Counterfeit Countess

by

Lynne Connolly

Chapter One

Instead of a warmly anticipated cosy dinner with friends, Faith Dalkington-Smythe had to dig out her finery, such as it was, and call her maid to help her dress. She could not ignore the summons from her exalted relative by marriage, the Countess of Graywood. It would have to be the Pomona green gown that had seen several outings to Grosvenor Square. Lady Graywood wanted relatives en masse to celebrate the return of her two sons from an extended visit abroad, one of them the current Earl. Nobody would pay attention to her. To the Dalkington-Smythes she was an embarrassment, a leftover from the war, the widow of a distant relative.

Her maid Robinson twirled and set the curls on Faith’s cropped hair, carefully put the decorative clips into place and then picked up the rouge pot.

“No.” Faith had only had recourse to it a few times and she didn’t intend to use it now. She might appear a little pale, but nothing more. The company could put up with that.

“Ma’am?”

She must have sighed. “Hand me my gloves please, Robinson. I should make haste.” The dowager countess never failed to introduce her to a succession of respectable widowers. Invariably they were looking for a mother for their children rather than a wife, or older men who, after a lifetime’s debauchery, required an heir. A nanny she was not, never had been and refused to become.

Likewise, although these days she looked the part, was she a governess. But a marriage would end the Dalkington-Smythes’ perceived obligation to her.

She knew what to expect. Ladies who behaved either terribly kind to her or condescending, or, in some instances, both. Faith had no doubt society had more to offer but the only part she’d seen was Lady Graywood’s section, and they didn’t appeal to her taste. She’d make her excuses and leave early. Besides, she had other reasons to stay out of the notice of polite society.

By the time Robinson had located Faith’s best Paisley shawl they were running a few minutes’ late. Mildly annoyed, but trying not to show the way her temper mingled with the increasingly tighter knot in her stomach, she hurried downstairs to the hall. Her companion Amelia, bright and patiently waiting, gave her a nervous smile.

Dinner was to take place at seven, so they set out at a quarter past six. The crested Graywood carriage awaited outside. Barely ten minutes later it dropped them outside the gracious house in Grosvenor Square.

The hall they entered was similar in design to the one in Red Lion Square but there the comparison stopped. Here all was marble and grandeur, a liveried footman waiting to take their outer garments. Faith had expected to see more people here, since they hadn’t arrived as early as they’d wished.

As she passed him her hat and shawl, she glanced at the footman’s sleeve, and frowned. “You’re wearing a black band.” The man said nothing. The hairs on her arms prickled, although the house was kept at a pleasant temperature.

After exchanging a trepidatious glance with Amelia, Faith led the way up the elegant stairs to where another footman stood outside the drawing-room doors. Instead of the gentle hubbub of thirty or so guests, a much quieter conversation was taking place and when she went in she saw only a few people.

Lady Graywood, her two daughters and one gentleman.

The man wore sober garments, an armband ringing the upper sleeves of his evening coat. She couldn’t see him properly, because Charlotte, the oldest daughter, sat close to him, her profile obscuring his face. Her ladyship and her daughters were not attired as finely as Faith expected. In fact, the countess wore what appeared to be a day gown, the neck high, the skirts skimming her ankles.

Unheard of at this time of day.

Oh God, what had happened? Fear, unknown at this level for years, clutched her throat and she had to gasp for breath.

In one smooth movement the man rose to his feet and faced her.

He inclined his head, dark eyes gleaming. “Here I am, my dear, newly home from Canada.”

Faith had never done such a thing before, but faintness threatened. Her sight prickled, spots dancing in her vision, and a black nothingness swam in from the edges. “Dear God,” she said. “I thought you were dead.”

* * *

Strong hands caught her elbows. Awareness tingled through her, jolting her out of her near faint. Her head jerked up and she met the hard gaze of the man she’d watched work a regiment into shape, ruthlessly driving them into forming an efficient fighting unit. The man who’d died at Waterloo, or as it appeared now, hadn’t perished after all. Lieutenant-Colonel John Dalkington-Smythe.

“Your husband has returned,” Lady Graywood said, her voice measured.

“I should have visited you privately.” He sounded impatient.

“Come and sit down.”

He didn’t give her much choice. He released one elbow but his grip on the other tightened when he led her to a sofa. The seat was hard as a rock but at least she didn’t have to try to keep upright any more. Faith sat, the man next to her. She blinked to try to clear her vision.

“I thought it best you came here,” Lady Graywood said. “We have a number of matters to discuss.” Did she sound shaken?

Something in her voice, a slightly higher pitch, tautness, warned Faith that the dowager was as close as she’d ever known her to breaking.

What the hell had happened? She didn’t want to think, didn’t dare think.

The man took her hand, the gesture uncomfortably personal, burning through Faith’s evening gloves. She drank it in as if she couldn’t help herself. A spark of anger mingled with her bewilderment. She hated feeling this helpless, detested it.

She knew him, she’d watched him for years, while he held himself aloof, hardly noticing her. Now he gripped her hand. Did he recognise her? He showed no sign of doing so. Yet she knew him, every hard line, even the way he sat straight, disdaining the support of the sofa, a soldier from the top of his head to the soles of his feet.

He shouldn’t hold her hand in this way. “My dear,” he said. His dear? Something cold touched the fingers of her other hand, striking through the fabric of her glove. A glass. Wine. Good idea.

She glanced at it, glad to have something to do and carefully lifted it to her lips to take a sip.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

“What for?” That sounded stupid, but so did his apology. “That you’re alive? That you didn’t die at Waterloo?”

There followed a sound she hadn’t expected to hear in this room, especially at this time. A low rumble of laughter, deep in his throat, so soft she didn’t know if the other people present had heard it. Disconcerted, she glanced away to where Amelia sat primly in a chair placed next to the sofa. She nodded her thanks. Amelia certainly had her priorities right. Her companion nodded back, her face as white as Faith’s own must be.

“No,” he said. “Not that. I left you alone for nearly two years.

The thing is, I had no idea I’d married you until recently—I lost my memory.”

She swivelled around to confront him, considerations of propriety leaving her, only recalling the nearly empty glass in her hand at the last minute. “Your story sounds like something out of a gothic novel. Whatever do you mean? Where have you been? What have you been doing?” The elegant politesse of fashionable society had gone way beyond her abilities.

He raised a brow, a quirk she found deeply attractive. She always had and with him this close it affected her the more. “If I may I’ll start at the beginning. Waterloo.”

Lady Graywood cleared her throat. “A strange place to begin.”

“Ah, but you know what happened up to that point,” he said.

“Wellington sent my company to defend Hougoumont, the farmhouse at the thick of the fighting. I was badly injured and when I came to, in a surgeon’s tent after the battle, I could hardly speak.

When they asked me my name, I managed ‘John Smith.’”

Lady Grayson exhaled, a disapproving sound when she added the slightest note of derision to it. “You couldn’t remember your name?”

“That is my name,” he said. “Smythe is a version of Smith, and the Dalkington has only belonged to it for the last fifty years, when my great-grandparents married.” Julia Dalkington, an heiress whose family had insisted on the hyphenation in exchange for the bulk of her fortune.

“You should have made the effort to say it. I’m surprised no one knew you. Did they not find identification?” Lady Graywood sounded affronted that nobody realised who he was, but Faith understood exactly why nobody had recognised him. A head injury would leave swelling and blood. They’d have no time to clean him, merely to attend to the wound enough to give him a chance at life.

And he would have been naked, or close to it, when they brought him in. Scavengers stripped the wounded and dead, left them to lie together while they removed anything of value. If they thought he could recognise them, or if he’d put up any resistance, they’d have killed him.

Faith shuddered. “Did you lie on the battlefield?” she managed to say, the words conjuring the vision of bare, churned-up ground strewn with bodies, white and red, bloody and pale in death.

Waterloo wasn’t the only battleground she’d seen after the event.

The worst sound she ever heard in her life was the moaning of the men barely alive. No, the worst was the eerie silence that fell a day later when the troops went out to collect and bury their dead. If they could accomplish it without being killed themselves. Her husband usually ensured she stayed well behind the lines, but sometimes lines shifted, and they had to travel through the place to get away. The hot Spanish sun would already be doing its work. At least it had rained at Waterloo.

His hand tightened on hers and she knew he was remembering, too. “So you were John Smith?” she prompted gently, trying to dispel the visions that would help nobody, least of all her and the man sitting next to her.

His voice dropped steadily into the room, too measured. Faith heard the rigid control. “I could remember no more. Hardly surprising because someone struck me on the head, a vicious blow that rendered me helpless. While the result of the battle relieved some of my concerns, my personal memories had left. I knew I was English, because I spoke the language naturally. While some memories returned rapidly, others remained hidden. They came back only recently.”

When she met his gaze the bottom of her stomach fell away.

This was it, the moment she’d dreaded for years, her undoing. She could read nothing in his dark eyes before he turned to address her ladyship and her daughters.

“I still don’t recall the month before the battle. On that, my mind is almost completely blank. I received a severe a shock when my cousin told me that my wife was living in London and considered herself a widow. As far as I knew, I had no wife.” Again, he swung around to meet her eyes. The corners of his mouth twitched in the beginnings of a smile and his expression warmed.

“Such a lovely wife, too.”

The breath caught in her throat and she had to tell herself to breathe. He didn’t remember? He didn’t know? “Do you recollect much before that month?”

He shook his head. “It’s patchy. I think my memory is at full strength about a year before.” He stopped and picked up a glass of wine from the table on his other side. She remembered her own drink and took a fortifying sip of what remained. Lord knew she needed it. He continued with his story. “After Waterloo I got out of that medical tent in a week. Nobody wants to linger in those places and once I was out of danger they required the space for the worse-off. The man in the bed next to me had decided to leave Europe for the New World. It sounded an excellent idea to me, so we took ship to Canada as soon as we could get a berth.” He turned a sombre gaze on to her. “You helped with the wounded?”

“Pray do not tell me you saw the injuries!” Lady Graywood exclaimed and her eldest daughter Charlotte shivered, more, Faith thought, in excitement than horror. But then, she hadn’t been there. Journalists, storytellers, could make it sound exciting.

Newspapers did it all the time.

“Everyone did,” she said. “Ladies of high renown did all they could to help too.” Even though she’d hated every minute she’d helped, the wails of the wounded terrifying her. She’d never forget the moment when they passed from life into death and left everything behind. The soldier became—not a person any longer.

Only a carcass. Perversely, the sight had increased her sense of the spiritual, that something had gone. Not that it assisted her at the time. She’d moved on to the next wretch, who was as likely to curse her or vomit on her, depending on the state of his wounds.

“Not a scene I would wish my daughters to witness,” Lady Graywood said.

“But a service the injured were immensely grateful for,” John said, and squeezed her hand. Camaraderie. Kinship of a kind that went beyond blood. She felt the shared experiences flow through them, and knew here was one person she could talk to who would understand. Except, of course, she couldn’t. She had to keep her guard up around him, more than anyone else.

“I rejoiced to see the back of Europe,” he said. “I had nothing at home, or I thought I did not. By the time I reached dry land, most of my memory had returned, but I saw no reason to return to England. My parents were dead, I was an only child, and two healthy men stood between me and the earldom. I sent a letter to inform you of my decision to stay away, although I understand that it never arrived, and I set out for the wilds of Canada. I found work when I needed it and kept moving. Eventually I discovered a trade.

Fur trapping. I made a reasonable amount of money, enough to buy a house in a more civilised area, and employ a few people.” Yes, he was dressed respectably, not in the first stare of fashion. His coat didn’t fit him like a glove. It looked as if he could remove it for himself, rather than have a manservant peel it off his form, but a Corinthian would envy the figure under.

He was the husband she’d always secretly dreamed of.

Except he wasn’t her husband.

Chapter Two

The moment he saw her face John regretted his decision to prevent any attempt to give Faith the news of his survival. He’d wanted to see her reaction untarnished by prior knowledge. He’d only arrived at the house that afternoon, having taken a day to rest and consult with his man of business in London. That meant the dowager countess hadn’t exactly had time to gather her thoughts, either.

When he’d given her the news about her sons she’d retreated to her private chambers. She hadn’t re-emerged until half an hour ago, still dressed in her morning gown. He’d taken it on himself to cancel the dinner for that evening. From what he remembered of her, this was as unlike her usual behaviour as to suggest the sad tidings he’d delivered had affected her more than she revealed publicly.

John sensed that if he let go of Faith’s hand, she’d bolt for the nearest door. Or window, if she couldn’t find a door close enough.

Faith Dalkington-Smythe had fooled the dowager completely. Lady Graywood was one reason he’d shaken the dust of Europe—or the mud—off his boots with such alacrity. Fur trapping beat soldiering any day of the week, although he could have horrified her delicate ladyship with tales of the conditions he’d lived through. She’d never have received most of the men he called friends in her elegant drawing-room.

He kept his grip on Faith. It anchored him to reality, reminded him of his nature, what he was, what he wanted. Because she wasn’t the only one whose mind whirled. Keeping his attention on his story stopped that happening. When his cousins had suggested a brief visit home, he’d firmly told them he would spend only a month in England, then he’d head back to Canada. Certain they’d made a mistake with their account that he had a widow waiting for him in London he’d set out, determined to put Europe behind him for good. Until the tragedy at sea. Then he knew he’d never see his home in Canada again. Unhappy with this new twist of fate, he decided to do what he would face up to his burden of responsibility.

At least he’d had time to get used to his new circumstances.

He’d decided to spring the news on the woman to shock her into confessing the truth—that she wasn’t married to him.

Then Stephen had mentioned his “widow”’s first name and his memory had shot back. He had so many visions of Faith in his mind, of her working in camp, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, sitting outside her tent mending her ragged clothes, all without protest or complaint. Braver than any other woman he knew, she never failed her husband. His main recollection was of the inappropriate erection he sometimes sported when he allowed himself to dwell on her too long. Completely inappropriate, absolutely ungentlemanly and his problem to bear and conquer alone. His own private battle, one he’d never quite managed to win.

When he’d seen her valiantly erecting temporary shelter, playing a foolish game with the children or cooking for her husband on an open fire outside some makeshift accommodation, he’d wanted to sweep her up. He’d take her somewhere safe, where he could pamper her.

The woman posing as his widow in London couldn’t possibly be that Faith, his Faith. But it was. Seeing her had sent a jolt of recognition that had nearly buckled his knees. His desire for secrecy had redounded back on to him, and he received as much of a shock as she had.

The woman with the scraped-back, dark hair had become a beauty, soft curls framing her face, her skin glowing with health.

No, she’d always been a beauty to him. He’d hardly dared believe the woman he’d watched for so long was the wife who’d fallen into his hands like a ripe peach.

Now he had her, and he didn’t intend to let her go until he’d had his revenge. Dragging him back to a life he didn’t want, didn’t ask for, claiming his protection when in reality he had no claim on her—he needed to hear her story first. Most of all he wanted her, his erection performing the same antics it had every time he saw her.

“I spent most of my first year in the wilderness.” Too enthralled to think of anything except what was happening to him. Too fascinated by the country and its people. “I didn’t live in a place that took post regularly. I wasn’t aware anyone would miss me.” And cared less. “When my cousins visited me, I agreed to return for a short time.” His lips thinned when he recalled they’d asked him to try to create an heir for the earldom with his wife. “I admit it surprised me to discover that my married cousin hadn’t produced offspring, but it didn’t concern me.” The other was hardly likely to produce an heir, for reasons of his own. “Two healthy males stood between me and the title so I considered myself a free agent. I was until recently. They prevailed on me to come home for a visit, and we took ship.”

“The danger of the three heirs to an ancient title taking the same vessel is shocking,” Lady Graywood said, the tremble in her voice more apparent. “It was a mercy you didn’t all perish.”

John remembered his mother, so loving and careful of her children. So unlike the dowager, sitting opposite him. The summers he’d reluctantly spent at the family seat were some of the coldest of his life, despite the sun shining for most of the time. He could only bless his good fortune he’d not spent more time there.

If Faith thought she’d heard the worst news, she had a shock coming.

He turned to her, ignoring the others. “The journey passed without incident until a week before we landed. A storm whipped up from nowhere, and before we could gain the safety of our cabins Stephen slid down the deck and fell overboard. Vivian tried to save him.” He gripped her hand tightly.

She swallowed, her face white. “Stephen is dead?”

He nodded. “Vivian too.” No whitewashing the facts. The Faith he’d known had faced death multiple times.

Her ladyship heaved a sigh, and when he glanced at her, John could have sworn he saw a touch of genuine sorrow in her eyes. So far she hadn’t shown even that. He’d given her the tidings this afternoon, as soon as he’d arrived. Perhaps she had grieved in private.

“I could save neither. The sailors tied a rope around my waist to secure me to the railings behind me. Without that I would have died too.”

“But you didn’t,” Faith murmured, her expression calm, but her eyes stricken.

“No,” he agreed. “Self-evidently, I didn’t. I’m particularly glad about that part. I’m sorry.” He paused, remembering the men he’d known for most of his life but only truly understood during that last journey. “Truly. I’d have done anything to save them.”

The storm had come out of a blue sky, the clouds scudding across to cover the sun. Torrents of heavy rain pelted down with the suddenness of the tropics. Stephen didn’t have a chance with the sailors milling around, heading for the sheets and the sails getting in his way, tripping him. They wore rope shoes that had a heavy grip, but Stephen had his ordinary boots on, no purchase on the smooth leather soles. When the ship lurched he was nowhere near anything he could catch hold of.

“Are there any other heirs to the title? Any closer than me?”

Silently he prayed to every god he’d ever heard of. Let there be an heir! “Anyone else at all?”

Lady Graywood’s voice broke into the still silence that fell after the question he had to ask. “No. You are the sole hope of the family.

However I have Roker, our man of business, researching the matter.

The third earl had a large family, which included five boys so the possibility exists.” She sniffed. “An adventurous family, the Dalkington-Smythes. You are the de facto Earl of Graywood.”

John felt Faith stiffen, a slight quiver shivering through her delectable body. Because he had to face it, she had a lovely form, one he could scarce fail to notice. Even though her gown was a little too old in style for her, the neckline too high, the fabric too loose to flatter. He added another needle to prickle her skin, wondering how she would respond. Would his challenge please her? Was the rigidity a sign of her delight or her dismay? “At least I have my countess waiting for me.” He lifted her gloved hand and merely touched it with his lips. Even that gesture was a trifle forward, but the woman was his purported wife so if anyone should kiss her hand, he should.

When she turned her head towards him for an instant, he caught a fleeting expression. Panic, terror, something of that nature.

Certainly not delight, not pleasure. She didn’t want to be a countess any more than he wanted to become an earl.

Before that look, he’d considered her an adventuress, pure and simple, but in that case she’d have been delighted at this change in fortune. That unconsidered, fleeting glimpse he’d had wouldn’t have happened.

He’d willingly stand in the middle of a battlefield naked rather than face this stress. He’d fled half way across the world to avoid this kind of disturbance, right after Lady Graywood had declared he must marry one of her daughters. That had formed the final spur to his desertion of his homeland. Two years had passed and the girls weren’t married yet.

He glanced at Faith again, took in her clear skin, the thick, curly hair, gleaming in the candlelight. Desire seized him by the balls, a place he shouldn’t be thinking about here. It seemed a long time since he’d had a woman.

“I have called upon Roker to attend at your convenience.” The dowager sounded as if she was addressing a public meeting. “He will instruct you on your duties.”

She spoke as if he had no idea what the duties involved. He’d endured summers at the country house so they could give him the basic instructions in How To Be An Earl, or to be more precise, how to be an earl’s steward. Something he’d run from with huge relief, not least because of the constant humiliations handed out by the existing steward’s son, David Carlisle. He could have been playing cricket, or fishing, or any other damned thing. But no, he’d spent days, weeks, in the damp muniments room with the rent table in the middle studying books and ancient documents.

Opportunities for Carlisle to sneer at and belittle him.

They’d been sitting here for about an hour, as far as he could tell.

The withdrawing room clock was one of those delicate, feminine affairs without a chime, impossible to read if he stood more than three feet away. His watch ticked happily in his pocket, but he could hardly press the repeater button in company. Frustrating, with so many timepieces around, that he could only assess what the time was and how soon he could get away.

“If my wife is agreeable we will meet Roker together.” He gave the countess a regal nod, then turned to Faith. “Are you content with that, my dear?” He bestowed a positively honeyed smile on Faith.

Here came that blush again. He found the pink tinge enchanting, and a welcome change from the haunted glances she kept shooting him when she thought he wasn’t watching.

Before she could speak, the dowager jumped in. “Women have no part in such discussions.”

He begged to differ. “If there’s no law against it, I’d prefer my wife present. If she can bear it, of course.”

Faith blinked. “I didn’t think you’d want me at a business meeting.”

“Then you thought wrong. It’s your life too.” If she were his wife in truth, then he would want that. Besides, he wanted her nearby.

Less likely to bolt. And he wanted her to know what she’d come close to possessing before he denounced her. Oh, he’d use her, maybe even bed her, and she’d make a convenient shield for the next month or two, while he found his feet in this new life, but then he’d find a way of ridding himself of her. He wanted no part of her deception.

He was perfectly aware anger fuelled his decision, but he didn’t care. That this brave, beautiful woman he’d wasted years admiring from afar deceive his family in this way infuriated him. Had she taken him in too?

Her mouth opened, closed, then she said, “If you wish.”

What would she have said had they been alone? Probably the same. “I do. It’s better if you understand the ramifications of this shift in our lives. All of them, for that matter.”

“I’m still coping with the effects of not being a widow,” she snapped. Her eyes widened. Expressive eyes that revealed everything she was thinking.

“You would rather return to your sad state?” He didn’t wait for a reply. He didn’t want to hear her answer; since he feared it might not be one he desired. “I can sympathise with your confusion, my dear. I’ve had time to come to terms with the news. Two weeks since the storm that took both the previous earl and his brother.”

He caught the gaze of the woman opposite him—Charlotte, the oldest of the dowager’s daughters. For once, she’d lost the little-girl appearance and he saw the woman. Not for long, because the vapid expression returned. But he knew what she would have said. “What about me?”

