had never felt before.

Silverton knew full well the value of such a gift, and no one would prevent him from claiming it. As soon as he secured her promise to marry him, he would leave for London and obtain a special license.

Of course, he had another equally compelling reason to return to London. Silverton had written to his private secretary, instructing him to contact Bow Street and begin an investigation into the attempt on Meredith’s life. He felt a driving urgency to run Isaac and Jacob Burnley to ground. As long as Meredith and Annabel remained unmarried, Silverton could not completely protect them. Fortunately, Robert and Annabel’s betrothal announcement had already been sent to the papers, and soon they would all be returning to Stanton House to prepare for the nuptials.

As to what should happen to Isaac and Jacob Burnley when he did finally run them to ground, all Silverton knew for sure was that the sisters shouldn’t be subjected to the scandal of a public trial. Whatever he decided to do, however, he needed real evidence in hand to prove a murder plot against Annabel. Trask had written his business contacts in Bristol, hoping to scare up information on the Burnley family’s finances, and Silverton intended to speak to Annabel’s bankers in London himself. He sincerely hoped those sources could shed some light on the convoluted, dangerous situation, and soon.

The thought of bankers and money reminded him of the question he had intended to ask Meredith a few hours ago. He glanced down at the profusion of shiny black curls tumbled across his chest and gently nudged the warm softness that lay cuddled in his arms.

“Meredith, are you awake?”

“Hmmm…,” she murmured, sounding very content and very sleepy. He smiled, well satisfied with the state he had reduced her to.

“If something were to happen to Annabel, who would inherit her fortune?”

She stirred against him. “I would,” she yawned.

He lapsed into silence. After a few moments, he felt her body begin to stiffen as she slowly came fully awake. There was a long pause, and then she exclaimed, “Oh…Jacob!”

“Yes,” he replied. “Jacob indeed.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Silverton’s boots rang out on the yellow ironstone floor as he crossed the Abbey’s entrance hall and strode down the wide gallery leading to the morning room. Contentment flowed through his veins, and he felt happier than he could ever remember.

Meredith loved him. Whatever problems stood in the way of their marriage, he knew he could resolve them. The only thing that nagged at him was her refusal last night to discuss a wedding date. Her qualms obviously stemmed from her fears about his family’s reaction to their impending betrothal, but, with the exception of his mother, Silverton confidently believed those closest to him would wholeheartedly approve of his bride.

He had left Meredith’s bed at dawn, reluctantly pulling himself from her arms in spite of her sleepy protests. It had killed him to leave her. She looked so beautiful, her midnight hair tousled on the pillow, her body warm and flushed from a night of lovemaking. But the house would soon begin to stir, so he had simply brushed his lips across her kiss-swollen mouth and told her he would see her after breakfast.

Too restless to go back to bed, Silverton had dressed, met with his land agent, and visited the stables to check on a new foal. The ladies, as usual, had risen hours later and had just adjourned to the morning room after a leisurely breakfast.

As he walked down the tapestry-hung gallery, he smiled to himself, wondering what Meredith’s reaction to him would be this morning. She was dignity personified, and last night he had coaxed her into some very undignified positions. For a virgin, she had taken to the act of lovemaking like a bird to flight.

He forced himself to banish the image of her naked body from his brain, having no desire to face a roomful of people with an idiot’s grin on his face.

The door to the morning room stood open, the quiet chatter of feminine voices drifting into the corridor. He paused on the threshold of the cheerful, sun-lit parlor, searching the room for Meredith.

She sat on a low divan, clad in a simple, cream-colored muslin dress that emphasized her lush beauty more than the most elegant evening gown ever could. Glossy tendrils of hair tumbled from a knot on top of her head, caressing the soft skin of her neck and shoulders. Her lips were deep cherry and slightly swollen, stained crimson not by cosmetics but by his devouring kisses. Just looking at her mouth made him want to drag her back up to her room, yank her clothes off, and start all over again.

Silverton took a deep breath, clamping down on the surge of lust that threatened to expose him to the scrutiny of his family and friends. He schooled his face appropriately and walked into the room to greet the other members of the party.

Lady Silverton reclined in an overstuffed armchair opposite Meredith, her embroidery thrown to the side as she languidly fanned herself with an exquisite and, he knew, very expensive fan of ivory and lace. Annabel and Robert were seated in front of the pianoforte at the opposite end of the morning room, totally engrossed in each other as usual. And Trask sat on a padded bench in one of the window alcoves, impatiently tapping a riding crop against his boots as he scowled at the room in general.

Silverton crossed to his mother, took her hand, and carried it to his lips. “Good morning, Mother. I hope you slept well last night?”

“As well as anyone can in this heat.” She sighed as she reached up to pat his cheek. “How did you sleep? Did the heat bother you?”

“I also found it hot, but it didn’t seem to trouble me,” he said, letting a hint of laughter creep into his voice.

Meredith’s head jerked up, her cheeks blushing to a rosy hue. He bowed to her and to Sophia, who also sat on the divan, encompassing them both with his smile.

“Good morning, ladies. How are you today?”

Meredith glanced shyly up at him, her eyes shining with an ardent glow. That innocent but sensual look made him want to puff out his chest and roar.

“I am well, sir. Thank you,” she replied, her calm voice at odds with the flustered-but-happy expression on her face.

“Blast!” muttered Sophia, ignoring him as she struggled with her embroidery.

Silverton grinned. Like his mother, Sophia hated needlework. But unlike his mother, who preferred to gossip or simply lie about, Sophia would rather be in motion, riding about the countryside in her little phaeton, checking on the tenants or discussing improvements to the parish with the vicar’s wife.

“Sophia,” Lady Silverton admonished, frowning severely at her niece, “it is most unseemly to use such unladylike language.”

Trask glanced over from the window and snorted, the noise suggesting that Sophia’s unladylike behavior was her natural state of existence. The girl’s eyes slid over to the earl, narrowing thoughtfully for a moment before she looked back down at her work.

“Yes, Aunt Alexandra,” Sophia replied meekly.

Silverton returned his attention to Meredith, whose cheeks turned an even brighter pink under his steady gaze. She bent diligently over her needlework, but her hand trembled slightly as she pulled at a thread. It pleased him that she could not control herself in his presence, even though she obviously wanted to.

As much as he wanted to stand about all day and stare at her, Silverton had work to do. Tonight would come soon enough, and then he would have Meredith all to himself again, he vowed.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw his mother sit bolt upright in her chair, her startled gaze fixing intently on Meredith. Silverton fought the urge to grind his teeth, resigning himself to the inevitable. His mother clearly had the scent and, if left to her own devices, would cause him no end of trouble. He resolved to speak to her about Meredith after lunch.

As he walked from the room, he looked over his shoulder at the earl, who still lounged in the alcove. “Well, Trask, are you ready to go, or shall we just sit about with the ladies all day?”

“I’ve been ready for hours,” growled his friend, joining him by the door. “As well you know.”

Silverton smiled wryly before turning back to the room. “Mother, Simon and I are riding over to the north farm to inspect the new bridge. We’ll be back in time for luncheon.”

Sophia looked up eagerly from her stitching. “Silverton, while you are out that way, you might think to check on Jonas Cooper. He fell from a ladder and broke his leg. Dr. Burns says it will be several weeks before he walks again.”

She tapped her index finger to her cheek as if to remind herself of something. “Oh, and please ensure that the cattle hauling the stones for the bridge are adequately watered. I passed by the site yesterday, and I thought the poor things looked very hot and labored.”

Silverton laughed. Sophia had a marked inclination to treat him like a simpleton, a trait he found rather endearing. Before he could reply, however, Trask snapped at her in an irritated voice.

“Really, Sophia, I’m sure Silverton knows his own business. And may I point out, those concerns belong to the lady of the house, not you.”

Lady Silverton’s eyes widened in alarm, as if the earl expected her to jump up and immediately begin caring for all the sick and injured on the estate, including the overworked animals.

Sophia carefully folded her needlework before answering him. “My lord, I’m simply assisting my aunt in her very substantial duties here at Belfield Abbey. I don’t understand why you should object to that.”

“Because,” Trask retorted, “it’s not your place to do so. Why can’t you just concentrate on your embroidery and music like other proper young ladies?”

Instead of answering him, Sophia lifted her eyes to the ceiling and gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

“Sophia, did you just roll your eyes at me?” The earl looked outraged.

She blinked at him, the picture of wounded innocence. “Why, my lord, how could you imagine I would ever have the nerve to show you such disrespect?”

Lady Silverton clucked her tongue at her niece. Trask opened his mouth, looking as if he would argue with the girl, but then seemed to realize how ridiculous the situation had become. He glared at her instead as he walked to the door. Sophia returned his fiery look with a vague smile, although her cheeks turned very pink.

His interest piqued, Silverton looked from Sophia’s blushing countenance to Trask’s stony expression as his friend brushed past him and out the room. He followed him along the gallery. Trask seemed to be muttering something under his breath.

“Pardon me, Simon,” he asked politely. “What did you say?”

Trask threw him an impatient look as he slowed to walk beside him. “Nothing,” he replied abruptly.

Biting back a smile, Silverton paused and then commented innocently, “Lovely girl, Sophia, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Shut up, Silverton,” retorted his friend as he stomped through the entrance hall and out the front door.

Silverton grinned, more thankful than ever that he would soon be a married man.

Meredith’s pulse finally began to slow when Silverton and Lord Trask left the morning room. She had hardly dared lift her head for fear of exposing her feelings in front of his mother.

Silverton loved her! He had said so last night, and then proceeded to demonstrate it in more ways than she could ever have imagined. Their lovemaking had seared a brand on her heart, and Meredith knew without a doubt she belonged to him forever. She still feared the censure of his family and friends, of course, but she hoped his love would give her the courage to face their disapproval.

For today, though, she must act as if nothing had happened between them. She and Silverton still faced many challenges—Annabel’s safety, for one—and Meredith refused to even consider her own future until her sister’s happiness and security were assured. Silverton hadn’t liked it, but Annabel must come first.

Across from her, Lady Silverton sighed and finally stopped pretending to work on her embroidery. She fussed briefly with the material before stuffing it back into an elaborately woven workbasket.

“Well, my dears,” the older woman trilled, “I must write some letters to London before the morning grows any later. Meredith, I’d like to pick some roses in the garden to replace the blooms in the Great Hall. I find they fade so quickly in this heat.” The marchioness rose gracefully from her chair. “Would you be so kind as to join me to hold the basket while I clip?”

Meredith blinked, astonished by the request. Lady Silverton much preferred Annabel’s company to hers, but perhaps the marchioness was reluctant to disturb the young lovers. She swallowed a groan, struggling to conceal her dismay.

“Of course, your ladyship. Whenever you desire.”

“Shall we say in an hour, then? I will meet you out in the rose garden.” Lady Silverton graced Meredith with a charming smile before rustling from the room in a flutter of delicate silks.

Meredith repressed the impulse to grumble, and glanced at Sophia. The girl looked harassed, wrestling with her needle and repeatedly pushing her glasses up her nose.

“Can I assist you?” Meredith asked gently.

Sophia jumped slightly in her seat and then bent her head to apply herself diligently to her work.

“Oh, no, thank you, Miss Burnley. I’m fine.” She smiled apologetically.

Sophia’s cheeks were very flushed, and Meredith thought she spied the glimmer of a tear in the girl’s eye. They stitched in silence while Meredith pondered the little scene that had occurred between Sophia and the Earl of Trask.

“How long have you known Lord Trask?” she eventually asked, trying to sound as if she were just making casual conversation.

“Forever,” came the terse answer.

Meredith wrinkled her brow as she reflected on the girl’s behavior. She had often noticed that Sophia’s eyes were in the habit of following the earl whenever he was in her company.

“And you know him very well, I believe?” Meredith gently prodded.

Sophia glanced over at Robert, still at the pianoforte with Annabel, laughing with her as they stumbled through a new piece of music.

“They can’t hear us,” Meredith said dryly. “I doubt there is little we could do to distract them, in any event.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” grimaced Sophia, who gazed at her brother with an expression of affection mingled with sadness. It suddenly occurred to Meredith that she was not the only one who would soon lose the company of a beloved sibling. Sophia and Robert were very close, and no doubt the girl would feel keenly the change in circumstances after her brother married Annabel.

Meredith waited patiently for her to answer the query about Lord Trask. Finally, Sophia glanced up with a crooked smile.

“Perhaps I know him too well,” she said in a gruff tone. “You see, he has been almost part of my family since I was a child. When I was twelve years old he pulled me out of a lake after I tumbled from a boat. Ever since then he has treated me as a little sister.” The crooked smile faded away. “Unfortunately, he never even looks at me now except to reprimand me or bite my head off. It’s most annoying.”

She stared grimly at the fabric that had fallen unheeded into her lap. Meredith cast about in her mind for something to say that might console the girl. Before she could think of anything, Sophia shrugged her shoulders and smiled ruefully at Meredith.

“And why should he not treat me so?” she said with a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m sure he finds me a great nuisance, but tolerates me for Silverton’s sake. It’s only to be expected. After all, he has known me for so long.”

Sophia began to rummage busily around in her workbasket, clearly signaling her desire to end the conversation.

Meredith lapsed into silence and returned to her stitching, profoundly grateful that her own days as a spinster were finally coming to an end.

Meredith wandered aimlessly about the rose garden, down the gravel path to the pergola, and back round to the steps of the terrace. Every minute or so she glanced at the doors to the drawing room, waiting for Lady Silverton to appear.

The marchioness was already a half hour late. During that seemingly endless span of time, Meredith convinced herself that Lady Silverton had guessed that she and her son were all but betrothed. If that were the case, then the thought of facing her future mother-in-law alone made her blood run cold, in spite of the day’s heat.

Meredith took a shuddering breath and spun on her heel, pacing back to the steps of the terrace. As the minutes ticked by, she grew increasingly anxious. And, she had to admit, she was annoyed with Silverton for putting her in this horrible position in the first place. Why hadn’t he warned her that his mother knew about them?

