The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

“Desperate Measures” © by Candice Hern. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

“Upon a Midnight Clear” © by Anna Campbell. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

“The Dashing Miss Langley” © by Amanda Grange. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

“Cynders and Ashe” © by Elizabeth Boyle. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

“His Wicked Revenge” © by Vanessa Kelly. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

“Lady Invisible” © by Patricia Rice. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

“The Piano Tutor” © by Anthea Lawson. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

“Stolen” © by Emma Wildes. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

“Her Gentleman Thief” © by Robyn DeHart. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

“The Weatherlys’ Ball” © by Christie Kelley. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

“The Panchamaabhuta” © by Leah Ball. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

“Angelique” © by Margo Maguire. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

“Like None Other” © by Caroline Linden. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

“The Catch of the Season” © by Shirley Kennedy. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

“French Intuition” © by Delilah Marvelle. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

“A Suitable Gentleman” © by Sara Bennett. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

“Gretna Green” © by Sharon Page. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

“Little Miss Independent” © by Julia Templeton. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

“The Devil’s Bargain” © by Deborah Raleigh. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

“Kindred Souls” © by Barbara Metzger. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

“Remember” © by Michèle Ann Young. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

“Moonlight” © by Carolyn Jewel. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

“An Invitation to Scandal” © by Lorraine Heath. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

INTRODUCTION

Sweet, sexy, heartbreaking and erotic, confined by corsets (all that complicated lacing be damned!) or secreted away behind closed doors, love in Regency England was a murky business. It was hardly recognizable — laced into ballgowns, peering out coquettishly from behind ivory-handled fans, whispering inappropriately under the noses of chaperones and being seduced into compromising positions. It was an emotion dealt out cruelly by a voracious and debauched high society on the one hand, and a great hypocrisy of social graces and propriety on the other. With innocence forever in the middle, trampled, torn and abused — as usual.

There were some things love and lovers should not do. But rules were made to be broken and all it took was a little ingenuity. When denial and frustration come to a boiling point, sparks fly bright and hot. Matches are made in haste to settle the possibility of scandal, marriages are bargaining chips to elevate stations and cancel debts — where there’s a will, there’s a way. And mothers! Those infernal, social climbing, unrelenting mothers! The bane of every debutante during her seasons out.

Under these circumstances, sometimes love needs a little harmless dishonesty, a liberal use of ruses, dupes and tricks, to flourish. For all those secrets and lies needed to maintain the order of the day, sometimes it takes a little underhandedness to get to the heart of the matter. Under the threat of Regency villainy, sometimes that’s what it takes for young lovers to come together, or older lovers to find their hearts again.

The gentlemen seem to be missing their appointments with their barbers left, right and centre, and the slightly long and unfashionable look attracts the ladies in droves. It is the carelessness, perhaps, among the almost-feminine care lavished by some of the men of the age, that appeals, I imagine, and promises other lapses in convention — like clandestine kisses, a quick grope in the sitting room, or maybe even some hot sex?

Take a look at all the well-dressed skeletons in the Regency closet. Because for all the babies out of wedlock, the midnight elopements to Gretna Green, the young women suffering marriages to old men in penance for a moment of brief happiness on a chaise longue in an empty retiring room — this jaded society has seen and done it all. Any discretion is just one more thing to hide away, to deny, to refute or to forget. But some sensations can be harder to forget than others.

Desperate Measures

Candice Hern

She was going to commit murder. If that scoundrel Philip Hartwell did not show up soon, Lydia Bettridge was going to track him down and rip his heart out. After all, this whole scheme was his idea. If he hadn’t suggested it in the first place, and if he and her brother Daniel had not gleefully concocted the plan, she would not now be waiting on pins and needles to learn whether or not it would work.

Or perhaps all that gleefulness had been at her expense. Had they been making a game of her, playing on her disappointment, poking fun at her unrequited affections?

By God, she would rip out both their hearts. With a rusty blade.

Lydia scanned the ballroom again, maintaining as casual an air as possible as she sought out Philip’s bright red hair among the crowd milling about in groups, waiting for the first set to begin. She was just about to stomp her foot in frustration when she saw him. Not Philip, but … him. Dear heaven, it was Geoffrey Danforth, the secret object of her scheme, and he was at that very moment making his way across the room directly towards her.

Her belly seized up in a knot of panic. What was she to do now? And where the devil was Philip?

“Here comes Danforth, my dear,” her mother said in hushed tones. “And he is smiling at you and looking exceedingly handsome in that gold waistcoat. The colour sets off his hair nicely, don’t you think? I hope you will not reject him like all the others. I suspect poor Philip must be delayed. You would certainly be forgiven if you did not wait for him any longer.”

Lydia had claimed a prior commitment for the opening set when asked to dance by three other perfectly suitable gentlemen, causing her mother to cluck and twitter with vexation. She was not pleased that Lydia had promised to be led out for one of the most important dances of the evening by her brother’s best friend, who had no marital intentions towards Lydia or anyone else, and for whom Lydia had no more than a sisterly affection. “Such a waste,” her mother had said more than once.

And here came Geoffrey Danforth, with his flashing blue eyes and a smile to make a girl weak in the knees. Oh dear.

He stood before them and sketched an elegant bow. “Mrs Bettridge. Miss Lydia. You are both looking very fine this evening.” His eyes swept over Lydia, hopefully admiring her new dress, which was cut a bit more daringly in the bodice than her usual attire. It had been a part of the plan, of course, to look as dashing as possible.

His gaze turned to her mother. “The yellow plumes are quite fetching, Mrs B. All the other ladies here must be seething with envy.”

Her mother giggled behind her fan and muttered something about a shameless flatterer. Geoffrey turned to Lydia and said, “I believe this is our dance.”

What?

“I beg your pardon?” She could have bitten off her tongue. Philip Hartwell was obviously not coming so their plan had to be scrapped. And yet here was Geoffrey, the object of her every dream and heart’s desire, asking her to dance — and she demurred. Why did she not simply take his arm and be quiet?

He grinned, an endearing lopsided grin that was somehow both boyish and rakish at the same time, and had set her heart aflutter since she was fifteen. “Hartwell is detained indefinitely and asked me to take his place.” Turning his head so her mother couldn’t see, he winked at her.

Dear God, did he mean what she thought he meant? Was he to take Philip’s place in more than just the dance? No, surely not. Philip would not be so heartless, would he? But then, he didn’t know.

Geoffrey took her hand and placed it on his arm. With a little tug — she was almost rooted to the spot, barely able to think, much less move, and so needed that bit of physical encouragement — he gently led her to the centre of the floor where sets were forming. “Don’t worry, Lydia.” He kept his voice low so others would not overhear. Deep and soft as butter, it was a voice that always made her want to close her eyes and allow it to melt all over her. “I know you must be disappointed, but I will do my best. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, but I daresay I can do a better job of it than old Hartwell.” He winked again, and her feet stopped working properly.

He placed his other hand firmly over hers and manoeuvred her skilfully across the floor without further incident. Surely he had noticed her falter, though he did not mention it. While they waited for the music to begin, he bent his head near hers and said, “Will you trust me to do the job properly?”

She took a deep breath to calm her nerves and decided to feign ignorance. “I have no idea what you mean.” Her voice sounded surprisingly steady, and she was rather proud of herself.

He smiled and gave her a little nudge with his shoulder. “No need to be coy, my girl. Hartwell told all. Had to, of course, since I was to take his place. But, quite frankly, Lydia, I was shocked to learn that you believed such a stratagem was necessary.”

“Oh dear. I suppose it does seem rather foolish.” More foolish than he would ever know.

“Indeed it does. I cannot imagine you have to work so hard to make some worthless chap take notice of you.”

“Worthless? You do not even know who he is.”

“Then tell me. It will make this easier if I know the object of this game.”

“No, I’d rather not tell who he is.” She’d rather die.

“It doesn’t matter. I know who he is.”

Panic prickled the back of her neck. “You do not. You can’t know.”

“I can and I do. He is an undeserving moron, that’s who he is. If he needs encouragement to notice your beauty, your charm, your wit, then he is certainly not worthy of you.”

His words sent a powerful yearning rushing through her veins. Did he mean it, truly mean it, or was he simply using flattery to squirm out of taking part in this fool’s errand?

“Does the fellow show an interest in some other young woman perhaps?”

“No one in particular, as far as I know.”

“And he pays you no notice whatsoever?”

She shrugged. “Very little. Or, at least not in … in that way.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t notice her, or that he ignored her. No, he was well acquainted with her. They had known each other for years, as he was one of Daniel’s closest friends. That was, perhaps, the problem. He treated her just as Daniel did, as a sister. Or worse. She sometimes wondered if he was even aware that she was female. He never looked at her as certain other gentlemen did, with a spark of interest in his eye, or the slightest hint of desire.

Yet, whenever she saw him, for her it was all spark and desire. Among her brother’s friends, Geoffrey was the only one who made her so thoroughly aware of his … maleness. She never much noticed how other men’s pantaloons stretched taut across a well-muscled thigh, or the impressive set of shoulders beneath their tight-fitting coats. But she had been noticing such things about Geoffrey for several years. The sight of him had been making her warm all over since long before she understood what it meant.

“Hmm.” His brow furrowed as he studied her. “And so I am to make this chap jealous?”

No sense in denying what he already knew. Maybe there was still hope for this scheme after all, even if it had been turned topsy-turvy. “That is what Philip and Daniel suggested, and Philip agreed to do it. They said that nothing piques a man’s interest in a young lady like seeing another man shower his attentions on her, especially if that man is generally known for avoiding such things, for keeping himself above any potential entanglement.” She tried to sound blasé but her cheeks flushed with warmth.

“Well, then, I am your man.” He slapped a hand against his chest. “I have never singled out any woman, publicly or privately, so if I am seen acting the mooncalf over you, it will certainly be noticed. Ah, the dance is about to begin. Pay attention, my girl. Observe my uncanny ability to make everyone here believe I am madly in love with you.”

And he did. He even made her believe it. He never took his eyes off her, except for those moments when the steps required him to link arms or hands with another man’s partner. At all other times, his gaze never left her. Sometimes it was so intense, locked so ardently with hers that she almost felt as though they were alone on the dance floor.

It was all perfectly glorious. Except, of course, that it was not real. He was merely play-acting, and doing a splendid job of it.

When the second dance of the set was about to begin, Geoffrey led her out of the line. “Parched, did you say? Then by all means allow me to procure you a restorative glass of chilled champagne.” Lowering his voice, he said, “Let us find the refreshment room and make our plans for the rest of the evening.”

Ever the proper gentleman, Geoffrey first located her mother and told her where he was taking Lydia. She looked puzzled — it was the first set, after all, and had so far not been lively enough to have worked up much of a thirst — but nodded her approval. One small ante-room had been set aside for light refreshments and, as it was still early in the evening, it was almost empty of guests. Geoffrey led her to a table in a corner, then flagged down a footman who brought them glasses of champagne. She had not often partaken of the pale sparkly wine, and smiled when the bubbles tickled her nose, which made Geoffrey laugh. She had been too nervous to eat before the ball, so even a few sips had her feeling slightly giddy. Maybe the champagne would help her get through this odd evening, allow her to enjoy the ridiculous situation instead of walking around in alternate states of confusion and panic.

“How am I doing so far?” he asked.

“You are playing the part beautifully, Mr Danforth.”

“Excellent. Has he noticed?”

“Who?”

“The man I am trying to make jealous, of course.”

“Oh. I … I am not certain.”

“I say, Lydia,” he said, his brow furrowed into a frown, “you had better tell me who the chap is. How am I to make sure he sees me mooning after you? In fact, I believe this whole scheme is doomed to failure unless I know its object. So, tell me. What lucky man has stolen your heart?”

Suddenly the bubbles in her stomach had nothing to do with champagne. Who was she to name? Should she simply look him straight in the eye and tell him that he was the one he was supposed to make jealous? That he was the one whose attention she wanted so badly that she had resorted to such desperate measures?

No, she couldn’t possibly confess the truth. It would be too mortifying for both of them. But what to do? She must name someone. The doors of the ante-room were open so that she could see into the ballroom. Just then, she caught sight of the infamous rake Lord Tennison leaning against a pillar and shamelessly leering at Lady Dunholme’s impressive bosom.

A fraction of a second later, before her brain could tell her how absurd it was and stop her from making an even greater fool of herself, she blurted his name. “Lord Tennison.”

Geoffrey’s jaw dropped and he glared for a moment in wide-eyed disbelief. “Good God. You can’t be serious.”

In for a penny, in for a pound. She drew herself up and said, “I’m quite serious. I find him exceedingly charming. And handsome.”

He stared at her as though she’d lost her mind. Which wasn’t far from the truth. “But you have no idea what he is, my girl. Trust me, Lydia, he is not the man for you.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really. He is a … a …”

“A rake. I know. That’s what makes him so—” she smiled dreamily and gave a little shiver “—exciting.”

Geoffrey narrowed his eyes. “Exciting, eh? That’s what you’re looking for?”

“Yes, why not?”

“I don’t know. It just doesn’t sound like you, Lydia.”

“Perhaps, sir, you do not know me as well as you think. Besides, who wants a dull, respectable gentleman who offers little more than a lifetime of tedium and propriety? A woman wants a man who makes her feel …”

“Desirable?”

Heat rose in her cheeks, but she soldiered on. “Yes, desirable. Is that so wrong?”

A corner of his mouth twitched upwards. “Not a bit. Tennison certainly knows how to do that, as he’s been openly desiring women for years. He is quite a bit older than you, of course, but I don’t suppose that signifies.”

“I like a mature man.”

“I do not doubt it.” The twitch became a full-blown grin. Was he mocking her? Did he guess that Lord Tennison was a ruse?

“Well, my girl, you have given me a formidable assignment. However, I shall do my best to see that Tennison not only notices you, but is overcome with jealousy. He will be falling at your feet by the end of this evening, I assure you.”

Oh dear. She wondered if she was in over her head, but was not inclined to turn craven just yet.

“Here’s what I will do,” Geoffrey said, keeping his voice low even though there were only a few other people in the ante-room with them, and no one close enough to overhear. Did he do that deliberately? Did he employ that low, smoky tone because he knew it unnerved her? “I have been seen dancing with you. Now I will be seen not dancing with anyone else. I shall linger about making calf’s eyes at you while you dance with other men. And I shall not dance at all until the supper dance, when I shall lead you out again. Remember, you must save that dance for me. We’ll be cosy over supper and make sure Tennison sees. Does that sound like a good plan to you?”

“It sounds brilliant. I will watch for those calf’s eyes.”

His expression softened, his eyebrows lifted and his eyes filled with a sort of woebegone yearning. Then his shoulders sagged as he gave a heartbreaking sigh, and Lydia burst out laughing. He was the very picture of a young boy in the throes of his first infatuation. “Do not overdo it, sir, I beg you. No one would believe it of you.”

He cast off the moonstruck look and was himself again. “You think not? You think no one would believe I could fall in love?”

“Oh, I believe you could fall in love.” She pinned all her hopes on it, in fact. “But I daresay it would never be a simple schoolboy’s passion with you.”

“You are quite right, my girl.” He laid his hand over hers. “I am no longer a boy. It will be a much more complex experience for me. When I fall in love it will be deeply and completely and for ever.”

It was her turn to sigh. How she wished she could be the object of such a love. His love.

He rose and took Lydia’s hand to help her from the chair, then kissed it. “For luck,” he said and led her back to her mother.

For the next hour and more, Lydia danced with other gentlemen. Her mother encouraged her to accept the attentions of each of them, as it was her fondest hope to see Lydia engaged by the season’s end. It was, after all, her second season. One more and she would be edging closer towards bona fide spinsterhood. Frankly, if she could not have Geoffrey, she would as soon be a spinster. It was not in her nature to settle for second best.

It was a heady experience to watch Geoffrey gaze at her across the room as though he could not tear his eyes from her. She could at least pretend it was real, couldn’t she? Or was it worse to know what it would feel like to have him look at her with love in his eyes than never to have known it at all? Was she setting herself up for disappointment and heartbreak?

Others noticed Geoffrey’s obvious attention. Her friend Daphne Hughes pulled her aside and peppered her with questions, certain that Lydia was hiding something from her. Worst of all, her mother noticed. “I cannot fathom what has come over him,” she said. “It’s as though he suddenly realized what a beauty you are. I won’t quibble over it, though. He’d be a fine catch for you, my dear. With your glossy dark curls and his golden hair, you will make a stunning couple.”

Her maternal hopes were encouraged when Geoffrey came to claim her for the supper dance — a waltz, no less. She positively beamed when he led her daughter on to the floor.

“You might want to ease up on the calf’s eyes, Mr Danforth,” she whispered. “My mother is getting ideas.”

“Is she? Well, that only plays right into our plans, does it not? If my blatant attentions are seen to meet with Mrs Bettridge’s approval, then we have Tennison exactly where we want him: very much aware that another man desires you. Look, he has just led out Mrs Wadsworth for the waltz. Let’s move a bit closer to them so he won’t miss the way my rapt gaze drinks in the perfection of your bosom.”

The music began before she could respond, and soon she forgot all about his impertinence. His hand was warm at her waist and, as her hand rested upon his shoulder, she could feel the strength of his muscles beneath the fine velvet of his jacket. He moved with such grace and confidence that she barely had to think about where to put her feet. His lead was sure.

It might just be the nearest she would ever come to being held in his arms. She closed her eyes and relished the moment.

“Tired?” he asked. “You have danced every dance. You will no doubt welcome the respite of supper.”

“Hmm,” she said, meaning: I will welcome any time I can spend with you, but especially twirling about the floor in your arms. She opened her eyes, looked directly into his, and hoped he might somehow read her thoughts.

“You are playing your part very well, too, Lydia. I swear you look as besotted as I do. And don’t look now, but Tennison is actually paying attention. Our ploy has worked. His eyes are all for you, my girl.” He muttered something else under his breath but she couldn’t be sure what it was.

He pressed his hand against the back of her waist and pulled her a fraction closer.

Lydia supposed she ought to glance over at Lord Tennison now and then, just to maintain the charade, but she only had eyes for one man, and she was dancing with him. The sheer bliss of the waltz ended too soon, and as it was the supper dance it was a short set. Geoffrey kept his hand lightly on her back as he led her into the supper room.

He guided her to a small table meant for two, and surreptitiously winked when Lord Tennison and Mrs Wadsworth took an adjacent table. Geoffrey placed her with her back to the other couple, then leaned down and said, “He shot an interested glance in your direction. He is most definitely intrigued. Let’s see if we can keep it that way.” He grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing footman. “I shall go fill a couple of plates from the buffet. Don’t you dare let another chap take my seat.” He grinned and walked away towards the tables set out like groaning boards.

She realized she was starving, as she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She’d been nervous all day, but now she was surprisingly calm, despite the rather startling turn of events. How strange to think that she had come tonight hoping to make him jealous and perhaps to see her in a different light, and instead …

But wait a moment. That was still her ultimate objective, was it not? To make him see her as a woman, a desirable woman worthy of a man’s attention. It was possible that all the play-acting had forced him to see her differently. Was that enough?

When this scheme had been hatched, it was because men were supposedly susceptible to jealousy. It had come about on a dreary, rainy day too wet to do anything out of doors. Daniel and his friend Philip Hartwell had been sprawled upon the drawing room sofas, bored to tears and itching to be out and about. With nothing else to do, they had deigned to spend time in her company — a novelty as she was five years younger than Daniel, the little sister only occasionally tolerated. They had been talking of the Erskine ball and who they might dance with or whether they should simply haunt the card room. Philip had asked Lydia about her friend Daphne Hughes and if she would be attending. She was quite sure he had a tendre for Daphne, though he would never admit to it. He asked Lydia whom she was hoping to dance with, and soon both he and Daniel were teasing her about several gentlemen. The gloomy day had affected her mood and she told them, rather snappily, that she did not care tuppence for any of those men, that the only man she cared about didn’t know she was alive.

That confession had set them off. They begged his name but she refused to tell and soon wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Eventually, they both dropped their teasing, especially Daniel who seemed genuinely concerned that his sister’s heart was in danger of being broken. The two young men commiserated over ways she might attract the unnamed gentleman, but it had all seemed horribly embarrassing and she had more or less ignored their advice.

Until, that is, they had struck upon the notion of making the man jealous. That had seemed a more logical approach, especially as they cited several romances where jealousy had turned the tide. As the Erskine ball approached, she’d become less sanguine about the plan they’d concocted, but the idea of jealousy as a means of encouragement still held a ring of truth for her. Upon consideration, Lydia decided the original plan ought not to be completely discarded just yet.

She looked up to see Lord Tennison returning to the adjacent table with a plate of food. He was tall and lean, and quite fit for a man of his age, which must be at least thirty-five. He was dark-haired and dark-eyed, his face chiselled into sharp planes and angles. His eyes were heavy-lidded and his lips were more often than not curled into a seductive leer. Lord Tennison was considered a dangerous man, with an unsavoury reputation and no honour where women were concerned. Yet, he was an infamous rake with many high-born conquests, so clearly a good number of females were drawn to him. He was still handsome, in a world-weary sort of way, but he held no appeal for Lydia. His dark, swarthy looks were the antithesis of Geoffrey’s golden beauty. She had, however, named him, and so she might as well make use of him.

She caught his eye and smiled. He paused, arched an eyebrow, then returned her smile. “Miss Bettridge. You are looking remarkably pretty this evening.”

His gaze flickered momentarily down to her bosom, which seemed to be generating inordinate interest tonight. She hadn’t minded Geoffrey admiring her figure, or even the other gentlemen she’d danced with, but Lord Tennison’s open appraisal made her decidedly uncomfortable. She was tempted to reach down and tug up the bodice, but decided that the rather daring neckline served her purpose. When Tennison’s eyes once again met hers, she broadened her smile, leaned ever so slightly forwards, giving him a better view, and batted her eyelashes. Once. Twice. But no more. She hoped to appear provocative, not silly. “Thank you, My Lord. It is kind of you to say so.”

He regarded her more closely, with a sort of melting warmth, and all at once she could understand how so many women had fallen under his spell. With nothing more than the look in his eye, he made her feel as though he’d touched her in a shockingly intimate manner, and while other more sophisticated women might welcome such a look, Lydia did not like it at all. To maintain her pretence, though, she dropped her gaze demurely and batted her eyelashes once more.

“Kindness had nothing to do with it,” he said in a lazy drawl. “I merely spoke the truth. See here, is someone getting you a plate? Or would you allow me the honour of doing so?”

“Someone has already done so, Tennison.”

She hadn’t seen Geoffrey approach, but the timing could not have been more perfect. His furious expression was an encouraging sign. Lydia put on her very best smile and turned to Lord Tennison. “Thank you so much for asking, My Lord. Perhaps some other time?”

“I look forward to it,” he said, glancing at Geoffrey with a gleam of mockery in his eye before returning to Mrs Wadsworth.

Geoffrey put a plate of food in front of Lydia and took his seat. His scowl was one of the sweetest things she’d ever seen. He really was jealous. At least, that is what she hoped. Maybe he was just angry, and feeling protective of Daniel’s sister.

“Dammit, Lydia, you truly are determined to have that scoundrel woo you?”

“I have said so, have I not? And I must say, Mr Danforth, that peevish look on your face does not signal that you are wooing me, which, you may recall, is the plan.”

He gave a resigned shrug. “Right you are. I must not forget my role.”

“It must be working, don’t you think? Did you see the way he looked at me?”

“Humph. How could I not? Ah, but you should see the way Eugenia Wadsworth is looking at you. Do you feel her daggers in your back?”

Lydia laughed. “Is she jealous, do you think? Of me?” It boosted her confidence to think that the beautiful, fashionable widow would see her as competition.

“Apparently,” he muttered, “jealousy is the name of the game tonight.”

Better and better, she thought. It was all going according to plan. The revised plan, anyway.

“Well, I really do not care about Mrs Wadsworth,” she said, and fluttered her fingers in a dismissive gesture. “It is Lord Tennison who concerns me. We are to make him jealous, in case you have forgotten.”

Geoffrey tore his gaze from the other couple and returned his attention to Lydia with a smile so beguiling it poured over her like warm honey. Thank heaven she was seated.

“I have not forgotten. Let us resume our performance. Can I tempt you with something to eat?”

She noticed, for the first time, the plate in front of her. Besides the sliced ham, lobster patty and pickled mango, there was a small pile of the tiniest strawberries. “Oh, strawberries!” She popped one in her mouth and it was like the richest of sweetmeats. She closed her eyes and savoured it. She was very much afraid she’d actually moaned with pleasure. When she opened her eyes, Geoffrey was studying her intently with an expression she could not immediately identify. Could it be … hunger? The air in her lungs suddenly felt thin, starving her of breath. She held another strawberry in her fingers, but could not seem to lift it to her mouth.

“I remembered about the strawberries,” he said, his eyes locked with hers.

“Hmm?”

“That picnic at your aunt’s home in Richmond. You almost became sick from eating too many wild strawberries. You fell back on the blanket and said there was no better way to die.”

Her heart gave a little skitter in her chest. “You … You remembered that?”

“Of course. You looked so charmingly … sated.”

He took her hand and lifted the berry to her mouth. When she took it, her lips touched his bare fingers, for he had removed his gloves for supper, and the brief taste of his skin overwhelmed even the strawberry. He watched intently as she ate it and then licked her lips to capture every hint of flavour left behind. She watched him watch her and, all at once, with their gazes locked, she sensed a new connection between them, something deeper and full of understanding, through eyes and lips and fingers, and the sweet scent of ripe strawberries enveloping them. It felt so right. And very real — at least for her.

Please, please let this not be entirely an act for him.

He leaned back and the moment ended. He grinned, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, while she reeled as though the earth had moved.

“You might try the lobster cakes,” he said. “They are devilish good.”

“I’m not very hungry.”

“Even for more strawberries?” He waved his fork over the remaining pile.

She shook her head. She might never eat again. But she could happily sit there and watch him dine. Or watch him do anything. Dear God, she was lost to him.

And yet he merely play-acted.

While he ate and she pushed her food around the plate, they spoke of ordinary things, of friends and family, books and plays, and a dozen other mundane topics. All the while, though, Geoffrey kept up the pretence of infatuation, touching her, smiling boldly, staring at her with those splendid blue eyes. Anyone watching would assume they were in love. He was a fine actor. She teased him about treading the boards if he somehow lost his inheritance.

“Some roles are easier than others,” he said. “I confess I am enjoying this one.”

Most of the guests were still dining when Lord Tennison and Mrs Wadsworth left the room. She watched the rakish nobleman with feigned interest. “What are we to do now?” she asked. “We cannot dance a third set together without causing gossip, not to mention giving my mother palpitations. How shall we proceed with our plan? Or perhaps Lord Tennison is leaving the ball? Oh dear.” She infused her voice with disappointment.

Geoffrey turned slightly to watch the departing couple. “No, they are not leaving. They are going out the terrace doors.”

“Oh. Do you think we should follow them?”

“A capital suggestion, my girl. Let’s go ogle each other in the moonlight. Nothing could appear more romantic.”

She felt many pairs of eyes on them as they left the supper room. No doubt tongues would be wagging as soon as they were out of sight. “Are you certain this is wise?” she whispered. “I fear people may get the wrong idea.”

“That is the point, is it not? To make one particular person get the wrong idea?” He patted her hand where it rested on his arm. “Do not vex yourself, Lydia. Taking a bit of air after supper with your brother’s best friend is no scandalous thing. Trust me, no one will care.”

She hoped he was right. She would hate for a general expectation to arise, forcing him into a situation he did not want, even if she wanted it desperately.

When they reached the terrace, Lydia saw Lord Tennison in a far corner, standing very close to Mrs Wadsworth. It looked as though they might have just ended a kiss, and Lydia turned away, embarrassed. Geoffrey led her to the opposite corner. He stood with his back to the balustrade and pulled her gently to his side so that she faced the garden. It was a beautiful, clear, temperate evening. The stars were out in force and the moon almost full, the air redolent of lilac and horse chestnut. It was the perfect setting for romance, with the perfect man at her side. If only …

He took her hand and discreetly held it behind him so that no one looking out from the ballroom could see. Neither could Lord Tennison, if he bothered to look, so she wondered why Geoffrey did it. She wanted to believe it was for himself and not for the sake of their ruse, but she tried not to get her hopes up. Though both were gloved now, she nevertheless felt the warmth of his fingers, especially when he began sketching lazy circles on her palm.

“I think we need to up the game a bit,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“If Tennison is the man you want, you must be prepared to play at his level. He is a man of the world, as you know, with a great deal of experience.”

“With women.”

“Yes. A great many women.”

“And you think I am no match for all those other women? That he may find my youth and inexperience tiresome?”

He reached up and stroked her cheek. “You are more than worthy of any man’s attention, my girl. To be perfectly honest, I don’t think he is worthy of your attention. I may not like him, but it is not my place to judge your heart’s desire. If he is the one you want, then I am here to help you win him. But, because he is so worldly, I suspect a few dances and moonstruck gazes are not enough to incite his jealousy. Tennison is a bold choice, Lydia, and you must be bold to win him.”

A frisson of anticipation skittered down her spine. “What did you have in mind?”

“Come with me,” he said. Keeping hold of her hand, he guided her to the steps leading down from the terrace.

“Where are we going?”

He merely smiled and led her into the garden, where gravel pathways were lit by paper lanterns hanging from trees. “I don’t understand,” she said. “How can we make Lord Tennison jealous if he can’t even see us?”

He’d stopped at a stone bench tucked among the shrubbery. “It’s what he will see when we return,” he said, and pulled her to sit down beside him. Very close beside him.

“What will he see?”

“A woman who has been thoroughly kissed.”

And there, bathed in the lush scent of a nearby lilac tree and the silvery light of the brilliant moon, he kissed her. Tenderly, at first. His hand spread against the back of her head, angling his mouth over hers, while his other hand settled low on her back.

She did not care if he did this merely to provoke another man, she was in his arms and he was kissing her — it was what she had always wanted, her every dream and fantasy. And, by God, she was going to take advantage of the moment. She kissed him back for all she was worth, twining her arms around his neck and pressing her body against his.

She felt the thumping of his heart beneath his shirt and waistcoat, or perhaps it was her own heartbeat. She could no longer distinguish his heart from hers. They were as one, synchronized, merged, united.

He parted her lips with a gentle nudging from his own, and all at once the kiss became lush and full and potently carnal as his tongue began an urgent twirling dance with her own. Good God, what was he doing to her? It was like nothing she had ever experienced or could even have imagined. It was earth-shaking, soul-shattering — a kiss filled with hunger and tenderness, with promise and desire. She melted into it, allowing him to draw her tongue deeper into his mouth, and everything within her dissolved into molten liquid.

They kissed and kissed for what might have been hours or mere moments. When he finally lifted his head, he murmured her name. “Lydia, ah, sweet Lydia.” He skated his lips along her jaw to the hollow beneath her ear. Unprepared for the intense sensation his lips wrought on that particular spot — she’d had no idea it was so wonderfully sensitive — she caught her breath on a gasp and shivered with almost unbearable pleasure. She arched her neck in shameless invitation as his mouth moved lower. His lips parted and the velvety tip of his tongue against her flushed neck sent ripples of pure bliss shimmering along every inch of her skin. The jumble of new sensations was so dazzling that all rational thought vanished. A moan rose from the back of her throat. She gasped his name, over and over, while kneading his back and shoulders with restless desire.

The sound of his name seemed to renew his passion, for he brought his lips back to hers and plundered her mouth again, almost savagely. She responded with equal hunger, and they kissed until her head swam in a sort of dark, sensual haze.

When they finally broke the kiss, she leaned her forehead against his, her breath ragged and her heart in turmoil. “Geoffrey? Is this real? Or are we still play-acting?”

“Does it seem like play-acting to you?”

“No. Oh, I don’t know! You have my mind all in a whirl. I don’t know what to think.”

He lifted his head and gazed into her eyes. “Sweet Lydia, I have a confession to make.”

“Oh?”

“Hartwell was not detained, and he did not ask me to replace him tonight in your little scheme.”

“He didn’t?”

“No, I asked him. In fact, I all but begged him to allow me to take his place. When he told me of your plans, I knew I wanted to be the one to play the lovesick fool.”

“But why?”

“So I would have a good excuse to do this.” And he kissed her again. “And this.” He trailed his lips along her jaw and down her throat. “And this.” His tongue dipped into the cleavage of her bosom while one finger slipped inside the lace at her neckline until it found her nipple, just barely covered by her stays. She uttered a moan of shocked pleasure as he teased it.

“Oh God, Lydia.” His voice was raw and breathless. “We must stop.”

She buried her face in the crook of his neck. “This is real, then? You are kissing me because you want to and not because of Lord Tennison?”

“I have wanted to kiss you for ages, Lydia. And the devil take Tennison. Surely you do not really want him, do you? Would you give me a chance instead?”

She threw her head back and laughed for joy. “Silly man. Of course I do not want that odious Lord Tennison. I have a confession, too, you know. What I told Daniel and Philip was true. I was indeed pining away for someone who never noticed me, and they really did help me contrive a plan to make that someone jealous. But it was not Lord Tennison, it was you.”

“Me? I had assumed it was Garthwaite or Lonsdale or any of a number of eligible gentlemen — but when you named Tennison, I began to have my doubts. I knew you were up to something, and I dared to hope it might involve me.”

“Wretched man! You knew all along I had lied about Lord Tennison?”

“Of course I did. You would never be attracted to such a jaded libertine. But you did give me pause in the supper room, when you flirted with him. You see, your scheme worked after all. I was seething with jealousy! Though I didn’t need that ploy to make me notice you. I’ve been noticing you since you gave up plaits and put your hair up.”

“Truly? I had no idea. I thought you entirely indifferent to me. You never hinted otherwise.”

“Because I was convinced you disliked me. With all Daniel’s other friends, you were fun and lively. With me, you always seemed a bit cool. But still, I found you irresistible.”

“Oh no, you resisted me quite easily! If I seemed aloof, it was because I was afraid to reveal how I truly felt.”

“And how is that?”

“I have loved you forever, I think.”

“And I love you, Lydia. With all my heart.”

“Deeply and completely?” she teased, throwing his words back at him, hoping he had meant them.

He laughed, took her face in his hands, and stroked his thumbs along the line of her jaw. “Deeply and completely. What fools we have been, eh? Each of us secretly pining after the other. We must name our first child after Hartwell for hatching the scheme that finally brought us together.”

She smiled at the implication of his words, and was tilting her mouth up for another kiss when a shriek from the shrubbery interrupted them.

“Lydia! What on earth are you about?”

Dear God, it was her mother. She looked anxiously at Geoffrey, who kissed her hand and rose from the bench.

“Not to worry, Mrs Bettridge. Miss Lydia and I have come to an understanding. I trust you will forgive us for behaving improperly, but we were too excited and happy to resist a kiss or two.”

“Well.” Her mother frowned, but she did not fool Lydia. She was surely thrilled beyond measure. “I suppose one must forgive high spirits at such a time. You will, naturally, call upon Mr Bettridge tomorrow.”

“You may tell him to expect me.”

“Good. In the meantime, Lydia, come with me. You must not been seen coming out of the garden with Mr Danforth, regardless of his intentions. People will talk, you know. Come along now.”

Her mother linked arms with her and walked towards the house. Lydia cast one last, longing look at Geoffrey before following her mother out of the garden and up the terrace steps.

“Well, my dear.” Her mother gave her arm a fond squeeze. “What an interesting evening you have had. Aren’t you glad Philip Hartwell didn’t show up for that first set?”

“I have never been so glad of anything in all my life.”

And she would thank him for it — for staying inside on a rainy day, for explaining the male psyche, for concocting a most excellent plan and for giving up his role in it. But mostly, for helping her to achieve her heart’s desire. At long last.

Upon a Midnight Clear

Anna Campbell

North Yorkshire — December 1826

The crash of shattering wood and the terrified screams of horses sliced through the frosty night like a knife.

Sebastian Sinclair, Earl of Kinvarra, swore, brought his restive mount under control, then spurred the nervous animal around the turn in the snowy road. With cold clarity, the full moon shone on the white landscape, and starkly revealed the disaster before him.

A flashy black curricle lay on its side in a ditch, the hood up against the weather. One horse had broken free and wandered along the roadway, its harness dragging. The other plunged in the traces, struggling to escape.

Swiftly Kinvarra dismounted — knowing his mare would await his signal — and dashed to free the distressed horse. As he slid down the icy ditch, a hatless man scrambled out of the smashed curricle.

“Are you hurt?” Kinvarra asked, casting a quick eye over him.

“No, I thank you, sir.” The effete blond fellow turned to the carriage. “Come, darling. Let me assist you.”

A graceful black-gloved hand extended from inside and a cloaked woman emerged with more aplomb than Kinvarra would have thought possible in the circumstances. Indications were that neither traveller was injured, so he concentrated on the trapped horse. When he spoke soothingly to the animal, the terrified beast quieted to panting stillness, exhausted from its thrashing. While Kinvarra checked the horse, murmuring calm assurances throughout, the stranger helped the lady up to the roadside.

With a shrill whinny, the horse shook itself and jumped up to trot along the road towards its partner. Neither beast seemed to suffer worse than fright, a miracle considering that the curricle was beyond repair.

“Madam, are you injured?” Kinvarra asked as he climbed up the ditch. He stuck his riding crop under his arm and brushed his gloved hands together to knock the clinging snow from them. It was a hellishly cold night.

The woman kept her head down. From shock? From shyness? For the sake of propriety? Perhaps he’d stumbled on some elopement or clandestine meeting.

“Madam?” he asked again, more sharply.

“Sweeting?” The yellow-haired fop bent to peer into the shadows cast by the hood. “Are you sure you’re unharmed? Speak, my dove. Your silence strikes a chill to my soul.”

While Kinvarra digested the man’s outlandish phrasing, the woman stiffened and drew away. “For heaven’s sake, Harold, you’re not giving a recitation at a musicale.” With an unmistakably impatient gesture, she flung back the hood and glared straight at Kinvarra.

Even though he’d identified her the moment she spoke, he found himself staring dumbstruck into her face — a piquant, vivid, pointed face under an untidy tumble of luxuriant gold hair.

He wheeled on the pale fellow. “What the devil are you doing with my wife?”

Alicia Sinclair, Countess of Kinvarra, was bruised and angry and uncomfortable and horribly embarrassed. And not long past the choking terror she had felt when the carriage toppled.

Even so, her heart launched into the wayward dance it always performed at the merest sight of Sebastian.

She’d been married for eleven long years. She disliked her husband more than any other man in the world. But nothing prevented her gaze from clinging helplessly to every line of that narrow, intense face with its high cheekbones, long, arrogant nose and sharply angled jaw.

Damn him to Hades, he was still the most magnificent creature she’d ever beheld.

Such a pity his soul was as black as his glittering eyes.

“After all this time, I’m flattered you still recognize me, My Lord,” she said silkily.

“Lord Kinvarra, this is a surprise,” Harold stammered. “You must wonder what I’m doing here with the lady …”

Oh, Harold, act the man, even if the hero is beyond your reach. Kinvarra doesn’t care enough about me to kill you, however threatening he seems now.

Although even the most indifferent husband took it ill when his wife chose a lover. Kinvarra wouldn’t mistake what Alicia was doing out here. She stifled a rogue pang of guilt. Curse Kinvarra, she had absolutely nothing to feel guilty about.

“I’ve recalled your existence every quarter these past ten years, my love,” her husband said equally smoothly, ignoring Harold’s appalled interjection. The faint trace of Scottish brogue in his deep voice indicated his temper. His breath formed white clouds on the frigid air. “I’m perforce reminded when I pay your allowance, only to receive sinfully little return.”

“That warms the cockles of my heart,” she sniped, not backing down.

She refused to cower like a wet hen before his banked anger. He sounded reasonable, calm, controlled, but she had no trouble reading fury in the tension across his broad shoulders or in the way his powerful hands opened and closed at his sides.

“Creatures of ice have no use for a heart. Does this paltry fellow know he risks frostbite in your company?”

She steeled herself against the taunting remark. Kinvarra couldn’t hurt her now. He hadn’t been able to hurt her since she’d left him. Any twinge she experienced was just because she was vulnerable after the accident. That was all. It wasn’t because this man could still needle her emotions.

“My Lord, I protest,” Harold said, shocked, and fortunately sounding less like a frightened sheep than before. “The lady is your wife. Surely she merits your chivalry.”

Harold had never seen her with her husband, and some reluctant and completely misplaced loyalty to Kinvarra meant she’d never explained why she and the earl lived apart. The fiction was that the earl and his countess were polite strangers who, by design, rarely met.

Poor Harold, he was about to discover the truth was that the earl and his countess loathed each other.

“Like hell she does,” Kinvarra muttered, casting her an incendiary glance from under long dark eyelashes.

Alicia was human enough to wish the bright moonlight didn’t reveal quite so much of her husband’s seething rage. But the fate that proved cruel enough to fling them together, tonight of all nights, wasn’t likely to heed her pleas.

“Do you intend to introduce me to your cicisbeo?” Kinvarra’s voice remained quiet. She’d learned that was when he was at his most dangerous.

Dear God, did he intend to shoot Harold after all?

Surely not. Foul as Kinvarra had been to her, he’d never shown her a moment’s violence. Her hands clenched in her skirts as fear tightened her throat. Kinvarra was a crack shot and a famous swordsman. Harold wouldn’t stand a chance.

“My Lord, I protest the description,” Harold bleated, sidling back to evade assault.

Was it too much to wish that her suitor would stand up to the scoundrel she’d married as a stupid chit of seventeen? Alicia drew a deep breath and reminded herself that she favoured Lord Harold Fenton precisely because he wasn’t an overbearing brute like her husband, the earl. Harold was a scholar and a poet, a man of the mind. She should consider it a sign of Harold’s intelligence that he was wary right now.

But somehow her insistence didn’t convince her traitorous heart.

How she wished she really were the impervious creature Kinvarra called her. Then she’d be immune both to his insults and to the insidious attraction he aroused.

“My Lady?” Kinvarra asked, still in that even, frightening voice. “Who is this … gentleman?”

She stiffened her backbone. She was made of stronger stuff than this. Never would she let her husband guess he still had power over her. Her response was steady. “Lord Kinvarra, allow me to present Lord Harold Fenton.”

Harold performed a shaky bow. “My Lord.”

As he rose, a tense silence descended.

“Well, this is awkward,” Kinvarra said flatly, although she saw in his taut, dark face that his anger hadn’t abated one whit.

“I don’t see why,” Alicia snapped.

It wasn’t just her husband who tried her temper. There was her lily-livered lover and the perishing cold. The temperature must have dropped ten degrees in the last five minutes. She shivered, then silently cursed that Kinvarra noticed and Harold didn’t. Harold was too busy staring at her husband the way a mouse stares at an adder.

“Do you imagine I’m so sophisticated, I’ll ignore discovering you in the arms of another man? My dear, you do me too much credit.”

She stifled the urge to consign him to Hades. “If you’ll put aside your bruised vanity for the moment, you’ll see we merely require you to ride to the nearest habitation and request help. Then you and I can return to acting like complete strangers, My Lord.”

He laughed and she struggled to suppress the shiver of sensual awareness that rippled down her spine at that soft, deep sound. “Some things haven’t changed, I see. You’re still dishing out orders. And I’m still damned if I’ll play your obedient lapdog.”

“Can you see another solution?” she asked sweetly.

“Yes,” he said with a snap of his straight white teeth. “I can leave you to freeze. Not that you’d probably notice.”

Her pride insisted that she send him on his way with a flea in his ear. The weather — and what common sense she retained under the anger that always flared in Kinvarra’s proximity — prompted her to be conciliatory.

It was late. She and Harold hadn’t passed anyone on this isolated road. The grim truth was that if Kinvarra didn’t help, they were stranded until morning. And while she was dressed in good thick wool, she wasn’t prepared to endure a snowy night in the open. The chill of the road seeped through her fur-lined boots and she shifted, trying to revive feeling in her frozen feet.

“My Lord …” During the year they’d lived together, she’d called him Sebastian. During their few meetings since, she’d clung to formality as a barrier. “My Lord, there’s no point in quarrelling. Basic charity compels your assistance. I would consider myself in your debt if you fetch aid as quickly as possible.”

He arched one black eyebrow in a superior fashion that made her want to clout him. Not a new sensation. “Now that’s something I’d like to see,” he said.

“What?”

“Gratitude.”

He knew he had her at a disadvantage and he wasn’t likely to rise above that fact. She gritted her teeth. “It’s all I can offer.”

The smile that curved his lips was pure devilry. Another shiver ran through her. Like the last one, it was a shiver with no connection to the cold. “Your imagination fails you, my dear countess.”

Her throat closed with nerves — and that reluctant physical awareness she couldn’t ignore. He hadn’t shifted, yet suddenly she felt physically threatened. Which was ridiculous. During all their years apart, he’d given no indication he wanted anything from her except her absence. One chance meeting wasn’t likely to turn him into a medieval robber baron who spirited her away to his lonely tower.

Nonetheless, she had to resist stepping back. She knew from bitter experience that her only chance of handling him was to feign control. “What do you want?”

This time he did step closer, so his great height overshadowed her. Close enough for her to think that if she stretched out her hand, she’d touch that powerful chest, those wide shoulders. “I want …”

There was a piercing whinny and a sudden pounding of hooves on the snow. Appalled, disbelieving, Alicia turned to see Harold galloping away on one of the carriage horses.

“Harold?”

Her voice faded to nothing in the night. He didn’t slow his wild careening departure. She’d been so engrossed in her battle with Kinvarra, she hadn’t even noticed that Harold had caught one of the stray horses.

Kinvarra’s low laugh was scornful. “Oh, my dear. Commiserations. Your swain proves a sad disappointment. I wonder if he’s fleeing my temper or yours. You really have no luck in love, have you?”

She was too astonished to be upset at Harold’s departure. Instead she focused on Kinvarra. Her voice was hard. “No luck in husbands, at any rate.”

Kinvarra suffered Alicia’s hate-filled regard and wondered what the hell he was going to do with his troublesome wife in this wilderness. The insolent baggage deserved to be left where she stood, but even he, who owed her repayment for numerous slights over the years, wouldn’t do that to her.

It seemed he had no choice but to help.

Not that she’d thank him. He had no illusions that once she’d got what she wanted — a warm bed, a roof over her head and a decent meal — she’d forget any promises of gratitude.

In spite of the punishing cold, heat flooded him as he briefly let himself imagine Alicia’s gratitude. She’d shed that heavy red cloak. She’d let down that mass of gold hair until it tumbled around her shoulders. Then she’d kiss him as if she didn’t hate him and she’d …

From long habit, he stopped himself. Such fantasies had sustained him the first year of their separation, but he’d learned for sanity’s sake to control them since. Now they only troubled him after his rare meetings with his wife.

This was the longest time he and Alicia had spent together in years. It should remind him why he avoided her company. Instead, it reminded him that she was the only woman who had ever challenged him, the only woman who had ever matched him in strength, the only woman he’d never been able to forget, desperately as he’d tried.

He smiled into her sulky, beautiful face. “It seems you’re stuck with me.”

How that must smart. The long ride to his Yorkshire manor on this cold night suddenly offered a myriad of pleasures, not least of which was a chance to knock a few chips off his wife’s pride.

She didn’t respond to his comment. Instead, with an unreadable expression, she stared after her absconding lover. “We’re only about five miles from Harold’s hunting lodge.”

The wench didn’t even try to lie about the assignation, blast her. “If he manages to stay on that horse, Horace should make it.” Fenton showed no great skill as a bareback rider. Kinvarra recognized the wish as unworthy, but he hoped the blackguard ended up on his rump in a hedgerow.

“Harold,” she said absently, drawing her cloak tight around her slender throat. “You could take me there.”

This time his laughter was unconstrained. She’d always had nerve, his wife, even when she’d been little more than a girl. “Be damned if you think I’m carting you off to cuckold me in comfort, madam.”

She sent him a cool look. “I’m thinking purely in terms of shelter, My Lord.”

“I’m sure,” he said cynically.

In spite of their lack of communication in recent years, he’d always known what she was up to. Since leaving him, she’d been remarkably chaste, which was one of the reasons he’d allowed the ridiculous separation to continue. Clearly living with him for a year had left her with no taste for bed sport.

Recent gossip had mentioned Lord Harold Fenton as a persistent suitor, but Kinvarra thought he knew her well enough to consider the second son of the Marquess of Preston poor competition. He should have listened.

Her taste had deteriorated in the last ten years. The man was a complete nonentity.

Perhaps one day she’d thank her husband for saving her from a disastrous mistake.

And the bleak and stony moor around them might suddenly sprout coconut palms.

“No, my love, your fate is sealed.” He slapped his riding crop against his boot and tilted his hat more securely on his head with an arrogant gesture designed to irritate her. “Horatio travels north. I travel south. Unless you intend to mount the other carriage horse or pursue the clodpole on foot, your direction is mine.”

“Does that mean you will help me?” This time, she didn’t bother correcting his deliberate misremembering of her lover’s name. She was lucky he didn’t call the blackguard Habakkuk and skewer his kidneys with a rapier. Alicia was his. No other damned rapscallion was going to steal her away. Especially a rapscallion who didn’t have the spine to stand up and fight for her.

Kinvarra strode across to his mare and snatched up the reins. “If you ask nicely.”

To his surprise, Alicia laughed. “Devil take you, Kinvarra.”

He swung into the saddle and urged the horse nearer to his wife. “Indubitably, my dear.”

Her cavalier attitude made it easier to deal with her, but it puzzled him. Her lover’s desertion hadn’t cast her down. If she didn’t care for the man, why choose him? Yet again, he realized how far he remained from understanding the complicated creature he’d wed with such high hopes eleven years ago.

He extended one black-gloved hand and noted her hesitation before she accepted his assistance. It was the first time he’d touched her since she’d left him and even through two layers of leather, he felt the shock of contact. She stiffened as though she too felt that sudden surge of attraction.

He’d always wanted her. That was part of the problem, God help them. He’d often asked himself if time would erode the attraction.

Just one touch of her hand and he received his unequivocal answer.

She swung on to the horse behind him and paused before she looped her arms around his waist. He’d always been cursed aware of her reactions and he couldn’t help but note her reluctance to touch him.

Good God, what was wrong with the woman? She’d been ready enough to do more than just touch that milksop Harold. Surely her husband deserved some warmth after offering assistance. With damned little encouragement too, he might add.

The mare curvetted under the double weight, but Kinvarra settled her with a word. He never had trouble with horses. It was his wife he couldn’t control.

“What about my belongings?” she asked, calm as you please. The lady should demonstrate proper shame at being caught with a lover. But, of course, that wasn’t Alicia. She held her head high whatever destiny threw at her.

It was one of the things he loved about her.

He quashed the unwelcome insight. “There’s an inn a few miles ahead. I’ll get them to send someone for any baggage.”

He clicked his tongue to the horse and cantered in the opposite direction to the one Harold had taken. Which was lucky for the weasel. If Kinvarra caught up with Harold now, he’d be inclined to drag out his horsewhip. What right had he to interfere with other men’s wives then scuttle away to leave them stranded?

Alicia settled herself more comfortably, pressing her lovely, lush body into his back. She hadn’t been as close to him in years. He was scoundrel enough to enjoy the contact, however reluctantly she granted it.

Maybe after all, he should be grateful to old Harold. He might even send the bastard a case of port and a thank you note.

Well, that might be going too far.

“Is that where we’re going?” She tightened her arms. He wished it was because she wanted to touch him and not just because she sought a firmer seat. He also wished that when she said “we”, his belly didn’t cramp with longing for the word to be true.

Damn Alicia. She’d always held magic for him and she always would. Ten long years without her had taught him that grim lesson.

The reminder of the dance she’d led him made him respond in a clipped tone. “No, we’re headed for Heseltine Hall near Whitby.”

“But you can leave me at the inn, can’t you?”

“It’s a poor place. I couldn’t abandon a woman there without protection.” He tried, he really did, to keep the satisfaction from his voice, but he must have failed. He felt her tense against his back, although she couldn’t pull too far away without risking a fall.

“But who’s going to protect me from you?” she muttered, almost as if to herself.

“I mean you no harm.” In all their difficult interactions, he’d never wished her anything but well. “You didn’t come all the way from London in that spindly carriage, did you?”

“It’s inappropriate to discuss the details of my arrangement with Lord Harold,” she said coldly.

He laughed again. “Humour me.”

She sighed. “We travelled up separately to York.” Her voice softened into sincerity and he tried not to respond to the husky sweetness. “I truly didn’t set out to cause a scandal. You and I parted in rancour, but I have no wish to do you or your pride damage.”

“Whatever your discretion, you still meant to give yourself to that puppy,” Kinvarra said, all amusement suddenly fled.

Alicia didn’t answer.

The weather had worsened by the time they reached the inn. Alicia realized as they came up to the building that it was indeed the rough place Kinvarra had described. But just the promise of shelter and a chance to rest her tired, sore body was welcome. Surely Kinvarra couldn’t intend to ride on to his mysterious manor tonight when snow fell thicker with every minute and their horse was blowing with exhaustion.

The earl dismounted and lifted her from the saddle. The flickering torches that lit the inn yard revealed that he looked tired and strangely, for a man who always seemed so indomitable, unhappy.

As he set her upon the ground, his hands didn’t linger at her waist. She tried not to note that she’d touched Kinvarra more in the last few hours than she had in the entire preceding ten years.

“Let’s get you into the warmth.” He gestured for her to precede him inside as a groom rushed to take their horse.

Alicia had expected him to spend the journey haranguing her on her wantonness — or at the very least her stupidity for setting out for the wilds of Yorkshire so ill prepared for disaster. But he’d remained quiet.

How she wished he had berated her. She’d spent ten years convinced she’d been right to leave him. A moment’s kindness shouldn’t change that.

But when his back offered her a warm anchor and his adept hands unerringly guided their horse to safety, her resentment proved fiendishly difficult to cling to. And when she wasn’t constantly sniping at him, it was harder to ignore his physical presence. He’d been a handsome boy. He was a splendid man, with his clean, male scent — horses, leather, soap, fresh air — and the lean strength of his body. The muscles under her hands were hard, even through his thick clothing.

She’d forgotten how powerfully he affected her. And the pity of it was that it would take her too long to forget again. He made every other man she’d met pale into insignificance.

It was vilely irritating.

The landlord greeted them at the door, clearly overwhelmed to have the quality staying. The tap room was crowded to the rafters with people bundled up for an uncomfortable night on chairs and benches. A few hardy souls hunched near the fire drinking and smoking. Alicia drew her hood around her face before she moved closer to the blaze. The sudden warmth penetrated her frozen extremities with painful force. Even holding tight to the radiating heat of Kinvarra’s big, strong body, the ride had been frozen purgatory.

For all that she remained standing, she’d drifted into a half-doze when she became aware of Kinvarra at her side. He spoke in a low voice to save them from eavesdroppers. “My Lady, there’s a difficulty.”

Blinking, trying to return to alertness, she slowly turned to face him. “I’m happy to accept any accommodation. Surely you don’t intend to go on tonight.”

He shook his head. He’d taken off his hat and light sheened across his thick dark hair. “The weather will get worse before it gets better. And my horse needs the stable. There isn’t another village for miles.”

“Then of course we’ll stay.”

“There’s only one room.”

She drew away in dismay. “Surely … surely you could sleep in the tap room.”

She felt like the world’s most ungrateful creature the moment she made the suggestion. Her husband had rescued her in extremely good spirit, given the compromising circumstances. He was as tired and cold and hungry as she. It wasn’t fair to consign him to a hard floor and the company of a parcel of rustics, not to mention the vermin that flourished on their persons.

His lips twisted in a wry smile. “As you can see, there’s no space in the tap room. Even if there was, I won’t leave you on your own with the place full of God knows what ruffians.”

Aghast, she looked at him fully. She’d suspect him of some design, if she didn’t know he too must recall the wretchedness of their lives together. He must be as eager as she for this unexpected meeting to end so they could both return to their separate lives. “But we can’t share a room.”

His eyes glinted with sardonic amusement. “I don’t see why not. You’re my wife. It’s too late to play Miss Propriety. After all, you were about to hop into bed with Herbert.”

“Harold,” she said automatically, a blush rising in her cheeks.

“I hope to hell he hasn’t sampled your favours already or I’ll think even less of his stalwart behaviour.”

“We hadn’t … we hadn’t …” She stopped and glared at him. “That is none of your concern, My Lord.”

She didn’t imagine the sudden smugness in Kinvarra’s expression. Curse her for admitting that she was still to all intents faithful to him.

The cad didn’t deserve it. He never had.

“Can’t we hire a chaise?” she asked on a note of desperation.

Suddenly the prospect of a night at the inn wasn’t so welcome. Tonight had left her too exposed. Easy to play the indifferent spouse when she met the earl in a crowded ballroom. Much more difficult when she’d just spent an hour cuddled up to him and he sounded like a reasonable man instead of the spoilt young man she recalled from their brief cohabitation.

At least he wouldn’t touch her. She was safe from that.

He shook his head. “There are none. And even if there were, I’m not going to risk my neck — and yours — on a night like this. Face it, madam, you’ve returned to the bonds of holy wedlock for the night. I’m sure you’ll survive the experience.”

She wasn’t so sure. Leaving him ten years ago had nearly destroyed her. All this propinquity now only reopened old wounds. But what choice did she have?

She raised her head and stared into his striking face. “Very well.”

“I’ll tell the landlord we’ll take his last chamber.” He bowed briefly and strode away with a smooth, powerful gait. He’d grown into his power over the last years. As a young man, he’d been almost sinfully beautiful with his black hair and eyes, but the man of thirty-two was formidable and in command of himself in a way his younger self had never been.

She watched him go, wanting to turn away but unable to shift her gaze. What would she make of him if they met for the first time now? Honesty compelled her to admit she would probably like him. She’d certainly notice him — no woman could ignore such a handsome man with his air of authority and competence.

She hated to say it, but she was glad Kinvarra had arrived to rescue her from that ditch. Harold would have left everything to her. They’d probably still be standing by the roadside.