At least she had money and a family. She didn’t have to rely on her wits alone to find a place in life. Or her body. Camp followers made themselves acceptable with bed privileges and by cooking and cleaning. He’d known them to take their man’s job when he’d been killed in battle to provide for the children, if another man didn’t offer them protection. Officers generally turned a blind eye to the practice, especially if they fell short of fighting men. He couldn’t imagine either Charlotte or Louisa thriving in those circumstances.

Faith, though. Ah, she was entirely different. He would discover why a woman he’d last known as the wife of another man had claimed to be his widow. For the money, perhaps, but she didn’t know exactly how much he was worth. Few people did. She’d have had access to his officer’s salary, a small annuity and a modest manor house in the country. And, it appeared, a house in Red Lion Square. He’d abandoned them all when he’d turned his back on Europe, but it seemed, someone else had not.

Her actions pointed at her taking advantage of opportunities that came her way in order to better her situation in life. On the other hand, she might well have taken the step from desperation.

Time to find out.

He got to his feet. “Come, my dear. We should retire. Events have exhausted you; do not attempt to deny it.” He could question her more effectively in private.

“I will have a meal conveyed to your chamber.” The dowager stood too, her bearing stiff, but then it always was. So far she’d shown little emotion when he’d given her the news he dreaded conveying, but God knew, as a serving soldier he’d had the experience in doing so. If she held off from that, then she’d hardly demonstrate any when given a setback. “However, I fear the earl’s chambers will not be ready for you until tomorrow.”

“Anywhere will do. We cannot turn you out of your own apartments.”

The dowager sent him a cold stare. “I moved out when my husband died. I have not occupied them for some years and they will need airing. I’m sure we may find a room for you tonight.”

“Thank you,” he said. Would Faith have the nerve to accompany him upstairs? After all, he hadn’t admitted to regaining his full memory. For all she knew, he believed they were married in truth.

Which gave him the benefits of a husband. Reconciliation had its physical implications.

Desire roared through him. He’d held off from her for years, but now she claimed to be his wife. He could claim his conjugal rights and who would stop him? If he continued to pretend he’d lost his recollection of events immediately before Waterloo, nobody would blame him for using this impostor any way he wanted to. Would she go along with it, or would she confess? Either way he would come out the winner. Finally bed the woman who had haunted him for years, or hear her confession.

He didn’t care which because he decided he’d have her either way.

Chapter Three

Panic made Faith’s breath short and she had to fight for control.

How could she go with him when he thought they were married?

She hadn’t missed his hot glance, understood exactly what it meant.

It had stirred her, moved her body to soften, ready itself for him, but she had never allowed herself to become a slave to her baser instincts. She refused to start now. She had to go home. On her own.

She’d known her masquerade couldn’t last forever but it had served its purpose. Maybe she could safely move on.

“I have no night things with me,” she said, “And I have to prepare for my removal here.” She pressed his hand. “You stay. I’ll be fine. I’ll come back in the morning.”

He cocked his head to one side. “You aren’t anxious for our reconciliation?” The warmth in his eyes seared her, but she feared letting him too close. She’d seen him at his most dangerous and she knew he was shielding his menace under a veneer of social respectability. He didn’t fool her.

She forced a smile, putting on the best act of her life, and she’d staged a few in the past. “I’m tired. I’m sorry, but I need to sleep and to think. I won’t be alone, I have a maid waiting up for me.”

He glanced away to where her companion sat cosily next to the dowager, a question in her eyes. “Amelia may remain here,” the older lady said. “I have need of a companion.” So the self-effacing duenna was taken care of. Matters could be worse. Maybe Faith would find herself in the same situation before long.

John nodded his agreement. “I will accompany Faith. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t ensure my own wife’s safety?”

She laughed, but even to her ears it didn’t sound natural. “It’s not far and I won’t have to cross an army encampment to get there.

You’re living too much in the past, Lieutenant Colonel.”

The way she said that jolted him. She watched his heavy lids lift once, and his brows rise before he assumed an expression of mild interest. “I wouldn’t dream of it. However, I will return here, if you wish me to.”

She’d known his frostiness before, but never directed at her. It made her feel chilled to her core, but she steeled her nerve and persisted. After tonight she need never see him again so she could afford to upset him now. “Y-yes, please. If you don’t mind.”

“Why would I object?”

His cool dismissal froze her too. His disinterest might prove worse than his anger. If, she reminded herself, she really did care, which naturally she did not. Not at all. “No reason in the world.

Thank you. I assure you, I’ll be fine.”

“Of course you will.”

If her luck held, they’d excuse her non-appearance tomorrow, giving her a clear chance to get away. Maybe he’d become too engrossed with Roker to concern himself much with her absence, until it became obvious she was not coming.

After giving her John a polite nod, she turned on her heel and walked away.

Her heart sank when she realised she’d have to say farewell to her comfortable life. Suddenly the boredom she’d felt when she’d awoken that morning seemed an indulgence, something a well-off woman might feel from time to time, but the likes of her had no business experiencing.

So far she had no idea where she would go, but she had a better idea than most society women. A better sense of self-preservation, too.

She sat rigidly apart from John on the way home, not trying to speak. He appeared content to remain silent. At the end of the short journey he handed her out of the carriage and gave the back of her hand a kiss. “You are sure you don’t want me to come in?”

“N-not tonight.” She thought of another reason she might not want him. “To tell you the truth, I need to become accustomed to the notion of sh-sharing my bed again.” She lowered her gaze, glancing up at him shyly.

A slow smile crept over his lips. “I can help you with that. But it can wait. I have never forced a lady, and I don’t intend to do so now.” He paused. “Merely persuade her. Goodnight, my dear.”

He waited until she’d opened the door and let herself in before she heard the carriage draw away, the horses clip-clopping up the cobbled street.

She could hardly wait to get upstairs. Robinson had to help her out of her dress, because it laced up the back, and she’d worn stays she needed help with, too. It took an age. Her maid insisted on brushing her hair and bringing fresh water from the kitchen before she would consent to leave. Faith had to assure her she could wash without assistance. Then she wanted to bring her mistress a concoction for her headache.

“I’m fine,” Faith said. “Only tired. Please go, Robinson. I’ll see myself to bed. I need nothing more.” She didn’t mention the circumstances of the dinner tonight. After all, why should she? It would only delay Robinson leaving.

How many people knew the earl and his brother had died, with only his second cousin to succeed him? Once they realised that, they’d beat a path to the door of this house, unfashionable or not.

The size of the house made it impractical for gatherings of more than ten people at a time. The thought of the great and the good gracing her modest reception room gave her a smile. Even now absurdity would do that. Despite her fears, her horror and her guilt she could still see the scene in her mind’s eye.

After the maid had left, Faith climbed out of bed and went to her chest of drawers, the uneven floorboards shifting under her feet in a comforting, familiar pattern. She rifled through the underwear drawer and found the papers John would need. She held them for a moment and glanced through them. Here were her dreams, laid out. Dead.

She put the sheaf on her dressing table, where he or whomever he sent wouldn’t fail to find them. Just to make certain, she weighted them down with a pincushion. She’d had that trinket for most of her life, but she’d sacrifice it. It had a union flag on it, in pins so old they’d have rusted through the pad, were it not for the emery inside that kept the steel clean.

No time to dream, she had to hurry. She had all night. Not enough. Not nearly enough. Even though she had some things ready. She’d always kept her bag half packed. Sometimes they had to up-sticks and move at a moment’s notice. Normal in the army.

Dragging the battered carpetbag from under the bed gave her pause. She’d told the maids it contained souvenirs from her husband, but of course it had no such thing. Inside she rediscovered her old, worn stays. She’d made the outfit last for years by turning the material every six months and remaking it, so when the colour faded, it had done so everywhere. Now they were a warm olive, where they used to be a sharp bottle green. Plain but serviceable, respectable and respectful. Just like she’d have to learn to become.

With a sigh she opened her clothes press and stared at the costumes she’d amassed since arriving here. Pretty things, relatively new. Now they seemed as unattainable as the diamonds Lady Graywood had sported tonight.

If she stayed, she’d have to order a lot of black. She’d never liked black.

She reached inside the press and fingered the fabric of the walking dress. Fine, and good quality, the kind of fabric she could never afford before. She’d make amends by leaving everything behind, and considering it a loan. True, she couldn’t pay any interest, but she’d return what she’d taken. This house hadn’t been in such an excellent state of repair when she’d bought it. She’d renovated it. With his money, but surely her care counted for something.

A Lieutenant Colonel’s pension, plus his private income had amounted to more than she’d supposed and she’d enjoyed it. While the dowager considered it a pittance, Faith had never had so much money in her life. She couldn’t give that back, or the quiet time she’d so badly needed to recover after the battle and the turbulence that had accompanied it.

She’d borrow a few items. Just to keep her respectable until she could get a position somewhere. She daren’t try to get a job in London. Even this city wouldn’t be big enough to hide her if he chose to come searching for her. Perhaps if she left a note, something appalling, telling him she relished fooling him and his family—no, he’d consider that a challenge and hunt her down. She knew enough about him to be absolutely sure of that. But if he thought her a damsel in distress he’d come, too, if only to satisfy his ridiculous male sense of honour. As if he hadn’t seen plenty of evidence of the rarity of honour these days.

Towel, a cake of soap, her toothbrush. He wouldn’t mind her taking those. Some clean linen, the plainest she could find. And a pair of shoes, the sturdiest ones she possessed, apart from the worn, many-times mended pair already in the bag.

She couldn’t carry any more. She might have to walk miles.

Wait, what was that place? Two inns on High Holborn, big coaching inns. If she could get there and take the first stagecoach, she’d get out of London at the crack of dawn. She could change for another at the first or second inn, and then he wouldn’t find her.

Her heart sank. She liked London, enjoyed the anonymity and the security of knowing most people she passed in the street didn’t care about her. Not that she was notorious. She probably would become so, once word got out, and people knew the truth about the sham Countess of Graywood. Tears stung her eyes but she blinked them back. No time for that.

John still couldn’t remember what had happened in the month before Waterloo, the month when her first husband had died and she’d remarried, or so everyone assumed. He’d accepted their marriage as real and so would society. She couldn’t live a lie, and she couldn’t drag him in to her masquerade. She would not allow that happen, let him present her to the world of London power and influence as his wife. Sooner than that, she’d let people believe she was an impostor. Which, of course, she was. They’d never forgive her the deception, but they’d give John a free pass, as the man more sinned against than sinning.

Crossing the room as silently as she could, given the creaking floorboards, she went into the powder room to change into her street clothes. When she came back, shoes in hand, her mind whirred with plans. She could become a governess, or a teacher at a small school. Maybe a housekeeper. A vicar’s daughter could lower herself to those professions and feel glad of the opportunity.

A male voice coolly broke into her thoughts. “Going somewhere?”

Her hands turned numb. The shoes fell to the floor with a crash of hard leather against equally hard wood. She clapped her palm over her mouth, stifling all but a single cry. He watched her, one brow raised in the throbbing silence while they waited for someone to take an interest. Nobody came.

Her heart drummed so hard she feared it would burst from her chest. She had to fight to breathe.

The man before her still wore the severely tailored clothes she’d seen him in earlier. However, he’d smudged the shirt and pulled a bunch of threads from his silk waistcoat. The silver embroidery glistened in the light from the candles she’d left burning, the flames guttering because she hadn’t trimmed the wicks.

Reaching out blindly, she found the corner of her chest of drawers and used it to steady herself, shaking with shock. “Where did you come from?”

“The maid didn’t latch the window properly.”

“But I’m on the second floor!” she cried, horrified anew by the danger he’d faced by climbing up here.

He grinned, but she saw no mirth in his expression. “I can manage to clamber up, even in these clothes.” He gave his coat a disdainful flick.

“Why did you come?”

“Because, my dear, I decided I could not do without my precious wife for another moment. If you wish it, we will sleep, but we’ll do it together, in this bed or in the one back at Grosvenor Square.”

“You can’t mean it!” But when she studied his powerful form she felt a ridiculous urge to throw herself at him. She’d let him close his arms around her and take the weight of the burden she’d carried for so long.

No, he had no reason to do that. She’d traduced him, stolen from him.

“Naturally I do.” He took a step towards her. She held her ground, gripping the piece of furniture hard. He touched her hand, unpeeled her fingers. She couldn’t repress her shiver at the contact.

He stopped but did not let go. “A shudder of repulsion?”

Wildly she considered admitting to it. Then he might leave her alone. She wouldn’t do it to him, lie that way. Not now. “No. It happens when you touch me. I don’t know why.”

“Then let me show you.” He tugged on her hand and she took a step, then another. Then she was as near to him as possible without touching more than his hand. Before she could retreat, he snaked his arm around her and released her hand, only to band that arm around her upper back. Instinctively she turned her head up to his, to demand he release her but as she opened her mouth to protest, he kissed her.

He gave no quarter. His embrace had no stage of politeness or tentativeness. He took her as if starving, as if he knew how she liked a man to kiss her.

She kissed him back. He didn’t leave her much choice. Hauling her so close a feather couldn’t pass between them, he opened his mouth over hers, worked her lips open with his, and plunged his tongue inside, tasting with a wild abandon she could accept or match.

She matched it. Where she found the courage, or the experience to behave so boldly she couldn’t say. Unless it was the certainty that she would not see him again after tonight. Although her resolution held, the knowledge had sent a pang through her she’d been reluctant to own, but now she could, and admit she would miss him. Again. Only this time he’d noticed her, because he could hardly do anything else. And wanted her.

Exhilaration sped through her, heating her blood. It turned her body into tingling awareness of this big, powerful man holding her so easily, kissing her as if his life depended on it. She was losing her mind.

Or she could do this, enjoy this, allow him to do what he desired and then wait until he fell asleep. Then she could still act on her plan. Men always fell asleep, and snored fit to bring the house down. Although she’d only had personal experience with one, an army camp did not lend itself to privacy.

Even as she made her decision, deep down she knew she was lying to herself. She wasn’t doing it to make it easier for her to get away after. She wanted this, needed it to the last bone in her body.

If she didn’t accept what he was willing to give her, she’d regret it until she took her final breath.

How often had she watched him leave his tent or lodgings, twitch his uniform into place and stride away without noticing her?

To him she’d been another army wife, little above a camp follower, someone to tolerate. She’d let herself dream about him, imagined him above her, instead of her husband. Her spouse reached his own satisfaction without helping her, rolled away afterwards with no tender words, not even a “Thank you” and fell into a profound slumber.

John lifted his head to gaze at her face and frame her cheek with one hand that shook. “I want you. I’ve wanted you since I first set eyes on you. Say you feel the same.” Temporarily beyond speech she nodded, stunned by the effect of his kiss. “It’s only us here. Don’t think of anything else.”

Two years of celibacy preceded by five years of unsatisfactory coupling had led to this. Tonight wouldn’t be like anything she’d known before.

Oh yes, she wanted it. Wanted him. One time before she walked away.

This man, the man fumbling for the fastenings of her gown, his big hands clumsy on her body. She rewarded him with a smile, then turned in his arms, showed him the row of hooks and loops. He fell on them, undid them roughly. Cool air brushed across her back when he loosened her stays and dragged the lacing wide.

Turning to him, she dropped her arms and let the gown fall to the ground. Robinson would have a fit in the morning, but she’d have to live with it.

He kissed her throat, sending shivers across her skin, making her clothes uncomfortable. “You’re thinking,” he murmured against her flesh. “Stop it. We’ll think later. Not now. Only one thing matters now.”

“Yes.” Her word emerged as a sheer breath of sound. He kissed to the upper slopes of her breasts, nudged her loosened stays with his chin and sent the garment to her hips, where they lodged. He took no notice, but undid the drawstring of her shift—with his teeth. Curving his hands over her hips, his fingers grazing her buttocks, he drew her closer, and sucked her exposed nipple into his mouth.

Where he feasted. He drew it deep as if he would consume it whole, then released the heated, wet tip to the cool air where it crinkled into a hard point. He smiled, lifted his gaze to hers. His eyes held the promise of slow burn, heat that owed nothing to the light glimmering through the slats on the shutters or the glow of the embers in the grate. As he straightened, he took her breasts in his hands, cupped them and held them up for his inspection. “Your body is lovely. Just as I always imagined.”

With a swift movement that took her by surprise, he turned her, unfastened her petticoats, then opened her stays wider so she could step out of them. Everything fell to the floor with a soft thump.

When she stretched out her hand, he took it and helped her to move forward, naked but for her stockings and shift. Fine lawn, hiding little, even in the dim light in this room. She had candleholders set in the bedhead, and they were all she’d lit to help her in her task.

She’d said she wouldn’t think, and she’d keep that promise. No more speculation and worry, not for the next—ten minutes, half an hour, however long it took. At least she’d have a memory to take with her.

He led her to the bed, which Robinson had already turned down, the sheets pristinely gleaming, inviting. She dragged them lower so she could climb in. “Take everything off,” he murmured, watching her.

She’d never done that before, undressed for a man. Come to that, she’d rarely disrobed for the marital act. It was usually too cold or not private enough, or they didn’t have enough room or time.

She took her stockings off first, unfastening the garters and rolling the fabric carefully down her legs. She tried not to snag them, more from habit than anything else, because these thicker, robust ones weren’t so fragile.

Closing her mind to the thought she concentrated on removing her shift, pulling it over her head and tossing it aside as if she were the veriest wanton. After that she dared not look up, afraid of what she might see. She was entering unknown territory, except for once on her wedding night, when her husband had declared her,

“Acceptable,” before falling on her like a rutting bull.

John’s quiet, “Look at me,” heightened her nervousness, and wearing a silly smile she couldn’t suppress she did what he told her.

He smiled back, but warmer, more meaningful. “You’re lovely, Faith. Better without your clothes than in them.” His hands went to his neck. He unfastened his neckcloth, and dragged it from around his throat. Fully dressed still, while she had nothing on. She reached for the sheet to cover herself. “No,” he said quickly. “Let me see. Watch me, if that makes you easier.”

A laugh bubbled from her throat. “It won’t, but I feel—strange.”

She couldn’t describe it, even to herself, but she tried. “Excitement and fear and anticipation. All those.”

He shrugged off his evening coat and it fell with a rasp of silk, the only sound in the room except their harsh breathing. His waistcoat followed in short order. He tossed it to the floor like a rag.

“All those,” he echoed, as he undid his shirt at the neck and cuffs, then dragged it over his head.

Her gasp rang around the room, softened by the upholstery draped around the old-fashioned tester. This bed was in place when she moved in and she guessed it had been set there when the house was built. She had bought a new mattress, though. She’d never been an advocate of horsehair and rope. Her goose feathers gave her adequate support, but she didn’t know if the creaking frame would survive the next few minutes.

Or her, for that matter. He had a broad, almost hairless chest, gleaming and bronzed. She wet her lips. “You spent a lot of time in the open air.”

He raised a brow. “I did. The ladies of fashion would condemn me for being too brown.”

“I want to lick it.” Where did that come from? But she did. She wouldn’t take it back.

“You shall. Anything you wish to do. Tonight.” He meant it.

They could give in to the desire that, it appeared, they had both felt in the army, but this was in the nature of a truce. Not a peace.

Happy endings weren’t her forte, but she could have a temporary one tonight. She refused to let her doubts show on her face, but watched him, and then she forgot her fear of inadequacy as he exposed more of his masculine beauty.

Associating the word with a man seemed strange, but not when she gazed at him. Broad shoulders, easy, powerful muscles, evidence of his outdoor life. Her mouth went dry when he kicked off his shoes and pushed his breeches and underwear down and off, staying bent until he’d shed his hosiery.

When he stood, he took her breath away. It wasn’t as if she’d never seen a man’s erection before. She just hadn’t seen this one.

Large, yes, thick, too, but dark in colour and leaking clear liquid.

She wanted to taste it, actually wanted it. “That too,” he said, his voice deeper, harsher as if as seized by the moment as she. He’d done this before, doubtless more than she had, so why would he feel that way? Glad she roused him, unsure what would happen, she watched him approach.

He kept her gaze, leaning over her so she lay back against the covers. “That’s it.” His voice purred across her, making the small hairs on her body come to attention. She couldn’t look away from his eyes, so hot, watching her as voraciously as she watched him.

“Now, my lady, let’s to it, shall we?”

Something inside her sank, like a bladder deflating. His smile stoked the still glowing fire inside her. However, she knew this part.

She opened her legs, still looking forward to feeling his body in hers.

He leaned forward, his chest touching her nipples. Delicious, awakening every sense she owned.

He let his shaft press against her stomach, branding the soft skin with wet fire when he claimed another kiss. He tangled his fingers in her curls, held her head steady while he kissed her and kissed her, as if he couldn’t get enough.

The ten minutes she’d allotted to this act had probably passed by now. He lifted his head, his mouth full and damp. “I could do that all night, were it not for the other treats in store. Tell me you want me.”

She nodded and he smiled, a slow, hot smile that heated her blood. Moaning his name, she raised her arms and curled them around his neck, drawing him back with an unspoken request.

“Next time, we’ll take much, much longer.” The smile remained as he reached down and adjusted himself, introducing his cock to the place where it belonged. Next time? Not likely.

But oh, she wanted this. Wanted the intimacy, a closeness she’d missed so badly. He watched her as he guided his shaft into position. His knuckles nudged her—she didn’t know the name of it, or even if it had a name, that tight knot of sensitivity at the top of her slit. She cried out, and jerked. He gave a tight smile. “I won’t ignore your clitoris, I promise.”

Clitoris. He knew she had one, and how it felt to her. She’d learned on her own, tickling it until warmth swept over her in a great wave. Desperate to reconnect with the part of her life that had died in Waterloo, she’d learned her own body better in the two years since. Maybe that might have made a difference to her marriage, but her husband had never encouraged her to explore.

His eyes widened, lost a touch of the sultry expression. “You didn’t know about it?”

“I didn’t know what it was called.”

He snatched a kiss. “It has. I know what it’s called and what to do with it. Open for me.” She obeyed, widening her thighs and bending her knees to place her feet flat on the bed. “Wrap your legs around me. Pull me in.”