The French doors to the drawing room swung open, and Lady Silverton floated across the terrace. Following closely behind was a nervous-looking young maid carrying a large straw basket.

“My dear Meredith,” purred the marchioness, “do forgive me for keeping you so long in the hot sun. Indeed, my dear, you should not be out here without a hat. You are already turning a most unbecoming shade of red.”

Lady Silverton inspected her with a critical eye before motioning imperiously to the maid. “Give the basket to Miss Burnley, and go up to her room and fetch her bonnet.”

“Oh, your ladyship, that won’t be necessary.” Meredith smiled and gently waved the maid away from her. “I’ll just run up and fetch it myself. It won’t take me but a moment.”

“My dear girl, don’t be so foolish,” Lady Silverton exclaimed, raising her eyebrows from under the brim of her huge gauze-trimmed hat. “That’s what servants are for.”

She dismissed the maid with a flick of her hand. The young girl scurried up the steps of the terrace and fled into the safety of the house.

Meredith groaned inwardly, acutely aware that she had once again displayed an inappropriate regard for a servant’s well-being. It was the kind of behavior Lady Silverton loathed. She sighed as she followed the marchioness into the garden, steeling herself for what she suspected would be a most unpleasant conversation.

But to her surprise, the older woman began to chat amicably about her acquaintances in the city. She clipped roses and dropped them in the basket Meredith held out for her, all the while relating several amusing incidents that had occurred at the end of the Season.

A few minutes later the maid dashed out of the house, clutching Meredith’s best summer bonnet tightly in her fist. Lady Silverton frowned, her eyes narrowing ominously, but she apparently decided not to lecture the girl for crushing the brim of the hat. Instead, she curtly dismissed her and led Meredith deeper into the garden, away from the terrace.

“Really, it is a great shame that careless girl ruined your hat. Most of these country servants are just too stupid to train properly.”

“Oh, my lady,” Meredith began, “I’m sure she—”

“My dear,” Lady Silverton ruthlessly interrupted her, “you mustn’t ever excuse the help, or allow them to repeat a mistake. If you do, they will be sure to take advantage of you.”

She bent gracefully and clipped another rose, tossing it into Meredith’s basket.

“You should realize, Meredith, you are at a disadvantage with the servants. I’m sure they know your background is only somewhat more elevated than theirs. Familiarity with them will only encourage disrespect toward you.”

Meredith felt a burning flush creep into her cheeks. Obviously Lady Silverton meant to insult her, but she had to admit she often did prefer the servants to a good number of people she had met in the ton.

The marchioness suddenly flipped up the gauze trim of her hat, pinning her with a ruthless gaze. Warning prickles flowed down Meredith’s spine.

“I only say these things to you, my dear, because you are in such need of guidance,” Lady Silverton intoned solemnly. “Since you are without a mother, I feel it only appropriate that I try to set you on a proper course of conduct.”

Meredith’s heart sank as she waited for the blow to fall. The marchioness studied her with a hooded expression and bent to clip another rose.

“I know you will wish me to speak frankly, Meredith. It has become clear to me that my son intends to make you an offer. While this situation is not what his family wished for him, he is a man full grown and will make his own decisions.”

Meredith adopted what she hoped was an impassive expression, even as she sensed the four horsemen of the apocalypse bearing down on the rose garden at Belfield Abbey.

“I suppose I should not be surprised,” sighed Lady Silverton. “My son finds you…intriguing. You are certainly not what he is used to. But even though I am his mother, I cannot be blind to certain faults in his character, and I would be remiss in my duties not to warn you of them. Silverton is easily bored. You must expect that his attentions to you will eventually begin to wander. His interest in any woman, you know, is never fixed for more than a few months at a time. Everyone is aware of that.”

Meredith acknowledged bleakly that Lady Silverton had an uncanny ability to find just the right spot to insert her blade. She wanted to deny what she heard, but a voice in her head whispered darkly that her ladyship was likely correct. Who was she to capture the love of a man like the Marquess of Silverton?

“You mustn’t worry too much about that, my dear,” Lady Silverton added, her eyes glittering like frost. “Silverton will always be the most punctilious of husbands. He is never vulgar, and he would never expose you to any kind of mortification. But you have lived such a sheltered life, and how could you know that men like my son have other needs—needs their wives are not able to fulfill.”

The marchioness gave a delicate shudder. “Nor should they. A lady should never have concourse with the baser appetites of men. And men should only indulge in those appetites with a different kind of woman.”

Meredith swallowed a gasp of dismay. What did it say about her—and what Silverton might think of her—that she had so thoroughly enjoyed their lovemaking last night? Was it even remotely possible what his mother said about him was true?

Lady Silverton turned and began to stroll back toward the house. Meredith stumbled after her, even though she wanted to drop the basket laden with roses and escape into the dense woods.

The older woman glanced at Meredith over her shoulder. “A good wife never questions her husband’s activities, of course,” she said, intent on her gruesome lecture. “As the Marchioness of Silverton, it is your duty to present him with an heir, run his household, and entertain his friends and relations in the ton. You must always maintain an air of decorum and gentility that keeps you above reproach, and above any hint of scandal.”

Lady Silverton stopped at the foot of the terrace, smiling graciously. “If you can do all that, Meredith, then I am convinced you will be an acceptable choice for my son.”

The marchioness reached over and stroked her wrist. Meredith felt as if an asp had just wound its way around her heart. Perspiration began to trickle down her back.

“I know it will be difficult at first, my dear.” Lady Silverton’s smile seemed etched in glass. “But I will be constantly at your side to assist you. It will be so lovely to have another woman in the house, especially on those nights when Silverton is busy with his friends, doing whatever it is that men do with their time.”

Meredith’s stomach began to churn, almost as if she had been poisoned again. In all the excitement of the last twenty-four hours, it had never occurred to her that she and Silverton would be living with his mother.

The marchioness withdrew her hand from her wrist and lifted the delicate skirts of her gown as she walked up the steps of the terrace.

“Don’t stay out in the sun too much longer, my dear. You are ruining your complexion.” Lady Silverton blew her a kiss and floated through the French doors, disappearing into the house.

Meredith gazed blankly out into the rose garden, all but unconscious of the heavily scented air and the sharp buzz of the honeybees as they zoomed from bush to bush. The minutes passed, but she seemed unable to force her limbs to move.

As she stood there, her heart turning to stone, she heard masculine voices coming from the direction of the stables. A moment later, Silverton and Lord Trask rounded a large yew hedge. They strode together up the gravel path that led through the rose garden and up to the terrace where she waited.

Silverton looked up at her and smiled, his gaze warm with affection and laughter. Meredith stared at him for a few seconds, then dropped the basket full of roses and fled into the house.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Meredith carefully folded her paisley shawl and placed it in the trunk at the foot of her bed. She and Annabel were leaving for London in the morning to meet with the dressmaker who would design her sister’s wedding clothes.

Meredith’s last evening at Belfield Abbey had been a nightmare as she tried to conceal the turmoil afflicting her spirit. She had managed to evade Silverton all day, although she knew she couldn’t avoid him much longer.

He was furious with her, of course. After fleeing from him in the garden, Meredith had stayed in Annabel’s room for the rest of the afternoon. Then she had slipped away right after dinner, before the men could join the ladies for tea in the drawing room.

Lady Silverton had smiled beatifically when Meredith had asked to be excused in order to finish her packing.

“Certainly, my love,” she had murmured, giving Meredith her hand. “I will see you later this week in London. You must come to tea as soon as I am back in town. We have so much to talk about, don’t we?”

Meredith shuddered just thinking about the malicious gleam in the marchioness’s eyes. She knew full well the other woman had manipulated her, but that provided little consolation against the brutal certainty that marriage to Silverton would be disastrous. As much as she longed to deny it, Meredith knew she would never be at home in the world of the ton.

She sat on the bed and stared listlessly at the small pile of gloves on top of the coverlet. One of the maids had packed most of the contents of her trunks, but Meredith had finally dismissed the young girl, unable to bear her nonstop prattle. Her chest tightened with pain whenever she thought of the heartbreaking conversation that lay ahead of her.

She glanced over at the ornately figured silver clock on the mantel. It was almost midnight. Silverton would no doubt come barging into her room at any minute. She supposed the sensible thing to do would be to lock her door and not talk to him until they had all returned to London. But Meredith had already decided she might as well cut her heart out now and get it over with.

As she expected, her door swung open a moment later without even the barest hint of a knock. Silverton closed it behind him, twisting the key in the lock before turning to face her.

Meredith swallowed in dismay at the hard, angry expression on his face. Two long strides brought him to the bed, and he observed her in stony silence as she slowly came to her feet. He had discarded his coat and waistcoat, his shirt already open at the throat and chest. She found the sight of all that bronzed skin covering broad muscles distinctly unnerving.

“Good evening, my lord. I’ve been expecting you.” Her voice was shockingly calm—a miracle, she thought, given how furious he looked.

“Yes, Meredith, I’m sure you have.” His eyes skated over her figure. If possible, his gaze grew even colder.

Although she wore a thin lawn nightrail, she had wrapped herself in a voluminous robe that effectively covered every inch of her body. She had also scraped her hair into a painfully tight braid that fell down her back. Meredith thought she only needed a fusty old mobcap and spectacles to transform her into the old maid she was destined to become.

“What in hell have you done to your hair?” Silverton demanded.

Meredith slid around him to the other side of the bed. She desperately needed to put some distance between them.

“Lord Silverton,” she began, determined to take control of the situation, “I’m sure you are wondering…”

“Yes, Meredith, I am wondering. I’m wondering why you would choose to act like the ninnyhammer I know you are not, especially after what happened between us last night. It seems impossible to me that you could be having second thoughts, given that you chose to relinquish your innocence to me. Or,” he asked sardonically, “did I somehow misinterpret what took place here?” He gestured to the bed as he stalked around it to join her.

Meredith’s face bloomed with an intense heat. “N-no my lord,” she stammered as she recalled all the things he had done to her last night. “You did not misinterpret what happened between us.”

Some of the blazing heat seemed to fade from his eyes. He gently cupped her cheek. Meredith had to fight an overwhelming desire to nestle her face into his hand.

“Then tell me what’s wrong, my love,” he urged softly.

Steeling herself, she moved away from him again. He frowned, but didn’t follow her.

“Lord Silverton,” she began, “I will always be profoundly honored by your generous offer of marriage.”

He snorted in derision.

She took a deep breath and continued. “But after careful consideration, I must refuse your offer. The differences between us are too great. I’m convinced that, in time, we would come to realize that marriage between us would be a mistake.”

Silverton gave another impatient snort, but she put up her hand to silence him.

“You are too generous to admit it, but you must know how unsuited I am to be your marchioness. Eventually you would comprehend this, even though your kindness would prevent you from ever acknowledging my lack of suitability.”

He blinked, clearly startled by her words. Silverton’s angry expression faded as he shook his head in rueful denial. He looked so sympathetic that Meredith had to fight back a rush of tears. She turned from him, determined not to cry.

“I, however, am all too aware of my own inadequacies, and I couldn’t bear to disappoint you.”

“Meredith.” He grasped her shoulders, bringing her around to face him. “Didn’t last night show you how well suited we are to each other?” He slid his hands down to her elbows. “There is no other woman I can ever imagine having in my home or my bed.”

Meredith looked up into his eyes; she saw only tenderness and honesty in his gaze. Clearly she had to save him from himself, she thought wretchedly, even though it meant slicing her own heart in two.

“As I said, you are generous, my lord. But the life you envision for me is not the life I wish for myself.” She tugged away from his grasp. “After Annabel is married I will return to the country. Our time together will always be precious to me, but, I assure you, I am most content to return to my former existence. In fact, I prefer it.” She squeezed her eyes shut, certain that God would strike her dead for telling such dreadful lies.

When Meredith opened her eyes, the kind expression on Silverton’s face had vanished. In fact, he now looked positively menacing, and she couldn’t help retreating a few steps.

“And what will you do when you go back to Swallow Hill, Meredith? Will you marry some local squire who will surround you with a passel of squalling brats? Or do you so long for your barren spinster’s life that you reject the offer of a man who honestly professes his love for you?”

She froze while he shook his head at her.

“It’s strange,” he said bitterly, “but I never took you for a coward. Apparently, I was wrong.”

Meredith jerked back, more stung by his words than she could have imagined. She drew herself up to her full height.

“Lord Silverton, I’m sure I do not deserve your insults. If you’re not willing to discuss this matter in a rational fashion, then I must ask you to leave my room. We can continue this conversation when we have both returned to London.”

The anger in his eyes slowly transmuted into something else. Meredith felt a warning chill shoot up her spine as his lips parted in a slow smile—the one that always made her knees grow so weak. She forced herself to move away from him, but he matched her step for step.

“As a matter of fact, Meredith, I’m not feeling rational at all. And I would like to point out this is my house, not yours. I have no intention of going anywhere.”

“My lord,” Meredith quavered. She swallowed, taking one more stab at fending him off. “When your mother and I spoke this morning…”

Silverton laughed. The unexpected, husky sound caused her heart to beat erratically against her breastbone.

“My sweet, there are two words no man wants to hear when he is about to make love to his woman, and they are, your mother!”

“But I’m not your woman,” she protested.

“After last night you are most certainly my woman.”

He advanced toward her with a dangerous gleam in his eye. Meredith retreated again, but he continued to stalk her across the room until she found herself backed against the wall. He quickly pinned her by placing his hands on either side of her shoulders as he pressed his lower body against her. With a sense of shock, she registered the heavy length of his arousal through her nightclothes.

“I’m not letting you go, so you might as well get used to it,” he said harshly, dropping his head to nuzzle the sensitive skin beneath her ear.

Meredith whimpered, unwilling to surrender but unable to help herself. She grew weak when he touched her like this, and she loved him too much to deny herself one last night in his arms. Their passion could not change the future, but, for now at least, she would not refuse him. She flattened her hands against the wall, turning her head to meet his lips in a breathless kiss.