Given the shambles downstairs, the bedchamber was surprisingly clean and wonderfully snug to a woman shivering with cold. A troupe of maids delivered hot water and a substantial supper, then disappeared.

Silently, Alicia removed her gloves, slid her cloak from her shoulders, folded it and placed it on top of a carved wooden chest. It seemed ridiculous to feel shy in the presence of the man she’d married eleven years ago, but she did. She tried not to look at the massive tester bed in the corner. Did he mean to share that bed with her? If he did, what would her response be? She shivered, but whether with nerves or anticipation, she couldn’t have said.

Kinvarra poured himself a glass of claret and took a mouthful, then turned to watch her lower herself gingerly into an oak chair with heavy arms. He strode towards her, frowning with concern. “You told me you weren’t hurt.”

She shook her head, even as she relished the blessed relief of sitting on something that didn’t move. “I’m bruised and stiff from cold and riding so long, but, no, I’m not hurt.”

“You were lucky. The curricle is beyond repair. I know the road was icy but the going wasn’t hazardous, for all that. Was Henry driving too fast?”

“Perhaps.” She paused before she reluctantly admitted, “And we were quarrelling.”

“You? Quarrelling with a man?” Without shifting his gaze from her face, Kinvarra dropped to his knees before her. Clearly he meant to help her remove her boots. “I find that hard to imagine.”

Her lips curved upwards in a smile as she looked down into eyes alight with sardonic amusement. Nobody had ever teased her. Even Kinvarra when they’d lived together had been too intense at first, then too angry. She found she liked his playful humour.

“Shocking, isn’t it?”

He extended his half-full glass and she accepted it. His focus didn’t waver when she raised it to her lips. Warmth seeped into her veins. From the wine or from the unspoken intimacy of drinking from the place his lips had touched? It was almost like sharing a kiss.

Stop it, Alicia. You’re letting the situation go to your head.

“What were you quarrelling about?” Kinvarra asked with an idleness that his grave attention contradicted.

Still smiling, she returned the glass. “I decided I’d been reckless to take up Lord Harold’s invitation to visit his hunting lodge. I was trying to get him to take me back to York.”

She prepared to suffer Kinvarra’s triumphant gloating. He didn’t want her. But she’d always known he didn’t want her sharing her body with anyone else either.

Her husband’s serious, almost searching expression didn’t change. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said quietly.

She tried to sit up and glare at him but the effort was beyond her. Instead she tilted her head back against the chair. She closed her eyes, partly from weariness, partly because she didn’t want to read messages that couldn’t possibly be true in his dark, dark stare.

“He wasn’t worthy of you, you know, Alicia.” Kinvarra’s soft voice echoed in her heart, as did his use of her Christian name. He hadn’t called her Alicia since the early days of their marriage when they’d both still hoped they might make something good from their union. “Why in God’s name choose him of all men?”

Shock held her unmoving as she felt Kinvarra’s bare hand slide over hers where it rested on the arm of the chair. His palm was warm and slightly calloused. Harold’s hand had been softer than a woman’s. She cursed herself for making the comparison.

She opened her eyes and stared into her husband’s saturnine face. Into the black eyes that for once appeared sincere and kind.

And she chanced an honest answer.

“I chose him because he was everything you are not, My Lord.”

Even more shocking than the touch of his hand, she watched him whiten under his tan. She hadn’t realized she had the power to hurt him. It seemed she was mistaken about that too.

He drew back on his heels, removing his hand from hers. She tried not to miss that casual, comforting touch. The distance between them felt like a gaping chasm of ice.

“I … see.” His voice was harder when he went on. “At least I’d never leave a woman alone to face down an angry husband with a snowstorm about to descend upon her.”

Shamed heat stung her cheeks. She’d felt so brave and free and self-righteous when she’d arranged to go away with a lover. After ten barren years of fidelity to a man who hardly cared she was alive.

But in retrospect, her behaviour seemed shabby. Ill-advised. Bravado had kept her to her course until she’d reached York and that journey across the moors with no company but Harold and her screaming conscience. She hadn’t wanted to feel guilty, but she had. And with every mile they’d covered, she’d become more convinced she’d made a horrific mistake in succumbing to Harold’s blandishments.

“You wouldn’t hurt me,” she said with complete certainty.

“No, but Harold didn’t know that.”

She noted that he was upset enough to use Harold’s correct name. She tried to make light of the subject but her voice emerged as brittle and too high. “Anyway, no harm was done. I’m still the impossibly virtuous Countess of Kinvarra who doesn’t even lie with her husband. You can sleep easy in your bed, My Lord, knowing your wife’s reputation remains unblemished.”

An emotion too complex for mere anger crossed his face, but his voice remained steady. “Why now, Alicia? What changed?”

“I was lonely.” Her face still prickled with heat and she knew from his expression that her shrug didn’t convince. “I thought I needed to do something to mark that I was a free woman. It was, in a way, our ten year anniversary.”

A muscle flickered in his cheek. “And you wanted to punish me.”

Did she? Even after all this time, turbulent emotion swirled beneath their interactions. She spoke with difficulty. “It’s been over ten years since I had a man in my bed. I’m twenty-eight years old. I thought … I thought it was time I tested the waters again.”

“With that cream puff?” He released a huff of contemptuous laughter and made a slashing, contemptuous gesture with one hand. “If you’re going to kick over the traces, my girl, at least choose a man with blood in his veins.”

“I’ve had a man with blood in his veins,” she said in a low voice. “I didn’t like it.”

That couldn’t be regret in his face, could it? One thing she remembered about Kinvarra was that he never accepted he was in the wrong. But when he spoke, he confounded her expectations.

“No, that’s not true. You had a selfish, impulsive boy in your bed, Alicia. Never mistake that.”

Astonished, she stared at him kneeling before her. “You blamed me for everything. You said touching me was … was like making love to a log of wood.”

This time it was his turn to flush and glance away. “I’m sorry you remembered that.”

“It was rather memorable.”

“No wonder you hated me.”

She shrugged again, uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation. She hadn’t always hated him. During most of their year together, she’d believed she loved him. And every cruel word he’d spoken had scarred her youthful heart.

His unexpected honesty now forced her to recall how she’d called him a filthy, rutting animal and how she’d barred him from her bedroom when he’d accused her of lacking womanly passion.

He’d had provocation for his cruelty. And he’d been young too. At the time, his four years seniority had seemed a lifetime. Now she realized he’d been a young man of twenty-one coping with a difficult wife, immature even for her seventeen years.

No wonder he’d been glad to see the back of her.

She swallowed the lump in her throat that felt like tears. “There’s no point going over all this history. Really we’re just chance-met strangers.”

He sent her the half-smile that had made her seventeen-year-old heart somersault. Her mature self found the smile just as lethal. “Surely more than that.” He raised his glass. “To my wife, the most beautiful woman I know.”

“Stop it.” She turned away, blinking back tears. This painful weight of emotion in her chest was only weariness. It wasn’t the recognition that she’d sacrificed something precious all those years ago and it was too late to get it back. “We just need to endure tonight, then it will be as though this meeting never happened.”

Even in her own ears, her voice sounded choked with regret. She’d thought when she accepted Harold’s advances that she was over her inconvenient yen for her husband. How tragically wrong she’d been. Tonight proved she was as susceptible as ever.

She straightened her backbone against the chair in silent defiance. Kinvarra studied her with a speculative look in his black eyes and she gave a premonitory shiver. If she wasn’t careful, he’d have all her secrets. And she’d have no pride left. “Are you going to drink all that wine yourself?”

He laughed softly and raised his glass in another silent toast, as if awarding her a point in a contest. “Here. Have this one.”

He passed her the glass and tugged at her boot. She took a sip of the wine, hoping it would bolster her fortitude. It didn’t. She supposed Kinvarra meant to attempt a seduction. Any man would with a woman in his bedchamber for the night. Although God knew why he’d be interested. If he’d wanted her any time in the past ten years, he could have sent for her. His long silence spoke volumes about his indifference.

His hands were brisk and efficient, almost impersonal, as he pulled her boots off. Automatically she stretched her legs out and wriggled her toes. A relieved sigh escaped her.

He looked up with a smile as he sat back. “Better?”

“Better,” she admitted, taking some more wine. The rich flavour filled her mouth and slipped down her throat, somehow washing away a little more of her bitterness.

He laid one hand on her ankle. Even through the stocking, she felt the heat of that touch. “You always had cold feet.”

She closed her eyes, refusing to obey the dictates of common sense telling her to pull back now. That she entered dangerous territory. “I still do.”

“I’ll warm them up.”

“Mmm.”

She was so tired and the cosy room sapped her will. When Kinvarra began to rub her feet, gentle warmth stole up her legs. If his touch even hinted at encroaching further, she’d pull away. But all he did was buff her feet until she wanted to purr with pleasure.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered even when her feet glowed with heat and he had to reach forwards to rescue the empty wine glass from her loosening hand.

As he straightened, he laughed softly and she struggled not to hear fondness in the sound.

Kinvarra wasn’t fond of her. He’d never been fond of her. She’d been foisted on him by family arrangement, an English heiress to fill the coffers of his Scottish earldom. Her foul behaviour during their year together had only confirmed his suspicions that he’d married a brat.

“Let’s have our supper before it gets cold. You’re exhausted.”

She let him take her hand and raise her to her feet. It seemed odd that so much touching was involved in sharing this room. She hadn’t expected it. But she was in too much of a daze to protest as he led her to the small table and slid a filled plate before her.

She was so tired that it hardly registered that Kinvarra acted the perfect companion. When she couldn’t eat much of the hearty but simple fare, he summoned the maids to clear the room. He left without her asking to grant her privacy to prepare for bed. She was too tired to do more than a quick cat wash and she had no intention of removing her clothes. When he returned from the corridor, she was already in bed.

What happened now? Trepidation tightened her belly and she clutched the sheets to her chest like a nervous virgin.

He looked across at her, his eyes enigmatic in the candlelight. Inevitably the moment reminded her of her wedding night. He’d been the perfect companion then too. Her gentle knight, the beautiful earl her parents had chosen, the kind, smiling man who made her laugh. And who had taken her body with a painful urgency that had left her hurt and bewildered and crying.

After that, no matter what he did, she turned rigid with fear when he came to her bed. After a couple of weeks, he’d stopped approaching her. After a couple of months, he’d stopped speaking to her, except to quarrel. After a year, she’d suggested they live apart and he’d agreed without demur. Probably relieved to have his troublesome wife off his hands.

She lowered her eyes and pleated the sheets with unsteady fingers. “Are you coming to bed?”

He arched one eyebrow in mocking amusement. “Why, Lady Kinvarra, is that an invitation?”

She felt her colour rise. How ridiculous to be a worldly woman of twenty-eight and still blush like a seventeen-year-old. “It’s a cold night. You’ve had a hard ride. I trust you.” Strangely, so quickly on top of her earlier uncertainty, it was true.

He released a short laugh and turned away. “More fool you.”

Confused she watched him set the big carved chair beside the fire. He undressed down to breeches and a loose white shirt. “It’s only a few hours until dawn. I’ll do quite well here, thank you.”

When he’d insisted they share a room, she’d wondered if he had some darker purpose. Some plan to take the wife who so profligately offered herself to another. To teach her who was her legal owner.

But his actions proved her wrong.

What did she expect? That he’d suddenly want her after all this time? She was a fool. She’d always been a fool where Sebastian Sinclair was concerned.

The constriction returned to her throat, the constriction that felt alarmingly like tears. She lay back and forced herself to speak. “Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, Alicia.”

He blew out the candles so only the glow of the fire remained. She listened to him settle. He tugged off his boots and drew his greatcoat over him for warmth. There was an odd intimacy in hearing the creak of the chair and his soft sigh as he extended his legs towards the blaze.

She stretched out. The bed was warm and soft and the sheets smelled fresh. She was weary to the bone but no matter how she wriggled, she couldn’t find that one comfortable spot.

Recollections of the day tormented her. Harold’s desertion, which should have been a considerably sharper blow than it was. If her original plans had eventuated, she’d now be lying in his arms. She should regret his weakness, his absence, but all she felt was vast relief. Her mind dwelled on Kinvarra’s unexpected gallantry. The fleeting moments of affinity. The powerful memories of their life together, memories that tonight stirred poignant sadness instead of furious resentment.

Kinvarra had turned the chair towards the hearth and all she could see of him was a gold-limned black shape. He was so still, he could be asleep. But something told her he was as wide awake as she.

“My Lord?” she whispered.

“Yes, Alicia?” He responded immediately. “Can’t you sleep?”

“No.”

Their voices were hushed, which was absurd as there was nobody to hear. The wind rattled the windowpanes and a log cracked in the fireplace. He had been right, the weather had worsened.

“Are you cold?”

“No.”

“Hungry?”

“No.”

“What is it then, lass?” He sounded tender and his Scottish burr was more marked than usual. She remembered that from their year together. When his emotions were engaged, traces of his Highland childhood softened his speech.

Strangely that hint of vulnerability made her answer honestly. “Come and lie down beside me. You can’t be comfortable in that chair.”

He didn’t shift. “No.”

“Oh.”

She huddled into the bed and drew the blankets about her neck as if hiding from the cruel truth. Hurt seared her. Of course he wouldn’t share the bed. He hated her. How could she forget? He just played the gentleman to a lady in distress. He’d do the same for anyone. Just because Alicia was his wife didn’t make her special.

When they’d first married, she’d tried to establish some rapport between them in the daylight hours, but when she’d rebuffed him in bed, he’d rebuffed her during the day. He hadn’t wanted her childish adoration. He’d wanted a woman who gave him pleasure between the sheets, not a silly little girl who froze into a block of ice the instant her husband touched her.

She blinked back the tears that had hovered close so often tonight. She’d cried enough over the Earl of Kinvarra. She’d cried enough tears to fill the deep, dark waters of Loch Varra that extended down the glen from Balmuir House, his ancestral home.

“Hell, Alicia, I’m sorry. Don’t cry.” She opened her eyes and through the mist of tears saw he’d risen to watch her. The fire lent enough light for her to notice that he looked tormented and unsure. Nothing like the all-powerful earl.

“I’m not crying,” she said in a thick voice. “I’m just tired.”

His mouth lengthened at her unconvincing assertion. He reached out with one hand to clutch the back of the chair. “Go to sleep.”

“I can’t.” She wondered why she didn’t let him be instead of courting further misery like this.

“Damn it, Alicia …” He drew in a shuddering breath and the hand on the chair tightened so the knuckles shone white in the flickering firelight.

“I’m not … I’m not attempting to seduce you,” she said, and suddenly wondered if she was being completely truthful. What in heaven’s name was wrong with her? Surely she couldn’t want to revisit the humiliations of her married life.

Kinvarra was as taut as a violin string. Tension vibrated in the air. “I know. But if I get into that bed, there’s no way I’ll keep my hands to myself. And I don’t want to hurt you again. I couldn’t bear to hurt you again.”

She was shocked to hear the naked pain in his voice. This wasn’t the man she remembered. That man hadn’t cared that his passion had frightened and bewildered his inexperienced bride.

This man sent excitement skittering through her veins and made her ache for his touch. She raised herself against the headboard and drew in a breath to calm her rioting heartbeat. Another breath.

Her voice was soft but steady as she spoke. “Then be gentle, Sebastian.”

Alicia hadn’t used his Christian name since the earliest days of their marriage. The shock of hearing her say “Sebastian” meant he needed a couple of seconds to register what else she’d said.

His grip on the chair became punishing.

He must be mistaken. She couldn’t be offering herself. She’d never offered herself in all these many years. Even in the beginning, he’d always had to take. He’d come to hate it, so that when she’d finally suggested a separation after those miserable months together, he’d almost been relieved.

Of course, he hadn’t realized then that his agreement would lead to ten excruciating years without her.

She sat up in the bed and watched him with a glow in her blue eyes that in any other woman he’d read as blatant sexual interest. She’d taken her beautiful hair down and it flowed around her shoulders, catching the firelight. She became his fantasy Alicia. He had to be dreaming.

A frown crossed her face, he guessed at his continuing silence. “Sebastian?”

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he said in a constricted voice, wondering why the hell he tried to talk her out of fulfilling his dearest hopes.

He’d wanted his wife for ten lonely years and now she was near enough to touch. He’d always been blackguard enough to want more from their forced intimacy tonight than mere conversation.

Then he’d remembered those disastrous encounters at Balmuir House. He couldn’t bring himself to inflict himself upon her once again.

She raised her chin, a signal of bravado that had been familiar in the young Alicia. The memory made his gut clench with longing.

“You’ve chased one lover away. Honour compels you to offer recompense.” Then in a less confident voice: “Sebastian, once you wanted me. I know you did.”

He swallowed and forced his response from a tight throat. “I still do.”

She’d taken her thick red cloak off when she entered the room. Now she raised trembling hands to the buttons on her mannish ensemble. An ensemble that looked anything but mannish on her lush figure.

Her travelling garb was cut like a riding habit and the white shirt was suitably modest, high at the throat. Even so, when her fumbling fingers loosened that top button, every drop of moisture dried from his mouth and his heart crashed against his ribs.

The Earl of Kinvarra was accounted a brave man. But he recognized the emotion holding him paralysed as ice-cold fear.

Tonight provided a miraculous second chance to heal the breach in his marriage. But if he hurt Alicia again, he’d never have another opportunity to bring her back to him.

He needed patience, restraint and understanding to seduce his wife into pleasure. Yet he burned like a devil in hell. What was he to do? He wanted her too much. And wanting her too much would destroy the fragile, uncertain intimacy building between them in this quiet room.

When his family had presented him with such a beautiful bride, he’d been sure they’d find joy in each other. Instead every coupling had been furtive and shameful, accomplished in darkness and ending with his wife in tears. No wonder he’d lost his taste for forcing himself upon her, although to his endless torment, his desire had never waned.

The shirt fell open another fraction, revealing a delicate line of collarbone and a shadowy hint of her breasts. She still studied him with an unwavering stare. Her hand dropped to the next button.

“Stop,” he said hoarsely.

Her hand paused. “Stop?” The vulnerability that flooded her face carved a rift in his heart. “You said …”

He shook his head and finally released the chair. He flexed his aching hand to restore the blood flow. “And I meant it. But let’s do this properly.”

Her hand fell away from her shirt to lie loose in her lap. “Shouldn’t I take my clothes off?”

Dear God, she was going to kill him before she was done.

He closed his eyes and prayed for control as images of Alicia’s naked body crammed his mind and turned him as hard as an oak staff. When he opened them, she stared at him as if he were mad. She wasn’t far wrong.

“We’ve got plenty of time.” He stepped towards the bed, his hands opening and closing at his sides as he fought the urge to seize her and tumble her back against the mattress. “Why rush things?”

“Kinvarra …” she said unsteadily.

“You called me Sebastian before.”

“You weren’t looking at me as if you wanted to eat me before.” She clutched at the sheet although she didn’t pull it higher. He was close enough now to notice the wild flutter of her pulse at her throat and the way her breathing made her swelling breasts rise and fall.

“Believe me, I’d love to.” He couldn’t move too quickly. He had to rein himself in or the sweet promise of joy would disintegrate into dust.

Her scent washed over him, floral soap and something warm and enticing that was the essence of Alicia. He drew a deep breath, taking that delicious fragrance deep into his lungs.

Slowly, he reached to hold the hand that clutched the sheet. At the contact, she jerked and released a choked gasp.

“Don’t be afraid, Alicia,” he murmured. “I won’t hurt you.” He hoped to hell he spoke true. His hand tightened on hers even as he told himself he needed to be careful with her.

“I’m … I’m not afraid,” she said on a thread of sound.

He laughed softly and lowered himself to sit on the bed. “Liar.”

She blushed. As a girl, her blushes had charmed him. They still did, he discovered.

“I’m nervous. That’s not the same as afraid.”

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. He felt her shiver. Turning her hand over, he kissed her palm. As he heard her breath catch, desire spurred him to take more, satisfy his pounding need. With difficulty he beat the urge back.

Tonight what he wanted didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was his wife’s pleasure.

She remembered him as a selfish lover. He needed to vanquish those unhappy memories and replace them with bliss. His voice deepened into sincerity. “Alicia, trust me.”

He held her gaze with his. Doubt, fear and something that might have been reluctant hope swirled in her eyes. He felt tension in the hand he held. In desperate suspense, he waited for her to agree. Surely she wasn’t so cruel as to deny him now.

The silence extended. And extended.

Then finally, finally, she nodded. “I trust you, Sebastian.”

Relief flooded him, made him dizzy. Relief and gratitude. He didn’t deserve her consent. Now he had it, he’d make sure she never regretted it.

“Thank you,” he whispered, wondering if she knew how deeply he meant those simple words.

He leaned down to brush his lips across hers. A light kiss. A glancing touch that promised more. A salute to the woman who would be his partner in rapture tonight.

Her lips were impossibly soft. Smooth. Satiny. He lingered a second, savouring the sensation. He hadn’t kissed his wife in nearly eleven years. He’d kissed her before they’d married. He’d kissed her during their first weeks together, but the spiralling misery of their days had soon made kissing seem a travesty.

Kinvarra started to pull away, even as the beast inside him surged against restraint. Then Alicia made a soft sound deep in her throat and her lips parted.

Her warm breath filled his mouth. She tasted familiar. Yet as fresh and new as a fall of snow. Hot darkness exploded inside his head and reaction ripped through him. He longed to ravish her mouth with all the passion locked in his heart. He clenched his hands in the blankets. His control already threatened to shred and he’d hardly started his seduction.

She reached out and cradled his head between her hands, holding him close. He shut his eyes and prayed for fortitude, even as she tilted her head and pressed her mouth to his.

Her kiss was clumsy, as if she hadn’t kissed anyone in a long time. Shock rocketed through him. On an intellectual level, he’d known she’d never been unfaithful. But that passionate, needy, unpractised kiss assured his soul that in all the years they’d been apart, she’d belonged only to him.

Automatically his arms encircled her, curved her against his body. She moulded to him as his mouth opened over hers. Blazing heat threatened to incinerate his good intentions. Even as he kissed her deeply, ravenously, stroking her tongue with his, he struggled to remember that he couldn’t yield to this fire.

His resolution faltered when her tongue moved in unmistakable response. Restraint became even shakier when she sighed into his mouth and rubbed her body against his.

His shaking hands rose to her head to hold her as he plundered her mouth, stoking her passion with every second. His heart slammed hard at her unfettered response. He’d never guessed she had such wildness in her. She was glorious. When he finally raised his head, she whimpered in protest and her eyes were dark and slumberous under heavy, drooping eyelids.

A soft, shaken laugh escaped him as he feverishly stroked his hands through the soft hair at her temples. He couldn’t resist touching her — he couldn’t rely on fate being generous enough to keep his wife in his arms. “I’m struggling to be gentle, my darling, but you make it almost impossible.”

Her breath escaped in uneven gasps from moist, parted lips. Her face was flushed with arousal. “I’m not seventeen any more, Sebastian,” she whispered. “I won’t break.”

Almost reverently, he cupped her jaw. “You deserve tenderness and respect.”

Her smile was tremulous. “Is that what you feel for me?”

“Of course,” he said immediately. Then after a pause: “And desire.”

“Show me the desire.”

He bit back a groan. Leashing his hunger was the most fiendish of tortures. “I promised I wouldn’t hurt you.”

Her gaze was steady. “You won’t.”

Shame bit deep, chastened his craving, although nothing could ease his need apart from having her. And he already suspected that one night, no matter how dazzling, wouldn’t be enough even then. “I did once.”

She touched his cheek with a tenderness that filled him with guilty awareness of how badly he’d once treated her. “We ’ve both grown up since then, Sebastian. I trust you. Please, trust yourself.”

The yearning to prove himself worthy of her confidence flooded him. He couldn’t fail her now. But nor could he continue to treat her as if she were made of spun glass. It would destroy him. As he looked into her beautiful face, he realized she was right. She was no longer the frightened girl he’d first married and he was no longer the greedy, thoughtless young man who hadn’t appreciated the treasure he held in his arms.

Time had changed them and now it offered the opportunity to start again, to move beyond their mistakes and create something new and invincible and shining. He wanted to insist on promises from her, but he was wise enough to know that it was too early to burden the moment with talk of the future.

His hands were gentle as he undid the next button on her shirt. By the time he slid the garment from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor, she was trembling. Her hands had dropped to her sides.

It seemed she left everything to him. Was this a test?

Her scent filled his head and his thirst for her maddened him. Even so, he held back. Carefully he undressed her. Finally she was bare to his sight and he paused in wonder. In ten years, she’d changed. Her body was a woman’s, ripe, voluptuous, alluring.

He drew a shuddering breath and reminded himself of all that was at stake. His blood beat hot and hard but he managed to cling to control.

Just.

Alicia lay before him in shy wantonness. A flush lined her slanted cheekbones and the breath came fast between her lips. Almost hesitantly, Kinvarra reached out to cup one full breast. It curved into his hand as if created for his touch and the raspberry nipple pearled into tightness. When he bent to kiss that impudent peak, Alicia’s surprised gasp of pleasure was his reward. He drew harder on the nipple and ran his hand down the soft plain of her belly to the curls at the juncture of her thighs.

She was already damp. This slow seduction worked its magic on his wife too. He took her other nipple between his lips and nipped gently at the crest. She shifted restlessly under his hand and he caught the scent of her arousal. She buried her fingers in his hair, urging him closer.

He needed no further encouragement. But even as he licked and bit and suckled, let his hands roam her soft skin, some trace of reason lingered. She wasn’t ready yet, however her touch and her sighs of pleasure urged him to further depredations. He kept coming back to her mouth. He had ten years of kisses to make up for. Each kiss was hotter than the last.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” she said in a broken voice.

“Whereas you’re dressed just right,” he whispered with a low laugh, tasting her breast again.

She’d been lovely as a girl, fresh and dewy and as rich with promise as a furled rose. But the woman in his arms now took his breath away.

With every minute, he felt her confidence increase. When she dragged his shirt up from his breeches, her touch on his naked back shot lightning behind his eyes.

“Sebastian, I want to see you.”

He couldn’t remain immune to her pleading. He rolled off the bed and tore his clothes off, flinging them into the corner in his haste. Then he paused, wondering if he should have been more circumspect. Would the sight of his rampant nakedness terrify his wife? When she was a girl, his unabashed maleness had frightened her. Could that have changed?

She slid up against the headboard, making no pretence at modesty by covering herself with the sheet. Dear Lord, she was a sight to set any man’s passions afire. Her face was flushed, her lips were full and red, her body was a symphony of curves and hollows. Her thick golden hair cascaded around her shoulders, teasingly covering one breast and leaving the other bare. Kinvarra felt himself grow harder, larger, needier.

Her eyes widened as her inspection continued down past his chest and belly. Hell, what would he do if she stopped him now?

Could he stop?

Yes, something inside him insisted.

“You’re magnificent,” she said softly, her eyes glinting blue fire under their heavy lids.

She sent him a smile of such joy that his foolish heart performed another somersault. She’d always been able to confound him with a word. Ten years without her hadn’t changed that. She stretched out one hand in invitation. To his astonishment, she wasn’t shaking. All her earlier uncertainty seemed to have vanished.

“Come to me, my husband.”

Alicia watched the expressions cross Kinvarra’s striking face. Somewhere in the last years, she’d learned to read him. When they’d first married, she hadn’t known how to pierce the shell of physical perfection to reach the man beneath. He’d seemed a godlike creature, too far above mere mortals for her to feel worthy of being his wife.

But the man who stood before her now, superb in his nakedness, was all too human.

For all his strength and beauty, he was vulnerable. How had she never seen that before?

Tonight she’d learned that he blamed himself for their marital difficulties. How odd, when finally she admitted that she’d been at least as much at fault as he in the disaster that had been their early married life. She’d been spoilt, demanding, headstrong, too quick to take umbrage, too slow to offer understanding.

Tonight she surveyed her husband’s powerful body and felt a woman’s desire. And a woman’s ability to forgive. Sensual need raged in her blood, made her heart pump with eagerness to know this man’s possession. Fear lurked too but she refused to acknowledge it.

As she watched his face, she recognized he was still unsure of her, unaware how she’d changed. He didn’t know that, after a long and difficult road, she’d discovered exactly where she ought to be.

In Kinvarra’s arms. For ever.

How had she imagined poor, pathetic, inadequate Harold Fenton could compare with the man she’d married?

“Sebastian, I want you,” she said softly, surprised at how easily the words emerged. “Don’t make me wait.”

Something in her voice or her smile must have convinced him she had grown beyond the skittish girl he’d married. Determination flooded his face, hardened his jaw, set his eyes glinting in a way that, for all her arousal, made her pulse race with trepidation.

And excitement.

How had she never recognized what an exciting man she’d married? She must have been insane ten years ago.

This was no time for regrets. Not when her tall, handsome, overwhelmingly virile husband prowled towards her with such purpose. There was none of his earlier hesitation in the way he drew her into his arms and tugged her under him. There was just hunger and a masculine strength that made her feel both delicate yet stronger than steel.

When he’d kissed her, she thought she’d measured his passion. But now he was insatiable. He touched her everywhere, he kissed her as if he couldn’t get enough of her mouth, he whispered praise and endearments until she was intoxicated with delight.

He touched her between her legs, stroking the sleek folds. She shuddered against him as sensation streaked through her. New, strange, astonishing pleasure. She cried out his name and jerked her hips up to meet him. She wanted him to take her, to fill the lonely reaches of her soul, to appease her hungry senses. Her arms closed hard around him, feeling the coil and release of the muscles in his back.

He rose above her and she caught the turbulent emotion in his face as he stared down at her. The moment spun into eternity then shattered when he joined his body to hers with a sure command that made her heart slam against her chest.

Her body tightened. After the years without him, the invasion felt frightening and unfamiliar. He was a large man and she’d been chaste for so long. She dragged in a shuddering breath, struggling to adjust to his size and power.

Another breath, heavy with the musky, male essence of Kinvarra. She shifted, angled her hips, felt him slide deeper, more surely. Then magically all awkwardness flowed away and, with perfect naturalness, she arched up to join him in a union as much of soul as body.

And recognized with despairing clarity she’d never stopped loving him.

Her hands clenched in the hot, bare skin of his shoulders as the inexorable truth rolled over her like a huge wave. Then she closed her eyes and gave herself up to Sebastian.

Right now he was hers. She refused to let fear of the future destroy this moment of ultimate closeness. She refused to accept fear at all. Fear had already cost her so much.

She felt his tension as he held himself still, then with hard, purposeful strokes that built her arousal to an inferno, he began to move. The dance wasn’t new to her, although the deep, joyous intimacy of this moment was.

She spiralled higher and higher until she touched the sky. This was beyond anything she’d ever felt. Beyond anything she’d even imagined.

At the peak, glittering light blinded her and she cried out. Such rapture. Such glory.

Such love.

Vaguely through the swirling storm of passion, she heard Sebastian’s deep groan. He shuddered and liquid heat spilled inside her. For a long moment, he held himself taut before he slumped, his body heavy with exhaustion.

The air was redolent of their lovemaking. It was as if she breathed the memory of pleasure. She tightened her hold on his back, feeling the sinews flex as he settled himself against her without withdrawing. She’d never felt so close to another person.

The fire burned low, leaving the room in darkness. Alicia stared up at the ceiling, watching the shadows gather. Nothing could dull the glow she felt or dam the satisfaction rippling through her body. She felt made anew. She felt ready to conquer the world. She felt tired and languorous and ready to sleep for a week.

So this was what a man’s possession could be. She’d had no idea. No idea at all what she’d been missing.

With sudden desperation, her fingers dug into his back. Oh, dear heaven, don’t let fate be so cruel as to take Sebastian away from her now that she’d discovered him again. Not now that she was finally woman enough to be his wife in every sense.

He’d undoubtedly wanted her when he’d taken her, not even the most inexperienced woman could have thought otherwise. But had Sebastian meant what just happened as a last goodbye to a bitter, unhappy past? Or was it the first step in a long, joyful journey together?

Kinvarra gasped for breath, his heartbeat drumming in his ears like a wild sea.

An ocean of satisfaction flooded his body. He’d intended to take his time, prepare Alicia, raise her to peak after peak of ecstasy before he found his own pleasure. But when he’d touched his wife’s naked body and read desire in her shining eyes, he couldn’t hold back.

He’d been as hungry as ever the eager young man had been, although at least this time, praise the angels, she hadn’t closed away from him in misery. Instead she’d achieved her own delight in his arms. He’d felt the way she tightened, and he hadn’t mistaken her broken cry as she’d arched to take him.

His big body still pressed her into the mattress. She must feel crushed, suffocated. He was a brute not to move away from her.

But how sweet it was to lie here in the aftermath, to let his hands wander her silky skin, to listen to the soft music of her breathing, to rest surrounded by Alicia.

Heaven couldn’t offer an eternity of bliss purer than this moment.

What had just happened offered a profundity of experience he’d never known. He’d mourn forever if this was all the happiness allotted to him. If he was to possess her only this once.

Tonight they’d moved from hostility to a brittle trust to a conflagration of joy. But was this truce only a pause in their warfare? Or could it form the foundations of a future? He prayed for the latter, but ten years of yearning had taught him not to trust the promise of happiness.

Just like that, reality descended. He and Alicia had found shattering pleasure tonight, but he needed more. He needed her commitment beyond one tumble between the sheets, no matter how earth-shaking that tumble was.

He’d wanted this woman since he’d first seen her. He wanted to build a family with her. He wanted to grow old with her. Nothing in ten years of separation had changed that.

But he was wise enough now to know that wanting wasn’t enough.

He could probably compel her to return to him. After all, the law was on his side. But for all his faults, he’d never been a bully. Could he bear to let her go if she rose from this bed and announced she would return to London alone? He might not be a bully, but the primitive savage inside him howled denial at the prospect of losing her again.

Slowly he raised himself on to his elbows. He smoothed the dishevelled blonde hair away from her face. She looked beautiful, replete, weary. In spite of his good intentions, he’d used her ruthlessly. He’d wanted to cherish her, but passion had swept them up into a whirlwind where all that mattered was the endless drive to blazing fulfilment.

Piercing tenderness overwhelmed him and he bent his head to kiss her gently on the lips. Not the hard, demanding kisses of earlier, although the ghost of desire lingered in the soft touch. “Are you all right?”

She smiled up at him and he struggled against believing that the radiant light in her eyes was love. “Better than all right.” Her slender throat worked as she swallowed. “That was … that was astonishing.”

“Yes.” He fought against saying more. She was tired and defenceless. It wasn’t the right time to harangue her about the future. Instead he kissed her again then rolled to the side. “It’s nearly morning.”

“Mmm.”

When he drew her against his side, she was slack with exhaustion, a delicious bundle of warm, sated womanhood. He paused to savour the moment, praying it promised a beginning and not an ending. He’d sell his soul for the chance to hold her like this for the rest of their lives.

He held her until she slept, but for all his weariness and the throb of sexual satisfaction through his body, he couldn’t settle. Eventually he rose and padded over to the window.

Very quietly so as not to wake Alicia, he parted the curtains. Immediately white light flooded the room. It was later than he’d realized. The storm had blown itself out overnight and now the pale sun rose over the horizon, painting the fresh snow with gold and making it sparkle like diamonds.

The idyll of a winter’s night had given way to a new day. This morning he and his wife had hard decisions to make.

Would his glimpse of paradise prove cruelly brief? Could all the lovely harmony of these last hours crash on the rocks of past wrongs and his insatiable demands?

He didn’t know how to be anything but demanding. He wanted her with him. He wanted her in his bed. He couldn’t stop himself.

“How beautiful.”

He’d been so lost in his troubled thoughts he hadn’t heard her rise from the bed. His heart slammed to a stop as she slid her arms around his waist and pressed her warm nakedness to his back.

“I thought you were asleep,” he said softly.

“I missed you.”

His aching heart crashed once more as she brushed a kiss across his bare shoulder. “I’ve missed you for ten years,” he said before he could stop himself.

“I thought you were glad to be rid of me.” Her voice was muffled against his skin. “I was such a silly girl.”

“You were enchanting. You still are.”

Silence fell, a silence heavy with the weight of remembered pain and everything still unspoken. Because he couldn’t resist touching her, he rested his hands lightly on hers. The urge stirred to seize, to grab, to compel, but he crushed it. Last night, she’d given herself to him freely. He refused to compromise that memory.

She sighed softly, her breath a warm, sensual tickle against his skin. “The snow is so clean. Even after the storm, it’s perfect. It’s waiting for us to make the first footprints.”

He tightened his hold on her hands. So much hinged on the next moments. He struggled to find the right words, wondering if the right words even existed.

“Our future could be like that, Alicia. A new path. A new life.” He paused, swallowed, and his voice was husky when he spoke what was in his heart. “Come back to me.”

He felt her stiffen although she didn’t move away. His gut cramped in anguish as he wondered if he’d ruined his chances. Permanently this time.

“For how long?” Her voice was quiet.

He stared at the glittering scene outside without seeing it. Instead, all his mind, all his soul focused on his wife. Again, he risked honesty, even if honesty cost him all chance of achieving his dream of a life with her.

“For ever.”

This time she did draw away, and he read the inches between them as absence. “Why?”

He turned to study her. She looked unhappy and uncertain and remarkably young. Almost as young as the girl he’d married. “Because I love you.”

“No …” She shook her head as if she didn’t believe him.

Kinvarra smiled at her, even while she broke his heart. Again. “Yes.”

Alicia raised her chin and stared at him as if what he said made no sense. “I was so awful to you. How can you forgive me?”

“How can you forgive me? Let’s rise above the past, my darling. I want you with me. I’ve never wanted anything else. Don’t let old mistakes destroy our hope of happiness.” He paused and swallowed. “If you love me, come back to me.”

For an unendurable moment, her expression didn’t change. Sebastian heard his every heartbeat as a knell of doom. Then the tension drained from her face and her eyes turned as blue as a clear sky. Suddenly, in the depths of winter, he basked in the reviving warmth of summer sun.

She stepped towards him although she didn’t touch him. “Sebastian, I love you too. We’ve wasted so much time. Let’s not waste any more.”

Shaking, he reached out to curl his hands around her upper arms and drag her against him. He could hardly believe what was happening. Yesterday he’d been lost in an endless mire of despair. Today the world offered love and hope and a future with the woman he adored. The swiftness of the change was dizzying.

“My wife,” he murmured and kissed her with all the reverence he felt in saying those two words.

The vivid, passionate woman in his arms kissed him back with a fervour that sent his blood rushing through his veins in a hot torrent. A bright, unfamiliar joy flooded him as he realized that Alicia at last was his.

Then because it was cold and he wanted her and he loved her — and they’d been apart for longer than mortal man could bear — he swung her up in his arms and strode across to the rumpled bed.

The Dashing Miss Langley

Amanda Grange

It was a perfect summer morning in 1819 when Miss Annabelle Langley drove her curricle through the streets of London, weaving in and out of the brewers’ carts and carriages with consummate skill. She was a striking sight, her Amazonian figure clad in a sky-blue pelisse and her fair hair topped with a high-crowned bonnet. She had no chaperone except for a tiger perched behind her. He was a splendidly clad urchin and he grinned impudently at the crusty old dowagers who looked on with a frown as the curricle whirled by.

In anyone else such behaviour would have been considered fast, but as Annabelle was twenty-seven years of age and possessed of a large fortune, she was grudgingly allowed to be eccentric.

She brought her equipage to a halt outside a house in Grosvenor Square and, handing the reins to her tiger, she approached the porticoed entrance. She lifted the knocker, but before she could let it drop, her sister-in-law opened the door.

“My dear Annabelle, I am so glad you are here,” said Hetty with a look of relief.

“But you knew I was coming. Why the heartfelt welcome?” asked Annabelle in surprise.

Hetty linked arms and drew her inside, much to the disapproval of the butler, whose expression seemed to say, Ladies opening the door for themselves? Whatever next?

“It is Caroline,” said Hetty, her silk skirts rustling as the two ladies crossed the spacious hall.

“What, do not tell me that she is not ready?” said Annabelle. “I suppose she has overslept and she is still drinking her chocolate? Or is it more serious? Is she standing in front of the mirror wondering which of Madame Renault’s delightful creations she should wear?”

“It is worse than that,” said Hetty with a heavy sigh as she guided Annabelle into the drawing room.

It was an elegant apartment with high ceilings and tall windows, and it was sumptuously furnished. Marble-topped console tables were set beneath gleaming mirrors, and damasked sofas were positioned between silk-upholstered chairs.

“Worse?” asked Annabelle.

“Much worse,” said Hetty emphatically. “It is A Man.” Her tone gave the words capital letters.

Annabelle stopped in the middle of stripping off her gloves and said, “I see. And who is this man?”

Hetty looked at her helplessly and groaned. “You will never believe it. If I did not know it to be true then I would not believe it myself. It is the Braithwaites’ gardener!” she said.

Annabelle raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Unless I am very much mistaken, the Braithwaites’ gardener is seventy years old!” she said.

“Oh no, it is not Old Ned. He has retired. It is his grandson who is the cause of all the trouble. Able. And a very handsome young man, it has to be said. But quite unsuitable. And, even worse, he is engaged.”

“Do you not mean, even better, he is engaged?” enquired Annabelle, removing her pelisse and bonnet.

“I only wish I did. If Caroline would accept that he was spoken for then all would be well. But you know how headstrong she is. She is convinced that he does not love his fiancée and that he is only marrying the girl to please his grandfather, who happens to be friends with the girl’s grandfather. The two men have had a very enjoyable rivalry over the last fifty years, concerning who can grow the best roses.”

“And what does Able say about it all?”

“Nothing. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other when she challenges him, and goes bright red, then pulls his ear, and says, ‘I don’t rightly know, Miss Caroline, I reckon I love ’er.’”

“Oh dear! But surely this must deter Caroline?” said Annabelle, bubbling with laughter.

“Not a bit of it. She simply says that he does not know his own mind, and that he needs a good woman to know it for him!”

“And the good woman in question, I suppose, is Caroline?”

“Of course,” said Hetty, sinking into a chair.

Annabelle looked at Hetty’s woebegone face and tried to pull a sympathetic expression but she could not help herself. It was too ridiculous! She burst into outright laughter.

“Really, Belle, it is no laughing matter,” said Hetty crossly.

“Oh, Hetty, I’m sorry, but of course it is! Caroline is a minx, but in six weeks’ time she will have forgotten all about Able, and she will be content for him to marry his sweetheart and grow roses for the rest of his days.”

“I only hope it may be so, but what am I to do with her in the meantime? She declares she won’t go to Whitegates Manor with you, and if she stays here, she will make everyone uncomfortable. The Braithwaites have already asked me not to bring her with me the next time I call. She distracts Able from his work. The last time we called he sent a cabbage indoors for the flower arrangements, and then enraged the cook by sending a basket of hollyhocks into the kitchen for dinner.”

“Never fear,” said Annabelle soothingly, putting her hand reassuringly on Hetty’s. “I will take Caroline to Whitegates with me, I promise you, and you can have some respite.”

“I only wish you could,” said Hetty dolorously, “but she has sworn she will not go.”

“A little of the sun, instead of the wind, will work wonders I am sure,” said Annabelle. Seeing Hetty’s bemused look, she said, “When the wind and the sun had an argument about which of them was the stronger, they agreed to a contest to decide the matter. There happened to be a merchant walking below them and they agreed that whichever one of them could part him from his cloak would be the winner. The wind blew as hard as it could, but to no avail, the merchant only held his cloak closer. Then the sun shone down and the merchant set his cloak aside, making the sun the winner.”

“And you plan to warm Caroline with sunshine?” asked Hetty dubiously.

“I do. The sunshine of flattery, coupled with an appeal to her generosity. And if all else fails, I will sweeten it with a treat.”

“I only hope you may succeed. I am at my wits’ end.” Hetty stood up and moved towards the bell. “I will send for Withers and she will fetch her.”

“There is no need for that. I will go myself. Is she in her room?”

“Yes,” said Hetty.

“Then I will go up to her now.”

Annabelle went out into the hall, threading her way between the marble columns and crossing the black-and-white squared floor before going up the stairs.

Twenty sets of ancestral eyes gazed down at her from Hetty’s family portraits, some haughty, some placid and some disdainful, but she ignored them all as she mounted the stairs and came at last to the bedrooms.

She went to Caroline’s door and knocked discreetly.

“Go away!” came a voice from inside.

“That is not a very friendly greeting,” Annabelle replied, “especially as I have come all this way to see you.”

“Oh, it is you, Aunt Annabelle,” said Caroline, appearing at the door of her room a minute later. “Mama has sent you to speak to me, I suppose.”

“No, I came of my own accord. Your mama thought it would not do any good for me to speak to you. She believes you are a hopeless case.”

“And so I am,” said Caroline, sinking down on to the bed with a dramatic sigh. “Hopelessly in love with Able.”

“Well, he is a very handsome young man by all accounts,” said Annabelle sympathetically.

Caroline looked surprised. Then a crease appeared between her brows. “And?” she asked suspiciously.

“And?” enquired Annabelle.

“Are you not going to say that Lord Deverish is handsomer, or that Able, for all his handsome face, is nothing but a gardener, and that I can do better; or that I am a foolish, obstinate, headstrong girl?”

“No. Why should I?” asked Annabelle.

“Because that is what everyone else says. They have lots of different reasons for complaining, but the moral of every story is that I must forget all about him.”

“If Able is your choice, then what business is it of mine?”

Caroline looked startled.

She really is very pretty, thought Annabelle, even with that open mouth and those widened eyes. With her lustrous dark hair and her entrancing green eyes, she is positively charming.

“I cannot understand it,” said Caroline, perplexed. “I was sure you would be just like Mama, and tell me it would not do. Oh!” she exclaimed suddenly, in a different tone of voice, and her face took on a sympathetic expression. “Of course, I was forgetting. You had an unhappy love affair, too! Aunt Annabelle, I am so sorry,” she went on, stricken. “This must have awakened painful memories for you, and now I have added to your pain by distrusting you. But of course, with your history, I should have known that you would take my side.”

Annabelle refrained from pointing out that her own unhappy love affair had been nothing like Caroline’s infatuation, for she had come to know and love a man who had been suitable in every way. But she made allowances for her niece’s youth, and she did no more than give an exasperated smile.

Fortunately, Caroline construed her expression as one of sympathy.

“If only Mama and Papa could see it as you do.” Caroline patted the bed beside her and invited Annabelle to sit down. “But they keep telling me that I cannot marry Able because they say that, in a few weeks’ time, I will forget all about him. Which is absurd, because I will never forget about Able, not for as long as I live.”

“Which is exactly why you should come to Whitegates Manor with me,” said Annabelle. “It will prove to your parents that you are serious about Able, and that your feelings will not change. Only imagine, when you return here and you are still as much in love as ever, they will not be able to accuse you of inconstancy, but will be forced to admit the strength of your attachment.”

“So they will,” said Caroline, much struck. “And then they must give their consent to the marriage.”

Annabelle was just congratulating herself on her stratagems when Caroline cut short her rejoicing by reverting to a lachrymose manner. “But no, I cannot be away from Able for so long. It would be insupportable. In fact, it would kill me.”

“Ah, well, we cannot have that. I see now that I must go by myself,” said Annabelle, rising. “A pity, for I was hoping to teach you to drive. There is an excellent avenue at Whitegates Manor that would be perfect for the purpose; it is long and straight, and the surface is very good. But if you cannot leave Able then there is nothing more to be said.”

She had gone no more than halfway to the door when Caroline asked, “Teach me to drive?”

“Yes. I thought it might amuse you. I have two new horses. Have you seen them? Perfectly matched bays. And such high steppers, with such soft mouths. They are a treat.”

“And you would let me drive them?” asked Caroline, half rising from the bed in her eagerness.

“But of course. Every young woman should learn to drive.”

She almost laughed as she watched the emotions playing across Caroline’s face, but out of deference to her favourite niece’s feelings she remained straight-faced.

“Perhaps you are right,” said Caroline consideringly, as a desire to drive her aunt’s dashing curricle won out over her desire to swoon over the hapless Able. “If I go with you, it will prove to Mama and Papa, once and for all, that I am really in love.”

“Then make haste and finish dressing. The sooner we are away, the better.”

“Do you know, Aunt Annabelle, I think it is for the best, after all. I will be with you directly.”

Leaving her niece to ready herself, Annabelle went downstairs.

“Ah! She would not come. I did not expect it,” said Hetty, as Annabelle entered the drawing room alone. “It was good of you to try. Girls! Everyone says that boys are difficult to handle, but boys are nothing to girls. Thank goodness I have only the one, or my head would be full of grey hairs.”

“She will be down in a few minutes,” said Annabelle.

Hetty looked at her in amazement. “You do not mean that you have persuaded her? How did you manage it?”

“By telling her that a few weeks’ absence will prove to you that she is really in love — and by promising to teach her to drive.”

“Oh, thank goodness! We are to have a few weeks’ respite! And, of course, at the end of it, she will have forgotten all about Able, and be ready to think of someone more suitable instead. I cannot thank you enough. Now, sit down, my love, for you have a long drive before you. I do so wish you would hire a coachman, but I suppose it is too late now to persuade you to change your ways?”

“It is.”

“Then let me offer you some refreshment before you set out. You will take a cup of tea, and some seed cake?”

“No, thank you, Hetty. I must not keep the horses waiting. As soon as Caroline is down—Ah! Here she is.’

Caroline entered the room with a sunny smile. She was dressed in a green silk pelisse, which brought out the colour in her eyes, with matching gloves, and on her head was a splendid hat, topped by a dancing plume.

“I thought I told you that that hat was too dashing for a girl of your age!” exclaimed Hetty in vexation when she saw it. “What have you done with the straw bonnet?”

“Oh, that,” said Caroline nonchalantly. “I decided it did not suit me after all, and so I returned it when I went into town with Charlotte. The only other hat that fitted me was this one.”

“I think it is time for us to leave,” said Annabelle diplomatically.

And before Hetty could react, she swept Caroline out of the house.

“It was very wrong of you to buy that hat against your mother’s express wishes,” she said, as they went down the steps.

“Mama never expressed a wish either way, she simply said it was too dashing for a girl of my age, but as I was then only sixteen years old, and as I am now seventeen, of course that changes things.”

“Ah,” said Annabelle, smiling at Caroline’s youthful logic — or should it be youthful impudence? “Of course!”

They waited for the curricle to return from the end of the street, where the tiger had been walking the horses, and then they climbed in.

“What—?” asked Annabelle in surprise, for a portmanteau and a hatbox had been crammed into the carriage. “Did your mama not send your boxes on?”

“Yes, she sent them on yesterday with my maid. But I forgot to put a few things in, and so I packed a box this morning and had the footman carry it downstairs,” said Caroline airily.

“And no doubt the ‘few things’ you forgot are dresses of which your mama would not approve.”

“There is nothing wrong with them, I do assure you. They are both of them quite adorable.”

“I am sure they are. But are they respectable?”

“They are respectable enough for a vicar’s daughter,” replied Caroline. “But they happen to be in various colours, and Mama is so fussy about me wearing white. I cannot think why. It does not suit me, and, anyway, young ladies no longer wear exclusively white. That fashion went out when Mama was a girl.”

“As long ago as that?” enquired Annabelle.

“Are you laughing at me?” asked Caroline suspiciously.

“Not at all.”

They seated themselves in the carriage. Annabelle took the reins, and then they were off.

Caroline revelled in the admiring glances that were directed towards them as they set out, though she was sensible enough to realize that they were directed towards Annabelle rather than herself, and she dreamed of the day when she would be the one holding the reins. What a figure she would cut as she dashed through the streets!

“How did you learn to drive?” asked Caroline. “Did your papa teach you?”

“No,” said Annabelle. “It was … someone else.”

Her mind flew back to the day when Daniel had said to her, “It is about time you learned to handle the reins.” And she remembered him putting them in her hands, then putting one arm around her so that he could show her how to hold them properly, and the way it made her feel, with his hands around hers and his breath on her cheek and …

“Aunt Annabelle!”

Caroline’s cry brought her back to the present just in time, as a brewer’s cart rolled out from a side road and she had to swerve in order to avoid it. The carriage behind her was not so lucky, and the sound of heated cries and barrels rolling on to the road followed them as they headed out to the country.

Green fields took the place of crowded streets. The air was fresh here, without the smell of fish or pies or a hundred other things, savoury and unsavoury, which perfumed the London streets. Annabelle breathed in deeply. It was good to be alive.

“I am looking forward to the party,” she said.

“But I am not. It will be very boring,” said Caroline with a yawn. “House parties always are.”

“There might be some interesting people there,” said Annabelle.

“And there might not.”

“There speaks the experience of seventeen,” said Annabelle, laughing.

“I know already who will be there. A retired general who will pinch my cheek and call me a clever puss. An old admiral who will talk of nothing but the sea and try to tell me all about the Battle of Flamingo—”

“I believe you mean the Battle of St Domingo.”

“And a whole bunch of mamas who will look daggers at me because I am prettier than their daughters.”

“But once they learn you are to marry, they will breathe a sigh of relief. They will thank heaven for Able because they will know that, for all your pretty face, you are no competition for their daughters. A girl in love has no interest in anyone else. She does not like to dance with the most eligible bachelors, she prefers to sit at the side of the room.”

Caroline looked at her suspiciously, but Annabelle preserved a countenance of angelic innocence, and they carried on their way.

They stopped shortly after midday, choosing an idyllic spot in a country lane. The tiger climbed over the stile and into the neighbouring field, where he spread out a rug and began to unpack the picnic hamper. Annabelle and Caroline strolled along the lane to stretch their legs before settling themselves on the rug, beneath the spreading arms of a chestnut tree.

“How much farther is it to Whitegates?” asked Caroline.

“We have a few hours more to travel,” said Annabelle.

“Can I drive for part of the way?”

“Very well. I will give you your first lesson after lunch.”

They started to eat their picnic. It was a delicate affair of chicken and ham, with crusty bread and newly churned butter, and they finished their repast with peaches and grapes.

Their meal over, Caroline looked at Annabelle hopefully, and, with a laugh, Annabelle said, “Very well. I was going to suggest another stroll first, but I see that you are eager to begin. The road here is straight and flat. You may set us on our way.”

Their things were soon packed and the two ladies climbed into the curricle, followed by the tiger.

With the reins in her hands, Caroline’s childishness dropped away, as Annabelle had hoped it would, and she applied herself seriously to the task in hand.

“Very good,” said Annabelle approvingly, as the curricle rolled smoothly along a straight, flat stretch of road. “You have light hands.”

Caroline glowed under the praise.

She was reluctant to give the reins back to Annabelle when the road became more difficult, but after a moment’s hesitation she did so with a good grace.

They had not gone very much further when the wind turned colder and the sky darkened. Soon it began to rain. It was nothing more than a light drizzle to begin with, but as the curricle had no hood, they were exposed to the elements.

“Urgh!” said Caroline, as the rain began to fall more heavily. “Is there nowhere we can shelter? We will soon be wet through.”

A quick glance at the countryside showed that there were no barns or stables in sight.

Annabelle said, “We must just go on and hope the rain lets up. It is only a shower, no doubt, and the sun will soon be out again.”

The English weather answered this optimism with its usual reply, and no sooner had Annabelle finished speaking than the sky clouded over threateningly and transformed itself from blue to grey. The horses became skittish, and when a flash of lightning sent them rearing, it took all of Annabelle’s skill to hold them.

“It is no good, we cannot go on,” said Annabelle, shouting to make herself heard above the thunder.

“Look ahead! There!” said Caroline, who had been looking about them. She pointed through the pouring rain, which had rendered the summer afternoon as dark as night. “I can see a light!”

Annabelle saw an orange glow shining through the blackness and, hunching her shoulders against the rain, drove the horses cautiously onwards. They did not like the weather any more than she did. They tried to turn their heads against the wind but she held them true to their course.

To make matters worse, the road was slick with mud, and the curricle slid from side to side. She saw Caroline gripping her seat tightly with her hands.

“Don’t worry, I won’t overset you,” she said.

The glow became clearer as they moved forwards. To her relief, Annabelle saw that it was attached to an inn. The hostelry looked well cared for, with white walls showing up brightly against dark oak beams. It had a pretty thatched roof. A freshly painted sign proclaiming it to be the White Hart swung in the wind.

Annabelle guided the horses carefully into the yard. She gave a sigh of relief as she brought the curricle to a halt, for if they had been forced to go any further she was sure they would have had an accident.

The thunder rumbled overhead, making the horses dance, and a minute later the ostlers appeared and hurriedly took the horses out of the traces. Assuring Annabelle they would be well cared for, the ostlers led the horses off to the stables.

Another flash of lightning sent Annabelle and Caroline hurrying towards the door, whilst the rain jumped in the puddles all around them, splashing up against their ankles and soaking their stockings. They gained the door and went in, to find themselves in a cheerful corridor with wild flowers in jars on the deep window ledges. In front of them were two bedraggled ladies, one with a sodden hat whose plume sagged over her eyes, and the other with water streaming down her face from her high-crowned bonnet. It took Annabelle a moment to realize that the two ladies were herself and Caroline, and that she was looking in a mirror. Caroline realized it at the same time and they both laughed to see themselves in such a state.

The landlord hurried forwards to greet them. “A terrible day,” he said sympathetically. “We haven’t seen a storm like this in years. What can I do for you, ladies?”

“I think we had better have a room, landlord, if you please,” said Annabelle. “We cannot go on today.”

“Shocking this weather is,” he agreed. “I said to my wife this morning, as soon as I saw the sky, ‘Depend upon it, we will have rain.’ ‘Aye,’ she said, ‘and a storm, by the look of things.’ But don’t you worry, we have a fine room here, I’m sure you’ll be very comfortable,” he continued, as he led them upstairs.

Along the corridor they went, with its oak beams and its white walls, and then through an oak door and into a very pleasant chamber. The windows were latticed, but large enough to let in what little light the storm allowed, and the room was clean and spacious. A large bed was set in the centre, with a smaller one pushed to the side, and both were covered with clean counterpanes. Rustic pictures hung on the walls, and a brightly coloured rug lay on the floor. The grate was empty, but the landlord told them that there was a fire in the parlour.

“It’s a private room, just right for you ladies,” he said.