She did as he told her and his cock lodged deeper, pushing past the snug ring around her entrance, the pressure easing when the head eased through.

She gave a long sigh of contentment when he drove in, slowly but inexorably forging a path inside her. “God, you’re tight!” He sounded strained.

“It’s been a while.” When she caught her lower lip between her teeth, he groaned, drew back and went then deep inside again.

Barely any resistance.

“I won’t force anything. Let’s take our time. It’s been a while for me too, and if I’m not careful I’ll go off like a rocket.”

That made her laugh, which in turn caused him to groan once more. “One of those things the army set off to alert others?”

“The same. And the fireworks in Hyde Park. They sparkle in different colours. I’m seeing some now.” He lifted up on his elbows, gazing down at her, his cock deep inside her, unmoving. “I’ll rally soon. You feel so good, sweetheart.”

She accepted the endearment, bathed in it, smiled, a swift flash of joy shooting through her before she reminded herself it meant nothing. Still, she’d had those few seconds. For once she’d meant something to someone else. She was more than an employer or an inconvenient relative. He was gazing at her, Faith, not a thing. “So do you. Don’t you want to...?” She knew the words for that all right.

Following the drum taught her every crude word possible. Except clitoris. The men didn’t concern themselves with that. But they had other words for her channel. It felt like a channel to her, a small passage to the depths of her body, reaching deep inside. She knew other words ladies were not supposed to know for that part.

“I like your hair short. It stopped me recognising you at first.”

She started, but he pinned her down. “What’s wrong? Of course I remember you.”

With a glance down at her breasts, he began to move.

In and out. In her experience, a dozen or fewer drives would serve, but she didn’t want him to leave her so soon. When his drives went on, and the position he’d bade her take pushed her clitoris against him with every stroke, unaccustomed warmth flooded her.

As she moaned, her back arched, as if it knew what to do while she didn’t.

“That’s it, give yourself to me. Listen to your body, let it go.” His harsh command, followed by a flurry of shallow thrusts. “I’ll take care of you, I swear it.” Sweat glistened on his brow, glowed on his upper arms. She grabbed them, held on as he drove deeper, harder, the change making her gasp. Her body responded in a way she’d never known before. With a cry she jerked, her body flooded with pure joy, every part of her responding to him. Spasms shook her, emanating from where they joined, and she didn’t have to try not to think any more. He’d taken the ability from her.

When she forced her eyes open, she saw the desperation in his, the taut lines around his mouth, the strain in his muscles when he brought himself over.

He pulled out. Wet warmth covered her belly, as he made sounds of desperation, his cock emptying itself outside her.

He’d closed his eyes so she couldn’t see how his climax affected him. Then he opened them. The heat had leached out, the cool, rational expression returning.

“We have matters to discuss,” he said, plummeting her back to earth.

Of course. This formed a moment out of time, not something she could look forward to, learn to expect, although he’d given her more education in the ways of love than she’d ever known before.

He placed a hand on her waist, at the side. “Keep still. Wait.”

The way he pushed off and away seemed effortless, but it took more strength than she possessed. He didn’t appear to notice. He strode across the room to her washstand, and picked up her washrag, rinsing it in the water that must have gone cold by now.

He came back to her, stroked the cloth over her stomach to clean her, brisk and efficient. “Maybe we shouldn’t have done that so soon, but I needed you. It seems I have the right to have you, and you didn’t appear unwilling.”

She shook her head, her curls clinging to the bedcover. “I wasn’t.” The truth, as far as she could give it.

If only he’d rolled over and started snoring! She could have gone about her business then. Her attention strayed to where her carpetbag sat on the table by the door, ready for her to pick up and take with her when she left.

“Now for the talk.” He put the cloth aside, and returned to her, sliding one arm under her body and lifting her as if she weighed nothing, which was far from the case. Untangling the sheets, he laid her down and came to lie beside her, pulling the covers over them both. “Wouldn’t want you to get cold. I prefer my women warm.”

He smiled, but she didn’t.

“It used to get so cold.”

“How long did you follow the drum?”

“Five years.”

He frowned. “Cold for five years.”

“Or too hot. We were in the Peninsula. It could get hot there.”

He nodded. “I remember.” After tucking one arm under his head he watched her with eyes that were far too perceptive. “So when did we marry, exactly?”

Chapter Four

Would she lie? He prayed she would not. She had the most glorious body he’d ever had access to, but he could not allow her any leeway just because of that. He mustn’t forget she was an adventuress, taking advantage of the similarity in their names.

Confusion followed battles and one of the greatest skills a leader had was gathering the troops afterwards, talking them down, discovering who was missing and collecting information.

Sometimes the success of the campaign depended on the speed of recovery. Only this time there wasn’t another battle to go to, or a new place to march to. Just the aftermath of the last conflict in the campaign. He hadn’t been present then.

He waited for her to detect the flaw in her argument. She said nothing, only swallowed. He felt he should continue, otherwise she’d draw him in again. Because that lovemaking was—spectacular. Nothing like he’d expected, although he’d known she’d be good. “When did John Smith die exactly?”

“At Waterloo.”

“And you believed I died at Waterloo. There wasn’t time for you to remarry me once widowed, was there? So are we married, or aren’t we?”

She closed her eyes and heaved a great sigh before shaking her head. “No.”

He reached out to take her hand, re-establish physical contact between them. Her warmth seeped through him, reminding him, as if he needed it, that she was a person, a human being. Few people were wholly good or evil. His weakness had driven him to Canada.

Had hers impelled her to this masquerade? He wanted to know.

“Tell me how it was. Tell me, Faith.” He desperately needed honesty from her now. Every step he took depended on it. If she attempted to fool him, he’d use her and then let her go. If not—for once, he didn’t have a plan.

When she opened her eyes he saw her pupils large with apprehension. “All of it?”

“Everything. If we’re to deal together, I need to know.”

“But we don’t have to. Deal together, I mean.”

He rolled on his side, propped himself on one elbow. “What makes you say that?”

Another swallow. “I can leave. Then you can expose me, say I was an impostor, that I used the similarity between my husband’s name and yours to steal your army pension.”

He shrugged, noted the way her attention went to his shoulders.

So she liked his build, eh? Any advantage he had, he’d utilize it. “Is that why you did it?” One of his skills was to spot liars. He’d always been able to do it. He suspected it had something to do with the way a person moved when they told a lie. Not the way they met his eyes. Liars were good at that, but not the rest. He watched her, forcing his mind into assessing her movements instead of just enjoying them, as his body urged him to do.

In answer to his question, she nodded. “I needed time after Waterloo. I came home, and I had nothing.” She paused, glanced away. Was there more to her decision to pose as his widow? Not lying, but concealing something. “If you’d worked that out, why didn’t you repudiate me tonight?”

“Did you expect it?”

Of course she had. He owed her nothing. Why would he want her after that? The answer still eluded him, except her body was soft and welcoming and he wanted more.

“You’ve met the dowager, so you know what I had to face at home,” he said. “They wanted me to marry. When I was in the army the dowager kept writing me letters, and somehow most got to me.

About her daughters and how charming they were. Then a demand to marry one of them.”

“Marriage? Why would they want you to? You were a second cousin.”

“The dowager likes to think everyone and everything is under her control. If she married me to one of her girls it tied up the inheritance neatly. She doesn’t consider people, she thinks dynasties and influence. My lack of the latter was made up for by the former.”

He paused. “Her second son, Vivian, was married, but after two years there was no issue. And I believe she found out about her oldest son.”

“What about him?”

He traced a line from her throat to the dip between her breasts, savouring the smooth, soft skin. So lovely. “He preferred his own sex. You understand?”

Meeting her shocked gaze, he saw she did. “I’ve seen it happen.

Sometimes if a man cannot get a woman...”

He shook his head gently. She had seen far too much. His desire to protect her never surprised him as it did now, with evidence of her deception so evident. “This was not expediency. His mother discovered his preference, and it led to a rift. She could not comprehend why he couldn’t have both. Some men can, some can’t.

Stephen could not.” He watched her take that in, but his Faith was no sheltered maiden. She knew. “Even if he married there wouldn’t have been any issue.

“Vivian’s wife never conceived,” she said. “Poor lady.” Vivian’s wife had died a year ago.

“Vivian mourned his wife truly and wanted time before he remarried. It was why they came all the way to Canada to see me, once they discovered I was alive.”

“How did they find out?”

“I wrote to Vivian after I’d established myself in Halifax as a man of substance. I did write to Stephen after I arrived in Canada, but I didn’t wait for a reply before I went into the depths of the forests, so I had no idea that letter went astray. The one to Vivian, to his posting in Vienna, arrived safely and both brothers came to Canada to entreat me to come home and do my duty by you. To get you with child for the family’s sake.” He paused. “I hadn’t realised I had a wife before then.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, as if she were suppressing a wince. “I’m glad I wasn’t born into that kind of family. I’ve seen enough to know that.” Before he could ask her, she told him. “I’m the daughter of a country vicar. Barely genteel. Twelve children were a strain on the stipend and my father’s small independence.”

“How did you come to marry a soldier?” He wanted to know more about her, to fill in the spaces, to give him a proper assessment of her.

“John and I were from the same small town in Shropshire and when he returned on leave, he courted me. I believed he loved me, at least at first, and I saw I would be useful to him. My parents were only too happy to be rid of me. I’d thought I was destined to become a governess.” She paused. “Three girls in our family, nine boys and most of them went into the army or the navy. Most have done well for themselves. I don’t have a lot to do with them these days. They are strangers to me.”

So after Waterloo she’d been effectively alone. Nobody to turn to, and while her husband had been an officer he had the lowest rank and consequently would have barely anything to leave a widow. She could have been destitute. The similarity of their names must have formed too much of a temptation for her.

“So you had nothing?”

“And no one.”

There, she’d given him total honesty on that point. Relief flooded him. He understood. Not a designing adventuress, then, more a poverty-stricken woman with nobody to help her. He wasn’t mistaken in his assessment of her. She’d taken the step she had from desperation, and the conviction that she was harming no one.

The thought impelled him to draw closer still. He slid his hand over her delightfully trim waist in a gesture more protective than desirous, although he guessed from the way his cock stirred that wouldn’t last long. Her side pressed against him, her breasts plumped by her arms, especially when she raised a hand. He wasn’t sure if she wanted to push him away and he waited, tense, until she relaxed and smoothed her palm down his chest to rest under his ribs. He smiled his encouragement but she did no more. Just as well, he supposed. He hadn’t finished talking to her yet.

He had to make one matter clear. As soon as he’d climbed through the window and seen the carpetbag, he’d known what she’d planned. “You weren’t packing to move to Grosvenor Square, were you?”

She glanced down, then back at him, pretty colour mantling her cheeks again. She couldn’t have missed his state of tumescence.

Their proximity completed what had started a bare minute ago and he hardened for her, his body begging for a repeat performance.

“No.”

He kept his voice soft and unthreatening. “What exactly did you think you would do?”

“I’d disappear. I’m not unemployable, I could make a living.”

She shrugged. “I still can. I left the marriage lines to John Smith and a letter declaring that we were never married. It’s on the table, with the deeds to this house and a promissory note for whatever funds you feel I owe you.”

“Could you get a position with no character references?” He grazed the top of her buttocks with his thumb. Perfectly rounded.

She snorted. “Please. As if I can’t handle that.”

The concept interested him. “How would you do that?”

“I’d reference my mother, who would do anything rather than have me back home and an old friend who married well. She’ll help me, and be discreet about it if I asked her. Or I’d forge something.”

He laughed, a gentle chuckle. “Anyone who thinks women are helpless should consult you.” He wanted to kiss her, but he held off, because he suspected he wouldn’t stop once he’d begun. Already he desired her with a desperation entirely new, an emotion he badly needed to process before he gave into it again. On the first occasion her nearness to him had provoked him into kissing her, and then more followed as day did night. His lack of control worried him, even while he planned to make love to her at least once more tonight. This time with no mercy. “So you’d disappear, live a miserable life as a poorly paid employee. Why did you do it in the first place?” Confirmation. Coming at the question again, so he could watch the way she reacted.

She bit her lip. “I didn’t think I was doing anyone any harm.

Without a wife your army pension would have died with you. My only extravagance was this house. I was harming nobody. But now I know you’re alive, you don’t deserve I should do this to you.”

“Do what? Prevent the dowager from foisting one of her daughters on to me?” He watched her take the piece of information in. Her pretty eyes widened, her body stiffened against him. “If you are not here, she won’t relent. I’ll be married before the year’s out.”

“Charlotte and Louisa are much more agreeable without their mother present. I believe she imposes on them a little too much.

But it is none of my concern. Either would make an excellent countess.”

“Not while I’m married to you.” He rolled further in to lean over her, his cock lying on her hip, informing her, as if she needed it, of his renewed arousal.

She blinked but showed no other sign. “We’re not married.”

He framed her face with his hands, bent his head lower, watched her lips part, ready for his kiss. He wondered if she knew she was doing it, or if it was a natural action, and craved the latter. “We could be,” he murmured, before finally giving way to temptation.

He’d give her that much, the temptation of the worm on the hook.

She sighed into his mouth and he surrendered, for the time being at least. Gave himself over to pleasing her, and by doing so, pleasuring himself. He’d taken women in desperation, with the certainty this would be the last time he would do this because the next day he’d stare death in the face. Again. Taken them with mutual pleasure in mind. Never before had he desired anyone this badly. He needed her, more than here, in bed, but elsewhere too. If he could not persuade her, then his task would be all but insurmountable.

When she arched into his hold, teasing his cock with her feminine slickness, her soft skin, her sighs, he forgot any other consideration.

His shaft didn’t need guidance this time. It knew its way. All he had to do was rise up enough to let it slip between her legs. When she widened her thighs and opened for him, he drove in, deep and sure, all the way home.

A sense of rightness washed over him, together with an insatiable need to thrust hard into her, force her to call out, accept him as her—he would have said ‘master,’ but he didn’t want that.

Only his recalcitrant member seemed to force him to want it. He could use the feeling, and he did.

When he pushed straight in, she moaned, but it seemed practiced, by rote, her actions what she expected him to want.

Difficult to describe, but he knew he’d seen those reactions in other women. At the time he’d known they were trying to please him, mostly because he was paying them.

Not now. He watched her when he changed his angle, so he thrust sharper, then lifted an inch or two so he grazed the lower part of her channel.

There. Victory roared through him when she gave a sharp gasp and reached out as if to clutch him. “Open your eyes,” he whispered to her. “Let me see you.”

She did so, blinking into his face. He saw shock, mingled with heat. Oh, yes. Her expressive gaze showed him her reactions. Her unguarded behaviour with him flattered him more than any words.

She trusted him, and he suspected she gave her trust to few people.

Urged on, he moved again, touched the same sweet, soft place and watched her pupils widen, her bright eyes darken, sparkling with shared intimacy.

“Let me help you there, Faith.”

He continued with his slow, steady thrusts, taking care to touch the spot that gave her most pleasure. Another time he’d work on her clitoris, but they were still learning and in his experience one step at a time worked best. Get that right and move on to the next.

Concentrating on her helped him to delay his own culmination until he could ensure hers. As she blindly reached out, her hands touched his shoulders, clasped tightly and held on. Her cries became whimpers, shreds of sound in rhythm with his thrusts, keeping the beat until he changed, paused and then began again.

One, strangled cry, her eyes closed and she turned her head, pressing her cheek against the pillow, crying his name as she came.

The rush of heat and the way her body clenched around him were enough to set him off. Barely able to think, he gave a helpless choke as his seed spilled into her. Crushing his body close to hers, he felt every throb, every spurt.

He dropped his head to the empty space on the pillow and breathed hard, inhaling the heady aroma of their coupling. He revelled in the feel of a woman’s soft form under his. It had never, ever felt this way. Every woman was different, he knew that, but this woman was completely unique.

Breathing heavily, his mind flashed back to the moment of sheer terror when he woke in the medical tent and realised he didn’t know who he was. Nothing. His memory loss had been total for a day or two before fragments seeped back over the next week. But one instant remained; the horror of being nobody in a mass of people he didn’t know.

Now he welcomed the temporary blankness as respite from what he had to face, in the certainty he’d remember. He felt helpless in her arms as if he’d given her everything he was.

It didn’t last. It never did. He rolled away, flung back the bedclothes and found the cloth to clean her, barely noticing the chill in the air once he’d left the safe haven of her bed.

She watched, her eyes half closed while he performed his task before joining her again. She curled into him as if she belonged there. He kissed her, slow and affectionately.

“You said we could be married?” A note of fear entered her voice.

He sighed. He’d wanted to have this conversation later. It seemed it had to be now. He had to make her understand, or at least to stay for a while. “You were planning to leave. What did you think would happen after you’d gone?”

She shifted, but didn’t urge him to let her alone, for which he was glad. She felt good in his arms, right. “You’d denounce me as a fraud and laugh about me with your friends. It’s my fault, so it’s only fair I take the blame.”

“What friends?” he demanded savagely. “What do you think I am? I’m an earl by omission, my dear. I might have had august relatives, but I wasn’t part of their world. Ever.” He waited for the customary bitterness but it never came. Instead, he told her the facts. “I refused to live on expectation of the inheritance. After my parents died, I chose another path in life.” He propped himself on one elbow, gazing down at her face. “I never courted society or cared about it particularly. I’m an outsider. People will say it’s only what they expected. They’ll call me upstart, and then say I’m a fool for trusting a woman I knew nothing about. Until I belong to the elite in society, I need you.” The brutal truth. A poor relative turned earl. Except he wasn’t so poverty-stricken these days. Not that he had any intention of letting anyone know. At least, not yet.

“Society?” Her lips turned in a sneer. “You want that? Balls and court and parties in the country?”

He couldn’t blame her for thinking of society in such a superficial way—her life had never contained that kind of business before. And it was business. “The Earldom of Graywood is a wealthy and widespread one. There are investments, property, financial speculations. The Graywoods own mineral concerns, ships and a small street in London that makes a staggering amount in rent every year. All these concerns employ people and generate revenue, and I’m the hub, the figurehead. I have to be beyond reproach. More than that, I have to prove myself capable. Do you understand now?”

She stared at him, blue eyes wide and he watched, saw the comprehension creep in. “If you’re damaged, if society rejects you, it will mean the end of your investments?”

Relief flooded him when he realised she’d understood. “Exactly.

I don’t want to let those people down. The ones who work for me, and depend on me, not the ones who can take care of themselves.”

His personal bugbear, the one thing he refused to do in life. “I need the respectability of a wife. A scandal like the one you’re proposing to set up, hard on the heels of my inheriting the title, could ruin me, whether I was to blame or not.”

“Am I allowed to say no?” He relaxed, knowing she wouldn’t do that now. But she might not want to take part in his efforts. The thought of letting her go made him falter in his rapid assessment, but if she wanted it, he would do that. Just not let her run away.

“Not yet.” He would honour her truthfulness with the same.

She’d lied by omission, and he would discover her secrets, all of them, before he decided if he wanted to keep her. Already his opinion of her had shifted. With the disclosure of her dilemma had come comprehension of the reason she’d adopted his name reasonable. A penniless woman alone in the world faced a tough and probably short future. Governess at best, whore at worst, but the choices were limited. And she’d believed him dead. For that, he’d reconsider a few of his decisions. Not the principal one, though. He could use her and look nothing worse than a fool when she was exposed as a fraud, not his wife at all. Or he could consider the immediate future as an interview, a way of assessing her suitability as his wife in truth. In one way she had exceeded his expectations. He opened his hand, allowed himself the indulgence of caressing her silken skin.

He gave a wry smile. “You know I can’t stop you disappearing?”

She shook her head. “You could lock me up.”

“I suppose so.” The thought repulsed him. “But I won’t. I can’t watch you every hour of the day. I have to sleep. You should know that if you take that course, I’ll say you’re in the country, at one of my houses and I will hunt you down. So you’ll still be Lady Graywood.”

“No, no I won’t.”

One thing would hold her. If he had to choose between Faith and the two daughters of Lady Graywood, he knew which he would prefer. However, it had not come to that yet. “I want you to be my wife for a while. Give me time for me to elude the fate of marrying Charlotte or Louisa, to avoid the attention of the matchmakers.

They require the title and the wealth, not the man, and I have a strange, probably unsuitable desire to be wanted for myself. So will you marry me?”

Faith stared up at his face, unable to read anything there past the half smile quirking his lips. John was better at concealing his feelings than her, and she thought she’d done well in that. Certainly she’d lived as his widow for two years without anyone suspected anything. Mostly, she had to admit, because they didn’t care overmuch. She hadn’t mattered to them until today—yesterday.

“You mean really marry you?”

His smile melted her. The way the amusement broke the habitual solemnity of his face, revealing his vulnerability reached deep inside her. “Maybe. In time we could slip away and make the illusion real if we suit.”

She reached up and touched his chest. Immediately he covered it with his hand. Pressed her palm against him so she felt his heart thumping rhythmically. As if she had the power to stop that vital throb.

“It’s so complicated,” she said. He’d still be better off with someone else. Someone fertile. She wouldn’t lie to him about that, if he meant what he said about marrying her.

“You could have a fine life as a countess.”

“Don’t.” She almost turned from him. “If I do this, it won’t be to live the high life.”

“Not even a little?” Again, that smile that turned her heart over.

She thought of the lace gown she’d seen in a shop window last week, the one that was exquisite but well out of her price range and bit her lip. No, not even for that gown, which wouldn’t have suited her anyway. He laughed, the low sound of amusement he’d used earlier. Everything they did here in this bed was so intimate. “I can see you’re thinking of something.”

“What would I have to do?”

“Appear with me at key functions. The season will be starting in another couple of weeks, right after Easter. Lent is nothing but a breathing space to most of society, a chance to order the gowns and the rest of the armour they’ll need. Behave as my wife.”

His analogy made her chuckle. “Like preparing for battle?”

“Exactly like that. So you’d have to order new clothes and go through the family jewels.”

“Lady Graywood will have most of those,” she pointed out.

“Then we’ll get new ones.”

She shook her head. “Why would I need jewels?”