Silverton groaned with satisfaction as his tongue surged into her mouth. Meredith’s legs shook with the intensity of his response, but he held her up by pressing his strong thighs into her body. His hands reached down to untie her robe, quickly stripping the garment away from her.

Pulling slightly back, Silverton let his eyes roam over her breasts, only thinly veiled by her nightrail. He gently traced the delicate lace collar that framed her shoulders.

“Don’t you know you can drive a man insane wearing something like this?”

“I didn’t wear it with you in mind,” she whispered. The roughness in his voice made her insides melt with longing.

“Are you sure about that?”

Silverton licked the throbbing pulse at the base of her neck. He kissed his way down the collar of her nightrail, hot breath through lace, before pulling her nipple into his mouth. The feel of his tongue rasping wetly through the fabric both irritated and excited her body in a way she didn’t understand. She shifted restlessly, captivated by the sight of his head at her breast, suckling her plump curves.

Meredith choked back a protest when his mouth left her, but he paused only to lift her nightrail away from her body. She watched in a daze as the filmy material drifted to the floor. Silverton’s large hands flexed around her waist, and the scalding heat of his tongue once again found her breasts. He laved the nipples until they pebbled into stiff little buds. She moaned again, arching into him as she sought relief from the intoxicating ache that flowed across her skin.

Suddenly, he slid down her body, kneeling on the floor in front of her. She almost stumbled when he released her, grabbing his shoulders to keep from falling. His hands moved to her hips as he gently pushed her back against the wall.

“What…what are you doing?” Meredith gasped.

“Trust me, sweetheart,” he murmured.

A small shriek escaped her lips when he pressed a moist kiss to the tender cleft between her thighs. Apparently satisfied with her reaction, he used his tongue to gently probe and tease the sensitive flesh that lay hidden in her nest of curls. Just when Meredith thought she would dissolve under the sensual assault, Silverton slowly pushed a finger into her damp sheath, all the while continuing to lick her quivering softness. She felt her knees begin to crumple.

“My lord!” she finally managed in a strangled voice.

“Meredith,” Silverton murmured before kissing her throbbing bud, “call me Stephen.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly do that,” she responded automatically. “That wouldn’t be proper.”

Silverton stopped licking her, and she froze, suddenly realizing how absurd their conversation was, given that his head rested between her legs. He looked up at her.

“Oh, really,” he replied, one eyebrow arching up. Then he returned to his task, and her insides begin to tremble from the soft but relentless pressure of his tongue.

“Stephen!” she cried a moment later as she clutched at his shoulders to maintain her balance.

“That’s better,” he growled.

She suddenly caught sight of herself in the large pier glass that hung next to her dressing table. Her pale skin glowed ivory against the red cotton damask that covered the walls. Candlelight glinted off Silverton’s golden hair as she watched him nuzzling between her thighs. His hands, bronzed by the sun, looked large and powerful as they held her against the wall.

Meredith felt a strange disorientation as she gazed at their reflection in the mirror. The sight of his broad shoulders between her legs, the feel of his scalding mouth branding her body as he licked that most secret part of her—all sensation coalesced until her head swam from the intensity of his lovemaking.

She started a slide to the floor, but he gripped her hips firmly and held her in place.

“Stephen!” she implored breathlessly. He looked up, a fierce lust darkening his blue eyes to indigo.

Silverton flexed his long fingers as he gentled his grasp on her hips. He began once more to tease the tight, hidden bud, stroking through the tangle of curls with a steady lap of his tongue. A piercing warmth unfurled deep inside her sheath as an unbearable tension burgeoned in the place where he worked his mouth. Just then, he slid a hand between her thighs and slowly pushed two fingers into her now-drenched passage.

She cried out as she arched her back, shoulder blades pressing into the wall as tremors rippled out from her core and down into her legs. Her lungs seized as a cataclysmic wave of pleasure raced through her body.

Meredith panted, closing her eyes, welcoming the velvet darkness as the ripples faded and her racing heart began to slow. A trembling weakness invaded her limbs. She would have collapsed if Silverton hadn’t held her up with a big hand splayed across her stomach.

She felt him stand, his hands gliding from her hips to her waist as he carefully supported her. Her lids fluttered up. He gazed at her through narrowed eyes. A look of savage possession turned his handsome features into those of a warrior.

Meredith dropped her head weakly on his chest. “My lord,” she muttered, “you are a very wicked man.”

His lips brushed the top of her head, and then he picked her up as easily as if she were a small child. “I’m glad you think so,” he replied as he carried her across the room to the bed.

Silverton set her carefully on the edge of the mattress. He reached behind and pulled her braid around to rest on her chest. His clever fingers quickly began to unravel the entwined strands of hair. Meredith sat quietly, breathing a sigh of relief as he pulled her locks free of the tight confines of the braid. When her black curls were loose once more, tumbling around her shoulders, he raked his fingers through her hair and gently massaged her scalp. She moaned with pleasure as she leaned against him.

“Don’t do that to your hair again,” he ordered in a hard voice.

Meredith nodded in mute agreement.

Apparently satisfied with her appearance, he removed his shirt, never taking his eyes from her body as she sat naked amidst the bed linens. He yanked off his boots and quickly stepped out of his breeches. When he turned fully to her, she could see that he was intensely aroused. Meredith couldn’t help trembling with a volatile mixture of trepidation and excitement.

What demons had she unleashed when she had refused his proposal and tried to push him away? No one ever said no to Silverton. She had not only hurt him by refusing his offer of marriage, she knew she had wounded his pride as well.

He climbed onto the bed, pulling her underneath him and crushing her into the mattress. Pushing her legs wide, he came in, plunging hard and deep. She rose up to take all his length inside her, clinging to him with a desperate need to possess him as he possessed her. He thrust in a relentless rhythm that quickly stoked the growing heat inside her womb.

Without warning, Silverton bent and nipped her shoulder, and the sudden flash of pain shot through her body and deep into her sheath, where his thick sex ruthlessly claimed her. She knew he was marking her for his own, and a primitive part of her thrilled to his loss of control and his masculine need to dominate her.

His hands reached under her bottom, tilting her hips so he could drive more heavily into her. Meredith panted with an almost unbearable excitement, her fingers kneading his muscular buttocks as she tried to pull him closer with every hard thrust. She could feel tension building, a fullness in her swollen flesh giving her such intense pleasure that part of her wished it would never come to completion.

But just when she thought she would scream if she didn’t soon find her release, Silverton slid his arms more tightly around her and rolled over onto his back. He pushed her up into a sitting position as she found herself straddling his hips. Her mouth fell open in surprise at the unexpected change in position. Meredith froze, not sure what to do next.

Silverton’s eyes glittered, and his mouth curled into a purely wicked, utterly male smile. His hands began to roam over her body, stroking her breasts, pinching her nipples, caressing her thighs. His fingers slid down through her drenched curls, teasing her exquisitely sensitive bud, playing with the wet flesh where they were joined.

Meredith’s insides melted like hot syrup. Her head dropped back, a moan escaping her lips as she began to undulate against the huge erection piercing her body. Silverton muttered harsh words that she didn’t understand, pushing her thighs even wider as he surged beneath her.

Although she was on top of him, seemingly dominant, Meredith felt totally exposed—open and vulnerable to his rampant desire. It excited her beyond anything she had ever experienced before.

Pushing against him, she rose desperately through a building spiral of need, wanting but not able to achieve release. She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his mouth, trying to communicate her urgency in a heated kiss. He grasped her head and held it still while he explored the silkiness inside her mouth, probing her hard with his tongue. She whimpered helplessly, overwhelmed by a burning desire to reach a completion only he could give her.

He broke the kiss and nudged her back into a sitting position. “I know, my love,” Silverton panted, his own face marked with a harsh need. “You’re almost there.”

Slipping his hand back to the joining of their bodies, he gave one final stroke to her hooded flesh. Then he pressed a finger just inside the rim of her sheath, alongside his own erection.

It was too much. She was too full, and she finally convulsed around him. Meredith twisted the bedclothes in her fists, crying out as a glorious climax raced through her veins, turning her into liquid fire.

As she gave herself over to the heated release, Silverton flexed his hips and drove himself into her one last time, his shoulders coming off the mattress as he surged against her womb. A long, deep groan rose in his throat as his sex pulsated, spilling his seed deep within her.

Meredith collapsed in a heap onto his chest, nestling her face into his throat. His rapid pulse beat against her cheek. He wrapped trembling arms around her body, pulling her securely against him.

Much later, Meredith rested in his arms, listening to the strong, regular beat of his heart. Never had she felt so safe or so loved. But she knew it to be a false security that could never survive the light of day or the cruel regard of his family and friends. She clung to Silverton with all the love and despair she had within her, knowing he was only a temporary refuge against the emotional tempests swirling endlessly in her soul.

Meredith wept silently with the certain sorrow that she would always be alone.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Silverton leaned his shoulders against the oak banister of the central staircase, observing the bustle in the entrance hall of the Abbey as the travelers prepared to depart. Trask was already outside and mounted on his huge dappled gray, impatient, as always, to be on his way. The earl had agreed to escort Meredith and Annabel back to London, and only that fact enabled Silverton to allow them to leave without him.

That, and the armed grooms who would also accompany the carriage on its short journey to the city.

Silverton cursed the reasons that kept him an extra day in Kent, but he could no longer delay the impending confrontation with his mother. After that, however, he wouldn’t rest until he had run Isaac and Jacob Burnley to ground.

In the meantime, he had to stand by and watch the woman he loved—a woman in danger—ride away from him. The possessive part of his nature howled in his ear to keep Meredith by his side. He had both right and obligation to protect her, and he resented ceding those rights to others, even for one day. Fortunately, Trask was more than a match for any dangers they might face on the road, and the actual risk of anything happening, Silverton believed, was slight. He doubted Isaac Burnley would try to hurt Annabel again, especially since he must have realized by now that his first attempt had failed. Still, Silverton had no intention of taking any chances.

He glanced up as Robert dashed by him, directing one of the servants on the correct placement of Annabel’s numerous band-boxes. The boy’s enthusiasm, and his concern for his fiancée’s well-being, brought a reluctant smile to Silverton’s lips. His cousin had changed a great deal since his engagement to Annabel, seeming to grow into a man almost overnight.

Of course, Silverton thought with more than a touch of bitter irony, he too was a changed man since falling in love with Meredith. And if he didn’t take care, she would likely drive him barking mad as he struggled to understand why she had changed her mind once again.

He glanced over at Meredith, who stood by her sister, tight-lipped and as still as a marble statue. Her demeanor was in marked contrast to that of Annabel and Sophia, who chatted and laughed merrily with each other. Silverton studied her carefully as she stared down at the patterns in the ironstone floor, deep in thought and oblivious to the cheerful chaos that swirled around her.

And, apparently, oblivious to him.

He tried to suppress a growing sense of exasperation. What a fool he had been to think he could impose his will on her, sexual or otherwise. Meredith had responded to him last night with a desperate ardor, but he realized now that her passionate response was more akin to a farewell than to a capitulation.

“We’re ready to go!”

Robert’s cheerful call from the open doorway jogged Silverton from his frustrated musings. Meredith also started, her eyes flying over to meet his before darting away again. She followed Annabel and Sophia outside, waiting silently for Robert to hand the two girls into the traveling coach.

As Silverton came up behind her, he saw Meredith draw in a tremulous breath as she turned to offer him a gloved hand. She refused to look at him.

“Good-bye, my lord. We are most grateful for everything you have done for us. Please extend my gratitude to your mother for her hospitality.”

He held fast when she tried to pull away, forcing her to raise her eyes to his face. One look in the anguished depths told Silverton everything he needed to know.

“I’ll follow you up to London tomorrow,” he said quietly, so the others wouldn’t hear. “We’ll talk then about what is troubling you.”

She tugged again, but he refused to let go. He turned over her hand and raised it to his lips, brushing a gentle kiss on the exposed skin above her glove. Meredith closed her eyes, her mouth trembling. Relief washed through him at this small display of emotional vulnerability. For the first time all morning, Silverton breathed more freely.

“Don’t worry, love.” He bent his head to murmur in her ear as he escorted her to the steps of the carriage. “All will be well.”

She shook her head but managed to give him a smile even though her eyes were bright with unshed tears. Silverton had to repress the urge to sweep her into his arms, carry her to his bedroom, and love her until she knew beyond all doubt that she belonged to him—irrevocably and forever.

The time for that would come soon enough, he vowed to himself, as soon as he whipped any and all interfering relatives back into line.

The door to the carriage slammed shut. Robert, Annabel, and Sophia waved their good-byes, and the vehicle moved forward.

“I’ll see you in London,” Trask called as he cantered by, followed closely by the armed grooms.

Silverton raised his hand and watched the carriage until it disappeared down the long drive, rolling quickly into the dense woods flanking the estate. He then spun on his heel and strode through the massive oak doors into the house. As he moved past his butler, Deacon, he barked a question over his shoulder.

“Has Lady Silverton left her room yet?”

“No, my lord. The maid has just brought her ladyship her morning chocolate,” Deacon replied. His barely arched eyebrows indicated disbelief that his master could even ask such a question.

“Well, then, I suppose she’ll be in for a surprise,” Silverton retorted as stalked to the stairs that led to his mother’s apartments.

Meredith counted the chimes of the clock out in the hallway. Only nine o’clock, but already the evening seemed endless. She blinked repeatedly, her eyes gritty from an annoying combination of repressed tears and lack of sleep.

The departure from Kent yesterday had depressed her more than she thought possible. She had struggled not to cry when Silverton kissed her wrist before handing her into the carriage. That simple gesture had almost broken her resolve as she struggled against a terrible desire to surrender to his masculine protectiveness.

Luckily, she had managed to restrain the impulse. Meredith bleakly congratulated herself on her willpower in the face of such overwhelming temptation.