“Thank you, that will be most welcome,” said Annabelle, looking down at her sodden clothing.

He offered to light a fire in the room as well, but Annabelle declined the offer. It was not cold and she did not want to put him to any trouble.

“I am sure the fire in the parlour will suffice,” she said.

He bowed his way out of the room.

“Thank goodness I brought some extra clothes!” said Caroline, who had snatched her portmanteau and hatbox from the curricle before it was taken away. “I am longing to get out of these wet things. I would lend you one of my dresses, but I am afraid they will be too small,” she added in dismay, looking at Annabelle.

“Never mind, I will go down to the parlour and dry myself by the fire,” said Annabelle. She removed her gloves, bonnet and pelisse, and set them down on the window ledge, then tidied her hair as best she could.

“I will join you as soon as I have changed,” said Caroline, stripping off her wet clothes.

“Would you like me to help you?”

“No, thank you, I believe I can manage, and if not, I will ring for the landlord’s wife. Do not let me delay you, Aunt Annabelle, I will never forgive myself if you catch cold.”

Satisfied that Caroline could not get up to any mischief in such a short space of time, in a respectable inn, Annabelle went down to the parlour.

She opened the door … and then hesitated, because the parlour was already occupied. A gentleman was seated by the fire. Steam was rising from his clothes, showing that he too had been caught in the downpour.

She was just about to apologise for intruding when he stood up and turned towards her, and the words died on her lips.

“Annabelle!” he said in surprise, adding more formally, “That is, Miss Langley.”

“Daniel!” she said.

And indeed it was he, as handsome as ever, with his dark hair arranged à la Brutus, his brown eyes, his aquiline nose and his full mouth. His figure was hardened by exercise and his height topped her by six inches: no mean feat, as she herself was five feet eight inches tall.

Memories came rushing back: a house party the previous summer, where she had danced with him, finding him the most amusing partner she had ever had.

She remembered her delight when she had found herself alone with him in a rowing boat the following day, and how they had both laughed when a frog leaped into the boat.

And she remembered the way in which he had taught her to drive, taking her out in the country lanes, where he had shown her how to control his horses and how to guide his carriage. When he had put his arms around her in order to show her how to hold the reins, she had started to tingle. It had been the most delicious sensation, and she had turned her face up to his in surprise and delight. He had seized the moment and kissed her, and it had been quite magical.

Then other, less welcome memories returned: that he had been called away by the death of his brother and that, once the mourning period was over, he had not sought her out as she had expected him to do.

She had been forced to realize that, whilst she had been falling in love with him, he had been indulging in nothing more than a mild flirtation.

And now here he was again, standing before her.

“What a surprise. I did not expect to meet you here,” he said.

“Nor I you. I am just passing through. But I must not disturb you …” she said, feeling suddenly awkward.

“Not at all, it is I who should vacate the parlour and leave it to you.”

“There really is no need …” she said.

There was a silence, and then they both laughed.

“We are talking to each other like strangers!” he said. “There is no need for either of us to retreat. We can be comfortable here together, can we not? But you are wet,” he said. “Will you not sit by the fire?”

She took the seat he held out for her gladly, for her damp clothes were starting to make her feel cold, then he sat down opposite her.

“You are just passing through, you say?”

“Yes. We are on our way to stay with friends.”

“We?”

“My niece and I. She is upstairs at the moment, changing her dress. We were caught unawares by the rain, and as we were travelling in my curricle we were soon drenched.”

“Ah, yes, your curricle. I am glad you have continued with your driving, and put your inheritance to such good use. I should have congratulated you on your good fortune, but I have not spoken to you since the lucky day.”

“Thank you. It was totally unexpected. Great-aunt Matilda had always declared her intention of leaving everything to my brother, but when he married he displeased her and she changed her will and left everything to me. It was no loss to Alistair, as he already had a fortune, and it was a great piece of good luck for me. Although if I had not inherited it,” she added ruefully, “I would not have bought such a dashing carriage, and I would probably have been travelling in a sedate coach and be perfectly dry now!”

He laughed. “You cut quite a figure.”

She looked at him enquiringly.

“I saw you once, in town. You handled your cattle very well,” he said admiringly.

She warmed at his praise. “I was taught by an expert,” she replied.

“Those were good days,” he said. “And what does your niece think of her dashing aunt?”

“She likes me well enough at the moment, for I have promised to teach her to drive.”

“Indeed? You must think a great deal of her then.”

“I do. I like her very much. She is a good girl, for all her headstrong ways, and she will make a fine woman when she is fully grown. But that is not why I made her the offer.”

“No?”

“No. You see, it was the only way I could take her thoughts from an unsuitable attachment.”

“Ah. That would never do. Attachments must be suitable, must they not?”

There was something in the way he said it that made her feel it was more than a general comment.

Daniel came from an old and well-respected family, whilst her family engaged in trade.

So that is why he found it so easy to forget me, she thought.

She felt downcast, but her pride came to her aid and she said, lightly, “Of course.” Then, changing the painful subject, she said, “I was sorry to hear about your brother’s death. He was too young to die.”

“He was.”

The subject had been badly chosen and the atmosphere became sombre. They fell silent until they were interrupted by the landlord.

On seeing them together, he apologised profusely for having recommended the parlour to Annabelle when his wife, unbeknownst to him, had recommended it to the gentleman. He gratefully accepted their assurance that they were already acquainted, and that they did not object to sharing.

He asked them if they would be dining.

“Yes, indeed. Both my niece and I would like a hot meal,” said Annabelle.

“The ordinary is very good, but maybe you would like something else?” the innkeeper asked.

“What is the ordinary?” asked Annabelle.

“Steak pie with minted peas and tender potatoes, followed by plum tart and cream,” said the landlord.

“That sounds very good. I’m sure my niece will like it, too,” said Annabelle.

“Three ordinaries, then, landlord, if you please,” said Daniel.

The atmosphere had warmed again and despite herself Annabelle was looking forward to further conversation with Daniel. But no sooner had the landlord left the room than Caroline entered it. She was dressed in a startling gown of green silk, which was suitable for a woman twice her age

“Goodness!” said Annabelle, gazing at the vision which was Caroline, and thinking that her niece looked as though she had raided the dressing-up box and put on one of her mama’s old gowns. She did not say so, however, but gravely introduced her, saying, “May I present my niece?”

“Charmed,” said Daniel, rising and bowing.

Caroline glowed, and dropped a small curtsey.

“Caroline, this is Lord Arundel,” said Annabelle. “We are old … acquaintances.”

“Really, Aunt Annabelle, you never told me you knew such fascinating people,” said Caroline.

Annabelle turned her laugh into a cough, for Caroline’s attempt at coquetry had all the sophistication of a newborn colt’s attempts to walk. However, she thought that Caroline could do worse than to try her newly discovered feminine charms on Daniel, for he was a gentleman and she would come to no harm with him.

Caroline was invited to sit by the fire.

“Thank you,” she said charmingly to Daniel, with a dimple.

She swept her gown beneath her, producing a wonderful rustling noise, but unfortunately she spoiled the effect by knocking over a stool in the process. However, Daniel picked it up without comment and Caroline seated herself by the fire. Then she began to fascinate him with her conversation.

“Tell me, Lord Arundel, have you ever met Lord Byron?” she asked.

“I have not had that honour,” he said.

“They say he is a terrible man, and yet I cannot believe it. If he were truly so terrible he would not have chosen to write a poem about an innocent little child.”

“Ah. You are talking of his renowned work Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage?” he asked.

“I am,” she said graciously.

Daniel’s eyes twinkled, but he kindly refrained from saying that Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage was definitely not about an innocent little child. He managed to retain a straight face, whilst Annabelle sighed in silent exasperation at her niece’s ignorance.

Caroline was saved from further blunders by the arrival of dinner.

The food was good and the hot meal was welcome. Whilst they ate the plum tart, Annabelle could not help thinking of the previous summer, of eating plums on a picnic and afterwards going to a ball and dancing with Daniel, of being in his arms …

And then she was forced to pay attention, for they were talking of the London galleries, and her opinion was being sought. The conversation moved on to the theatres, until at last Annabelle said, “I believe we must retire.”

Caroline had by this time talked herself to a standstill. She took a warm leave of Daniel before leaving the room, so that Annabelle and Daniel were alone for a minute.

“Miss Langley,” he said, bowing over her hand.

He held it a fraction too long, and there was something tender in his touch, or so it seemed to Annabelle. But then she warned herself against making the mistake she had made a year ago and bid him goodnight.

“It was good to see you again,” he said, as reluctantly he dropped her hand.

“And you.” She smiled and walked out of the room.

“What a delightful gentleman,” said Caroline, as they went upstairs.

“Yes, indeed,” said Annabelle.

And she could not help thinking that, in all her life, she had never met one more delightful.

Annabelle gave a sigh of relief as the landlord’s wife drew back the curtains the following morning, for the sun shone out of a clear blue sky.

She washed and dressed before Caroline was awake, glad of the landlord’s wife’s assistance, and then she helped Caroline to dress.

“What a coincidence, meeting Lord Arundel,” said Caroline, as they went down to the parlour for breakfast. “I wonder if we will see him again this morning?”

Annabelle privately wondered the same thing, and although she would not have asked about him, she was not sorry that Caroline did so.

“The gentleman?” enquired the landlord. “Left early this morning, he did, just after dawn. Said he had urgent business to attend to.”

“A pity. He was a most amusing companion,” said Caroline with dignity.

Oh, yes, he was, thought Annabelle with a pang. The most amusing companion she had ever met with.

“What will you ladies have for breakfast?” asked the landlord.

“Chocolate, I think, and hot rolls,” said Annabelle, rousing herself.

Caroline agreed, and they ate a hearty meal before setting out once more to Whitegates Manor.

Annabelle allowed Caroline to take the reins for a short while before reclaiming them, and was pleased to see that her niece showed promise. She told her so, and Caroline wriggled with happiness.

The rains of the previous day had taken their toll and in places the road was so deep in puddles that it was almost like a ford, so that the going was slow. They stopped for lunch at a tavern and did not reach Whitegates Manor until four o’clock in the afternoon.

They turned off the road and rattled through an impressive pair of gates. The manor itself was an imposing residence. Large windows flanked the front door in perfect symmetry, gleaming in the summer sun. Gravel walkways surrounded it and meandered invitingly through formal gardens and over immaculate lawns.

The curricle swept around the turning circle and rattled to a halt. A couple of grooms ran forwards as Annabelle and Caroline descended, looking about them with interest.

“There you are at last! Wondered what had happened to you!” said Lord Carlton as he came down the impressive stone steps to greet them.

Lord Carlton was a jovial man of some fifty years of age. He was running to fat, but by virtue of a good tailor he managed to disguise it. His coat, a well-fitting garment of black, was complemented by cream breeches and buckskin boots. His linen was simple, and consisted of a starched shirt and a simply tied cravat.

Annabelle took his hands. “We are glad to be here.”

“Storm held you up?”

“Yes, alas, it did. We had to spend the night in an inn. I hope you were not anxious on our account?”

“Guessed what had happened. Couldn’t drive in that rain!” said Lord Carlton. “Wretched weather. But that’s England for you! Come in, come in.” He led them up the stone steps and into the house.

The hall was light and spacious. A staircase swept upwards from the far end, drawing the eye towards a magnificent chandelier that sparkled above them.

Having glanced around her, Annabelle began to unfasten the strings of her bonnet. At that moment Lady Carlton came into the hall.

“Annabelle! My dear! And Caroline!” she said, coming forwards and kissing them both on the cheek. “I have only just been informed of your arrival.”

They embarked on the customary exchanges, with Lord Carlton enquiring after the horses, and Lady Carlton anxious to know that the sheets in the inn had been aired. Then Lady Carlton took Annabelle and Caroline by the arm and said, “Come, let me show you to your rooms.”

Leaving her husband to see to the other guests, Lady Carlton led them up the imposing staircase, chattering all the time. She was a small, birdlike woman, quick and light in her movements, and was some ten years younger than her lord.

They reached Caroline’s room first. Annabelle and Lady Carlton left her to the ministrations of her maid, who had travelled previously by coach, as had Annabelle’s maid, because the curricle would not hold so many.

“This is your room. I hope you will like it,” said Lady Carlton, as she led Annabelle into a beautiful bedroom.

Large windows gave into the gardens. A four-poster bed was set against the left-hand wall, whilst opposite it was an Adam fireplace.

“It is beautiful, Laura,” said Annabelle.

As Annabelle removed her bonnet and stripped off her gloves, Laura moved around the room with her quick, light movements, now smoothing the red damask counterpane, now adjusting a pair of Sèvres vases that stood on the mantelpiece, one on either side of an ormolu clock.

“It is such a pleasure having you here,” said Laura, at last turning to face Annabelle. “When your dear mama passed away I promised I would do all I could for you, and …”

She stopped, disconcerted, as Annabelle began to laugh.

“Oh, dear,” said Annabelle, trying to bring her features back under control. “I should not be laughing. It is so wonderfully kind of you. But I do hope you are not going to introduce me to a string of eligible young men?”

Laura looked momentarily put out. But then she replied, with a twinkle in her eye, “Not a string of them, no. And not all of them young, either. Some of them are quite old! But you mustn’t blame me for trying. Seeing you married was the greatest wish of your mother’s heart. She was so happy in marriage herself, you see.”

Annabelle sighed. “That is the problem. Mama married for love, and I can do no less.”

“Which is why I have invited some perfectly saintly men for the summer,” said Laura. “Men you are sure to fall in love with.”

“I will have a difficult time if I am sure to fall in love with all of them! Although, perhaps I will leave one for Caroline.”

“Ah, yes, Caroline. Hetty wrote to me. Is it serious, this fixation with the gardener, or just an infatuation?”

“An infatuation, of course, but I pray you will not tell her so. If you do, it will only take her longer to see it for herself.”

“I will not breathe a word of it. I will only mention it if she mentions it first, and then I promise to treat it seriously. I remember my own youth. For me, it was a dancing master. He had the most wonderful calves! My sisters and I could not take our eyes from them! But I must not keep you talking. I had better leave you to change.” She gave Annabelle an affectionate kiss and left the room.

Annabelle looked around her, taking in her new surroundings in more detail. The room was lovely, with its light furniture and pale cream walls, and the view out of the window was inviting. She might like to take a walk in the grounds before dinner, she thought. After spending most of the day in the carriage some exercise would do her good.

The door opened, and Sally, her maid, entered the room.

“They said as how you’d arrived. Worried sick I’ve been, thinking you must have taken a tumble,” said Sally.

“Well, here I am, in one piece, having suffered nothing worse than a wetting,” said Annabelle. She sat down at the dressing table. “I think I will take a turn around the gardens when you have finished with my hair.”

“And changed your frock. What did you do, sleep in it?”

“Almost. I had to sleep in my chemise.”

Sally threw up her hands in despair. “Why you can’t get yourself a nice steady coach with a nice steady coachman I don’t know. You can afford it.”

“But I like my curricle.”

“Break your neck in it, you will, one of these days,” grumbled Sally, as she helped Annabelle out of her creased muslin and into a jonquil sarcenet.

“There, that looks better,” said Sally.

“Thank you, Sally.”

Slipping into her pelisse and tying her poke bonnet on top of her fair curls, Annabelle picked up her gloves and proceeded to make her way downstairs. She found a side door and decided to stroll through the gardens. The roses were just beginning to come into bloom. A few unfurled flowers dotted the banks of bushes, and buds were swelling on the stems. She breathed in, but it was too early in the year to catch their perfume.

She heard a crunching sound and looked up, prepared to greet her fellow guest with a cheery, “Good afternoon,” but was rendered speechless when she saw Daniel walking towards her.

“Daniel!” she said in astonishment. “I thought you had some business to attend to.”

“And I thought you were seeing friends!” he said, equally taken aback.

“So I am. The Carltons are my friends.”

“So you are staying here?” he asked, a smile breaking out over his face.

“Yes. And you?”

“Yes. My business is with Lord Carlton. I am staying here, too.”

She smiled warmly, feeling ridiculously pleased.

“May I accompany you?” he asked.

“Yes, I would like that.”

He offered her his arm and she took it.

“Will you be staying at Whitegates long?” he asked as they strolled along the gravel path together.

“For a month, certainly,” said Annabelle. “Lady Carlton is an old friend of my mother’s, and has kindly invited me to stay for as long as I choose. And you?”

“Until my business is done.”

“Have you known Lord and Lady Carlton long?”

“Lord Carlton I’ve known for many years. He and I are joint guardians of my nephew. That is why I am here, to talk over our joint responsibilities and to think about the boy’s future. Lady Carlton I know less well.”

“I am glad to find you here. I know very few of the other guests, and it is always nice to see a familiar face,” she explained hastily.

“Ah.”

They had by this time almost reached the end of the formal gardens and, as they rounded a corner, they saw a family coming towards them. The mother, a buxom matron, was clad in a voluminous cape, and was puffing along beside her three, very pretty, daughters.

“Ah! Lord Arundel! There you are!”

“Mrs Maltravers.”

“We were just looking for you, were we not, my dears?” she asked her daughters.

The three girls giggled in unison.

Daniel replied politely enough, giving them a slight bow and then making the necessary introductions.

Faith, Hope and Charity, Annabelle repeated to herself with amusement as he named them. Somehow the giggling girls did not suit their idealistic names, but they seemed good-humoured enough, and she thought they would provide Caroline with some companionship of her own age.

“Now you promised to show us the water garden,” said Mrs Maltravers girlishly, tapping Daniel with her fan. “And we are not about to let you disappoint us, are we, girls?”

A chorus of giggles followed her sally.

But Daniel said, “Unfortunately, I must ask you to wait a little longer. I am just escorting Miss Langley back to the house.”

“Oh, pray don’t worry about me,” said Annabelle, feeling the danger of being too much with Daniel. “I can manage quite well from here.”

Mrs Maltravers beamed at her. “Well, now, if that isn’t handsome. But won’t you come with us, Miss Langley?”

“Thank you, no. I must see if my maid has finished unpacking my things.”

“Quite, quite,” said Mrs Maltravers, not displeased to be able to secure such an eligible gentleman for the sole entertainment of her three unmarried daughters. “Well, then, let us go,” she said, beaming up at Daniel.

The last thing Annabelle heard as she strolled back across the lawn to the house was the high-pitched giggling of Faith, Hope and Charity as they jostled each other to claim his arms.

She returned to her room, where she found that Sally had indeed finished unpacking her things. A glance at the clock showed that she had an hour before dinner, so she luxuriated in a scented bath before choosing which dress to wear. As she looked at each one in turn she thought how lucky she was to have inherited her fortune, for before it she had had to dress in far less fashionable style. The gown she chose was of the latest design with a stand-up ruff at the back of the neck, a lace-trimmed bodice and six inches of embroidery around the hem.

“I see you’ve chosen your best frock. I knew you’d want to make an impression,” said Sally.

“On Lord and Lady Carlton?”

“No, miss. On the gentleman you were walking with.”

“I don’t suppose it will do any good to pretend not to know what you’re talking about?” asked Annabelle.

“No, miss, none at all. A very fine gentleman he looked. In fact, he looked a good deal like Lord Arundel to me.”

“You know very well that he was Lord Arundel.”

“Well?”

“Well?”

“Sweet on him, you were, not long since.”

She sighed, for she could keep nothing from Sally. “Perhaps I was, but unfortunately, he was not sweet on me.”

“He gave a good impression of it,” remarked Sally.

“It was a flirtation and nothing more, at least on his part. He saw me as someone to pass the time with.”

“Then more fool him,” said Sally. “All men are fools.”

“Then it is a good thing we neither of us wish to marry, for neither of us would want to live with a fool.”

Sally grunted in reply, and proceeded to help Annabelle to dress. Chemise and drawers went on first, followed by a pair of clocked stockings and light stays. Then the evening dress, with its high waist and long flowing skirt.

Annabelle adjusted the scoop neckline and straightened the lace that adorned the bodice, then slipped her feet into dainty satin slippers. She seated herself in front of the mirror so that Sally could dress her hair. She arranged it in a fashionable chignon and then teased out delicate ringlets around her face, before adding the feathered headdress.

“There,” said Sally with obvious pride. “It’s done.”

Annabelle stood up. Sally fastened a string of pearls round her neck and then Annabelle pulled on her long white evening gloves and went to collect Caroline. Caroline, she was pleased to see, was in a demure white muslin, with satin slippers and a simple string of pearls. No doubt she had wanted to wear something more dashing, but had been dissuaded by her maid.

The two of them went downstairs, to find that the drawing room was already full of people.

“Have you met Mrs Maltravers and her three daughters?” Annabelle asked Caroline.

“Unfortunately, yes. I have never met three sillier girls,” said Caroline.

However, she went over to join them and they were soon laughing together.

Laura wandered over to Annabelle, saying, “It is good to see the young people having fun. And now there is someone I would like you to meet: Lord Fossington.”

Annabelle sighed.

“Now, Annabelle, you have not even met him yet. He might be everything you ever dreamed of.”

“You are right, of course, dear Laura. Pray introduce me.”

Laura led her across the room and made the introduction.

Lord Fossington was a tall man of military bearing, handsome in a rugged way, with a scar across one cheek.

“Miss Langley,” he said. “I was hoping to have an opportunity to speak to you. I believe you know Mrs Granville, my aunt?”

They talked of their shared acquaintances, and of his time in the army, where he had served faithfully for many years.

“How do you like being at home again? Is it very dull after being in the army?” asked Annabelle.

“On the contrary. I have had enough of war. I like being in the country. The quiet suits my nerves,” he said, as he led her in to dinner. “But perhaps it sounds boring to you?”

“I must confess I like the bustle of London. But in the summer, there is nothing I like better than the country.”

They took their places and to her secret delight Annabelle found herself sitting opposite Daniel. He looked up as she took her place and there was unmistakable admiration in his eyes.

As the soup was brought in, she saw him open his mouth to speak to her but Mrs Maltravers, seated to her right, began to talk about the latest scandal. Mrs Maltravers denounced Princess Caroline, the Regent’s wife, as a national disgrace. “Running round Europe like a lightskirt. Setting up home in Spain—”

Italy, thought Annabelle, not realizing she had mouthed it until she caught sight of Daniel’s amused expression, and the two of them shared a secret smile. They continued to glance at each other and smile throughout dinner, though Annabelle did her best to keep her eyes away from him. She could feel all too clearly the attraction she had felt the year before, so that she was relieved when it was time for the ladies to withdraw.

“We must have an outing tomorrow,” said Mrs Maltravers, as the ladies settled themselves in the drawing room.

“Oh, yes, Mama. A picnic!” exclaimed Hope.

“May we, Lady Carlton?” asked Faith.

“Oh, please say we may,” entreated Charity.

“I see no reason why not,” said Laura. “As long as the weather holds.”

“It is sure to,” said Caroline, caught up in the idea.

“And what do you think?” murmured a deep voice in Annabelle’s ear.

She turned to see Daniel, who had just entered the room with the other gentlemen.

“I think it will probably rain!” she said mischievously.

“So you are not in favour of a picnic?”

“On the contrary, I am looking forward to it,” she said, “rain or shine!”

“You have a rare gift for enjoying life,” he replied with a smile.

“I shall go on horseback,” declared Faith.

“And so will I,” declared Hope.

“Nonsense,” said Mrs Maltravers firmly. “You will travel in the carriage with me. The gentlemen will not run away, my dears, and once we are at Primrose Hill you may flirt with them to your hearts’ content.” She beamed at the assembled gentlemen, and then, hiding behind her fan, she whispered to Annabelle, “Never fear, my dear. You may be a bit long in the tooth, but there are plenty of gentlemen for us all.”

“Perhaps you would prefer to ride?” Daniel asked Annabelle, then added, with a humorous glint in his eye, “That is, if your rheumatism permits?’

Annabelle’s eyes danced. “Do you know? I think I might.”

At last the party began to break up and Annabelle and Caroline retired for the night.

“Are you sure you will be able to manage tomorrow?” asked Caroline solicitously.

“My dear girl, Lord Arundel was teasing. I am not in my dotage.”

“Of course not, dear aunt,” said Caroline kindly. “You are only just middle-aged.”

“Ah, well, it is better than being elderly!” said Annabelle. “Thank you for that, at least!”

“Not at all,” said Caroline, taking her arm fondly. “You will not be elderly for another three years, for no one is ever old until they are thirty, you know.”

“In that case, I am glad I have three years of youth left to me,” said Annabelle, as she said goodnight to her niece.

“A good attitude,” said Caroline. “You must make the most of the next few years, and not squander them. They will go all too quickly, you know.”

“You are right. The ride tomorrow will give me something to remember when I am sitting alone by the fire with a blanket over my knees!”

Caroline gave her an affectionate hug and they parted on the landing.

As Annabelle walked back to her room she told herself that she must not read too much into Daniel’s attention, but she could not quell a rising tide of pleasure at the thought of the outing to come.

The party assembled early the following morning, meeting in front of the house, where they mounted their horses or climbed into carriages, ready for the journey. The day was fine, but not too hot: ideal outing weather.

As Annabelle set off, Daniel fell in next to her, riding an impressive black stallion. His animal was spirited, but he controlled it with ease, and they set out at a good pace.

“Have you visited Primrose Hill before?” asked Annabelle.

“No. As I believe I told you yesterday, this is my first visit to Whitegates.”

“And I should, of course, remember everything you say!” Annabelle teased him.

“That is not a very flattering remark,” he replied with perfect good humour.

“Ah! I did not know you required flattery. If that is the case, then nothing is easier. Allow me to tell you, Lord Arundel, how well you ride!”

He laughed. “I will return the compliment, and say that you have a good seat and light hands.”

“Please do. If flattery is to be the order of the day, I demand my full measure!”

And before she knew it, they were bantering again, as they always had done in the past, and she thought to herself, I must be careful for I am in danger of falling in love with him all over again.

The landscape was all that Annabelle had hoped it would be. Although it was not the time of year for the primroses that gave the hill its name, the area was picturesque, with a wooded area giving way to a grassy slope, and the views were magnificent. The countryside rolled away into the distance, disturbed only by dry stone walls and the silvery snake of a river, and was overtopped with a blue sky.

“Does it match your expectations?” asked Daniel. He leaned on his pommel and surveyed the area, as the carriages rolled to a halt a little way ahead of them.

“Indeed it does; in fact it surpasses them. It is a long time since I have seen anywhere quite so pretty.”

He dismounted in one easy movement and then held out his arms to her.

She was about to refuse his help when she saw that the grooms were busy and, without a mounting block, she knew she would need his assistance. As she slid from her horse she felt a tingling sensation as his hands closed around her waist, and then it was gone as her feet touched the ground and his hands relinquished their hold on her. She felt the loss of it, and to cover her emotion she looked around for her niece. She saw that Caroline was fascinating a young man nearby.

Daniel, seeing where her gaze tended, offered her his arm. “If you are thinking of playing chaperone, it will be less noticeable with two,” he said invitingly.

She laughed. “My niece is rather headstrong, and I would rather she did not know I am keeping watch over her. She is likely to resent it,” she admitted, taking his arm. “She believes herself to be in love with a young man at home, but she is volatile, so that she could easily end up compromising some other poor young man if she takes a sudden fancy to him! I wonder whom she is with now? Do you know him?”

At that moment the young man turned round and Daniel gave an exclamation of surprise. “Why, it’s my nephew, James! I wonder what he is doing here?” He added with a sigh, “He is in some scrape, no doubt, and wants me to get him out of it.”

James, hearing his name, looked towards them and coloured.

“Will you excuse me?” said Daniel.

Annabelle watched him go with regret, but she was reminded that every cloud has a silver lining when she was joined by Caroline who, having lost her companion, sought out her aunt.

“You seem happy,” said Annabelle.

“I am. I was just talking to James—”

“James?” asked Annabelle. “Isn’t it a little early to be calling him James? You have only just met him.”

Caroline gave a despairing sigh, as if to say, Aunt Annabelle, you are so behind the times.

“He happened to be in the neighbourhood,” Caroline went on. “Hearing that his uncle was staying close by, he came to pay his respects. Ah! They have finished talking. I must not monopolize you, Aunt Annabelle. I am sure there are some old people here you would like to talk to.” And so saying, she returned to her new swain.

Annabelle watched her go.

To her dismay, she saw that Daniel, having spoken to his nephew, seemed to be about to leave. He was walking towards the horses with a resolute air. Annabelle experienced the same sinking feeling she had felt the last time he had left a house party at which she had been present. But this time she quickly rallied, for she had been half expecting it ever since she arrived.

And then suddenly he stopped. He hesitated, as if he were wrestling with himself, then he turned and walked towards her with a serious look on his face.

“Annabelle,” he said, taking her hands. “My fool of a nephew has managed to entangle himself with an opera dancer who is threatening all kinds of things if he doesn’t marry her. He has not the age or experience to deal with her and I have, so I am on my way to London at once. I have no right to speak to you, but today’s leave-taking has reminded me of another one, a year ago, when I would have asked you to marry me, had not my brother’s sudden death called me away from you.

“I thought it was only a temporary separation, since I intended to seek you out and propose to you once I was free to think of myself again. But circumstances changed so radically that I could not, in all honour, speak. You see, I had to settle my brother’s many debts and so I was a great deal poorer than when we had first met, whilst you had inherited a fortune and so you were a great deal richer.

“I set out to mend my fortunes, so that I would be able to offer you my hand honourably. But when I met you by chance in the inn, fate stepped in. I have no right to ask you to wait for me, but I cannot let my chance slip away again. You see, I love you, Annabelle. I have loved you for a very long time. So I ask you, though I have no right to do so, will you wait for me?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head.

His face fell.

“It might take years for you to restore your fortune,” she said, smiling, “by which time I will be in my dotage, if my niece is to be believed. So I rather think we should seize our youth whilst we can and marry without delay!”

He laughed and squeezed her hands. “Your niece is a very wise girl,” he said. Then he pulled her into his arms and kissed her soundly. “I have been wanting to do that again for a very long time,” he said.

“And I have been wanting you to,” she replied.

In answer, he kissed her again.

They would have continued thus for the rest of the afternoon had they not been interrupted by a startled cry and then a gasp of horror.

Annabelle, surfacing from Daniel’s embrace, saw Caroline standing there.

“Aunt! I wondered where you were! I wanted to tell you it was time to go, but I see now that I have arrived not a moment too soon to rescue you from this … this seducer!” She grabbed Annabelle’s wrist and pulled her away from Daniel, glaring at him all the while.

“My dear girl …” began Annabelle.

“I assure you, my intentions are honourable!” said Daniel to Caroline. “Your aunt has very kindly consented to become my wife.”

Caroline let out a cry of horror. “No! Aunt Annabelle! Say it is not true!”

“I am afraid it is,” said Annabelle.

“But at your age! You will be a laughing stock!” said Caroline in horror. Then her face fell and she added tragically, “But of course, now that you have been compromised, you can do nothing else. And perhaps it is a good thing after all. You will be thirty soon and will need a companion for your twilight years.” She smiled bravely. “I am very happy for you, after all.”

“That is very generous of you,” said Annabelle with a twinkle in her eye. “To make you feel better, I hope you will consent to be my bridesmaid.”

“Oh, yes!” said Caroline, brightening at once. “I will need a new dress, new shoes …”

“Yes, you will need all those things, and have them, too. And then, perhaps, you will invite me to be the matron of honour at your own wedding to Able, which must surely soon follow mine.”

Caroline looked at her in astonishment. “My dear Aunt, what can you be talking about? I am not going to marry Able. Whatever gave you such an idea?”

“I rather thought you were in love with him.”

“How absurd! Of course not. A slight infatuation, perhaps, contracted when I was only sixteen. But I am older and a great deal wiser now. I am going to marry James!”

Cynders and Ashe

Elizabeth Boyle

One

London — 1815

“You expect my daughter to wear that gown?” Lady Fitzsimon’s acid tones carried to every corner of the elegant dress shop on Bond Street.

“My Lady, it is exactly the gown you ordered,” Madame Delaflote replied. Used as she was to the fits and fleeting fancies of London ladies, she took Lady Fitzsimon’s protests in her stride.

Either the lady was doing this to get her bill lowered — which would never happen, for Madame Delaflote never gave up a shilling that could possibly be wrung from a client — or she was just being aristocratic merely because she could.

In that case, Madame Delaflote had naught to do but wait her out.

From behind the curtain that separated the showroom from the workroom, Miss Ella Cynders flinched with each protest as if she were being flogged. For the dress was her creation, her finest — if she was inclined to boast — but she knew that it had been a risk making it for Lady Fitzsimon’s daughter.

“The Ashe Ball is tonight, Madame!” Lady Fitzsimon was saying. Ella glanced out and found the matron waving her invitation about for all to see. Invitations to the Ashe Ball were so coveted, so limited, that most who held one kept it carefully guarded. For without that printed invitation, one could not enter. Proof of this being demonstrated at the moment by her ladyship, who was keeping hers on her person, never far from sight, and, better yet, close at hand to flaunt over those who hadn’t been invited. “My daughter cannot go in that!”

Ella watched the lady point at the dress her daughter was modelling as if it were made of rags — when nothing could be further from the truth. The fair green silk, embroidered with silver thread and adorned with thousands of seed pearls, was an artistic triumph. Ella and the two other assistants, Martha and Hazel, had all but worn their fingers to the bone to get the gown ready in time.

It was a fairy-tale dress destined for an unforgettable night.

“My good lady,” Madame Delaflote said, “your daughter shines like the rarest jewel in that gown. Lord Ashe won’t be able to take his eyes off her.”

“Of course he won’t — she looks naked in it,” the lady declared.

Not exactly naked, Ella would have told her, but the illusion was there. As if she were a woodland nymph stepping from her hidden grove. Sleeveless and cut low in the front, the dress clung to the wearer as if it were a second skin.

“That gown is ruinous! Why, she looks—” Lady Fitzsimon’s hands fluttered about as she searched for the right words.

From behind the curtain, the three assistants finished her sentence for her.

“Gorgeous,” Martha whispered.

“Breathtaking,” Hazel added.

“Unforgettable,” Ella said.

“Common!” Lady Fitzsimon declared. “As if she’s just stepped from the stage of a revue. I want Lord Ashe to fall in love with my daughter. Marry her. Don’t you realize he must choose his bride tonight? Tonight, Madame! The gown Roseanne wears must be perfect!”

“Stupid cow,” Martha muttered, her less than refined origins coming out. “That gel fair on sparkles in it.”

“Aye, she does,” Hazel agreed. “Like a princess.”

Ella agreed, for she and Roseanne were of similar colouring and build, and she had tried the dress on herself to make sure the blush green silk — like the first verdant whisper of spring — would bring out the girl’s fair features.

“If you think I am paying for this, you are sadly mistaken,” Lady Fitzsimon said, sounding more like a shrewd fishwife than a baroness.

Madame Delaflote took a furtive glance at the curtain, where she knew her assistants were most likely eavesdropping. Her brows rose in two dark arches, the sort of look each of them knew was a dangerous harbinger.

If Lady Fitzsimon refused this dress, someone would pay for it.

“And whatever are those things sticking out from her back?” the lady continued.

“Wings, My Lady,” Madame Delaflote told her. “You asked for a fairy costume, and those are her wings.”

“They are a nuisance. However is she to dance? They’ll get crushed in the crowd before the first set — and then what? She’ll be in the retiring room for a good part of the night having them clipped off.” Lady Fitzsimon shook her head. “No, no, no, this will never do. And I blame you, Madame Delaflote. Everyone says your gowns are the finest, but I hardly see what you were thinking to dress my daughter like a Cyprian.” She turned to Roseanne. “Take it off at once, before someone sees you in it and thinks we actually ordered such a shameful piece.”

Ella cringed. For the gown had been her idea, her creation. And if Lady Fitzsimon wouldn’t pay for it, refused it, well, she knew very well who would be paying for it — her.

“She’s not taking it?” Hazel whispered, as Roseanne slipped into the changing room and Martha hurried after her to help her out of the gown.

Meanwhile, Madame Delaflote and Lady Fitzsimon continued their heated exchange.

“My Lady, that gown is exactly what you ordered.” If there was one thing that could be said about Madame Delaflote, she was a determined soul.

“I ordered a gown that would set my daughter apart — not have her appear like some Covent Garden high-flyer.”

Madame Delaflote sucked in a deep breath to be so insulted, for her gowns were sought after, fawned over, ordered months in advance (as this one had been) and no one called them tawdry.

And certainly no one had ever refused one.

Yet here was Lady Fitzsimon in high dudgeon, having gathered up her daughter, by now properly dressed in a blue sprig muslin day gown, and leaving.

Ella closed her eyes and wished herself well away from this disaster. But a loud whoomph, and Hazel’s muffled giggle brought her back to the present.

The other two had parted the curtain and there in the front of the shop lay Lady Fitzsimon on the floor.

In her rush to depart the shop, she’d run right into a footman who was delivering a missive. His notes and messages had fluttered up in the air as he had tried to catch the lady from falling, but her girth had defied even his strength and the two of them had ended up in a tangle at the doorway.

Madame rushed forwards to help the baroness, as did Roseanne, but the matron was too furious to have any assistance. She righted herself, caught her daughter by the arm and marched from the store, her nose tipped haughtily in the air.

An embarrassed silence filled the shop, but only for a moment. Madame snapped her fingers, as if that was enough to dismiss the situation, then got back to business, calling for her assistants, and greeting the waiting clients with her usual French airs.

The footman gathered up his notes, with Hazel’s help — for the girl had a romantic nature and flirted shamelessly with all the handsome footmen who came and went from the shop. They all knew Hazel and she knew them.

The cheeky fellow handed over a pair of missives and winked at the girl before he turned to leave.

Madame, however, was in no mood for such behaviour and snatched the mail from Hazel’s hands. She sent the girl a scathing glance that sent her scurrying to the back room.

“Take these and see to them,” Madame told Ella. “We will discuss that gown later.”

Ella bowed politely, took the notes and also fled to the back room.

She didn’t know whether to continue her work on the gown for Lady Shore or begin the task of packing her bags. It had only been lucky happenstance that she’d gotten this job when she’d returned to London six months ago.

Luck, and her skill with a needle. Another job might not be so easily gotten.

For to be dismissed yet again and always without references — Ella shuddered at such a prospect.

“She’ll not sack you,” Hazel said, as if reading her friend’s bleak expression. “She’s made too much money from your designs.”

Ella absently sorted through the notes in her hands. “That gown cost a fortune, and if Lady Fitzsimon doesn’t pay for it—”

Hazel nodded in grim agreement.

It would come out of Ella’s salary. Glancing over at the silk, which now lay on the work table, she sighed, for it was ever so lovely a dress and it had been meant to be worn this night and this night only.

Lady Fitzsimon was utterly mistaken on the matter. Lord Ashe would never have thought that gown common. He would have loved it.

“Gar, Ella! Whatever is that in your hand?” Hazel said, coming around the work table in a flash.

Martha had slipped into the workroom just then, a stack of sample brocades in her arms. Her mouth fell open and she nearly dropped her burden when she saw what Ella was holding. “Oh, as I live and breathe! It is.”

“Is what?” Ella said, before she glanced down at the thick cream card in her hand.

Viscount Ashe

Invites the bearer of this invitation

To his masquerade ball

The 11th of April

Ella’s mouth fell open. An invitation to the Ashe Ball.

Hazel began to laugh. “That old cow must have dropped it when she went off in a huff.”

“She won’t be able to get in without it.” Ella crossed the room and caught up her cloak. She started for the back door, when Hazel caught her by the arm.

“And just what do you think you are doing?”

“Returning this to Lady Fitzsimon.”

“Why would you be doing that?” Hazel held her fast.

“Because she can’t get in without it,” Ella told her, pulling her arm free and reaching for the door.

“Well, she don’t need it now, does she?” Martha said. “Since her daughter hasn’t got a gown to wear.”

Something about the girl’s words — nay, suggestion — stayed Ella’s steps. “Whatever do you mean?”

Martha glanced over at Hazel, who nodded in agreement. “That we didn’t work our fingers raw to see that gown spend the night here, being taken apart, so the mistress could not only charge you for it, but sell the makings off again to someone else, taking the profit twice over.”

Hazel nodded.

“You could go, with that gown and that invitation,” Martha whispered.

Ella shook her head. “I couldn’t—”

“And why ever not? It isn’t like you aren’t quality, and it isn’t like that gown doesn’t fit.”

“You could see him again, Ella,” Hazel said.

“No,” Ella gasped, staring down at the name on the invitation. Viscount Ashe.

Him.

“I can’t … I would be discovered … Think of the trouble …”

“Think of seeing him again,” Hazel said. “You know very well that you sewed that gown with him in mind. So he would think it was you.”

“I did no such—” But she stopped herself. She had. Shamelessly designed and embroidered every stitch for his eyes, his favour.

“Wouldn’t seeing him again be worth a bundle of trouble and then some?”

“Julian, you vowed tonight would be the last time,” Lady Ashe said, over the tea table.

The Ashe residence was a flurry of activity as the servants and the added help that had been hired for the ball continued working at a furious pace to ensure that everything went off as planned.

“Yes, yes, Mother, I recall my promise,” Julian, Viscount Ashe, told her.

“You will choose a bride tonight and no more of this foolishness about finding ‘her’.”

Julian glanced out the window at the garden beyond. Her. His mysterious lady love. The one who’d come to the first Ashe Ball five years earlier.

The Ashes had always been a romantic lot, and family tradition held that the Ashe viscount had five seasons to find his true love. Five. A bride to be plucked from a masquerade before the five years were out.

Julian had found his the very first year.

Found her and lost her.

He’d spent the last five years searching for the mysterious lady who’d come to the ball, danced with him, kissed him — Julian glanced over at his mother who was deep in discussion with the housekeeper over where to find their extra plates — the lady whose virginity he had stolen in an impetuous moment of passion.

But it wasn’t just her passion that had intrigued him, it was her lively nature, her bright eyes, her sharp wit.

She’d stolen his heart that night, just as the Ashe legend said a lady would. But what the Ashe legend didn’t say was what to do when the love of your life, your future viscountess, ups and disappears into thin air.

And now tonight was his last chance to find her.

It wasn’t as if Julian hadn’t searched for her — but all he’d come to were dead ends.

At first, he’d thought his choice was Lady Pamela Osborn. Everyone had assumed that the young lady, who the elder Lady Osborn hauled out of the ball just before the unmasking, had been her daughter. But, as it turned out, Lady Pamela had given her costume to another and used the night to elope with Lord Percy Snodgrass. Who Lady Pamela’s twin had been was the real mystery, for Lady Osborn had refused to give Ashe any information about the scandal. And the newly minted Lady Percy had sent back his enquiries unopened.

He’d even taken to haunting the streets outside the Osborn townhouse in hopes of spying a maid or companion who might fit the bill, or one willing to be bribed to give a hint who his mysterious lady love might be. But not a one would give Ashe even a crumb of information about the lady in green silk who had haunted his every day for five years.

Two

The Ashe Ball — 1810

Miss Ella Cynders, companion to Lady Pamela, the daughter of the Earl of Osborn, stood at the entrance of the Ashe Ball, her knees quaking with fear and her heart hammering with excitement.

Fear, because if she were discovered impersonating Pamela, she’d be sacked without references.

Of course, if she was honest, her being sacked was a given. By the morning, there would be no way to conceal Pamela’s runaway marriage and she, Ella, would be let go.

But Pamela, the soon-to-be Lady Percy Snodgrass, had promised to hire her immediately as her companion to come live with her in the country. So if Ella were to be unemployed, it wouldn’t be for long.

Still, Ella couldn’t help but allow a bit of excitement to nudge aside her fears. This was the legendary Ashe masquerade after all. There hadn’t been one in twenty-seven years, not since the last Lord Ashe had plucked the unlikely Miss Amelia Levingston out of the crowd as his perfect bride.

Tonight would be their son Julian’s first attempt to find his viscountess, and the ton was abuzz at the opportunity the ball afforded on a lucky young lady. To become Lady Ashe.

“Pamela,” Lady Osborn said, “remember, if you are to catch his eye, do not be obvious, but not so shy that he doesn’t notice you.”

Ella nodded, but didn’t say a word. Luckily, she and Pamela were of the same height and build, and with Ella’s red hair powdered and done up in a crown of flowers, it was impossible to discern that it wasn’t Pamela’s blonde locks beneath.

And it helped that Lady Osborn was dreadfully near-sighted.

“Certainly, Lord Ashe’s mother has left nothing to chance,” Lady Osborn was saying as they walked deeper into the room. “There are the Damerells, and the Sadlers. And I see Lady Houghton has both her daughters here. I daresay, Lady Ashe knew what she was doing — including only the best families, so there was no chance of some undesirable parti catching her son’s eye.”

Ella flinched. Undesirable partis were the bane of Lady Osborn’s existence. Such as the one Lady Pamela was running away with this very night.

“I am glad you had Ella rework your costume,” the lady said. “She has such an eye for these things, for I daresay your costume is the finest in the room. I had my doubts when we hired her, but she has the most exquisite hand with a needle.” The lady sighed. “Now, make the most of this evening. While Ashe is only a viscount, at least he has a title and lands.”

This was a pointed snub about the attentions of Lord Percy, who claimed only a courtesy title and no property. Second sons held little appeal to an ambitious mother like Lady Osborn and being in love with one was nothing short of treason.

So Ella nodded and smiled, thankful the lady really spent so little time with her daughter and cared so little for her opinions and even less for her conversation. Thus, Ella wasn’t required to do much more than nod obediently.

They continued to wade through the crush, and Ella felt a bit light-headed, for the crowd was dazzling in its costumes and masks — she’d never seen the likes of such a party. Certainly she’d been to other affairs as Pamela’s companion, but she’d always spent her time alone on the periphery, watching Pamela being courted, while the marchioness was off getting caught up with her cronies.

“I wish I knew how Lord Ashe was disguised,” Lady Osborn mused, tapping her fan against her lips and scanning the crowd, though it was unlikely she could tell a Robin Hood from a Cavalier. “But then again, I have to imagine there isn’t a mother here who wouldn’t give up a year’s worth of pin money for that confidence.”

Lord Ashe … Ella had heard nothing but talk of him and his ball for the last two months. Certainly everyone knew what he looked like — burnished gold hair, a square jaw and wide shoulders. Tall and elegant, he made lady after lady swoon. He would be hard to disguise, so like everyone else she couldn’t help scanning the crowd trying to discover him.

But her quest to find Lord Ashe suddenly paled.

Dutifully following Lady Osborn through the crush of bodies, she spied a tall man dressed in a long, embroidered surcoat and form-fitting hose and boots coming towards them. She didn’t know if it was her own love of medieval stories or the way he carried himself, but she was utterly and instantly mesmerized. From the dark mane of hair brushed back, to the straight line of his shoulders, to the way his leggings showed every muscle in his long legs — it was as if Lancelot or Richard the Lionheart had just stepped out of the Crusades or a tournament, minus the chain mail and sword. He came closer, prowling through the crowd as if it was his to command, and Ella’s breath caught in her throat.

She, who had no business falling in love, fell. Fell in an instant. If that was what this was — being unable to breathe, afraid to move, afraid even to blink, lest he disappear from sight.

Oh, save me, came an errant thought. Save me, oh, knight.

And as he passed by, his gaze met hers, and something inside her flamed to life. A spark passed between the two of them.

It was as if they had always been together, were destined to be united. That they had known and loved each other until the ages had torn them apart, and now …

Now they had found each other once again.

Even as she continued past him, their gazes held, her head turning so she could gape after him. Then he was surrounded by the crowd and disappeared from sight and, in a flash, the connection was broken.

Ella shivered. I cannot lose him. It was a cry from deep within her heart, a place within her that until now had been silently slumbering. Sleeping no longer, she couldn’t do anything other than stop and whirl around.

She forgot all about being Pamela, all about deceiving Lady Osborn — who had waded ahead, having spied a friend she knew would have the most current on dits, and had all but forgotten her daughter.

And to her shock, as she turned to determine where he had gone, he was no more than a few feet from her. For he had stopped as well. Frozen and fixed as if he couldn’t take another step away from her.

Gazing at her, his eyes sparkled beneath his mask, and a smile rose on his lips. And that connection, the one that had brought them to this moment, sparked anew. It drew her closer to him, even as he closed the final bit of difference between them.

“Good evening, oh, fair, fey creature,” he said, reaching out and taking her hand, bringing it up to his lips. “I have sought you for an eternity.”

Then he kissed her fingertips and sent a tremor of desire racing through her. Ella willed herself not to snatch her hand back, for she’d never felt anything like it. And it seemed she wasn’t alone. He looked at her anew as if the sensation had been something he had hardly expected.

“You … you have?” she stammered as she looked down at her fingers, which still tingled. Biting her lip, she hazarded a glance up at him.

“How could I not?” he said, bowing slightly. Then he leaned closer. “I believe they are about to start the dancing. If you are not already engaged, may I have the honour?”

She nodded wordlessly and he led her through the crowd.

Again, a thrum of desire raced through her as she walked alongside him and out on to the floor. Couples were taking their places, and soon they were surrounded, but Ella couldn’t shake the sensation that they were all alone. When the music began, they moved through the steps that pulled them apart and pushed them together and then separated them yet again.

“Your costume is lovely,” he said, as he returned to her. “Are you Titania?”

She blushed. “Goodness, no. I am merely one of her court.” Out of the corner of her eye she spied Lady Osborn watching her, then turning her gaze on Ella’s partner. Once she’d taken his measure, she turned to the lady next to her and got to work. To discover whether or not he was an eligible parti.

Not that any of that mattered to Ella. She’d never danced at a ball, never held a man’s attention, never even been kissed. Not that she expected such a thing, but stealing a glance at the firm line of his lips, she had to imagine a kiss would be heavenly. This was her own fairy tale, one she doubted very many ladies in her position ever lived. And instead of being cautious, instead of remembering her place, she allowed herself to believe that this night was hers to discover her heart.

“I feel as if I have met you before,” he confessed, as they moved around each other, their hands entwined and his gaze never leaving hers.

“I you.” Ella wasn’t about to play coy, or engage in all the elongated trappings of courtship. She hadn’t the time. She knew if she was ever to have a night, this one was it.

This one night. Her night. Their night. And then it would be off to the country to Lord Percy’s family estate in Shropshire. Certainly, there were no such men there — no knights like this, capable of sweeping a lady off her feet.

The dance continued and they said little, just stealing glances at each other, and revelling in the moments when his fingers entwined with hers, when his hand would come to the small of her back and guide her through the steps.

When the music ended, Ella held her breath. For she didn’t want this dance, this night to ever end.

Apparently, neither did he.

“Have you seen the conservatory?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“It is rumoured to have oranges blooming right now. Would you like to see them, my lovely fey creature?” He held out his hand to her.

“Oranges?” she said. “Oh, I do love orange blossoms. The fragrance is heavenly.”

“Then come along and indulge yourself.”

Ella smiled and twined her fingers with his. “Do you think we should?” she asked, as he led her from the ballroom. Stealing one last glance over her shoulder, she could see Lady Osborn with her gaze fixed on the dance floor as she searched for some sign of her daughter.

“Certainly. Lord Ashe is a particular friend of mine,” he confided. “He won’t mind in the least.”

It was exactly from this sort of scandalous adventure that she’d been hired to keep Pamela — and then again, here she was disguised as Pamela so her charge could run away with Lord Percy.

So she might as well fall into her own mire.

“I can’t help thinking that we’ve met,” he was saying.

“I feel the same, but I can’t think of where or when.” Ella looked at him again, searched for something familiar, wondering if he was an officer who might have served with her father. For certainly he had the confidence and bearing of a man used to being in command. But she could hardly ask who he was, for then he would ask for her name.

And she would have to lie. The one thing Ella didn’t want to do to this man was tell him half-truths and fabrications. She couldn’t. But the truth? That she was naught but a pauper hired by Lady Osborn because her services could be had for very little?

Would that matter to him? He was a few paces ahead of her, leading the way to the back of the house, and she glanced at his back. His pace reminded her of a lion’s, the surcoat doing little to hide the muscled strength beneath it.

“Whatever are you smiling at?” he asked, as they stopped at the door to the conservatory, which had been built in the gardens behind the house.

“Your costume. I can’t determine if you are Galahad, Richard or Percival.”

“I would prefer a Templar,” he said, taking a fighting stance and grinning wickedly at her.

She laughed. “You do realize that most of them were nothing more than expert brawlers, men trained for naught but waging war.”

This took him aback. “You know of the Templars?”

“Certainly. My father was in the army, and adored military history. I have no brothers, so I grew up on a steady diet of books featuring the campaigns of Hannibal and Alexander, and ever so many histories — including the Templars. My mother feared I would be quite unmanageable from such an education.”

“No, I think you are most surprising,” he said, opening the door. The warmth and moisture of the air inside swarmed over them. “But I suppose I must leave the unmanageable part for further discovery.”

“I am hardly unmanageable,” she told him, as she stalked past into the warmth of the conservatory.

His brow arched.

“Well, I do make my mistakes from time to time. And I fear I don’t always exhibit the demeanour expected of a lady.” Which is why she’d been fired by Lady Gaspar and Lady Preswood.

He folded his arms over his chest and eyed her. “Let me see how outspoken you are.” He paused. “What do you think the likelihood of the Americans joining France against us?”

“Very,” she told him. Forgetting Lady Osborn’s dictum that ladies never discussed politics. Never. “But it will be a dangerous situation.”

“Yes, well, I doubt the Americans have much sense over the matter. A hot-headed rabble is all they will ever be.”

“No, sir, you mistake me. I mean it will be a dangerous situation for us.”

“For us?!” he sputtered. “I think your mother was right.”

“No, sir, you aren’t looking at it from a military vantage,” she said, feeling the thrill of debate outweigh any dictum by Lady Osborn. “We will be spread too thin. If we make war in the Americas, we weaken our ability to defeat Bonaparte quickly.”

“So you think we cannot defeat the French?”

“I didn’t say that,” she said, pacing around him. They were circling like cats, but to Ella it was exhilarating. “It is just that every military leader in history who has spread his troops over greater and greater distances thins his lines to the point where gaps are created. Dangerous gaps.”

He paused for a second and eyed her, an astonished respect in his gaze. “But Napoleon is faced with the same problem. He called for Spanish recruits last month and the bloody Spaniards raced for the hills rather than be conscripted.”

“And yet there are eighty thousand Frenchmen who have been conscripted, and another forty thousand in the waiting. And how many able men are in America? We are but one island.” She crossed her arms over her chest and waited.

Her knight scratched his chin. “But there are the Spaniards who are joining our troops in Majorca — they will fight at our side.”

“Yes, in Spain, but not in New York, or Maryland, or the Carolinas. Will they defend our hold in Canada?”

He grunted and paced in front of her.

“Bonaparte knew exactly what he was doing when he gave the Floridas to the Americans, and stirred their wrath against our Navy — as well deserved as it is.”

“So you would criticize the might of the Royal Navy, you bold minx?”

She nodded emphatically. “When they anger a sleeping bear, yes. Not one of those captains thinks of the consequences of taking a single American ship, but what will they do when that country’s Congress acts? When that country begins to build ships? Fleets of ships. They have a continent of forests. They can build frigates for the next hundred years — and man them. Can we?”

He threw up his hands and strode away a few steps. “I can’t believe I am arguing this with a lady!”

“And being bested,” she pointed out.

“Routed!” he declared. “Your mother was entirely correct — you are unmanageable.”

Ella didn’t feel the least bit insulted. “I daresay, you don’t mind.”

This gave him pause and then he grinned. “No, I actually don’t. But if you tell anyone I’ve conceded—”

She shook her head and crossed her fingers over her heart. “Never! I swear.”

“It shall be our secret,” he told her, moving closer again. As he passed an orange tree, he reached and plucked a blossom from the branch and handed it to her. For a moment all Ella could do was gaze down at the delicate blossom cradled in her hand, for she didn’t dare look up at him.

“Does your father still read you military tracts?” he asked.

She shook her head. “My parents are both gone.”

He paused and gazed at her. “I am so sorry. You have sisters?”

“No, I am … I am all alone now.”

“Not any longer,” he told her, taking her hand and leading her down the long aisle.

The conservatory was glassed on three sides, running the length of the garden wall. A stove provided extra heat and lamps overhead illuminated the wild, exotic collection of plants flourishing in the artificial tropics. As they drew closer to the middle, the intoxicating scent of oranges in bloom curled around her, enticed her to come closer and inhale … deeply.

“It is just like our garden in Portugal,” she told him, reaching out to touch the narrow leaf of a palm.

“You lived in Portugal?”

“Yes. Though not always. I was born in the West Indies. Then my father’s regiment was sent to Portugal.”

“I imagine you find London quite different.”

She laughed. “I find London ever so cold.”

They both laughed.

“Is it still a cold place?” he asked, drawing her into his arms.

“No,” she said, shivering, and definitely not from London’s notorious chill.

His hands, firm and warm, pulled her closer, until she was nestled right up against his chest. Her hands splayed over his surcoat, and marvelled at the hard plains beneath.

Like a Templar reborn.

“I don’t even know your name,” he whispered as he lowered his head, drew his lips closer to hers.

“Does it matter?” she whispered.

“No. Not really,” he said, his breath warm on her lips. And then that breath became his lips, covering hers and stealing a kiss.

Ella didn’t know what to expect, but this … this invasion … this breach of her defences, left her breathless. His tongue sallied over her lips, teased her to open the gates, to let him storm forth. Everything she knew about defences gave way to his very expert onslaught.

Besides, how was she not to let him in, when he was creating this breathless storm inside her?

Desire, new and exhilarating, raced through her, as his hands held her even closer, began to explore her, running down her sides, curving around her backside.

Ella was starting to burn.

His kiss deepened and, instead of being frightened — as she supposed she should be, as she ought to be — she welcomed him, drawing him closer, her arms winding around his neck.

She had to hold him like that, for her knees, her legs, her insides, had become ever so unreliable, quaking with need, with desires, leaving her shaky and unsettled … and eager for more.

He drew back from her, lips parted for a moment, and gazed at her, a wonder in his eyes that startled her. For even in her innocence, she knew this was different. This wasn’t what he had expected.