He grimaced. “The earldom’s wealthy. We need to persuade people that the title and everything it represents is on sound footing, so we have to be confident. We’ll have to hold a gathering of our own. If we plan that, we can safely leave her ladyship to arrange it. If we agree to invite some potential suitors for her daughters, she’ll be content. And it will keep her busy.”

The prospect began to appeal to her. Rather than becoming a passive decoration, he was giving her something to do, offering her a chance to plan and manage the estate by his side. Asking for her help. A young girl, a fresh, fertile bride couldn’t do that. Neither could she stand up to the dowager, something she’d been doing for years.

His hand moved, swept up her flank to cup the underside of her breast. Such openness in bed was new to her. Heat washed through her body.

He smiled and bent to drop a kiss on her lips. “I like your blush.

It becomes you. Now will you do this?”

However illusionary, he’d given her the choice. They both knew he could compel her to do it, except she had the power of anonymity. Whatever he thought, she could hide from him. She knew how. Become another character, a different person, someone disregarded. That knowledge gave her strength, truly lent her the freedom to choose. “I’ll do it.” That was in the nature of paying off her debt to him. She’d ruin herself, wreck her character in the eyes of society when he finally repudiated her. He could continue with the notion that he didn’t remember their marriage.

Relief flooded his features. “Thank you. I’ll arrange matters first thing in the morning.” He lay down, drew her into his arms.

“Would you prefer to keep this house?”

“Yes.” Her instinctive response, to give herself a bolt-hole, somewhere she could retreat to if she needed it. She glanced at the shadowy silhouette of her old carpetbag still resting by the door.

His plan was better than hers, that was all. The fact that she could anticipate more nights like this didn’t hurt, either.

“I’d like a house like this,” he murmured, his voice soft with incipient slumber. “Big enough, not grandiose, not pretentious, not a naked marble statue anywhere. I’d prefer a wife like you, understanding, intelligent, someone with a realistic attitude to life.”

She hardly recognised herself.

“Go to sleep,” he said, his voice gravelly with exhaustion.

Lying still, trying not to disturb him seemed to work. She could lie here all night and worry. But she didn’t. Within the space of twenty minutes, she was asleep, too.

* * *

Morning came too soon, and with it, the sound of her maid gently tapping on her door. “Mrs. Smith, do you wish breakfast in bed?”

The latch rattled as she tried to open it, but sometime in the night John must have got up and slid the bolts across, so it was securely fastened.

“No, I’ll get up.”

Beside her, John murmured and drew her back down into the warmth of the bed. Although it was March, spring had taken its time this year, and the chill of the morning struck through her bones. Her naked upper arm pimpled.

“Madam, is there someone in there? Are you all right?”

Robinson sounded alarmed. Any minute she might start shouting for help.

“I’m fine. My husband is here. He called around late last night and didn’t want to disturb anyone.”

“Oh.” Then a much louder. “Oh! A boy arrived first thing enquiring after you. He told us the earl had returned. I should have thought of that. Sir, my lord, I didn’t mean to bother you. Only, time’s getting on, and cook wants to know what you want for dinner tonight before she goes to market.”

“Tell her nothing.” Cook could have decided that for herself.

She’d done it often enough. Faith suspected her maid’s curiosity had got the better of her, and she wanted to hear the remarkable incidents from the night before. “I’ll be up soon.”

“Sure about that?” John said that loud enough for anyone with sharp ears to detect, and Faith buried her head against his chest while he chuckled. They heard Robinson’s footsteps retreat along the landing and down the stairs. “All right, I’ll let you go and get dressed. Then we have to go to Grosvenor Square. As long as you promise me you won’t bolt.”

“You’ll take my promise?” After what she’d told him about lying her way into the family, why should he believe her?”

“I will.” His hands stroked her back in what should have been a soothing gesture, but felt like something entirely different.

Chapter Five

Walking into the house in Grosvenor Square felt the same as it had yesterday, and it looked the same. Marble floors, grand clock ticking the hours away, two uncomfortable wooden hall chairs for the less fortunate visitor, a footman dressed in maroon and gold.

Faith wore one of her normal dresses, a day gown in a sensible shade of dark blue and a pelisse that, if she were honest, needed turning or replacing. But she held her head high and waited for someone to attend to her.

The footman at the door bowed low, a sign they knew who they were dealing with. Inside, the butler awaited them, taking her old pelisse without a twinge. Instinctively she wanted to move towards John, but she had to learn to cope with this grandeur on her own.

Worse. With a flurry of skirts the staff arrived. The upper servants and the lower, clattering up from the depths of the basement. They ranked in a line, and she reflected how crammed her house would be with this number of people. Faith blinked. John cleared his throat. “We’re pleased to see you. Thank you.”

At least she understood what they expected. She walked slowly down the line, allowing the butler to introduce each member of staff and fully aware of the snub Lady Graywood was subtly creating. Only when she had a word with each and dismissed them did she turn to the butler. “Hanson, where is the steward? I would have thought him anxious to meet my husband.”

Hanson didn’t reveal by a twitch that she had surprised him by her question but she caught a flash of awareness in his eyes. “Mar.

Carlisle is in the country, constrained by a severe chill. He sends his deepest regrets.”

Faith glanced at John and he gave a curt nod. “This is the son of the man I met as a boy?”

“Yes my lord.”

“Very well.” Faith had memorised the names of the servants. “I will address the servants by name. I want to know if any leave, and why.” She disliked the habit of using the same name for a servant, the way some of the aristocracy did, the position rather than the person. She put up her chin, trying to act the countess. Inside, her stomach had turned to jelly. Just as well she had not had time for more than a bite of toast and a cup of tea this morning. John had kept her too busy for anything else.

At the reminder, she turned to him to hide her incipient blush, should she have any. She felt no heat, but from his compliments yesterday she rather thought she didn’t detect every occasion she flushed. She’d have to resort to rice powder at this rate.

“If you would come this way my lord, my lady, we have held breakfast for you, in case you care to dine.” No doubt about it, the butler’s tones held more respect.

She let him lead the way to the breakfast room on the ground floor. The family in the persons of Lady Graywood and her two daughters waited for them with every appearance of patience.

Charlotte and Louisa wore day gowns of the most shocking green colour—shocking because it managed to suit neither. They wore black armbands. Lady Graywood had already gone into deep black.

Flamboyant at home, Faith thought, but perhaps she planned to go out.

Her ladyship confirmed Faith’s worst fears when, after greeting them with every appearance of cordiality announced, “I have made an appointment with my dressmaker this morning. You will need mourning gowns.”

Faith had not worn black today, but that did not mean she owned none. She had always refused to allow the dowager to run rough-shod over her, and she wouldn’t let it happen now. “I have a mourning gown. Only a couple of years out of date, in fact. I appreciate you making the effort, but I’ll see my own seamstress, I thank you.”

Her ladyship’s face stiffened. “Indeed, and who do you patronise?”

“Cerisot,” she said recklessly, naming the most popular dressmaker in London. “That is, as you know, I have no modiste of fashion at the moment, but I will see her later. I will need few gowns of deep mourning, but I will order half mourning too.” Her complexion tended to the sallow, and black did few people favours, unless they happened to have pale pink colouring and iron-grey hair.

Her ladyship shook her head. “It will not do.”

“I disagree.” Faith had thought of acting the innocent and letting the dowager have her way. The easier path, especially since her time here would be relatively short. But the manner in which her ladyship had loftily informed her, as if doing her a favour, that she would take her to the same dressmaker her daughters used, annoyed Faith. “We owe the late earl our deepest respect, but they were only second cousins to my husband, and a more pronounced mourning might be considered ostentatious.” She hadn’t read the society papers and stayed watching on the outskirts of society for two years for nothing. After a refreshing night’s sleep, more than she deserved, she’d decided that if she gave the dowager an inch she’d power her way through to dictate everything. While John had become the new Lord Graywood, his relationship to the previous earl was second cousin, which wasn’t close enough to merit a long period of deep mourning. Just the next few weeks, until the season started, then they could legitimately go into half mourning and muted colours.

The countess raised both brows and reached for a piece of bread-and-butter. Faith examined her own plate that John had filled for her while she’d been speaking with the dowager. Bacon, scrambled eggs, kidneys. Very good. The fragrance reminded her that she hadn’t eaten properly for some time. Why her appetite should return when nothing was settled, she didn’t know. She still wasn’t sure if she should marry him, but had decided to give it a week. After all, if she fooled the countess too, he would have something to hold against the lady when Faith was revealed as a fraud. In the meantime, she wouldn’t let John down. She owed him that much.

If she made up her mind to disappear, he wouldn’t find her. She had friends from the army who’d help and not tell anyone. And she’d learned tricks a vicar’s daughter had no right knowing, but which might prove useful in an emergency.

“Tea or coffee?” he murmured.

“Shouldn’t I do that?”

“I have the coffee pot within reach. You do not.”

“Then thank you. Coffee would be lovely.”

So domestic, so deceptive! The undercurrents around this table could be sliced. She exchanged a glance with her erstwhile companion, who gave her a tentative smile. “Would you like one, Amelia?”

“No, I mean, I am perfectly fine, thank you.” Flustered and uncomfortable, Amelia flicked a tremulous smile and the dowager bestowed a kind one on her. Faith lifted the delicate cup, decorated with sprigs of spring flowers, and inhaled the delicious aroma of fresh coffee.

“I will send for Cerisot to attend you,” the dowager pronounced.

As if the dressmaker would come when summoned. She would only do that for existing clients, and she had so many, she needed no more. “I will visit her establishment. I need to make a few calls on my own account this morning.” If Cerisot chose to reject her, she would not do it by refusing to visit this house. Since Cerisot turned away as many people as she accepted, Faith could bear the rejection, knowing it would not reflect on John.

The dowager countess sniffed and Faith could have sworn on oath that she heard a phantom giggle emanating from Louisa’s place.

A footman entered, bearing refills for the dishes and it struck Faith that a great deal of waste occurred in the house, if they encouraged such practices. A countess she might be, for the time being at least, but wasteful she need not be. She added supervision of the kitchens to her list of tasks. It appeared she would have plenty to keep her busy.

After breakfast she declared she would get about her duties immediately. John accompanied her into the hall. “Would you prefer me to go with you?”

“What, and get a reputation for hanging on my skirts?” She smiled at him, enjoying his presence and his concern for her, however illusory it might be. “No, I’ll be fine. I’ll take a footman and the carriage.”

He leaned closer. “I have other business to attend to if you recall.

I will call in at Doctor’s Commons.” Only one reason for that. She cast him a glance of bewilderment, because a special licence would mean marriage for real, something he said he did not want. His eyes gleamed. “The possibility is always there and I like to be prepared.”

She quailed, as she had not at the thought of facing the most formidable Cerisot. It meant they could marry without waiting three weeks or without calling banns, that he was taking the prospect seriously.

He turned to face her, blocking out the others. “If you carry my heir, he will not be born out of wedlock.”

So that was it. She could relax, because the likelihood of that happening was remote indeed. So why did a pang of sorrow pierce her down to her womb? Her barren womb?

Meantime she would continue as if she intended to fulfil the position of Countess of Graywood as well as she could. She could do that, at least, for him.

* * *

Having left John to his errand Faith took a footman and set out for the opposite end of Oxford Street to that which she usually patronised. The fashionable part. She wore her pelisse again, that being the most respectable one she owned. Holding her head high, she strode across the wide pavements towards the select establishment run by the best dressmaker in London. Not a mantua-maker, those places concentrated on court dress, and were in general more old-fashioned, Cerisot scorned the title and chose

‘dressmaker’ instead.

A footman in a flamboyant costume stood by the door. Faith suspected he only allowed her in the front way because of the man in the distinctive maroon and gold of the Graywood livery, rather than her own appearance.

She didn’t expect the lady herself to meet her. But Faith spied her at the far end of the shop, attending a lady wearing a bonnet with a monstrous ostrich feather sticking straight up. After Faith had stood there for a good five minutes, she glanced over, and her gaze stilled, as if surprised to see her standing there. Too late, Faith realised she probably looked more like a lady’s maid than a lady, and should not in that case have used the front door.

But something in her appearance or maybe her stubbornness in standing inside the front entrance where everyone would see her eventually drew the proprietress over.

Gathering her courage together and reminding herself, as she had so many times before that she wasn’t facing a firing squad, Faith maintained her position and gave the dressmaker a frosty smile. Cerisot had a figure much like Faith’s own, full breasts and hips with a small waist, a shape men admired but exceedingly difficult to dress elegantly. Her blonde hair was caught back in a loose style that Faith would wager her grandfather’s silver watch she’d pinned ruthlessly into place and her smile fixed and professional. Closer up, she revealed her true age in the fine lines on her face and the silver strands at her temples. Either that, or she chose to present herself thus to make her clients appear better.

“May I help you?” Cerisot glanced outside to where the crested carriage waited by the kerb, the two chestnuts stamping their hooves and snorting in the cool sunshine. Her expression relaxed an infinitesimal amount.

“You may. Thank you for asking.”

Ah, Cerisot had not expected that. Her lips twitched. Faith carried on. “I’m the Countess of Graywood. My husband is John, the sixth earl.” That would save her counting. She wondered how far the news of the previous earl’s death had travelled, but apart from a couple of raised brows the other occupants of the shop didn’t appear surprised. Two women sat together studying sketches, mother and daughter she guessed from their respective ages and their resemblance to each other. Another woman of equally high fashion accompanied the lady with the bonnet. The two maids standing by the end wall had gasped. That told Faith how to continue. Cerisot merely waited, her countenance one of patience and fortitude. “My husband came unexpectedly into the title. I was living quietly so I had no need for fashionable garb, but I shall require a new wardrobe.” Remembering what John had told her about putting on a show, she plunged in recklessly. “A set of mourning and half mourning clothes immediately and for the first part of the season. Later I will want to go back into colours.”

Cerisot’s eyes narrowed, but not with suspicion or dislike.

Rather, speculation filled the robin’s egg blue. She took in Faith’s appearance in one comprehensive glance. “I am extremely busy.”

Faith continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “We’re planning a reception as soon as decently possible. My husband is a distant connection to the late earl. While we wish to demonstrate the respect he is due, full mourning for a long time would not be entirely appropriate.” A nod from the lady in the bonnet. Faith had gauged the reaction appropriately. To go into deepest black for six months would show a vulgar and inappropriate display.

The people in the shop were unashamedly listening, their previous occupations totally abandoned. The complete realisation of what she had done hit Faith with the force of a rifleman’s bullet and she barely stopped herself sucking in a breath of horror. “There will be other events. The unfortunate demise of their brothers will curtail the activities of Lady Louisa and Lady Charlotte, so they’ll require completely new wardrobes later in the season, or maybe next year. That depends on their mother.”

More interest from Cerisot. “I believe they frequent another seamstress.” Not a dressmaker or mantua-maker, Faith noticed.

“However they are attractive young ladies under the unbecoming yellow and pea-green.”

“If you decide you have the time to spare,” Faith said, without curling her lip, “I may endeavour to persuade their mother to allow them to change their minds. Lady Louisa has been receiving a great deal of attention from a certain young man,” she continued recklessly, “It would be a pity if she allowed this family tragedy to affect her prospects.” She had no idea who she was talking about, she just hoped Louisa had at least one suitor. It would give Cerisot the prospect of dressing a society bride, something that could enhance a dressmaker’s reputation. “Lady Graywood thinks your styles too modern and forward for her children, but I consider your designs delightful. I would trust you to help me choose what is most appropriate.” If this woman didn’t know, nobody did.

At last, Cerisot spoke. “I have a mourning dress which I can make ready for you in a day, if you wish it, my lady. However, other items will take some time and it may not be advisable for you to appear out in anything else. I would suggest a full consultation. If you would step this way?”

Faith followed her across the room and into a small, private room. There she contained her astonishment long enough to accept refreshment and a maid to assist her to slip out of her day clothes.

It took two hours for Cerisot to measure her, show her the mourning-dress that was daringly fashionable for such an item, and advise on others. Then Faith ordered more clothes than she’d know what to do with. However she graciously took Cerisot’s advice to restrict her choices and select classic styles until she should go out of half mourning towards the end of the season. Faith thought she might remain in half mourning at least until the summer, especially when she saw the colours and fabrics she could wear. She’d been right about the colours colours. Dark greens and blues, but not reds, apparently. Purples and lavenders, greys and white, which, Cerisot informed her, was the old colour of mourning. “Not that I would advise that your ladyship wears a great deal of pure white,” she added. “It is not your best colour.”

Something Faith knew well. A smug triumph ran through her as she examined designs. She’d achieved this for herself. Acceptance by London’s most in-demand dressmaker put her nearer to the close-knit circle John was aiming for. She would do anything to help him with that. Not, she shamefacedly admitted to herself, out of the goodness of her heart and consideration of the employees who might otherwise have no position. No, simply for him. The man who’d accepted her and held her in his arms all night. For him she’d do anything.

When she left the shop with several packages and a promise that she would ensure that she delivered the rest as soon as possible, she had the milliner to visit. Cerisot recommended the right one. Faith guessed they probably had a little business arrangement, but she didn’t object to enterprises of that nature, merely the wearying choice of this feather or that, this braid or that. By this time she had tired of the constant concentration on her appearance. But the visits made her visible. People would talk about her when they met tonight. They would establish their existence when they entered society in a couple of weeks’ time and society would be on its way to accepting them. If she took care.

Back at the house, she gained more information when she joined Lady Graywood for tea. Being a person of refinement, her ladyship served nothing other than bread and butter with tea, but Faith preferred small cakes and scones. Not that she had them today.

Instead, conversation in which Lady Graywood painstakingly instructed her on her duties followed, interspersed with some extremely shrewd questions. It began innocuously enough, with enquiries about her childhood and upbringing, most of which she’d told the dowager before, but maybe the lady hadn’t been listening then. After all she was only an afterthought, someone her ladyship could safely patronise.

To shield herself, she started to ask questions in return. Since they had closed the house to visitors, this being a mourning period, Faith had confidence they would not meet with any interruptions.

But she did not wish her ladyship to become an enemy. Making enemies needlessly never worked out well.

To her relief, John came in after an increasingly uncomfortable twenty minutes. Just as Faith realised that the time they’d spent lovemaking and sleeping might have better been employed creating a story that they both could answer to with confidence. The interruption and the consequent order of fresh tea gave the discussion a different turn, and John explained he’d arranged to have the books delivered to the house. An estate as large as the one he commanded would always have a legal case or two pending. “I need to review everything,” he said.

Lady Graywood demurred, her hand delineating a graceful arc.

“Surely not, Graywood. Roker has had the business of the estate in hand since the Restoration. I doubt there are any irregularities.”

“I desire to understand the business of the earldom completely.

When the steward has recovered from his chill, I want interviews with him as well, although I feel they might be more rigorous. And I desire my wife to meet my own man of business. I have an appointment at his offices tomorrow.”

“Can you not summon him here? That would be more convenient, would it not?” Lady Graywood’s expression said it all.

She strongly disapproved of the Earl of Graywood attending his lessers in that way. “Of course, in your previous life you would have need to take such tasks on yourself. I can see no such requirement now.” Lady Graywood leaned back, as much as she could in her tight stays, with a satisfied smile, as though she had successfully concluded the matter.

“I see it,” John said. If the dowager had known him better, she’d have given in when she saw the light of battle in his eyes. Faith had seen that expression before, in different circumstances. “I control my investments myself. I intend to continue to do so.” He turned his full attention to the dowager and she met his gaze, but stiffened even more than usual. She’d needed some reserve to stand up to that regiment-commander stare. It said much for her character that she managed to do so.

“It is, of course, not my concern,” she said, “Merely that some people will find the practice a trifle-odd.”

“Some people may go hang,” he said bluntly, then swung his attention to Faith.

She braced herself but she saw only kindness and polite interest.

“Would you care to accompany me? The offices are on the docks, so a trifle inaccessible for a woman of sensibility but accompanied by your husband it would be unexceptional.”

Why would he want her? Faith had no idea, but she liked the notion. “Yes please.”

He gave her a sweet smile. “I prefer my wife to know who she may call on in the event of my demise. Mr. Pickering is definitely someone you should know.”

He kept saying that word, ‘wife.’ She felt uncomfortable when he said it, especially when he used the word with such ease. “I don’t want to think about that,” she said without considering her remark, because his use of the other word had unnerved her. It revealed too much. She’d always yearned for him, dreamed of him, but when she finally achieved her aim, it had been so much more than she’d imagined.

The corner of his mouth moved but she did not mistake the hunger that entered his gaze. “Thank you. None of us wish to think about it, but in that eventuality, it must be considered, and it would be better if you knew the key people.”

“I don’t think my son mentioned a Pickering.” Concerned at the quaver in her ladyship’s voice, Faith turned her attention back to her, but as usual, the lady showed no emotion.

“Pickering is my agent,” he said. “He is a sound man. I intend to ask him to examine the shipping concerns of the earldom and compile a report for me.”

The dowager showed no response, only a shrug. “You will, I’m sure, excuse me from such considerations.” She shot Faith a glare.

“It’s not a woman’s affair.” She seemed most insistent on that point.

Had her husband instilled it in her?

“Indeed,” she said immediately, and then saw a way she could mollify the countess without upsetting her. “But if my husband wishes me to meet the gentleman, then I am obliged to comply.”

The responding nod was of the infinitesimal variety. “You are right. A shame, because I was planning to introduce you to my dressmaker, who will call tomorrow.”

“I called on Cerisot,” she said, “And she wishes to supply me with some mourning gowns. I didn’t want to put your woman to the trouble.”

The air froze as the dowager took a deep breath, swelling her formidable bosom and the light of anger sparkled in her eyes.

“Cerisot and Dalkeith have been at odds this last five years. It is doubtful they will serve the same establishment. I have patronised Dalkeith for that time, but I fear she’ll take umbrage if Cerisot sets foot across this threshold.” She leaned forward, as if to impart confidential information. Faith resisted the urge to lean further back in her seat. “Most of society considers Cerisot a little too daring, too dashing. She serves the racier set. It isn’t something the Countess of Graywood must encourage.”