What had taken almost as much discipline, though, was containing her frustration with her lighthearted companions on the trip back to London. Robert’s spirits, in particular, were so ebullient that Meredith had wanted to box his ears. Only Annabel had noticed her grim silence, casting numerous worried glances her way. Fortunately, her sister had been sensible enough to leave her alone, both yesterday and today. Meredith couldn’t bear to talk about Silverton and had avoided mentioning his name as much as possible.

She sighed, pushing away the bills that had accumulated on her desk during their trip to the country. The numbers seemed to swim before her eyes, and she knew it was pointless to do any more work until she got some sleep.

Sleep, Meredith thought gloomily, was not likely to occur anytime soon.

She jumped in her seat when a firm knock sounded on the door of their townhouse. Silverton, no doubt, finally coming to call. Meredith had been expecting him all day with an exhausting combination of breathless anticipation and crushing dread. Rising from her desk, she scrubbed her suddenly damp palms with her handkerchief. She shook the skirts of her light cambric gown and quickly checked her reflection in the mirror that hung over the fireplace.

A quiet tap sounded on the door of her study. Meredith had to clear her throat twice before she could bid the footman to enter.

“Lord Silverton begs leave to see you, Miss Burnley,” Peter said as he bowed her visitor into the room.

“Thank you, Peter,” she replied, inwardly cursing the slight tremor in her voice.

The door shut. She stood awkwardly by her desk, too nervous to move forward and greet him. Silverton did not move from his position by the door. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and carefully studied her through narrowed eyes. His stance did nothing to assuage her anxiety.

His face was inscrutable, almost grim, she thought. As he allowed the silence between them to lengthen, Meredith fought the urge to shift under his gaze like a disobedient child—and not just because he observed her with such a critical eye.

He was dressed in severe but elegantly cut evening attire, the stark black coat hugging his broad shoulders and emphasizing the athletic strength of his physique. Silverton was so handsome, so powerfully male, that Meredith felt dizzy just looking at him. She wondered, not for the first time, how he had managed to evade the marital machinations of so many determined debutants. It seemed impossible that he had waited so many years before choosing a wife, before choosing her.

Unable to bear the silence any longer, Meredith dropped a proper little curtsy. “Good evening, my lord. I have been expecting your call.”

Silverton smothered a curse, closing the space between them so quickly that she gasped. He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her into his arms.

“Meredith,” he growled, “don’t be such a goose.”

His mouth covered hers in a kiss so consuming that her legs nearly gave out beneath her. For a long moment she felt herself melting into his rough embrace, her treacherous body now so obviously conditioned to respond to his touch. But then she fought her instincts, dragging her mouth from his to pull away.

“Please, my lord! You mustn’t do that anymore.”

Silverton muttered some more curses under his breath, but he didn’t try to hold on to her.

“Meredith, you try my patience exceedingly.” He took a deep breath, his broad chest expanding as he clearly struggled to control himself. Taking her hand in a gentle clasp, he led her over to a chair by the fireplace.

“All right, my love. You may tell me, once again, why you cannot marry me, and I will tell you, once again, why you can.”

In spite of her aching heart, Meredith almost laughed at the aggrieved tones of aristocratic exasperation in his voice. She knew it still astonished him that anyone dared to defy him, especially the woman he chose to be his bride.

Rather than sitting, Silverton planted himself firmly before her, arms crossed over his chest, legs apart in a dominating stance. Apparently, he intended to be difficult.

“You know I cannot marry you,” Meredith began, deciding a firm and direct approach would be best.

“I know nothing of the sort.”

“My lord, surely you comprehend the many obstacles to our marriage! Your mother’s objections, for instance…” Silverton rolled his eyes to the ceiling. She bit her lip. “Your uncle, General Stanton, will also object to—”

“No, he won’t,” he interrupted. “My uncle has come to greatly admire you. And you know that Aunt Georgina cares for you as much as she does for Annabel.”

“Be that as it may,” Meredith forged on before he could say anything else, “you are more aware than anyone of the many responsibilities of the Marchioness of Silverton. I’m not suited to fulfill that role, and there is little doubt in my mind that most of your friends and family would agree.”

He glowered at her. “You are perfectly capable of being an excellent marchioness. I have seen ample evidence of that.”

“The issue is not whether I am capable of being the marchioness,” she persisted, resisting the urge to clench her teeth, “but whether I can do it. Do you understand the difference?”

“No. And I don’t think you do, either. Besides, you would not just be the marchioness. You would be my wife. Did we not agree we both want that?”

Meredith’s temper began to shred at his refusal to listen to her. “It’s simply impossible! Why can’t you see that?” Jumping up from her seat, she paced to the window and back. She felt light-headed with agitation and fatigue, and furious with him for being so obstinate.

Silverton, on the other hand, now seemed to be in complete control of his emotions, watching her with an impassive expression on his face. That angered her even more. Her heart pounded so hard she feared it would leap from her chest.

“You just don’t want to understand!” she flung at him. “I have tried to explain this already. Marriage for us would be disastrous. We are too different—our lives are too different. This is where you belong. This is what is right for you. London, the ton, and all the rest of it.”

She stopped pacing to fling her arms out wide, as if to encompass the entire city and his life there. “All this is your world, not mine. It is what you want. You are respected and admired by those who belong here. You are one of them.”

Meredith swallowed around the painful constriction in her throat. Her words tasted like ashes. “I don’t belong in London—in your world—and you know it. Unlike you, I don’t want it. You shouldn’t make me have to explain it,” she exclaimed bitterly. “You know perfectly well what a failure my Season has been.”

Silverton frowned and shook his head at her.

At his disapproving gesture, something inside of her snapped. She was so tired of others, even him, telling her how she should feel. Suddenly, it all poured out of her, like a spring torrent breaching a riverbank. Her anger, her resentment. Her amazed disappointment in so many of the people she had met. Her fruitless struggle to understand the opaque world he lived in, until she hardly knew who she was anymore.

She paced back and forth across the study, holding nothing back, telling him everything she had thought and felt these last few months. How she hated the ton, how much the whispers, the cutting glances, the cruel laughs wounded her spirit. How she felt as if she were always being measured to some invisible standard. How her failure to meet that standard created anxieties she hadn’t even known existed until coming to London.

While all the poison flowed out of her, Silverton never moved. Only his eyes followed her restless movements about the room as her emotional torrent poured forth, as she demanded that he understand.

Finally, she ran out of words. Meredith stumbled to a halt by the window, trying to calm her heaving breath, appalled that she had revealed so much. She stole a glance at Silverton, who looked at her so sympathetically she wanted to cringe. What in God’s name had come over her? How could she have been so foolish as to reveal all that ugliness to him?

“Don’t look at me like that!” she blurted out, turning her head away. Meredith hated how bereft she sounded, but her voice no longer seemed her own.

Silverton bowed his head and frowned at the floor, either pondering her words seriously this time or simply giving her the chance to recover herself. It seemed forever before he lifted his head to speak. When he did, his deep voice pierced her to the depths of her soul.

“Meredith, I understand your fears, I truly do. But I do not foresee one obstacle we cannot overcome together. You would be the Marchioness of Silverton, my wife. Who you are, your place in the world, would never be in question. With me by your side, no one would dare challenge you.”

Meredith fought a desperate impulse to give in. She wanted so much to believe they were capable of transcending the cold banalities of the fashionable world.

Unfortunately, his hesitation in those moments before he replied to her illuminated more than he probably realized. Clearly, Silverton had made a calculated decision to dismiss her concerns. He wanted her for his wife, and he would drive over whatever obstacles stood in his path.

But Meredith couldn’t bring herself to ignore his mother’s censure or the disapproval of his friends. Nor could she promise she would ever move comfortably in the ton. More than anything, she feared he would come to regret their union, and she couldn’t bear the thought of losing his love or his respect. Or of losing hers for him.

Meredith finally admitted to herself that sleeping with Silverton was the worst mistake of her life. No, she silently amended, stealing a look at him. The worst mistake would be to marry him.

“No, Meredith, it would not be a mistake to marry me.”

She gasped, stunned by his perception. How could he read her thoughts so easily? She gazed into his eyes, which looked back at her with avid tenderness. She felt a tear slide down her face, born of fatigue and an anguished desire to ignore her doubts and give him what he wanted.

“Come and sit beside me, my sweet.” He reached for her, coaxing her away from the window to sit on the comfortable velvet sofa. Wrapping a strong arm around her shoulders, he brushed the dampness away from her cheek. She was so tired she allowed herself to lean into him, sighing with a kind of brokenhearted relief.

“Meredith, do you love me?”

She lifted her head from his shoulder, stung that he could even ask her the question. “You know I do!”

“Then listen well, my love. All those things that concern you—my life in London, the Season, the endless round of boring and pointless parties—they mean almost nothing to me anymore, especially if you are not in my life.”

She stared mutely back at him, but he must have seen the skepticism on her face. He frowned thoughtfully for a few moments and then appeared to reach a decision.

“Meredith, when I was young—not much more than a boy—I fell in love.”

She blinked in surprise, both at his words and at his clipped tone. His furrowed expression relaxed into a wry smile, but his voice still held a touch of acid.

“Madly in love, in fact,” he continued, “or at least I thought so at the time. She was an enchanting little slip of a thing named Esme Newton. I was convinced she returned my feelings, and had every intention of asking her to marry me.”

Meredith felt a sharp little stab of jealousy toward the petite and, she was certain, blond Esme Newton. But at the somber look on Silverton’s face, she felt her petty anger fade away. Her hand slid across his hard thigh to grasp his fingers in a comforting grip.

“What happened?” she ventured.

“Much to my surprise, she fell in love with someone else, someone I knew very well.”

“A friend?”

He hesitated. “At the time, yes.”

There was no mistaking the brooding resentment in his voice. Part of her wished him to stop, not wanting to hear the story of bitterness and lost love, but Meredith knew he was telling her something important.

“What happened?”

He shrugged his shoulders, looking down at her fingers intertwined with his. “Nothing, really, which makes the whole sorry tale so foolish. Esme and I obviously didn’t marry, nor did she marry…my friend. He went off to join Wellington’s army and came back a war hero several years later. Esme became the wife of a Scottish earl, rarely coming down to London after her marriage. As far as I know, she has always been content with her choice.”

Silverton raised his eyes to hers, and her nerves jumped at the fierceness reflected there. “I, however, allowed myself to become bitter and cold, never wishing to love again. And I believed I never would, until we met. You rescued me, Meredith, from my own stupidity and selfishness.”

His admission melted her heart. She knew how it must have cost him—so proud and in control as he always was—to reveal the pain of his youthful infatuation. Meredith also sensed he held his emotions in check, especially those regarding the betrayal of his friend. But instead of pressing for answers, she simply stroked the back of his hand, trying to convey comfort and love with her touch.

He smiled at her, and the warmth returned to his voice. “The point is, my love, I am no longer that callow youth. I am a man, and know exactly what I want. I want a wife to cherish, and children to protect and care for until they are old enough to have families of their own. That is what I wish for my life. That is what I desire with you.”

She drew in a shuddering breath, searching his face. She saw truth in his expression, heard it in the tone of his voice. Silverton carefully took her face between his hands, gazing at her with eyes as clear, deep, and blue as the sky on a hot summer morning. Meredith had the oddest feeling he comprehended everything about her, and that she didn’t have to say another word.

“Meredith, before I met you I was…adrift. I understood my purpose in life, my duty to my family, and my responsibilities to the title and estate. But I could never really seem to feel it, to know it in my heart, as I should.”

His firm lips brushed her forehead, and another stone in the wall of her resistance tumbled to the ground.

“All that changed when I met you. I have the chance to become the man I should be, thanks to you. You are the kindest, most loving person I have ever known. I need you more than you will ever realize.”

Meredith looked up into his dear face, and what she saw there both terrified and exhilarated her. She felt something new and unexpected stir within her. It took her a moment to recognize it as the dawning of hope.

“Really?” In spite of herself, she couldn’t keep a little doubt from creeping into her voice.

“Meredith!” Now his tone was an impatient growl. “I love you. That will never change, I promise.”

The wall crumbled to dust, but then an alarming thought flashed unbidden into her mind.

“But what about your mother?” she blurted out.

He sighed as his arms tightened around her. “My sweet, I am truly sorry my mother has caused you such distress. I can assure you, however, she will raise no further objection to our marriage.”

From the look on his face, she suspected that Silverton had given the marchioness very little choice in the matter. Meredith knew she should regret coming between mother and son, but where Lady Silverton was concerned she found it difficult to muster up more than a twinge of guilt.

“Would we have to live with her?” she asked hesitantly, not wanting to offend him. “At least, all the time?”

“Good God,” he replied, looking more than slightly appalled. “Of course not. We would certainly live separately from her while in London. As for Belfield Abbey, my mother only visits twice a year, and almost never comes to my estates in the north.”

Meredith slowly, very slowly, allowed herself to relax into his arms. Silverton smiled—a trifle smugly, she thought—as a knowing gleam lit his eyes.

“It may also interest you to know,” he added, “that I much prefer the country to the city. You mustn’t assume that you know everything about me, my sweet. I would rather spend all my time at Belfield Abbey or in the north, mucking about in the dirt like the dull farmer I really am.”

“My lord,” Meredith protested, stunned by the absurd vision of Silverton covered in mud, “I find that difficult to accept.”

“Well, you’d better accept it, because you’re about to become a farmer’s wife.” Bending his head, he captured her mouth with a searing possession. She melted into his arms as he pressed hungry, open-mouth kisses against her lips. Silverton’s arms slid around her back, one hand reaching up, fingers threading through her hair. He gently pulled her head back as his tongue traced a fiery trail down her throat.

Passion and relief poured through her veins like an elixir, sweeping aside fatigue and sorrow. A tiny voice in her head still murmured that trouble lay before her, but Meredith had finally come to the end of her resistance. For now, at least, she would put her trust and confidence into Silverton’s capable hands.

He nuzzled her ear before looking up to study her as she lay in his arms. His eyes glittered with a soul-stealing desire.

“I trust I have finally answered all your doubts.” His husky voice sent shivers down her spine.