Or had he known all along, just as they had found themselves drawn to each other in the middle of the ballroom?

“Ahem,” came a polite cough from the doorway of the conservatory, breaking into their intimate moment of wonderment. “Sir?”

Her knight looked up. “Yes?”

“You are required inside,” the fellow said, staring down at the floor.

“Yes, thank you, Shifton.”

The man bowed and left.

“I must—” he said, waving at the door. “But only for a little bit,” he added hastily.

“Yes, I understand,” she said. “I think I should go to the retiring room and put myself in order.”

“I will only undo it later,” he told her, leaning over and kissing her brow tenderly. Ella should have realized then, it was actually a promise.

Three

Ella rushed into the empty retiring room, her cheeks completely flushed and her heart hammering. Whatever is happening to me?

She was falling in love. Oh, and it was perfect and delicious and wonderful. She hugged herself and spun around, only to come to a complete stop when she realized she wasn’t alone.

For there in a chair in the corner sat an elderly matron.

“Oh, I didn’t know—” Ella stammered, glancing towards the door and then around the room.

The lady’s gaze narrowed and then she rose and crossed the room. As she got closer, Ella’s eyes widened in recognition. “Mrs Garraway!”

“Ella Cynders, oh, my dear!” The lady took Ella into her arms and hugged her tight. “You wicked, wicked girl! You don’t know how I have worried after you. And here you are.” Mrs Garraway held her out at arm’s length and examined her, smiling widely.

“How is the Colonel?” Ella asked, as she took off her mask to get a better look at her mother’s dear friend. Colonel Garraway had been her father’s commanding officer, and Ella and her mother had spent countless hours with Mrs Garraway, sewing and gossiping and keeping each other company in Portugal.

That is until Ella’s parents had died, and Ella had been sent home to live with an aunt. But unbeknownst to the kindly Garraways, the lady had also recently died, leaving Ella without friend, family or a home. That was how she had ended up as Lady Pamela’s paid companion.

“He’s just the same, always in a fine fettle over something. But won’t he be ever so happy to see you. We’ve been so worried, for when we got to London and discovered that your aunt had passed away and there wasn’t a word of you, I feared the worst. But I see I was worried for naught, for here you are and looking perfectly lovely.” She hugged Ella again and looked to be ready to burst out in tears. “Wherever have you been?”

“I took a position, Mrs Garraway. I work for Lady Osborn as her daughter’s companion,” Ella told her.

Instead of being shocked or disappointed, Mrs Garraway nodded approvingly. “That’s my girl. You were never so above yourself that you couldn’t find your way. That’s what the Colonel kept saying. ‘Got her father’s nerve,’ he’d say when I would get to fretting.” She paused and looked Ella over again. “And they must be very fond of you to give you such a lovely costume and let you have suitors.”

Bad enough that the colour in her cheeks drained away, Ella couldn’t even look the lady in the eye. Oh, she was in the suds now. More so than for just taking Pamela’s place at the ball.

“Ella!” Mrs Garraway said, her voice turning from welcoming to stern. “I can see it on your face. What mischief is this?”

She bit her lip and looked over at the woman who was the closest person she had left to family. And with her thoughts in a whirl, she turned to the lady and confessed all. “Mrs Garraway, I am in such a tangle. Lady Pamela begged me to take her place tonight. Lady Osborn thinks I am her daughter.”

“Is the woman so daft that she can’t see her own daughter?”

“She’s a bit near-sighted,” Ella confessed. “And has paid little heed to Lady Pamela until now. She confuses me with her daughter often, so we thought, well, Lady Pamela knew that her mother wouldn’t notice the difference.”

Mrs Garraway shook her head. She’d raised three daughters herself, all while following the drum, and seen them all married to good men. But she’d done so by keeping a close eye on them. And her maternal ways returned in full force. “And where is this Lady Pamela?”

Again, Ella blanched. “She’s run off.” And when the good lady gasped, she continued quickly, “He is a good man — Lord Percy Snodgrass, the second son of the Marquess of Lichfield. They are very much in love.”

The Colonel’s wife pursed her lips. “And if it is a good match, Ella Cynders, why ever are they eloping?”

“Their parents don’t approve.”

This didn’t win any favour from Mrs Garraway. “Oh, good heavens, gel, however did you get mixed up in such a scandal? You’ll be sacked. Did you think about that?”

Ella shook her head. “Oh, no, it won’t be like that.”

Mrs Garraway’s brows rose into a pair of question marks.

“Well, yes, I will be sacked, that much is for certain,” she conceded. “But Lady Pamela has promised to hire me as her companion, so I will have a job once again when they return to London.”

“Oh, Ella, think on this. Does Lord Percy have an income? Estates? The capacity to keep a wife? Do his parents approve of the match?”

“Well, not exactly—” In fact, they had forbidden it. They wanted an heiress for Percy, since he was unlikely to inherit. And Lady Pamela, while a lovely creature, would come to her marriage with little, considering her father’s shaky finances.

“And if his parents don’t approve of the match, do you honestly think they will take you — the one who helped to make this mésalliance happen — into their employ?”

Oh, that had never occurred to her! As Pamela had laid out her plans, it seemed so simple. And now … “You don’t think I’ll be—”

“You’ll be dismissed without references, gel. You’ve landed yourself in a great deal of trouble.”

Ella’s breath froze in her throat. No, it couldn’t be. But, in her heart, she knew the truth. Tears welled up in her eyes. Oh, she was done for.

“Now, now, no need for all that. It isn’t your fault — entirely — that this Lady Pamela is a headstrong piece, not that her ladyship is like to see it that way. Still, I can see you haven’t changed a bit. You romantic thing. You likely thought Lady Pamela’s marriage would be just like your parents’, didn’t you? But your mother fully understood the consequences that her marriage wrought.”

Ella nodded. Her own parents had made a runaway marriage and been blissfully happy despite the family cutting their daughter off completely. Her grandparents had even refused to acknowledge Ella.

“They loved each other, and they never lacked for anything, and neither will Lady Pamela,” Ella said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. Despite her father being an officer with no background, her aristocratic mother had been more than content to follow him. The likelihood of the pampered Lady Pamela living happily in reduced circumstances wasn’t so certain. Not even with Lord Percy at her side. For he was just as spoiled. “Oh, Mrs Garraway, I am in ever so much of a coil.”

“That you are, lass. That you are.” Then Mrs Garraway smiled. “But it is your good luck that I’ve found you when I did. The Colonel is being sent back to Portugal and I am off with him. We sail in the morning, and you will come with us. I’ve missed you, gel. So after her ladyship sends you off with a flea in your ear and you are in complete disgrace, make haste to the docks, so you can come and keep me company in my dotage. That is, if you don’t mind coming to Portugal? Better than the streets of London, I have to say.”

Ella didn’t know what to say. So she threw herself into the lady’s arms and hugged her tight. “Oh, Mrs Garraway, whatever have I done to deserve you?”

“You might not say that in a few months when you’ve grown tired of me!” she laughed, a fond glow in her eyes. “Oh, now, don’t gape so, gel.” She glanced again at Ella’s costume. “I must say, dear girl, you are going into your disgrace in an elegant fashion. You sewed that costume, didn’t you?”

“You would know, you taught me every stitch,” she said, finally finding her voice, and swiping at the tears that had bubbled up in her eyes.

“I might have taught you how, but you have an eye, lass. Your mother’s eye for colour. And for handsome fellows, I must say. Whoever is that swain of yours?” The lady grinned and glanced at the door, for the music was striking up again.

“I don’t know,” Ella confessed. “But he is so handsome, and so kind. Yet, I am hardly—”

“Bah! He’d be lucky to have you,” the lady said. “And if things were different …” The dear woman sighed and hugged her one more time. “Oh, Ella, it isn’t fair, but it is the way of things.”

She knew exactly what Mrs Garraway meant. If Ella wasn’t in service … if her parents hadn’t married in disgrace … If she were really a lady …

Mrs Garroway took Ella’s mask and tied it on to her face once again. “Never you mind, gel. I was young once. And in love. Besides, that knight you’ve found is a handsome devil. I’d dance with him too if I was your age. Do more than dance, I daresay,” she said with a laugh.

Ella blushed. “I never imagined—” Her fingers went to her lips.

“Oh, so he’s gone and kissed you, has he? Good. Give you something happy to remember of this night.” She shooed her towards the door. “Go with him tonight. Make your memories, gel. Then come dawn, take your lumps from her ladyship, pack your bags — if she gives you time for that — and make your way to the docks. We sail first thing.”

“Mrs. Garraway …” Ella began, pausing at the door.

“Yes, lass?”

“However can I thank you?”

“Enjoy this night,” she told her, her blue eyes asparkle with mischief. “The reckoning will come soon enough.”

Enjoy this night. Mrs Garraway’s encouragement filled Ella’s heart with hope as she slipped out of the retiring room and paused in the hallway, wondering which way to go.

Back to the conservatory and hope her knight would come to her? Or back to the ballroom where he had been summoned?

Of course, then she risked running into Lady Osborn, who would surely be searching for “Pamela” by now. No, probably best to go to the ballroom and make some muttered excuse about not feeling well.

Then again, she realized, she couldn’t confess to being too ill. Lady Osborn, in some rare pique of maternal concern, might decide to take her home.

No, that will not do, Ella decided.

But as it turned out, it wasn’t for her to decide. Just before she got to the ballroom, her knight came swooping out of an alcove.

“Good heavens, I thought you’d never come down from there.” He caught her in his arms again and kissed her anew. This time his lips were hungry and quick and ever so wonderful. “Whatever is it that you ladies do up there?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she said, thinking of Mrs Garraway’s advice.

“Would you like a tour of the house,” he offered. “I know for a fact that Lord Ashe shares your penchant for military history, and has a fine map room upstairs.”

“Do you think that would be right?” she asked, looking up the stairs. The retiring room was the first room of a long hall, but one never ventured past the safety of the retiring room into parts unknown.

Then again, ladies didn’t kiss strangers in conservatories either.

“Upon my honour, I know Ashe wouldn’t mind in the least.”

“If you don’t think Lord Ashe would mind,” she agreed, all too curious.

He took her hand, and then glanced around to make sure no one noticed them. They darted up the stairs like a pair of wayward children.

Down the hall they went and into the study, where there was only the glow of coals in the fireplace. It was a grand space, with a large map table in the middle — atop it were spread several charts and city plans held down with lead soldiers. The table was ingenious, designed so that roll upon roll of maps could be stored in the cubbyholes built into the base.

Bookshelves lined one wall, while a desk and chair took up another corner. A long, wide settee, with a chair opposite, sat before the fireplace.

It was the sort of place she could imagine a general plotting his spring conquests. Then her gaze flitted over to the rare light in her knight’s eyes. It was the light of another sort of conquest. And when he caught hold of her and kissed her, she knew she should raise her defences, flee for the safety of the ballroom, but all she could consider was that this was her last night here.

Then it would be off to Portugal, to a life as Mrs Garraway’s companion. And yes, the dear lady would do her best to marry her off to some officer or other, but Ella knew it would never again be like this.

Like this starry brush with the heavens. As if the Fates had brought them together to remind them of what could be had … And lost.

And so Ella caught hold of him and held fast to what chance had offered her.

It was wrong, it was foolhardy, but if she didn’t … oh, if she didn’t, she would regret it the rest of her life.

As her mother had said often enough, If I’d had only one night with my Roger it would alone have been worth every bit of disgrace …

And that kind of talk was another part of growing up in army camps, travelling with soldiers, living far from the drawing rooms and strict society of London.

Ella, at one and twenty, had a pretty good notion of what happened between men and women. Having seen enough camp followers in her days, lived around the rough talk of common men, the physical act was no mystery to her.

So when her knight kissed her, carried her over to the settee, she wasn’t afraid. No, she was ever so curious. Ever so desirous — for he had awakened inside her an insatiable need.

They fell into the wide, warm depths of the settee in a tangle of limbs.

They kissed, deeply, hungrily, until it seemed to flame a fire of need neither could deny.

He kissed her neck, sending tendrils of desire dancing through her limbs. He freed one of her breasts and kissed it tenderly, taking the nipple into his mouth and sucking on it — first slowly, gently, then pulling it deeply into his mouth. At the same time, he tormented the other with his hand, bringing both nipples to taut points.

Ella arched beneath his touch, his kiss, for he was bringing her body to life. When his hand slid beneath her gown, ran up her leg, up her thigh, touched her so intimately, traced circles around the tight, throbbing nub hidden there, instead of being shocked, she gasped, for his teasing touch only made the torment so much more inescapable. She sought out his lips and kissed him, her hands ran beneath his surcoat, around his leggings.

Unlike breeches, his leggings left no means to conceal what was beneath them — a hard masculine line straining to be freed. And she ached to release him. Find her own release from this wild fire he stoked inside her. So she brazenly traced her fingers over his form, stroked him, boldly reaching inside his leggings to free him.

He moved, instinctively, atop her, poised to take her, fill her and then, suddenly, his eyes widened, as if he were awakening from a dream.

He brushed the hair back from her face, his breath coming in ragged sighs. “You’ve never—”

She knew what he meant. Never done this. Not trusting herself to say the words, she just shook her head.

He started to pull away. “This is madness. We shouldn’t … But dammit, my fey little beauty, you have bewitched me.”

And him her. “Then take me,” she whispered, feeling the morning tide pulling her away from him. “Please, I am yours,” she said, shocked by her own bold and impassioned plea.

“Then you realize what that means. If I have you now, I will have you for ever.” His mouth curved into a smile.

But how could she tell him there was no for ever for them. That tomorrow she would be well and gone from London. There was no time for him to save her.

Save from the bonfire of desire crackling inside her.

“This is how it ought to be,” she told him, reaching up and cradling his face. To reinforce her words, she arched her hips up to brush against him, nudge him to come closer, to fill her.

She pulled his head down and kissed him. They began again, kissing and touching and exploring and the fury of their early moments became an exquisite dance. And when he entered her, he did it slowly, allowing her to feel the pleasure of each stroke, so when he breached her barrier, it was over and done and then there was only pleasure … Sweet euphoric pleasure that surrounded them both, drove them both until once again they were riding that wild cadence that had ensnared them earlier but this time it brought them both to a heady release.

Ella gasped as the first wave of sensuous gratification came over her, filled as she was by him, covered by him, surrounded by him and so she caught hold of him and clung to him, as her body drowned in the sweet pleasure.

And she wasn’t alone, for he made a deep groan and stroked her wildly and deeply as he too found his release.

He collapsed into her arms and they clung to each other, marvelling in the starry world they had found in each other’s arms.

A little while later, he rose from the couch and pulled her up as well. Glancing behind her, he laughed a bit. “I fear I’ve broken more than just your wings.”

She caught a glimpse of herself and saw the real problem — there was no disguising the fact that she’d been tumbled. Besides her dishevelled curls, the lost petals in her crown, the wrinkled state of her gown, there was no mistaking the starry light of wonder in her eyes.

Oh, good heavens, that is what it means to be loved, she realized, her hands coming to her cheeks. She doubted very much that this was what Mrs Garraway had meant when she’d told her to enjoy herself.

Behind her, her knight took her in his arms and pulled her against his chest, then he tipped his chin up and kissed her. After a few more kisses, he tried to straighten out her flowered crown and resettle it atop her tangled hair. He finally gave up and laughed at his own lopsided attempts, handing her back the fairy crown. As she went over to the mirror to set it to rights and make what repairs she could, she heard him say, “I never believed in the legend, until tonight.”

“The legend?” Ella said, distracted by the tangle of curls before her. Oh, good heavens, she wouldn’t have to wait until tomorrow to be sacked. Even near-sighted old Lady Osborn would be able to see what she’d done.

“The Ashe legend,” he said over his shoulder as he pulled on his boots. “About finding a bride at the ball. I had rather thought it a bit of madness cooked up to get reluctant heirs to marry.”

Ella stepped back and eyed her work — not bad, she almost looked as she had earlier, save one missing earbob. Turning to look for it, she told him, “Well, you needn’t fear such a legend, because I believe it only applies to Lord Ashe.”

Then there was a long silence, one that said more than a declaration of the truth.

Lord Ashe? “No!” she gasped, as she slowly raised her gaze to his. He couldn’t be.

“I thought you knew,” he said. “But it is no matter, the only problem is my mother.”

“Your mother?” she forced past her suddenly parched throat.

“Yes. She’ll be crowing for weeks. She worked over that damned invitation list of hers and vowed I would find a suitable bride tonight. She left nothing to chance as she wanted me well matched. And now I am. Perfectly so.”

“And you think—” It was all Ella could manage to get out.

“That you are perfect? Yes, in every way.”

Ella groaned. “Oh, this cannot be.” He couldn’t be Lord Ashe.

“I thought you knew,” he repeated.

She shook her head. “No, I never!”

“Does it make a difference?”

However was she to answer that? Did it make a difference to her? No, he was still the most wonderful man she’d ever met. But he thought her to be a lady. One of his mother’s eligible misses.

Not Ella Cynders, a mere companion. Make that a “disgraced-without-references-and-unemployed” companion.

Suddenly the blare of a trumpet pierced the solitude that had surrounded them.

“Excellent,” he said. “Time for the unmasking and our announcement.” He held out his hand for her.

“Announcement?”

“Of our engagement.” He drew her close again and kissed her forehead. “That was the point of the ball. So I could find a bride. And I have found you. If you think I am letting you go, you are most mistaken.”

“But I–I-I …” she stammered. “That is … Oh, the devil take me, this is happening too fast.”

He glanced at her as he towed her from the room. “Don’t you want to get married?”

“Well, yes,” she said without thinking, for she was too busy trying to find a way out of this muddle. She couldn’t be unmasked, couldn’t have him announce his engagement to a mere hired companion.

He’d be the laughing stock of London.

She had to tell him, and tell him quickly, that she couldn’t be his bride.

“I suppose you will want to tell your guardian first. Of course,” Lord Ashe was saying as he drew her closer and closer to the ballroom. “That is understandable.”

Tell her guardian? She didn’t have a guardi … Ella’s panic had her digging her heels into the carpet. Not that Ashe noticed her reluctance. He all but carried her along, as if her leaden steps were nothing of note.

As for Ella … She had to imagine that Mrs Garraway’s ship wouldn’t be sailing soon enough to get her out of London. Lady Osborn would have her thrown in Newgate before the sun was up, for bringing this scandal down upon them.

If I can find Mrs Garraway, maybe she can help, Ella thought desperately. Maybe she can get me out of here before …

Just then they slipped into the ballroom and Lord Ashe turned to her, beaming. “Go speak to your guardian and be ready when I call for you.” He winked. “Just for a few more moments, and then you will be mine always.” Before she could stop him, before she could confess the truth, he turned and strode confidently, proudly, through the crowd, towards the dais where his mother was waiting for him to announce the unmasking.

Ella drew an unsteady breath as he moved away from her. The further he went the more she felt him slipping away.

“There you are!” Lady Osborn said, coming up from behind her. “Where have you been, Pamela?” And then she looked at the young lady she assumed was her daughter.

Ella had to imagine that her hasty attempt to salvage her costume and her tumbled hair had failed given the lady’s wide-eyed expression of horror.

“What have you done?” she hissed, coming closer and taking Ella by the arm, dragging her towards the door. “Who did this to you? Is it that wretched Lord Percy? Because if he thinks to press his suit in this sort of despicable manner, he is sadly mistaken. Your father and I will never allow you—” By now Lady Osborn had dragged Ella out to the foyer and had her pinned in an alcove. The lady stood so close that not only could she see every bit of evidence of Ella’s rumpled condition, but one other pertinent fact.

That the girl she held wasn’t her daughter.

“Ella!” she said, releasing her and stepping back.

“Lady Osborn,” Ella replied, tipping her head, and fixing her gaze on the floor.

The matron glanced around and then caught Ella by the arm, rattling her like a rag doll. “Where is my daughter?”

Ella bit her lip and tried to speak. She tried to confess the truth, but the woman was hurting her, her unforgiving grasp like a pair of steel pinchers.

“Never mind, I can guess.” Lady Osborn pulled her towards the door. “She’s run off with that wicked boy.”

Ella took a furtive glance at the ballroom, where Lord Ashe stood unmasked. She could see him scanning the room, looking for her.

The last thing she saw before Lady Osborn hauled her out the door was the startled expression on his handsome face as he caught sight of her.

But it was too late. Ella was about to pay the piper for her impetuous nature and there was naught her knight could do to reach her in time.

Four

The Ashe Ball — 1815

Ella took a deep breath when the carriage stopped before the Ashe townhouse. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t.

But now it was far too late to back out, for too many others had put their own employment on the line for her to disavow them.

Oh, Hazel, what did I let you do? she thought, as the handsome footman — one of three — opened the door and held out his hand to her. This was all Hazel’s doing — the elegant carriage driven by a well-appointed set of matching white horses, a coachman, and three footmen, all courtesy of the Marquess of Holbech, who was currently in Scotland at his hunting box and had no knowledge of his brand-new and as-yet-unmarked carriage being used in this manner.

But Hazel’s flirtatious romance with one of his footmen was enough to gain its illicit use. And, as it turned out, the Marquess’ old coachman had a romantic streak. He managed to rummage up some old, unremarkable livery for them to wear so they wouldn’t be identified.

“Remember, madam,” Hazel’s swain said quietly as he handed Ella down to the kerb. “Before midnight. We must be away.”

She nodded, drawing her cloak around her and pulling its hood down over her face. She ascended the stairs to the grand front door. Other guests were arriving as well and there was a bit of a queue to enter — for each guest had to present their invitation to pass inside.

As she neared the door, a familiar voice cut through the excited whispers around her. “I say, I have an invitation but it was stolen!” Lady Fitzsimon complained. “Now let us in!”

Ella glanced up to find the matron and her daughter standing before the butler, holding up the procession. Ella was glad for her mask, and did a second check to make sure her gown wasn’t showing under the concealing cloak. But still, if the lady recognized her …

Not that this was likely to happen, for Lady Fitzsimon was in a rare mood, facing down the Ashe butler like Wellington’s troops charging forth. She was going to breach this party if it took her all night.

The butler snapped his fingers at one of the footmen to continue checking invitations so the front steps didn’t turn into a crush.

Ella handed over her invite and held her breath until the man waved her inside, and began checking the invitations of the others behind her. She hurried along, Lady Fitzsimon’s shrill notes chasing her inside.

“I say, I was invited!” the matron complained, her voice rising sharply, almost hysterically. “I will not be denied entrance. If you would but tell Lady Ashe to come to the door, she would order you immediately to admit me and my daughter.”

“Madam,” the butler intoned, “Lady Ashe’s rules are simple. No invitation, no entrance.”

A tall, graceful lady and her equally noble husband came to a stop beside Ella. The woman glanced over her shoulder at Lady Fitzsimon and then back at Ella. “Dreadful woman. No manners.”

“Yes, quite,” Ella replied, imitating the same bored, elegant tones.

“Oh, heavens, I can’t recall where the retiring room is,” the woman said, before turning to one of the footmen. “Which way?”

He bowed slightly and then pointed up the stairs, not that Ella needed directions. She’d imagined the Ashe house over and over these past five years.

“Come along, my dear,” the lady said. “I do so hate going up alone.”

As they made their way up the stairs, Ella shot a glance towards the ballroom, searching for her knight errant. But in the crowd of guests, it was impossible to find him — then again, she remembered, he would be in costume.

Not that she thought he could hide his identity from her. Not even after all these years. Still, whatever was she going to say to him?

They went upstairs and, to Ella’s relief, Hazel and Martha were there, helping the guests and making small repairs to various ladies’ costumes. Madame Delaflote often hired them out, at a considerable profit, to provide these services.

Hazel nudged Martha when Ella arrived, and Hazel hurried over to help her take off her cloak.

The moment the cloak was removed, an awed hush came over the crowded room, as all eyes turned towards Ella. Her costume, her hair — done up in a cascade of curls that fell down to her back — the glitter of the silver embroidery, and the soft glow of a thousand seed pearls, caused a sensation.

“You made it in,” Hazel whispered, as she checked Ella’s back to make certain her wings were still intact.

“Yes, your friends played their part perfectly.”

The girl grinned. “This is the best lark—”

“That could end with us all being sacked. Lady Fitzsimon is downstairs determined to get in.”

Hazel waved her off. “Let her try. She hasn’t an invitation. As for being sacked …” The girl shrugged and then glanced around the room. Every eye was on the two of them. Well, on Ella. Hazel went back to work, with her nose in the air, setting Ella’s gown to rights. “We’ll not be sacked. For when you are Lady Ashe, Madame Delaflote won’t dare.” She knelt down and straightened the hemline. And with that completed, Hazel curtseyed slightly and said, “All is well, your highness.”

Ella’s eyes widened even as a gossipy trill ran through the room.

“A princess?”

“But from where?”

“Have you seen such a gown?”

Hazel sent her a cheeky wink and then there was nothing left for Ella to do but to go and face her past.

Lord Ashe stood in the ballroom and watched the parade of masked and costumed debutantes, ladies and likely brides stroll past.

But none of them was her.

And tonight was his last chance to find her. Not that he had much hope left. For every year, as each subsequent ball came and went, and she hadn’t arrived, he’d begun to wonder if she’d ever existed, his lady in green silk.

Where are you? he mused. We are running out of time.

Then a strange hushed air moved through the crowd, followed by a tremor of whispers. One after another, the guests turned towards the entrance to gaze at the latest arrival.

Ashe stilled as he spied the graceful lady making her entrance.

No, it couldn’t be her. It couldn’t be.

But then she turned her head and he spied something he had dared not hope to see. For on the back of her costume perched a pair of gossamer wings. Fairy wings.

Ashe pushed his way forwards without thinking. He ignored the insulted gasps of his guests pressing his way through the crowd, even as speculative whispers whirled around him.

“A princess, I heard.”

“Russian, I believe.”

“Wherever did she get that costume?”

Then before he realized it, she stood before him.

“You!” he exclaimed. “I’ve found you!”

She smiled at him, her blue eyes twinkling behind her mask. “No, I believe I found you.”

“It doesn’t matter how you’ve come back,” he told her, catching her by the hand and drawing her into his arms. “I won’t lose you again.” Then, to seal his vow, his head dipped down and his lips captured hers.

The night from five years ago came back to him in rich clarity. It was her, the same sweet response, the same curves, the same soft sigh as he deepened his kiss and plundered her lips without any thought of propriety. And when he pulled back and held her at arm’s length, he could only exclaim, “Devil take me, my love, I cannot believe I have found you.”

“Believe again,” she whispered, raising her lips to his and again, they kissed, much to the shocked gasps of the company around them.

“I have imagined this so many times,” he whispered in her ear.

“You have?” She sounded surprised.

“Yes, of course,” he told her. “You left me bewitched and lost that night.”

“I did?” Truly, how could she be so surprised? Hadn’t that night meant as much to her?

“Yes, you did,” he told her with every bit of his heart, and an unabashed grin from ear to ear.

Her eyes sparkled beneath her mask. “And now?”

He grinned even more if that was possible. “I am still yours, my fey sweet love, if you will have me.”

“I …” she stammered, much as she had years before, and he realized he had to tread carefully lest he frighten her off yet again. He hadn’t another five years to wait.

The musicians struck up their instruments and Ashe smiled at her, holding her slim hand in his. “Come, you owe me this dance. One of many, I might add. I’ve been waiting all these years for your return.”

He unmasked himself then led her out to the dance floor, to the amazed and scandalized stares of his guests. For it appeared to one and all that the Ashe legend was about to come true and the viscount had found his bride.

More than one matron with an unmarried daughter in tow and her hopes now dashed for an advantageous marriage, cursed this interloper, this princess from out of nowhere.

Ashe led her out to where the couples were lining up for the first set and, when the music began, it was as if time had not moved a tick since the ball five years earlier.

“Your hair is red,” he teased as they came together.

“Are you disappointed?”

“No, enchanted. It is glorious,” he whispered. He knew what it felt like, but now he could see the ginger strands and honeyed colours. He imagined what those silken tresses would look like spread out over his sheets, unbound and cascading all over her naked shoulders. “The colour matches your unmanageable temperament, as I recall.”

She laughed. “You remember!”

“There is nothing I have forgotten,” he told her.

They turned and moved down a long line of dancers before being reunited at the end of the floor.

“I see you found new wings,” he commented. “Did you lose your other ones when you took flight last time?”

She shook her head at him. “I outgrew them. Besides, they were never mine to wear.”

“So I discovered when I went looking for you.”

Beneath her mask, her eyes widened. “You looked for me?”

“How could you imagine that I would not?”

Once again they made their way down the line of dancers and when they got to the end, she turned to him. “Do you know who I am?”

He grinned and shook his head. “And I’m not the only one curious to discover the truth, my fairy princess.” Ashe nodded to the circle of guests around the ballroom, all gazes fixed on the two of them. “I believe you’ve created a sensation, Your Highness.”

She leaned in a bit. “There was a mistake in the retiring room — a suggestion that I am a princess.”

“Are you?”

His lady love laughed, this time heartily. “Oh, good heavens, no!”

“I am glad of that.”

“Why?”

“Because I suspect there would be all manners of protocol and such to marrying a princess, and I have no patience now that I’ve found you again.”

She shook her head and glanced shyly up into his gaze. “And it doesn’t matter to you who I am?”

“No. I was destined to find my bride that night, and I did. You wouldn’t have been there that night if we weren’t meant to be together.”

She laughed, a musical sound that brought back memories for him. “When did you become such a romantic?”

Now it was his turn to laugh. “When you ran out and left me naught a clue to be found. You could have at the very least left me a slipper.”

“Or my wings?” she teased back.

“They might have helped, but I doubt the mothers of London would have appreciated me wandering about trying them on their daughters,” he said, before he leaned closer to her ear, “or asking them if their little girl had a cute bit of freckle on her—”

She swatted him playfully and danced down the line away from him. Ashe watched her every step and, when they rejoined each other, she said, “I see you haven’t lost a bit of your wickedness.”

“Do you mind?”

“Not in the least,” she replied.

They danced for a few more minutes in silence, just gazing at each other. To Ashe, she was lovelier than he remembered, from the gorgeous mane of red hair down to her slippers. She seemed less fragile than she had those many years earlier.

“Where have you been?” he asked. “And don’t you dare tell me you got married.”

“No, nothing like that.” She tipped her head slightly. “I went away. It seemed the sensible solution at the time.”

“Sensible? Not to me! And what do you mean, away? Away where?”

“Far away,” she told him. “I thought it best.”

“Best for who?” he said. “You stole my heart, you minx.” He pulled her close, closer than was necessary for the dance, and whispered in her ear, “Let me guess, you were deserting heartbroken men from one side of the Continent to another.”

She shook her head, lips twitching with mirth. “No. I haven’t been doing anything like that.”

“And when did you come back to London?”

“Six months ago,” she confessed.

“And why didn’t you come to me?”

It seemed an eternity before she answered. “I almost did,” she said, a tremble to her voice. “But I didn’t know—”

He stopped in the middle of the floor. “Know what?”

“I didn’t know if you would forgive me. Or what that night had meant to you—”

“Did it mean anything to you?”

“More than you could know.”

“Then prove it. Say you will marry me.”

Then came a loud outburst that drowned out her response. For a red-faced, furious matron at the doorway to the Ashe ballroom stopped the evening cold, as she shouted at the top of her lungs, “That woman is a thief and an imposter!”

Five

Ashe stalked back and forth in front of the breakfast table where his mother sat eating her morning repast as if nothing were amiss.

“I lost her, Mother! Again!” In the chaos of the Lady Fitzsimon’s shouted accusations, his lady love, his fairy queen, had managed to slip through the crowd and get out of the house.

One of the servants had seen her leaving through the garden.

Lady Ashe nodded and smiled and buttered her toast without a word.

“How will I ever find her again? I don’t even know her name.”

“You looked as if you knew each other quite intimately,” his mother said. It wasn’t so much a scold … But really, such a kiss! And in front of the guests. Then again, hadn’t her husband kissed her in much the same manner the night they had fallen in love? But he’d had the decency to steal her off to the conservatory on some ridiculous pretence that the oranges were in bloom.

“What if Lady Fitzsimon gets to her first?” he said. “She’ll have her thrown in prison.”

“Lady Fitzsimon will most likely get to her first,” Lady Ashe said.

That froze her son’s steps. “Mother, that is the last thing we want to happen.”

She shrugged and continued eating her breakfast.

Julian paused before the table. “How can you be so certain that Lady Fitzsimon knows where she is?”

“Because I, just like Lady Fitzsimon, know exactly where that dress came from.”

She glanced up at him and he looked ready to burst. Yes, he was in love with that girl and there would be no setting her aside. He’d loved her all these years and no other lady would brighten his heart. Good. It was exactly as it should be. So she pushed aside the tablecloth and pulled from beneath the table a set of gossamer wings. “She lost these last night.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” he exploded.

Lady Ashe smiled, wiped her lips with her napkin. “Because I wanted to finish my breakfast before we went and fetched your future wife home.”

Ella emerged from the basement room that she shared with Hazel and Martha a miserable wreck. She’d been able to escape the Ashe Ball the night before — her knowledge of the house suddenly becoming rather convenient.

Once she’d found her trusty carriage and helpers, they had whisked her home and scattered into the night. When Hazel and Martha had arrived so many hours later, she had sobbed out the entire story on their sympathetic shoulders.

Now the morning had come and Ella knew the reckoning, the one she’d avoided all those years ago, was about to come to roost. But perhaps it was as Hazel averred — there had been no crime committed. Madame Delaflote had demanded that Ella pay for the gown, so technically it was hers. She had found the invitation on the floor of the shop. There was no theft whatsoever.

Not that Madame would see it that way. She’d sack Ella for bringing this scandal down upon her shop, she’d—

Ella’s wayward thoughts came to an abrupt halt as she parted the curtain before going about the business of opening. She spied a crowd of ladies and onlookers outside, all queued up and waiting for the shop to open. Several of them waved at her and others pointed at the door, in hopes of enticing her to open the shop early.

Lady Fitzsimon stood front and centre with a pair of Robin Redbreasts at the ready. She hadn’t wasted any time and was here to exact her reckoning. But that sight didn’t frighten Ella as much as did the tall, handsome figure of Lord Ashe standing at the back of the crowd.

He was here!

Ella whirled around and hid behind the curtain. He’d found her after all.

Hazel and Martha had just come upstairs and were rubbing their sleepy eyes.

“What is it?” Martha asked.

“Is something wrong?” Hazel said, then glanced over Ella’s shoulder. “Is she out there?” “She” being Lady Fitzsimon.

Ella nodded her head.

“Is he out there?” Martha asked.

She nodded again.

“Well, let him in and see what he has to say. I still wager he’s here to propose. Then he’ll send that old cow packing.” Hazel pushed past Ella and went out into the main shop but then came to an instant standstill, much as Ella had done previously. “Oh, my stars! He’s brought half of London with him.”

At this point, Madame arrived, coming down the stairs from her rooms above. She glanced at the lot of them and sighed. “What is this? Standing about? The shop needs to be readied. I want—” She pushed open the curtain and discovered the mob outside.

She whirled around on her employees. “Whatever have you done?” But before any of them could answer, she took another glance at all the anxious and happy faces outside — well, except those belonging to Lady Fitzsimon and her police officers. “Oh, la! It matters not — I’ll be rich before this day is out. Get those doors open!”

Martha bobbed a curtsey, and made her way to the door. The moment the doors sprang open the shop was filled with people and a cacophony of requests.

“I would like a gown from that green silk.”

“Can you do my costume for the Setchfield masquerade?”

“I would like the same design of gown as the princess wore last night.”

“I want that gel arrested for theft! She stole my gown and my invitation!”

But the loudest and most commanding request came from Lord Ashe. “I am here to fetch my bride. Bring her out immediately.”

This stilled every pair of lips in the shop. Even Lady Fitzsimon’s.

“Gar,” Hazel whispered. “It is just like a fairy tale.” Then she pushed Ella through the curtain and into Ashe’s waiting arms.

And like any good fairy tale, it all ended with a kiss.

His Wicked Revenge

Vanessa Kelly

Wapping, London

It started with a woman and it would end with a woman. This woman. The one Anthony Barnett had been dreaming about for thirteen years. The one who would now be the instrument of his revenge.

Lady Paget — Marissa, to her close friends and family — studied his sombre office, taking in the dark, heavy furniture and the stacks of bound shipping ledgers. She looked everywhere but at him.

Not that he could blame her. His summons to her brother, Lord Joslin, had been carefully worded, but the threat had been clear. Marissa was to appear at Nightingale Trading by noon today or the entire Joslin family would suffer the consequences.

Anthony maintained his silence, knowing victory would be sweeter when Marissa finally came to him of her own volition. Step by reluctant step. She had already taken the first one by coming down to his dockside warehouse. The next would be when she worked up the nerve to look him directly in the eye.

The casement clock by the door ticked out the seconds as she inspected everything in the room worth inspecting. Eventually, like a disobedient child dragging her feet, she slowly lifted her gaze to meet his. Her pale eyes, the colour of a clear winter sky, fixed on him with reluctant attention. A hint of shame pooled in those cool blue depths. At the sight of it, a grim satisfaction settled in Anthony’s chest. She could no longer ignore him, and had now stepped willingly into his carefully laid trap.

He finally had Marissa where he wanted her, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

“The light is poor in here, but I think you are greatly changed,” she said in a flat, toneless voice. “I hardly recognize you.”

He frowned. What had she expected? The last time she had seen him, he’d been a callow youth, and a weedy one at that. Years spent at sea had toughened him — hardened him in ways she couldn’t imagine. She had changed as well, and in ways he had not expected.

Marissa retained the feminine power to command his complete attention, of course. But she had always chattered and sparkled like a rippling brook, full of laughter and mischief. Now she was subdued, even colourless — a muted reflection of her youthful self.

Reluctantly, he recalled the last time he had seen her, the night his life reached both a beginning and an end. Then she had been full of life and beauty — so joyously in love that his heart had well nigh burst with glory of it. The beauty remained, with her tall, slender figure and hair spun from moonlight. But the glow that had lit up his world had faded. Now her allure had become unearthly, even remote. Lovely but cold, like an Alpine lake before the spring thaw.

Anthony abandoned his post by the window that overlooked the docks and his growing shipping empire. He prowled across the room, halting in front of her, deliberately crowding her against a bookcase. This close, he could inhale her perfume — faint and scented with jasmine — and the sweetness that had always been Marissa. That, at least, had not changed. His body recognized the subtle scent, responding with a flash of heat and a sharpening of all his senses. Almost unconsciously he leaned into her, wanting more.

As she flinched and stepped back, Anthony scowled. Marissa had never trembled before anyone, not even her bastard of a father in one of his towering rages.

He waged a brief internal struggle to ignore the long and lamentably ingrained impulse to protect her. She had forfeited such a right years ago, and his current plans called for exactly the opposite of protection.

“Lady Paget, please sit down. I’m sure you’re as eager to begin our discussion as I am.”

She muttered something under her breath and stepped around him to the hard cherry-wood chair in front of his desk. With a spine as straight as an oak mast, she perched on the edge of the seat, looking as if she were facing a roomful of Barbary pirates.

He wasn’t a pirate — he was her first lover. The man she had sworn to love for ever but instead had betrayed, breaking all the vows they had made so many years ago.

Rather than settling into his own leather chair, he leaned against the edge of his massive desk, deliberately looming over her. She edged back in her seat, trying to put distance between them. But distance between them, at least of the physical sort, wasn’t part of his strategy.

Marissa took a deep breath and raised her gaze to meet his. Heat infused those eyes now, fire and ice clashing to a devastating effect. It jolted him that look, sending a heady lust roaring through his veins. He smiled, knowing he wouldn’t wait much longer to bed her.

His smile seemed to discompose her. She cleared her throat.

“Mr Barnett—” she began.

“Captain Barnett,” he interrupted, nodding towards the window. “Those are my ships out there in the Thames.”

Frost clashed with the fire in her eyes, dousing the heat. Her lips curled in an aristocratic sneer. “Forgive me. I had no idea you had done so well. As I was about to say, I would be grateful for an explanation behind the missive you sent my brother. He was not well pleased to hear from you. It was only with great reluctance that he agreed to your demand that I come to your office, unescorted but for my maid.”

“I do like to observe at least the appearance of propriety,” he replied sardonically.

Obviously, Lord Joslin had not seen fit to explain to his sister why he was forced to accede to Anthony’s demands. Marissa likely had no idea just how far in debt her brother really was.

With a puzzled shake of her neatly trimmed bonnet, she continued. “Since I am here, I would like an explanation. Your business is clearly with Edmund — Lord Joslin, rather. I fail to see why I must be brought into it. Whatever it is.”

With that last phrase, some of the old defiance came back into her voice. Time to switch tack and keep her off-balance.

“You have a daughter, I understand,” he said, stretching out his legs so his booted feet almost touched her shoes.

She froze, gloved hands clutching her large reticule in a convulsive grip. Long-lashed eyes searched his face, as if looking for the answer to a question she didn’t want to ask. “Yes,” she replied in a hesitant voice.

“How old is she?”

She paused. An odd expression, one almost akin to panic, flashed across her features.

Bloody hell.

You’d have thought he’d asked her to strip down to her shift, right here in his office. Not that the idea hadn’t crossed his mind. He’d already calculated how long it would take him to unfasten the long line of buttons that marched up her elegant but severely tailored pelisse. That pleasant task, however, must wait for another day.

She pressed her rosy lips together, as if holding in a great secret that longed to escape. “My daughter is not yet twelve,” she admitted grudgingly.

Anthony gave her a disdainful smile. “You didn’t waste any time, did you? How long were you married to Paget before you whelped?”

She flared up at him, just like the Marissa he used to know. “It’s not like I had any choice in the matter,” she retorted. “I was engaged to be married to Sir Richard, as you recall.”

“Oh, yes. I recall everything,” he said. “I remember how desperate you were to break your engagement. So desperate you begged me to elope with you to Gretna Green.”

She closed her eyes, fighting to regain her control. After a few moments, she opened them. Her stare was once again cool and remote.

A reluctant admiration stirred within him. Marissa would never have reined in her temper so quickly. Lady Paget was obviously made of stern stuff.

“What is your daughter’s name?” he asked abruptly.

A muscle in her cheek jumped, but she gave him a fierce scowl. “Why these pointless questions, Captain? Please get to the business at hand and be done with it. I have no intention of spending the entire afternoon in Wapping.”

He shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. “My point is simple. I assume that you would do anything to protect your daughter, is that not correct?”

Marissa had always been pale, but what little colour remained in her cheeks leached away. Her perfect features froze into immobility. Except for her blazing blue eyes, she might have been carved from alabaster.

“Why … why would you ask me such a thing?” she stuttered. “Of course I would do anything to protect my child.”

“Then we shall deal very well together,” he said, not bothering to hide the triumph in his voice.

She gasped, swaying in her chair. He launched himself up from his desk and caught her by the shoulders as she began to slide off the polished seat.

“Damn it, Marissa!”

Anthony kept a firm grip on her shoulders, letting her head rest against his stomach. Guilt lanced through his gut. He clamped down hard, resisting the compulsion to sweep her out of the chair and into his embrace.

Her slender body trembled under his hands. He couldn’t see her face, couldn’t even tell if she had actually swooned. The rim of her bonnet not only obscured his view, it was poking him in the gut.

Carefully, he slid her across the polished seat of the chair to rest against the high ladder-back. With a quick tug, he untied her bonnet and dropped it to the floor. Her corn silk hair, coiled around her head in tight braids, gleamed in the dull November sunlight coming through the window. Like her simple pelisse, her grey kid gloves and her sturdy reticule, her glorious tresses were as neatly contained as her emotions.

Until he had made his thinly veiled threat against her daughter, that is.

He hunkered down before her, taking her hands in a gentle clasp. “Would you like a brandy? It will help to revive you.”

She gave a small shake of her head. “No. Please give me my reticule.”

He plucked it from the floor by her chair, where she had dropped it. “What do you need? Smelling salts?” He began to rummage around in the voluminous bag.

“My handkerchief, please,” she said in a thin voice.

Pushing away the growing remorse that threatened to destroy all his exacting plans, he dug around in the overstuffed reticule until he felt a square of starched linen. “What in God’s name are you carrying around in this thing?” he grumbled as he extracted the handkerchief. “You could store a frigate’s cargo in here.”

She ignored him, keeping her eyes closed as she blotted her forehead, cheeks and then her full, ripe lips.

His mouth suddenly went dry. He remembered those lips very well. They could take a man to heaven. “Marissa, are you sure you don’t want a brandy?” Of its own accord, his voice had fallen to a deep, husky note.

She opened her eyes. A gaze as hard as diamonds — and just as cold — stared back at him. She jerked her hands from his loose grasp. “I did not give you leave to use my name, Captain Barnett. Do not do so again.”

The treacherous warmth stealing over him fled under her withering look. Anger — his daily companion — took its place. He welcomed it.

He rose to his feet, resuming his perch on the edge of the desk. “Now, Marissa,” he chided. “We’re the oldest of friends. Why should you stand on ceremony? You never did before.”

“I was young. I didn’t know any better,” she retorted.

Her temper brought the roses back to her cheeks and the heat back into her eyes. For the moment, the ice maiden stood in no danger of fainting.

“And neither did I,” he said in a hard voice. “But you came to me, remember? You begged me to save you from marriage to Paget. You swore your undying love. Your eternal devotion if I eloped with you to Gretna Green.”

“I was only seventeen,” she protested.

“And I was but eighteen.”

In the world’s eyes, Anthony had been a man when he and Marissa lost their virginity to each other. But he had been so sheltered, raised by his widowed father in a small country parsonage. When he was ten, his father had died and Anthony had been dispatched to live with his distant cousin, Lord Joslin, and his family. He spent the rest of his youth on their estate in Yorkshire, deep in study, preparing to follow in his father’s clerical footsteps.

Through those years, he had also fallen in love with Marissa, and she with him. Or so he had always thought. Anthony’s mouth twisted into a sour smile, remembering how young and foolish he had been. In many ways, Marissa had always been more worldly than he.

“Do you want to know what happened that night?” he asked. “After Edmund discovered us together in my bed? After your father horse-whipped me and drove me from Joslin Manor?”

She blanched and, for a moment, he thought she might faint after all. But she took a deep breath and regained her composure.

“I don’t know what kind of cruel game you are playing, Captain,” she replied with quiet dignity. “But if reciting your tale will bring this tawdry scene to a conclusion then, yes. I do want to know.”

Anthony gave her a humourless smile. “I’m sure you’ll find my tale of woe edifying, Lady Paget.”

He pushed up from his desk, tasting the bitterness in his mouth and throat. It was always thus whenever he recalled those months after he first arrived in London — those months spent waiting for her to come and find him. Those months of back-breaking work and near starvation, his life barely a step up from the mudlarks who scavenged along the Thames.

“After discovering us naked in each other’s arms,” he said, prowling around his office, “your brother ran straight to Viscount Joslin. Your father had two grooms hold me down, then he beat me until my back was shredded raw.”

Marissa made a choked sound, but held her tongue. What could she say to soften such a painful and humiliating memory?

“Did you know Edmund stood there grinning while he watched your father beat me?” he asked, curious to find out how much she knew about the scene that remained burned into his memory.

“No,” she said, her eyes betraying her shock. “And Father forbade me to ever mention your name again.”

He resumed his prowl around the room.

“After he beat me half to death, your father threw me out of the house without a shilling to my name. Thank God the housekeeper took pity on me and gave me some coin to make my way to London. Her brother was a clerk at Nightingale Trading. She said he would find me work if he could, or at least give me a few days’ shelter while I looked for means to support myself.”

“Was there no one else you could turn to?” she asked, looking miserable.

“I had no friends who could be of assistance. As for relations,” he said dryly, “that would be your family. The Joslins were the only relatives I had left in the world after my father died. Not that the Viscount had wanted me. He only took me in because your mother insisted.”

She gazed down at her lap. “I’m truly sorry.”

Anthony paused, surprised by the heartfelt sorrow in her voice. Perhaps she did regret betraying him after all.

But he hardened his heart. Marissa had always been able to twist him around her little finger. He wouldn’t let that happen again, not when he was inches away from his vengeance against her and her pig of a brother.

He resumed his pacing. “I made my way to London — some of it on foot, by the way. From Yorkshire.”

She winced, but he kept ruthlessly on.

“I came to Wapping, and to the housekeeper’s brother. He found work for me on the docks. It wasn’t steady, but it gave me enough to rent a garret and to eat. Not often, mind you. And never enough. But I had something else to keep me alive. Something to give me hope that things would get better.”

With a quick step he moved in front of her, reaching out to grasp the back of her chair, caging her in with his body. She gasped and shrank away in startled retreat.

He lowered his head until he could stare directly into those amazing eyes. Her pupils dilated, her breath coming in rapid pants. She smelled sweet, like sugar plums and mint.

“Do you remember your promise to me?” he whispered.

Her lips opened on another gasp, and he watched fascinated as the tip of her pink tongue slipped out to wet her lips. His groin took notice, as did every other part of his body.

Soon, he promised himself. He would take her — body and soul — and slake his never-ending thirst.

“I know you remember,” he breathed, hovering just inches from her pretty mouth.

She ducked, sliding out from under his arms. In a flash, she was by the door to his clerk’s office, her ridiculously large reticule clutched in front of her like a weapon. Which, given how heavy it was, it very well could be.

He let out a reluctant laugh. She had always been as quick as a lark spiralling over a meadow in springtime.

“Obviously, you do remember,” he said. “You made a promise — a vow — that you would never abandon me. That we would never abandon each other. No matter the separation, you would find me, or I, you.” He paused, waiting for a response. But her face was a blank, revealing no emotion. “I waited for you, Marissa. For months. Certain you would find me. I worked like a slave, putting away every shilling I could against that day. I thought that when you finally found me, we would leave England for America, where we could start a new life.”

An acid taste rose in his mouth as he thought of the idiotic boy he had been.

“There was nothing I could do,” she replied in a bleak voice. “Father made sure of that. I didn’t know where to look. What to do. And then …” She trailed off.

“And then you married Sir Richard so you could be the pampered wife of a wealthy baronet, didn’t you? Only four weeks after I was run off like a mangy cur. But I didn’t hear of the wedding until six months later. Six months spent slaving on the docks, going hungry, saving every coin I earned for you — for us.”

The old sense of loss rushed in on him, squeezing his chest with iron bands. Suddenly, he found he had backed her into the corner of the room.

Her back stiff and straight against the wall, Marissa tilted her head to meet his gaze. The coldness in those blue depths thrust leagues of distance between them.

“What would you have me say?” she challenged. “That I’m sorry? Of course I am. More than you’ll ever know. But I can’t do anything about it, nor can I erase the terrible things that happened to you.”

He shrugged, feigning indifference. “No, you can’t, and thank God for it. When I heard you were married and had been for months, I realized what a fool I was. That I meant nothing to you. All those expressions of undying devotion were meaningless — just smoke in the wind.”

This time she did flinch, turning her head away. He waited for her to say something, but her lips remained pressed together in a thin, unforgiving line.

Anger and an odd sense of disappointment pulsed through him. What had he expected? That she would profess her undying love for him? After all these years? Disgusted with himself, he retreated behind his desk and sat.

“Don’t you want to hear the rest of the story?” he asked, affecting a bored voice.

Without a word, she walked to the chair and sat down again. Her weary eyes seemed full of shadows and ghosts.

After a short struggle to repress a stirring of pity, Anthony resumed his tale. “After I learned of your marriage to Sir Richard, I had no more reason to stay in London. I signed up as a deckhand on one of Nightingale’s ships. Oddly enough, I discovered I had an aptitude for the sea, and I moved up quickly. The company made me captain of a frigate by the age of twenty-six — their youngest ever. Nightingale Shipping prospered, especially during the war years. By twenty-nine, I was rich, and able to buy out Thomas Nightingale when he was ready to retire.”

He turned, looking out the window at the sea of masts on the river. “Those beautiful ships are mine,” he said with intense satisfaction. “And Nightingale is one of the finest trading companies in all of England.”

Her soft voice held a wistful note. “You’ve done well, Captain. I’m happy for you.”

He swung around, putting her directly in his sights. “But that’s not the best part, My Lady. As you can imagine, I never forgot what your family did to me. To my regret, your father died before I could settle with him, but your brother will stand in quite nicely. After all, it was he who betrayed us to your father in the first place. Because of him, I lost everything.”

She stiffened, her lovely face now wary. “What do you mean, ‘settle’?”

He smiled, showing his teeth. “You didn’t think I would forgive and forget, did you? I have thought of all of you constantly since I was driven from Joslin Manor. Two years ago, fate and circumstance showed me the way.”

He opened a drawer and pulled out a sheaf of notes, tossing them on to the polished desktop. “Edmund never did have a head for commerce, did he? After your brother came into his inheritance, he invested very poorly, particularly in high-risk trading ventures.”

“Which I’m sure you knew all about,” she interjected in a hard voice.

He bowed his head in silent acknowledgment, enjoying the furious snap in her ice-maiden eyes.“Edmund’s financial bumbling forced him to take out substantial private loans to cover his losses. I won’t trouble you with the details. Suffice it to say that I’m now the sole holder of those notes.”

He waved a negligent hand over the papers on his desk, as if it were not a great matter. As if it had not taken months of horse trading, greasing palms, and one or two carefully applied threats of business reprisals to get his hands on every last note. But it had been worth every shilling, because it gave him what he wanted most — control over Marissa.

She grew still, as understanding dawned. “How much does my brother owe you?” she asked in a hollow voice.

“Fifty thousand pounds.”

She took in a huge breath, working to pull the air into her lungs. Her eyes seemed to blur, as if she couldn’t focus on anything but the thoughts in her head.

Anthony drank in the moment he had worked so long and hard to achieve. Marissa would be his, and she was now beginning to realize it.

A full minute, measured by the casement clock, ticked by. Neither of them broke the silence.

Then she stirred, an alabaster statue coming to life. “You want your revenge against my family for what they did to you.”

He hesitated, puzzled that she didn’t include herself with the rest of the Joslins. Then again, why did it matter?

“Revenge is an ugly word, Marissa. I prefer to call it justice.”

“As I said, I did not give you leave to call me by my first name,” she snapped. “You will not do so again.”

He smiled, sprawling back in his chair. Anger made her even more beautiful — driving the blood to her face. It made her flushed and ripe. Within a few days, he would be taking all she had to offer, and then some.

“You’ve given me leave before, Marissa. In fact, you gave me a hell of a lot more than that, as we both know.”

In her frustration, she actually bit down on her plump lower lip, like an actress in a melodrama. He became hard thinking of all the ways he was going to put those lips to good use.

“I prefer not to recall the past,” she said in a haughty voice.

He let out a harsh laugh. “Indeed. So would I, but that luxury has been denied me. There is, however, one thing I don’t mind remembering, and you know what that is.”

She glared back, refusing to respond.

“How you felt beneath me,” he purred. “I remember your naked body squirming in my arms. You were slick and hot, and so very tight. All softness and silk, and begging me to take you.”

Perspiration misted her face. She turned from him, pressing a gloved hand to her brow. “Anthony, please,” she said in a suffocated voice.

A sharp wave of pleasure took him at the sound of his name on her lips. “Ah. That’s better. You actually brought yourself to use my name.”

She jumped up from her seat and slapped a hand on his desk. “Enough of this! What do you want from me?”

He rose slowly, feeling the power uncoil within him. She would be his war prize — his by right — and he would no longer be denied. “I thought it was obvious, Marissa. I want my revenge, and I want it now.”

Marissa had never forgotten Anthony’s eyes. How could she? A pair exactly like them gazed up at her every day. Her daughter Antonia had eyes like Russian amber — golden and full of fire.

Antonia had Anthony’s eyes. Her father’s eyes.

Eyes that could blaze with emotion, as Anthony’s were right now. His gaze swept over her, burning so fiercely Marissa half expected it would scorch the clothing from her body.

Tamping down her frustration and fear, she answered him in the same calm voice she used with her daughter. “Perhaps I misunderstood you, Captain. I thought you were seeking justice, not revenge.”

He strolled around the desk, closing the distance between them.

Ignoring the urge to flee, she held her ground. Anthony had always been tall, but now he was also brawny from his years at sea. A man, when she had only ever known the boy. And this particular man — with his dark hair, rough-hewn features and broad shoulders — was so intensely masculine that it made her tremble.

“In this case, justice and vengeance are one and the same,” he answered, his voice a dark, menacing purr.

She shivered, sensing his implacable will, but was irresistibly drawn to his sensual power. That hadn’t changed. As a young girl she had been madly in love with Anthony, willing to do anything to be with him — even turn her back on the family and elope with him.

If only she had.

Marissa took her seat, keeping her spine straight and her hands folded neatly in her lap. If a long and unhappy marriage had taught her anything, it was how to mask her emotions. And ever since Anthony’s note arrived yesterday, Marissa had been trying to hide everything she felt — from Edmund, from Antonia, even from herself. But deep inside she could hardly breathe, swamped by waves of emotion she had repressed for years, and secrets long stashed away.

Too many secrets, ones Anthony would never forgive. Not after all he had suffered and lost.

Her insides twisted with anxiety, but she calmly met his gaze.

“Again, what do you want from me?” she asked.

He loomed over her, his face a grim, brooding mask. It hurt to look at him, for no trace of the sweet boy who had loved her remained. Her father and brother had destroyed that boy’s life, just as they had destroyed hers.

“I want you,” he growled.

Her heart lurched. “I … I don’t understand.”

He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “If you consent to be with me, I will extend Edmund’s loans until such time he can afford to pay me back. You have my word on it.”

She gaped at him. “You’re saying you want to marry me?”

He laughed so harshly she cringed.

“You’re such a romantic, Marissa. Why would I want to leg-shackle myself to you for the rest our lives? No. I want you in my bed — for as long as I want, and in any way I want. Do that, and the Joslins are safe.”

Her stomach cramped and, for a moment, she thought she would be sick. She tried to think, but her mind was stuffed with cotton batting. “You’re not making sense,” she finally managed.

“It’s quite simple. You live with me as my mistress, and I will not call in your brother’s debts.”