“By the racier set,” Faith said coldly, “Do you mean the likes of Lady Caroline Lamb, or the demimonde?” She’d wager she saw nobody of that nature in the shop that morning.

“The former,” her ladyship said coldly.

“While her behaviour might be seen as regrettable, her ton is impeccable,” Faith pointed out. “If I ask her she might consent to accept you as clients. But we should make it clear to both women that what they do outside this house is their concern.” A notion struck her. “Or we may foster the rivalry. It would certainly bring us to the forefront of society.”

The dowager shuddered. “In a way I cannot think either of us would wish.”

“Oh I don’t know,” John said, “It could serve our purpose.” He exchanged a smile with Faith she couldn’t resist sharing. So wicked, it reminded her of last night. But then her mind hadn’t been far from that experience for most of the day, despite the rapidity of events.

“I placed orders with Cerisot for full mourning and half mourning.”

“Ah, then you may tell her that her services aren’t needed once those orders are placed.”

“I don’t think so,” said Faith. “I intend to give her a fair trial.”

Her ladyship snorted. “I hardly believe she’ll starve for want of our business, and why should we worry ourselves with that in any case?”

Faith didn’t answer.

When John got to his feet, she did too. “I think I’ll go upstairs and rest.” She didn’t miss the gleam in his eyes.

“I’ll escort you.”

Chapter Six

Just outside the room, she leaned towards him. “Is that what they’re calling it? Escorting?”

“Wicked woman,” he said without heat, but with a great deal of feeling.

The earl and countess had the magnificent suite on the second floor. Two bedrooms, a sitting room and associated powder rooms, each of a size that would take up two of her rooms in her house in Red Lion Square. The furnishings were formal, especially the Countess’s. Faith examined the tester bed, with columns carved in a severe classical style, the dull green upholstery, the daybed that didn’t appear comfortable at all.

“I think we’ll redecorate,” he said from behind her. “The earl’s bedroom is dark. Very old-fashioned. Do you agree?”

“Yes,” she said with relief and turned to face him. He stood closer than she’d thought, and he caught her upper arms as she threatened to topple forward. With a huge upswelling of relief, she closed her eyes and stretched up for his kiss. He didn’t disappoint, but gave her the embrace she needed. Enclosing her in his arms, he pressed his lips against hers and she returned it, opened her mouth so he could slide his tongue inside and caress her more intimately.

His hands worked the fastenings at the back of her gown, and the fabric fell to her feet. When he broke the kiss, she glanced down.

“More green than black, but that gown has accompanied me a long way. I’ll be sorry to see the end of it.”

“You could keep it.”

“I think I will.” She might need it.

He stroked her back, turning her attention back to his face.

Much more pleasant than her old gown. “You’ll have new ones.”

He kissed her forehead. “Which reminds me. We are now free to marry, if we wish.” He watched her, eyes coolly perceptive. What did he expect to see?

She jerked away from him in an action that made her stumble over her gown. “You’re serious?”

“Indeed. I visited Doctor’s Commons and had a discreet word with the official there. I told him that we had a field marriage and we’ve lost the papers, so in the eyes of the law it might not be considered proper. Since we have no children, the question of legitimacy hasn’t emerged—yet.” He stepped over the gown and cupped her face, forcing her to look at him. “After last night, it’s possible. If we have a child, if that child is a son, I want him to become the Earl of Graywood, not watch a younger but legitimate brother take that honour. I want us married, tied up tight, Faith in that circumstance.”

Tears pricked her eyes. “I’m eight and twenty, and I’ve never conceived.”

“If it happens, I want it right. Faith, we have a difficult hill to climb.” He paused. “That is, I do and in my selfishness I want someone capable by my side as I do it, someone I can trust to support me. You, I want you. In the army I saw you cope with the worst conditions imaginable and do it with aplomb. Whatever else you did, I understand.” His tightened mouth didn’t say that to her.

She’d taken his pension and his memory, and traduced it.

He was her employer, and he wanted her to do a job. When that had finished, she would leave and most likely they’d never meet again. She would accept the tools to do the job properly—the clothes and the luxurious surroundings—but she’d leave them behind when she went. If she forgot that, she’d be lost.

She didn’t want to marry him with the memory of what she had done hanging over her. “I don’t think I will fall pregnant.” She had serious doubts that she would. Even if she did, surely it would take more than once to reinvigorate organs that had lain moribund for the past two years.

“You don’t want to marry me?” He pasted on a warm smile, but she could tell the difference between his sincerity and the way he could act the kind, understanding man.

“I didn’t say that,” she said and in the same instant realised she meant nothing of the sort. She wanted to marry him. He had a core of integrity she’d always admired. Not to mention that she’d seen him naked now, and lost her breath. But she wouldn’t marry him this way. “I am the impostor who fooled you. I promised to amend for that by behaving as your wife until you don’t need me any more.”

“Remember that.” He said it firmly. She had no doubt he’d let her know when he’d done with her. But for now, she could enjoy him. Refusing to allow sadness to infuse her thoughts now, she moved closer, rubbed her body against his before she shrugged and smiled. “As you will.” She turned away to allow him to loosen her stays. She didn’t need it, but she wanted his hands on her. She still wore her everyday stays, the ones with the laces down the back and the hooks down the front. In any case she never wore them so tight they restricted her movements. But she loved the feeling of his fingers on her back, warm and capable, helping her.

If she couldn’t have him much longer, she’d make the most of him while he was here. “We have an hour before we have to dress for dinner.” Turning around, she put on a smile she meant. She saw the birth of his response in his eyes.

She stretched up for his kiss, having to stand on her toes now she had discarded her shoes. He smiled against her mouth before deepening the embrace and giving her the kiss she wanted, open mouthed and lascivious.

She held on, knowing he’d support her, take care of her, more than she’d ever had from any other man in her life, and she loved it.

That was why she couldn’t bring her troubles into his life. He deserved a better wife than her, and that was all there was. But for now, she had him and she would keep him and do her best to fight by his side.

His arms circled her waist, his palm flattened on the curve of her back, possessive and hot. His fingers burned into her like separate flames, inciting her arousal, making it inevitable.

When he groaned into her mouth, she melted with need. The stresses of the day combined with his presence forced her arousal up to levels she hadn’t known before, and she wanted him now. For the first time in her life she initiated an intimate act instead of responding to it. She fumbled at his breeches, finding the fall and unbuttoning each side with more haste than care. Underneath, his drawers proved no impediment to her questing fingers. She had his cock in her hands, hard, as hot as she felt, damp when she smoothed the bead of moisture gathered at the top over the head. His whole body stiffened, then he let out another groan, and released her mouth. “I can’t concentrate when you do that. Lift your skirts.

Now.”

She didn’t let him go, but did as he asked with her free hand, shamelessly revealing the most intimate part of her body. Widening her legs, she wondered how she, a small woman, could mount him, a tall man. He answered her without words when he put his hands on her bottom and lifted her to carry her to the nearest wall.

Pushing her against it, he took her mouth again, briefly, roughly, before dragging his lips away to speak to her. “Put it there. Guide me to your cunny.”

Oh, such wicked words! She’d heard that and more in her army years, but to hear the language in the refined tones of a man of fashion made her body turn to liquid. Her desire for him rocketed out of control. With him supporting her at the right height, it didn’t take much to bring his shaft close to her—cunny—and push the tip barely inside. She could do no more. With a sighed “Yes!” he did the rest, driving so deep she could have sworn nobody had ever visited that place before. If she pushed her shoulders against the wall, she could lift her legs and wind them around him. It said a lot for his strength that he held her without seeming difficulty, for she was no ethereal lightweight. He thrust in and out of her like a battering ram against a fortress gate.

“Scream if you need to. I want to hear your response, Faith. No holding back.”

This house was so much bigger, that in itself afforded privacy such as she’d never known before. He rammed into her, giving no quarter and she took everything. As he filled her, every drive brought her closer to her culmination, rising inevitably in her body.

Her body thumped the wall behind her as he pounded into her.

She’d never dare evoke that sound in her home for fear of bringing Amelia and the servants running. Here, nobody heard, or guessed what was happening and didn’t disturb them.

All that passed through her mind as he bellowed her name, and she felt the hot wetness of his essence gush deep inside her. She leaned against the wall, her legs around his waist, and allowed herself to revel in the sensation of being completely sated. She could stay there forever.

Not that he wanted her to. He lifted her off him, as tender as he’d been ruthless a moment before. His juices wet her upper thighs when he lowered her gently to the floor. She didn’t have much time to enjoy the feel of the carpet against her toes before he lifted her.

He carried her across to the bed, where he drew back the sheets and laid her down with as much care as if she were fashioned from fine china. Before he replaced the covers, he stripped her, then himself, then he joined her. She went into his arms with a happy sigh.

“I have to apologise,” he said, touching his lips to her temple.

“Why?” She nuzzled his chest, tucked her leg between his. He felt remarkably warm.

He touched her chin and kissed her. “I used some unforgiveable language.”

Her smile must have told him how she felt about that, because he smiled back. “I forgive you. Do you think I’m a society lady, offended by naughty words?”

He shook his head, the expression in his eyes soft. “You’re a remarkable woman. You should take offence. I treated you...”

Suddenly shy, she dropped her gaze. “I liked it.” The hot flush that coursed through her body when he said it, the sudden height of arousal—if she didn’t tell him it pleased her, he wouldn’t do it again. She really wanted that to happen again. “You handled me like a woman, John. A real woman, not a precious possession or a worthless piece of nothing. Please don’t stop.”

When she lifted her gaze again she saw an expression she’d never seen in him before. Understanding, wonder, maybe something else she dared not consider, even now. Oh well, she might as well tell him everything. After all, she had nothing to lose. Not even him, for he didn’t belong to her to begin with. “I used to watch you in camp.

You’d stride out of your tent as if you had no doubts. The men appreciated that. But you’d stop and listen, and the way you noticed everything—I was glad we were with your company, and not another.”

He laughed. “An infantry regiment? Not all my men felt that way. Far better a glamorous dragoon or a cavalry officer. But thank you. I tried.” He paused. Hell, she’d just commented on his sharp perception and then let him see her face close-up. “You watched me?”

“Only when you weren’t looking.”

“I saw you, you know.”

That came as a revelation to her. “I thought you never noticed me.”

He stroked her hair, his palm a soothing weight on her curls.

“Oh, I noticed. I did my best not to. Your husband was a good officer. He got the job done. I didn’t want to risk upsetting him. In any case, I never—damn, Faith, it’s too easy to talk to you.” He gave a half smile, self-deprecating. “I didn’t believe in polluting my own back yard.”

“Is that how you saw it?”

“Very much, when I desired the wife of one of my officers.”

Their eyes met in total understanding. For that reason, she wouldn’t have taken him up on any offer. But only because of that.

No other. If she told him that, he’d feel more beholden to her, because men of honour didn’t turn their backs on women who cared for them. More than she had a right to, even now. “Now he’s not here anymore.”

She nodded. “No, he’s not. He died at Waterloo.”

“Which reminds me.” He touched her chin, all business now, except that his cock nuzzled her bare flesh and his eyes held remnants of the glorious passion they’d recently shared. “We can’t say that. Everyone knows my history, or think they do. I was badly injured at Waterloo, enough so I lost my memory for a month. So we wouldn’t have had time to marry if Smith died there, too. I’ve always found it best to stay as close to the truth as possible, so I thought of a story.”

“I never thought it would be so complicated.” She hadn’t considered that part much at all, to be honest, but acted from sheer panic, then found herself caught. How to explain that to him?

Better if he didn’t know that part.

“Lies can lead to complexities we are better avoiding, but we have to explain how you could have married two husbands so quickly. We’ll say that John Smith died just before the great battle, in a skirmish. That will leave his battle honours intact. I married you that night because I didn’t want you left alone. How does that sound?”

“Strange.” It did, it sounded odd. Would a commanding officer automatically do that? She’d never seen it or heard of it happening.

“Then we hint at a longstanding attraction. It sounds as if we had that without realising it.” He tilted her chin and kissed her again, this time making it longer, more luscious, tasting her and encouraging her to do the same to him. When they ended the kiss, their bodies had heated and they were both breathing heavier. He smiled. “See? Nobody seeing us now would doubt it.”

They would not. She knew it was true, but it astonished her that he felt the same way. “You never showed any sign of noticing me.”

“I worked hard not to. I took less notice of you than the other women, because I wanted you. When Stephen told me I had a wife, I first thought I’d to condemn you out of hand. Then he gave me your name. Faith.” He whispered the word like a benediction, his heated breath sweeping her cheek. “I didn’t dare believe it was you, but I met you and it was.”

“How do you know we didn’t marry as you said?” If he didn’t remember, how could he be sure? His story of her first husband dying before the battle sounded real, believable enough to have actually happened.

He lost any hint of a smile and gazed at her, his dark eyes grave.

His arm tightened around her, pressing her breasts hard against his chest, as if he knew she’d try to break away at his next words. “My memory loss is not as extensive as I’ve led people to suppose. I considered it best to conceal that fact for the time being.”

She swallowed. “So you recall everything?”

“Not quite. I still have a blank part in my mind. I remember taking orders before the battle, putting them into action, and then—nothing until I woke up in the medical tent. Almost everything returned except for that lost hour or so, the action that resulted in my injury. More like half an hour, I believe. As much as I can piece it together from the time that I remember to the times quoted in the press as to when certain actions occurred.”

“You were at the farmhouse.” She remembered. Her husband had died there.

“Hougoumont.”

Faith closed her eyes and let her breath out in a rush. Many of the worst casualties in the whole of the battle came from that place.

“You could have died.” The action had drawn troops that Napoleon could have dispersed elsewhere. So much that the farmhouse had become a magnet for them. Some of the most desperate hand-to-hand fighting had occurred there.

“I nearly did.” He lifted her hand, placed it on his head. She felt the dent there, deep, one side straight, sharp-edged. He sighed and rubbed his scalp, now softened by thick, dark hair against her hand, like a cat demanding attention. “Afterwards, when I felt well enough to travel, I couldn’t wait to knock the dust of Europe off my boots. That’s why I never owned up to the initial mistake, that my name wasn’t John Dalkington-Smythe. I let them think I was John Smith. Any John Smith.” He paused. “How did you get involved in the mess? How did you come to take my name? To pose as my widow?”

She hesitated, still unwilling to reveal everything. Remembering what he’d said earlier, she decided to keep to the truth. She doubted she could lie to him and keep up the story for long. “They came to tell me that my husband had perished. They said you were dead, too. I don’t know how they arrived at that conclusion but I can guess.” She paused, pictures vivid in her mind. “You’ve seen what the thieves do to the bodies after battle. They strip them completely. They’d be more likely to desecrate an officer because of the gold on his uniform.” Any body with the remnants of a uniform lying next to it might have been identified as John. “There were a lot of dead bodies. A lot of wounded, too. I—I suppose I thought it better to be a Dalkington-Smythe than a Smith. I was confused, upset. I wanted to get away.”

She didn’t appreciate his perceptive gaze. Her hand was still buried in his hair. Caught there, her palm against the scar that was all that remained of the wound that nearly took his life. She leaned up, pulled him closer, and kissed him. At least he couldn’t ask any more questions.

His groan told her he enjoyed what she was doing. Forgetting about the rest she was supposed to take, she rolled on top of him, emboldened by the warmth she brought to him. She sat up, then paused, straddling his thighs. “I don’t know—“

“Oh, don’t stop now.” He placed his big hands on her hips, stroked down the crease at her groin, touched the knot of flesh, so sensitive. She cried out and moved against him without realising she would. “Do you know what this is, oh woman of crude words?”

She gave a laugh of pure joy. “I know what it does.”

“Good enough. It’s the clitoris. I believe the Greeks named it, although I don’t know for sure. They never taught me that word at school. Have you ever toyed with it?”

With heat rising to her cheeks, she opened her eyes wide and stared at him. “S-sometimes, but I thought it was wrong.”

“Not if you need it. I have a theory that if we don’t relieve our needs in that area, then we suffer in other ways. We might lose our tempers more, or the aches and pains of frustration may attack another part of our bodies.”

That made her laugh. “What an odd theory.” She sucked in a breath when he continued to play.

“We need never put it to the test. Women may come as strongly from that as from the act itself.” He urged her up on her knees, so she moved closer to him, her sex hovering above his chest. “Come down on me, Faith. Fuck me.”

Oh, the words. Now he knew the words excited her, he’d be relentless. Her lips suddenly dry, she licked them, and he followed the motion with his avid gaze. “Do it, Faith.”

Her name coupled with the command that was no command.

John decided not to help her, but let her do it. She took hold of his member and held it steady so she could push it inside her when she came back down on him. The heat in her eyes told him everything he needed to know. She loved it; she hadn’t said it to please him. He’d found someone who enjoyed slightly rougher play and his darker vocabulary, and that delighted him. To know he didn’t have to guard his tongue around her meant he didn’t have to guard his opinions, either. Someone to share, to talk to—

Coherent thoughts fled John’s head when she wrapped him in her hot sheath. Then she began to move and his sanity threatened to follow coherence. She rose and fell as if she’d done this with him many times before, and yet the freshness of the occasion seeped through his every nerve. He watched her, enjoyed the way she opened to him, and savoured the first few strokes before he did as he promised.

He brought his hand down to where they joined and touched the place. She stopped but when he shook his head, she continued to move. He wanted to experience everything he could of their joining. Already the scent of them wreathed around his senses with intoxicating power. She reduced him to quivering heap. A delighted one, he had to admit, but he needed to do something in return.

Sliding his hand out a little, he positioned his thumb where it would hit her clitoris every time she plunged down on him. The first time she gasped, and jerked her body off his.

“No, keep going.” His voice sounded hoarse, but he managed the instruction and then he watched her pleasuring him and herself.

Keeping his body rigid, he thrust up in tempo with her actions, saw her arousal rise to unmanageable proportions. They moved together in a dance neither could break. The best dance he’d ever performed with the best partner he’d ever had.

Fire gathered in his loins, liquid heat that didn’t douse the flames but roused them. If the house had fallen around his ears he couldn’t have stopped. Here he didn’t have to worry about making a noise or anyone knowing. In fact, it would help him if people did know.

Although he tried to hold back, gritted his teeth and willed himself not to come, it was no good. He stiffened as his peak tensed his balls, gathered at the base of his cock and then he exploded.

His last thought before his world dissolved was, “Thank God,”

when her channel twitched and then clenched him hard. “Ah, Christ in heaven, darling!”

He held his arms wide, waited for her to fall into them and when she did, closed them around her to keep her safe. And to ensure she didn’t get away. Because if he’d chosen her for himself he couldn’t ask for a better partner.

Chapter Seven

When John told Faith that before he left to dress for dinner, she gave him a harassed smile and he knew. Saw it in her eyes. He’d warned her he only wanted her until he’d established himself as the earl. After only a short time together, he was beginning to believe the impossible; that they’d deal excellently together in the long term.

Once he’d required love in his marriage, dreams engendered by seeing his parents together, perfect harmony and a deep, abiding passion for each other that lasted until death. Not a realistic proposition, but certainly he could aspire to companionship with an intelligent woman he could discuss matters with, and a satisfactory bed partner.

He’d seen it in his parents, but never since. After they’d died, he’d sold most of the property and joined the army. Wounds long healed over still left scars. The army had kept him busy. Now this, and unexpectedly, he’d found the kind of friendship he hadn’t expected.

Too experienced in the ways of life to expect romantic entanglements, he’d instead uncovered someone he liked.

Although, he reflected, gazing at his image in the mirror as he tied his neckcloth, she had her faults. Thank the lord, because God knew he had his. His mouth tightened when he recalled what she must have seen, her knowledge of things she should by rights know nothing of driving her to seek a quiet life. Her last secret remained for him to discover, and until he did, he wouldn’t make any commitment. She was hiding something that had happened around the time of Waterloo. Before or immediately after, because when she spoke of that time she kept it vague, and she showed signs of discomfort, fidgeting. And her eyes went hard.

He pulled the folds of his black neckcloth too tight and had to start again. Mourning wear. He hated it, but at least he didn’t have to bear it for long. He wondered if Faith had mourned him properly, and decided yes, because her mourning clothes were well worn. Not the new ones. They’d be new and crisp, ironically more fashionable than anything else she owned. At least he could give her that.

He picked up a discreet silver pin from the dressing table and used it to secure the neat folds at his throat. She’d imagined she’d stay in that pleasant little house she’d bought, perhaps for the rest of her life. One, if truth be told, that he’d have chosen for himself.

Instead, she’d found herself a countess in Grosvenor Square.

Overwhelming for him, so God knew what it was like for her.

He hadn’t mentioned the second reason he’d offer his name in a true marriage. If their fraud was exposed, if anyone discovered that they were not correctly wed, he’d have no choice. If society realised that he knew about it, his name would be dragged in the mud. So he’d claim the prior marriage was irregular, and marry her again, perhaps say he hadn’t realised before. Not that he’d tell her. Yet.

Faith was fashioned from stern stuff, and he needed her by his side right now. Yes, need was the correct word. At least she wouldn’t bolt tonight, and she’d given him an idea of her plans.

He’d wager they involved that damned carpet bag in her powder room. She still appeared skittish. She needed settling. He smiled when he thought of the best way of doing that. He didn’t want her disappearing overnight.

“My lord?”

So lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard his valet come in, he nearly dropped the brush he’d just picked up. Kelly swanned forward, elegant as if he’d never seen more than a speck of blood in his life, and took the item from his fingers. He’d watched the man efficiently skin a bear in less than ten minutes, but nobody would believe that if he told them now. “I beg your pardon, I didn’t intend to disturb you. I wondered if you required any help dressing.”

“Kelly, don’t ‘my lord’ me in private, if you would.” They’d love Kelly’s gentle Canadian accent below stairs. It would probably gain him a host of female admirers. Although just the wrong side of forty, Kelly was an upright man with a severe classical appearance that begged a woman to thaw him out. John had reason to know that his valet had great success with women. He’d had to smooth over the problems when two maids had come to blows in the kitchen over him in his house back in Halifax. That would not happen again, not if Kelly wished to remain with him, and considering his new position in society, he’d bet Kelly would prefer to do that.