She nodded, so dazzled she couldn’t speak. He pressed one more impossibly masterful kiss on her lips and then sat up straight, bringing her with him.

“I have something for you.” He reached into his waistcoat and pulled out a small velvet bag, tipping the contents into his hand.

“It was my grandmother’s,” he said softly.

Meredith opened her eyes wide as a tumble of gold slid from the bag into his palm. It was a very old, very beautiful mesh bracelet. Gold filigree threads in a delicate weave shimmered in the candlelight. Studded at random intervals along the band were small, glittering emeralds and cabochon opals that gleamed a milky white. She raised her eyes to his in awe.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “But much too fine for me!”

Silverton cast his gaze heavenward again, as if imploring the gods for patience. Pushing up the ruffled trim of her long sleeve, he fastened the bracelet securely around her wrist. Meredith held it up to the light, fascinated by the play of colors that seemed to emanate from deep within the stones. She threw her arms around his neck and pressed a kiss on his jaw.

“Thank you, my lord. I will cherish it always.”

He smiled and wrapped his arms about her, returning her eager display of gratitude. “Meredith, you really must call me Stephen. At least when we’re alone.”

“Yes, Stephen,” she replied absently as she returned her gaze to the bracelet. She stroked it lovingly with one finger, thinking that she would never own anything so wonderful or precious if she lived to be a hundred.

“Now,” Silverton said in an amused voice, “perhaps we could discuss the date of our wedding.”

She jerked her head up as reality came flooding back.

“Oh, my lord—Stephen—do we really have to talk about this now? It’s been such a long day.” She gave him a wavering smile, trying to remove the sting of rejection from her words, but she was simply too tired to argue with him anymore.

He started to look grim again. She placed her hand on his sleeve and massaged the corded muscle that lay under the fine broadcloth of his coat.

“There is so much to do for Annabel’s wedding. Don’t you think seeing her safely bestowed is the most important thing right now? We have plenty of time to discuss our own marriage later.” She batted her eyelashes at him, hoping he would respond to a display of feminine wiles.

Silverton looked ready to dispute the matter, but after examining her face through narrowed eyes, he capitulated. “All right, my love. Annabel and Robert will be married by the end of the month. I suppose I can wait till then.”

She sighed in relief. One side of his mouth quirked up wryly.

“Meredith, you worry too much.”

“I know,” she replied solemnly. “I have always found it a most vexing trait.”

He laughed. “Well, we have to see what we can do to change that.” He dropped a soft kiss on her lips before standing and pulling her to her feet.

“As much as I want to stay,” he murmured huskily, “I think you need your sleep more than you need lovemaking.”

Silverton grinned like a schoolboy at her undoubtedly shocked expression. He raised both her hands to his mouth and pressed them, one after the other, to his lips. “Rest, sweetheart. I will see you in the morning.”

He strode to the door, gave her one last, lingering look, and left the room.

Meredith sighed and sank back down onto the sofa. Her emotions were a jumble. Part of her still believed she was making a mistake, but if Silverton wanted to marry her in a month’s time, she would find the courage to be the best wife possible. In any event, she thought ruefully, it certainly seemed that he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Meredith?”

She looked up as Annabel peeked into the room.

“Was Lord Silverton just here?” the girl inquired innocently.

Meredith tried to frown severely at her sister. “You know exactly who it was.”

Annabel plumped down beside her on the sofa. “Well, I certainly hope you have made up with him. You’ve been moping around for two whole days now, and anyone can see it’s because you’ve been foolish enough to resist him.”

“Annabel!” gasped Meredith.

Her sister’s eyes suddenly grew round with excitement. “Did he give you that bracelet?” she squeaked, grabbing Meredith’s arm. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I know,” Meredith breathed as she returned her gaze to the glittering piece. “I shouldn’t have accepted it, but I just couldn’t seem to help myself.”

Annabel’s eyes grew solemn. “He loves you, doesn’t he?”

“He does, but is that enough?”

“Dearest!” Annabel threw her arms around her. “Of course it’s enough. It’s everything!”

Meredith returned her sister’s enthusiastic hug. If Annabel was so happy for her, then perhaps she had made the right decision after all. The girl might be young, but she had a perception and wisdom Meredith had learned to trust long ago. She laughed nervously, finally allowing herself to feel the restless happiness she had been holding at bay for the last half hour.

Annabel opened her mouth, no doubt to ask a thousand questions, when she was interrupted by a loud knock on the front door.

“Now who could be calling at this time of night?” Meredith wondered as she got to her feet.

Annabel shrugged. “I haven’t a clue, unless it’s Robert. He apparently needs to see me at least three times a day.”

Meredith was about to make a sarcastic reply, but she froze instead when she heard the sound of raised voices and breaking glass. Annabel leapt up and rushed over to grab her arm.

“Meredith,” her voice quivered with anxiety. “You don’t think…”

They heard heavy footsteps rushing up the steps and down the hallway. The door to the study flew open.

Isaac Burnley strode into the room, followed closely by his son Jacob. Both men wore heavy greatcoats, with thick mufflers around their throats. Meredith and Annabel shrank back against the sofa as their uncle advanced relentlessly toward them.

“My dear nieces,” he snarled, his lips stretched back in a feral grin. “Did you really think you could avoid me forever?”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” Robert demanded in a hostile voice.

Silverton ignored his cousin as he banged loudly on the front door of Meredith’s townhouse on Hill Street. He had been hammering the knocker against the door for five minutes now, and no one had answered. It was only ten in the morning. Even if Meredith and Annabel were out—unlikely, at best—one of the servants would have answered by now.

“Stephen!” Robert poked him hard in the arm. “How could you have kept this from me? Didn’t you think I’d want to know Annabel was in danger?”

Robert, of course, referred to the fact that he had been kept in the dark about the failed attempt to poison Annabel. Silverton had only told his cousin of the plot this morning, after picking him up on his way to Hill Street.

He spun on his heel and rushed down the front steps, running for the entrance to the laneway that ran behind the row of townhouses. Robert and Silverton’s groom, Simmons, followed closely behind.

“I’m sorry, Robert,” Silverton flung back over his shoulder. “Annabel and Meredith didn’t want to worry you or the rest of the family. We thought it best to keep it to ourselves until we had real proof of the attempt on her life.”

Robert raced to catch up with him. “I’ll wager my horse you told Trask, though, didn’t you?” he retorted bitterly.

Silverton slid to a halt at the entrance to the laneway. He grabbed his cousin by the shoulders and finally looked into the boy’s pale face. “I’m sorry, Robert, I truly am. But I needed his help. Please forgive me for offending you, but can we stop arguing for the moment and find out why no one answers the door at your fiancée’s house?”

Robert jerkily nodded his head. Silverton understood that part of his cousin’s anger sprang from the fear that something terrible had happened to Annabel and Meredith. He shared that fear, and he cursed himself now for assuming the sisters would be safe once they returned to the city.

After leaving Meredith last night Silverton had gone to Lady Mountley’s ball, the last big social event before the ton decamped from town for the summer. He was in no mood for socializing, but Trask had sent a missive earlier in the day informing him that he would be at the ball. The earl had, apparently, discovered important information regarding the Burnleys’ finances.

Silverton found Trask in the card room. As soon as the earl spied him, he threw down his cards and rose from the table. Ignoring the protests from the other players, Trask led the way out to Lady Mountley’s terrace.

“Is it as bad as we feared?” Silverton asked without any preamble.

“Worse,” Trask grimaced. “Isaac Burnley is completely bankrupt. My sources in Bristol tell me their wool factory has been struggling for some years, and probably never recovered from the financial crisis in 1811. When the trade began to move north, they lost most of their remaining business. Burnley then tried to recover his losses by investing on the Exchange with money he didn’t have. Those investments went bad sometime in the new year, which precipitated the final destruction of the family fortune.”

“The timing is just about right then,” mused Silverton. “The Burnleys appeared at Swallow Hill in February, which, coincidentally, was the same time that Annabel suffered a relapse of her illness. I think they were drugging the girl in order to justify her incarceration in a madhouse.”

“Have you received any information from the runner yet?”

“No. I just returned to London this afternoon. I sent a note around to Bow Street requesting him to report first thing tomorrow.”

Trask nodded brusquely. “Let me know what else I can do.”

The earl had returned to his card game, and Silverton had returned home to ponder the information his friend had provided.

Now Silverton couldn’t believe he had waited till morning to act. He should have returned immediately to Hill Street, pulled Meredith and Annabel from their beds, and brought them to the safety of his mansion in Grosvenor Square. As he raced into the laneway, he devoutly prayed that his own lapse in judgment wouldn’t separate him from Meredith forever.

The three men dashed past high walls and iron gates, splashing heavily through the mud and debris that collected in the alleyway. Silverton counted back entrances, then yanked open the gate to the small garden behind Meredith’s house. He strode swiftly to the basement door. It was flung wide open against the wall of the house.

Bloody hell. Fear clutched at his chest, making him breathless.

He pelted down into the kitchen. It was empty, and a shambles—chairs overturned, crockery smashed on the floor, the table askew against the wall.

“Robert, Simmons!” He gestured impatiently at the two men gaping in the doorway. “Go upstairs and see what you can find.”

Simmons brushed past him and headed for the front of the house. Robert, however, seemed paralyzed, his breath coming in short, sharp exhalations as the blood drained from his face.

“Robert,” Silverton urged quietly. “Go up to Annabel’s bedroom.”

The boy’s eyes darkened with anguish, his body still unable to move. Silverton knew he was afraid of what he would find upstairs.

He gripped Robert’s shoulder. “I promise you, she is fine. Isaac Burnley will not hurt her. He needs her too much.”

His cousin nodded and hurried from the room.

Silverton was about to follow when he heard pounding in a corner of the basement. Wheeling about, he saw a cramped set of stairs leading down to the cold cellar.

“Who’s in there?” he commanded in a loud voice.

“It’s Peter, sir, the footman,” came the muffled reply.

Silverton searched the floor and quickly found a key that had obviously been flung in the corner. He unfastened the lock and wrenched the door wide, gasping at the vision that met his eyes.

Peter, Mrs. Biggs, and a young scullery maid stood blinking in the light that flooded down from the kitchen. They were disheveled, dirty, and, from the distraught looks on their faces, appeared to have been locked away in the dark for hours. Silverton extended his hand and helped the women up the steps to the kitchen. The young maid was crying, and Mrs. Biggs flapped her immense apron in distress, causing billows of dust to waft up from the garment.

“Oh, my lord,” she keened, “those evil villains took away my poor lambs, they did, and there weren’t nothing we could do to stop them!”

Silverton’s gut clenched as his eyes roamed over the bruises on Mrs. Biggs’ cheek. Peter was in even worse shape, with a cut lip and two purple and swollen eyes.

“We tried, my lord.” The footman wrung his hands in distress. “But there were too many of them—five or six, at least. And there were just the three of us, seeing as Miss Noyes and Agatha were not returning until today, and Ruddle off visiting his sister in the country. I’m sorry, my lord. Those young ladies were my responsibility, and I let you down.”

Silverton led Mrs. Biggs to the kitchen table, picking up a chair and gently pushing her into it. He glanced over at the footman and shook his head.

“No, Peter, the fault is mine. I should have anticipated this and not allowed them to return to the house.”

Robert and Simmons reentered the kitchen in time to hear the last part of the conversation. Silverton looked a quick question at them. His cousin stared back, his boyish face expressing a searing combination of fear and reproach.

Robert had always idolized him, and to know that he had failed him so miserably was almost more than Silverton could bear. He had failed them all. He thought he had anticipated every circumstance, but his own arrogance had blinded him to the desperate stupidity of Isaac and Jacob Burnley.

“What did you find?” Silverton directed his question to Simmons.

“The furniture in the study is all in a tumble, my lord,” replied the man, shaking his head. “It looks to me like the young ladies were taken there.”

“They were in the bedrooms, too.” Robert finally found his voice, although it was hoarse with distress. “The drawers are pulled open, and some of their clothes appear to be gone.”

Silverton shut his eyes, nodding to himself. A bloody rage shifted behind his closed lids, but he forced himself to grasp the reins of his temper and calmly analyze the situation.

“Peter,” he said, opening his eyes and turning to the footman. “What time did they force the house last night?”

“Shortly after you left, my lord, just after ten o’clock. They were on me in a second, and dragged me right back to the kitchen with Mrs. Biggs and Maddie.”

“Aye, and I gave one of those devils a good wallop with my rolling pin,” cried the cook. “I vow he didn’t walk out the front door on his own two legs.”

“I know you did everything you could, Mrs. Biggs,” Silverton tried to smile at her.

“It weren’t enough!”

The sturdy woman burst into tears, throwing her dirty apron over her face. Silverton’s aching heart empathized with Mrs. Biggs’s tortured sense of failure.

“And to the best of your knowledge,” he grimly asked Peter, forcing himself to ignore the weeping women, “when did the Burnleys actually leave the house?”

“Can’t have been more than twenty minutes or so after they seized us, your lordship. Those men knew what they were about. They had us down in the root cellar so fast that my head was like to spin off, what with the beating they gave me and all. The house went quiet just a few minutes after that. We screamed and yelled, but heard not a single thing until you let us out just now.”

“Twelve hours head start…,” murmured Silverton. “Did you happen to see how many carriages they had with them?”

“Two, my lord. We had quite a tussle, but I saw them in front of the house as plain as day.”

Silverton bowed his head as he calculated the lost time, the distance the carriages must have traveled, and all the complications of a rescue attempt.

“What are we going to do, Stephen?” implored Robert.

Silverton looked up. Everyone in the room stared at him with expressions of mingled anxiety and hope. They clearly expected him to know what to do. He could not afford to fail them again.

“Simmons, go now and find Lord Trask. Check his home first. If he is not there, then try him at White’s, but do not give up until you find him. Tell him to meet me at Silverton House in an hour, with his curricle and fastest horses. We’ll be driving almost to Bath.”