“But … but everyone will know,” she stuttered. “Think of the gossip. We couldn’t possibly keep such an arrangement a secret.”

He snorted. “Of course not. That’s the point. I will escort you to the theatre, the opera, the Royal Academy … whatever amuses me. You will be my companion, both in public and private. I’m rich now. Very few doors are closed to me, and with you by my side I might be able to open a few more.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she blurted out. “The scandal will ruin me.”

He shrugged, as if he didn’t care.

She could barely speak past the panic and anger clutching at her throat. “I have a child. If I’m ruined, I won’t be able to provide for her.”

“You can’t provide for her now. That’s why you moved back to Edmund’s house after your husband died, isn’t it? You were Paget’s second wife. His estate was almost entirely entailed to his oldest son, leaving only a small widow’s portion to support you and your daughter.”

Anthony didn’t know the half of it. Her husband had drastically reduced her portion after their first year of marriage when he finally realized Antonia wasn’t his child. It left Marissa poor, completely dependent on her brother’s support.

She closed her eyes, trying to get past the fear, searching to find a way out. If not for Antonia, she might have agreed to Anthony’s demands — if for no other reason than to atone for her family’s sins against him. But she wouldn’t give up on her daughter. Not for him. Not for Edmund. They could both go to hell before she would sacrifice Antonia.

She opened her eyes. “Yes, that’s true,” she grudgingly acknowledged. “But I must still protect her.”

He remained grim and silent, his mouth pulled into a tight line. “Very well,” he finally said. “I’ll not make your daughter a victim of your brother’s arrogance. She’ll be provided for. I’ll draw up the necessary contracts, giving her a generous allowance and stipulating that Edmund must always provide a home for her.”

Marissa gasped. She had to clutch the seat of the chair to keep her balance. “Absolutely not! You will not separate me from my child.”

“Then she can live with us,” he said impatiently. “You may be certain I will provide for both of you — you have my word. But either way, Marissa, you will come to me, or see your family in ruins.”

The room spun in a dizzying whirl, dark and cold. She took a deep breath, allowing the rage to clear from her mind. Somehow, she had to fight back. “Tell me, Captain, would you have forced me to be your mistress if my husband were alive?”

He frowned and slowly shook his head. “No. I may be a devious bastard, Marissa, but I wouldn’t have made you betray him.” His mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. “One betrayal in a lifetime is more than enough. And this is so much better. I’ll have you without the annoyance of any minor scruples, and I get the added benefit of shaming your family. Your brother will be in my debt and, at the same time, he’ll suffer the knowledge that his sister is in my bed. Without the benefit of clergy.”

Marissa clenched her hands into fists. If she needed any proof that Anthony must be kept away from Antonia, this was it. The loving boy she had known was dead, and a cold-blooded monster had risen in his place. God only knew what he would do if he ever found out he had a daughter.

“Why must you do this?” she challenged. “You’re successful now. You can have anything you want.”

All traces of cold-blooded amusement disappeared from his features. His eyes glittered with an anguished fury that wrenched the breath from her body. “Your family forced this on me. They ripped me from the life I was meant to have. The one thing I truly loved and wanted, your father and brother denied me. As did you, Marissa.” He flung the words at her. “But now you have the chance to atone for that by finally giving me what I deserve. If you don’t, I’ll see every last one of the Joslins rot in hell.”

His words sliced through her like shards of broken glass, his pain so raw and immediate that it became her pain, too. She swallowed a sob and a vital part of her — the one that had never ceased loving him — reached out, yearning to heal the wounds that marked his soul.

“I never meant to hurt you, Anthony,” she whispered.

He surged up from the desk with lethal, masculine grace. Big hands curled around her shoulders and he pulled her straight up from her chair.

“I think you lie,” he growled.

He looked wild and dangerous as fury blasted through his shell of cynical detachment. But in those golden eyes she saw his grief and longing — saw him, the Anthony who her father had torn away from her, leaving her alone and incomplete.

She let her hand drift across his tanned cheek. “No, Anthony. You weren’t the only one who was hurt,” she murmured. “I longed to go after you … I was desperate to find you. But Father kept me locked away in my room, and he continually threatened to beat me. He said he’d send me to live with strangers if I didn’t marry Richard.” Her voice broke as his fingers dug into her arms and his gold-shot eyes searched her face. “I missed you so much, but I was still a child,” she pleaded. “I didn’t know what to do.”

A different kind of heat, forbidden and dark, flared in his eyes. His big hands moved down her arms and slid to her waist, pulling her flush against him. She gasped at the feel of his erection pushing hard against her belly.

“But you’re not a child any more, Marissa. And I’ve waited for this for too damn long.”

She clutched at his waistcoat as he swooped to capture her mouth in a punishing kiss. Her head fell back and his tongue slipped between her lips to plunder her mouth. She whimpered, giving him everything he demanded. There was no resisting him — no resisting the passion he’d ignited. The passion unleashed for both of them after years in solitary exile.

His bold tongue tasted her, stroked deep inside to claim her with a searing hunger. Marissa had forgotten the fierce beauty of Anthony’s kiss. But now everything came back in a blazing rush. The heat, the wet slide of a greedy, open-mouthed kiss, the feel of his strong hands moving over her body.

She stretched up on her toes, winding her arms around his neck. A raw need throbbed deep within as her body came alive to his touch. Her breasts grew full and heavy as she rubbed against him, her nipples pulling tight with a prickling ache.

Anthony murmured a low growl of approval as his hand drifted down to squeeze her bottom in a kneading grip. Gradually, his kiss grew softer, and his tongue slowly traced her lips before slipping back into her mouth. It was sweet and hot and reckless — just as it had always been.

As she slid into total surrender, he broke the kiss. Marissa murmured a confused protest, and his hand came up to hold her chin. She panted, struggling to shake off the confining grip, eager to taste him again. His fingers tightened on her jaw.

“Open your eyes,” he ordered in a husky voice.

She did. His face was flushed under the bronzing of his complexion, and sexual hunger flickered in his rapacious gaze. But she saw something else in those golden eyes, something wary and very determined.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“I want your decision, Marissa. Of your own free will. Do you agree to be my mistress, or shall I send word to your brother that I intend to collect the fifty thousand pounds he owes me?”

For a moment she froze, stupefied, then she wrenched herself free of his grasp. Anger and shame flooded her body in equal parts. “Go to hell,” she blurted out.

His lips curled back in a predatory grin. “Most likely I will, but I don’t care. As long as you do what I ask. You have until tonight to make up your mind. I’ll send my carriage to Joslin House to fetch you. Eight o’clock, shall we say?”

She snatched up her bonnet and reticule and stumbled to the door.

“I’ll be waiting,” he said.

His mocking laugh followed her from the room.

Berkeley Square, London

It had taken her thirteen years, but Marissa finally acknowledged how much she hated her brother.

Edmund lumbered across his richly appointed study, his jowly face red with ill-contained fury. He halted before her, smelling of port, snuff and outraged dignity.

“I will be ruined, I tell you,” he blustered. “Forced to sell everything if that bloody bastard calls in those loans. This is your fault, Marissa. You should have been able to talk him out of it. He was your lover.”

“Keep your voice down,” she hissed. “Do you want everyone in the house to know that?”

He gave her a sizzling glare but his voice subsided to a dull roar. “Father should have killed Barnett years ago, when he had the chance.”

Marissa dug her nails into her palms. “You almost did. You and Father. And for what? The only sin Anthony ever committed was to love me.”

“Is that what you call it?” he sneered. “I never understood how you could let him touch you, much less rut on you like a barnyard animal. You, the finest catch in London during your first season. What a fool you were, to have debased yourself with that country bumpkin.”

She itched to slap him, but refused to sink to his level. “I loved him, and he loved me, Edmund. Anthony was the only person who loved me after Mother died. God knows I never had a tender word from Father or you.”

“What did you expect after you behaved like a whore? If Father hadn’t acted decisively, no respectable man would have married you. As it was the damage was done, but at least it was too late for Paget to do anything about it.”

He cast her a black look, then flopped into a leather club chair, which creaked ominously under his weight.

“Not that it did us any good to marry you off to Paget,” he whined. “I still have to support you and your daughter. And now I stand to be ruined, all because you succumbed to your craven lusts.”

Marissa thanked God there were no pistols within reach, because she likely would have added murder to her list of sins. Edmund had flung these horrid accusations at her more times than she could count. They had always made her sick with shame and regret, beating her down until she almost believed them herself.

But not any more. She was done with shame — and with her brother if he didn’t own up to his own failings, and the mess he had made of the family finances.

“What do you intend to do?” she asked. “Anthony wants an answer by tonight.”

His jowls actually quivered with indignation. “Not a thing. You created this problem, Marissa. It’s up to you to save the family. If you can’t persuade Barnett to forgive the loan or give me sufficient time to pay it back, then you must give him what he wants. Family honour demands it.”

His callous words sent anger and shock surging through her body.

“Family honour! Are you mad? I shall be ruined.”

“You were ruined long ago, dear sister. It pains me that the world will now be made aware of that fact but, thanks to you, we have no other choice.”

The taste in her mouth was so foul, she could have spit. Her brother would rather abandon her to a sordid fate than take responsibility for his own foolish mistakes.

She forced herself to remain calm, though her heart banged against her ribs. “Edmund, there’s always a choice, good or bad. You chose all those years ago to destroy Anthony’s life when he was little more than a boy. Your present situation is of your own making. I am not the person who drove the estate into debt, and I am not the person who should beg for Anthony’s forgiveness. You should.”

He regarded her with contempt. “Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t soil my good name by going anywhere near the man. But since you’re already damaged goods, I suggest you do whatever you can to avert this disaster. For your family’s sake.”

He looked over at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. “You’d better get ready. Barnett’s carriage will be here soon enough.” Edmund heaved himself up from his chair and crossed to his desk. Without giving her a second glance, he began shuffling through some papers.

A cold disgust settled in her chest. Anthony was right. Edmund had earned his destruction and, if not for Antonia, Marissa wouldn’t have lifted a finger to help her brother.

“Edmund.”

He looked up, irritation wrinkling his balding pate. “What now?”

“I will do as you insist, but let us be clear about my daughter. You and your wife will care for her as if she were your own. Anthony has offered to settle a handsome allowance on her, but Antonia must have a home, is that understood? She cannot come with me.”

Edmund seemed genuinely shocked. “Of course not. I wouldn’t let the girl anywhere near that bastard. He’s already done enough damage to the family’s good name, as have you. Antonia will be much better off with us.”

The old shame threatened to creep back into her heart, but she beat it back. Antonia had always been loved and protected, much more than Marissa ever was.

She turned on her heel and marched from the room, slamming the door behind her with a satisfying bang. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes until she could fold her rage into a neat little bundle and put it aside for later. But, as the anger faded, the implications of what would happen next swept through her like a howling gale, sucking the air from her lungs.

A small, sharp voice brought her up short. “Mamma, are you ill?”

She spun around to see Antonia standing in the curve under the entrance hall staircase. Her daughter inspected her, eyes wary and bright with concern.

“Antonia, what are you doing there?” Marissa asked more sharply than she intended. “You weren’t eavesdropping again, were you?”

Those golden eyes widened, the picture of offended innocence. “No, Mamma, of course not,” Antonia protested. “I was just coming up from the kitchen. Cook made gingerbread today.”

Her beautiful girl held up a thick piece of fragrant cake. She looked so pious that Marissa gave a reluctant laugh.

“Very well, my love. I believe you. This time. But you know very well you shouldn’t be snooping about the entrance hall.”

Her daughter’s face split into an enchanting grin. She took a healthy bite of the gingerbread, ignoring the motherly reprimand.

Antonia’s slight figure went fuzzy as Marissa blinked away the tears blurring her vision. How in God’s name could she ever leave her own child behind? The pain of it just might kill her.

She silently scolded herself for the momentary weakness. What she did, she did for Antonia. To keep her safe, untainted by the mistakes of her family. It was Marissa’s choice, and the only one that made sense.

“Come along, darling,” she said, forcing a smile. “I must go out soon, but there’s still time for us to read a story together.”

Antonia slipped a warm hand into hers as they mounted the stairs. “What were you and Uncle Edmund talking about, Mamma?”

Marissa frowned, trying to look stern. “Nothing you need to know. You’re far too curious, Antonia. It’s not at all ladylike for you to pry into other people’s affairs, especially those of your elders.”

Antonia looked aggrieved. “But no one ever tells me anything.”

Marissa ran a gentle hand over her daughter’s glossy curls. She would have to tell the child everything, and soon enough. But not tonight.

The words caught in her throat. “You should be happy that they don’t.”

Russell Square, London

Marissa stood quietly before him, garbed in a grey, modestly cut evening dress — a perfect example of an aristocratic widow, so untouchable she might as well have been on the moon. But touch her Anthony would, and soon. In fact, it would be a miracle if he didn’t pull her down on to the carpeted floor of his study and shred every article of expensive clothing from her body.

Even if it made him feel like the most callous brute in England.

“There’s no need to stand on ceremony,” he said. “Please have a seat.”

She frowned and remained where she was, likely because his suggestion came out sounding like a command.

He sighed. “Marissa, I would rather you not stand there like a disobedient child waiting for a scold.”

She made a small, scoffing noise but took his hand and allowed him to lead her to the sofa. Her trembling fingers betrayed her nervousness. He thought he should be deriving some satisfaction from that, but he wasn’t.

Ever since she left his offices that afternoon, he had been struggling with a growing sense of remorse. He didn’t like it. But her outburst had forced him to consider that Marissa probably had been a target of her father’s retribution, just as she claimed. He was a fool for not realizing that sooner, but the wounded boy of thirteen years ago had lacked the understanding that came with being a man.

Not that Anthony was ready to forgive her — at least not yet. The possibility still existed that she was trying to manipulate him with her tale of woe. Better to wait and hear what she had to say.

And he hoped to God she said yes. He had been in a painful state of arousal all afternoon, all because of one damn little kiss that hadn’t lasted much more than a minute.

“Something to drink? A sherry, perhaps,” he offered. Whatever she had to say, alcohol would make it easier for both of them.

She took her seat, perching on the edge of the sofa, ready to bolt. Clearly, it would take more than one drink to settle her nerves.

“I’ll have a brandy. And please make it a big one,” she said in a clipped voice.

He bit back a smile and poured out two glasses of the finest French brandy his ships could smuggle into England.

After handing her the glass, he settled into a chair opposite the sofa. As much as he wanted to crowd her, something held him back. That damned remorse, he supposed, or the strained look around her eyes and the slight quiver of her pink mouth. Marissa had always been pluck to the backbone, but tonight she seemed as fragile as a butterfly emerging from its cocoon.

“Have you reached your decision?” His voice came out on a husky pitch.

“I have,” she said, her air both tragic and dignified. “I will agree to your terms if you will defer my brother’s debt to his satisfaction and provide appropriately for my daughter.”

His heart stopped, then started again, thumping out a painful tattoo. His intellect had told him she would agree — she had no real choice — but his bone-deep sense of her had expected more resistance.

“I’m gratified by your decision,” he said, struggling to keep the sound of relief from his voice. The last thing he wanted was for her to realize the power she still wielded over him.

He came to his feet and moved to sit next to her. She stiffened, but didn’t shy away.

“I’m curious, though,” he continued. “Why did you decide to agree?” He was more than curious. Suddenly, it seemed imperative he know the reasons why — as if his future depended upon it.

“Not for Edmund’s sake, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said with a scowl. “You were right about him — he’s not worthy of the sacrifice. I do this to provide for my daughter.”

Her azure eyes briefly met his. She looked pathetically valiant, like a tragic queen in a melodrama. Or Joan of Arc consigning herself to the flames.

Frustration had him clenching his teeth as it dawned on him that he had no desire to take a martyr to his bed. Not even if that martyr was Marissa. Her noble self-sacrifice would freeze him more thoroughly than a winter storm in the North Atlantic.

“Is that the only reason?” he growled.

Her startled gaze flew to his. He didn’t bother to hide his irritation.

She studied his face, probing for answers to unspoken questions. Then she blushed an enchanting shade of pink and dropped her gaze.

“No,” she whispered. “It’s not the only reason.”

He waited impatiently. “Well?” he finally prompted.

She met his eyes, and he saw a hint of her old fire. “You didn’t deserve what happened to you.”

“So, you’re offering yourself up as a means of atonement, is that it?”

Her mouth kicked up in a wry smile. “Something like that.”

He took a gulp of brandy, feeling gloomier by the minute. This was not how he had envisioned the scene playing out. He should be feeling triumphant after all those years spent developing his schemes, step by careful step. Vengeance against the Joslins — against her — had given his life purpose. And now, when he had prevailed and Marissa was finally under his thrall, what did he truly feel?

Not triumph. Not even simple satisfaction. What he felt was … hollow. As if he’d lost something important he could never get back.

Anthony captured her elegant chin between his fingers. “Did you mean what you said today?” he asked harshly. “That you were desperate to find me?” She tried to pull away but he tightened his grip, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I want the truth, Marissa. No more lies or secrets. Not any more.”

Her pupils dilated as she drew in an unsteady breath. She seemed almost frightened.

“It’s all right,” he murmured, giving in to the compulsion to reassure her. “You can tell me.”

Her eyes grew soft and misty. “Yes. I would have given anything to find you. My heart was broken with the thought of never seeing you again. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said my father locked me in a room for a month. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t escape. And no one would help me.”

Her gaze filled with anguish, an anguish that became his. He brushed her cheek, wiping away a single fallen tear.

“Then what happened?”

“When I told Father I would never marry anyone but you, he lied to me. He said you had boarded a ship to America and were never coming back. He threatened that if I didn’t marry Richard, he would exile me to one of his smaller estates in the country — indefinitely.”

His heart ached with guilt and he longed to take her in his arms and comfort her. All these years he had failed her, never knowing the truth but choosing to believe the worst.

She sniffed and tried to look brave. Anthony extracted a handkerchief and handed it to her.

“Father was determined I not break my engagement to Richard. I know I was weak, but I simply didn’t have the strength to fight him any more,” she said with an unhappy shrug. She scrubbed her cheeks with her handkerchief, finishing with a prosaic wipe of her nose. “What happens now?” she asked, looking wary.

He got up and crossed to the mantel, needing to put distance between them. “Nothing,” he said. His chest ached, as if someone had punched him in the ribs.

She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re free to go. I’ll write to your brother tomorrow, setting out reasonable terms to pay back what he owes me. You have my word that no harm will come to your family.”

He forced himself to look at her. She seemed dazed, frozen into immobility. He should have derived some satisfaction from that, but it only confirmed she had expected the worst of him.

“I’ll ring for my carriage.” He felt like the lowest kind of villain. “You may return to Berkeley Square immediately.”

He crossed the room, reaching for the bell-pull. As his fingers wrapped around the cord, a slender hand touched his forearm.

“Anthony, don’t,” she murmured.

He pivoted. She gazed up at him, her cheeks flushed with colour and her eyes luminous with unshed tears. Never had she looked as beautiful as she did in that moment.

“Don’t send me away.” Her voice was throaty. “I couldn’t bear it. Please … I don’t want to lose you again.”

Anthony gazed down at her, looking stunned and at a loss for words.

“Are you sure?” he finally managed in a hoarse voice.

Marissa pressed a hand over her pounding heart. Taking a deep breath, she stepped off the cliff.

“I’m not sure about anything except my feelings for you. I want to be with you, Anthony, more than you could ever know.”

Shyly, she placed a hand on his chest. His heart pounded drumlike beneath her fingertips. With renewed courage, she stretched up and pressed a kiss on a jaw carved from stone.

As if her touch had unleashed a genie from a bottle, his powerful body roared to life. Arms lashed about her waist, pulling her up flat against his chest. She shuddered, relishing the feel of all that solid muscle plastered along the length of her body.

“That’s all I needed to know, my sweet.” He trailed a pattern of shivery little kisses across her cheek. “I’ll take care of everything else.”

She wriggled her arms free and took his face between her hands. For long seconds they simply gazed at each other, drinking in the wonder of the moment. His bright stare smouldered with passion and a fierce, complicated love.

That look tore through her, blasting away the heartbreak and suffering of all those lonely years, infusing her with a joy so transforming it almost frightened her.

“I love you, Anthony,” she whispered. “I never stopped loving you.”

His lips covered hers in a kiss so raw and needy she could have wept. This was the Anthony she had known. Loving, claiming, protecting her. She had forgotten for a while — they both had — but now they remembered. Now they had at last found their way back to each other.

She clung to his neck, opening her mouth to draw him in. Energy, hot and carnal, flowed between them. Desire licked through her body, settling deep in her womb.

Anthony reached up to gently grip the tidy braids of her hair, pulling her head back as he kissed his way down from her mouth. She pulled in a sobbing breath as his lips fastened on her neck with a teasing suck.

“Anthony,” she moaned.

He gave a soft, guttural laugh, then licked the base of her throat as he gently pulled her back into an arch. Her breasts, aching in the confinement of their stays, rubbed against the silk of his waistcoat. Sensation streaked out from her nipples, gathering in the cove between her thighs. She whimpered and shamelessly rubbed herself against his erection. It was all so delicious, so overpowering, her senses swam.

“Wait,” she gasped, clutching his shoulders.

He growled in frustration but eased her away from his body. “Damn it, Marissa! I’ve been waiting thirteen years for this. And you want to stop me?”

If she hadn’t been so light-headed, she would have giggled at the aggrieved masculinity in his voice. “Anthony, my legs feel like jelly. Can we please sit down?”

A predatory grin curled the edges of his sensual mouth. “I’m yours to command, My Lady,” he purred.

He swept her up — this time she did giggle — and carried her to the sofa. He set her down and began to pull her clothes off with impatient hands.

“Anthony,” she squeaked as one of her buttons popped, ricocheting off the low table in front of the sofa.

“I’ll buy you a new dress. I’ll buy you a hundred new dresses,” he said through clenched teeth. “But right now I’m getting you out of this one.”

A moment later, he tossed her gown over a chair. A few moments after that, her stays and chemise followed. Leaving her stockings on, he lifted her in his arms and carefully placed her on the sofa.

“Now you,” she murmured, reaching for his waistcoat. “I want to see all of you.”

He pulled off his coat, ripping a seam in the process, and then divested himself of the rest of his clothing. As he turned to her, candlelight flickered along the hard vaulting of his ribs, his broad shoulders, and the dense, tightly knit muscles of his chest and abdomen. She caught her breath at the impressive size of his erection — that part she had somehow managed to forget — and her innermost flesh grew soft and damp.

He came down on her, pressing her into the velvet cushions of the sofa.

“Open for me, darling,” he whispered, as he settled between her spread thighs.

Marissa groaned and let her head fall back. Draping her arms loosely around Anthony’s shoulders, she gave herself up to all the fantasies she had ever had about him.

But the reality was so much better.

He propped himself on his elbows, studying her body through slitted eyes of gold. Marissa panted as her breasts quivered and her nipples stiffened under his gaze. She squirmed, trying to increase the contact between their bodies.

A long breath hissed out between his teeth. His dark head lowered to her breast and his tongue flicked one nipple. Once, twice, three times.

“Please,” she gasped, arching up into his chest. “Anthony, I can’t wait.”

“God, Marissa,” he groaned, “neither can I.”

He clamped his calloused palms around her face, holding her still for his devouring kiss. As his tongue slid between her lips, hot and demanding, he pressed his length against her. He slipped one hand down to her bottom, tilting her hips up to meet him. Then, with a long, low thrust, he pushed inside.

She cried out, breaking free of his kiss to thrash her head against the velvet pillows. It was like nothing she remembered. He filled her, possessed her, as he had never done before. Anthony was no longer a boy, but a man, with a man’s power and a man’s way of loving a woman.

He flexed his hips, moving slowly at first until she heard her own voice — breathless and needy — begging for more. And he gave her everything she needed, taking her with long, powerful strokes. The end came quickly, like a rip tide, driving her to a shattering climax.

Anthony came with her, growling out her name as he thrust into her one last time. She gripped him with her arms and legs, curling around him as joy flooded her soul, obliterating years of shame and denial in an overwhelming rush of emotion.

He collapsed on to her, big, sweaty and heavy. Marissa didn’t care. She wanted to lie there all night, with him inside, loving her as it was always meant to be. She was safe, home at last.

Her eyes flew open.

Home. Where Antonia was. Anthony’s daughter.

Suddenly, he was crushing her. A surge of panic squeezed her chest and throat. “Anthony,” she gasped. “I can’t breathe.”

His head came up. His eyes narrowed as he studied her, but he moved, shifting their bodies so that she came to rest between the back of the sofa and his chest. One big hand stroked down the length of her spine as he murmured soothing words and planted soft kisses on the top of her head.

Under the influence of that comforting voice and hand, her breath slowed and her reason returned. Of course she had to tell him that Antonia was his daughter. He would know it, anyway, as soon as he caught sight of her eyes. Unless Marissa intended to hide Antonia away — which would be well nigh impossible — he was bound to meet her sooner or later.

She squeezed her eyes shut, snuggling into the warmth of his body as his arms tightened around her. She should tell him, right now, but she couldn’t force the words past the lump in her throat.

Tomorrow. She would tell him tomorrow. Or the next day, after she’d thought about the most sensible way to break the news. After all, Anthony might not want a ready-made family. Or he might be furious that she hadn’t already told him. Marissa couldn’t bear the thought of ruining this moment between them — not when they had just found each other after so long apart.

And she had to think about Antonia, too. What in God’s name would she say to her daughter about all this?

Anthony’s deep voice rumbled through his chest and into her body, startling her out of her uneasy reverie. “What troubles you, my sweet?”

She looked up. He gave her a loving smile, but his eyes were sombre and watchful. Her heart twisted at the idea that he might reject Antonia. He might reject her, too, for keeping such a dark secret.

Tomorrow, whispered the coward’s voice in her head.

She stretched up to kiss him. “Nothing, my love. Everything is just perfect.”

Anthony strode along Bond Street, feeling as light as a gull skimming over the whitecaps. For the first time in years, all was right with the world.

As he skirted a pair of dandies preening at their own reflections in a shop window, he patted his waistcoat to check that the small box from Phillip’s jewellers remained safely stowed in his pocket. Marissa’s engagement ring was a stunner — a large sapphire surrounded by diamonds. The stone matched her eyes. That made him a sentimental fool, of course, but he didn’t care. He would propose to her this evening, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

As he made his way to a hackney stand on Piccadilly, he spied a woman walking hand in hand with a young girl as they turned into Hatchard’s bookshop.

Marissa. He’d recognize her graceful figure anywhere. The girl must be her daughter.

He smiled. No time like the present to meet his future stepdaughter. Not that he would drop any hints, but surely Marissa couldn’t object to introducing him, especially under these circumstances. Meeting her might even be easier this way — running into them in a casual fashion. And he had to admit he was eager to meet the child. Marissa obviously adored her, and Anthony had every intention of loving her, too.

He crossed the street and followed them into Hatchard’s. After a short search, he found them looking through a pile of books, their backs to him as he approached.

“Lady Paget,” he said, affecting surprise. “How do—”

Marissa spun on her heel. She gasped, all the colour leaching from her complexion as she stared at him in horror. The girl turned with her, lifting a questioning gaze to his face. Her big amber eyes opened wide and her mouth gaped into a surprised little oval.

Anthony’s mind whirled as he stared into a living picture of himself as a child, especially her eyes. He had never seen eyes like that anywhere but reflected in the mirror.

After he managed to pound his brain into a semblance of order, he dragged his gaze to Marissa’s dead-white face. Her desperate eyes pleaded for mercy.

“How old is she?” he rasped. “She’s older than you told me, isn’t she?”

Marissa pressed a hand to her mouth, looking like the world had just come to an end. Maybe it had — for him, anyway.

“I’ll find out, whether you tell me or not,” he threatened.

“My daughter is twelve,” she finally whispered.

He could barely comprehend the words, or even hear them through the roaring in his ears. Not that he needed to. Proof was in that childish gaze, darting back and forth between the two adults.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” he growled at Marissa.

She cast an anxious glance around the store. “Captain Barnett, please keep your voice down.”

The girl tugged on her mother’s arm. “Mamma, what’s happening?”

Marissa dredged up a weak smile. “Just a small misunderstanding, darling. Don’t worry.”

Anthony gave a harsh laugh. “Is that what people call it these days?”

“I’ll explain everything later,” she replied, looking frantic. “But I beg you, don’t make a scene.”

Anger and a sickening sense of betrayal lifted him on a cresting wave. “Beg all you want, Lady Paget. But tell your brother I expect payment in full by the end of the week, or I’ll see every last Joslin rotting in debtors’ prison.”

How could he have been such a bastard?

Anthony paced from one end of his office to the other, re-enacting the disastrous scene at Hatchard’s in his head. What a brute he’d been, making threats in front of a little girl — his own daughter. No matter what Marissa had done, it could never excuse such unforgivable behaviour.

He came to a halt by the window, thoroughly disgusted with himself. A small fleet of ships — his ships — floated on the Thames. They might as well have been toy boats bobbing around in a tub for all it mattered. The only thing he could focus on was the face of a little girl, staring up at him with amber eyes.

And Marissa’s eyes, too, pleading for understanding. The worst of it was that he did understand, now that his fury had cooled. What else could she have done when she discovered her predicament? Pregnant and alone — her lover supposedly on the other side of the ocean. She had protected her daughter — their daughter — in the only way she could.

But she hadn’t trusted him with the truth, and that knowledge twisted in his gut.

A knock sounded on the door, and a clerk stuck his head into the office. “There’s a young lady to see you, Captain. Says she’s Lady Paget’s daughter.”

He jerked around. “What? Who’s with her?”

“She’s alone, sir.”

Anthony muttered a curse and strode to the outer office.

The child sat on his clerk’s high stool, her feet swinging inches above the floor. She looked like she hadn’t a care in the world as she twirled her little beaded reticule around her fingers.

He glowered at her. What was she thinking? Coming all alone to Wapping — home to sailors, thieves and whores. “Good God, child! What are you doing here? Where’s your mother?”

She scrambled off the stool and gave him a polite bob. “Good afternoon, Captain Barnett. I was hoping to have a word with you. Is there someplace we can be private?”

He eyed her, reluctantly impressed by her audacity. Pluck to the backbone, his daughter was, and full of brass. “Step into my office,” he growled.

She sailed past him, a dignified miniature of her mother — except for the eyes. Those were all his.

“I don’t have much time,” she said. “Mamma thinks I’m taking a nap.”

He sighed. “How did you know where to find me?”

“I heard Mamma talking about you to Uncle Edmund. Then I snuck out of the house and found a hackney.”

He stifled a groan. Clearly, his daughter was both precocious and in need of supervision. He’d have to talk to Marissa about that.

It suddenly occurred to him that he didn’t even know her given name. “Forgive me if I sound rude, but what’s your name?”

“I’m Lady Antonia Paget. But you can call me Antonia.”

His heart lurched. Marissa had named their child after him. With effort, he marshalled his wits. “Best get on with it, then. I’ve got to get you home before your mother discovers you missing.”

She studied him, as serious as a parson in a pulpit. “You’ve made Mamma very unhappy. She cried. I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

He blinked. Were all little girls so blunt?

“I’m sure I haven’t,” he managed.

“You have. It’s not very nice of you, especially since she loves you.”

That hit him low and fast.

“Ah, I don’t think that can be right,” he replied. Not after today, anyway.

She impatiently tapped her foot. “Oh, no. I’m right. She told Uncle Edmund she did.”

He wished his heart would stop jerking about in his chest. It made it difficult to think. “You heard her say that?”

The look she gave him clearly expressed her opinion of his intellect, and not a favourable one, at that. “Are you really my father?” she demanded.

His brain, as heavy as an overloaded frigate in a gale, struggled to keep up with her. “Why would you think that?” he hedged.

She looked thoughtful. “I’m not surprised. My other father, Sir Richard, that is, was never really fond of me.”

A flare of anger cleared the fog from his brain. “Did he mistreat you?”

“Not at all. He was a perfectly adequate father, under the circumstances.”

He’d lost her again. “What circumstances?”

She sighed dramatically. “The very large circumstance that I wasn’t his daughter. You’re not very bright, are you? I do hope I take after Mamma, in that respect.”

He choked back a laugh. It wouldn’t do to encourage her. “Did Sir Richard tell you he wasn’t your father?”

“Of course not. But I overheard him fighting with Mamma a few months before he died. It was about me, but I didn’t really understand what he meant. Of course, now it’s all perfectly clear. How silly of me not to have realized before.”

Anthony wondered if someone had knocked him on the head when he wasn’t looking. His daughter, however, seemed completely at ease with the bizarre conversation.

“You seem to do quite a lot of eavesdropping for a little girl,” he said, latching on to the one thing in this whole muddle that seemed clear.

She shrugged. “I know. Mamma says it’s my greatest fault. But how else am I to know what is happening? Adults never tell children anything. Not anything interesting, that is.”

He really couldn’t let that one pass. “Well, stop it. It’s not at all becoming in a young lady.”

She crossed her hands in front of her, looking as meek as a Spanish nun. Except for the mischievous smile playing around the edges of her mouth, of course. “Yes, Papa. Whatever you say.”

He shook his head, dazed by the odd creature already fastening herself like a little barnacle on to his heart. “You’re rather terrifying, Antonia,” he said thoughtfully. “But I suppose you already know that.”

Her smile widened into a grin. “Then I do take after you — at least a little.”

He laughed. “I refuse to believe you were the least bit frightened by that scene in Hatchard’s.”

“Not really. I was a little nervous in the hackney coming down here, though. I’ve never been to this part of London.”

He was about to deliver a stern parental lecture on that subject when he heard a commotion in the outer office. A moment later, Marissa, looking like a wild woman, came bursting into the room.

“Antonia,” she cried, clutching her daughter by the shoulders. “Thank God! You scared me half to death!”

Anthony crossed his arms over his chest and, with some effort, wiped the grin from his face. He was a wicked man, but he couldn’t help taking his revenge on the two females who would no doubt lead him a merry dance for the rest of his life.

And thank God for that.

“Ah, Lady Paget, come to collect your errant child. I’m amazed you allow her to wander about town like a street urchin. You really shouldn’t unleash her on the unsuspecting citizens of London without any warning. Mayhem would no doubt ensue.”

Marissa pokered up, just as he had known she would. “I beg your pardon, Captain,” she said in a cold voice. “She won’t trouble you again. Come, Antonia.”

Antonia resisted her mother’s efforts to drag her from the room. “Mamma, I don’t want to leave yet. Papa and I were just getting acquainted.”

Marissa stumbled to a halt. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. She looked stunned, anxious and defiant, all at the same time. But mostly, she looked like the woman he loved.

He couldn’t tease her any more, not even for the fun of it. Crossing the room, he took one of her trembling hands in his. “My love, I’ve been a brute, and I beg your forgiveness. But why didn’t you tell me about Antonia last night?”

Her beautiful eyes filled with remorse. “I wanted to. But I was afraid you would hate me for the lies I told. And for not remaining true to you all those years, no matter what the consequences.”

When her voice broke, Anthony pulled her into his arms. She put up a token struggle before relaxing against his chest.

“And I didn’t know what to tell Antonia,” she whispered. “What would she think?”

He nodded grimly. “You were ashamed of me. Of what I had become.”

“Never!” she exclaimed, giving him a fierce hug. “You’re the finest man I’ve ever known.”

He let out a tight breath. “Then what were you afraid of? You should have known I would never let anyone hurt you — either of you.”

She looked woeful. “I was afraid Antonia would despise me. My life was a lie, and I made hers a lie, too.”

Antonia propped her hands on her hips and gave her mother a severe look. “Mamma, I worry that your mind is as disordered as Papa’s. How could you think such a thing? I love you more than anything in the world.”

Marissa extracted herself from Anthony’s embrace and gently grasped her daughter’s shoulders. Mother and child gazed into each other’s eyes, seeming to communicate in some mystical, female way.

“Then you don’t mind that you have a new father? Your real father?” Marissa finally asked.

Antonia looked puzzled. “Why would I? He seems nice, and you love him. Plus, he’s rich. You are rich, aren’t you, Papa?” she asked, suddenly looking worried. “Mamma and I wouldn’t be happy if we had to live with Uncle Edmund, instead of with you.”

Anthony pulled the two most important people in the world into his arms. Each fitted snugly against him, as if they’d both been there from the beginning of time.

“No man could be richer,” he said.

And with the prizes he had captured, no man ever would.

Lady Invisible

Patricia Rice

Cotswolds — 1816

One

“‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife,’” quoted Mrs Higglebottom, the vicar’s wife, reading from the novel on her husband’s desk.

Ill at ease, Major Lucas Sumner stretched his shoulders against the confinement of his civilian attire. He had hoped Reverend Higglebottom might be available for consultation. He did not remember the vicar’s wife being quite so … enigmatic … in her younger days. They’d both grown up here among the rolling hills of Chipping Bedton, but Lucas obviously had been away too long. He must adjust his military sense of order to village idiosyncrasies.

“My fortune is a major’s pension and a small inheritance,” Lucas corrected. “I am in want of a wife because I have a daughter in need of a mother.”

Mrs H. — Lorena, as he’d known her — waved a careless, plump hand. “The extent of your fortune does not matter these days. The village has lost most of its available young men to war and to the city and to marriage. You can have a choice of ladies, from fifteen to fifty, I daresay. The task is to find the right one.”

“Well, yes, that is why I thought I would consult with Edgar—”

“Edgar did not grow up here as we did,” Lorena admonished. “My husband has a worthy, virtuous mind, but not necessarily one connected to the realities of life. Women are far better at matchmaking than men.”

Lucas granted that possibility. He’d married in haste as a young man, and the result was currently uprooting daffodils from graves in the churchyard, if he did not mistake.

With an apology, he rose, pushed up the vicar’s study window, and shouted, “Verity! Stop that at once. Where is your aunt?”

His seven-year-old hoyden waved a bunch of yellow flowers and dashed off. Lucas could only hope it was in the direction of his much-put-upon sister.

“I have a lot to account for in this life,” he said, striding back to the chair. “Verity’s mother died far too young, and I’ve neglected my daughter’s upbringing. Now that the war is done and I’ve come home, it’s time I find a mother for Verity who can teach her to be a lady and turn my bachelor household into a home.”

Lorena nodded and consulted the list she’d evidently drawn up in anticipation of his visit. “Jane Bottoms is still unmarried. She’s a bit long in the tooth, but a very respectable, proper sort.”

Lucas tugged at his neckcloth. He remembered Jane. Thick as a brick, they used to call her. “My daughter needs someone a little more—”

Lorena cut him off, as she seemed to do regularly. “Yes, yes, of course. Verity would tie her to a tree and forget about her. How about Mary Loveless? She’s a bit plump and her mother tends to dictate …” She caught Lucas’ eye and hurriedly looked at the list again.

Impatiently, Lucas snapped the paper from her hand and scanned the names. “Harriet Briggs is still unmarried?” he exclaimed in amazement. “How is that possible? She’s the Squire’s daughter and had a dozen beaux before I left, but she was much too young to be interested in any of them.”

Lorena crossed her plump hands on the battered desk. “She is still not interested in any of them. She has not changed since the child you remember. You need a mature, proper lady to teach your daughter manners. Harriet is totally unsuitable.”

This time Lucas was the one to interrupt. “I remember her as a spirited little thing. Perhaps she was a bit of a tomboy riding to the hounds because her father never told her no, but she could argue intelligently. Verity needs a smart woman to guide her.”

Lorena vehemently shook her head. “Now that her mother has passed on and all feminine influence is lost, Harriet has become quite impossible. Rumour has it that she called off two perfectly respectable arrangements while she was in London, even though her looks are nothing to brag about.” She shook her head and cut herself off. “Her father has refused to give her another season.”

Lucas conjured a mental image of Miss Harriet Briggs the last time he’d seen her, when she wasn’t quite sixteen. He had been twenty and sporting his newly purchased officer’s colours. He’d been home to say farewells to family and strutting about in hopes his new uniform would impress the ladies.

The Squire’s daughter had been sitting on the doorstep of one of the village houses, showing a youngster how to feed a baby pig. She had not been impressed by his uniform but had appreciated his aid when the pig had squirmed free. They’d had a rational discourse on the care and feeding of abandoned farm animals, a conversation that he could not imagine having with any other female of his acquaintance.

Hope surged, despite Lorena’s warning. His household was in dire need of the discipline a lady could bring to it.

“She must be twenty-three or twenty-four by now?” In the eight years of his absence Harriet should have grown into her lanky limbs at least. Lucas didn’t think he’d care for a skinny woman, although a mother for Verity should be more important than attractiveness.

Well, perhaps not, or he’d have hired a nanny. So he needed a wife who appealed to him, as well as a mother for Verity. Doubt crept in at the seeming impossibility of that task. Perhaps he should have gone wife-hunting in London.

His sister should not have to deal with Verity while he danced through society. There had to be someone local, who would want to live here and raise his child among his family.

“Harriet should be a good age for looking after a child.” A man of action and decision, Lucas rose from the chair. “I don’t think anyone younger would be up to the challenge.”

Lorena looked harassed. “No, really, Lucas. Don’t be foolish. I do not wish to speak ill … Look, here is Elizabeth. She’s an extremely attractive young lady …”

Having made up his mind — and worried that Verity would be digging up the dead next — Lucas was already halfway out the door when Lorena leaped up, waving the list. “And Mary Dougal! Mature, quiet, and very lovely …”

“I will consider them all, of course,” Lucas said, making his bow, although he privately thought Elizabeth to be a simpering ninny and Mary Dougal to be a pinchpenny prude. Verity was a bright child. She needed a disciplined woman up to the challenge of taming her. And a patient one to ease them into their new domestic routines.

“I told you not to climb the trees!” he roared, after departing the vicarage. He crossed the cemetery in long strides to where his sister stared upwards in dismay. He could see the bright blue of his daughter’s gown several limbs from the ground. “Come down from there at once, you little monkey.”

He nearly had failure of the heart when Verity’s small foot slipped and missed the branch below her. Without a second’s thought, he swung up on the lowest limb, heedless of his best trousers, caught Verity by the waist, and lowered her to Maria.

“I have three of my own, Lucas,” his sister called back. “I cannot do this much longer. You should hire a circus trainer.”

“I am amazed you did not hire her out to a zoo before this,” he said in exasperation as the child took off running before he could climb down. “Does she never speak?”

Maria shrugged and followed Verity across the church lawn at a slower pace. “She can talk if she must. Mostly, she does what she wants rather than ask, because she knows she’ll be told no. I have three young boys. It’s all I can do to keep up with them. I hate to burden you, Lucas, but now that you’re home safe and sound, she’s your responsibility.”

“I agree. And someday I hope to repay you if possible. You have been a saint, and I don’t know what we would have done without you.” He caught up with Verity when she stopped to pet a shaggy mutt. She was no longer a toddler for Lucas to heave over his shoulder and carry off as he had the few times he’d been home when she’d been younger. He’d missed almost her entire childhood.

“Your safe return is payment enough,” Maria promised. “If you never go to war again and can provide a home for Verity, that will ensure our happiness.”

Lucas thought of his sister’s request as he knocked at Squire Briggs’ door the next afternoon. Now that Napoleon had been routed, he would not be going to war again, but that meant he had no other purpose.

Lucas’ father had died before he could attend Oxford or obtain any type of training. Other than the cottage and the lot it sat on, he had no lands of his own. The only trade he knew was soldiering. It was a problem he must solve after he found a mother for Verity.

Before setting off on this visit to the Squire, he’d left his daughter with Maria, had his hair properly barbered, and had his old cutaway coat with the broad lapels brushed and pressed. And still he squirmed like a raw lad on the brink of courtship.

He had been far too young to have encountered Squire Briggs regularly before he’d left for war, so he didn’t know the man well. The unfamiliarity of civilian life threw him off balance, forcing him to recall that he had earned his major’s stripes and fought battles far worse than the encounter ahead.

A maid led Lucas inside to a fusty parlour in dire need of a lady’s care. He frowned over that. Even if Lady Briggs had been deceased for some years, should not Miss Briggs have directed the servants in cleaning? Or at least replaced the cat-tattered pillows?

Cat hair was everywhere. He declined the maid’s offer of a seat.

Lucas liked to do his own reconnaissance and had made several enquiries before setting out on this call. From all reports, Squire Briggs was a hearty man who loved his horses and his hounds. His lands were fertile and well tended, and his tenants spoke well of him. Lack of funds or servants did not explain this lack of order.

The tenants had spoken well of the Squire’s daughter, as well, but with a certain degree of caution. Lucas trusted that was out of respect, but Lorena’s warning rang in his memory.

He heard the Squire roaring at a rambunctious hound somewhere deeper inside the house and smiled to himself, thinking taming a dog was very much like taming Verity. He’d nearly broken his neck falling over her this morning when she’d darted out from under a table on her hands and knees.

“Sumner!” the Squire boomed as he entered the parlour. “Good to see you home, lad! Major now, ain’t ye? Made the town proud, you did. Shame your father is no longer about to brag on you.” He pounded Lucas on the back and gestured towards the door. “C’mon back to m’study. We’ll have a bit of brandy and celebrate your return.”

Brandy was an excellent idea. Lucas thought he needed fortifying before he explained his presence. He was starting to think he should have sought out Harriet first, but he’d forgotten the protocol, if he’d ever known it. How did one woo a lady without going through her parent? He was no dab hand at courtship.

Outside, several hounds gave voice at once, and a woman shouted sharp commands.

The Squire ignored the commotion, reaching for a decanter on a dusty tray. Cat hair seemed less prevalent here, Lucas noticed. An ancient basset lay sprawled and snoring in front of the empty grate.

“You’re a military man. What do you know of hounds and hunting?” the Squire enquired, handing Lucas a glass.

“A great deal, as it happens, sir. I’ve spent the better part of these last years on horseback, chasing enemies wilier than foxes.”

Outside, the dogs howled louder, and a screech resembling a brawl between penned pigs and enraged hawks ensued. The woman’s shouts escalated.

Lucas had begun to wonder if he shouldn’t investigate, when Briggs threw open a sash of his double study window and shouted, “Harriet, get them damned hounds back in the pen where they belong and shoot the peacocks!”

Lucas blinked. Things had changed mightily if one shouted at young ladies these days and ordered them to perform a stable hand’s duty.

In coming here, he’d had some vision of a benevolent, ladylike Harriet gliding into the room carrying a tea tray and somehow divining why he’d called. After all, Lorena had said he was an eligible catch, and the Squire’s daughter was the most eligible female around. The purpose of his call should be obvious.

Perhaps he should have listened a little more closely to Lorena.

A childish shriek raised the hair on the back of his neck. Lucas dashed to the other window and threw open the second sash.

“Dash it all, Harry, I told you to get them hounds back in the barn!” the Squire was shouting in frustration while Lucas scanned the grounds for some sight of the origin of the childish scream. “We’ve got a guest! You need to get back in here.”

A pair of peahens and a cock flapped around three baying beagles, who were racing around the base of an oak as if they’d treed a squirrel.

Surrounded by the circling hounds and birds, a slender female in honey-coloured riding habit, with the skirt scandalously rucked up to reveal her tall boots, and her jacket missing, smacked the snout of the nearest dog. Lucas couldn’t hear what she was saying, but the animals crouched down and wagged their tails in anticipation of some treat.

The wildly colourful birds scattered to alight on various bits of shrubbery.

The young lady turned her uncovered head upwards to study the tree’s branches, and Lucas’ gut lurched. His gaze followed hers.

The child he had thought he’d left securely at his sister’s house was instead perched on the lowest limb of the oak, swinging her toes and watching the dogs, probably with interest, if he knew his daughter. The earlier scream had been for effect. Verity was fearless.

“Verity Augusta, get down from there this instant!” Lucas roared, heedless of the Squire’s startled reaction.

“That your young one?” Briggs asked. “What the devil is she doing in my tree?”

“As if I know what goes through her mind,” Lucas muttered, pulling his head back in the window. “I’d best prise her down and take her home.”

“Harry can do it.” Briggs stuck his head back out the window again and roared, “Harriet, bring the girl inside to her papa.”

The half-dressed lady sent her father what appeared to Lucas to be a look of exasperation, before crouching down to scratch the hounds and sending them scampering towards the kennel.

Verity, on the other hand, climbed to her feet and appeared to be considering the next highest branch.

Lucas didn’t think shouting at the females had put a dent in their behaviour.

If he’d had an undisciplined soldier who disobeyed him like that … He’d already confined Verity to quarters without result, and he couldn’t court-martial her. And he’d never resort to whipping. How did one command loyalty and obedience from a female?

As if in answer to his guest’s unspoken question, the Squire poured their brandies, handed Lucas one and said, “Never understand women. Contrary lot, don’t know what’s good for them. Don’t suppose you’ve come to take Harry off my hands, have you? Good girl, but damned if I can make her see sense.”

Lucas took a healthy swallow of his drink. Did he need two contrary females on his hands? He thought not, but he was a man who required information before making a life-altering decision. Discipline could be instilled in anyone, eventually.

This wife-getting business was more difficult than he’d anticipated.

“After all these years, I can’t say that I know Miss Briggs well,” Lucas replied circumspectly. “It would be a pleasure to become reacquainted.”

Briggs snorted again and leaned back in his chair. “I offered a handsome dowry, told everyone that she will inherit all I own someday, and she still garnered only two offers in London. And she turned those down. Take her off my hands, and you’ll be the son I never had.”

Studying the lady’s attire, Lucas suffered an uneasy notion that Harriet wanted to be the son her father never had.

Two

Harriet Briggs tilted her head back to admire the small girl straddling the oak branch above her head. “The dogs didn’t frighten you, did they?” she enquired with interest.

The child shook her mop of orange curls vigorously. “I like trees.”

“And is there some reason you like this particular tree?”

The child didn’t answer, but Harriet had a strong suspicion the reason stood in her father’s study window. Tall, broad-shouldered and wearing his bottle-green swallowtail coat as if it were a military uniform, the gentleman had arrived only shortly before the child. Both had walked, so they could not live too far away.

Harriet had seen the child in church on Sundays with Maria Smith and her brood of boys. She’d been told the girl was the boys’ cousin, but Harriet and Maria were a decade apart in age and never close, so she didn’t know more than gossip.

As far as Harriet knew, though, Maria’s only sibling was Lucas Sumner. She tried to find a resemblance to Lucas in the child’s oval face, but it had been too many years since she’d seen her childhood idol. She was long past the age of believing in human deities anyway. Children developed foolish fantasies, and she was firmly grounded in reality these days.

Blifil, the lame kitten, suddenly tumbled from the boxwoods, chasing after Partridge, her tame squirrel. The squirrel dashed up her skirt and into the tree, much to the child’s startlement. Harriet prayed the girl didn’t fall before she got her down.

“Do you have a name?” Harriet asked, ignoring her father’s bellows from the window. Really, he ought to know by now that she wouldn’t shout back like a field hand.

“My name is Verity. You’re Miss Harriet, aren’t you?” the child asked, proving she was observant for her age.

“I am. If you climb down from there, we can have tea and biscuits. Do you like kittens?” She swept Blifil from the ground before he could follow the squirrel.

“My papa will make me go home if I climb down. He told my Aunt Maria he needs a wife to take care of me, and I want to see who he picks.”

She stopped there, as if that said everything. Which it did, Harriet supposed, fighting a shiver of expectation and annoyance. Lucas had always been smart. He would seek out the wealthiest available woman in the neighbourhood before looking at the less eligible or the more beautiful. She was simply surprised he wasn’t looking in London instead of Chipping Bedton.

She supposed she would have to watch the last of her childhood illusions crumble. Major Sumner had to be able to see her from the window, so she was probably missing the show already. Would he bluntly express dismay at her unseemly attire and ragged manners? Or bite back his thoughts and just tighten his lips in disapproval over a mature young lady who displayed such inappropriate behaviour? She had little entertainment any more, so perhaps she could drum some up at the Major’s expense.

“I’ll tell your papa you’re my guest so he can’t send you home,” she told the child. “I’m a bit peckish and would like a sandwich with my tea, I believe. Do you think I might help you down?”

The child considered the suggestion, then finally nodded. “I climb like a monkey, my papa says.” Before Harriet was prepared, Verity caught the branch she sat on and swung her feet loose.

Dropping the kitten, Harriet tried not to gasp in terror as the girl trustingly fell into her arms. Harriet had watched her creatures perform dangerous acrobatics, but she’d never endured the terror of a human child risking death in such a manner. Major Sumner had his hands full with this one.

Staggering slightly as she lowered the child’s chunky body to firm land, Harriet suffered a brief glimpse of what it must be like to love and care for a precious, fragile life. It was difficult enough tending to a wounded pet. She didn’t think she could tolerate seeing a child hurt.

Really, she had nothing to worry about. She need only meet Lucas, let him see how utterly unsuitable she was, and go about her merry way. Her father and the tenants and the animals needed her. She had a very full life without an annoying man providing obstacles, objecting to everything she did or wanted. It was not as if she needed a man for anything. And she already had one yelling impossible orders all day long. She certainly didn’t require another. Taking a deep breath to settle her racing pulse, she swung Verity’s hand and was smiling when she entered the study where the men waited. Her confidence faltered a little at sight of the tall, immaculately dressed gentleman nearly filling the furniture-stuffed room.

Lucas Sumner had grown from lanky lad to a huge, square-shouldered man with shadowed eyes that had seen too much suffering. Harriet’s soft heart nearly plummeted to her toes. She could ignore laughing, handsome men. She could not ignore wounded ones.

“Thank you for rescuing my obstreperous daughter, Miss Briggs. I must take her home, where she belongs.”

A small hand clenched Harriet’s. The child very properly did not argue, but Harriet knew how it felt to be invisible. She tickled Verity’s palm while nodding pretend agreement. She would give Major Sumner one more chance at a little empathy.

“I have promised Verity tea and biscuits,” she said in her politest hostess tones. “Perhaps we could retire to the parlour and have a bite before you must leave?”

“No, she’s not capable of sitting still,” he responded dismissively. “I would not ruin your rugs with spilled tea and crumbs. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance again, Miss Briggs. Perhaps another time?”

Ah well, such a pity that he was a blind fool like all the others, but then, attractive men often thought they owned the world. And society allowed them to continue thinking that.

Harriet supposed it was naughty of her, but she would like Verity to recognize that she was not lacking in any way. She was simply being a child, and her father was simply being … well, a stiff-necked man.

At her father’s curt dismissal, Verity tugged her hand free and fled the room. Major Sumner uttered an impolite word and stalked after her.

Harriet blocked his path. Giving the Major a warning look, she called after the fleeing child, “If Invisible Girl will wait outside the front door, I will follow shortly. I do not break promises!”

The front door slammed. She hoped Verity was bright enough to listen. And be curious.

“I promised Verity tea and biscuits. Now I shall have to walk with her and explain they’ll have to wait for another day or she will think I’ve lied to her.” Harriet pasted a sweet smile over her irritation.

The glowering gentleman appeared prepared to bodily remove her from his path, and her smile grew more challenging.

Three

Lucas did not know what to make of the annoying Miss Briggs. She walked alongside him without a coat to cover her thin lawn blouse. Even her dishevelled lace jabot did not conceal her plump bosom. Her riding skirts and boots allowed her to take long strides that matched his, proving she was not so demure as her pursed lips and silence would lead him to believe.

She had a veritable cloud of frizzy mouse brown curls that she had made no attempt to tame or cover. She had not really grown out of her gangliness either. Her limbs were long and ungraceful, but her waist was small, and she curved in womanly places as she had not as a fifteen-year-old. He supposed, in an evening gown, she would reveal far more than this unconventional costume did. He could not quite put a reason to his shock … or attraction. She was as undisciplined a hoyden as Verity and not at all the polite sort of female he’d envisioned.

Perhaps he should have visited a dolly-mop or two in London before returning to the village if his idea of luscious womanhood was this defiant filly.

As they strode along the village lane, Verity scampered behind the stone fences and hedgerows, just out of sight, but following closely, as she must have earlier when she’d trailed him here. His daughter was far too clever and bold for her own good.

The silence grew awkward. Lucas sought for some means of breaking it, but he did not have much experience in conversing with unattached females. He had rather hoped for a businesslike transaction. Courting was another matter entirely — provided he wanted to court a woman who defied him before they even exchanged greetings.

“Do you prefer rural society to London?” he asked, wincing at his stilted tone.

“I believe I prefer animal society,” she responded without inflection.

Perhaps he should have listened to Lorena. Miss Briggs was not a comfortable companion, at the very least. Just a little annoyed that she ignored him to keep her eye on Verity, he released some of his frustration.

“Pets cannot talk back?” he suggested with a hint of sarcasm.

She shot him a sideways glance but whether of surprise, appreciation or distaste, he could not discern.

“Animals do talk back, if only one listens. Rather like children, actually.” Her small boots kicked up dust on the rutted dirt lane.

“Children aren’t supposed to talk back. They are too young to offer intelligent observation and must be educated.”

She made a rude noise that startled him. He was very much out of touch if ladies these days made uncouth sounds instead of pouting prettily.

“I have not been back in the country long,” he admitted cautiously. “Perhaps I am missing the nuances of your reply.”

She bestowed a laughing look on him. “What would you think if your batman snorted at your priggish assertion?”

He’d definitely been around men too long. Her laughter stirred his interest more than a little, despite her insult. “I would think he needed his pay docked,” he responded tartly. “Would you take that attitude from a kitchen wench?”

“I would if she was speaking about something of which she knew more than I did,” she said.

There was the spirited girl he remembered, although he’d rather forgotten that she had a tart tongue to match her intelligence. But she was wrong if she thought a child ought to be allowed to talk disrespectfully to her elders.

“Invisible Girl shouldn’t climb trees,” Harriet abruptly called as Verity headed for a low-hanging apple branch. “Trees make her visible.”

Verity darted back into the cover of the hedge.

Now he was more than intrigued. “Invisible Girl?” he enquired.

She shrugged. “Women and children are expected to be invisible. That works for some of us. Not all.”

“Expecting Verity to behave is not asking her to be invisible. There is a reason discipline and authority are required,” he objected. “If my men didn’t follow my command, they could put themselves or others in harm’s way.”

“Provided your command was correct,” she argued. “You do not allow for independent thinking.”