“Kelly, where would one find a lady’s maid?”

“I know of several excellent register offices in the City, my—sir, but if sometimes the staff come from personal referrals.”

“I have the feeling her ladyship will need one. Someone who can handle the grande toilette. She’s lived quietly up to this point and Robinson won’t be up to the standard her ladyship needs now.”

“I see, sir. Would she know of your decision?”

He glanced away guiltily. “Not yet. I’ll tell her later. I thought I’d better initiate enquiries.”

“A wise move, sir. I’ll certainly put them in train for you.”

Kelly added a polish that John couldn’t achieve on his own. In a few minutes he made the gentleman an earl in truth, and although he watched, John still didn’t know how he achieved it. He smiled his thanks and left the room in search of his wife. On the way down to dinner, he made her aware that he’d enquired for a maid for her.

When she protested that she had Robinson, he reminded her gently that she’d be required to dress for balls and court. “An excellent lady’s maid can create the kind of show we’ll need,” he said. “Our campaign.”

She leaned closer as they reached the landing on the first floor and turned to enter the drawing room. “It is a campaign, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed.” He loved the way her eyes danced when she answered him, their conspiracy safe. “We’ll discuss tactics later.” He left her in no doubt of his intent.

Irritation filled him when he saw the liveried footman waiting to throw open the drawing room door, as if incapable of doing it on his own. He decided to take stock before he changed everything.

Considering the dowager had lost her sons, he would remember that, and allow her some leeway. Only when she crossed the line would he mention the fact. Because compassion was one thing, but he knew that if he gave her too much, she’d take it and a little extra, making it harder to regain ground. The damned footman could stay, even for family dinners, if she wanted that.

He exchanged a glance with Faith and realised his aggravation hadn’t transmitted to her. Her eyes were brimful of mirth. Her expression forced his mood away, so it disappeared in the face of her amusement. If the footman amused her, she would have him for every meal.

However, when they entered the drawing room, it became obvious they were not to dine en famille. A man stood to greet them, his head slightly bowed. Of moderate height, with smooth, dark hair brushed back tidily, no pretension to high fashion, and a modest mourning suit, John assessed him as a relative. After all, would her ladyship dine with a tradesman or a servant? She’d subjected him to her trenchant views on “Trade” before, so he doubted it.

“Ah, Graywood. Please allow me to introduce you to the estate’s man of business, Mr. Roker.” Right on cue, Mr. Roker bowed low.

“I hope you don’t object. Mr. Roker came to visit me to discuss my position now the earldom has changed and I took it upon myself to invite him to dinner.”

“This is your home, ma’am, you must feel free to ask whoever you wish to dinner.” Just don’t expect me to attend every one, he added silently.

Either the countess had wanted to ingratiate the man with him, or Roker had instigated the meeting himself. Rather than wait on John’s pleasure, until after he’d met with his own man, Roker seemed determined to get in first. John disliked being rushed.

Not a society meal, then. John knew Roker did not work exclusively for the Graywoods and while the earldom had much of his time, he had other accounts he dealt with. While he could not expect an invitation to a society dinner, sharing a meal with the family would be considered acceptable, by all but the highest sticklers. Even the King ate with his doctors. To be honest, he probably had little choice.

Instinct prickled the hairs at the back of his neck, and John had learned not to ignore that feeling. The times he’d done so, he’d lived to regret it. Even getting on that ship in Canada he’d felt it, and he’d been right. He didn’t like Roker. However, he might prove a good financial manager. He would see what his own agent had to say tomorrow.

He broke the news during the first course. “I wish to hold a ball to introduce my wife to the people she needs to know,” he said smoothly as he helped himself to parsnips. “Early in the season.”

Roker’s eyes opened wider, revealing a bloodshot pupil. It didn’t appear that he was a drinker, but he must have had a lot to deal with since John had broken the news of the brothers’ deaths.

Sleepless nights, then. John felt a little better about the man, if he cared enough to do that. “My lord, I’m not sure that’s wise...”

“I am. If you could help to arrange it that would save me some trouble.” A polite way of saying, “Do it.” It meant the same thing and politeness cost nothing.

“What’s that you say, Graywood?” the dowager said. Probably heard every word. No doubt had ears like a bat’s.

It annoyed him that he had to bellow from the other end of the table. “Lady Graywood, I wish to hold a ball to present my wife to society. I know you are in mourning, and I do not know if you consider it proper for you to emerge so soon.”

Louisa perked up, her cheekbones flushing pink and a light sparkling in her previously dull eyes. At twenty-two, she was too old for a come-out, but she still possessed the dew of youth. At twenty-four, her older sister would lose it before long. He found them too shy, too uncomfortable and they needed to rectify that if they were to find husbands. Every time he’d tried to talk to them, they’d stared at him, making their eyes wider. They listened and agreed in a way that made him want to demand that they express opinions of their own.

Thankfully her ladyship took the bait. “We may have a gathering here. The rooms on this floor will accommodate a considerable number. At Charlotte’s debut we had two hundred in the rooms, and turned away fully a hundred more.”

“A triumph,” he said. “But do you consider it proper for you to attend?”

Her ladyship’s eyes sparkled. “As long as the girls wear muted colours and black armbands with no coloured jewellery, for that one night it would be unexceptional. It is your presentation.” Lady Graywood almost cracked a smile. “It would be considered unusual if we did not attend.”

He knew thath only too well. Society would consider it a family breach if they didn’t make a token appearance. Another hurdle overcome. “Thank you. I hardly dare ask, but could you help to arrange the affair?”

“I would be so grateful,” Faith put in, her voice quiet and conciliatory. “I have no experience at organising something of that nature.”

“You have lived quietly,” the countess agreed, her manner condescending. “Very well, for you, Faith, I will do my utmost.”

He loved the way Faith said, “We should invite some younger men, so the girls do not become bored.” Faith’s diplomatic skills obviously consisted of the more advanced variety. Briefly, he covered her hand with his, then moved on to assist her to a dish of buttered mushrooms he couldn’t help but notice she had a partiality for.

They’d concocted a perfect bribe for the dowager. She would have to remain in mourning for most of the season. However a ball to introduce the new Earl of Graywood to the ton wouldn’t raise any but the stiffest eyebrows, especially if they remained in half mourning. Almacks would have to wait, as would appearances at the theatre and other places of public amusement.

Faith, though, would not have to do that. The duties of countess would supersede those considerations. He wondered how she’d appear in a rich blue and decided he wanted to find out sooner rather than later, even if she could not wear colours in public. Of recent years, ladies were dressing in richer shades, instead of the washed-out pastels of his youth. More substantial stays were definitely coming back with a vengeance and the waistline was returning to a place closer to its natural form. He approved, because Faith’s dark hair and pale skin would suit such styles better than the high-waisted, ethereal fashion of previous years. Women tended to assume that men knew nothing of fashion. Which was largely true, but it was also true that men knew what they liked and were perfectly capable of memorising their preferences for future reference. If she lasted long enough to come out of mourning and into colours.

However, he had learned that he preferred Faith naked. An entirely different consideration, for he had also determined that nobody else would see her that way except her maid.

Turning his thoughts reluctantly from the memory of her sweet breasts bobbing before his face as they had earlier, he put his attention to the meal. While he ate, the countess planned for the ball, which, Lady Graywood informed him, was better earlier in the season. “For you will wish to establish the acquaintances you need then, dear sir.” When had he become “Dear sir?” Oh yes, when he’d offered to hold a ball here. And pay for it, he presumed.

To that end, Mr. Roker seemed to require his attention urgently. He lent an ear. “The estate is still moving through probate,” Mr. Roker said. Ah, yes, it would be. “While we of course have a considerable sum set aside to defray necessary expenses, this affair will cost a great deal.”

“We have no credit?” He raised a brow. Some aristocrats he’d known in the past existed on credit alone, having run through much of their fortunes.

“N-naturally, my lord.” Roker gave him a doubtful glance and John nearly laughed aloud, because Roker’s thoughts were so obvious. The gleam in his eyes, the lines creasing his forehead spoke of a commendable concern.

“I don’t intend to run the estate into the ground,” he said. “I brought some finances of my own with me.”

Roker gave him a disbelieving stare. “Of course, my lord.”

Clearly he believed John’s finances not up to the wealth of the estate. John chose not to disabuse him.

Soon after the servants cleared the covers and they drank the health of the King, the Queen, the Regent and Princess Charlotte, the ladies retired. John breathed a sigh of relief, knowing the discussion about gowns and guests would probably continue for some time. Faith had continued in her diplomatic role, agreeing with the dowager and making a few mild suggestions. John would ensure that the decorations would suit her most. As his countess she should be the centre of attention. He wanted everyone to see what he did when he looked at her. But when he tried to define it, he found a lack of facility in his words, only vague descriptions.

He’d rescue her soon, but he felt the need for a snifter of brandy after the talk of toilettes and perfumes and flowers and God knew what else. He’d leave the arrangements to them. Give them the names of the few people he wanted to attend, mostly acquaintances from his youth.

Not the man sitting at table with him tonight. “We may as well discuss our business,” he said. “The ladies will keep at it for hours. I don’t suppose you have any more idea than I do of the difference between soupir a rose and soufflé de champagne.”

“I think they’re both pink,” Roker ventured, “Though I wouldn’t wager on knowing the difference.”

John grinned and got up, nodding his dismissal to the footman and unlocking the Tantalus to get to the brandy. The key was in the lock that made him wonder why they bothered with the item in the first place. Fashion, or did they trust all the servants implicitly?

He’d keep an eye on the spirits. He didn’t begrudge a few tots, but it was a good measure of the way a household was run as to how often they had to top up the spirits.

He took the brandy and a couple of the cut-glass tumblers he found next to it to the table. Roker accepted a small amount. “The news of the deaths of the previous earl and his brother shocked me exceedingly when I heard. I can only consider us fortunate that you remained to continue the title.”

“I liked the brothers,” John said. “I knew them as a boy and then we lost touch to a great extent after I joined the army. We didn’t move in the same circles.” Even if his rank had been equal to the brothers’, it would have been unlikely they’d have met except at the larger society events. Army circles and aristocratic circles didn’t always meet. Society consisted of different overlapping spheres of interest and influence, continuously engaged in a dance that some found satisfying, but bored others to tears. John thought they could count him in the latter group. He wasn’t looking forward to the social events he would have to attend, particularly when they had come out of mourning completely. “I was glad to renew our acquaintance, and devastated to lose them so soon after our reunion.”

“My lord, may I ask why both came to visit you in Canada?”

John raised a brow, deciding on the arrogant. That piece of information he would keep to himself or rather, he would not share with Roker. He’d answer up to a point. “Family business.” Then a thought struck him, a mild distortion of the truth. “Lady Graywood was anxious for me to marry, preferably one of her daughters to secure the succession. She sent her sons to me as soon as they discovered I was alive.”

Roker tutted. John ignored the disapproving sound. “If her younger son failed to remarry, and her other son continued in his refusal to enter that state, she wanted the next generation secured.”

In fact, he knew that Lady Graywood wanted him to sire children she could then commandeer, if necessary. It was one reason he’d refused to marry before then. He had no intention of allowing any child of his to go through the same suffering he had, studying dusty books that would have no relevance to his real life. Such was the improbability of the “Just in case.”

Well, the “Just in case” had happened. Here he was, so it was as well he’d discovered he had a flair for business and had prospered. A year trapping bear and beaver and a week to realise that the real money didn’t lie there, but in the centres of commerce. Although he’d enjoyed his year in the wilderness, having time to think and plan, his return to civilisation hadn’t been without its merits, either.

Except that Halifax had its share of matchmaking mamas, too.

London did not have the monopoly on that.

The brothers had wanted him to find a bride, that was true, but they had other information to divulge to him. Suspicions only, but he appreciated their concern. He’d intended to do a little investigation of his own when he arrived in London.

Which had gone up in smoke when the Earl of Graywood and his brother had died. Although that had changed everything drastically, he still meant to investigate their suspicions. They’d probably amount to nothing but John believed in checking and rechecking the facts before he came to a decision. “It surprised me to discover I had a wife,” he confessed. That was true enough.

“Although I knew Faith before my memory failed me. She told me that we married shortly after the death of her first husband, when I promised to take care of her.”

“We will need the relevant documents for the family archive,”

Roker said. “If a question should arrive in future years...”

“Heirs, yes, I understand. The documents, or legal copies, will be conveyed to you.” If he decided to create any by whisking Faith off to the first church that agreed to do the deed. He’d tell Roker the first marriage was irregular. Not now, because he suspected Roker worked hand in glove with the dowager, who would still be delighted to see one of her daughters become the Countess of Graywood. He’d announce it to his man of business when they’d done the deed, and not before.

“My lord, it would make most sense to join your business with the estate,” Roker said then. “Would you allow me to arrange the transfer of the relevant papers to my offices?”

“No.” On that he determined, despite Roker’s barely concealed chagrin. “Neither will any new holdings become part of the entail.”

That way if the worst happened and he died without issue, he could keep most of the wealth out of the grasping hands of the government.

Roker spluttered. “I must protest, my lord, in the strongest possible way. As your man of business, I need to oversee your holdings...”

John held up a hand, palm out, to stop him mid-rant. “You are the dowager countess’ man of business. I have not yet appointed you to that role on my behalf, although until probate is through, I would prefer you remain in that post. I will watch your performance during this period and decide your suitability for the long-term management of the estate.”

“My lord, it will be a busy time. My family has served yours in that capacity for many years. I assure you—“

John recalled the saying about eggs and baskets. He didn’t want to listen to any more blustering. Roker had turned red, his narrow face almost the same colour as the wine in the decanter set at the centre of the table. “No more, please. I will give the matter urgent consideration. I have my own man of business, who serves my interests in London and abroad and I’ll continue to use him to supervise that part of my property.” From which he would settle a large amount on Faith, so she would not be destitute if he should die before his time. Or if she bore him only girls. Anything was possible. Besides, he had complete trust in his own man. “I’m calling on him in the morning.” He gave Roker an unholy grin.

“Her ladyship, that is my wife, will be accompanying me to the most important meetings. I want her to know every part of the business. I’ll not have her left helpless.”

“Women have no brain for such things,” Roker said, fighting valiantly.

He had no chance against a master of strategy. “My wife handled the pension and the small income due to me most admirably while I was gone. She even made a profit.” He had no idea if she had, but she hadn’t seemed destitute when he first met her here. “I would trust her brain against some of the most acute ones I have ever met.”

Only then did he realise he was speaking the absolute truth. In that, at least.

Chapter Eight

Two days later, the first of Faith’s mourning gowns arrived. She was forced to recognise that Robinson could not handle her role when the maid had difficulty fastening the hooks and buttons. It took her too long, and Faith privately considered that she could have dressed herself faster. Not that she’d have chosen this gown. At least, not until she took a look at herself in the mirror at the end of the process.

Black wasn’t the best of colours for her, but Cerisot had considered that when she’d cut the gown as low as respectable daywear allowed. Faith’s skin to show glowed in contrast with the rich black. Black was an expensive colour, the depth of colour hard to achieve in cheaper fabrics, as Faith knew to her cost. Her old mourning gown, although perfectly acceptable, had an unfortunate tinge of green to it.

The cut was masterly, though the dressmaker had only taken a ready-made gown and altered it for Faith. Her custom-made gowns would arrive as soon as they were completed, but she hadn’t ordered many full mourning. She only had two weeks. Less, if she bolted.

Her carpetbag lay in the powder room seemingly abandoned, but she’d ensured it contained everything she needed if she wanted to leave quickly. She’d had it since her marriage, and didn’t feel entirely safe if she had no idea of its location, or she didn’t keep it packed.

Robinson had brushed Faith’s hair, but then she’d had to use the curling iron, so the scent of hot, though fortunately not burned, hair still lingered in the air. Absently she reached for the cologne bottle. She only ever used ordinary eau-de-cologne, so she’d have to put that on her shopping list. And she needed black gloves. The only pair she owned were distinctly shabby.

Time to break the bad news to Robinson. “I need an experienced lady’s maid, but I am hoping you may find your way to acting as her assistant.”

To her relief Robinson appeared more delighted than disappointed. The dowager wouldn’t have approved of her beam.

Maids were supposed to behave coolly and appear as invisible as they could manage, considering they were as corporeal as everybody else.

One more hurdle crossed.

Making another decision, she turned to the maid. “Could you come with me this morning, Robinson? I need to shop after our visits in the City. I’d appreciate you taking a list, otherwise we’ll forget half of it. I need black ribbons, black gloves, stockings...” Still reciting her list, followed by her maid who was murmuring the items after her, since that was the way Robinson took lists, Faith nearly collided with her husband.

She jerked up her head and almost toppled backwards. “You look magnificent.” The words left her mouth before she could put a guard on her wayward tongue. He did. Tall, powerful, dressed in black, since they were going out that morning. Black that fitted him perfectly, displaying his powerful shoulders, deep chest and strong thighs.

Unabashed, he bent and touched his lips to hers in a brief salute that gave her a flash of heat, though he straightened immediately afterwards. “You look lovely.”

“I look ordinary.”

“If this is how you appear in black, you’ll look wonderful in colours.”

She laughed and took his arm. “Flatterer!” She didn’t believe him for a minute, but she enjoyed him telling her. To have a man who actually noticed her appearance came as a pleasant surprise, although to do him justice, her late husband had no chance to tell her so. Women who followed the drum had little opportunity to display their fashion skills. “Cerisot is a genius.”

“She certainly knows her trade.” Although his words sounded mild, the heated glance he shot her was anything but.

Downstairs, Robinson helped her into her hat and wrapped her old black cloak reverently around her shoulders. “Add shawls and a new black cloak or pelisse to the list,” Faith said and glanced up at her husband. “I plan to shop at the Exchange after our meeting.”

He smiled. “Good.”

She realised she’d expected him to castigate her for wasting money on female fripperies. Old habits, apprehensions she should kill. They had no part in her life, had not for two years. John had not nearly so much money, nor the need for display, so every purchase had been modest and practical. Sometimes it seemed a great deal longer than two years. Not even that, because Waterloo had taken place in June, and they were only in late March.

Heaven knew what the house in the country looked like, and it was but the main one of half a dozen. Ridiculous. Extravagant.

Necessary.

The coach awaited them, a town carriage with the Graywood crest on the doors, the smell of fresh paint still lingering from the mourning wreaths painted on to the crests. Inside, the pale blue upholstery showed not a speck of dust. The footman swung up behind and they set off with a rattle of harness and a warning shout from the coachman.

John put his hand over hers. “I asked for one footman only. Lady Graywood wanted the complete panoply of footmen, runners, all the trappings and in a way she has the right of it.” Surely one emblazoned servant and a maid was enough.

She leaned back and watched the passing wonders of the city.

They travelled from the fashionable West End to the decidedly unmodish East End, through the City and down to the loop in the river known as the Isle of Dogs. Not that they ventured inside the loop. Rookeries abounded there, haunts of the outlaw and the outcast.

They came to the working part of the Thames, the docks. East India Docks was a huge complex, with buildings varying from shacks to imposing warehouses fit for a King. The riches of the world resided here before the dock workers loaded, unloaded and sent them to their various destinations. Carriages and carts rolled in and out, men with arms the width of a normal man’s legs heaved bales, boxes and bundles. Masts bristled up into the sky, a dead forest come back to life, sails rolled and lashed, and everywhere she heard the cacophony of activity.

Dazed, she allowed John to help her out of the carriage. He retained his hold on her hand as he led her into the nearest building, one in a cluster that had brass plaques fastened to the soot-blackened brick walls outside.

Inside, the air smelled strange, sharp with spices, probably from a nearby storage area, or maybe a ship carrying that cargo had just disembarked. Must and dampness combined with the underlying stink of wood rot permeating everything.

Lifting her skirts she climbed the stairs, the polished wooden rail attesting to its frequent use, rather than the assiduity of the housemaid. A stocky man stood in the gloom of the narrow landing. Instead of bowing, he shook hands with John, then he nodded to her. “Ma’am.”

“It’s ‘my lady,’” John said, but he said it with a smile. “I don’t think she’ll object to your address, though. Did you have a good trip, Burrows?”

The man grinned. “Aye, sir. Not as eventful as yours. Will you come this way?” They followed him into a room at the front of the building.

A blaze of light greeted her from the huge expanse of glass facing the door. Like a bow window in a great ship. It could have been taken from one, which would explain its incongruous appearance here. It afforded a magnificent view over the docks; a panoramic sweep of working London, as impressive in its way as the fashionable hour in Hyde Park, or the interior of Carlton House.

She had John to thank for bringing her here, giving her a new experience. She savoured every one, stored them up like a hungry squirrel, to take them out in the future, look at them and then tuck them away once more.

A man stood behind the substantial desk before the window, his silhouette and shadowy features all she could see until her eyes adjusted to the glare. Then he became clearer.

As tall as John but thinner, he still appeared the kind of person who could break a lesser being with a twist of his wrist. She should have felt intimidated in his presence, but she’d met too many powerful men for that. If they wanted to hurt her, they would, but most did not. This man did not. His normal mien of sternness was obvious from the lines bracketing his mouth and rippling his forehead, but he was smiling at them, his pale eyes lit with pleasure.

She’d wager few people saw him that way.

“My dear, may I introduce my agent, business partner and friend, Thomas Pickering,” John said. “Thomas, my wife, Lady Graywood.”

“My lady.” He inclined his head, not quite a bow.

She did the same, still wondering at the new name, uncomfortable with it, as if it belonged to someone else. “I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Pickering.”

Pickering exchanged a speaking glance with John. “You are come home for good, then, if you’re taking the title.”

John shrugged. “As to that, I have no choice. The title is mine, whether I like it or not. The rest remains to be seen. I won’t close any avenue and I do not intend to abandon my concerns in Canada.”

“And India?”

John nodded. “That too.”

She turned to him with a frown. “India?” He hadn’t mentioned visiting there.