“Yes, my lord.” Simmons disappeared through the back door.

“Peter.”

“Aye, my lord?”

“Get cleaned up and follow us home. We’ll be leaving in an hour.”

“What can I do, my lord?” inquired Mrs. Biggs with a huge sniffle.

Silverton patted her shoulder. “You can best help by setting the house to rights, Mrs. Biggs. Your mistresses will be tired when they return home, and I want them surrounded by their usual comforts.”

A beefy hand stretched out and grasped his sleeve. “Do you promise to bring them back, my lord?”

“Yes, Mrs. Biggs,” he said, knowing he would succeed or die trying. “I promise.”

“Right you are then.” She nodded once and got to her feet. “Good luck to you, my lord.”

Silverton motioned to Robert and stalked down the hallway to the front door. He threw it open and ran down the steps to his waiting curricle.

“Stephen, old man.” His cousin hurried after him. “Where in God’s name are we going? We can’t just dash off and hope we’ll stumble across their trail, can we?”

Silverton leapt up onto the high perch and waited for Robert to climb after him. As he took the ribbons into his hands, Silverton thought back to the conversation he’d had with the Bow Street runner earlier this morning. The runner had not been able to discover the whereabouts of the man who had poisoned Meredith, but he had unearthed a nugget of information that was now infinitely more valuable, given the change in circumstances.

“Try not to worry, Robert. I’ll explain everything once we’re on our way.” Silverton urged the horses into a quick trot. “But I assure you, I know exactly where to look for them. And this time, Isaac and Jacob Burnley will not escape.”

Meredith stumbled down the steps of the carriage, following Annabel across a dirty yard paved with broken flagstones. She looked blearily up at the windblown sky, trying to shake off the effects of the drug she had been forced to drink the night before. As far as she could tell, it was around midday, although thick clouds had hidden the sun since dawn.

The carriage had traveled through the night, causing her to lose all sense of time many hours ago. She had thought the nightmarish journey would never end. Not that Meredith could remember much of it—just flashes of panic whenever she surfaced from her unnatural sleep to catch Jacob staring at her from the opposite bench of the coach. Once or twice he had reached out to touch her, but she had shrunk back against Annabel, turning her face away from him. Later, near dawn, she had forced herself to look at her cousin. In the dim light of the travel lamps, Jacob had appeared as evil as any monster that Meredith could have conjured up in a painting.

Annabel, fortunately, had slept most of the night. At first Meredith had been terrified the dose of laudanum Isaac had poured down her sister’s throat had been too much. It wasn’t, and she was grateful Annabel had been spared the realization of what was happening to them, at least for a few hours.

Meredith felt Jacob’s hand against the small of her back, pushing her toward an open doorway. As she crossed the yard she looked up at the old house looming before her. It was a low, rambling building roofed in gray slate, grown dingy with age. Tall chimneys rose against the iron gray sky but, despite the day’s chill, no smoke crept up to hint of any welcoming fires. The windows were latticed and covered in soot, emitting no light. The whole effect of the place was one of dirtiness and disrepair.

And, Meredith thought bleakly, of despair. She needed no one to tell her that Isaac Burnley had brought them to a madhouse, as he had sworn to do those many weeks ago.

She almost tripped over the uneven threshold of the door, but Jacob grabbed her elbow to steady her. Even though her head swam and she struggled against a feeling of lassitude, Meredith shook him off. The touch of his hand, even through multiple layers of clothing, made her skin crawl.

Isaac walked ahead of her, propelling Annabel down a dim, low-pitched passageway to the back of the house. Her sister tried to look over her shoulder at Meredith, but her uncle gripped her arm and dragged her along.

“I’m right behind you, my love, don’t worry,” Meredith called out in a raspy voice.

Jacob uttered a deep laugh that sounded like an animal growling. “Worry about yourself, Meredith. We’ll take care of Annabel.”

A door on the right side of the passage suddenly opened, and a severe looking woman in a rusty-colored bombazine dress emerged to greet Isaac.

“We have been waiting for you, Mr. Burnley,” she said. “Everything is ready.”

Meredith halted next to Annabel. She reached over and took her sister’s hand. The girl looked up, her eyes huge and pitch-black with fear and the lingering effects of the drug.

“Mrs. Jukes, take this one and lock her up,” Isaac ordered, shoving Annabel into the woman’s arms.

“What are you doing?” gasped Meredith, as she struggled to hold on to her sister. “Uncle Isaac, are you insane?”

“Meredith!” cried Annabel. “Don’t let them take me!”

Tears streamed down Annabel’s face as Mrs. Jukes tried to wrestle her away from Meredith. A hulking man with a misshapen nose appeared as if from nowhere and grabbed the girl around the waist, lifting her backward through the door.

“No!” screamed Meredith as she struggled to reach her sister. Jacob’s arm wrapped around her chest, as hard as an iron bar, squeezing all the air from her lungs. Black dots swam across her vision.

The door to the room slammed shut, and Annabel was gone. Meredith sagged back against her cousin’s body as the fight drained out of her. She was stunned—her mind completely unable to comprehend the terrible thought that she might never see her sister again. Suddenly, her feet left the floor as Jacob picked her up to carry her down the passage.

“Let me down,” she choked out as she pushed her hands against Jacob’s chest.

He laughed. “You’ll fall flat on your face if I do. Don’t worry, sweet cousin. You’ll see your sister again, as long as you do what we say.”

Meredith stopped struggling. Jacob was too powerful, and she needed to conserve her strength if she had any hope of saving Annabel’s life. The most important thing was to keep the girl alive until Silverton could find them.

At the thought of her fiancé, her eyes filled with tears. She had clung to his image as a bulwark against the terror that had threatened to overwhelm her during the long night. Meredith surreptitiously fingered the cool mesh of the gold bracelet still encircling her wrist. It had become a talisman during the seemingly endless journey; as long as she wore it, she could believe Silverton would rescue them from this living hell. It was proof of his love and his promise to keep her and Annabel safe.

Jacob carried her into a low-ceilinged room, lit dimly by a lamp and a smoking fire in a small grate. The grimy windows filtered out most of the weak light from the overcast day.

Isaac stripped off his gloves before tossing his greatcoat over the back of an old-fashioned high-back chair. “Put her down,” he ordered.

Jacob set her on her feet. Meredith stumbled slightly and grabbed the edge of a table that stood in the center of the room.

Her cousin laughed. “I told you that you would fall.”

Meredith ignored him. Drawing herself up, she pushed her tangled hair from her forehead and faced her uncle. “What do you intend to do now?” Her voice was as cold as she could make it.

Isaac snorted as he reached for a tankard of ale that had been placed on the table. He handed it to his son and took a second one for himself.

“Always playing the lady of the manor, eh, Meredith?” her uncle sneered. “Well, you best realize that no bloody aristocrat will come to your rescue this time, my girl. If you want to see your sister alive again, you’ll do exactly as I tell you.”

Meredith gripped the edge of the table even harder, staring back at Isaac with every ounce of loathing in her soul. His eyes swept over her face.

“You’ll do what I say,” he said with a casual cruelty, “or your sister will be dead by morning.”

His coarse features looked positively demonic in the shadows cast by the lamp. Meredith tasted the bitter memory of the drug on her tongue and knew her uncle would do exactly as he threatened. She took a deep breath and stiffly nodded her head.

“Sit,” said Isaac, grabbing a chair and shoving it toward her.

Meredith sat, warily looking back and forth between her cousin and uncle.

Isaac lounged against the table. “You’ll do everything we say, Meredith, because we have nothing to lose. You always wondered why Nora and I came to Swallow Hill, didn’t you? We had to. I lost my business—everything I owned—at the end of last year. Nothing remains of the great Burnley fortune,” he said bitterly, “except, of course, for the inheritance left to you by your father. The creditors have been hounding us for months, and if we don’t give them something soon, it’s debtor’s prison for us. That, or the continent.”

Meredith felt her mouth gape open, but she managed to hold her tongue.

Isaac laughed harshly. “You didn’t think we moved there because of familial devotion, did you? I can’t stand the sight of you, you arrogant bitch! And your sister is so weak it would do the world a favor if I let her rot in this hellhole until she died.”

Meredith swallowed the bile that rushed into her throat. If someone had placed a pistol in her hand at this moment, there was little doubt in her mind she would have shot her uncle.

“Of course, we did try to poison your sweet sister down in Kent, but I suppose you already know that. Jacob was very distressed when you almost died and ruined all our plans, weren’t you, my boy?”

Meredith looked over at her cousin, surprised to see him gazing at his father with ill-concealed hatred. She knew it was too much to hope that Jacob would turn on Isaac, but perhaps she could use his animosity to some advantage.

“Of course, that’s all in the past now, isn’t it?” Isaac mused. “We may not get Annabel’s money, but we’ll get enough to survive on, and then some.” He looked over at his son. “And you’ll finally get what you’ve been lusting after all these years, won’t you, Jacob?”

Meredith saw the greedy triumph in her cousin’s eyes, and the faint hope she had been harboring died within her. Isaac clearly intended to give Jacob exactly what he wanted.

“What must I do?” Meredith asked around the lump in her throat.

“It’s simple, really,” explained Isaac with a grin that turned her blood to ice water. “You marry Jacob. As a wedding present, Annabel will give the ownership of Swallow Hill to you. It’s a nice, tidy estate and should fetch a high enough price to pay off the rest of our creditors. Your fortune is not as great as Annabel’s, but fifteen hundred a year is better than exile on the continent. Your sister may have slipped out of our hands, but I assure you, Niece, I will never let you go.”

“You are mad!” Meredith cried, no longer able to contain her loathing. “Annabel’s family will find us, and you’ll be put on trial for attempted murder and kidnapping. How could you ever imagine I would agree to this?”

“Oh, but they won’t find her,” vowed Isaac softly. “They won’t find either of you. You’ll both simply disappear, and so will we. Do you actually think anyone knows where you are? I’ve been much too careful for that.”

“But even if I were to agree to marry Jacob, Annabel will never remain silent,” Meredith argued desperately. “The Stantons will not allow you to use us in this way.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Meredith,” Jacob finally interjected. “By the time the Stantons know what’s happening, you’ll already be married to me. Do you really think the great general will see the family name tarred by a scandal like this? What will you try to do—divorce me? Charge us for kidnapping? The Stantons won’t allow Annabel to be dragged into the middle of a trial, and you know it. After all”—his laugh was a guttural bark—“she’s a very fragile girl. They’ll be only too happy to keep their mouths shut, as long as they get their precious granddaughter back in one piece.”

Jacob reached over and stroked her cheek. Meredith flinched away from him.

“Besides,” added Isaac, pushing up from the table, “I’m Annabel’s guardian. You’ll never be able to prove murder, and if I see fit to place Annabel in a madhouse, that’s my legal right. I already have a doctor who will swear to her insanity. In fact, this is his asylum. You remember Dr. Leeds from Bristol, don’t you? No, Meredith. Those proud bastards the Stantons will be only too happy to avoid the scandal, and Annabel will be only too happy to give you Swallow Hill. We all know she’ll do anything to please you.”

Meredith could hardly breathe, a misery as heavy as death crushing her chest. She could see no escape from this nightmare, at least not before Silverton could find them.

Jacob chuckled, almost as if he could read her thoughts. “As for you, my sweet, did you really think the Stantons would give a damn about you? To them, you’re nothing but a shopgirl. They’ll probably be grateful I took you off their hands, since you’ll no longer be able to embarrass them.”

Meredith thought of the promises Silverton had made to her last night and felt something shrivel within her soul. She looked into the long passage of years stretching before her—a life bound inextricably to the people she hated most. She thought of the endless torture of nights in Jacob’s bed and knew she would prefer death to such an existence.

But it was not just her own life she was responsible for. There was Annabel. Meredith would do anything to save her sister, including consigning herself to a marriage that would utterly destroy her.

A sense of dull resignation crept over her. She closed her mind to the terrifying vision of a ruined life and focused on the present. Meredith would live only for this moment, and right now what she needed to do was save Annabel.

She lifted her head and tried to force the words of submission from her throat. But she couldn’t speak. Meredith grasped the arms of the chair, took a deep breath, and tried again. Still the words would not come.

Jacob’s face twisted with anger. He reached down and yanked her up from the chair. “Perhaps you need a little encouragement,” he leered.

He covered her lips in a suffocating kiss. She managed to get one arm free, raking her nails down his face. Jacob screamed, drew his arm back, and struck her hard across the face. Meredith fell to the floor, her ears ringing in pain, her face throbbing as she fought the black tide that threatened to pull her under. She dimly heard the chair scraping against the floor and braced herself for the blow that was sure to follow.

“Stop it, Jacob,” barked Isaac. “We don’t want the preacher to see any marks on her face. Lock her up with Annabel for the rest of the day. Maybe a little time spent in the madhouse will help the fool come to her senses.”

Cruel hands pulled her up and began to drag her to the door. An iron claw wrapped itself around her wrist. “What’s this?” snarled Jacob.

Meredith cried out as Jacob found the bracelet concealed under her sleeve. She struggled to break free, but he managed to unclasp the band and hold it up to the light.

“Now that’s a pretty little trinket,” he breathed harshly. “Is it a gift from Silverton? Have you already opened your legs for him, my sweet little cousin? It looks as if you won’t be coming to my bed a virgin, after all. That should make things more interesting, at least for me.”

Meredith barely heard a word he said. The black wave that had been threatening to drown her finally crashed through her remaining barriers of self-control. The voices faded away as she surrendered to a pitiless void of despair.

Chapter Thirty

“Meredith, are you awake?”

Annabel’s whisper intruded on Meredith’s consciousness, rousing her from the twilight state she had drifted in during the last few hours.

“Yes, dear, I’m awake.”

She stirred on the filthy straw mattress slung across a rickety wooden bed frame, the only piece of furniture in the tiny room. Annabel huddled against her side, arms wrapped tightly around her waist. Meredith ducked her head to inspect the girl’s face in the dismal light, praying that her sister had recovered from her earlier bout of hysterical tears.