“Not while I’m the one responsible for what happens! That’s the entire point of being in charge — to know what is best for those relying on my expertise and knowledge. Verity cannot simply run unchecked about town, not acknowledging anyone’s authority but her own.”

“She is a child! She cannot be expected to respect the authority of someone she barely knows. And who barely knows her! Have you even tried to understand your daughter, Major Sumner?”

“I shouldn’t have to understand her, Miss Briggs,” he declared. “She should simply obey the adults in her life until she’s reached an age of reason.”

Miss Briggs gave him a look of incredulity, emitted another rude snort, and climbed the turnstile to join Verity in the field. Together, they ran laughing in the direction of the village.

Lucas didn’t think his suit was going very well. Perhaps he should consider plump, henpecked Mary after all. He marched down the lane, realizing this was the first time he’d seen Verity laugh since he’d returned home. He tugged uncomfortably at his neckcloth.

Striding down the lane after Sunday dinner, Harriet knew she’d behaved badly earlier in the week. And she’d done so deliberately, rejecting Major Sumner before he could reject her. She’d seen the disapproval in his eyes, let it raise her temper and then she’d goaded him into behaving like a military high stickler. Which he was, or at least, he had been. That did not mean he was a bad man, just one accustomed to certain behaviour.

The kind of behaviour a child could not follow. Nor Harriet, for all that mattered, but that did not mean Major Sumner was wrong. It just meant that he and his daughter would have a very hard time of it, if someone did not intervene.

She was probably not the right person to do so, but who else would? The other unattached ladies in town simply whispered to each other behind their hands, wearing their best bonnets in hopes that Major Sumner would notice them. As if he was likely to notice a bonnet full of roses and birds! They’d do better to wear stiff military caps to make him feel more at home.

Mary had taken him a basket of muffins. Jane had taken him a pie. The child and Major Sumner would not go hungry, at least. But Verity would be ignored and feel even more like an Invisible Girl.

Verity was the only reason Harriet was marching down the lane this fine April Sunday afternoon, carrying a basket containing an adorable black-and-white kitten that would create havoc in Major Sumner’s orderly household. Perhaps he needed to be reminded — as the other ladies would not — that he was not the only person in his home.

She supposed she ought to apologise for her earlier behaviour while she was at it, but she was not so certain on that matter. She had, though, dressed carefully for church that morning. If Major Sumner had noticed, he had not given a sign. He’d been too busy trying to keep Verity behaving like a proper major general.

So Harriet was taking the liberty of calling on the child this afternoon, while still wearing her Sunday sprigged muslin. She’d even tamed her hair to stay inside her bonnet, except for a loose curl or two. She wore her gloves and kid slippers and looked as much like a lady as she possibly could, so Major Sumner would have no reason to disapprove of her disreputable untidiness and set off her temper again.

Perhaps she might show him she could be proper, if she must, but neatness had never been overly important to her. She’d kept the family housekeeper on even though Agnes was half-blind and unaware of the damages Harriet’s pets caused. Harriet preferred her pets and Agnes to orderliness. If the Major wanted tidy, he should court Mary Loveless and her overbearing mother.

Nor could she compete with pretty Elizabeth or sweet-tempered Jane. Harriet was plain. Sometimes, when she did needlework, she even wore spectacles. And no man had ever called her sweet. So all Harriet could hope was that if she looked respectable enough, Major Sumner would allow her to be a friend and help with his daughter.

She had ascertained that Lucas had returned to his father’s old cottage on a small lot between her father’s farm and the village. His father had been the town physician until his death last spring. Harriet had often visited his home with her father’s tenants. She was familiar with the two-storey cottage.

The lilac by the front door needed trimming, but it would bloom wonderfully in another month. Harriet rapped the knocker. Before anyone could answer, a childish shriek of fear and a masculine shout of panic erupted from the yard behind the house.

Setting the kitten basket on the doorstep, she lifted her Sunday skirt and raced past a few bedraggled jonquils and a struggling peony, around the corner, to the old stable.

Seeing no one in the yard, she followed the sound of angry shouts into the stable — where Verity hung upside down from the rafters with a large harness around her waist, in peril of slipping out on her head at any moment.

If it were not so terrifying a situation, it would have been funny. How had the child ended up swinging like a trapeze artist?

The rafter was tall and Verity was short. Major Sumner stretched between the ground and his daughter’s hair, barely keeping her from falling but unable to grasp her sufficiently to lower her to the ground. Hence the furious shouting. Men despised helplessness.

There was no point in explaining that a little girl did not know how to grasp leathers and climb back up from whence she’d fallen, as her father was encouraging her to do. Tucking the back of her skirt into the front of her petticoat ribbons, Harriet hastened up the ladder into the loft as she often did at home.

“If you tug the strap, she will fall!” Lucas warned from below. “And you are likely to fall with her.”

“I know my limitations,” Harriet retorted, stripping off her gloves. “Verity’s coming down. Stand under her and grab for her shoulders.” She found the buckle the little imp had wrapped around the beam and carefully undid it, hanging on to the leather with all her strength. “Verity, reach for your father because I cannot hold this for long.”

Verity shrieked. Lucas yelled. And the harness whipped from Harriet’s hands, leaving a burned streak across her palms. Shaking, Harriet closed her eyes, too terrified to see if she’d killed them both.

Verity began weeping loudly. Probably frightened out of her mind. Lucas scolded. Not the best of reactions for either, but at least she knew they were alive. Opening her eyes again, Harriet attempted the ladder, only now realizing how very unladylike she would appear with her stockings and garters exposed.

A strong arm caught her waist and lifted her free of the ladder. “I’ve got you. Let go.”

She did, and Lucas swung her to the ground, while keeping a tearful Verity tucked under his other arm. The man’s brains were in his brawn.

She liked the feel of his brawn a little too well. Shaking now that the incident was done, she wanted to bury her face in his big shoulder and weep out her fear as Verity was doing.

Lucas had apparently removed his frock coat after church and was in only waistcoat and shirt. She could smell his shaving soap and the manly aroma of his skin. While she fought back tears, he held her a little longer than was necessary, steadying himself as well as her.

Apparently realizing that fact at the same moment as she, he released her waist, but then remained uncertain what to do with the hysterical child he’d so rudely tucked under his other arm.

“Verity, sweetheart,” Harriet murmured, still shaken but unable to resist a sobbing child. “Give over.” She slid her arms around the girl and lifted her away from Lucas. “Verity, you terrified us. You have no idea how much it hurts your father when he thinks you’re in pain or danger. He can’t cry as you do, so he has to yell and shout.”

Lucas snorted rudely, as she had once done, and Harriet shot him a retaliatory look. He rubbed his hands through his already dishevelled hair, like a man who had reached his last tether.

Verity flung her skinny arms around Harriet’s neck and buried her runny nose in the pretty sprigged muslin. Too rattled to care, Harriet rocked her and patted her on the back as if Verity were a babe. Her arms ached with the weight, but Lucas had not yet learned to comfort his daughter. Someone must teach him.

Calming down enough to learn his lesson, he lifted Verity from Harriet’s arms. “You scared me out of ten years’ growth, child. Whatever were you doing up there?”

Verity sniffed and rubbed her nose on his waistcoat and finally wrapped her arms around her father’s neck long enough to stop sobbing. Harriet thought perhaps she ought to sneak out now that the two were learning to get on, but she was interested in hearing Verity’s reply.

“I wanted to be big!” she wailed. “Davy said he stretched his arms big by swinging on ropes, so I wanted to swing!”

Four

“Oh, dear.” Miss Briggs snickered and turned away, as if to depart.

Holding Verity in one arm, Lucas caught his saviour’s elbow with his free hand. His heart still hadn’t stopped attempting to escape his chest at the sight of his daughter hanging upside down in danger of breaking her neck.

If Miss Briggs had not come along, he would have had to learn to fly. He’d never seen a more level-headed, courageous lady, and even if she was a tart-tongued hoyden, he needed her. Verity needed her.

“Don’t go.” He tried not to plead, but he could see disaster written on his future unless he kept this woman with him. “We haven’t thanked you. I don’t suppose it’s proper to invite you in for tea.” He hated being uncertain but he was too overwrought at the moment to care. He just didn’t want her to go until his heart stopped pounding in his ears.

“I think it might be a good idea for Verity to go inside and wash up and lie down for a little while. Keeping up with her cousins is very tiring.”

Davy was one of Verity’s older cousins. Lucas caught the lady’s implication. He’d left his baby girl to compete with three older male cousins. His fault. Everything was his fault. It was up to him to undo what he had wrought.

“We will be just a minute,” he told her, looking for some way to persuade her to stay. “There is some pie left. We can eat it under the tree, where everyone can see we are very respectable.” He started for the house, trying not to notice as Miss Briggs brushed her skirt and petticoat back where they belonged.

She had long, lovely legs.

And shapely arms that cuddled a child the way he wouldn’t mind being held.

He wondered if Miss Briggs might ever rest her head against his shoulder as Verity did. That wasn’t a proper or respectable thought.

“I don’ wanna take a nap.” Verity hiccupped on her protest.

“Just lie down and rest your eyes a little,” Miss Briggs said soothingly, matching Lucas’ stride with ease. “And if you’re good and rest long enough, I’ll have a surprise waiting for you in the kitchen.”

“A surprise?” Verity lifted her damp cheeks. “For me?”

“Yes, just for you. Are you big enough to run upstairs and wash and take off your dress or do you need help?”

“I’m big enough!” Verity pushed off Lucas’ shoulders and wriggled to get down. When he let her go, she raced ahead of them.

“I’ve never seen her hurry so to take a nap,” he said wryly. “I hope you really do have a surprise for her.”

“You’ll hate it, but I do. She needs to feel she’s important, so I brought her a kitten. Learning to take care of a pet will teach her that others rely on her, and that she’s very important, indeed. But you’ll have to put up with the mess.”

“You’re laughing at me,” he said accusingly, steering her towards the tea table his mother had set up beneath the beech tree.

“Perhaps, only a little, because I’m still quaking in my shoes. She could have been killed!” Miss Briggs wailed, almost collapsing into the chair he held for her.

“Exactly my thought twenty times a day. Wait here, and I’ll bring out the cups and things, after I see Verity into bed. Did you leave the kitten in front?” At her nod, he made a mental note to fetch it. He doubted Verity’s ability to take care of a kitten, but his heart warmed that Miss Briggs had thought of her.

He could foresee cat hairs in his future, but Verity was more important than tidiness. Somehow, he must learn to rearrange his priorities.

His daughter had already stripped off her grubby and ruined Sunday dress and was splashing cold water as if she were a duck at play. Lucas scrubbed off some of the grime on her face and hands and watched her climb between the covers, before returning downstairs to the kitchen and setting on a kettle of tea. He supposed he should have done that first. He needed to hire a maid to think of these things, but it seemed awkward unless he had a wife first. He missed his batman.

He had imagined a sweet little woman ordering his household about, one who smiled cheerfully and arranged for delightful meals to appear on the table and pottered about keeping order, until it was time for her to come up to his bed. He could see now that his imagination was considerably rosier than actuality, rather like his youthful idea of war.

Life had a habit of not living up to his expectations. He could not even live up to his own. In the military, it had been relatively simple to follow orders, understand his men and take action. Women, on the other hand, were a mysterious universe he might never comprehend. How did he persuade one that he needed her without sounding desperate?

Remembering the kitten, he stopped at the front to pick up the basket. It smelled of lavender and sported pink ribbons and a little black nose was pushing aside a gingham cloth. He hoped it was a male cat or he’d be outnumbered.

Carrying basket and tea tray, Lucas geared up his considerable courage to approach the intrepid Miss Harriet Briggs. He needed a wife who could rescue children from barns more than he needed a lady to look pretty and make tea. He simply had to find some way of asking her

Harriet thought about running and hiding before Lucas returned. Just the fact that she was thinking of him as Lucas instead of Major Sumner spoke much of the familiarity of her thoughts.

She had no mirror and couldn’t straighten out the frizzy mess her hair had become when the pins loosened in her climb. She shoved as much as she could inside her bonnet, then discovered she’d left her gloves in the barn. Her hands were bare, revealing her broken nails and dirt from the leather. She was an unmitigated hoyden, just as her father claimed.

Fine, then, she had nothing about which to worry. Major Sumner would not be interested in anyone as indecorous as she, so she could simply sip tea and discuss Verity’s welfare.

She hurried to rescue him from tea tray and kitten as soon as he appeared. She couldn’t help her heart from making an odd leap at the sight of the big strong man biting his lip while attempting to balance tray and swinging kitten basket at the same time. Even though he’d properly donned his Sunday cutaway coat and looked beyond dashing, the self-confident Major wasn’t quite as intimidating or perfect in domesticity.

She had already dusted off the old table and now used the gingham from the kitten basket to cover it before she set the tray down. “Is Verity all settled in?” she asked nervously when he hovered too close, forcing awareness of how large he was. He’d lifted her from the ladder, while holding Verity! Her heart did another little jig.

“I think she was frightened enough to be glad of a moment alone.”

“She’s a bright child, with a strong imagination. Once you learn of what she’s capable, you’ll enjoy her company, Major Sumner,” Harriet said stiltedly. She’d been to London and had learned to make polite small talk with gentlemen about the weather and the music and the company. She’d never had to pretend restraint in the village. Until now.

“Please, call me Lucas. I am no longer in the Army and, after this episode, I would like to call you friend, if I might.”

She nodded and poured the tea, aware of how ugly her hands looked. “I am Harriet, although everyone calls me Harry. I fear my name is as unladylike as I am.”

“Ladylike is not a quality useful in dealing with Verity, I fear.” He sat uncomfortably in the small wrought-iron chair. Even the teacup looked frail and useless in his hand.

Harriet winced at his unintended insult and sipped her tea. She was good at caring for animals but not so quick at witticism. Still, she tried. “Real ladies would not be so inclined to ruck up their dresses and climb ladders,” she agreed with innocence.

He nodded. “That is precisely what I mean. Action and quick thinking is what is required around Verity. Polite manners and pretty dresses are irrelevant.”

Thinking polite manners might prevent her from dumping the tea over his head for implying she wasn’t a lady because she could think, Harriet bit back an impolite retort. “I daresay ladies are irrelevant on all counts,” she agreed maliciously. “They are merely decorative, are they not? Rather like stained-glass windows. Perhaps they should be left in church.”

He looked startled. Instead of replying, he apparently made a hasty reassessment of their exchange. “I did not mean to imply—”

“Oh, no need to apologise.” She waved away whatever he meant to say. “I’m aware of my shortcomings. Instead of sitting prettily in my parlour, I climb in haylofts and trees. I shout at dogs. I crawl about in henhouses. I will never be considered decorative, by any means!”

“As you say, decorative is for churches. I’d much rather see a woman who isn’t afraid to help a child or an animal.” He said it uneasily, as if afraid he was walking into a trap.

“One who argues,” she suggested, listing her many flaws. “And speaks up for herself. You do not prefer polite, pretty ladies who demurely nod their heads and make men swoon with a smile.”

“Exactly,” he said, apparently pleased that she understood his requirements. “I hope I am not being too forward. When I went to your father, it was because I remembered you with fondness and hoped to press my suit. But Verity … Verity does not make it easy for me to court in a traditional manner. You are a woman of exceptional understanding. I would like to call on you, if I might be so bold.”

“You wish to call on a woman who is not a lady, one who argues and rudely rucks up her skirts and isn’t remotely attractive enough to be decorative?” she asked in feigned astonishment, raising her eyebrows. “I think not, sir. You may call on me when Verity needs rescuing again, perhaps. Until then, I give you good day.”

Ribbons bedraggled from being crushed by an unthinking military man, Harriet rose from her chair and, head held high, sailed from the yard with bits of straw stuck to her crumpled muslin.

Five

Dropping his best visiting coat over a chair, Lucas rubbed his aching head. After an hour of listening to Miss Elizabeth Baker and a few of her dearest friends prattle in high-pitched voices about London fashion and the best teacakes, he was ready to stick his head in a bucket to clean out his ears. He was evidently not meant for feminine company.

He stared morosely out the kitchen door at the fields separating his cottage from the Briggs’ estate. He wished he understood the feminine mind. He’d thought he and Miss Briggs had reached a level where they could talk honestly. He’d hoped …

But she’d thought he was insulting her, when he thought he’d been showering her with fevered compliments and his genuine delight at finding a sympathetic ear. He had porridge for brains.

He’d sent round a note of apology. He’d asked the vicar to put in a word for him. He’d spoken to the Squire himself. But nothing had worked. They muttered platitudes about Miss Harriet coming around in her own time. But she was never at home when he called.

He sighed as he watched his daughter climb the back fence to gather wildflowers from the field. Verity apparently had a passion for flowers. He didn’t know one from another. A woman could help Verity grow a garden. He didn’t even know where to acquire seeds.

Perhaps he could ask Miss Briggs how one went about finding flower seeds. He could help Verity collect a bouquet, tie a ribbon about it and deliver it as a peace offering. Or gratitude for the kitten wrecking the furniture. Verity adored the creature.

He could practise a few compliments, although he felt a fool telling her she had eyes the colour of the sky and skin as soft as silk. She did, but he didn’t know how to say that.

After spending an hour in the company of the village ladies, Lucas knew of a certainty that Miss Briggs was the only local woman who met his needs, all his needs. He could hire a maid to clean cat hair. He could not hire an intelligent, desirable wife, one who could keep up with Verity and not drive him mad with inanities.

He saw no reason to give up on the woman he wanted, if all that parted them was his thickheaded pride and her damnably sensitive feelings. He would not have made major had he given up and simply obeyed orders instead of thinking for himself. Which was what Miss Briggs had been telling him — although he had difficulty applying such leadership to women. He’d learn.

The day was warm and there was no sense in making his laundry more difficult by dirtying a coat while hunting flowers. With no one about to see him, he abandoned his coat and followed Verity into the field.

Verity looked up in surprise when Lucas leaned over to pick a daffodil. She laughed in delight when he handed it to her. Together, they wandered deep into the field and a wooded area, collecting a ragged assortment of blooms that might make a lady smile. Maybe.

“Do you think we should put a ribbon around these and take them to Miss Harriet?” he asked when Verity seemed to be tiring of the game.

She nodded eagerly. Lucas was about to lift her on his shoulders and carry her back to the house, when he heard an impatient shout. He might be a thickheaded oaf, but he recognized Miss Harriet’s voice.

It was coming from the pasture where the Briggs’ tenant farmer had just loosed his bull.

He shoved the bouquet into Verity’s hands. “Take these back to the house and put them in water. I’ll bring Miss Briggs to visit shortly.”

He didn’t have time to wait and see that she obeyed. He took off at a lope around the fence, racing in the direction of the Briggs’ estate. He had a feeling Miss Harriet was much like Verity, often climbing into situations from which she could not easily be extracted.

The one he found her in caused him to stumble in horror.

The redoubtable Miss Briggs had climbed over a stile on the far side of the field, in apparent pursuit of a puppy. While she was scolding the terrified hound, a ton of beef on the hoof pawed the ground and swung its massive head back and forth behind a bush, where she could not see it. Even the puppy could sense the danger and cowered on its belly amid the grass.

Lucas would strangle the woman if he did not have failure of the heart first.

He had no weapon other than himself. Trotting alongside the fence, he sought to distract the bull from this woman in her unfashionably shortened riding skirts. He waved his arms to catch the animal’s attention and, when that was not sufficient, he climbed the fence and sat atop the rail, roaring curses.

Astonished, Miss Harriet looked up at his odd behaviour, then turned to follow his gaze. Her eyes widened as she glanced behind her to the bull pawing the ground.

Lucas nearly fell off the rail when she grabbed the pup, and the bull snorted and lowered his head at her motion.

“Don’t move!” he shouted at her. “He’s just looking for an excuse to attack.”

“I can’t very well stand here for the rest of my life,” she retorted, holding the wriggling pup.

“It will be a very short life if you move.” Too furious and terrified to be polite, Lucas leaped off the fence and began running around the bull’s rump, away from Miss Briggs.

The bull swung its head in his direction, bellowed and charged.

Running for his life, and Harriet’s, Lucas raced across the corner of the enclosed field, reaching the hedge on the other side with the bull’s hot breath on his neck. Grabbing a hawthorn branch that gave beneath his weight, he vaulted across the wizened limbs — into a mud puddle on the other side of the hedgerow.

“Major Sumner, Lucas!”

He heard Harriet’s panicked shouts as he tried to catch his breath after having lost it. Mud puddles were softer than the ground, but not by much.

Dainty ankles exposed, she climbed the stile, her expression gratifyingly concerned. He wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled for being so careless, but the frightened tears streaking her cheeks dampened his temper. And in the end, she had listened to his orders and stayed still.

Thankfully, she’d used her excellent head to go against his less than clear orders and escape the field the minute it was safe to do so. Dazed, he wondered if he could appoint her to be general of his household. But that wasn’t what he wanted either.

Setting the pup on the ground, she raced to help Lucas up. “I am so sorry, Lucas. You are so brave! I had no idea …”

She was a mess in grubby wool and tousled curls. She was an angel of concern with tears flowing down her cheeks as she offered her bare, broken-nailed fingers to help him up.

He grabbed her hand. Admired her slender form in tawny yellow. Wanted to drive his fingers through her wild curls.

And tugged the hand she offered, yanking her into the mud wallow with him.

“You could have been killed!” he shouted. “Do you never look where you are going? Does it never occur to you that you might be more important than a damned animal?”

She spluttered, shoved her hands against his chest, and glared down at him. “What do you care? I’m just another nuisance who won’t fall in line and behave as I ought!”

He rolled her into the grass beside the mud wallow and swung over her, propping himself on his hands so he could trap her until she heard him out. “I don’t need a field sergeant! Or a decorative piece of church plaster. I need a woman, one who understands Invisible Girls and is willing to put up with Impossible Men. I need a soft woman who cuddles children and lets me pretend I’m useful. I need a woman who looks beautiful with mud in her hair and straw on her hem. And you’re the only damned one I know who fits the bill!”

She blinked, and her heavenly sky-blue eyes stared up at him in wonder. “Me? I am not beautiful. Or decorative,” she reminded him.

“Decorative is useless. Decorative sits about collecting dust. Beautiful is alive and glittering with sunshine and smelling of roses. Don’t make me speak poetry because I don’t know any.”

“I think you just did,” Harriet murmured in awe, watching the passionate play of expressions across Lucas’ strongly masculine face. She had not thought him capable of feeling anything. She had been wrong. He looked like a man in torment. In wonder, she daringly touched his jaw.

His head instantly descended to cover her lips with a kiss that heated her blood in ways she’d never known possible.

When he finally came up for air, his eyes glittered with triumph. “Marry me, Miss Briggs. Show me what I’ve missed all these years.”

Left breathless, she could scarcely gather her thoughts. “I am outside more than I am in. I am not much at supervising the laundry and housekeeping,” she warned, even though she wished to bite her tongue. “And if you are in the habit of dripping mud, I suspect you have a great need for both.”

“I suspect between the three of us, we can use an entire village of servants,” he countered. “I can command the housemaids to clean and you can command the stable boys to muck, if that is your preference.”

“I like animals and children,” she added, heart in her throat, fearful she would drive off the one man she’d ever wanted. “I will look after them before I look after the house.”

Undeterred, he planted kisses across her face. “If you will think of me and Verity as your pets, I will come courting properly. I can buy you candy. I have a bouquet for you back at the house.”

She shook her head, put a finger to her lips, and glanced sideways.

Lucas followed her gaze.

Clutching the ragged bouquet, Verity waited in the shrubbery until they noticed her. Then, holding out the flowers, she said, “Will you marry us, Miss Harriet? We love you.”

Weeping, Harriet flung herself into Lucas’ arms and let him reassure her that finally, finally she had found someone who loved and understood her, and not her dowry.

“We love you, Miss Harriet,” Lucas repeated softly, hugging her as she had longed to be hugged. “Will you love us back?”

And she nodded fiercely, speechless for possibly the first time in her life.

The Piano Tutor

Anthea Lawson

“My Lady.” The butler tapped at Diana Waverly’s half-open door. “The piano tutor is here.” He hesitated, a furrow marring his usually placid brow.

“Well, it is Wednesday.” Diana laid her last black dress in the trunk she had been filling, then carefully closed the lid. “Tell Samantha it’s time for her lesson. I’ll be down directly.”

The butler remained in the doorway, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Forgive me, My Lady, but it … er, it is not the customary piano tutor. It is an altogether different gentleman.”

She blinked. “But Mr Bent is Samantha’s tutor. We have no other.”

“I tried to tell him as much, but the gentleman insists.”

Diana stood, frowning. “I’ll see to him.” They had few callers — the inevitable result of turning down a season’s worth of invitations — and never unannounced visitors.

Tucking up a stray auburn curl, she started down the hallway towards the wide second-floor landing. Mr Bent had said nothing of this. He was quite reliable — if a bit dour to be tutoring a girl still recovering from the loss of her father.

At the top of the stairs she halted, pulled from her thoughts by the sound of music pouring from the parlour below. Someone very skilled was playing the piano.

She rested her hand on the mahogany banister and listened. Note after note tumbled through the entryway, reverberating between the high ceiling and marble floors. Sunlight streamed through the landing windows, making the dust motes swirl and glitter like gilded dancers.

Her stepdaughter Samantha joined her, her wiry twelve-year old body leaning over the railing. “I didn’t know Mr Bent could actually play the piano.”

“It’s not Mr Bent.” That much was clear, though who it might be and why he was in her parlour was a mystery Diana could not fathom.

She descended the stairs, the music growing fuller and more present with every step. She paused a moment at the parlour door, then — with a fortifying breath — went in. The instant she crossed the threshold, the music ceased. The magic that had been spilling into the house folded in upon itself and disappeared.

But its source remained — a broad-shouldered man with brown hair and intelligent grey eyes. He stood when he saw her and bowed with an easy grace. “My Lady.”

She studied the stranger. Handsome, undeniably, with those compelling eyes and a smile that seemed genuine. He looked nothing like the stoop-shouldered and outmoded Mr Bent. For one thing, he was a good deal younger — he looked to be no more than a handful of years older than herself.

“Sir?” She hardly knew what to say. “Please explain yourself.”

“Viscountess Merrowstone.” The stranger’s voice was rich and complex, the syllables of her title unexpectedly smooth to her ears. “Mr Nicholas Jameson, at your service. I’ve come to substitute for Mr Bent, who has been called away unexpectedly.”

“This is most irregular. I was not informed there was to be a replacement.” She faced him squarely, ready to send him on his way. That was what she intended to do, but the words came out all wrong. “You play quite well.”

He tipped his head, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “That would be a requirement, wouldn’t it?”

“One would assume so.” Though his bearing made her think he would be more suited to leaping a stallion over hedgerows than giving piano lessons to a twelve-year old. “You’re quite certain you’re a piano tutor?”

“Let me assure you of my qualifications.” He extended an envelope. “I’ve a letter of recommendation from Lady Pembroke. You’re acquainted, I believe?”

Diana nodded. Indeed, Lucy was a good friend, possessed of a generous spirit — though she was more than a little scandalous. Henry had not approved of their friendship. Diana’s gaze slipped past Mr Jameson to the portrait of her late husband, Lord Henry Waverly, Viscount Merrowstone. His stern, formal features watched impassively, a cultivated remoteness in his expression. Solid and predictable in the portrait, just as in life. Lucy had annoyed him to no end.

Swallowing a sigh, Diana turned her attention to her friend’s curling script.

Dearest Diana — I commend Mr Nicholas Jameson to you as a piano tutor. He has provided my own Charlotte with lessons and has proven quite satisfactory. May I also point out — in case you had not noticed — that he is extremely handsome? He strikes me as a perfect diversion now that you have finally come out of mourning. I encourage you to take him on — in whatever capacities suit your needs. Pianists have such skilled hands.

Diana felt her cheeks burn as she glanced up at the gentleman in question. No doubt it had amused Lucy to have Mr Jameson deliver such an outrageous “reference” in person.

“I see that she recommends you highly, sir,” Diana said, biting her lip to avoid an embarrassed giggle. “I suppose we might consider having you.” Oh dear, that hadn’t sounded quite proper. She cleared her throat. “I mean hiring you. It wouldn’t do to neglect Samantha’s lessons while Mr Bent is away.”

“Oh, please hire him,” Samantha said, peeking out from behind the doorway. She came in and stood on tiptoe to whisper in Diana’s ear. “He seems ever so much nicer than Mr Bent.”

It was quite outside the regular course of things, yet there was no mistaking the eager note in Samantha’s voice. No mistaking that Mr Jameson was, as Lucy had mentioned, a very handsome man.

Her stepdaughter turned to him. “I heard you playing. It was marvellous! How do you do the part with your left hand? Could you show me?”

“Of course.” He gave her an encouraging smile. “It’s simple once you get the trick of it. Have you played any Mozart?”

“Oh yes!”

“Then you’ll be able to master it easily. That is …” He raised a questioning brow at Diana.

“Oh very well,” she said. “It appears you will be our replacement tutor until Mr Bent returns.” She ignored Samantha’s muffled squeal. “Can you begin today?”

A spark leaped into his eyes. “Immediately.”

Looking at him made heat creep into her cheeks. Despite herself, Lucy’s advice rang in her head. As if she would consider something so scandalous as commencing an affair with the piano tutor. Really, her friend had no sense of propriety.

Samantha hurried to seat herself at the piano bench. “I’m ready!”

Diana was not sure whether she herself was ready, but events seemed to be carrying her along. She settled into the nearby wing-back and straightened the rich indigo skirts of her new dress. It was odd to wear colours again. She had grown so accustomed to the solid black of mourning that she felt vulnerable without it. A part of her wanted to retreat back into its safety — but that was not fair to Samantha. Diana could not deny the hopeful light in the girl’s eyes, the flash of her rare grin as she attempted to mimic Mr Jameson’s command of the keyboard.

As was customary during Samantha’s lessons, Diana picked up her newest copy of the Ladies’ Monthly, but the fashion plates held no interest for her. Her eyes kept wandering from the illustrations to steal quick glances at the new tutor — his long-fingered hands as he played a run of notes, the way his brown hair tumbled over his collar. More than once he seemed to sense her attention and she had to quickly drop her gaze back to the unseen pages.

The sound of his voice was so different from Mr Bent’s dry tones, and his praise and encouragement drew another flashing smile from Samantha. Something inside Diana uncoiled a notch, a deep tension she had not realized she had been carrying.

The shape of his muscular shoulders was barely concealed by the cut of his coat as he leaned forwards to demonstrate some point. He radiated confidence and mastery. She imagined that everything he did would benefit from that focused energy.

From this angle he was in profile. His jaw was firm, his nose straight, his mouth strong, yet sensitive. She traced her own lips with a fingertip, then caught herself and hurriedly dropped her hand before he could notice.

Mr Jameson turned to face her. “Will you?” he asked.

Diana’s breath faltered as their gazes held a heartbeat too long. Clearly she had missed an important turn in the lesson while daydreaming.

“Sing for us,” Samantha said, a touch of impatience in her voice. “Mr Jameson has been showing me a marvellous pattern for accompanying songs, but I don’t think I can sing and play at the same time.”

Diana set aside her magazine. “Oh, I really couldn’t. It’s been so long.” There didn’t seem to be enough air in the room for her to breathe, let alone sing.

“Of course you can.” Mr Jameson’s tone was assured. “Miss Samantha says you have a lovely singing voice.” There was a challenge in his expression, as if he were curious to see what she would do.

“Please, Mama. Let’s do ‘The Meeting of the Waters’.”

“Very well. If it’s part of the lesson.” She stood and took her place beside the piano, oddly reluctant to disappoint Mr Jameson. Still, it had been a very long while. What if she had lost the knack altogether? “Samantha, you and Mr Jameson must help by singing with me.”

The piano tutor counted the tempo then signalled Samantha to begin. Diana took a deep breath and sang the first words. Mr Jameson’s rich baritone joined her, while her stepdaughter concentrated on the keyboard.

At first her alto sounded husky to her ears, the notes unsure. Soon enough, though, her body took over and she remembered how to breathe, how to put herself into the song and carry each tone to fullness. Mr Jameson was solid beside her, his singing voice even fuller than she had imagined. When her pitch wavered, he was there, and soon their voices began to blend in a most pleasing manner. Unbidden, her eyes met his, and the appreciation there nearly made her lose the words. She forced her concentration back to the final phrases of the song.

Samantha was giggling as she played a last flourish on the piano.

“Splendid!” Mr Jameson said. “Miss Waverly, you have a deft touch on the keyboard. And Viscountess — your voice is lovely.”

Diana smiled back at him. The parlour had not rung with such happy sounds for too long. It seemed that Mr Jameson would be a splendid substitute.

The clock on the mantel struck the hour, and Samantha let out a protest. “So soon? But we’ve just begun!”

Indeed, the time had sped.

“Thank you, Mr Jameson. Shall we expect you next week?”

“I would be delighted.” He took Diana’s hand and, bowing, lifted it to his lips.

The warm press of his mouth on her skin sent a shock of sensation through her. It was very forward, yet she could not bring herself to reprove him, not with the heat of his kiss disordering her senses.

Still clasping her hand, he looked into her eyes — a look full of promise that made her heart race. “Until next Wednesday.”

The tea shop on Bond Street was filled with the cheerful babble of conversation. Diana had requested a table in the nook — the safest place for a chat with Lucy, whose voice had a tendency to carry.

“Tell me, darling—” Lucy arched an elegant eyebrow “—is Mr Jameson proving to be … satisfactory? I’d like to know if my recommendation was well advised.”

Mr Jameson. Diana let out a slow breath.

She could not stop thinking of him — his grey eyes and handsome features, the confidence that accompanied his every movement. The past three Wednesdays had found her with a giddy lightness of spirit. She was attuned to each nuance of his expression, addicted to the desire that his slow smiles sent through her. At the conclusion of every session, he had kissed her hand. Last Wednesday, his lips had seemed to linger, the heat of his breath playing against her skin for a long moment. The memory of it sent a fluttery breathlessness winging through her even now.

“He …” Diana ran her fingertip back and forth across the rim of her cup. “He seems an excellent teacher — very patient with Samantha, and kind. She is enjoying music lessons far more than she ever has before. It’s a pity he’s only a temporary tutor. There’s a certain quality about him …”

She took a hasty swallow of tea. Goodness, she shouldn’t be prattling on. Whatever secret thoughts she had of the new piano tutor should stay exactly that — secret. Although, of anyone, Lucy would understand.

Her friend tilted her head, a speculative light in her eyes. “Why, Diana. Are you developing an interest in Mr Jameson? How marvellous. As I told you, I think he would prove an excellent diversion. You should commence an affair immediately.”

Diana set her cup down so quickly that some tea sloshed over the edge. “Lucy, you are shocking.”

Even worse than Lucy’s suggestion were the images that flooded Diana’s mind. Fire bloomed in her cheeks. What if Mr Jameson did not stop when he kissed her hand? What if he continued, his warm lips laying kisses up her arm, along her neck? What if he reached her mouth and covered it with his own?

Her friend gave her a shrewd look. “High time you began thinking of yourself. You’re out of formal mourning now. And you’ve admitted that your marriage to Lord Waverly was never one of deep passion.”

“A marriage does not need passion if it has respect and …” She searched for the proper word. “Goodwill.”

Lucy waved her hand. “Goodwill is all very well, in its place. But now you have an opportunity, you should seize it! If you are careful and discreet, no one will suspect. You are free to follow your heart, or your whims — or both.”

Lucy made it sound so simple.

“I must admit—” her chest tightened, excitement firing through her blood as she spoke aloud the words she had been holding inside for weeks “—I find Mr Jameson quite attractive. And his manner very pleasing.”

Lucy nodded approval. “Indeed.”

“What does it mean,” Diana continued, “when a man’s presence makes one feel so very awake? I can scarcely sleep for thoughts of him, and when I do, my dreams are …” She lowered her voice. “Oh, my dreams are most wicked.”

“That is excellent news.” Lucy’s eyes were bright. “Perhaps you should make them come true.”

Diana dropped her gaze to the tablecloth. “I doubt I’m ready to embark on such a course.” It was one thing to indulge in such imaginations, quite another to act upon them. She had never considered herself bold of spirit.

“Well.” Lucy dabbed her lips with her napkin. “It is your choice — but regardless, it’s high time you began going out in society again. Gracious, Diana, people will scarcely remember you if you keep yourself locked away.”

“In due time, Lucy.” Her friend was a master at manoeuvring people when she thought she knew what was best for them. Which was most of the time. “There’s Samantha to think of, and — well, I’m comfortable as I am.” Though she was markedly less content since a certain piano tutor had come into her well-ordered life.

“Comfortable?” Lucy lifted her nose in disdain. “That’s almost as bad as ‘goodwill’. You need more interesting words to fill your life. Passion, for one. And delight. And best of all—” her eyes sparked with mischief “—best of all, ravishment.”

“Lucy!” Diana clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle her giggles. “You’re outrageous!”

Her friend joined her laughter, oblivious to the disapproving looks of the nearby patrons. When their mirth finally subsided, Lucy assumed the commanding tones of Lady Pembroke.

“Call me what you please,” she said. “I only speak the truth. Regardless of your obvious fascination with the new piano tutor, you will come to the musicale I’m hosting on Tuesday. It will be a small gathering, nothing too overwhelming. I’ll expect you promptly at eight.”

“I—”

“Pray, do not disappoint me. If you don’t arrive promptly, I’ll dispatch my burliest footmen to fetch you.”

“Oh very well,” Diana said. There was no arguing with Lucy. “As long as there is no more talk of affairs and …” She could not even say the word “ravishment” aloud, though it echoed through her thoughts. “I’ll come to your musicale.” She made no promises, however, as to how late she would stay.

Her friend gave a nod of satisfaction, then consulted her dainty silver pocket watch, as if recalling something urgent. “Goodness, the time has flown! I’m nearly late for the modiste. Delightful to see you, Diana. Till Tuesday.” She brushed a kiss across Diana’s cheek, then hurried off, leaving Diana alone with her unsettled thoughts.

Their chat had left an edgy restlessness humming through her. Her carriage awaited outside, the driver ready to take her wherever she pleased. If only she knew where that might be.

Diana gathered her reticule and pelisse and left the shop. The air outside was pleasantly warm, and she turned her face up to the pale May sun. It was too lovely a day to waste in simply going back to Waverly House and going over menus with the cook.

She lingered, looking in the shop windows. A glorious fan painted with swans — she could nearly imagine herself with it at some ball, laughing and dancing. Or that bracelet set with sapphires, clasped about her wrist. It was frivolous, the gems sparkling beautifully in their settings. Still, she turned away from the window. No purchase could soothe her restiveness.

She had just resolved to return home when she caught sight of a certain broad-shouldered, brown-haired gentleman striding towards her. Sparks raced through her entire body. Mr Jameson! The loveliness of the day exploded into fiery brilliance.

He met her eyes, a smile spreading across his face as he made his way to her side. “Viscountess.” He doffed his top hat. “It’s a fine day. Would you care to join me for a stroll in St James’ Park?”

“That would be—” ill-advised, besotted as she had become with him “—delightful.”

He offered his arm and she tucked her hand through with no hesitation. She was keenly aware of the places their bodies touched, and it was difficult to resist the urge to lean too close.

They walked side by side down Bond Street to the park. The feel of his firmly muscled forearm was not disguised even through the layers of his coat and her glove, and she found it deliciously distracting. The rest of him seemed as toned and muscular as his arm. Diana shot him a sideways glance. His well-fitted breeches showed his thighs flexing taut with every step, and his stomach seemed perfectly flat beneath the blue silk of his waistcoat. Lucy’s words echoed through her. Passion. Delight.

The green trees of St James’ closed over them as they entered the long promenade. A lazy pond curved to one side, insects buzzing beside the water. The day was fine, the scene peaceful, but Diana felt unbalanced and strangely giddy.

There were so many questions she dare not ask. They scalded her tongue. She wanted to know everything about him, yet was afraid the answers would spoil the perfection of the day. Where are you from? Have you a wife? A mistress? She swallowed them unspoken.

“Do you enjoy teaching the piano?” she finally asked.

He nodded, his twilight eyes regarding her. “I’m finding a great deal of satisfaction in it. Miss Samantha is a quick study, and a fine musician. As are you, My Lady. Have you ever considered taking lessons on the piano?”

“Taking lessons myself?” She blinked up at him. “I have always simply sung, Mr Jameson. That is enough for me.”

“How do you know?” His hand covered hers. “You should try something new. You might find that you like it very well.” His smile held more than a little wickedness. Goodness! Was he suggesting …

Diana dropped her gaze, hoping her blush was hidden by the fashionable plumes in her bonnet. It seemed to be an afternoon for improper conversations.

With a sudden daring, she asked, “If I were to become your pupil, when might these tutorials occur? Before or after Samantha’s lessons?”

“Not on Wednesday.” His voice was warm honey, drizzling over her senses. “My instruction would require sufficient uninterrupted time. Perhaps Thursdays.”

“Surely your other pupils would object to the change of schedule.”

The pressure of his hand over hers increased. “It’s all a matter of priority.”

They were passing a weeping willow, the leaves tender and newly green, swaying lightly in the breeze. Diana took a deep breath of the soft air to steady herself.

“I would be your priority on Thursdays?”

He stopped and gave her an intent look. “You would be my priority every day.”

Oh, it was the purest flirtation, she knew it, but still her heartbeat stumbled in giddy joy. “Really, Mr Jameson—”

“Call me Nicholas.” He drew her off the pathway, beneath the sheltering canopy of the willow tree.

“Nicholas.” She half-whispered it, a bold exhilaration tingling through her. “Then you must call me Diana.”

Suddenly they were not tutor and lady any longer, but only man and woman. The air between them was alive with possibility, the spaces where bodies were, and were not. And could be.

Had she taken complete leave of her senses? She did not care. In one twist of an afternoon a gate had opened that she had thought closed for ever. A pathway back to herself. Not the young widow. Not the capable stepmother, but her, Diana, who had once been full of passionate dreams.

Her senses were sharpened by an almost unbearable anticipation. Everything was magnified — the light breeze, the scent of his bergamot cologne, the sound of water quietly lapping the shore. There was something excruciatingly wonderful about knowing she was about to be kissed. He leaned forwards, a smile dancing in his eyes, and she tilted her face up to him.

His mouth brushed hers, their lips meeting, parting, meeting again — like a musician sounding a note over and over, until it was perfect. She slid her hands up to his shoulders, learning the shape of his mouth against hers.

He increased the pressure of his lips. The smooth slide of his tongue against her lower lip made sparks scatter through her, and she willingly opened her mouth to him. Nicholas dipped his tongue inside. He tasted of tea and desire, and something inside her gave way, melting like late frost before the sun.

This was no debutante’s kiss. It carried the full knowledge of how a man and a woman fitted together. The plunge of his tongue into her mouth, her yielding softness — all this was part of the dance, a promise of deeper intimacies. She pressed herself closer to him, yearning spiralling out from her centre.

Nicholas Jameson was a wonderful kisser.

It was more than the way he fitted his lips so perfectly over hers, or the velvety warmth of his tongue. More than the feel of his hand curving around her shoulder, the brush of his thumb over her bare collarbone. His kiss flared through her entire body. She was aware of her toes, warm and content in her buttoned boots. Her legs, cased in silk stockings with ribbon garters above her knees. The soft cotton of her chemise where it lay against her skin. The fine silk of her drawers, heated at the juncture of her legs.

And she was aware of him. Wonderfully aware of the slight roughness of his jaw as he kissed her, the warm maleness of him as they leaned into one another, the smell of spring willows and fine wool, and arousal. His. Hers.

They kissed and kissed, and then it was over. Diana opened her eyes and smiled up at him, as though she had just woken from a perfect dream.

Diana set a smile across her face and nodded at the conversation flowing past. Oh, she should never have agreed to come to Lucy’s musicale. She had no heart for it. It had been too long — she did not know any of the current on dits and was relegated to standing awkwardly at the edges of the company.

Besides, how could she possibly be a witty conversationalist when all she could think of was Nicholas’ hands at her waist, drawing her into that intoxicating kiss?

With his talk of “piano lessons”, had he truly been suggesting that they become lovers? Her pulse sped at the thought. Her sleep had been restless, her skin too sensitive ever since that kiss. Even now the slide of her petticoats against her legs sent a shiver through her. What if Nicholas touched her there — and everywhere? How would it feel to embrace without the constraints of coat and skirts, to lie together skin to skin? Her throat went dry with longing at the thought.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” Lucy stood at the front of the room and clapped her hands together. “Please take your seats so the musicale may commence.”

Diana sidled to the end of the back row. Perhaps, once they put out the lights, she could make her escape. She did not think she could bear more awkward conversation during the intermission.

The featured performer of the evening was introduced — a young harpist who was the newest musical sensation. The room darkened, and Diana let out a breath of relief. Now she could lose herself in thoughts of Nicholas. She closed her eyes as the harpist plucked the first chord.

Someone took the seat next to her, startling her from her reverie. Cloth rustled, and then the familiar scent of bergamot cologne tickled her nose. Her eyes flew open and she turned, surprise jolting through her as she glimpsed the white gleam of Nicholas’ grin. It was as if her thoughts had summoned him.

He leaned close. “Good evening, Diana.” His breath was warm against her cheek.

“Nicholas — whatever are you doing here?”

His hand found hers in the dark, his clasp sure as he twined his naked fingers through her gloved ones. The intimacy of it made her gasp. Surely her heart was beating so loudly that everyone could hear.

“Come,” he said.

A glissando of harp notes shivered through her. What were his plans for her? What if he had no plans?

She would never know unless she went with him into the wicked shadows. For a moment fear held her in her seat. She could not, she could not … Then he tugged gently at her hand and desire rose up in a wave and lifted her to her feet.

Nicholas drew her out of the darkened drawing room. The lamps in the hallway shed a beckoning light, their flames echoing the excitement flickering through her. No one was there to mark their illicit departure. He led her down the hall and up a short flight of stairs, the music growing fainter behind them. Without pause, he opened a door and ushered her through.

They were in the library. Lamplight glinted on gold-lettered spines and she breathed in the scent of books and leather. And Nicholas. He closed the door, shutting out the last lilting notes. When he turned back to her his expression was intent, his grey eyes lit with desire. For her.

Diana caught her breath, heat blossoming inside her.

Without a word, he strode forwards and took her in his arms. Her breasts pressed against his silver-embroidered waistcoat — softness against hardness, woman against man. Her breath swept between her lips, flavoured with passion. When he bent his head, she eagerly opened her mouth.

It was as delicious as she had remembered. His tongue played against hers, sweet and hot, and she felt her fears dissolve into acceptance. A low, insistent pulse began within her, as if she were an instrument responding to his touch.

She slid her hands to his shoulders, then dropped them in frustration to tug urgently at the fingertips of her gloves. She needed to feel his bare skin beneath her palms, the planes of his cheek and jaw, the softness of his dark hair tangled between her fingers.

He helped her strip the gloves off, as hungry as she. For a moment he held them dangling in his hand and gave her a penetrating look.

She stepped forwards and kissed him. By heaven, she had made her choice, and she was going to embrace it with all the long-banked fire in her soul. She tasted his laughter, and then his arms came around her and the kiss deepened.

So sweet and fierce. Embers flickered to flame, scorched to need. His palms smoothed the emerald satin of her gown and she leaned into his touch. There was no doubt he found her desirable — his body proved it, the hardness of him pressing against her centre. He bunched her skirts in his hands, drew them up, cool air caressing her legs.

Wordlessly, she stepped back and let him pull her gown off. Her chemise tangled in her arms and then it, too, was gone. She stood before him, naked but for her undergarments. It was outrageous, and wonderful.

“So beautiful,” he said, his eyes alight with hunger.

He stroked his hands up her sides, then covered her breasts. She sucked in a sharp breath. Little fires quivered beneath his palms, and she could feel her nipples tauten under his touch. She arched into his hands, threw her head back, and sighed. What a picture she must make, wearing only her stockings and drawers, wanton and sensual under the hands of this darkly handsome gentleman.

But he was wearing too much clothing. Her hands went to his cravat, making quick work of the elegant knot. Next, the buttons of his waistcoat, his fine linen shirt. She tugged the fabric free of his breeches and, hands trembling, pushed his shirt open. His chest was firmly muscled; a light dusting of hair tickled her fingertips as she stroked his skin.

He made a sound of longing, then pulled her to him, his chest hot and hard against hers. It was as delicious as she had imagined. Another blazing kiss, and then he stepped back. She helped him pull off his coat and shirt, then he pushed his boots off and removed his breeches.

Diana peeked between her lashes, curious and eager, then caught her breath at the sight of him. He was erect and strong, and she felt suddenly powerful, to bring him to such a rampant state.

Henry had always insisted on taking his husbandly prerogatives with the lights off, the two of them securely between the sheets. He had never made her feel like this, had never openly admired her, or told her she was beautiful. It had been pleasant enough, their marital relations, but nothing like the fire that now seared through her.

And that fire was nothing compared to the sensation that engulfed her when Nicholas took her in his arms and dipped his hand between her legs. This tempest of want scorching her to her soul — this was new. This was passion.

“Ah!” she cried as his fingers stroked and played beneath her drawers. She gripped the strong sinews of his arms — she was going to fly to bits if she did not hold tightly to him.

Nicholas withdrew his hand and she moaned in protest. With a devilish smile, he stripped off her drawers, then manoeuvred her backwards until her legs bumped the settee. They tumbled down together on to the gold velvet cushions and he braced himself over her, setting his member where his fingers had been. Slowly, inexorably, he pressed forwards, opening her. Their gazes locked as their bodies fitted together, imperfectly at first. Then easier as he slid back, and forwards again.

“Yes,” she breathed.

It was lovely and heated and, oh, she couldn’t bear how deliberately Nicholas moved in her. She caught at his shoulders and tilted her hips up, urging him to stroke deeper, faster. His breath hitched as he quickened his pace, the pulse at the side of his neck beating urgently.

More. Yes, and more, until the pressure she felt coiling inside her finally released, exploded like an errant firework to spangle her senses with light and colour.

He let out a muffled shout and pulled free, spilling himself on the fine linen of his shirt. Sweat gleamed on his arms, his chest.

She let out a sigh of pleasure, her body sated, her whole being utterly, perfectly content. She brushed her fingers through his silky hair. Nicholas Jameson — masterful and tender, patient and passionate. The door to her heart swung open.

A smile illuminated his face and he brought one hand up to cup her cheek. “Now that, my Diana, was splendid indeed.”

It was Wednesday.

Diana sat in the music room, waiting for the sound of the knocker to reverberate through the entry. Nicholas would be here at any moment. Anticipation fluttered all the way down to her toes.

Samantha played another run of notes, then glanced at the clock. “Perhaps Mr Jameson has forgotten,” she said. “He has not developed the habit of coming to Waverly House.”

“Nonsense. He’s been our piano tutor for weeks now.” Diana infused her voice with certainty. “He has only been delayed twenty minutes. There could be any number of reasons for it.”

“Perhaps he has been crushed by a carriage, or—”

“Samantha, enough! I’m certain Mr Jameson will be here momentarily.”

After the lesson, she would ask him to stay for tea. She would ask him everything, and have no fear of the answers.

He had brought music and light into Waverly House. He had coaxed her from behind her comfortable boundaries and shown her what true passion was. Every day from now on would be richer because of it. She would be richer. The memory of his touches, his words, flared through her. She had never felt so beautiful.

“It’s half past the hour.” Samantha sounded glum. “He’s not coming.”

Diana bit her lip. Where was he? Anticipation curdled into apprehension. “Practise a bit more, dear. I’ll go check with the butler.” Though of course he would have shown Mr Jameson straight in.

The heels of her boots clicked across the marble floor of the entryway. When she pulled the heavy front door open, the butler raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

The street outside was quiet. No handsome grey-eyed man striding up to her door, no cabs to be seen the entire length of the block. She stood on the threshold for several minutes, the distant clamour of London washing past her, but the street remained empty.

The butler cleared his throat, and she slowly shut the door. Head high, she re-entered the parlour.

Samantha’s expression lit. “Is he …?”

“No. Not yet.” She couldn’t help but glance at the clock. The entire hour had run. Did she mean nothing to him? An ugly sob rose in her throat.

“Mama?” Samantha sent her a concerned glance.

Diana swallowed. “I suppose something important has detained him. You may go.” She blinked rapidly against the sting of tears.

Samantha gave her a hug, then slipped out of the room. Diana bowed her head. Had she been such a fool to listen to Lucy? It had not felt that way at the time. But it seemed she had made a dreadful mistake.

She had practically seduced him. The piano tutor. He must be too embarrassed to face her, here with her stepdaughter, after what had been between them. He must despise her, think her a woman of exceedingly loose morals, to take such base liberties with her employee.

Yet he was far more to her than that. Her heart ached with lost possibilities.

They had, neither of them, promised more than a single hour of unbridled desire. Their banter about tutoring had hardly been talk of courtship, of love. If her actions had been spurred by deeper feelings, as she must now admit, what had she been to him? Only a willing female — one whom he evidently had no more use for.

She knew nothing about him. Nothing except that he made her feel more alive, more daring than anyone she had ever met. And now it was ended.

She could not bear the thought.

The servants at Lucy’s mansion knew Diana well enough to admit her without hesitation.

“Is Lady Pembroke in?” she asked.

“She is, madam,” Lucy’s butler said. “She is taking the air in the garden. Shall I escort you?”

“That won’t be necessary.” If, as she feared, she was going to burst into tears the moment she saw her friend, she would prefer to do so unobserved.

“As you wish.” The butler bowed her towards the French doors overlooking Lucy’s grounds.

Diana stepped out and took a deep breath of the late-spring air. Lucy would know what to do. A woman of her experience surely knew all about broken hearts.

Rounding the yew hedge, Diana heard voices. Lucy’s. And a man’s, painfully familiar. Sudden fear knifing through her, she crept forwards.

“Damn it, Lucy, I have to tell her.” Nicholas’ voice was strained. “It’s gone too far. She deserves to know the truth.”

“She’s not ready.” Lucy sounded resolute. “Think up some excuse — tell her you were unavoidably detained. But don’t tell her what you and I have been up to.”

Ice swept over Diana, comprehension settling cold and dreadful against her bones. Lucy’s talk of handsome piano tutors. Nicholas, here in her garden, using Lucy’s given name so intimately. His presence at the musicale last night, his familiarity with Lucy’s house …

Anger flared through her. The scoundrel! To use her so, when all along he had been Lucy’s lover. What a contemptible rake, to seduce her — here of all places.

She swept out from behind the hedge. “Unavoidably detained?” She raked her gaze over Nicholas. His eyes widened and he took a step towards her.

Lucy grabbed at his arm. “Diana. We were just speaking of you—”

“Yes,” she said. The word was coated in frost. “And what exactly were the two of you doing while my employee was supposed to be giving a piano lesson?”

Nicholas shook himself free of Lucy’s grasp. “Let me explain—”

“You should have explained before the musicale.” Her voice caught, snagged on memory. “But it seemed you had other priorities. Perhaps you had forgotten you had a music lesson to teach while you were ‘unavoidably detained’. You’ve behaved most unprofessionally, sir.” She fought to speak against the tightness in her throat. Nicholas reached for her and she pulled away. “I no longer need your services, Mr Jameson. You are fired.”

Hot tears blurring her vision, she turned and ran. Dimly she heard Nicholas calling after her, Lucy remonstrating, but she did not pause. She rushed back to her carriage and flung herself inside, slamming the door before the footman could even approach.

It was far worse than she had suspected. And still a part of her had wanted to stay, to listen to his pleas. She was so unbearably weak. As the wheels rattled over the cobblestones, she dropped her head into her hands and abandoned herself to grief.

“Mama?” Samantha pushed open the parlour door. “Are you ill? I had cook make you some chocolate.”

She entered the room, carefully balancing a tray holding the silver chocolate pot and two cups. Diana mustered a smile for her stepdaughter and hoped her eyes were not too red from weeping.

“Thank you, dear. I am not unwell, just a bit tired.” Did heartsickness count as an illness? She did not think so. “Come, sit by me.” She patted the settee.

Samantha set the tray down and curled up close. Diana put her arm around the girl’s shoulders and gave them a squeeze — the re assurance as much for herself as for her stepdaughter.

“I have some unhappy news for you.” She heaved a breath. “Mr Jameson will not be returning as your piano tutor.”

“Oh.” The girl’s shoulders slumped. “That is too bad. He was ever so charming, and smelled much better than Mr Bent.”

Diana smiled — it was the only way to keep the tears from welling up again. “That he did.” She leaned over and rested her head against Samantha’s. All brightness was not gone from her life, no matter how dreary the day might feel.

“My Lady.” The butler bowed at the parlour door. “Forgive me for interrupting. You have a caller. Are you at home?”

She straightened. Nicholas wouldn’t dare — not if he had a shred of sense. It had to be Lucy. One way or another, she would have to face her friend.

“Yes, I am receiving.”

“Very good.” He extended the silver salver, a vellum card centred on it. “Shall I show him in?”

“Him?” Her lips pressed tightly together, she took the card. If it was Mr Jameson … “The Marquess of Somerton?” She stared at the unfamiliar name. “I don’t believe I know any such person. Please tell the gentleman I am not taking visitors today.” Particularly uninvited ones. She could not face another stranger in her house.

“Very good.” The butler departed.

“Thank you for the chocolate, Samantha.” Diana gave her stepdaughter another quick embrace. Really, she ought to bestir herself. There was no use sitting in the parlour when it held such memories of Nicholas.

“I’m glad it helped. Chocolate often does.” The girl jumped up and gathered the cups and tray, then paused and kissed Diana’s cheek before bustling out the door.

Voices filtered from the hallway, and then the butler was back.

“I am sorry, My Lady, but the Marquess insists he will see you. He vowed to toss me into the street if I stood in his way.”

Diana rose, then nearly folded back down on the settee when she saw who had followed the butler in.

Nicholas. The breath squeezed from her lungs while a wild, giddy clamour started up in her blood.

“Please go,” she breathed. No matter how much she wanted to remain unmoved, the expression in his familiar grey eyes nearly undid her.