A smile flirted with the corners of his mouth. “Investments, my dear. The East Indies too. I have worldwide interests.” He drew up a chair for her with his own hands and helped her to sit before he found a seat for himself. Pickering took his place behind the desk and the other man, Burrows, stood by the door, legs apart, hands behind his back, military style. She saw a lot of ex-soldiers around these days. This one had obviously discovered an excellent berth.

John addressed his agent. “I trust my wife, Thomas. You may speak before her as if you’re talking to me. She’s intelligent, too.

She’ll follow, as long as she’s given guidance to matters she’s unfamiliar with.”

“I can promise that,” Thomas said. “If you wish it, ma’am.”

Oh, she wished it. To become part of something, to help with the decisions he made every day, or at least to understand what he did, that surpassed her expectations. Oh, she knew women had important spheres of influence, but this—this thrilled her to the core. “Yes,” was all she said.

“I don’t expect to die any time soon, but after we’ve discussed our business, I want to discuss power of attorney. I wish to pass my personal estate to Faith, should that event come to pass.”

“No!” She’d seen too much death to think about another.

Especially him. “I don’t want to think about it.”

“With these estates, we have to,” he said gently, enfolding her hand in his own. Even through their gloves, his heat warmed her.

“My dear, I’m wealthy in my own right. Much more than the dowager knows.”

She stared at him, her eyes widened in shock. “I thought you had a respectable independence.”

“I intended to give that impression. I don’t want anyone connected with the Graywood holdings to know, not yet. I want to see how the land lies.” He retained his hold without apology and she was glad of it. “The dowager and Roker want the estates merged. Most of the Graywood estate is entailed, together with a few separate investments, which I intend to put in the hands of Thomas here. That means if I die without an heir, the crown takes it. Times are changing and I’m not sure I want the whole estate in one person’s hands. While I have no objections to the estates merging eventually I only met the earldom’s man of business last night. I definitely don’t wish to add my private holdings to the entail. Although I have no reason for concern, I don’t know him like I know Thomas. So I’d appreciate you keeping the information you learn here today to ourselves for a little longer.”

“Very well.” She understood the importance of knowing the people she did business with. John would need to take the word of this man.

Thomas opened one of the ledgers set on his desk and they began to review recent transactions and upcoming ones.

Apart from a few terms she didn’t understand, Faith followed most of the reasoning. And realised she was married to a wealthy man in his own right. Except that she wasn’t married to him. The information made her wonder how she could cope. The soldier she’d admired from afar had turned into a brilliant businessman.

“All this in two years?” she wondered.

“No,” John told her. “I always invested, from when I realised I would be nothing if I did not. After a time, I wanted to do something else. I turned to soldiering when my fortune had grown large enough for me to ensure my continued independence.”

That made sense. John was a man of honour, and if he’d thought his country needed his assistance, making money wouldn’t have been enough. “I never imagined...” she began.

“Wealthy men often become targets,” John said. “If people had known, I’d have been captured, maybe ransomed, and I would certainly could not have moved around as freely as I did. When you have a private fortune, people expect things and you receive begging letters, petitions and so on. I didn’t want that, either. Now I’m the earl, I fear that might come to an end.”

“Did you think of walking away?”

He gave her a particularly warm smile. “Not when I discovered I had a wife.” He glanced at Thomas who sat, seemingly engrossed by a column of figures. “I didn’t know about her, Thomas. I had a head injury, remember?”

Thomas glanced up and smiled. “Ah. I see.”

Faith wondered what he saw.

Thomas had concerns everywhere, all over the world. She would find it far more difficult to get away, if she decided to take that course. But increasingly she was wondering if she had not choosen the coward’s way out. Her concern remained that she was barren and wouldn’t provide him with the family he so obviously needed.

She could still go. If she lived in a small town, went about her business as a humble widow, he would not find her. Her only problem would be money, which, when she listened to the fabulous sums John and his agent were discussing seemed altogether ridiculous. “I lived comfortably on a hundred a year,” she said. “I thought myself lucky.”

John smiled at her, warm and understanding. “You’re an excellent manager. It’s why I want you involved in this. What you did in a small way you could do in a much larger way. Forget about the noughts at the end of a number. Think of what it does and how it can perform best.”

If she did that, cut the last part of the number away, he was right, she could think of it as a tangible amount. See through the dazzling wealth to what the money was actually doing. Making them wealthy, providing employment, paying taxes that helped the government run the country. That was the theory, anyway, and John was fulfilling his part.

When John pulled out his watch and pressed the repeater, the paucity of tings shocked her. Only one. They’d been here for two hours? He glanced at Faith and rose. “I have another call to make before I can return home. I intend to visit Roker in his offices.” He grinned. “Without an appointment. It should be interesting. I don’t want to give him time to prepare.”

Pickering caught Faith’s attention with the grin that transformed his features. “He did that to me until he trusted me.”

“Don’t take anything for granted, my friend,” John said with an answering smile.

“Your husband,” Pickering continued, “Is a financial genius. He works through me and others, but he remains in control.”

John shrugged, obviously uncomfortable by the way he stared out the window instead of meeting the gaze of anyone inside the room. “I have some skill, but don’t ever forget that I also had some luck at the beginning of my career. I heard something that I used to my advantage.”

“Very few people would have had the nerve to do that,”

Pickering said. “You threw your money at it, and it could have ruined you.”

John laughed. “I had no dependents, so I could afford to take that risk. I still had the army, I wouldn’t have starved.” He got to his feet and helped Faith up. She loved how he treated her like china one moment, but trusted her to understand complexities that many would consider way over a mere woman’s head. A fascinating mix she wanted to experience again and again. His hand brushed her waist. “My secret?” He paused and waited, a wicked grin on his lips.

“I never thought too much about it. I never gave money the respect it demanded. It’s a tool, nothing more.”

In a blinding flash of understanding, she saw how brilliant, how ruthless he was. Someone who didn’t care for money but knew how to use it would always beat a person overburdened with caution.

It seemed impossible that he would want her for long, since he moved from project to project. Except his consistency as an army officer was never in doubt. He’d never let anyone down and had led his company in the worst situations imaginable.

Faith had never felt so alive, or so out of her depth. Her two years of quiet living seemed tame, and she began to wonder how she’d managed with the lack of excitement. Maybe she’d needed that time to hide away and heal. Now she felt ready to begin again, although she still had serious doubts about her ability to keep up.

For now, she would try.

Having escorted her to the Royal Exchange John excused himself to walk to Roker’s office nearby, leaving her Robinson and the footman. Faith had visited the Royal Exchange a few times before. She enjoyed its heady blend of business and commerce. It contained many of the finest stores in London, even though the fashionable world had moved on to the West End. Its three tiers, ranged around a central courtyard, where businessmen gathered making deals and exchanging information, held a mixture of small, select shops, coffeehouses and businesses. Unfortunately, women never darkened the doors of the coffeehouses, although some inns had begun to put rooms aside exclusively for the use of women.

They should have done that years ago, Faith thought, since there must be a lot of business available. The recent meeting must have caught her interest, because she found herself wondering about women-only public places of refreshment, examining the establishments with an eye to privacy, ease of access and commercial possibilities.

Damn, she was thinking like her husband, seeking out business opportunities. Instead, she turned her mind to her purchases and within half an hour had a selection of mourning goods. She spread the largesse over several establishments and ensured they knew she was the Countess of Graywood, and that she could bring them useful custom if she wished. Making an impression, telling people she had arrived. After a while, she found her progress easier. Word must have passed around the traders, messenger boys and runners exchanging the information so shopkeepers were waiting to usher her into their establishments, a chair set ready for her. She wasn’t sure she enjoyed it after the first few visits. Several had known her as Mrs. Dalkington-Smythe. They used that information for all they were worth, lavishing her with “My lady”’s and “Your impeccable taste” and other such blandishments which she didn’t appreciate in the least.

The expedition tired her more than shopping as an ordinary person. Sometimes she’d seen the grand ladies in the Exchange, felt herself nudged aside so the proprietor could accommodate their needs. But now she discovered that being at the receiving end exhausted her just as much. People watched her, stared at her and she had to keep smiling, as if their attention didn’t disturb her. She was still Faith, although nobody treated her that way. Except for John.

After she left the shop she sent the footman ahead to stow the packages in the carriage, and order the driver to get ready. Robinson remained with her. If John was tied up with Mr. Roker, she’d go home and send the carriage back for him.

Home! Already, the large house seemed to contain some of those attributes, even if the dauntingly grand suite assigned to them still appeared to belong to someone else. Not her. Maybe John, after what she’d learned about him today.

She wanted to take off this stylish but too-new gown, put on her old robe and sit with her feet up for an hour before she had to dress for dinner. Recalling what John had considered ‘a rest’ the previous day she smiled, and led the way down the stairs towards the main central area and the exit.

At the bottom of the stairs lay a relatively sheltered space, with no shops or other establishments leading off it. It tempted her to linger, where nobody was watching her, but she’d ordered the carriage brought around and the lure of tea drew her.

“Mrs. Dalkington-Smythe.”

A voice she knew, a voice she thought she’d left behind cut into her musings. Spinning around, she saw Robinson gripped none too gently in the arms of a big bully, his hand clamped over her mouth.

Her eyes bulged wide with panic over the beefy fingers clasped across her mouth and nose.

She stared into the face of her worst nightmare.

Chapter Nine

Faith had seen worse looking ruffians in her life, but not many. The men who stood, or rather, swaggered, before her, all had a degree of evil attraction, although they’d never attracted her. The last time she’d seen them was just under two years ago, because she’d hidden and made sure she stayed hidden. “Clever girl, to grab an earl,” the main one said. He stood in front of this colleagues grinning, the two front teeth he had left gleaming white, the gold one at the side still glinting when he spoke. Just as she remembered it, saw it in her nightmares.

“Do you know how much interest accumulates in two years?”

said the man she knew as Cockfosters. Of course, that could not be his name, but some babies didn’t have the fortune to be baptised.

He could call himself what he liked, he’d always be an evil bastard.

Robinson struggled in the restraining hold of another ruffian, his hand clamped over her mouth, his other around her waist, clamping to him with insulting ease. Fury and terror coursed through her, driving her to move, to run, but she couldn’t leave her maid behind. Besides, someone else stood in front of the small enclosed space, picking his teeth with a knife, effectively deterring curious visitors.

“You can’t dun me for the debts of a dead man,” she said.

“Yes we can,” he said gently. “You’re a countess now. We ‘eard about that.” She remembered the occasional dropped ‘h’ and the flat, London accent too, although the last time they’d met was in Belgium. They’d been scum then and they were scum now.

“Try it.”

“Let ‘em know what you did, what your ‘usband did? By the way, when did you marry this one?” He moved closer, the single step a menace she worked hard not to retreat from. If she did, she’d back herself against a wall, and never have a chance to run. “Because we saw your husband alive and well the night before Waterloo. Did you marry this one after? Because look at this.” He dug a hand in the capacious pocket of his greatcoat and dragged out a single sheet of paper. “They’re talking about you already. Look ‘ere.” He could read, and he did so now, quoting from the paper. “The sad deaths of the fifth Earl of Graywood and his brother at sea have left us with a new earl, and countess. His lordship has taken up residence in the London house in Grosvenor Square. He recently returned from abroad. Word says he had no previous memory of a wife, but he surely remembers her now. ” He put on a false upper-tier accent, sneering the words nasally. “Her la’ship has lived in London since the victory at Waterloo, believing herself a widow. She received a severe shock on her husband’s return from abroad, but maybe it was a welcome one. It is said that the current earl was on board ship with his cousins when the tragedy occurred. We wonder why the earl and his two heirs would choose to travel on the same vessel. But perhaps that can be explained in ways less suspicious than the ones currently circulating around the city. ”

“That’s libel!” she gasped but pamphlets and news-sheets appeared every day, untraceable, so the lies they perpetrated could not be denied or their creators punished.

“It’s not libel if it’s not a lie.”

“He never wanted to become an earl!” She closed her mouth with a snap, appalled she’d let that much out.

Cockfosters sneered, his full mouth curling in a way that someone else might find sensual. She found it deeply sinister. She put up her chin, her invariable habit when scared out of her mind.

What could she do now? She’d prayed they’d given up the hunt.

That was why she’d run so hard and so fast when her husband had died. Because they’d come back.

“You owe me, missy, and now you can pay. And pay and pay.”

He thrust the paper in her face. It smelled of him. He stank worse, but she stood her ground, ready to fight.

She put up her chin. “Or what?”

“I’ll make you listen. I can make the world listen. You’re not the only nob I’ve got in my pocket, you know, and I worked something out about you. You ain’t married to that man, are you? Fuck knows why ‘e’d take you in. Maybe ‘e likes your company.” He winked, lascivious and hateful. “Maybe he knows and he’s using you before he throws you out, but ‘e wouldn’t want the world to find out, would he? Or maybe you’re taking him in. I reckon it’s the last one.

You’re no better than us. If you want to stay in ‘is lordship’s bed, you’ll share what you’re getting’ with your old friends.”

“You’re wrong,” she said, protesting desperately. “And I owe you nothing.”

The bully holding Robinson moved and although she couldn’t follow his movements, he had a knife in his hand. He touched it to the maid’s cheek and a bead of blood appeared. Robinson squeaked as she stifled her scream, and stared at the knife, her eyes. Bulging as she strained to keep them in focus.

“We ‘ave a special way of decorating our women when they don’t please us,” said Cockfosters, his tone low and menacing.

“Want to know what it is?” He didn’t take his gaze off her, stared at her as though he was Mesmer himself and she one of his hapless victims. “We stick it in the fleshy part of the cheek and just—scoop out the soft bit. Never looks nice. Leaves a nasty scar, like the face

‘as fallen in. Wouldn’t want that to happen, would we?”

Terror had her in its grip, however she fought internally to break free. She couldn’t think straight, not beyond this hateful beast and what he meant to her. He’d menaced her husband, and he’d come back for her. He’d done that before, and once was enough to persuade her not to linger. She’d left some of her most precious possessions behind, including the twenty guineas she’d saved up for a rainy day.

“What do you want?”

“Money. At first. Nothing you can’t afford, now you’re a countess. Diddle that pretty husband of yours, milk a few more golden boys out of him.” He shifted on to his other foot, bringing him closer. “Oh yes, I know who he is, too. Remember ‘im. But couldn’t get a handle on him, not then. I can now.”

“I doubt that,” said a new voice, drenching the scene in the cold water of rationality and reason.

After one, solitary cry, she clapped her hand to her mouth and gulped for breath. Her heart drummed as if released from a thrall and trying to compensate for lost time. How could he put himself in danger this way, why hadn’t he called the authorities? They’d kill him, or threaten him too, and then he’d get drawn in and—

She forced herself to stop thinking, her mind a rat-trap of horrific scenarios. The only way she could call a halt to her rising panic was to shut it down.

John stood on the half-landing where the stairs led down to the small area. How he’d achieved that without making the boards creak she didn’t know. Nor did she care. That he’d done it was enough. He held a pistol in one hand, primed and ready, and he’d shoved another into his waistband. He held the pistol trained on Cockfosters with the steady hand and eye of the professional soldier. Nobody would have any doubt that he would fire if it became necessary. A man waited behind him, the shadows not concealing the distinctive livery of the Graywoods or the flintlock he held. “Let the maid go and leave.”

Cockfosters eyed them, then glanced at his compatriot, who still gripped Robinson tightly. “What’ll you do? Kill me?”

“Without a second thought. As you’ve already charmingly pointed out, I’m an earl now. Whose word do you think the authorities will take?”

Cockfosters swivelled to face John, thrusting out his chest defiantly. “Glad you’re ‘ere, saves me saying it twice. You pay or I talk. Clear?”

“Pay? Not a chance.”

“Doesn’t ‘ave to be money. We ‘ave a few interests in common, my lord. ” He said the words contemptuously, finishing with a noxious gob of spit, which landed on the stones at his feet.

“F’r’instance, some dockers down where you’ve been this morning

‘elp me sometimes. I could have little accidents happening. Falls from the riggin’, maybe, or some crushed ‘ands and legs.” His implication was obvious. “I can provide protection to stop that.”

He paused, and lowered his voice. “Sometimes people get lost overboard.”

Faith gasped. Could John have done it? The answer returned as fast. No. She refused to believe it.

John’s attention turned to her for a split second, and in that moment, several things happened. Someone shoved her forward, so she sprawled over the floor, then something soft and heavy slammed on top of her, robbing her of breath. A scurry of footsteps followed and a yell. “Help the lady!”

With difficulty, Faith rolled over, the inert body of her maid slumping to the floor beside her.

Oh God, was Robinson dead? Anxious to find out, Faith sat up but her head swam and she lost her balance, falling back.

A pair of strong arms were there to catch her. She didn’t have to look to know who the arms belonged to. Already familiar, she relaxed into them, relieved when Robinson groaned and tried to turn over. The footman sprang forward from his place behind John to examine her. “A cut on her face, not deep, apart from that, shock,” he said in matter-of-fact tones.

Faith cuddled in to John, pressed her cheek against his chest. She shook uncontrollably. Irritated that she’d lost control in such a humiliating way, she said nothing. He held her closer. “Did he hurt you?”

Menace laced his tones. She believed that if Cockfosters had done more than threaten her, John would have killed him. He cradled her gently but firmly, before he loosened one hand to run it over her body, checking, she presumed, for damage. “Not even a bruise,” she murmured, not daring to raise her voice above a whisper for fear the trembling would betray exactly how shaken she felt.

“Hush, sweetheart, let me care for you. Do you think you can stand, or shall I carry you?”

She had no doubt he could lift her easily, but the thought of being carried through the busy Exchange made her cringe internally. “I can stand,” she said as determinedly as she could manage, although in reality she had no such certainty.

However, with his arm around her waist, she managed to get on her feet creditably. Only a stumble or two. He waited until she could balance on her own and then offered his arm as support.

“Lean as hard as you need to. I won’t falter.”

She already knew that.

Most of the occupants of the Exchange remained oblivious when the new Earl and Countess of Graywood crossed the cobbled floor on the way to their carriage. He tenderly assisted her to climb in before following her and the vehicle set off as soon as the earl closed the door. Nobody noticed that the footman and maid who accompanied them were no longer present. John had given swift instructions to take them to Grosvenor Square by a different route, the better to avoid gossip.

Once in the carriage John put an arm around Faith and held her tightly against him. “No words, not yet. Wait until we get home.”

Glancing down, she saw a rip in her new gown and that proved enough to trigger the tears she’d tried so hard to hold back. He let her cry until they left the confines of the City. Then he took his own handkerchief and mopped up the worst of it. When they arrived at their destination, she was merely damp and tousled.

He alighted before her. As soon as they were indoors, he swept her into his arms and headed up the stairs, barking orders for hot water and tea. He didn’t stop until they arrived in her room, and he’d laid her carefully on the bed. He stripped off his coat and sat next to her, brushing away her hands when she tried to undo her bonnet ribbons. “I’ll do that. We’ll say, if you please, that you had a fall. The floors of the Exchange can be uneven, and you took a tumble.”

Relieved that he didn’t intend to announce her predicament to all and sundry, Faith let out a shaken breath. Her tears had gone.

She felt calmer for the explosion, although she doubted it had helped her looks. After she’d worked so hard to appear the proper countess this morning.

The thought nearly made her burst into fresh torrents, but she forced herself to desist and lay still while he undressed her. Which he did, right down to her shift, before drawing back the covers and tucking her underneath. He examined her as he did so, cursing when he saw the bruise darkening on her thigh. “I should kill him for that alone.” He took her hands in his, and waited until she lifted her head to meet his eyes. “Now tell me the truth. All of it. Don’t keep anything back. We’re partners, remember?”

“W-what did you hear?”

His mouth hardened. “That somehow the man knows that we aren’t married. Talk to me, Faith.” He pressed her fingers, his eyes willing her to tell him everything.

She had to. He’d seen it for himself. “They—they won’t leave me alone, now they’ve found me.” Her world had come crashing down around her with the reappearance of the man who had terrified her for so long. The ruffian she’d successfully eluded for two years. Or maybe she hadn’t been worth his while seeking out before now. “Let me leave, John. I’ll go and you’ll never hear from me again.”

He leaned forward, took her chin in his hand. “No, my sweet, we’re in this together. We will not give in to this evil bastard.” He sat so close to her that she could see the stubble shading his chin despite his shave that morning. “No running away.” He studied her with a gaze altogether too perceptive for her liking. “Or should I say no running away again?”

She flinched back but he maintained his touch on her chin, although he didn’t grip her hard enough to bruise. “Yes.” She swept her tongue across her lips and his eyes darkened, almost imperceptibly. Because they remained so close, she saw everything.

As he would in her. “You’re right. That’s why I ran.”

“Talk to me.” He released her, but didn’t move back.

“They used to be camp followers. The kind who set up gambling dens to amuse the soldiers and then entrap them.”

“Is that what they did?” His words rapped out, harsh and unforgiving.

She swallowed, nodded. “John, that is my husband—“

“Your first husband.”

She was in no mood to contradict him, this husband who was not. He deserved the truth. “Well he spent time in their tent and came out not only a pauper, but in serious debt. Serious for us, anyway. Five hundred pounds.” It sounded trivial now she had such wealth.

“That’s not all, is it?”

She shook her head slightly, kept his gaze although she was finding the task increasingly difficult.

A short respite followed because after a soft knock and his

“Come,” two maids entered the room with tea and fresh toast. How did they know she turned to toast when she wanted a little something in the afternoon? She’d never confessed her small sin to anyone. Either that or muffins, but the muffin-man might not come this far west. Her mind skittered off into the everyday, but she had a problem with that. She didn’t have an everyday any longer, no comfortable routine to follow.

He didn’t speak of the incidents at the Exchange that day until he’d poured her tea himself, dismissed the servants and brought her the cup himself. A delicate china cup with sprays of flowers, the kind she’d have kept for best. Her mother would have loved a set like this. Faith took a grateful sip, then another. Fresh tea was a pleasure she’d never denied herself.

When she’d drunk it, he took the cup from her and put it aside.

“Better?”

She nodded, feeling steadier.

“Then let’s resume.” He sat on the bed once more, almost as close as he’d been before. “Your first husband owed these people a debt. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“You know that five hundred pounds is not a problem for us.