Meredith had been in a half-swoon when Jacob carried her into the wing of the madhouse where Annabel had been incarcerated. At first, she had thought herself trapped in the throes of a nightmare. It took several moments to understand that the screams emanating as if from the very walls were the cries of the asylum’s inmates.

The smells were even worse than the noise. The odor of un-washed bodies and filthy privies so overwhelmed her that Meredith feared she would faint a second time. Refusing to make herself so vulnerable again, she closed her eyes and breathed through her mouth to steady her spinning head.

Jacob suddenly stopped, and Meredith heard a loud rattling of keys. She opened her eyes, noticing for the first time that Mrs. Jukes preceded them. The severe-looking woman opened a door, and Jacob carried her through it. Annabel was huddled on a decrepit bed shoved up against the wall of the otherwise empty room. As soon as she saw Meredith, she launched herself up from the mattress.

“Meredith!” she shrieked, flying toward her.

Mrs. Jukes grabbed the girl by the arms and forced her back to the bed.

“What have you done to my sister?” Annabel sobbed.

“If you know what’s good for you, my girl,” Mrs. Jukes said in a cold voice, “you’ll best keep quiet. If you don’t behave yourself, we’ll have to put you in restraints. A fine young miss like yourself shouldn’t be making such a fuss, now, should she?”

“Annabel, I’m fine,” Meredith gasped, terrified Mrs. Jukes would carry out her threat.

“You won’t be for long if you don’t do what you’re told,” Jacob warned as he dumped her down on the bed beside her sister. “I’ll be back for you later, Meredith. Think on what my father said, or you and Annabel won’t see the dawn of another day.”

Jacob and Mrs. Jukes left the room. The door slammed shut, plunging the tiny cell into a shadowed gloom.

“I was so afraid I would never see you again,” Annabel wept as Meredith pulled her into her arms.

“I know, dear. I’m here now. Don’t cry. I won’t let anyone hurt you.” Meredith rocked her sister back and forth as the girl cried hysterically in her arms.

Eventually, the shattering sobs tapered off into the occasional hiccup, and Annabel fell into a deep sleep. Meredith held her for hours, trying to gauge the passage of time as the dim light faded through the small, iron-barred window set high up in the stone wall of their prison.

Eventually, worn out by her own anxious vigil, she had fallen into a restless doze.

Now, as Meredith sat up on the creaky bed, she struggled against the lassitude that clouded her mind. As she gazed blearily at the unfamiliar surroundings, she suddenly experienced a brief flash of disorientation and then panic. Night had fallen, and Silverton had not come. She knew that Jacob could return at any moment, and, when he did, she would have no choice but to do as he wished. If she didn’t, her cousin and uncle would kill them both.

“How long do you think they’ll leave us in here?”

Meredith stroked her hands over Annabel’s tangled hair, her heart breaking at the quaver in her sister’s voice. “I don’t know, darling. Perhaps not much longer.”

Annabel shifted on the bed, turning to look directly into her eyes. Meredith was startled by the unwavering resolve in her sister’s gaze.

“Don’t worry, Meredith.” Annabel’s voice was much stronger than it had been even a moment ago. “Lord Silverton and Robert will find us, I know they will.”

Meredith could only nod her head, silenced by the misery threatening to consume her. If she could only keep Annabel safe, Silverton would eventually rescue them. She knew he would not rest until he found them.

But she also knew that help would come too late for her. Jacob would undoubtedly force her into marriage this night, and bed her immediately afterward. Even Silverton could not extend his love to a woman who had been despoiled by another man, nor tolerate the scandal of a divorce. His family wouldn’t permit it, and, for Annabel’s sake, neither would she.

Meredith struggled to accept the crushing weight of despair bearing down on her spirit. The sooner she purged her love for Silverton from her heart the better, since it would only torture her to madness. That part of her life was dead to her now, and she must look unflinchingly to the future, however terrible it might be. Annabel was all that mattered, and Meredith would do whatever was necessary to save her life.

Her sister suddenly moved to the edge of the bed. “I think I hear something.”

Meredith heard it too, the sound of heavy footsteps moving rapidly toward them. A key was inserted in the lock and the door swung open, rusty hinges screeching in protest. She stood and faced the door, pulling Annabel up beside her. Jacob, Mrs. Jukes, and the man with the misshapen nose crowded into the room. Meredith froze when she saw the ugly man carried a pistol.

Jacob’s face appeared satanic in the fitful light cast by Mrs. Jukes’s lantern. “Well, Meredith? Have you made your decision?”

Annabel jerked her head, her eyes widening in alarm as she stared at her sister. “What is he talking about, Meredith? What decision?”

“It’s all right, dear,” Meredith murmured as she gazed steadily at Jacob. “Everything will be all right. You’ll be away from this place soon enough.”

Her cousin’s mouth stretched into a triumphant sneer. “I’m pleased you made the right decision. Father always said you were no fool, and he was obviously right.” He grabbed her arm. “Now say good-bye to Annabel. It may be some time before you see her again.”

“No!” Annabel wrapped her arms around Meredith’s waist, clinging to her with desperate hands. Mrs. Jukes darted forward to pull her away.

“Don’t you touch her,” Meredith warned as she tightened her arms around her sister.

Jacob shook his head at the asylum keeper. Mrs. Jukes frowned but stepped back.

Meredith cradled Annabel’s face in her hands, staring into her sister’s anguished eyes. “Annabel, you must listen to me. I know what I’m doing. No one will harm you, and you’ll be returning home very soon.”

Her sister’s lips quivered as she struggled not to cry, but tears dripped down her cheeks anyway. Meredith was very certain her own heart was shattered beyond repair.

“I will see you soon enough,” she said, tenderly brushing the tears from Annabel’s face. “I promise.” She cast a glance over her shoulder at the group by the door. “Is that not right, Jacob?” Her voice contained a note of challenge her cousin could not fail to understand.

Jacob glowered at her for a moment before impatiently nodding his head. “Aye, you’ll see each other soon enough.”

Meredith inwardly sighed with relief. She needed to keep her sister from finding out the truth. If Annabel knew, she would fight it, and Meredith was terrified Mrs. Jukes would put the girl in restraints or worse.

“Do you promise?” Annabel’s voice broke.

“Darling, I promise!” Meredith hugged her fiercely, only letting go when Jacob’s hand came down heavily on her shoulder. She allowed him to steer her from the room, not daring to look back at Annabel’s tear-streaked face. Meredith could not bear the pain she knew she would see in the girl’s eyes.

Jacob towed her quickly down the dingy passage. Meredith suddenly dug in her heels, forcing him to stop.

“Don’t try your luck, Meredith,” he rasped, tugging at her arm.

“I will do everything you wish of me,” she replied calmly, even though she felt her legs would collapse at any second. “But you must give me your word as my cousin, as the friend of my youth, that you will do as you promise—that you will release Annabel unharmed.”

He scowled at her, but she thought a hint of uneasiness and possibly even shame darkened his coarse features.

“I said she would be unharmed if you marry me. She will be returned to London in the morning.”

He started to pull her down the hall, but Meredith resisted. “Even if your father doesn’t wish it?” she challenged.

He rounded on her so quickly that she almost staggered from the shock.

“Blast you, I told you, didn’t I?” He pressed her body back against the wall, leering at her as he did so. “If you do everything I say, and I mean everything, then Annabel will be released unharmed.”

Meredith swallowed a rush of saliva, sickened by the feel of his huge body pushing against hers. She nodded quickly.

“Good,” he grunted, marching her to a set of stairs at the end of the passage. He hurried her down to a landing, which branched out into two separate hallways. The old house was like a rabbit warren, ramshackle and poorly lit. As Jacob hustled her along after Mrs. Jukes, Meredith tried desperately to memorize the way back to Annabel’s room.

The hallway branched again, and she recognized the passage leading to the front of the house. As they reached the end of the hall, a door swung open and light spilled out into the passage. Isaac stood framed in the doorway.

“What took you so long?”

Jacob ignored his father as he pushed Meredith into the room. It was the same parlor as before, but now it was brightly lit with two brass lanterns, and a roaring fire had been built up on the hearth.

“Well?” growled Isaac.

Jacob grinned at his father.

Isaac laughed. “Well, girl, I’m glad to see you’ve come to your senses. In the morning, Annabel will sign over the ownership of Swallow Hill to you. As her guardian, I will approve the transaction. Then we’ll put her in a coach and send her back to London.”

“Why does she have to wait till tomorrow?” demanded Meredith. “Why not do it tonight?”

Isaac tsked and shook his finger at her in a horrible parody of an affectionate uncle. “Now, now, my dear. We wouldn’t want to deprive you and Jacob of your wedding night, would we? Must have things tied up properly before we send Annabel on her way.”

Jacob’s eyes ran hungrily over her body, and Meredith’s last faint hope burned away in the black smoke of his gaze. She looked into the fire, trying to control the roiling pain in her stomach.

“Mrs. Jukes.” Isaac spoke harshly. “Where is the parson? He should have been here by now.”

“My apologies, sir.” The woman shrugged her shoulders. “He sent a boy around not twenty minutes ago to tell me he would be late. Reverend Caine is attending a deathbed. The boy said that old Mr. Tyler would not live out the hour.”

Isaac snorted loudly, obviously frustrated.

“How…” Meredith cleared her throat and started again. “How will Jacob and I be able to marry so quickly?”

“Not to worry, dear Niece,” Isaac sneered. “We obtained a special license before we left London. All you need do is convince the good parson that you wish to be married. In fact,” he laughed, “you’ll tell the man you simply can’t wait a moment longer to be Jacob’s wife, won’t you?”

Jacob joined in the laughter. Meredith swallowed again, afraid she would soon be sick all over the floor. Her uncle abruptly stopped laughing and ran a disapproving eye over her figure.

“The parson will think something’s amiss if you come to your groom looking like a trollop. Go with Mrs. Jukes and clean yourself up.”

There was obviously nothing she could do to fight them. Resigned, Meredith was about to follow the other woman from the room when she caught the sound of raised voices from the front of the house. There was a distant crash, and then a door farther down the hallway slammed shut.

“What the hell was that?” Isaac’s head snapped back at the noise.

Mrs. Jukes gaped at the two men. “I haven’t a clue, sir. We are only expecting the parson. There are no other patients arriving tonight.”

Isaac snatched up the lantern from the table and headed for the door. “Jacob, keep an eye on your cousin. Don’t let her out of the room. You”—he jerked his head at Mrs. Jukes—“come with me.”

He strode from the room. Jacob gazed uneasily after his father and then began rummaging for something in his coat pocket.

Praying to herself that her cousin would remain distracted, Meredith began inching toward the door. Jacob glanced up, cursed, and crossed the room in a flash. He wrapped his fingers around the back of her neck in a punishing grip. She gasped at the pain, her eyes flooding with moisture.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” He pushed her across the room to the one of the ladder-back chairs.

“Sit down and shut up, Meredith, or I swear you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

He was about to shove her down on the hard wooden seat when there was a pounding of footsteps out in the hall, and the door to the parlor suddenly flew open. Silverton strode into the room, looking as grim and hard as any battle-scarred warrior. He was clad in a dusty greatcoat and mud-splattered boots. His head was uncovered, his hair tousled and damp.

When Meredith saw the expression in Silverton’s eyes, her heart took a great leap in her chest. They were like windows into hell—but it was a hell encased in thick sheets of impenetrable ice rather than the blazing fires of the damned. He calmly raised his right hand and pointed a large pistol at Jacob’s head.

With startling speed, Jacob lurched back and pulled Meredith in front of him. He gripped her tightly from behind as Silverton slowly advanced toward them. She heard more noise out in the hall, and then Robert burst into the room. He froze as he took in the scene that met his eyes.

Jacob dragged Meredith behind the table, away from Silverton.

“Let her go.” Silverton’s voice was soft and deadly.

Jacob’s hand clenched her wrist so tightly that Meredith feared her bones would snap. Silverton continued his predatory stalk across the room as her cousin pulled her farther around the massive wooden table.

Robert’s eyes darted into the corners. “Meredith,” he gasped, “where is Annabel?”

She clawed frantically at Jacob’s fingers, trying to release the unbearable pressure on her wrist. “Down the hallway to the right and up the stairs to the landing,” she cried. “Go right again to the end of the passage. Annabel is there.”

Robert spun around and dashed out the doorway. She heard him call to someone, ordering the person to follow him.

Jacob held Meredith in front of him as he edged around the other side of the table and moved toward the door. She hung heavily against him, trying to slow him down.

Silverton kept his pistol trained at Jacob’s head.

“Shoot and you’ll hit her,” Jacob rasped.

Silverton hesitated. He dropped the pistol into the pocket of his greatcoat.

“Let her go, Burnley,” he said, his voice completely devoid of emotion. Meredith shivered at the sound of it. “Let her go now, or I’ll kill you.”

Jacob’s hoarse laugh reverberated off the low ceiling. “Meredith belongs to me, you bastard. Before this night is out, she’ll be damaged goods. No man but me will ever want her again, I’ll make certain of that.”

Jacob’s face was congested with blood, his eyeballs protruding from his sockets. But Silverton might as well have been carved from granite for all he responded to the other man’s taunts.

Jacob jerked Meredith to the door. His hand squeezed her arm so tightly she could feel the bones shift beneath her skin. She choked, her breath seizing with the pain that exploded up to her shoulder.

As she saw rage flash across Silverton’s face, Meredith decided that she’d had enough. Twisting around, she grabbed her cousin’s arm. She bent her head and sank her teeth into his wrist, biting him as hard as she could. Jacob roared, cuffing her on the side of the head with his other hand. Meredith’s vision blurred as she crumpled to her knees.

Silverton launched himself across the room at Jacob. All three of them went down in a tangle of flailing limbs, and Meredith was thrown backward with stunning force into the wall. She collapsed onto the floor, gasping painfully as she tried to suck air into her lungs. Rolling out of the way of the struggling men, she groped her way up the wall and pushed herself to her feet.