He was carrying an exuberant bouquet of roses, which he handed to the butler. “See to these.”

Clever man — if he had given her the flowers, she would have flung them back in his face. As soon as the butler departed, she turned on Nicholas. Piano tutor, marquess, whoever he claimed to be today. “How dare you?” Her ribs felt as though a band of silk were wrapped around them, pulled too tight. “To think, what we did under Lucy’s very roof! And then you come here, bullying my servants, and—”

“Diana.” He closed the distance between them and took her by the shoulders. Fool that she was, she could not move away from his touch. “I don’t think my cousin begrudges the use of her library. She has done far worse in my best carriage, with never a word of apology.”

“Your … your cousin?” She blinked up at him, her heart catching with a wild, irrational hope. “Lady Pembroke is your cousin?”

“Yes.” A mischievous light sparked in his eyes. “Lucy. My meddling plague of a cousin. The one who bribed Mr Bent to take an extended holiday, then suggested I pose as a piano tutor and tempt you out of hiding.” He shook his head. “But it didn’t work.”

“No?” She had been tempted, all too easily. Even now she felt breathless.

He smiled at her, rueful and amused all at once. “My plan was to slowly draw you out. To, as Lucy put it, ‘help ease you from your widowhood’. But falling in love with you made things bloody awkward.”

Falling in love? Happy tears tingled at the back of her eyes. The Marquess of Somerton? “But … you make an excellent piano tutor.”

His hands tightened on her shoulders and he drew her forwards. “I assure you, I make a far better suitor.”

She went willingly, lifting her face to his kiss. A kiss that swirled her senses, even as it anchored her fully to herself. A kiss full of passion. Delight. Life.

Stolen

Emma Wildes

One

As a partner in crime, Stephen Hammond was an abysmal failure so far.

Lady Sabrina Pearson shot the man crouched next to her a withering look. “Can’t you do this faster?”

He muttered something unintelligible in response, which she had a feeling was not meant for her innocent ears, and his long fingers worked the metal picklock in the door.

Five minutes later, still no success.

“Stephen — ”

“It isn’t as blasted easy as it looks, Sabrina.” He hissed the words and almost the minute he spoke there was a clean, smooth click that signalled success. With a graceful, mocking bow, he opened the door for her. “I wish you joy in your burglary, My Lady.”

Dignifying that ironic tone was beneath her, so she swept past him into Lord Bloomfield’s study, adjusting her lantern so it illuminated the space better. The room was cluttered and smelled of stale tobacco smoke, spilled claret and musty books she doubted the man had ever read.

Bloomfield was an academic buffoon, a charlatan of the worst order, and without the papers and notes, he would be exposed as such. His Lordship had stolen her father’s life’s work and she intended to get it back. It was her only legacy and, since Bloomfield claimed the papers had been lost during a fire at their last encampment in Egypt after her father’s death, he could hardly charge her with the theft, even if he knew who had broken in and taken them.

It was really, in her opinion, a brilliant plan. It hadn’t been quite so easy to convince Stephen to help her, but in the end, he’d grudgingly agreed. Now all she had to do was find where the papers were stashed.

“See if the desk has any locked drawers,” she suggested, keeping her voice low. “If it does, go to work on them, please.”

“Whatever Your thieving Ladyship desires,” he murmured in a mocking tone, but did go over and begin to examine the desk. In the dim lamplight, his dark hair looked dishevelled, and a wavy lock fell over his brow as he frowned in concentration. Sabrina, in turn, roamed around the room, scouring the shelves for any hiding place, taking out books, even lifting a painting off the wall to see if there might be a cubbyhole behind it.

“The bottom left drawer is locked.” Stephen’s voice held an audible sigh. “I’ll do my best, but I think this is all confirmation that I should hold to my chosen profession as a solicitor and help uphold the law rather than break it.”

“It isn’t theft to take what should be yours,” Sabrina pointed out.

“Rationalization has its place. I suppose this is one of those occasions.” He bent down and went to work on the drawer. The scrape of the picklock came clearly, the little clicks loud in the otherwise quiet, shrouded room.

If we are caught …

No, they wouldn’t be, Sabrina assured herself, replacing a small statue of Isis on the mantel. It was a huge house, all the servants were abed, His Lordship had left for London that morning, and this was the perfect time to regain the documents.

It felt like an hour but was probably only a few minutes before Stephen said, “There it goes. I’ve got it open. You’d best come over here. I am not as confident of recognizing what we’re looking for. Is this it?”

She crossed the room, handing him the lantern, excitement making her heart beat rapidly. In the bottom of the drawer was a leather pouch, and, sure enough, as she lifted it out with shaking hands, her father’s initials were engraved on the front of it.

How many times had she watched him tuck away a bit of vellum into that pouch? How many times had he turned to her, his quick, affable smile curving his lips, his face alight as he talked of the latest discovery?

Tears blurred her eyes and she had to clear her throat as she untied the leather strings that kept it closed and saw his familiar scrawl across the papers inside. “This is it. I knew his notes were here.”

Stephen touched her shoulder. It was light, just a brush of his fingers, but it was comforting. “Even if this is the most reckless thing I can remember doing since you talked me into trying to fly by jumping out of the top of one the tallest trees on your father’s estate, I’m glad we came. However, in the interest of prudence, I think we shouldn’t linger. An undetected escape would make me feel much better than the broken leg I suffered after the misbegotten flying attempt.”

Sabrina gave a muffled laugh. “I felt awful. If you remember, I was most contrite and came over every day with sweets I wheedled from our cook while you recovered. I’m surprised you didn’t emerge from that injury as fat as a piglet.”

“Yes, well, let’s reminisce over our childhood escapades later, shall we? I think we should just go out the window. Either way, His Lordship is going to know he’s been robbed. Going back through the house carries more risk.”

He was undoubtedly right. Stephen was always right. It was infuriating at times, actually. She was the impulsive one; he was the steady logical antithesis of her personality. Where she had dreams … Stephen had plans.

She followed him to the window. He unfastened and lifted it, a tall, lean form in the dim light. He looked outside and then eased over the sill to drop into the dying autumn garden below. As she sat and swung her legs over, he turned to catch her, the leather case clutched in her arms. Stephen quickly lowered her to the ground. Her hand firmly grasped in his, he practically dragged her across the lawn of the park to the edge of the wooded area where they’d left their horses. In a swift motion he lifted her into the saddle of her mare, swung on to his own horse, and they walked at first back towards the road, where they urged their mounts to a trot. It was a clear evening, but cool, a hint of chimney smoke in the air and a scattering of stars above in the velvet sky.

“There’s an inn a few miles on.” Stephen glanced over, his face chiselled to planes and hollows in the indistinct illumination. “Bloomfield is in London and so it isn’t as if we have to avoid heated pursuit. At a guess, no one will know anything is amiss until his return. Even then he can’t really raise a hue and cry over what he supposedly never had in the first place.”

For a man who had been firmly opposed to her plan and had to be coerced into helping, he certainly sounded smug now that the deed was done and the mission successful. Sabrina arched a brow. “True. It’s rather a perfect crime in my opinion.”

“Humph. No such thing,” Stephen argued, all smugness fading from his voice. “We have the advantage of his lack of desire to make a scandal over this, but on the other hand, he is going to know for certain who invaded his house to take those notes and letters, Sabrina. There still could be retaliation, as this will ruin his career. He’s already proven himself to be underhanded. Let’s not underestimate him.”

She didn’t. There was no question her father’s former partner was greedy, manipulative and wily.

But she’d won, she thought in elation as they spotted the lights of the inn down the darkened road. She’d won.

He was a blackguard. A knave. A lustful fool.

Stephen Hammond opened the door to the small room at the top of the stairs and motioned his companion inside.

If you seduce her, you’ll forever know you got what you wanted through coercion. Shouldn’t it be fairly won? The annoyingly chivalrous voice in his head, one he’d heard too many time before, spoke in strident tones.

Damn that voice.

Sabrina walked in a few steps, her cheeks looking suspiciously flushed, her eyes holding an accusing look. “You told the innkeeper we were married.”

So he had. Step one in his diabolical plan. Except really he hadn’t had a plan at all until she’d come to his office in London a few days ago and asked him to help her on tonight’s ridiculous quest, so maybe that excused him at least a little bit. He’d even argued before capitulating and agreeing to take her to Surrey on their nefarious mission. It wasn’t really a surprise he’d given in, because by his recollection he’d never been able to deny her anything his whole life.

And now they were here. Alone.

“I had to,” he said smoothly, “if we are going to share a room.”

A single lamp was lit and shone on her pale, blonde hair. Her face, the features delicate and feminine, drew into a frown. “Good heavens, Stephen, I would be fine by myself. There’s no need for you to watch over me like a mother hen. I’m two and twenty, not some schoolroom miss. This way, there’s only one bed.”

Exactly.

“You’ll have to sleep in a chair or on the floor,” she continued.

Like bloody hell I will.

“There weren’t any other accommodations,” he lied, committing what was the second sin of the evening but hopefully not the last.

“Oh.” She looked uncertainly around the plain interior of the little room as if she could conjure another bed miraculously out of thin air. “I see. I suppose it is late and we don’t have much choice. I daresay riding on at this time of night would hardly be safe.”

“Ah, do I see the aberrant head of practicality rearing?” He strolled casually — or at least he hoped it looked casual, for in fact he was about as nervous as he’d ever been in his life — towards the fireplace and tugged at his cravat, discarding it over the back of a worn chair. “How remarkable. I’ve long maintained you were born without the inclination.”

“Don’t tease me,” she said with a laugh. “I refuse to be baited. Please admit this evening turned out perfectly.”

Perfectly? Well, not yet, but he had hopes it would. “We didn’t get caught,” he admitted, “but it isn’t like we are free and clear either. When we are back in London, I’ll feel better.”

Sabrina sank gracefully down on the edge of the bed. She wore a fitted dark-blue riding habit that exactly matched her eyes, and tendrils of curling golden hair had escaped her chignon and framed her lovely face. “I owe you a great debt.”

“No, you don’t.” It came out clipped. Whatever happened between them this evening, he didn’t want to look at it that way, as if she was just grateful. He wanted her warm, willing, swept away …

The trouble was that he wasn’t the type of man who swept women away. Yes, he had his share of experience with the other gender, but he wasn’t rakish, wasn’t dashing or notorious. Instead he was the third son of a baron who had to work for a living because his family fortunes were modest at best. He’d known Sabrina since childhood because he was just three years older and they had grown up as neighbours, but he really wasn’t suitable for the daughter of an illustrious earl. Lord Reed had enjoyed a reputation for academic achievement and a sizeable fortune. At his death, his daughter had become an heiress and independent, not that Sabrina had ever been anything but independent since the day she could walk.

Still, he loved her. Surely it should count for something.

In his life, it was everything.

“No, it’s true.” She sighed. “I might have told myself I could do this without you, but I’m not sure I would have.”

“Sabrina, surely you know always I’d help you. There is certainly not a chance I’d allow you to attempt tonight’s folly on your own.”

Her sudden smile was on the mischievous side, lighting her face. “I rather counted on that. I think if you will cast back to our conversation in your office last week, I might have slightly — just marginally, mind you — intimated that I would do this even if you didn’t come along. I suppose that could constitute as blackmail.”

“You suppose right.” Stephen began to unbutton his shirt.

“Of the most innocent sort,” she said defensively, her eyes following the motion of his hands, a tinge of incredulity entering her expression as if she just realized what he was doing. She stammered, “You … you are my best friend. Of course I’d ask you for help.”

“Of course,” he echoed, slipping the last shirt button free and tugging the hem of the garment from his breeches.

Her tone was faint now, her eyes wide. “Stephen! You are undressing.”

“As I’m your best friend, then you won’t mind if I don’t sleep on the floor.” He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders and sat down to take off his boots. “It occurs to me we’ve slept together before. What’s one more night?”

Would he burn in hell for that one? Maybe.

In a choked voice, Sabrina protested, “When we were very young children. I don’t think this is proper.”

“Didn’t we just break into a man’s house and rifle his study? Please excuse me if I point out with all due logic that we are so past proper it makes me wonder at the meaning of the word.” He lay down on the bed and theatrically clasped his hands behind his head. The seeming nonchalance was undoubtedly belied by the telltale growing bulge in his breeches. Just the thought of lying next to her all night had a predictable effect on his libido. It was the curse of being male, for there was simply no hiding sexual arousal.

Maybe she was too innocent to realize it.

Only he was mistaken there. Her gaze narrowed in on that hardening part of his anatomy and he heard her take in a sharp breath.

Two

Her palms were damp, her breath fluttering in her throat. Sabrina stared at the half-naked man on the bed and felt as if he were suddenly a stranger. Oh, the familiar features of his face were the same: the clean masculine line of nose and jaw, the cheekbones and forehead and, of course, always, always those clear grey eyes under the arch of ebony brows. Stephen had a way of looking right through you if he wished, and his moods were clearly reflected in his striking eyes.

The way he gazed at her now was not something she recognized and she’d known him her entire life.

She was not completely naïve. Even after her father’s death, she had travelled fairly extensively: Italy, Greece, India, and several times to his beloved Egypt. Her Aunt Beatrice had been a perfect companion, proper but not stuffy, intellectually curious and equally eager to drink in the antiquities and history of each place. Instead of a London season, Sabrina had visited the catacombs, seen pyramids and ridden donkeys up steep mountain trails. Not all cultures were as proper as the English and during the course of such travels she had seen some indelicate things.

She did her best to not look at the juncture of his legs, for there did seem to be an indelicate bulge there.

“I …” she began to say but trailed off.

“You?” he prompted after a moment, one brow lifted quizzically. His chest was muscular and defined as he clasped his hands behind his head and lay there in a relaxed pose. At the moment, he didn’t in the least resemble the staid, respectable solicitor she had visited in London just a few days ago. Nor was he the boy she remembered so well, so much a part of her life she’d simply taken him for granted.

He was a man.

And she was supposed to share this small room — and apparently that small bed — with him.

All night long.

“I forgot what I was going to say,” Sabrina confessed. “I must admit it didn’t occur to me we would have to stay overnight someplace. I suppose we might have planned better.”

“Being novices at the art of burglary, I think we can be forgiven for the oversight.” Stephen’s gaze was intense, watchful. “But you are right, we are here now. Together.”

Together.

Why had she never noticed how handsome he was? she wondered frantically. Oh, she supposed she had seen that from the gawky boy she’d known as a child had emerged a very nice-looking man, but she really hadn’t ever thought about it. He’d gone to university, she’d embarked on her journeys with Aunt Beatrice while he was still at Cambridge, and they hadn’t seen each other nearly so much in the past few years. She spent the holidays with his family though, as a rule, and they just seemed to naturally pick up their friendship where they’d left it, without any awkwardness at all.

Until now. This was deuced awkward because she had no idea what to do or even say.

“Stephen.”

“Yes?” A faint smile curved his mouth. Unfortunately, it made him look even more attractive.

Stephen. Attractive. She was attracted to Stephen. It took a moment to assimilate.

She blurted out, “I will be ruined if anyone finds out I spent the night with you.” It was a desperate stab at trying to sound calm and practical.

“My dear Sabrina, you will be ruined if anyone finds out about anything we’ve done — or not done yet — this evening. Let’s be practical, you have jumped into possible scandal with both feet. I believe I pointed that out when you suggested this outrageous scheme back in London. You insisted we go ahead with it. For that matter, it will not do my career much good if our activities are discovered either.” She really hadn’t thought of that. He had to make his own living, for the Hammond family fortunes weren’t solid enough for inheritances for the younger sons.

“It was selfish of me to ask you to help me,” she said, stricken.

“Not at all. Let’s keep in mind I am a grown man and if I wished to refuse, it was an option all along. Maybe we are both reckless at heart or at least when we are together. Shall we continue the trend?”

“What do you mean?” she mumbled, though she had a feeling she knew exactly what he meant.

… or not done yet …

A blush swept upwards, the heat climbing up her neck and scalding her cheeks. She stared at him.

He looked back and didn’t explain.

Really, there was no need. What was about to happen — yes, about to happen, for she found to her amazement she’d already made up her mind — would change her life and yet she found the decision to be easy; effortless even. Part of it was, as she had gotten older, she found her curiosity about the sexual experience had grown. However, a woman — especially the daughter of an earl — usually needed to marry to discover the answer. This was a rare opportunity. If she had thought of it, she might have propositioned Stephen herself. He was the one man who wouldn’t force her into matrimony if she didn’t wish it. Neither was he after the fortune her father had left her.

Why hadn’t this occurred to her? If she wanted to discover for herself one of life’s most basic secrets, Stephen would be perfect.

A certain exhilaration spiked through her, making her catch her breath.

“Do you remember when I learned to swim?” she asked, her voice sounding off-key, even to her. “I wanted to so much. You and your brothers looked like you had such great fun jumping in the river whenever you wanted while I had to sit on the bank and just watch. You coaxed me just to try it.”

Stephen nodded. His eyes had gone from steel grey to stormy skies.

“I believe I said I wasn’t frightened.” Sabrina started to unfasten her jacket. “I lied, you know.”

“I know. I knew then you were at least a little frightened. Don’t you remember how I was right there, ready to help if you needed it?”

Sabrina was surprised she could even still breathe. Her heart pounded and she seemed to have forgotten how to unfasten buttons. “You were a good teacher.”

“I’m not ten now either, I’m twenty-five.” The words were said softly. “I’d like to think my instructional skills have improved.”

Good heavens, she was really going to do this. Sabrina dropped her jacket on the floor, then she sat down, removed her half-boots and stockings before standing to unfasten her skirt with shaking hands. It slid off her hips, and she went to work on her blouse. In moments all she wore was a flimsy chemise.

Stephen watched her disrobe, his lashes slightly lowered. When she finished — when she stood there doing her best to not visibly tremble — he extended a hand. “Join me.”

It was symbolic. Join me. The inference was, of course, he wished to join with her in the oldest way a woman and man could be joined.

Sabrina walked the few paces to the bed and placed her hand in his. Long strong fingers closed over hers and the matter was settled.

This moment, the one he’d fantasized over countless times, was like a dream. Maybe, Stephen thought, his breathing was too shallow to supply the right amount of air to his brain so he was hallucinating. Maybe his heart jerking in erratic bursts in his chest made him lightheaded. Maybe all the blood in his body was concentrated in his growing erection and he hadn’t any left circulating in his veins.

All he knew was Sabrina was more alluring than even in his very vivid, colourful imagination — a vision of soft curves, pale skin and loosened gold curls that tumbled over her slim shoulders and down her back. The girl he’d known was a shadow compared to the glory of the woman. Soft rose lips were parted just slightly, and full breasts lifted the lacy material of her shift in quick repetitive motion. Her eyes, the colour of an azure summer sky, were framed in long, lush lashes.

Once, long ago, he’d kissed her. He’d been about eleven, he remembered, both of them curious. After the brief touch of their lips, she’d declared herself unimpressed.

It was time to change her mind.

Stephen tugged her closer and caught her slender body in his arms, shifting so he could lower her to the mattress. Her slight gasp drifted in the air as he covered her, and the descent of his mouth to capture her lips stopped any other sound.

It was a hungry kiss, despite his determination to go slow and not rush things. He feasted like a starved man, tasting, savouring, the pent-up longing of the past merging with the present. The indulgence went on until his muscles felt knotted and tight, and his arousal strained against his breeches with uncomfortable urgency.

“I want you,” he murmured against her lips. “I need you.”

“I can tell.” Sabrina’s laugh was a muffled sound, sweet like a sigh. If she was afraid, it didn’t show.

Her arms, he realized with triumph, were twined around his neck and her hips cradled him perfectly. “You’re a virgin?”

The hint of question in his voice wasn’t an insult to her honour, but he just wasn’t sure if she was. She’d travelled widely, she had shown no inclination to look for a husband and, the truth was, if she didn’t want one, she didn’t need to get married. Her father had left her a fortune, and with it came the freedom of choice. As a young, beautiful heiress, she would be a premium on the marriage mart, but so far her interest hadn’t been evident. Stephen knew full well she had an independent spirit.

He didn’t want to conquer it. That quality was one of the things he loved the most about her. The light in her eyes when she contemplated a new idea, the mischievous edge to her personality, the innate sentimental loyalty that made her unique and set her apart from the young women he knew.

“Yes.”

The shy, breathless admission made him relax a fraction. The jealousy he felt for the lover she’d never had evaporated. He wasn’t even aware he harboured the feeling so intensely until that moment.

He nuzzled the sensitive spot under her ear. “I hoped.”

“You doubted?” There was prim censure in her tone.

He laughed, blowing his breath across her fragrant skin. “Can I say I have always recognized your disdain for a guiding hand?”

“True.” Sabrina touched his cheek, turned his face and looked into his eyes. “What are we doing?”

“I want to make love to you,” he said in a constricted voice.

“And here Aunt Beatrice thinks you are such a good influence on me.”

“When we were younger, we did her the favour of keeping her in the dark over some of our daring childhood pursuits that would have given her the vapours.” He kissed her neck. “We could be just as kind over this matter.”

“Good suggestion.” Exploring fingers ran over the muscles of his back, sending tingles like licks of flame up his spine. Her voice husky, Sabrina said, “You are ever the voice of reason. She never has to know.”

“And you ever embrace an adventure.” He eased the ribbon on the bodice of her chemise free. “I will do my best to make this an exciting one for you. Can I interest you in a trip to paradise?”

“Is it really?” Her eyes widened.

Now then, he’d just issued himself a challenge, hadn’t he? Stephen admired the shadow between her breasts as he parted the delicate lace of her chemise and tugged the garment downwards. Her breasts were perfect: firm, high and full enough to fill his palm. He cupped her and, with his thumb, caressed a rosy nipple. Sabrina gave a very satisfying gasp.

“You may let me know if you agree afterwards.” The whisper was said against her skin as he slid his mouth downwards, tracing the graceful curve of her throat, across her collarbone, and lower, until he kissed silky mounded flesh and kneaded the opposite breast in a gentle rhythm. The small arch of her spine as he suckled the delicious taut crest told him volumes.

“Oh, Stephen.” Sabrina’s hands caught his arms, holding tight. “Should you do that?”

“We can do whatever we want,” he murmured, lightly licking her nipple, pleased to see how tight and budded it became under his ministrations. “In a world full of rules and censure, what we do in private is only between us.”

“I … I …”

Whatever she was going to say was lost as he pulled her chemise lower, over the subtle flare of her hips and length of her legs, exposing all of her to his hungry gaze as he tossed it on the floor. Outside the moon was high enough to send slivers of light through the small casement window and illuminated each curve, each seductive hollow, the shadowed apex between her slim thighs graced by dark gold curls. With a reverent touch, he skimmed his fingertips down her belly, feeling the reaction in the muscles, seeking that tantalizing juncture. “You what?” Stephen asked as he found warmth and sleek dampness.

Supine, gloriously nude, Sabrina was the very essence of his dreams, so desirable he couldn’t ever imagine how fate had schemed for this night to finally happen. He was actually grateful to the nefarious Bloomfield.

Now, to make this an event she would never forget.

“You were saying?” he teased, his brows lifted, watching her face as he put just the slightest pressure on just the right spot, braced on one elbow, his hand stroking between her legs.

Sabrina made an interesting sound in her throat, and her thighs, which had been pressed together in maidenly modesty at his intimate touch, fell apart a little. “That feels … oh.”

“Perfect,” he supplied softly. “You feel perfect.”

He watched her face as he began to bring her to climax, the heightening colour as it spread across her cheekbones, the droop of her lashes as she began to get lost in the building sensation, the way her lips parted to let out small delicious moans. When it happened, she cried out and trembled, her eyes flying open in surprise so he could see both her passion and stunned wonder.

When he stood up and started to unfasten his breeches, he couldn’t help but give a masculine grin at the dazed look on her lovely face. It wasn’t often he saw Sabrina at a loss for words, but she did appear tongue-tied, especially as he freed his erection. She stared at the hard length against his stomach. In the aftermath of her first sexual culmination, she was all lush feminine enticement as she lay there, nude and flushed, and then — though he knew it wasn’t deliberate — she wet her lips.

It almost undid him, then and there.

Stephen took in a shuddering breath, found control, and said hoarsely, “Did I mention paradise was even better together? Let me show you.”

She wasn’t sure what the man had just done to her, but Stephen had told her the absolute truth. Just as he had promised years ago that swimming was not hard once you relaxed and trusted the buoyancy of the water, and that if she practised the pianoforte with a joy for the music, not as a chore, she would become more proficient, he was right yet again. The exquisite pleasure she had just experienced was a revelation, and though she supposed she should be frightened, or at least nervous, she just wasn’t because whatever happened next, he would take care of her.

“Are you typical?” she couldn’t help but ask, always inquisitive and especially so at this moment. The impressive length of him was a bit daunting, even for someone who had once faced a leopard in the midst of a tropical jungle. She had the same feeling, actually: awe for the splendour and beauty of the beast, but also an understandable trepidation for what might happen next.

“How the devil would I know,” Stephen muttered. “Trust you to be analytical at a time like this. I’m happy to say that whatever the flaws of my gender might be, we do not compare ourselves to each other when in this state.”

It hadn’t been the most logical of questions, she conceded, but then again, logic didn’t seem to apply to this evening.

“But I accept the compliment.” There was a cheeky edge to his quick, boyish grin, but nothing boyish in the heavy light in his eyes. His voice dropped to a low whisper and he shifted so he was on top of her, arms braced, his mouth just teasing the juncture of neck and shoulder. “Open for me, Sabrina. I need you.”

If the hot, hard press of his erect length against her hip was an indication, he told the truth. It always irked her if Stephen knew more on any subject than she did — and later she’d have to find out how he knew more about this particular subject — but for now the warm press of his lips on her skin was beguiling and she didn’t resist when he nudged her legs apart and settled between her thighs.

The sensation of his entry made her suck in a deep breath and her hands grasped his biceps, holding tight, but Stephen merely murmured in a husky tone, “Relax, my love.”

He’d never called her that before and it startled her enough that she barely noticed the sting as her innocence was lost, her gaze riveted on his face as he deeply sheathed himself.

And then suddenly they were fully joined and it was … indescribable.

“It doesn’t really hurt,” she said breathlessly. “I was under the impression there would be more pain. It’s just a little uncomfortable. Do most women—”

“If you please, do not bring up other women right now,” he ordered, his face holding an intense expression belying the amused irritation in his voice. “How you feel is important, no one else. Can I move?”

She didn’t have the slightest idea what he meant.

“Like this.” He slid backwards and she felt a pang of loss until he surged forwards again and small blissful pulses racked her body. “Yes,” she whispered, “by all means move … oh, Stephen.”

He did it again, a low sound emanating from deep in his throat. Sabrina watched in fascination as his lashes drifted downwards and the expression on his face grew taut. Her body lifted naturally into the next thrust and her hands slid upwards to rest on his shoulders.

Any discomfort eased as the rhythm increased, lost to the strange upwards spiral she’d experienced earlier and, when he reached between their moving bodies and touched her there again, she couldn’t help a shuddering response, the pleasure was so acute. Paradise, she discovered, was a delicious, wicked pleasure in a simple bed in an obscure inn.

Above her, Stephen went very still at once, and his breath whistled outwards in an audible gasp, and he shuddered, dropping his head, his eyes closed. The moment stretched on, drifting, the little room quiet except for the hurried sound of their respiration.

It had all been … what was the word? she wondered, as she tested the sleek dampness of his skin over the muscles of his back, running her fingers lazily along the defined hardness. Sublime? Rapturous? Both fitted, but weren’t quite right. Exquisite?

“I knew it would be like this,” Stephen spoke first, his voice slightly strange.

Maybe he had the right word. “Like what?” Sabrina queried, noting her voice wasn’t quite normal either.

He didn’t answer. “Are you quite all right?” he asked instead, easing over to his side but not withdrawing, instead urging her to go with him so they stayed intimately entwined.

“Of course.” She raised her brows. “Why wouldn’t I be? Do you recall my father telling you about the time we were forced to outrun Barbary pirates and they were firing on our vessel and one of the bullets actually tore through my sleeve and grazed my arm? I assure you that stung far worse.”

“I see.” His habitual dryness returned to his tone. “Well, how does a man compete with bloodthirsty pirates and open-sea chases? Rather a daunting task, that. As an adventure, how did this rate?”

Before she could respond, he kissed her passionately, one hand smoothing suggestively over her bare hip.

And she forgot entirely about that wild trip to Gibraltar.

Three

The clatter of the busy street outside added to his distraction, but the noise was hardly the main culprit. Stephen frowned and tried to concentrate on the documents spread across his desk in an untidy fashion, then sighed and rubbed his hand across his jaw.

It was no use.

A week.

A full week since he’d returned Sabrina to her fashionable town-house, the precious notes in hand, and bid her a polite farewell. Not a lover’s goodbye, but his usual casual leave-taking, for if there was anything he refused to do, it was pressure her for anything that would ruin their friendship.

But surely she understood everything had changed.

Actually, being Sabrina, she might just blithely count their night together as another escapade — albeit a scandalous one — and dismiss it as a new experience, no more. She hadn’t so much as sent a note, even neglecting to invite him to tea, which her aunt usually did when they were in town.

Dear God, he might expire from frustration if he never touched her again, and—

“Whatever it is that put that grim look on your face, I am sure it can be eased by a good whiskey. It doesn’t look like you are getting much done anyway. Care to join me?”

Jerked out of his abstraction by the sound of the voice from the doorway of his small office, Stephen saw his oldest brother, Kenneth, one shoulder propped against the doorway, his expression slightly amused. The weather had turned and it was drizzling outside, droplets of moisture gleaming on his dark hair.

Stephen had to admit his mood was about as cheery as the dismal skies.

Well, brooding wasn’t doing him much good, and it was getting late anyway. He got to his feet. “Sounds capital, actually. Let me retrieve my coat.”

They walked two streets over to a busy tavern that catered to both tradesmen and well-dressed merchants, and found a table in one of the corners. Kenneth ordered two whiskeys from the harried barmaid, and folded his hands on the scarred wooden tabletop, lifting his dark brows. “So, what has you so blue-devilled? A difficult client?”

“Who says I’m blue-devilled?” Stephen muttered.

“The clerk, for one. As I came in and asked for you, he mentioned you hadn’t been yourself lately. Just the few moments I stood there waiting for you to as much as notice my arrival supports his claim.”

It was true, but galling to admit it. He’d finally realized his deepest fantasy, made love to Sabrina, not just once, but for a good deal of the night, drifted to sleep with her luscious naked body in his arms … and now he was at a loss as to what to do next. If he declared himself, exposed his true feelings, and she declined to accept an honourable offer of marriage, their friendship would be shattered.

It was a possibility. He knew her well enough to have no illusions. Sabrina had no desire to give up her adventurous lifestyle for a staid husband who made a living poring over legal documents. She would have to want him more than her freedom, and was one night of passion and a childhood friendship enough?

He accepted the glass from the barmaid and took a searing drink that burned as it hit his throat. He suppressed the urge to cough, and confessed, “It’s a woman.”

Kenneth, five years his senior and recently married, the heir to the title and what modest fortune their family had left, simply nodded. “Sabrina.”

Arrested with his glass at his mouth, Stephen stared.

“We’ve all known since …” Kenneth furrowed his brow. “Well, since you were both children probably.”

“Known what?”

“Don’t look so surprised.” His brother chuckled. “It was obvious, always, even when you squabbled and got into trouble. There was a special connection between the two of you. Does it strike you how she’s never been interested in pursuing the kind of highbrow marriage an heiress from a family so high up in society could contract? She’s beautiful also, don’t forget, so—”

“I’m not likely to forget,” Stephen interrupted more curtly than he intended, recalling satin soft skin, and golden hair spilled across the bed sheets.

“No, I don’t suppose you are.” Fingering his glass, Kenneth said mildly, “While I don’t think any male living on this green earth could claim to understand women, I am a married man, so I have some experience trying. Maybe I can help if you explain what precisely our lovely Sabrina has done lately to put you into such a dither.”

“Dither?” Stephen shook his head. “Couldn’t you have chosen a more masculine word? I’m not dithering, for God’s sake, I’m … conflicted, that’s all.”

“In what way?”

“I cannot decide if asking her to marry me would be a huge mistake or not.” He took an inelegant gulp of whiskey before continuing. “I should, but she doesn’t seem to think I should, or at least I’ve gotten no indication of that kind. It’s a devil’s own dilemma, to be honest, for you are right, we have a very comfortable friendship. It is inevitable that would change if she knew how I feel about her.”

There was a burst of raucous laughter from a small group of patrons, punctuated by the clink of glasses. At least someone was celebrating, Stephen thought morosely.

His older brother cleared his throat. “You should marry her?”

Stephen gave him a level look and said nothing. Not even his brother, of whom he was very fond and trusted implicitly, would he tell about that magical night at the inn.

“I … see.” Kenneth sipped his drink, a faint frown furrowing his brow. Then he sighed. “Sabrina is unconventional, I’ll give you that, a direct result of her father’s fascination with travel and antiquities. She has the means to do what she wishes.”

“Exactly,” Stephen agreed, not encouraged by the observation — not that he didn’t already know that point to be valid. “Personally, jungles, remote mountaintops and blistering deserts don’t hold a lot of appeal, but she’s always been adventurous. Even if she agreed to marry me, I worry if I held her here in England she’d grow restless, but I can’t picture letting her continue to travel to dangerous places. Even now, when I have no influence to stop her, I worry constantly.”

“Marriage is about compromise, little brother.” Kenneth leaned back in his chair, his expression a hint of sardonic amusement. “Tell her you’ll ride a camel and sail with her to tropical islands if she wishes, but she must also agree to stay here for part of the year and share the kind of life you enjoy.”

It sounded logical, but when it came to women, Stephen had discovered, the term all too often didn’t apply. Quietly, he said, “I really have nothing to offer her, Ken. No fortune and no title. As you pointed out, she could marry any time she wishes and she certainly would not have to settle for a junior solicitor who most definitely works for his modest living.”

“Actually, what I pointed out was she could have married, but hasn’t. It seems significant to me. Perhaps she is just waiting for you to ask.”

Was she? Stephen wasn’t sure, devil take it.

Perhaps she was wanton.

Sabrina had never thought of herself that way, but maybe it was true. In any case, all she had done since her return to London was dwell on the outrageous — and marvellous — way Stephen had touched her that fateful night after their mission to retrieve her father’s notes. She blushed when she recalled the less than ladylike eagerness with which she’d responded. She’d lain against his lean body, neither one of them wearing a stitch of clothing, and he’d ravished her mouth with long, passionate kisses, while his hands—

“You are certainly distracted.”

The prim sound of her aunt’s voice interrupted the delicious recollection. Startled out of her reverie, Sabrina glanced guiltily over to where Beatrice sat on a brocade settee in the drawing room, busy with her embroidery. “I was … well, thinking of something.”

Oh, that was articulate.

“I would guess so,” Aunt Beatrice replied. “You had quite the oddest look on your face. I take it this subject is a pleasant one?”

Before Sabrina could mumble another nonsensical answer, a voice spoke from the doorway, “Madam, My Lady, you have a visitor.”

The butler delivered the engraved card to Beatrice, who sat closer to the doorway. She peered at it — she needed spectacles but refused to admit it — and then nodded. “Please show His Lordship in, Seton, and see that a bottle of claret is brought up from the cellar, if you please.”

“Very good, madam.”

Lord Bloomfield. Sabrina didn’t have to be told; she knew it. She’d been expecting some sort of communication from her father’s colleague once he discovered the notes were missing and nothing else had been taken. While he couldn’t come right out and accuse her of stealing what he claimed not to have in the first place, she didn’t think for a minute he’d not try to at least wheedle them back from her. He was due to present a paper to the Royal Society in a few months and he undoubtedly needed those notes. He wasn’t a scholar in his own right, and he never had been. Her father, on the other hand, had been a devoted scientist, and his scrupulous, detailed observations were like beautiful prose poems.

Had Lord Bloomfield asked for permission to use her father’s research material instead of acting as if the papers were his own work, Sabrina probably would have loaned them to him. But the moment she’d read the published work that had brought Bloomfield such acclaim, she’d known it was her father’s composition.

“Be polite.” Beatrice said it in a brisk tone. “I know neither of us care for His Lordship, but he was a friend of your father.”

“Some friend,” Sabrina muttered, but she obligingly plastered a false smile on her face when Bloomfield strolled into the room.

Instantly, a quiver of alarm went through her. The Viscount was a large man, going to fat in his middle age, with a shock of thick brown hair just beginning to show grey at the temples. He was dressed for the evening in tailored formal wear, their drawing room evidently not his final destination. His immaculate cravat was tied in an intricate, fashionable knot, and above it his florid face wore what could only be described as a triumphant smirk.

“Good evening, ladies.” He bent over Beatrice’s hand, and then turned to Sabrina who reluctantly allowed him hers, though she longed to snatch it back immediately and give it a good wash.

“So nice of you to stop by, My Lord.” Beatrice smiled graciously. “Please do sit down and have a glass of wine, won’t you?”

“Perhaps one glass,” he answered, choosing a chair and lowering his not inconsiderable bulk into it. “I have a full evening of social engagements but I could not keep from stopping by to offer my congratulations to Lady Sabrina.”

What did he have up his sleeve? Sabrina eyed him warily and said nothing. It was Beatrice who asked, “Congratulations?”

“On her recent marriage, of course.” Bloomfield watched her reaction with a gloating expression. “I must have missed the announcement in The Times but I understand she and her husband recently stayed at an inn near my country estate in Sussex.”

Damnation.

The unladylike word seemed the appropriate reaction to the current situation. Lord Bloomfield might not be much of an archaeologist, but apparently he was a fair detective.

“You must be mistaken,” Beatrice said with a small scowl. “Sabrina hasn’t married.”

“Ah.” There was a wealth of innuendo in that small word. He dug in the pocket of his jacket, produced a slip of paper and theatrically squinted at it. “How odd. The innkeeper at the Lamb and Rooster swears a young woman answering Lady Sabrina’s description stayed there a week ago with a tall, dark-haired young man, who several times in the proprietor’s presence called her by the name Sabrina. The man claimed they were husband and wife, and I assumed it to be true, because, after all, they shared a room.”

By now Aunt Beatrice had caught the not-so-subtle tension between them for she said in a frosty voice, “I am sure this innkeeper misheard.”

“Perhaps, but he had an uncanny memory for he could describe the young woman perfectly. Golden curls, he said, and the most unusual midnight-blue eyes. She wore a dark-blue riding habit and rode a sorrel mare, and—”

“I was in Cambridgeshire last week, My Lord,” Sabrina said as calmly as possible. “Visiting a friend.”

“I see. And here I was delighted to think my old friend’s daughter had finally decided to quit the mannish pursuits of her travels and settle into married life as a woman should.” He put the piece of paper back into his pocket and shrugged, but there was nothing casual in the menacing look in his eyes. “If it wasn’t you, then I’m glad. Because if you aren’t wed, of course, and it was you, I’m afraid that would spell social ruin.”

The arrival of Seton with a tray and a bottle of wine prevented any response to that overt threat. His Lordship took the opportunity to rise, decline refreshments after all, and take his leave.

The moment they were alone again, Beatrice demanded, “What was that all about?”

Though normally she drank sparingly, Sabrina reached over, filled a glass with claret, and took a bracing sip. She could lie, but then again, she wasn’t good at telling falsehoods and she adored her aunt. “As I have maintained all along, he had Papa’s research notes. I merely reclaimed my own property.”

Beatrice digested this, her plump face registering a succession of emotions from indignation, to dismay, to resignation. “Let me guess who helped you do this. Tall? Dark-haired? That was Stephen, of course, for no matter how foolhardy it might be, that normally level-headed young man would fall in with your scheme. You could persuade him to have tea with the Devil if you wished to do so.”

“Bloomfield had the notes,” she pointed out defensively. “It isn’t as if we stole anything. That odious man lied to us.”

“That odious man,” Beatrice said in clipped tones, “is going to smear your good name. Oh, Sabrina, what have you done, child? Did you and Stephen really spend the night together at the inn?”

A betraying blush heated her face. Despite her best effort to look bland, she could feel the crimson journey up her throat and into her cheeks. “The roads are dangerous at night and we could hardly waltz into His Lordship’s home during the day, now could we?”

Her aunt looked at her and shook her head. “You have escaped disaster in your wild travels more than once, my dear, but I am afraid it has finally struck.”

Four

It was late. Stephen shook himself out of a half-doze and glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. Past midnight wasn’t an unfashionable hour precisely, but it was a strange time for someone to be knocking on his door. He snapped shut the book that had put him to sleep and rose to see who on earth was calling this time of night.

To say he was surprised to see Sabrina standing there was an understatement. She’d never once visited him in his modest lodgings before, for the obvious reason that unmarried young ladies didn’t visit gentlemen. He always went to the fashionable townhouse in Mayfair where she resided with her aunt. Nonplussed, he just stood there staring at her.

At least she’d had the sense to wear a concealing cloak. When he didn’t speak, she pushed the hood back. “The least you can do after I climbed out my window, bribed one of the footmen to hire a hack for me, and crept up your stairs like a character in a lurid novel, is invite me in.”

That explained why she was without a chaperone, but not why she’d gone to such lengths. He had a feeling he didn’t want her discussing it in the hallway, so there wasn’t much choice but to step back and watch her brush past him in a swirl of velvet and a drift of light sweet perfume.

Stephen finally found his voice. “Have you lost your mind?”

“I had to see you.”

She unfastened her cloak and he automatically stepped forwards to take it from her. She wore a simple day gown in a light material and her hair was caught back only with a satin ribbon. She looked young, fresh, and so damned beautiful that when she gazed at him with those entrancing dark-blue eyes he found himself irrationally unconcerned about why she’d come after all.

She was there.

Still, however he might feel about her presence, it was a very reckless thing for her to do. London at night was not the safest place for an unaccompanied female. “You little fool, couldn’t this have waited until tomorrow? If you sent a note to my office, I would have paid a call at once if it was urgent, you know that.”

“I know, but Aunt Beatrice would be there also. I wanted to talk to you alone. Besides, there is no possible way I could go to sleep.” Her smile was strained. “We have a bit of a crisis, I’m afraid.”

“I see. In that case, shall we go into my study where there is still a fire and I can hear this with some brandy at hand?”

“I drank two glasses of claret earlier,” Sabrina said with a moue of distaste, “and you know I loathe the stuff. You might need the brandy.”

“In that case,” he muttered darkly, “by all means let us go into my study.”

He led her down the hall and stirred the fire while she settled into one of the shabby chairs he kept meaning to replace but hadn’t gotten around to doing so yet because, truthfully, it was comfortable and he was the only one who used it. Sabrina looked more feminine and alluring than ever against the backdrop of his masculine furnishings and dark panelled walls. She settled her skirts around her in a dainty way as she glanced around at the cluttered bookcases and the papers piled on his desk. When she caught sight of the watercolour above the fireplace she’d painted years ago of the very river where they’d played as children, her eyes widened. It probably wasn’t a work of art in the eyes of most people — even she admitted her artistic bent did not lie with the brush — but he liked it and had kept it.

“Now then,” he said to distract her attention from the painting and forestall her asking why he’d hung it in his study, “what is this ‘crisis’?”

“Lord Bloomfield called on me this evening.”

He wasn’t too surprised. The man was a charlatan in the way he presented himself to the scientific world, but he wasn’t a fool. All along they’d both known he would easily guess who had broken into his house because of what was missing. “Don’t tell me he had the nerve to accuse you of rifling his desk?” Stephen propped one arm on the mantel and raised his brows in enquiry.

“No.” Sabrina glanced away. Her cheeks looked suspiciously pink. “He knows we spent the night together at the inn. He came by to ostensibly congratulate me on my marriage.”

Stephen digested this, the ramifications immediately evident, his feelings in flux. Having to marry him because she was forced by looming scandal was different than wanting to be his wife. “He’s more resourceful than I gave him credit for,” he said finally, trying to gauge Sabrina’s expression. “I assumed he would know it was you, but hardly thought he’d bestir himself to play detective over how the deed was accomplished.”

She lifted her slender shoulders, her eyes shadowed by long lashes and not quite meeting his. “He had a piece of paper with him that I assume is the innkeeper’s description of us. He pulled it out of his pocket like it was a holy relic. I’d guess the man signed it, for Lord Bloomfield acted as if it was irrefutable proof.”

And while Sabrina had led an unconventional life up until now, what with all her travels, her reputation had been pristine.

This was entirely his fault. The seduction at the inn, while not planned when she’d asked him to help her, was an opportunity seized.

“So he is going to make this public knowledge, I take it.” His voice was remarkably calm.

“That was the threat. He mentioned that if I stayed overnight at an inn with a man who wasn’t my husband, well, that would be unfortunate for my reputation.”

Was this the opening he hoped would one day present itself? Stephen still wasn’t sure. Sabrina wasn’t obviously hinting she expected an offer. Instead, she looked at him as if she wanted him to miraculously come up with a solution for this problem.

He had one, he just wasn’t sure she would like it.

On the other hand, for him, it would be a dream come true.

“He wants the notes back, obviously.”

“No,” she instantly responded. “That is out of the question.”

“Then perhaps it would be advisable for us to marry as soon as possible.” He did his best to look and sound neutral.

Sabrina’s soft mouth parted. She visibly swallowed and her hands clenched in the material of her muslin skirts. “Stephen, I did not come here to coerce you into marrying me, I—”

He interrupted smoothly, “It’s a legitimate offer. I’ll visit your aunt tomorrow … no, today.” A pointed glance at the clock emphasized the late hour. “After all, I did dishonour you, Sabrina, unless you’ve forgotten what we did that night.”

I did dishonour you …

Is that how he referred to those hours of tender pleasure? Sabrina wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh hysterically or pick up one of his books and throw it at him — preferably a heavy tome. He was propped casually against the mantel, his expression neutral, the midnight silk of his hair distractingly rumpled around his clean-cut features, his white shirt casually unbuttoned at the neck.

He’d just proposed marriage in the most unsentimental way possible.

“No,” she said succinctly.

Something flickered in his eyes. “No,” he repeated. “I guess I am not surprised the idea doesn’t appeal to you, but let’s keep in mind it is possible you carry my child.”

What she’d meant was no, she hadn’t forgotten all those wicked and wonderful things they’d done together, but she didn’t wish to force him to commit to a marriage he didn’t want just because of her reckless inclinations.

“I’ve thought of that,” she admitted. What was curious about it was her reaction to the idea of being pregnant with Stephen’s child. It filled her with an unexpected joy that took her off guard. “We should know within the next week or two. If I’m not with child, then the point is moot.”

“Is it?” he asked, looking at her with an enigmatic expression.

“Yes … I mean, or no … it isn’t that,” she muttered, not sure what question she was answering or even what she was saying.

Her and Stephen … married? If she was honest with herself, she’d thought about that quite a lot. Before this most recent escapade, she’d always considered him her very best friend, the boy who’d been her childhood playmate. But now that perception had certainly changed. He was very much a man and, moreover, a very attractive man.

He ran his hand through his hair. “A little clarification would be appreciated. If you don’t wish to marry me, I understand. I have little to recommend such a match. No fortune, no title, and we both know you could do better.”

Is that what he thought? Men were such obtuse creatures. Sabrina stared at him and took a deep breath before replying. “Can I point out how little titles and money impress me? I need neither. Don’t be a complete idiot, Stephen. It’s just this is my fault, for I’m the one who wanted to break into Bloomfield Hall. You needn’t shoulder the problem to protect me.”

A faint smile quirked his mouth. “As I recall, staying at the inn and what happened next was my idea. We always did manage to get into trouble together.”

Sabrina shoved herself to her feet and paced across the room. “I came here to warn you there might be a scandal unless we do something to keep Lord Bloomfield from spreading rumours, not to reminisce over our past misbehaviour. Do you have any ideas?”

“I believe I put one forth but it wasn’t met with enthusiasm.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You could trade His Lordship the notes for his silence.”

“Never.” That was out of the question. Her father’s life’s work was not going to be claimed by a fraud.

“I thought that’s what you’d say. Then marry me.”

Sabrina looked at him in exasperation, but something in his expression suddenly held her arrested, locked in the moment. It reminded her of how he’d gazed at her before he kissed her that first time, how reverently his hands had drifted across her skin, the sensation of him over her, inside her, how deliciously pleasurable that night had been.

If she married him, that passion could be hers for ever. It was a tantalizing idea.

But she was a romantic at heart and she hated the thought he was offering out of duty, or even friendship. It was just so Stephen to take on the problem without a thought about his own happiness.

She faltered. “I … I know you are sincere because you specialize in rescuing maidens in trouble, but—”

He straightened away from the fireplace and took a step towards her. “Just one troublesome maiden,” he interrupted, his voice soft, persuasive. “Only you, Sabrina. Always you. It has always, always been you. And just in case you wish to keep harping on how this is all your fault, I have a confession to make. There were more rooms available at the inn that night.”

The intensity in his eyes made her catch her breath. “There were?”

He nodded and advanced. “I’d waited for years for a chance like that. You and me, and a convenient bed … how could I let it pass by? I suppose I should feel guilty for lying to you, but I don’t.”

Years?

Strong hands caught her waist and Sabrina found herself in his embrace, his mouth nuzzling her neck. There was no helping the small sigh of pleasure that escaped her lips, or the shiver of anticipation that rippled through her when he murmured against her skin, “Would it be possible to worry about Bloomfield in the morning? It seems to me I need to convince you my solution is a sound one. Will you stay a little longer?”

She shouldn’t.

They shouldn’t. But then again, when they were together long enough their actions bordered on reckless.

It wasn’t too surprising she melted against him, her fingers curling into his dark hair, her breasts pressing against his chest. She gasped when he swept her up in his arms and walked out the door into a small hallway, but it was a sound of delight, not protest. His bedroom was austere, like the rest of the rooms, but it did have a nice bed, which she discovered was quite comfortable when he deposited her on the mattress and began to unfasten her clothes. Just as eagerly, she unbuttoned his shirt, the warmth of his skin under her questing fingertips causing a curl of excitement deep in her belly. Her gown, chemise, garters, stockings and slippers were carelessly tossed aside. When Sabrina fumbled trying to undo his breeches, he ended up doing it himself.

“I’m seducing you again,” he murmured as he settled on top of her body in a smooth athletic movement. “And if this time doesn’t do it — fair warning — I’ll continue to seduce you until even someone as reckless and unconventional as you agrees to take the respectable route and become my wife.”

Sabrina gave a breathless laugh, the length of him pressed against her inner thigh, hot and hard. “You can be infuriatingly determined when you want something.”

He nibbled her lower lip. “Think of the adventures we can share. I’ve never seen a rainforest or ridden a camel.”

It was a generous offer, for she knew he loved England and was at heart a respectable gentleman. She would wager most of the trouble he’d gotten into in his childhood was due to her instigation. Very lightly she touched his lean cheek. “I don’t think my wanderlust is quite what it once was. Staying home holds a certain appeal and, for your information, riding a camel really isn’t all that much fun. They are rather ill-tempered creatures.”

He laughed and kissed her, and then the kiss turned molten and his hands were everywhere, caressing, exploring, evoking small tingles of pleasure. And when he joined their bodies and sank deep inside her, she experienced a bliss that wasn’t just due to the physical enjoyment of the moment, but also to the poignant way he whispered her name.

That glorious summit rose, the peak promised rapture and, when she gained it and toppled over, she clung to him and quivered in unabashed erotic release, made all the more intense and satisfying when he went rigid and she felt him shudder.

“I suppose I could marry you to foil Lord Bloomfield’s malicious revenge,” she teased as they lay in damp contentment afterwards, her head pillowed comfortably on his muscular chest. “Though I do have one stipulation.”

“Oh? How clever of you to strike a bargain when I am in my current weakened condition.” His lazy smile made him more devastatingly handsome than ever. “Do tell.”

“You must promise to continue to seduce me.”

“I believe I can make that concession.” His grin faded and those crystal grey eyes glimmered with a serious light. “I think you know I would give you anything within my power. I’ve loved you as long as I can remember. It changed, of course, as we got older, but it was always there.”

“I think I have always loved you too,” Sabrina said slowly, “though I admit I didn’t recognize the difference between friendship and romance. You were just you. It’s funny to think I didn’t see it. After each trip, the moment I return to England, my very first order of business is to see you. Once I do, I am truly home. And when I am away, though it is all exciting and interesting, I miss you and think of you often.”

“Picture me here, worrying over what kind of danger you might be in and myself a continent or ocean too far away to help you.” His voice held just a hint of a ragged edge and his long fingers smoothed her hair. “It was torment.”

It was galling to think she had Lord Bloomfield’s devious machinations to thank for her current state of happiness, but in a convoluted way she supposed she did. “If we are going to marry,” she said, snuggling even closer, relishing the feel of Stephen’s arm around her, “Lord Bloomfield’s petty threat is foiled, but he could still remain vengeful and isn’t without influence. I suppose I could loan him the notes needed to finish the paper he has started if he agrees to credit my father as an equal partner.”

“That sounds like a reasonable bargain to me.” Stephen brushed a kiss across her forehead. “I am, after all, a solicitor. I could draw up a legal document for him to sign.”

“You are, as always, quite handy to have around.” Sabrina rose up and her smile was deliberately mischievous. “Who would think such a mild-mannered gentleman would make such a marvellous partner in crime? If it wasn’t for your skill with the picklock, we would never have been able to steal back the notes.”

Without warning, she was tumbled to her back so quickly she gasped.

“Would a mild-mannered gentleman do this?” Stephen demanded teasingly as his fingers did something very, very wicked between her legs. “Besides, as you’ve pointed out, we didn’t steal anything. The notes were yours to begin with.”

“But something was stolen that night,” Sabrina whispered, drowning in sensation.

“What?” He went very still.

“My heart.”

Softly, he kissed her. “Well, do not expect me to give it back.”

Her Gentleman Thief

Robyn DeHart

Annalise Petty sat primly on the carriage seat, hands folded neatly in her lap. Outwardly, she probably appeared to be the perfect genteel lady, full of grace and peace. But inside, a battle raged. Her heart beat wildly and her stomach felt like a gnarled mess of knots. In two days she would become wife to the most boring, proper man in all of London. A man she had foolishly fancied herself in love with when he’d first begun to court her. Then he’d revealed his true self. Now she knew he was rather indifferent to her and only interested in the business deal the union brokered.

She chewed at her bottom lip. The carriage rumbled along through the dark night. Her parents had already made the journey to Kent, but Annalise and her younger sister, Penny, had stayed behind for one last fitting of the wedding gown. The dress, in layers of cream-coloured gossamer silk, was the finest garment Annalise had ever owned. Her betrothed had purchased her an entire wardrobe of appropriate clothing, which would be delivered to his estate sometime next week. The wedding gown, though, sat neatly in a trunk on the back of the rig.

Hildy, their maid, rested quietly across from them, pretending not to nap, though her level breathing and spontaneous snores betrayed her. Penny sat quietly, her expression blank. Sweet and beautiful Penny. Annalise sighed. This should have been her trip, her wedding gown in the back.

As if her sister had read her mind, Penny placed a gloved hand over Annalise’s. “You should be excited,” Penny said. “Your grin belies your worry.” She smiled warmly. “Relax.”

Annalise thought to argue, then nodded. “You know me far too well, sister. I cannot help but think that all of this should be for you. This is your season, your introduction to society.”

“And you never had either.” She put a hand against her chest. “I am so very happy for you. Your union with Lord Benning has no bearing on my finding a good match. Besides, you are older, you should marry first.”

Yes, but Cousin Millicent hadn’t offered to sponsor a season for Annalise, and, though her father was an earl, they had no money to provide either a dowry or a proper coming-out. So Annalise had neither, which was fine with her. She had resigned herself to never marrying. But when the opportunity had come along for Penny, well, the entire family had moved in with their distant cousin in the hope of a quick marriage. This had not been what any of them had planned.

At three and twenty, Annalise knew she should consider herself lucky to have found a man willing to marry her. She certainly wasn’t unattractive, but she was fleshier than most society beauties. Still, she hadn’t been properly introduced at Almack’s. She’d only gone to London at Penny’s request to act as a chaperone of sorts. And as she’d sat in the corner at that first ball, she’d seen the tall, handsome Griffin Hartwell, Viscount Benning moving in their direction. She’d even reached over and squeezed Penny’s hand in excitement for her younger sister. Then when the rich baritone voice had asked her to dance and the masculine hand had extended not to Penny, but instead to Annalise, it had been scandalous. She’d wanted to decline, had known it would have been the more appropriate thing to do, but as she’d looked up into his handsome face, all her girlish fantasies had come to life and she’d found herself nodding and extending her own hand.

That one dance had led to three more that evening and had tongues wagging all over London. He’d played proper court to her after that scandalous evening, never once seeking time alone with her and only speaking about her, rarely to her. Her parents had eagerly accepted his offer of marriage and in one afternoon Annalise had gone from the unassuming sister to betrothed to a viscount. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to marry — she did — but she was foolish enough to long for a marriage with love and warmth. All her life she’d been dutiful and obedient, but her parents had not once asked her how she felt about this union. Nor had Griffin, beyond the polite proposal staged perfectly in front of her entire family. An impossible situation for her to say, “No thank you.”

She supposed matters could be worse. Griffin could be old or cruel, and he was neither. Instead he was only a few years her senior and polite and so dashing she had nearly choked on her lemonade the first time he asked her to dance. Then had come the proposal and she’d wondered at her great fortune. It hadn’t taken long for her to see the truth. A man so handsome and dashing — a man so rich — he couldn’t possibly want her. He’d only asked for her hand because he wanted some property her father owned. Her lack of dowry hadn’t been an issue, so they’d brokered a deal and she was the price. She exhaled loudly, but thankfully did not disturb Hildy.

Suddenly the carriage jerked to a stop. Outside she heard muttering, men’s voices. Perhaps they’d lost a wheel or taken a wrong turn. She peeled the curtain away from the window, but in the dark of the night, she could see nothing but outlines of the trees lining the road.

Hildy stirred. “Why are we not moving? Have we arrived?”

“I don’t believe so,” Annalise said, still trying to make something out of the dark shadows. She placed a hand on Penny’s knee to offer comfort.

Then the door flew open. “Out, ladies,” a male voice said curtly.

“Out?” Hildy said, clearly outraged. “It’s dark. If there is a problem with the carriage, we shall sit here until you fix it.”

A masked man stepped in front of the opened carriage door. Annalise noted that most of Penny’s form remained hidden in the shadows, so she sat forwards, trying to hide Penny. Her heart slammed against her ribcage.

Good heavens, they were being robbed!

Without thought, Annalise tossed her cloak over her sister. “Stay still,” she whispered.

He showed them a small pistol. “I said out.”

“Do not leave this carriage,” she warned her sister in a whisper. Annalise made haste to climb down the carriage steps. Hildy promptly fainted at the sight of the gun. An excellent chaperone, that one. The lanterns hanging off the carriage afforded her enough light to take in her surroundings. Annalise noted their driver and footman were both blindfolded and tied to a tree.

“Sir, we don’t have many valuables with us, but what we do have is yours,” Annalise said. “If you would simply let us be on our way.” She fought the urge to glance behind her to the carriage. She knew Penny would obey Annalise’s instructions and stay hidden.

“Indeed.” The masked man came to stand in front of her. If she hadn’t known any better, she would have sworn recognition flickered in his eyes. The carriage door remained open and Annalise knew the robber could see Hildy’s large body slumped over inside. Eventually the woman would awaken, but for now her silence kept Penny safe and unseen. “You ladies are out quite late this evening.”

Annalise bravely looked up to meet the highwayman’s gaze and found herself arrested by the most stunningly beautiful green eyes. And were it not for the black silk domino mask obscuring part of his face, she might have forgotten who he was and what was happening. The lantern light flickered off his features and she could clearly see a strong jaw, sculpted lips, a hint of a day’s growth of whiskers. It was quite evident that he was devilishly handsome.

The highwayman leaned against the carriage, crossing his feet at the ankles. The pistol dangled from his hand, almost as if he held nothing more than a handkerchief. There was a casual air about him, as if this situation were a perfectly normal occurrence for a Monday evening.

His sensual lips curved into a smile. “And where are you going at this hour?”

“My wedding,” she said.

But as the words left her mouth a realization surged through her. After this incident, there would be no wedding. No one here could attest to the fact that this man, this thief, had not ravished her. Hildy had not roused and the other two servants were blindfolded and tied up. There was no one save Penny to vouch for her and, if she were to speak up, she too would be ruined. Simply being stopped by this highwayman was enough to sully her reputation and her virtue. And who was to say he wouldn’t ravish her still? But Penny could be saved. She needed only to get Penny to safety.

Before she could further think on the matter, she reached out and placed a hand on the highwayman’s chest. “Take me with you,” she said.

If she didn’t know better, she would have thought he looked affronted. “I beg your pardon,” he said.

“Please, I won’t be a burden, you can simply take me and drop me off in London,” Annalise said. Her heart pounded so rapidly, so loudly, her very ears seemed to vibrate.

One eyebrow rose above his mask. “What of your wedding?”

What to say? There was no reason to tell this man that her fiancé was no more interested in her than he was her meagre collection of coloured ribbons. He might even know Griffin — though that seemed unlikely considering this man’s profession. She did not believe Griffin consorted with such fellows. Though if she didn’t know better she would have sworn this man was a gentleman too. The way he spoke, the way he moved — there was something utterly genteel about him. But that was foolish. Gentlemen were not thieves. She shook her head. “My parents arranged the marriage. To a dreadful man, boring, priggish and only interested in the land my father offered him.”

The highwayman’s lips tilted in a slight smile. His head quirked. “So not a love match, then?”

“No, most certainly not,” she said. Though she had once thought — hoped — it might be. She’d been a fool. A mistake she would not make again.

“And you want me to help you run away?” he asked.

She heard stirring in the carriage behind her. She stepped forwards, closer to the highwayman, and nodded. “Yes, please. Help me run away.”

He stepped closer, so that he stood but a breath away from her. His gloved fingers ran down her cheek. “Are you not afraid of me?”

She steeled herself, straightened her shoulders to stand taller. This was precisely why she’d had to hide Penny — to protect her sister’s reputation, but more so to protect her actual virtue. Penny was not a woman most men could resist, with her lithe figure and pale blonde hair. She was a classic beauty, unlike Annalise who was rather easy to ignore. It seemed unlikely Annalise would get ravished. “No.” She reached into her reticule and pulled out the jewellery she had been given to wear on her wedding day: a lovely pearl and diamond set necklace with matching drop earrings. “I’ll pay you.” She cupped the jewellery in her hand and held it out to him.

“I am a highwayman in case that has escaped your attention. I would take that regardless,” he said with a grin as he pocketed the jewels. He didn’t wait for her to answer, instead he leaned over, picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder as if she weighed no more than a child. “You will regret this.”

She thought he was probably right, but for some reason she felt no fear, only excitement and expectation. Penny would be safe. Eventually Hildy would awaken and she’d untie their driver and ensure Annalise’s sister got home safely. She’d always wanted an adventure. Well, now she’d all but stumbled head first into one. Perhaps her wedding day would not be so dull after all.

Griffin Hartwell breathed in the heady lemony scent of his bride’s hair as she sat nestled against him on his mount. The mask he wore itched and pricked at his skin, but he didn’t dare remove it. Not now. Instead he was forced to ponder his situation in physical discomfort. He’d lost a damned wager and because of that he’d ended up out here on this road playing the thief. He was only meant to steal a single piece of jewellery, a piece that would have been mailed back to the rightful owner as soon as he’d returned to London. But as his rotten luck would have it, he’d stopped the carriage carrying his own betrothed and she’d begged him — no, not him, the highwayman he was pretending to be — to save her from a marriage to a bore. That was what she’d called him. Perhaps it hadn’t been poor luck at all, but a boon considering she would have made the same request of an actual thief. No, he could at least ensure she remained safe.

The irony was not lost on Griffin, but he was too addled to enjoy it at the moment. He shouldn’t have complied with her wish to take her along, but as he saw it, he didn’t have much choice. Her reputation would have already been in shambles simply by being alone in the woods with a highwayman, and since her silly maid had succumbed to a fit of the vapours, and he’d conveniently tied up the driver and footman, they’d been hopelessly alone. He and his betrothed.

He’d ruined his own would-be bride. He nearly chuckled.

Of course he’d still marry her, convince her parents that he believed her tale of not being ravished. That would work only, though, if she fought for herself. And evidently she had no real desire to marry him. She found him to be a bore. And priggish. And that was an irony even more profound than the first. He’d only pretended to be righteous and proper to prevent further scandal. When he’d first asked her to dance he’d not known she hadn’t been properly introduced to society and was only acting as a chaperone to her younger sister. But shock waves had rocked through the ton as they’d danced not once, but four times that night.

She’d been utterly enchanting: charming and witty and easy to converse with. Her laughter had come easily and had been authentic. She’d been sincere, not at all like the pretty, but empty shell that was most marriageable women he’d encountered. Annalise had been different and he’d been intoxicated by her.

It would seem he’d done such a convincing job that he was at the very height of propriety. Annalise was not interested in him in the least. Though he would have sworn that hadn’t always been the case.

Her full bottom pressed against his inner thigh stirring his desire. It would have been impossible for her to ride side-saddle, as was customary for ladies, so he’d snuggled her against him, her position mirroring his own. Annalise Petty was a desirable woman. It was why he’d sought her out at the Draper Ball. Why he’d first noticed her in that shop on Bond Street the day before when she’d turned her righteous anger on Lady Henwick and given the matron more than one afternoon’s worth of gossip. The woman had had it coming. She’d been ruthless towards Annalise’s younger sister. Still Annalise’s behaviour was shocking. She’d intrigued him, so different when compared to all the rest of London’s marriageable misses. So when he’d seen her the following evening at the ball, he’d been unable to resist crossing the ballroom to ask her to dance. Because of the ensuing scandal, he’d pursued her and had eventually asked her parents for her hand, but that initial attraction had not yet faded for him.

She was lovely, with her large brown eyes and wide mouth, her honey-coloured locks and rounded figure. Griffin loved her fuller curves. Though her modest dresses didn’t give too much away, he knew she had lush hips and shapely legs to match her bountiful breasts. Where some girls had to dampen their petticoats to pronounce their assets, Annalise’s figure demanded attention. And he’d imagined every inch of her, and precisely what he would do to her on their wedding night. She would be worth the wait, worth the sacrifice he’d made in not enjoying her company these past few weeks.

If Annalise didn’t marry him, his mother would select a bride for him. She’d given him a deadline and he knew, as wonderful as his mother could be, a bride of her choice would not match his own desires. She’d select someone pretty and sweet and demure, and he’d be in for a lifetime of boredom. Much the same as what Annalise clearly expected from him.

Clearly he had only one option. The highwayman who had just abducted Annalise would have to convince her to marry her bore of a fiancé. He wouldn’t take her to London at all. In fact their current location was rather perfect. There was a small cottage on the edge of his property that would give them safe shelter for the night. The cottage was empty this time of year, generally used as a hunting cottage in pheasant season. It was the perfect place for them to hide and rest until morning light when he could send her on her way to Kent. On her way to their wedding.

He had to convince her she was making a mistake running away. And he’d have to do all of that while keeping his identity hidden.

Half an hour later they pulled up to the cottage. It was dark, though Griffin knew it would be well stocked with candles and blankets.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Looks to be an abandoned cottage,” he said. He jumped down from the horse, then helped her to the ground. “We ’ll stay here for the night. It’s far too late to ride all the way back to London.”

“Is this your hiding place? Where you keep all your stolen goods?” she asked, her voice an odd mixture of intrigue and horror.

He led her to the front door, then made a show of breaking the lock to make it appear as if he didn’t already know there was a key concealed within the hanging fern. “I have no such hiding place,” he murmured.

“Well, I would think as a thief you would need some place such as that,” she said. “Unless you are not successful in your wicked endeavours.”

He quickly found two candles and lit them. A soft glow permeated the darkness and illuminated the lovely Annalise. He met her gaze. “I can assure you that when given the opportunity I can be appropriately wicked.” He’d imagined this very scenario, only on their wedding night, with her wearing a filmy robe, her golden hair cascading down her back, her feet bare.

Now though she stood before him fully clothed. Her travel gown was basic and brown, with matching boots. While her dress remained intact, her hair was windblown from the ride, the remaining pins still holding her curls but several tresses had escaped and now framed her face. He noted that she wore no cloak or outer garment. “You do not wear a cloak in this chill weather?”

She chewed at her lip and shrugged. “I must have left it in the carriage.”

He eyed her. He knew Annalise to be fiery and bold, but never impractical.

“Are you going to take that mask off?” she asked.

His heart thundered. Had she recognized him? He didn’t think so, but it was a possibility. The sound of his voice or perhaps his eyes? Any of that could clue her into his true identity. They hadn’t spent much time together, but she had certainly seen him, stood close to him, had heard him speak. He eyed her, searching her face for signs of recognition, but her blank expression gave him nothing.

“Unless you tell me your name, it is not as if I can lead authorities to you,” she reasoned.

So no, she did not recognize him. “No, I’m perfectly comfortable just as I am.”

She shrugged. “Very well.” She turned around slowly, surveying the cottage. They stood in the seating room, which consisted of three wooden chairs and a worn sofa. She rubbed her arms, obviously chilled.

He made quick work of getting a fire going in the hearth. The flames crackled to life and warmth began to spread through the small cottage.

She swallowed visibly. “And we are to sleep here? Together?”

Her eyes widened as she lowered herself to the worn green and brown sofa, as if the weight of the situation had just crashed down upon her. To her mind, she was alone in an abandoned cottage with a dangerous highwayman. Highwaymen had dreadful reputations as thieves who preyed upon carriages of the wealthy, stealing jewels and money and virtues as they prowled the countryside. Yet she hadn’t seemed afraid of the situation as she’d climbed down from the carriage, nor when she’d asked him to take her with him. And even now, although she seemed hesitant, perhaps cautious, he saw no actual fear lining her lovely face. Perhaps she feigned bravery.

But she should be afraid.

She was to be his wife. He certainly couldn’t allow her to ride through the countryside befriending miscreants and thieves. What if he hadn’t been the one to pull over her carriage? What if a true blackguard had taken her with him? Perhaps she needed to see the full weight of the situation, feel the repercussions of her reckless behaviour.

He took a step towards her. One finger at a time, he pulled his gloves off. “Yes, this is where we will sleep for the night.” He trailed a hand down her cheek. “I suspect we’ll find an appropriate bed in one of the rooms down that hall.”

Her eyes followed his nod to the darkened hallway.

“Rethinking your request to come along with me?” he asked.

She inhaled sharply and took a steadying breath. “I am merely coming to terms with my reputation.”

“You weren’t too worried about your reputation back on the road when you begged me to rescue you.”

Defiantly she crossed her arms over her chest. It did little to hide the curves of her breasts, but instead drew closer attention to their fullness. “Perhaps I was a measure too hasty in my request. But it is far too late now. My reputation is already in tatters.” She pushed out her chin. “I assume you intend to ravish me, then?”

He felt his lips twitch with humour. He turned away from her to hide his expression. He should be angry with her — hell, he was angry — but she made it damned difficult to stay that way. “I would not have to ravish you,” he said. “If I want you, I will have you.” He turned back to face her and met her gaze. Momentarily, it felt as if he was looking at her, Annalise, his fiancée and she was looking at him in return, seeing Griffin beneath the mask.

The masked man sat in a wooden chair and stretched out his long legs in front of him. His tan breeches moulded against his well-formed legs, his Hessian boots shone in the candlelight. He certainly did not dress like a highwayman.

She crossed her feet at the ankles and folded her hands in her lap. Her mama had always told her she was impetuous and headstrong, but she’d never done anything this foolhardy. But here she was, holed up in an abandoned cottage with a masked thief. Her family would wonder what Griffin would say when he discovered his would-be wife had been abducted. Hopefully Penny and Hildy had made it safely to Kent.

If I want you, I will have you. His words rang in her head. If. Leave it to her to be so uninspiring to the opposite sex that even a ruthless highwayman could resist her charms. The fact that a thief didn’t want to ravish her should make her feel better about her current situation, instead she felt defeated. No wonder Griffin was indifferent to her.

“Tell me about this fiancé of yours,” he said.

“He’s a gentleman,” she began, not quite certain what else to add. She’d spoken so poorly of him earlier in the evening. But there was part of her, the part that was uneasy with her current situation, who wished he were here now. Not that he’d ever been particularly protective, in fact he’d mostly ignored her. But that first evening when they’d met, when he’d not been able to keep his eyes off her, when they’d danced again and again, he’d seemed, perhaps not protective, but most definitely interested. And she supposed he was an athletic sort and he might be able to fight this highwayman for her honour.

“A gentleman,” he repeated, clearly amused. A smile played at the corners of his mouth, which drew her eye to his lips. They were perfectly crafted, she couldn’t help but notice, sensual, almost pretty. The kinds of lips she’d heard other ladies talk about, the sort that would know how to kiss a woman to make her insides quiver.

She didn’t remember ever noticing Griffin’s mouth. Of course he didn’t speak to her very often. And, of course, he’d never so much as kissed her cheek. Annalise refolded her hands in her lap. “He’s kind and gentle.”

An eyebrow quirked over the domino mask. “You said he was boorish,” he reminded her.

She had said that. And she’d meant it. There was nothing romantic or exciting about her betrothed. He was a typical English gentleman, more interested in land and politics and drink than his intended. Being in the same room with Griffin was a constant reminder of how forgettable she was as a woman.

So much like the family she’d grown up in. Her father was always far more concerned with their coffers, and what the neighbours were doing. Her mother spent every last minute doting on Penny, the prettier daughter. Annalise had been ignored. Which had suited her perfectly since it allowed her plenty of uninterrupted reading time.

That was until Griffin had started to pay attention to her, then it was as if her parents had noticed her for the first time. He’d been the only man to show an interest in her and, initially, when they’d danced at the ball, she’d thought he wanted her — Annalise, the woman. But as time progressed and he more or less simply courted her parents, she’d realized he’d been attracted to nothing more than the land she provided.

“I did say that,” she said. Truth was, she didn’t have much to say about her future husband. She didn’t know him. She knew his name and she knew what his hand felt like in hers, the other resting on her lower back. She knew how she’d felt that first moment in his arms, the furious agitation in her stomach and the hope that had bloomed in her heart. And she knew the resulting disappointment when he’d come to call and spent the time discussing horses with her father.

“And you meant it,” he said.

“I did.” She crossed her arms over her chest defiantly. What did it matter what she said here tonight? She did not know this man; he did not know her. And tomorrow everything in her life would be different. “He is awfully boring and polite. And terribly respectable.”

He feigned shock, his mouth fell open. “However do you bear it? Respectability is indeed a terrible thing.”

“I am quite serious,” she said, feeling the frown crease her brows.

“Of that, I have no doubt.” He sat quietly for several moments before he folded his hands across his abdomen. “So what shall you do now that you’ve left this dreadful man at the altar?”

Annalise allowed his words to sink in. No, it would never appear that way to Griffin, nor her family. They would see her as tarnished goods because of her fate at the hands of this highwayman. But she knew the truth. As did this man. She had walked away from Griffin. Jilted him. Indifference or not, he hadn’t deserved that, but what of Penny’s reputation? Annalise couldn’t have allowed her sister to be ruined alongside her.

“I never said he was dreadful,” Annalise said quietly.

“But a respectable boor,” he corrected.

She sighed. “I shouldn’t have said those things.”

He was quiet for several moments before he said anything else. “So tell me, is leaving this fiancé of yours the only way in which you can acquire excitement? That is what you’re after, is it not? Some manner of adventure?”

She hadn’t left with this man to seek adventure, she’d done so to protect her sister. But she couldn’t tell him that, so she played along. “I am most disappointed as to how my life is turning out. It seems the only way,” she said. And it wasn’t as if any of that was a lie. She was disappointed.

“What of marrying this boring bloke, as planned, then finding your adventure elsewhere?” His head tilted as if he were truly curious about the matter. Or had that been an invitation … to dally with him? Certainly not. He’d said himself, if he wanted her, she would be his. Evidently he did not want her. And she was grateful for that. No woman wished to be ravished, regardless of how dashing the highwayman might be.

“It is practised quite heavily in society, as you must know. Perhaps a virtuous woman such as yourself has not heard of such a thing. But I can assure you it is most common.” Was that resentment she heard lining his voice?

“I would never do such a thing,” she said. “Infidelity is unthinkable. I do realize men find it palatable, but I could never participate.” She sat straighter. “And, of course, I have heard of liaisons outside of the marriage bed. Griffin might be boring, but he is a kind man and I would never be so disrespectful of him.”

He was quiet for a moment as if he were trying to make something of her admission.

Her eyes travelled the length of his legs and again she was struck by the shine of his Hessians. Simple thieves did not dress in such a refined manner. “It doesn’t appear as though infidelity is the only way to seek out adventure.” She inclined her head in his direction.

“To what are you referring, madam?” he asked.

“This.” She motioned her hand in his direction. “Your mask, your thievery. Kidnapping an innocent lady.”

He held up a finger. “At her request,” he added. “I did not don the mask for adventure.”

“Perhaps not, but you are no ordinary highwayman, are you?” she asked.

“I suppose you’ve met other thieves then, to compare me to? And I am somehow lacking in an area?” he asked.

She smiled in spite of herself. “No, I have met no others. But you are well born, I can see that much. In the way you handled the ride. The manner in which you speak, sit, hold yourself, your fine clothes.” She paused, then met his eyes. “The fact that you have not handled me inappropriately. You are a gentleman.”

A slow smile slid into place and he was so utterly handsome, so devastatingly dashing, she sucked in her breath. She would have sworn her heart paused for an entire minute before it beat again. As if the blood pumping through her veins stilled as she inhaled, stopped simply for his smile. “A well-born man,” she continued in an attempt to hide her reaction to him, “who becomes bored with society can traipse about the countryside playing at thievery. A wellborn lady has only gossip and shopping to entertain her.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. But looks can certainly be deceiving.”

“Indeed. Regardless of who you are, you must acknowledge that women do not have the same opportunities men do when it comes to life choices, especially well-bred ladies. I may marry a man of my family’s choosing or I am doomed to spinsterhood, relying on the generosity of my family members.”

“Forgive me if I offer you no sympathy.” He leaned forwards, bracing his elbows on his knees. He shoved his shirtsleeves up, revealing well-muscled forearms. “Men do not always have choice in their marriage partners either.”

“More often than women do,” she argued, knowing it was childish to do so.

“Marriage to the right person could be an adventure. Have you considered that?” he asked.

“Of course.” And initially she had thought Griffin to be that very person. He’d been so charming, so funny, and then turned so cold. “Marriage for love,” she said quietly.

“So you do not love him?” he said. His words came out slowly.

“He does not love me,” she said vehemently, perhaps revealing too much of her disappointment. She paused before adding, “It was not a love match, but rather a business transaction between him and my father.”

“He has told you he does not love you?”

She frowned. “No, of course not. He would not be that cruel.”

“Then how do you know?” he asked.

“Because a woman can tell these things. In the way that he looks at me.” Or rather the way he never looked at her. “And the way that he speaks to me.” She didn’t owe this highwayman an explanation. “A woman knows when a man loves her.” She had thought she’d felt it with Griffin, felt the gentle bloom of love in his touch, his words. Then as suddenly as their relationship had begun his polite indifference had replaced his wooing.

“Women do not know everything.” He stood and paced the length of the small room. He stood in front of the tiny window, but made no move to push aside the faded curtain. He simply stood there staring at nothing.

“What does a highwayman know of love?” she tossed out.

He chuckled, but it did not seem to be a particularly humour-filled laugh. “Perhaps I know nothing about love.” He turned and slowly lowered himself on to the sofa next to her. Far too close. She could feel warmth emanating off his legs.

She swallowed hard and fisted material from her skirt, twisting it. Trying her best to ignore her fear, she raised her chin up a notch. This close to him she could smell his scent, woody and musky, complete masculinity. There was something oddly familiar about it.

“You are quite lovely,” he murmured.

“There is no need to taunt me. That is cruel,” she said.

“Taunt you?” He leaned forwards, twirled one of her stray curls around his finger. “I thought I was paying you a compliment.”

“I am not a beauty, everyone knows that,” she said defiantly.

“That is a foolish thing to say.” He ran a hand down her cheek. His fingers were warm as they trailed down her face. “I might not know love,” he said, bitterness seeped into his tone. “But I do know beauty and you are beautiful.”

Again he touched her. Shivers scattered over her flesh, but nothing touched her the way his words did. As much as she didn’t want to, she believed him. He thought her beautiful. Perhaps that said more about her than it did him, that a thief would find her appealing. But she didn’t care. In this moment she felt beautiful. And it nearly erased all of her nerves about being trapped in this cottage with a potentially dangerous man.

“Your complexion is exquisite, your skin so soft. And your hair — I want to pull those pins from it and run my hands through your golden locks.”

In that moment she wanted him to. Not to simply threaten it, but to do it, to pull those pins out and pull her to him, kiss her senseless. It was wrong, she knew that, still there was something so compelling about this masked man.

“You have lovely brown eyes,” he continued. “But more than all of those, you have a luscious mouth, lips so full and tender, I want very much to kiss them.” He was so very close now, she could smell the faint hint of liquor on his breath as well as cold.

Without a thought to the consequences, Annalise closed her eyes and leaned forwards ever so slightly. He chuckled lightly, then his lips brushed against hers. The first touch of his mouth warmed her entire body. He settled closer to her, placed one hand on her back as he pulled her to him. His other hand cupped her cheek.

His lips moved against hers, softly, slowly, seductively. Annalise opened her mouth to him. He deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue across her teeth, then into her mouth. Desire pooled through her body, blood tingled through her veins.

Oh my.

His fingers kneaded her back. And she still sat, ankles crossed, hands fisting her skirts. She wanted to touch him too, but did not know where to put her hands. This entire situation was wrong, she knew that, but what did it matter now? She was a ruined woman. Fated to life as a single woman, much like her Aunt Triny. Should she not simply enjoy this moment of desire for what it was?

He kissed her for several moments and she enjoyed every brush of his lips, every sweep of his tongue. Good heavens, what was he doing to her?

With both hands he pulled her towards him so her torso lay partially across his body. His warm, firm chest pressed against her and still he kissed her. She had heard other girls mention such embraces, usually found in the arms of blackguards who preyed on the virtue of innocent females. But none of that mattered any longer. She felt a pang of regret as an image of Griffin’s face formed in her mind. She’d imagined kissing him in such a fashion, passion overcoming them both. But he did not want her, not truly, she reminded herself.

His hand came up and cupped her breast, the touch so intimate, so unfamiliar, yet so utterly devilish, that she made no move to stop him. He kneaded her sensitive flesh and deepened the kiss. Tentatively she kissed him back, running her tongue against his.

“Annalise,” he whispered.

Her eyes flew open, and she leaned back. “I never told you my name.”

Without another thought, Annalise reached over and tugged on the black mask. The black silk fabric tore away from his face. She came to her feet and her eyes widened in shock. “Griffin!” she exclaimed. He gave her a mocking bow. “Sorry to disappoint you.” Several conflicting emotions flitted across her face. She stood stock-still, her hands fisted at her sides, and continued to gape at him. “But how? Why?” Her brow creased in a heavy frown.

“How did I come to be a highwayman?” he asked. He walked away from her then, casually making his way to one of the tiny windows. He stared outside and said nothing for several moments, then he slowly turned to face her. “It was a wager. A foolish wager with an idiot friend.” He shook his head. “I was only meant to steal one piece of jewellery and then be on my way. Harmless enough.”

“Harmless,” she repeated.

He’d seen Annalise’s wrath and he fully expected to be on the receiving end any moment, but after several moments of silence he began to wonder. Still she stood, but she no longer faced him, instead she looked in the opposite direction.

“Annalise,” he said, gripping her elbow.

She turned to face him, her expression flamed with indignation. “You deceived me, played me for a fool.” She shook her head. “I said things I never would have—” She choked on the rest of the sentence.

Was she looking to him for an apology? Yes, he’d deceived her, but she’d walked out on him. Chosen a thief over a fiancé who … who what? Who was mad with lust for her? These were not the romantic words of love that a lady longed to hear. Still, she didn’t seem to be longing for such words from him so what did it matter if he had tender feelings for her or not?

“There is nothing harmless about this night,” she said quietly. She pulled away from him and faced the sofa.

So she regretted that too, his touch, his kisses. It was a kick in his gut because he knew that had she not ripped his mask off, she would have allowed him to continue, to push their passion further. But with Griffin, it was all regret.

He watched Annalise now as she lay on the sofa. Then he made his way to the front door. He wouldn’t leave, not now, but he needed some air. And the cold night breeze. Already his blood heated for her, desire surging through his body.

“I need some air,” he said as he headed out the front door.

He shouldn’t have touched her. He’d known that all along about Annalise, that once he started he wouldn’t be able to stop. Wouldn’t want to. Despite her good breeding, she was a fiery woman, one with passion and pluck. She would never be the perfect wife who sat in the corner and nodded and smiled. No, not his Annalise. She would argue and fuss.

He knew that for a lot of men that would bring nothing but aggravation. And he’d be a fool not to admit that her feisty behaviour would bring its share of frustration. But he wouldn’t want her any other way.

With other women he’d always been bored. They all looked the same and they sounded the same. But Annalise had her sumptuous curves, her wide, easy smile, and her eyes shone with intelligence. Her father had even warned Griffin that the girl was too well read for her own good. “Those books put too many opinions in her head,” he’d said. Her parents had even tried to convince Griffin that Annalise’s younger sister, Penny, was a better choice for him. But prim and proper Penny did nothing for him.

Hell, he’d known he had to be careful with her. It was why he’d kept his distance. They were explosive together. And he didn’t want to give his mother any reason for sabotaging this union so she could marry him off to a girl of her choosing. But he’d kept his distance so much so that he’d convinced his would-be bride that he was indifferent to her.

He had betrayed her, that he could not deny. But she had abandoned him. Begged a stranger to kidnap her so she could escape their marriage. He’d be a liar if he said that didn’t anger him. Other men might be perfectly satisfied with marrying a woman who did not want to become their wife. But Griffin was not that man. He wanted Annalise, but only if she wanted him too.

Oh, she’d desired him. In those heated moments when he’d still worn his mask. Did that mean the fire in her burned so hot merely because of the adventure? Was it the danger of the unknown and the idea that a common thief had his hands and mouth on her body? He wanted to believe that somehow she’d known it was him, and that was why she’d been so wanton. But he was no fool and he was not given to silly boyish fantasies.

He knew what he had to do. He’d give her the choice. If she chose to walk away perhaps her reputation would not be too damaged.

“What do you mean, you’re leaving?” Annalise asked the following morning. Her voice was shrill, she knew that, but it panicked her to think he’d leave her, not simply alone here in this cottage, but that he would walk away completely. He’d lied to her and betrayed her, she reminded herself. But hadn’t she left him first? Begged a strange man — a man, to her mind, who was a common thief — to take her away from him?

“I have an appointment in Kent,” he said calmly.

She opened her mouth to speak, then said nothing. He still intended to marry her? Or was he planning to merely make an appearance to show good faith to her parents? Preserve his own name while he watched hers sullied? “Penny and Hildy will have told everyone what happened to me,” she said quietly. “No one will blame you for deserting me.”

“I’m not deserting you. I’ve called a carriage and it will take you wherever you choose to go,” he said.

“And what of the wedding?”

He inclined his head, then looked at her. “I’m planning on being in the church as we planned. If you so choose, you can meet me there and we will be married.”

“And if I do not?”

He shrugged. “Then I suppose I will be jilted and you will be free to do as you desire. Escape the propriety and boredom and chase that adventure you’re so desperate to find.”

She flinched, but took a step towards him regardless. “That’s it?” she asked, not knowing what she wanted him to say, but knowing she wanted more. Much more. Fight for me, her heart whispered. Want me, Griffin, love me.

“That’s it,” he said softly. He turned to go, then paused. “If you decide to go to London, you might want to leave fairly soon, the weather is getting colder and it might snow later. You wouldn’t want to get stuck on the road.” His eyes searched her face. He closed the door behind him, and he was gone.

She stood alone in the cottage. He’d never told her why he wanted to marry her, or if he even did. She knew he was honourable, despite his foolish wager that landed him the highwayman stunt. He would marry her because he said he would. Even though her reputation would now be in tatters. It would affect his name. He knew that. It mattered not that her virtue remained intact or that he was the only man who’d ever touched her. Society wouldn’t care about those details. All they would know was that she had been kidnapped by a highwayman two days before her wedding.

She realized now that what she’d wanted him to do was declare his love. Beg her to marry him because he couldn’t face another day without her. But men did not speak of such things, at least not to her. Why would she want to hear those things from him of all people? Certainly she did not love him. He was boring and inattentive … and passionate and utterly charming. She’d seen glimpses of those very characteristics that first night, then they’d all but disappeared.

The previous night though, as they’d played captor and captive, everything had been different. They’d talked, conversed, almost as friends would. They’d teased and flirted. He’d treated her as if he was courting her, wooing her. But that would mean he had tender feelings for her, which she knew could not be else he would have fought for her. But fought for what? A woman who’d declared she did not want him? Could not love him?

Annalise stared out into the woods surrounding the cottage. She strained her ears, trying desperately to hear the sound of hooves, willing him to return. But of course he would not. Which left the decision to her. What if she took that carriage and went to London? Showed up on the doorstep of her aunt and worked with her at her orphanage? She might have some satisfaction in her life from working with those who were less fortunate than her. She certainly adored her aunt and they always had a wonderful time together.

But what of love? What about being a wife and a mother? What of the passion she’d tasted for the very first time the night before? Perhaps Griffin did not love her now, but that did not mean he never would. Did it? He had asked her to be his wife and, even though she’d been horribly hurtful about his person, he had not walked away from her. He’d left for the church fully intending to marry her.

Or perhaps he intended to walk away from her once she met him at the altar? No, he could never be so cruel. Griffin, ah, handsome Griffin, who certainly had more adventure and passion in him than she’d ever realized.

Not to mention the way he’d touched her. The sensations he’d caused. She closed her eyes and, despite the chill from the morning air, warmth surged through her as she remembered his mouth on hers, his hand on her skin.

Her heart raced and thunder shook in her belly. Oh dear. Could it be? Did she love her very own husband-to-be?

Griffin ignored Annalise’s family who collectively had nearly paced a hole in the narthex floor. Every time her mother looked at him, she burst into tears. Her father had tried, on more than one occasion, to tell Griffin that no one expected Annalise to show her face at the wedding. Though her sister Penny looked appropriately worried, not one other member of her family was concerned about Annalise’s safety. To them, she was carelessly kidnapped by a villain. All they seemed to care about was Griffin’s feelings regarding her virtue.

They were mad, the lot of them.

He caught sight of Annalise’s sister again, standing quietly in the corner. Penny. What had Annalise said before he’d left? That Penny and Hildy would have told everyone what had happened to them. That meant Penny must have been in the carriage.

Griffin made his way over to the tall blonde. “Penny,” he said tersely.

She swallowed, but stepped over to him.

“Were you in that carriage?” he whispered.

She nodded. Her clear blue eyes welled with tears. “Yes, I was. Annalise covered me with her cloak and bid me stay inside, hidden.”

“To protect you,” he said.

“My reputation, My Lord, she was trying to protect my marriage prospects,” Penny said.

“So no one else knows you were in that carriage.”

“No, My Lord, my parents forbade it.”

He nodded and walked away from her. He’d thought Annalise had been so desperate to rid herself of him, she’d thrown herself at a common thief, but she’d merely been protecting her sister. Sacrificing her own reputation to salvage that of her beloved sibling. Perhaps that meant there was hope for them, for their future. If she decided to marry him. But damned if he wouldn’t have fought harder for her had he known the truth.

The wedding was a mere thirty minutes away and Griffin did his best to keep his own nerves from being rattled. Still he’d seen no sign of Annalise.

“Where is she?” his mother whispered from behind him.

“She’ll be here,” he said, willing it to be true. He would give her another hour and if she didn’t come, he’d go after her. Tell her how he felt, that he loved her and that he could wait until she learned to love him too. Though he tried not to be hurt and disappointed, he kept longing for the sound of a carriage rolling over the hillside.

And as if his heart had created that sound for him, he heard wheels crunching against rocks and hooves beating against the road. Annalise’s family continued to argue and speculate and do everything they could to be as insensitive and annoying as possible. Griffin stepped outside of the church, allowing the heavy door to slam behind him. He cared not if he was rude. All he cared about was whether or not she’d returned to him, and decided to marry him after all.

The carriage rounded the curve at the top of the hill and came in full view. It was definitely one of his, the Benning crest emblazoned on the door.

His heart thundered. He felt very much the eager schoolboy as he wiped his palms against his breeches.

Finally the carriage came to a rolling stop. He stepped forwards. The door opened. One delicate ankle stepped on to the step, then another as Annalise emerged from the carriage.

She’d come. Griffin fought the urge to run to her, to throw his arms around her and kiss her senseless.

“You came,” he said quietly as she walked towards him.

“I did.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that Penny was in the carriage with you?” he asked.

“It didn’t matter.”

“The hell it didn’t. It means everything. It means that you weren’t choosing a dangerous thief over a life with me. You were protecting your sister.” He paused. “Does this mean you’ll marry me?”

“I have a question first,” she said. She swallowed visibly and her lovely brown eyes looked up at his. “Why do you want to marry me, Griffin? I know my parents offered you Penny. Why would you choose me instead?”

He searched her face, looking for meaning behind her question.

She chewed at her lip. Her expression was so heartbreakingly vulnerable he fought the urge to pull her to him.

“I wanted to marry you because I love you,” he said.

Her mouth opened in a silent gasp. She gave him a shy smile. “You do?”

“Yes, Annalise, from the moment I first saw you in that dress shop on Bond Street. You so effectively put Lady Henwick in her place, I’d never seen anything like it. You intrigued me, amused me, your boldness, your fearlessness. I sought you out the following evening.”

“The Draper Ball,” she said.

“Yes. You looked perfect in your lavender gown.”

She frowned. “I didn’t know you remembered that.”

“I remember everything about you.”

“Then why? Why all that time during our engagement did you ignore me? Why did you spend so much time chatting up my parents while not so much as passing me a glance?” she asked.

He smiled. “Because I knew that if I spent too much time with you, I would not be able to keep my hands off you.”

“Truly?”

He pulled her to him, close to him, and inhaled the sweet scent of her hair. “Truly.”

“I love you, Griffin,” she said.

He squeezed her tighter. “Even though I’m boorish?”

She smacked his arm. “Yes, despite that, I still love you.”

The Weatherlys’ Ball

Christie Kelley

One

Tessa stared out across the ballroom, nervous apprehension running through her body. The Weatherlys’ ball looked no different than it had five years ago when she had raced from it in scandal. Only then, she had thought her lover would be a gentleman and correct the situation before marching off to war. How wrong she’d been.

“Are you all right?” Grace asked, squeezing Tessa’s hand in support.

“I am well.” She smiled over at her cousin. After the disaster that ruined her reputation, Grace had remained her only friend. Once Tessa had married Lord Townson and gone into seclusion in the country, Grace had been her only contact in town. Even Tessa’s parents had disowned her.

“I am glad you decided to come to town this season. Your mourning time is finished, now you can enjoy yourself again.”

“And find a new husband,” Tessa said with a touch of hardness to her voice. She knew marriage was the only option for her but dreaded the idea. After four years with Townson, she’d hoped for some freedom. But the bastard had left her with barely a pittance. Not even enough to support herself, much less Louisa.

Her daughter had been her only source of happiness since her marriage. Townson, of course, had been displeased that in four years she had only managed to give him a daughter. He’d assumed marrying a woman forty years younger than himself would help to produce an heir where his first two wives had failed. Tessa blinked and shook her head to rid herself of the dreadful memories of her marriage. Reminiscing about the past five years only saddened her.

She glanced over at Grace and wondered why her cousin seemed to be nervously assessing the ballroom. “Who are you looking for?”

“No one in particular,” Grace replied quickly. “I am just trying to see who is here.”

Tessa looked around the room and noticed a few faces familiar from her second season. But after almost an hour in the ballroom, not one person had come to speak with her. How was it that one mistake could mark a woman for life, while men could make multiple errors and no one chided them?

Money.

Men had the money and women did not. Nor did most women have a way to accumulate any. So, unless they were born an heiress, they had to count on their looks. And at five and twenty, the bloom was nearly off the rose for her. She had nothing to offer a husband except her intelligence and wit — neither a commodity most men looked for in a wife.

“Harry has finally returned from the gaming room,” Grace said. “Would you mind if I went to speak with him?”

“Of course not. Go to your husband.”

“Thank you, cousin. I shall return promptly.” Grace walked away, her blue silk swishing about her ankles.

Tessa sipped her wine and wondered how much longer Grace and Harry would want to remain at the ball. They had only accepted the invitation in order to get Tessa back out on the marriage market. Obviously, marriage would be a slow process.

“Lady Townson, how lovely to see you again. How are you?”

Tessa blinked and noticed the man beside her. “I am very well, Mr Harrington. And you?”

Harrington smiled in such a manner she thought he meant to devour her. “I am very well now. Would you care to dance?”

She bit her lip for a moment. Harrington had been a rake when she’d been out before, was he still the same? Without Grace, Tessa had no one from whom to seek guidance. Her gaze slipped to the dancers twirling across the floor in a parade of coloured silk. A pang of sadness flitted through her. It had been so long since she danced at a ball. “I would love to dance with you, Mr Harrington.”

“Excellent.” He held out his arm for her to take.

As they walked towards the dance floor, she studied him. Nearing thirty now, the past few years had been more than kind to him. His blond hair was still thick, with a touch of curl to it. His blue eyes sparkled like sapphires when he smiled, which he was doing right now. With his chiselled jaw, he was every woman’s fantasy … except hers.

Even now, she continued to dream of a man with black hair and light-green eyes. Perhaps it was true that people never forget their first love. Or maybe he was the only man she had been meant to love.

“I do believe a waltz is next. Are you still willing to dance with me?”

The last time she’d been out the waltz was a scandalous dance that only a few hostesses would allow at their balls. Grace had told her that it had become more acceptable, but still Tessa hesitated. She’d spent the past two months relearning all the dances she’d forgotten since her marriage and the waltz was one of them. “Yes, Mr Harrington.”

His smile turned almost devious. “I see your tendency towards scandalous activities hasn’t changed over time.”

She stiffened.

“Don’t be upset with me,” he whispered near her ear. “I always liked that about you. In fact, I was hoping to speak with you about a proposition that might suit us both.”

“Oh?”

Harrington laughed softly. “Don’t sound so prudish, Lady Townson. Being a widow gives you much more opportunity for pleasure than marriage to an old lord did. I can show you what it’s like to be with a real man. A strong virile man.”

Tessa blinked back the tears that blinded her. “I believe I have changed my mind about the dance, Mr Harrington. Good evening.”

She turned and left before he could say another disgusting word. How dare he just assume she would be interested in a lascivious affair because she was now a widow! Looking about the room, she tried to find Grace or Harry, to no avail. Where could they have gone? She backed herself up against a pillar and snatched a glass of wine from a passing footman. After a quick sip, she stared across the room.

“Still running away from men, I see.”

Tessa turned to face the one woman who had never caused her anything but grief. “Good evening, Georgiana. Lovely to see you again.”

“Am I to assume you are here to find your next victim … I mean, husband?”

“Yes, it was so enjoyable five years ago to win the love of the man you had hoped to marry. Shall we do it again this year?” Tessa plastered a smug grin on her face.

“Oh, but you didn’t really win that competition, did you?”

Before she could think of a witty reply, Georgiana turned and walked away towards the refreshment table. That woman had been a thorn in Tessa’s side all during her two seasons out. Georgiana had made it her mission to stop Garrett courting her, but Garrett and Tessa had seen right through Georgiana’s tricks. Tessa sighed and returned her attention to the ball.

A flash of black caught her eye. She watched the man as he walked towards the refreshment table. She was only able to see his black hair, but her heart pounded against her chest.

For a quick moment she thought it was he. But that was inconceivable. He’d been dead for almost five years. Perhaps it was his older brother, Laurence, a man she had no desire to speak with again. Laurence had not even found it necessary to inform her about Garrett’s death in person. Instead, he’d sent her a note.

Her eyes refocused on the dark-haired man at the table. Something about his mannerisms reminded her of the only man she’d ever loved. The only man who had broken her heart so completely. Not a day passed that she didn’t wonder how different her life might have been if he hadn’t gone off to the war.

But this gentleman was surely different. His black hair was longer, almost reaching to the collar of his emerald coat. And he had a slight limp as he walked past the table. Still, the way he cocked his head as someone made a comment seemed vaguely familiar.

Tessa looked down at her wine and noticed how badly her hands trembled. This had to stop. Garrett had been dead for five long years and nothing could bring him back. And yet, even as she scolded herself, her gaze returned to the man at the refreshment table. She smiled slightly, knowing he was about to turn around and then she would see for certain that he was not the man she’d loved.

The black-haired man turned towards her.

It couldn’t be him. Garrett was dead!

Tessa’s wine glass fell through her cold fingers.

Two

Everyone’s gaze, including Garrett’s, turned as the sound of breaking glass rent the air. A flash of red hair could be seen before the woman raced from the ballroom and out a terrace door. His heart stopped for a moment. It couldn’t be her. After what had happened, she would never attempt to go about in society again.

“It truly amazes me that anyone would invite Lady Townson to a ball,” whispered a female voice behind him.

“Poor Mrs Billings felt she had no choice but to bring her into her home after the old lord died. After all, she is her cousin,” another woman commented.

“She should have stayed in the country.”

Fury washed over him at both the comments, and at the idea that Tessa was at the ball. Had she seen him and dropped her glass? He almost laughed at the thought. The cold-hearted woman had probably only been flirting with another man when she let the glass slip. She was likely just trying to attract more attention to herself.

But watching her scamper off to the gardens had sent his anger even higher. It was high time he confronted her about what she’d done to him. With her living in the country, he’d never felt a need. But now that she had returned, he would deal with her. He strode towards the terrace, attempting to ignore the pain in his hip and the looks of pity from the people around him.

The cool April air was like a slap in the face after the stifling conditions inside the ballroom. The fresh scent of the evening air refreshed him. He moved along a row of rose bushes, the gravel crunching under his feet as he listened for any sound. The chilly temperatures had kept most of the amorous couples inside. A few torches lit the path as he ambled towards the brick wall to the back of the garden. He paused for a moment to listen to the rhythmic shuffle of pacing on the gravel path ahead of him.

He found her with her hand over her mouth, muttering, pacing, her eyes frantic.

“How can he be alive?” she whispered.

He didn’t move for a moment but just stared at her, remembering exactly how she had looked five years ago. So beautiful it took his breath away.

With her red hair and blue eyes, a heart-shaped face and curves exactly where a man wanted them, she had been one of the most popular girls out during her seasons. She had favoured him with her smiles and her dances. And he had craved her attention. Now she had matured and sorrow marked her face. Could she have loved her older husband so much that she still missed him a year after his death?

“What are you doing here, Tessa?”

She glanced up with a gasp and shook her head. Tears trailed down her cheeks and her blue eyes looked like wet sapphires. “What am I doing here?”

“That was my question.”

She rose from her seat and stared at him. “You are supposed to be dead.”

Dead? “If you think you can attempt to fool me with your duplicitous words, you are mistaken.”

“Fool you!” She walked over and slapped him across the face.

Damn. He rubbed his cheek as the pain lessened. “Try that again and you will find yourself over my knee.”

She laughed caustically. “Over the knee of a dead man. I doubt you will be able to manage it.”

“Why do you insist that I am a dead man?” he asked.

“Why don’t you ask your brother? I’m sure he can tell you why he wrote me a letter stating that you had died. Or maybe you can explain why I received your letter. The one I was only supposed to receive after your death.”

“And what about my other letter?” he demanded.

Her brows furrowed deeply. “There was no other letter. The only note I received from you was the one that just about killed me.”

Before he could even begin to understand, she picked up her skirts and ran from him. Not unlike how she’d run from him five years ago. And as much as he would have liked to chase after her, his damned hip prevented him from anything more than a slow walk. By the time he reached the ballroom, he knew she had departed.

Not that he could blame her. Now, he would have to wait until tomorrow to call on her and ask for an explanation. But he had no way of justifying his brother’s actions, if he was to take her remarks as truth. No way of discovering why Laurence would have sent her such a note. Could Tessa have been so secluded from society gossip that she didn’t know Laurence had died over a year ago? Or that Garrett had inherited the title?

He walked back out to the terrace and sat on a stone bench, remembering a night like this five years ago. Making love to her out in the garden had been one of the more foolish things he had done in his life. And yet, the most memorable. She had been driving him insane with desire for a month before she finally let him kiss her. But one kiss hadn’t been enough for either of them.

Why she’d agreed to marry Townson had never made any sense to him. Garrett had written her a letter the very next morning offering to marry her via proxy once he arrived with his unit in Belgium. But she had never replied. Instead, he’d received a letter from Laurence stating that she had married Townson. Laurence had implied she married him for the title and money.

Garrett went a little mad after receiving his brother’s letter. Placing himself in dangerous situations, perhaps hoping God would take him. Obviously, God hadn’t wanted him any more than Tessa had.

Still, he owed her an explanation, just as she owed him one.

Three

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Tessa demanded of Grace the next morning. “You knew he was alive and you never told me. How could you do that?”

Grace stared down at her hands. “By the time I discovered he was alive, it was too late, Tessa. You had already married Townson. There was nothing you could have done.”

Tessa strode across the small parlour of Grace’s home. Dodging Louisa, who lay on the floor petting the cat, Tessa stalked past the wingback chair where Grace sat, then stopped.

“Why didn’t you tell me after Townson died?”

“I didn’t want him to hurt you again,” she replied quickly. “I was only trying to protect you. The only reason I agreed to go to that ball last night was because I’d heard he would not be there.”

Tessa looked up at the white ceiling. “Grace, you know I would have discovered the truth sometime. You should have told me so I didn’t embarrass myself in front of all those people … again.”

“I’m sorry, Tessa. I honestly never meant to hurt you.”

“I know.” She walked the length of the room again, this time stopping by the fireplace. “Has he married, then?” she whispered.

Grace shook her head. “No. His brother died a little over a year ago and now that he is Viscount Haverhill, everyone is expecting him to start courting an eligible lady.”

Tessa swallowed back the bitter taste that filled her mouth. The idea of Garrett marrying someone made her clutch her stomach. Now she would have to spend the whole season watching him court some young woman.

“He said he wrote me a letter that I never received.” Tessa resumed her pacing. “I wonder why I never learned of it.”

“Do you think he was lying?”

Tessa frowned and shook her head. “He seemed quite sincere.”

“Your parents might have intercepted it,” Grace said, looking up at Tessa as she passed the chair again. “You know they didn’t approve of him. They felt his prospects were limited at best.”

“He was an officer in the military. The second son of a viscount. There is nothing wrong with that.”

“True. But they had higher expectations for you than a military man.”

Tessa shook her head in disbelief. Could her parents have been so deceitful? In her heart, she knew they could. All they had wanted for her was a wealthy peer who would marry her and take her out of their home.

A knock scraped the door and Grace’s butler peered into the room. “Lady Townson, you have a caller.”

Tessa frowned. “Who is it?”

“Lord Haverhill, ma’am. Shall I inform him that you are not at home?”

“No, show him to the receiving salon. I shall be there presently,” Tessa replied, as nervous energy filled her.

As the door shut, Tessa looked back at Grace. “What am I to do now?”

Grace smiled sympathetically. “Talk to him and find out where your letters crossed.”

Tessa nodded. With a breath for strength, she walked to the receiving parlour. And there he was. He rose to his full height upon her entry. Could she really have forgotten what a handsome man he was?

His black hair was longer than he used to wear it, but still just as striking. His green eyes were the lightest she had ever seen, almost the colour of a peridot. His square face, straight nose and brilliant smile made him hard to resist. And resist him was exactly what she should have done five years ago. Today, those intense eyes burned her as she walked slowly into the room.

“Lady Townson,” he said with a quick bow.

“Lord Haverhill.” She took a seat as far from him as possible.

“I believe we should talk about what happened last night.” The stiffness in his voice carried through to his body. He crossed his arms over his chest as he waited for her to speak.

Tessa’s heart pounded. “I am not sure there is any more to discuss.”

“You told me you received a letter from my brother stating I had died. I find it difficult to believe my brother would have done such a thing. He knew how I felt about you at the time.”

She blinked in surprise. “You don’t believe me?”

“I said, ‘I find it difficult to believe’. Not impossible.”

His cold tone sent a shiver through her. “I still have the letter,” she whispered. She had kept all of Garrett’s letters. She had reread them every night after Townson left her bed.

He closed his eyes and blew out a long sigh. “Might I see it?”

Tessa hated the tension this discussion brought. The two of them used to be able to talk about everything. Now, he could barely stand being in the same room as her. “It is in my bedchamber. I will ask a footman to retrieve it for me.” She rose and walked to the door. After speaking to the footman, she returned.

“You never received another letter from me after the one from my brother?” he asked quietly.

“No. What was in it?”

“Nothing of importance,” he muttered then swore under his breath. He rose with the assistance of his cane and walked to the fireplace. “Are you lying to me, Tessa?”

She watched him limp to the fireplace and her heart went out to him. He had been a brilliant horseman before the war and now he looked as if he could never ride again. She wondered if the wound pained him.

“Tessa, are you lying to me?”

“Of course not,” she snapped. “What purpose would I have in lying to you?”

He turned at her outburst. “Excuse me?”

“Your letter broke my heart, Garrett.”

His smile turned nasty. “I’m certain you were so heartbroken that you let your parents marry you off to old Townson. Of course, he was a much better catch, being a viscount.”

“Get out of this house,” she said, pointing towards the door.

“Not until I see this supposed letter you received.” He walked towards her, leaning heavily on his cane.

Each step brought him closer, until she could smell the aroma of his sandalwood soap. She shouldn’t feel this attraction to him. This desire to run her hand down his cheek, just to feel the rough stubble there.

“Why did you marry him?”

“I thought you were dead,” she whispered. “I didn’t care who I married after I had lost you.”

He closed his eyes. “I see.”

“I don’t think you do.” She should tell him the real reason for her marriage, but that news would only cause him more pain.

“Did your parents force the marriage?” He opened his eyes again and stared at her.

Tessa nodded. “They felt it was the best for me. My reputation was in ruins. I had no prospects for a decent marriage.”

“Excuse me, ma’am,” a footman paused at the threshold. “Here are the letters you asked me to fetch for you.” He handed them to her before disappearing.

Tessa stared down at the bundle of letters tied together with a blue ribbon. She pulled out the top letter that she had read hundreds of times. In it, he had expressed his love for her and his sorrow at losing her so soon. Slowly, she held out the worn paper to him.

“This is your letter.” She then sorted through the other letters until she found the one from his brother. “And this is your brother’s note.”

He opened the first note and stared down at it. For a long moment he said nothing, and then he handed the papers back to her. “I am dreadfully sorry, Tessa. That note was not supposed to go to you unless I died. I can only assume that Laurence decided he wanted you out of my life and this was the best way to do it. Unfortunately, we will never know for certain.”

He retrieved his cane and walked towards the door.

He was leaving? She couldn’t let him go just yet. There was more they had to discuss, wasn’t there?

“How were you injured?” she asked.

“I was shot in the hip.” He continued to shuffle to the door. His limp was much more pronounced than it had been yesterday.

She bit down on her lip and tried not to cry. He could have lost his leg to an injury like that or, worse, died from an infection. Had things worked out between them, she could have been the one to help him recover, or rub his hip when it pained him. Now he was walking out the door, and if she didn’t try to stop him, she might not see him again.

“Would you like to stay for some tea?”

He stopped and slowly turned to face her. “Tessa, I believe it would be best for both of us to continue with our lives as usual. What happened is in the past. Nothing can change it. Good day.” Then he was gone.

She couldn’t move as he walked out of her life again. Dropping to a chair, she stared at the low fire glowing in the fireplace. While she still had feelings for him, perhaps he felt nothing for her? Perhaps he was right — they should continue as if they had never found each other again.

A burning flame of anger lit her. Standing up, she walked across the room to the window. Pulling back the heavy velvet curtain, she watched as he clambered up to his coach. Something was keeping him from letting her back into his life. And she did not believe it was her marriage or the deception of his brother, or her parents.

She was determined to find the true cause of his reluctance.

Four

As his coach eased away from Tessa’s home, Garrett stared up at the window where she stood watching him. This was for the best, he told himself. The last thing she needed was to be burdened with a cripple.

He leaned his head back against the squabs. Dammit! Why did she have to come back to town? She should have stayed in the country and found a homely squire to marry and give her babies. She shouldn’t have returned where he would see her every time he attended a ball. Just being in the same room with her had been torture. It had taken all of his resolve and military training to walk away from her.

When she had asked him to stay for tea, he’d wanted to say yes. Wanted to spend more time in her company. Wanted to kiss her until she moaned with pleasure. Not that he understood why she would want to spend a second longer in his company than needed. He had discovered quickly that his injury frightened many of the young ladies away. They wanted a whole man, not someone who could not even dance with them.

The best course of action was to stay away from her. After he’d been wounded, he decided he would never subject a woman to marrying half a man. His younger brother Robert, or one of Robert’s sons, could inherit the title and estates when the time came. For now, he would continue on, rebuilding the fortune that Laurence had lost over the years. And he would not think about Tessa.

Garrett almost laughed at the thought.

He had thought about Tessa almost every day for the past five years. Seeing her had only relit the flame of his desire. Knowing that tonight he would most likely run into her again, only made him want her more.

Somehow, he would fight his feelings for her.

Garrett scanned the audience, determined to find her. The opera would be starting soon and he knew if he didn’t see her before it started he would never be able to watch the performance. Remembering her favourite colour was sapphire, he examined every woman dressed in any shade of blue. As the orchestra started, he moved to violet gowns, another of her favourites. Again, he didn’t find her.

Finally, as the curtain started to rise, he found her sitting in the back of a box with her cousin Grace Billings. Tessa looked pale and uncomfortable as she shifted in her seat. Perhaps she had noticed his gaze, but her eyes remained focused on the stage.

Now that he knew she was there, he could ignore her and watch the opera.

And yet, not five minutes later, he found himself staring at her again. This obsession was maddening.

“So, who exactly are you staring at?”

Garrett turned to his friend, David Harris, sitting next to him. If it weren’t for David, Garrett would be dead. It was David who had pulled him to safety after he was shot in the hip. “No one,” he replied with a scowl.

“Indeed?”

Garrett moved his gaze back to the stage and attempted to watch the performance. Nonetheless, his eyes slid to the side, where he could just make out Tessa.

“He’s doing it again,” David said to his wife Anne, who was sitting in front of them with her younger sister.

Both women glanced back at him with a smile.

“Leave him alone,” Anne said with a compassionate smile to Garrett.

He shook his head and forced himself to concentrate on the opera. During the intermission, he walked the corridors to loosen the tightness in his hip. Sitting for long periods always caused him pain.

“Good evening, Lord Haverhill.”

Garrett halted his hobbling stride and looked over at Tessa. She sipped her lemonade with a smile. A damned seductive smile. “Good evening, Lady Townson. I hope you are enjoying the performance tonight.”

“Not particularly,” she replied with a little shrug.

Seeing her up close was far worse than from across the expanse of the opera house. Her jonquil dress was cut low enough to display her full, rounded breasts to perfection. Damn his unruly desire. Just standing this close to her was enough to make him hard. He had to get his mind off her.

“So where would you prefer to be, then?” he asked.

Her smile deepened until two small dimples appeared in her cheeks. “At home. In bed.”

Not the words he needed to hear when his imagination had already placed her in a bed with him on top of her. “Oh?” was his only insipid response.

“Do you plan to attend the dinner party at the Byingtons’?”

“Yes,” he muttered, before realizing he should have said no and avoided her.

“Excellent,” she said with a smile. “I shall see you there.”