Silverton had somehow managed to regain his feet as well, dragging Jacob up with him. His left fist smashed into her cousin’s face and blood spurted from the other man’s mouth.

It was a devastating punch. Jacob swayed but remained standing. Staggering to the side, he swung powerfully at Silverton, who ducked just before the blow connected. Jacob lashed out again. Silverton jerked his face out of the way, but this time her cousin’s massive fist landed solidly on his shoulder. He fell back into the table, and Jacob threw himself on top of him. They crashed to the floor.

Meredith watched, terrified, as the two men rolled over the uneven floorboards. Jacob was a brute, outweighing Silverton by almost two stone. If he got the upper hand, Meredith was sure he would kill the man she loved.

She cast her eyes about frantically for a weapon. Spying a large brass candlestick on the fireplace mantel, Meredith ran across the room. She flung the lit candle into the fire and rushed back to the rolling bodies on the floor. Jacob heaved himself on top of Silverton, trying to wrap his beefy hands tightly around his neck. Silverton gasped for air but was still able to free an arm and push the heel of his hand against the other man’s chin.

As Jacob’s head snapped back under the force of Silverton’s hand, Meredith slammed the candlestick into the back of her cousin’s skull. He collapsed, blood pouring freely from the wound she had inflicted on his head.

The room was silent but for the sound of heavy breathing. Silverton pushed Jacob’s body from him and slowly sat upright, coughing as he gingerly rubbed his throat. Meredith stood frozen, the candlestick dangling from her hand. From what seemed a very great distance, she noticed a few strands of bloody hair stuck to the brass.

“Is he dead?” she asked in a strangled whisper.

Silverton put his hand to Jacob’s throat to feel for a pulse. After a moment, he shook his head. He looked up at her, and the edges of his mouth began to lift in a ragged smile.

“Thank you, my love,” he murmured in a raspy voice. “Your cousin is a very large man.”

The sound of his voice released her from her paralysis. She gave a small cry, dropped the candlestick, and threw herself onto the floor and into his arms. Meredith sobbed against his chest as he rocked and soothed her, just as she had done for Annabel only a short time ago.

At the thought of her sister, she jerked up, alarm tightening every muscle in her body.

“Annabel!” she gasped. “We must find her.”

Silverton grimaced as he helped her to her feet. “Robert and Peter have already gone to look. Show me where they were holding her.”

She was momentarily distracted by the pale and drawn set of his face. “You’re hurt!” she exclaimed. “What did he do to you?”

Silverton winced as he touched his shoulder. “Nothing but a little bruising, my love. Don’t concern yourself.”

He put his arm around her to lead her from the room when Trask and two other men strode through the door. Meredith vaguely recognized the strangers as two of Silverton’s grooms.

“Well?” asked Silverton.

The earl smiled grimly as he wiped blood from an ugly looking cut on his cheek. “Isaac Burnley and his companions are trussed up in one of the rooms off the stables. Simmons is standing guard with a pistol. Not that Burnley is in any condition to notice such details.”

Meredith expelled a shaky breath of relief at the news of her uncle’s capture.

“What about him?” The earl jerked his head at Jacob’s motionless form on the floor.

“Meredith brained him with a candlestick.”

Trask laughed. “I’m glad to hear it.” He motioned to the grooms, who picked up Jacob and lugged him from the room.

“Miss Burnley.” The earl made her a small bow. “I am greatly relieved to see you in one piece.”

“So am I,” she replied fervently, “but we must go to Annabel.”

There was a quick, light step out in the hall. “Meredith!”

A moment later and Annabel was in her embrace. Robert walked in right behind her and went to stand by Silverton and Trask. Meredith wrapped her arms around her sister, vowing irrationally to herself that she would never let the girl out of her sight again.

After a moment, Annabel sniffed loudly and very inelegantly, and lifted her head to smile mistily at Meredith. “I told you Silverton and Robert would find us, didn’t I?”

Meredith looked over her sister’s head at the three men standing by the door, each one of them blinking rapidly, as if their eyes bothered them. Silverton surreptitiously rubbed his cheek.

Something effervescent started to bubble up within her, almost like champagne, but so much more wonderful that Meredith couldn’t even put a name to it. A laugh began to prickle in her throat as she studied the battered, dirt-covered man who had risked his very life to save her. Silverton gazed back at her with such longing that her laughter was silenced with a joy so enormous it almost terrified her. All at once her spirit broke free, shattering the chains of doubt and fear that had gripped her soul for so many long, lonely years.

Meredith hugged Annabel tightly in her arms. “Yes, my love,” she replied, almost to herself. “Yes, you did tell me he would find us. And he did!”

Epilogue

She felt smothered. The darkness overwhelmed her, and the only sound she heard was the rapid beating of her own heart. Meredith whimpered, shrinking from the terror hovering at the edge of her consciousness.

She sensed movement even before the small sound from her lips faded away. Something big wrapped itself around her, cocooning her in a warmth that drove away the lingering remnants of fear. She relaxed, free to float up out of the darkness, swimming toward a gentle light glimmering just out of reach.

Meredith woke up. She blinked her eyes in the soft morning light beginning to illuminate her bedroom at Swallow Hill. A heavy weight pressed along the length of her body, enveloping her in a reassuring embrace. As she came fully awake, she realized the comforting heat came from a large male body sprawled on top of her. A golden head rested on her breast, a strong arm was thrown across her hips, and a long leg pinned her lower limbs to the mattress.

Meredith’s heart constricted and then expanded with the startling joy of waking up in her own bed with Silverton on top of her. She lay quietly for a few moments, sifting through the glorious but unsettling emotions that rushed to greet her with the new dawn and her new life.

Moving cautiously so as not to rouse him, Meredith raised her left wrist into an errant sunbeam, catching the morning light on her emerald and opal bracelet. She had refused to take it and her wedding gift—a matching necklace—off last night. Silverton, however, had not seemed to mind that she had wanted to wear her jewelry to bed. In fact, he had been quite taken with the idea of his new bride clothed in nothing more than precious stones and metals. Meredith still couldn’t help blushing whenever she thought of his enthusiastic response to her lack of attire.

She idly twisted her wrist, watching the light sparkle on the jewels and on the single, perfect emerald set in the gold band on her left hand. As much as she loved her wedding ring and her necklace, no piece of jewelry would ever mean so much to her as the bracelet. It had served as a precious link to Silverton during her and Annabel’s hideous ordeal.

On that terrible night two weeks ago, Silverton had been eager to remove the sisters from the scene of their captivity. Both Meredith and Annabel were exhausted, and no one had relished the thought of the long trip back to London. After a hurried consultation with Robert and Trask, Silverton had decided they should drive to Swallow Hill, which could be reached in less than two hours. Meredith had insisted that two footmen ride ahead to warn the servants and to ensure that Nora Burnley had departed the estate before they arrived.

Meredith and Annabel emerged from the dank asylum into the clean air of a cloudless and star-filled night. The storm that had threatened earlier in the day had dissipated before a bracing wind that swept everything before it. Torches flickered in the courtyard as the grooms hurried to prepare the traveling coach for their departure.

Meredith started to climb into the carriage when she remembered that she had not yet reclaimed her bracelet. Coming to a sudden halt, she pleaded with Silverton to fetch it for her immediately. He was impatient to be gone, however, and would only promise to send one of the footmen to retrieve it. Meredith stubbornly refused to take another step. Silverton finally spun on his heel and, muttering to himself, stalked over to the barn where Jacob and Isaac were being held.

He returned to her shortly thereafter, his face set and grim. When Meredith asked him what had transpired, he simply shook his head and handed her the bracelet. She threw her arms around his neck and planted a grateful kiss on his cheek. Silverton had allowed a tiny smile to touch his lips as he returned her embrace, apparently satisfied with the reward for fulfilling his lady’s request.

Now Meredith lay quietly in her bed, gazing at the bracelet and trying not to think too hard about the cousin and uncle who had betrayed her. Try as she might, though, she was unable to repress a small, bitter sigh. Silverton moved his head against her breast as his arm tightened around her hips. She wriggled under his weight.

“My lord, you are squashing me,” she whispered, not sure if he was awake.

She felt a moist puff of warm air against her nipple as he blew out a small but exasperated breath.

“Meredith, when are you going to stop calling me my lord?”

“When you stop squashing me.”

He rolled over and onto his back, winding one arm around her waist and pulling her to his side. She snuggled against him, resting her head on his shoulder as she stroked the smooth muscles of his broad chest.

Meredith had never felt so cherished or so safe. But she still couldn’t seem to let go the dark memory of Jacob and the searing hatred he had revealed to her.

“Why does it still trouble you, my love?”

She tilted her head up to look at her husband, startled as always by his uncanny ability to read her thoughts. His cobalt eyes were gentle, and she couldn’t help reaching up to stroke his firm jaw, rough with early morning bristle. He caught her hand and pressed it to his lips.

She sighed again as she snuggled closer to his warmth. “I know it’s foolish, but I can’t help thinking about it.”

Silverton settled her more comfortably into the crook of his arm. “You’re safe now, sweetheart.” He tilted her chin up and dropped a soft kiss onto her lips. “I promise. They can never hurt you again.”

Trask and his servants had swiftly bundled Jacob and Isaac on board one of the earl’s merchant ships bound for New South Wales. Silverton had believed the sooner they left the country, the better. Surprisingly, only Annabel had protested the plan, outraged that her uncle and cousin would escape the full wrath of the law. But Robert had eventually convinced his fiancée that penniless exile was far preferable to the scandal of a public trial, particularly for the sake of General and Lady Stanton. Annabel grudgingly agreed, and the Burnleys had shipped out from Bristol under close guard, never to be seen again.

“You don’t think they’ll ever try to come back, do you?” Meredith hated to even ask that question, but the idea had haunted her dreams for the last two weeks.

“If they do, they’re dead men,” her husband responded in a casual voice that she found rather chilling.

He said nothing more, and Meredith assumed his reticence signaled the end of the discussion about her criminally inclined relatives. She let the matter drop. After all, it was her first morning as a married woman, and she really should make an effort to find a more cheerful topic of conversation. Meredith tried to absorb once more the idea that she was the new Marchioness of Silverton and that the man lying next to her would be there every morning for the rest of her life.

“Sometimes I think I don’t deserve to be this happy.” The words popped out of her mouth before she could stop them.

Silverton turned on his side to look at her, his lips parting slightly as if in disbelief. Meredith could think of nothing to say that would justify her remark, so she smiled apologetically instead. He groaned and dropped his head back on the pillow, his eyes rolling up to the ceiling. She had a sneaking suspicion he sought patience from the heavens.

“Well, it’s true,” she defended herself. “It just seems to be the way I think.”

He moved swiftly, rolling her onto her back and coming down heavily on top of her. “Meredith, I told you once before—you are the best person I’ve ever known. You deserve everything I can give you, and more. What will it take to convince you?”

She studied his narrowed eyes, pretending to seriously ponder the question.

“Well…I suppose you’ll simply have to show me.” Meredith wrapped her arms around his neck. “Preferably when we’re alone.” She nuzzled his mouth with her lips. “Like we are now.”

A passionate heat flared in his eyes, and for the next little while she knew nothing but the feel of his mouth and hands roaming over her body. In less time than she could have imagined, he brought her panting to ecstatic completion, any tiny doubts still lingering in her heart obliterated in the dazzling fire that blazed between them.

When they again rested in each other’s arms, rather more breathless than they had been before, Meredith suddenly remembered a question she had meant to ask him yesterday.

“Stephen?”

“Hmmm?”

“How did you manage to convince your mother to behave so beautifully at our wedding?”

She felt rather than heard the low rumble of laughter in his chest. “Oh, her impeccable behavior might have something to do with the new townhouse I promised to build her in London.”

Meredith gave a small snort. “I should have known it had nothing to do with me.”

“Don’t despair, my love. You have, after all, achieved a great victory in bringing the general so thoroughly around to your side. I only wish you could have heard the thundering lecture he gave my mother when she tried to complain to him about our marriage.”

Meredith still found herself amazed by the general’s impassioned defense. He had softened to her considerably after Lady Stanton’s illness, but now he seemed to regard her in much the same light as he did Annabel. He had been greatly affected by the kidnapping and had been almost pathetically grateful to Silverton for rescuing his granddaughter and Meredith.

“He wants me to give him one of my paintings. I must say, I can’t imagine that any one of them won’t shock him. He has such conservative tastes.”

Silverton propped himself up on his elbow, a teasing smile playing around the corners of his lips. “I know exactly which painting to give to him.”

She stared back, puzzled by his reaction.

“You know,” he prompted. She could hear the mischief in his voice. “Robert suggested it to him several weeks ago when Aunt Georgina was recuperating from her illness. Don’t you remember? Your painting of the Minotaur in the maze—the one that Robert said looks just like the general.”

Meredith’s eyes widened in shock, and then she burst into laughter.

His smile stretched into a grin, and then he was laughing, too. He swooped down and pulled her into his arms. Meredith’s laughter continued to build inside her, fed by the sheer joy of the perfect, timeless moment.

The sound of their joy drifted across the room and out through the open window. Meredith heard a swallow’s trill exuberantly echo their laughter as the small bird wheeled up from the lavender-scented garden to greet the dawning of the bright August morn.

Summer, she decided as Silverton’s mouth covered hers, was surely the happiest season of them all.

ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

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Compilation copyright © 2011 by Kensington Publishing Corporation

Copyright © 1996 by Jo Beverley Pub. Inc.

Forbidden Affections

Copyright © 2011 by Vanessa Kelly

The Pleasure of a Younger Lover

Copyright © 2011 by Sally MacKenzie

The Naked Prince

Copyright © 2011 by Kathleen M. Milmore

A Summer Love Affair

Copyright © 2009 by Sally MacKenzie

The Naked Baron

Copyright © 2009 Kathleen M. Milmore

When His Kiss is Wicked

Copyright © 2009 by Vanessa Kelly

Mastering The Marquess

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