You could pay that with the pin money I intend to give you.”

She loved the “Us,” wished it was real. “Yes, but with the interest—“

“You can forget the interest. If your husband owed a debt of honour, even to a villain, that’s one thing, but I will not pay money gained from extortionate interest rates. Will you leave the matter to me?”

Terror clutched her, but for him, not herself. “He’ll kill you.”

John snorted. “He’s welcome to try.”

Never had he appeared as much a warrior than he did at this moment. What could he see? The truth? It seemed so because his next words showed his perception. “There’s more, isn’t there? Five hundred pounds wouldn’t send you into this state. You’re terrified and I’ve seen your courage in other situations first hand. This is nothing as trivial as money. What did he do?”

He refused to let her go until she’d told him, shown him how impossible it was for her to stay. “John put something else up as a stake. Me.”

Warriors tried not to grow angry because it affected their ability to fight, but John was furious. His eyes glowed with it, his mouth tightened. “Did you do anything? Did they force you to do anything?”

“They had no time.”

“That’s no answer. Try again.”

“It’s the truth. Cockfosters said he would. After they’d come to tell me that John was dead, he arrived and informed me the debt stood and I should ready myself to go with him. He said he had a place for me.” Now she’d started talking, she couldn’t stop. She’d kept this to herself for two years, unable to trust anyone, and it poured out of her. “He said he’d take me to a house in London and I’d work on my back for my keep. I belonged to him, I was his property. He still sees me as such.”

“I’m sure he does. You know there’s no basis in law for any of this, don’t you?”

“I had nobody. If I’d gone back to the vicarage they would not have welcomed me, and if Cockfosters had found out where I was, he’d have punished them, too.” She paused. “Yes, of course I knew.

But I had no money, no means, and nobody to care for me.”

His anger dissipated, replaced by something that looked like—relief? Surely not. “He calls himself Cockfosters, does he? Is that where he lives?”

“I have no idea. It’s the only name I know for him.”

He caught her hands in his, his warmth seeping through her, heating her from the inside out. “So you ran, and took another name?”

She bit her lip, forced back the fresh wellspring of tears. “I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I used the last of my money to buy a decent mourning outfit and passage to Dover. If the army had brought me, it would have been as Mrs. Smith, but I went to the Admiralty as Mrs. Dalkington-Smythe. I’m so sorry. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I could think of no other way around the problem.” Thankfully, he let her talk. “It was an official who gave me the notion. After the battle they were mustering widows, and he called out your name, but nobody came forward, so I thought—what if someone did? Too many people knew me there for me to lay claim, so I packed and left that night, went somewhere nobody knew me.”

“Does your companion?”

“Amelia? No. She’s your relative, not mine. When I arrived in London, the dowager visited me and she suggested Amelia and said I could not live on my own in town. I liked London, the way I could live quietly and people wouldn’t take a great deal of notice of me, so I took her up on her offer. I was merely another war widow. As far as I knew you were dead, and I was taking money from no one. I told myself that, at any rate.”

He squeezed her hands. “Instead, I was very much alive and trying to forget what had happened to me. I must have come as a great shock to you.”

“A welcome one.” Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I have no right—“

He touched her lips. “You have every right. We keep to our story. Cockfosters will no longer be a problem for you.”

“He won’t stop. If he doesn’t use me that way, he’ll find another.

He knows, John, and he’ll inform on us. I saw what he did to women when their men got into trouble. It wasn’t John’s fault. He wasn’t a contemplative man, and he never gave a great deal of thought to the consequences of his actions.”

“Which made him a good soldier but a poor officer. That and his lack of imagination. He followed orders. It mitigated against him in the long run, didn’t it?” His mouth gained a bitter twist.

“And you.” He closed his eyes briefly, sucked in a breath. When he looked at her again, his eyes were blazing. “I let you down. Let one of my men down. I grew so caught up trying to do the honourable thing and ignore you that I ignored the threat to you, too.” He drew her closer, pressed a kiss to her lips as if he couldn’t help himself.

“I’ll never do that again, I promise.”

Breathless from the sudden embrace, she felt a weight leave her.

No longer alone. She hadn’t realised the burden she’d shouldered.

Even with her husband she’d managed the practical aspects of their lives.

Guilt still burdened her. What could she possibly give him in return? Nothing but her loyalty, and total support. She didn’t know if she could give him a child and at twenty-eight, she was surely old to start a family. Her mother had shelled children like peas, one a year until they’d mysteriously stopped coming. Whether she’d discovered a preventative or they’d ceased having relations she didn’t know but the thought of giving up what she’d so recently discovered with John, this John, appalled her.

“It’s not your fault.”

He gathered her up, held her for a precious moment. “Neither is it yours. I’ll find him, pay him and that will be an end of it. If you ever see him again, or suspect you do, I’ll kill him. I’ve killed enough good men during wartime not to mourn the loss of a thoroughly bad one.”

She was about to tell him he must not do any such thing, but his last remark made a kind of sense. No doubt Cockfosters would find his end on the gallows, because few villains lived to old age, but she couldn’t think of one reason to deter John from his purpose.

He laid her down and covered her, his hands gentle. “Thank you for telling me. Now rest. I’ll have dinner sent up for you tonight.

Nobody will expect you to dress today after the shock you had. A nasty fall can shake a person.” He paused, smiled. “Sleep well. Be assured that if I stayed, you would get little rest.”

Although she didn’t think she would sleep, within ten minutes she had sunk into exhausted slumber.

* * *

John strode downstairs to the main rooms with a new sense of purpose and unexpected happiness in his heart. Faith would be surprised to hear that, but he wouldn’t deny it. She hadn’t taken advantage of him because the opportunity presented itself, she’d done it to escape an untenable situation. While he’d understood the need to stay out of poverty, the absolute requirement to avoid a man who would have put her into sexual slavery. He’d seen the bastard, and he had no doubt of the veracity of what he said. The villain wouldn’t have turned a hair.

She’d had no one to care for her, no one to miss her, should Cockfosters have taken her away to one of those miserable houses where women never dressed and lived on their backs, servicing so many men they lost count. Before dying of exhaustion, the drugs fed them to rid them of unwanted pregnancies, or disease. Or simply killed themselves from sheer despair.

The Faith he knew wouldn’t have given in. But she had nobody to rescue her. She’d had to do it for herself.

He’d tried to deter his men from visiting such establishments.

But he couldn’t fuss over them like a nurse, and as long as they retained their ability to fight, he couldn’t punish them. Likely this Cockfosters bastard had been the type who’d stripped him after the battle and left him naked to die. He’d have killed the man today, had he not had more concern for Faith and her distress. He promised himself that he’d hunt down the bully and his cohorts.

They wouldn’t put another woman into slavery, nor would they terrify anyone else.

The expression on her face haunted him. He never wanted to see it again, the helpless, desperate look.

He paused, his hand on his study door. A footman hurried forward, but he waved him away. He wasn’t naturally chivalrous, whatever Faith might think. His soldiering had come from a different part of his nature, the restless part, not the desire to see wrongs put right and the helpless protected. All too often the helpless turned on their rescuers, if the rescuer was naïve enough to expect thanks. These urges to care for Faith, to ensure her happiness came as new to him. Not for years had he felt that way, and why now still escaped his understanding. He couldn’t put it down to the desire he felt for her, which was, admittedly, explosive.

Tempting to put it down to finding an unexpected ally in this new world, but he was wondering if it was something else entirely. He shied away from that conclusion.

If he went after Cockfosters now, he’d go in anger, with the emotions of a man determined to avenge those he—there came that word again. No, better to give himself time to calm down, to work out a proper scheme. Cockfosters would have gone to ground in places even John couldn’t reach him. Give him breathing space, let him feel safe. Then strike.

He turned the handle and went in to his study, determining to lose himself in facts and figures for the next hour. They never confused him, or asked more of him than he wanted to give. A good soldier kept his head and coolly assessed the situation at all times, moving on when the odds were with him, not against him. A competent businessman did the same. A competent earl? He had no idea.

He crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a snifter of brandy. He carried it over to the desk, thankfully a substantial one, not one of those spindly things the dowager preferred that looked as if they’d collapse in a light breeze. He’d had some of his ledgers brought here and as he opened the first one he took a deep, appreciative breath of the familiar.

As he bent his head and picked up a ruler to run down a line of figures, a knock sounded at the door.

Suppressing his curse, because the irritation was his problem, not the fault of whoever stood outside he called out. “Come!”

A footman entered. “Mr. Roker is here, sir.”

John nodded. “Show him in.” Good. At least it was someone he wanted to see and he was exactly in the mood to handle him.

Roker entered, a book tucked under his arm. He swept a low bow, and John offered him brandy, which he refused. The niceties performed, John invited him to take a seat and waited to hear what he had to say. “I regret I was not in the office when you called, my lord. If you make an appointment, I will be sure to be present to receive you. Or call on you at your convenience.”

Exactly the point. He didn’t want Roker forewarned of his presence. A believer in instant inspections, he’d needed to see more than the clerk had allowed him to. He had no reason to suspect anything, he just worked that way. Plus, he hated the ceremony that surrounded earls. He longed to become Mr. Dalkington-Smythe once more. With any luck, Roker had found a relative closer than him, and he could go on his way. A long shot, considering he grew up as the spare’s spare.

“How wealthy is the earldom?” he asked.

Roker puffed up his chest, like a pigeon in his pride. “It is one of the most important in the country. Dalkington-Smythes have occupied every high office in the land, at one time or another.

Prime Minister, Lord High Chamberlain, Equerry to the Crown, of course. They have influenced kings, my lord.”

“Impressive.” He didn’t remind Roker that he knew that well.

Roker would know. It was his way of dampening pretension, keeping John in awe of the rank he held. Making him subject to the title and family.

John refused to play that game. He would make the earldom pay and leave it healthy, but he would not become a slave to it.

He would have his own life. Somehow.

“But how does it stand financially? There are some improvements I wish to undertake. For instance. I want a full report on the estates. Why is David Carlisle not here yet?”

He knew one answer to that. Because the current land steward, as a boy, had teased and sneered at the then John Dalkington-Smythe without mercy. He’d called him an upstart, a shiner, an arse-licker, until John had the growth spurt that had taken him to six feet tall at sixteen. Then he’d beaten the snot out of the little worm. Carlisle had sworn he would never forget. Was he petty enough to resent one beating? John thought it might be.

Not that he felt proud of the fact, oh no, although he did feel a touch of pride at the memory. Wholly unmerited, of course. Now David Carlisle, would be understandably nervous. Good, he thought viciously. He deserved to. Carlisle’s attitude did not mean he was bad at his job, even though he’d inherited it from his father, nearly as inevitably as John’s cousin had inherited the title from his father.

A chill bedamned. That was merely an excuse, a chance to show John that although he held the title, David Carlisle still ruled the estate.

Maybe he had a second cousin waiting to step into his shoes.

“I have written to the steward, demanding his presence here next week, by Thursday without fail. It will take him two days to travel to London, so he may start on Monday and have Wednesday to prepare himself for the meeting. By then, I want to be fully in command of the part that you oversee, Mr. Roker.”

“I fear you might find the business of the estate a trifle more complex than your fur-trapping concern.”

Irritation filled John. Roker hadn’t researched him properly.

True, he traded under the simpler name of Smith, but Pickering and Smith was a significant force in several areas. He had half expected Roker to guess his secret, would have respected the man more if he had.

“I brought the summary accounts.” Roker reverently placed the leather-bound book on the desk. “I have this, and one other copy, which is drawn up as a safeguard and kept in my safe. His late lordship always found this sufficient.”

“You are in possession of both?”

“Your predecessor preferred it that way.”

Sometimes they did, although John couldn’t fathom why. Alter one book, alter the other at the same time. No chance he’d allow that to happen. The further away his control went, the less he liked it. Of business, anyway, although there was a time and a place to give up control.

A vision of Faith flashed across his mind. She was straddling his body, riding him with complete passion and abandon. His cock stirred, making him lean forward in an attempt to stifle its urges.

Likely he wouldn’t satisfy that particular need for a few days. Faith needed her rest after the shock she’d undergone today. Anything more inappropriate he could not imagine in this situation, but that was the way it was with her. Recollections of her smiling, her sated expression after they’d made love, her unguarded happiness came into his mind without his conscious volition.

He picked up the book, the size of a piece of foolscap paper. The binding was worn and the exterior creased leather, smooth to the touch, the spine marked by deep creases where someone had opened and closed it frequently. “I will keep this copy. In future I want to retain this book here, kept up to date weekly. You may send a clerk across or do it yourself, whichever suits you best. Or send me the details and I’ll do it myself.”

“I always compile the central accounts myself, my lord,” Roker said. “I would not trust the task to anyone else.” He sniffed and groped in his pocket, coming up with a pristine, crisply starched handkerchief. Everything about Roker spoke of the neatness and precision of his work, so perhaps he considered it a vocation rather than a profession. The best workers had enthusiasm, and John could understand this, where few other people could not. He knew the pleasure of a neat line of figures, properly tallied; the delight when a balance sheet actually balanced, without the need to insert a few sundries and extras.

“I think it best a copy is kept away from the office,” he said, more gently. “In case of fire, you know.”

The crease between Roker’s brows smoothed out. “Of course, my lord. There is a copy retained in the armaments room at the Hall, but it is not as up to date as this one. I do ensure that I post the latest figures, but I do not think anyone does anything more than put them in a safe place.”

“Glad to hear it.” John looked forward to assessing this new group of numbers. But he decided he had no reason to divulge to the man of his familiarity with accounts and more complex book keeping than the average gentleman. If Roker couldn’t deduce it, from the story of his life so far, then the man was an idiot and didn’t deserve to know.

“My lord, I should inform you that this year at this time, I review the accounts. It is the beginning of the new financial year and I and go over everything personally.”

John raised a brow. “Do your other clients not object?” Roker did not work for him exclusively, he had other people to take care of. He didn’t yet know who else Roker administered, but he would rectify that lack of knowledge very soon.

“You are the principal client, sir, and I spend most of my time on the affairs of the Graywood estate. I need to speak to the justice of the peace in your Hereford estate, for instance. You have some boundary disputes that may turn uncomfortable if we do not attend to them now.”

He showed Roker none of his irritation at the way Roker was talking down to him. “Thank you. I would prefer to go over the books with you, as soon as possible. In a matter of weeks my wife and I will be engaged in the season and too busy to spare the time.

We should make ourselves acceptable as soon as we may, don’t you agree?”

Roker agreed smoothly. “However, we must make every effort to discover an heir.” He coughed. “May I be frank?”

John waved a hand, tacitly giving him permission.

John watched the red colour tinge Roker’s cheekbones. “Sir, your wife is not in the first flush of youth, and I believe you said she married before?”

Why the question? Surely he’d had the sense to research Faith?

“For five years, and yes, I know what you’re about to say. There was no issue.”

“I see. I do not wish to disparage the woman you choose to take as wife, but—“

John sighed. “I have no reason to assume the fault was on her side, if that’s what you want to know. I married her shortly before Waterloo.” A fair question, if intrusive. He paused. “If you recall, the army began to move the previous evening, when the Duke called the muster at the Duchess of Drayton’s ball. My wife and I had no opportunity—since we have reconciled, we must wait on events. However I would prefer to discover more heirs to the title. I don’t wish to give her that burden. Women too concerned with conceiving sometimes fail because of their very worry.” He’d read that somewhere, he couldn’t think where at the moment, but it sounded good to him. It would also keep the lawyer from bothering them overmuch. He’d try to discover where he’d read it and bring the matter to Faith’s attention.

Roker bowed his head. “I regret having to bring up such a delicate matter. I will continue as you suggest. Although when I initiated a search on the death of the fourth earl, I found no one.”

“Keep looking.”

Roker cleared his throat again. “My lord, there is another matter.”

“Indeed.” He should probably hear it, even though he wanted to get back to his books. Have a peaceful hour to compose his thoughts and consider coolly what to do about Cockfosters. He leaned back, pasting a pleasant expression on to his face, as if every word Roker spoke was a delight. He still didn’t like the man, but he didn’t ask to like everyone he worked with. If Roker proved competent and honest, that would serve him well.

“Your wife. I understand you married on the field of battle?”

“More or less.” He lost the smile. “Why?”

“Did you obtain the correct licenses?”

Now he allowed some steel to show. He hardened his jaw. “Do you doubt it?”

“Other people will.” A pause. “Other people are.”

“What?” As anger rose to eclipse his rationality, he snapped the word.

Roker lowered his chin as if he didn’t want to meet John’s direct stare. “London society is very select at the top. News of your accession has, of course, reached its ears and people are talking.

They are questioning the validity of your marriage. I’m sorry my lord, but I thought you needed to know.”

Brave of him to convey the news, John supposed. “You need have no concerns on that score. As soon as I have the paperwork, I will let you have a copy.”

“My lord.” Roker cleared his throat. “The concerns of the earldom must be paramount, don’t you agree?” John favoured him with a sharp nod. “If the marriage was indeed irregular, there might be grounds...” He let the end of the sentence hang in the air.

Anger turned to fury in a seething, boiling rage. John shoved back his heavy chair, heedless of the crash as it hit the wall behind him. “Out.” He gripped the edge of the desk. “Never mention this again, do you hear me?”

Roker scrambled to his feet. “Indeed, m-my lord.” Almost stumbling in his haste, he hurried to the door, fumbled with the handle and let himself out, closing it reverentially behind him.

John stood completely still, letting the rage work its way through him, not daring to release his death grip on the desk until his temper had abated somewhat. How did Roker find the nerve to confront him about such a question. The man had seemed positively timid at dinner the other night.

Fury seeped out of him, replaced by simmering anger and then, finally, puzzlement.

John retook his seat and swallowed his brandy in one gulp. He put down the tumbler with exaggerated care, so it hardly made a sound when it finally made contact with the table.

As always when something had disturbed him, he went over the events of the meeting.

Roker had interrupted him, and seemed annoyed about John’s intrusion into his offices. He’d expected that. Then Roker had showed unexpected tactlessness, ignoring John’s desire not to discuss his marriage and Faith’s childlessness. Almost as if—no.

He retraced his steps, thought it through again.

Almost as if Roker wanted John to eject him, or at least, deny his desire to end his marriage.

If his marriage was invalid, then he might have grounds to declare an annulment. Which would give him the chance to marry again and produce an heir.

When he thought of doing that to Faith, his blood heated all over again. Under the desk he clenched his fist until his short nails dug into his palm. What kind of man would he be to do that to a woman? To a woman like Faith? However bravely she behaved, he knew she’d never survive his rejection. But neither would he.

While he understood the importance of the earldom, sometimes other matters prevailed, like honour and—dammit, personal considerations. He didn’t want anyone else. He wanted Faith.

Shock arced through him in a white-hot sweep, scouring everything else out of its way. Truth, pure and simple stared him in the face. The last obstacle had gone. He knew her secret and found her reasoning sound. But even without that, he’d want her.

When he had the paper in his hands, then John would tell him that he’d had his doubts, too, but he’d put them to rest with the new marriage. One he intended to urge Faith to enter as soon as he could arrange it.

Chapter Ten

When John crept into Faith’s room later that night, she had fallen asleep. He left her and went to his own bed, feeling strangely bereft, considering he could count the times he’d actually slept with a woman on the fingers of one hand. Hell, he’d bivouacked with colleagues more often.

Not that he felt for them what he felt for the woman sleeping in her room. He couldn’t remember feeling this way about anyone, for that matter. Warmth, protection, a desperate need to touch her, get inside her body, all that and more. While he was busy persuading himself that he wanted a friend and companion, a partner to help with the stressful position of Earl and Countess of Graywood, his body was protesting otherwise.

Patience had served him well in the past. He had to exert extreme self-control to make it do the same for him now.

The next days passed by in a flurry of activity, as if gaining momentum before speeding up. He saw Faith in passing, had a few conversations of a practical nature with her. Nothing else. That evening, they ate with the family, and arranged for attending church in the morning. He managed his own businesses, put up with the dowager’s admonitions about attending to his own concerns, rather than working completely through agents. He even managed a genial smile when she told him he wouldn’t have time for trade once the season started.

Oh yes he would. But telling her would achieve nothing except increasing her antagonism, if she felt that, and he was far from sure of it. He still hadn’t fathomed the dowager, not entirely. Obviously she had a strong sense of family. But he wanted to know the why, and she was unlikely to tell him if she disliked him or felt she was working against him.

Faith seemed subdued, but the ordeal in the Exchange, she had every right to feel that way. After a period of reflection he decided to track Cockfosters down and trap him in his own nest, but seek information first. That was better than striding into a rookery, sword in hand, and getting murdered for his pains. The rookeries were filthy, impenetrable places. For him to venture there unprepared and alone would mean suicide.

Consequently he set a few enquiries in train, but didn’t expect results for a while. He knew people, and those people knew others who could help. The workers on the docks, ex-soldiers he’d kept in contact with, he wrote to them and made the request. Surely not many men called themselves Cockfosters, even in London.

He went into her room that night but again she was asleep, or pretending. Despite what they’d done together, he didn’t feel he could intrude, although he wanted to wake her and lose himself in her. Longed for it, especially when he saw her in her nightclothes, without her armour, so to speak. Needed to hold her, to rouse her and take her with the passion built up over a long day. The fear that she’d reject him that didn’t stop him. He didn’t want to disturb her, or upset her.

She’d tolerated years of less than satisfactory sexual relations. He wasn’t about to start her on another path of the same. They would travel together, something he had every intention of doing.

Before he left, he slipped into her powder room and frowned to see the old bag set on the floor. He didn’t have to test the weight to know she’d left it packed and he understood the impulse. Not that he’d let her leave alone and unprotected. Without him, she’d subject herself to a life of drudgery and stress. Even if he had to stay out of her bed for a long time to come, he wouldn’t allow her to go.

If that was the price, he’d pay it.

If she was feigning sleep, that meant she didn’t want him. He’d best leave her alone. He told himself that as he went to find his lonely bed.

* * *

Faith dressed in her new blacks for Sunday church, and set a bonnet decorated with curled ostrich plumes on her curls. Subdued and dignified, she thought, if a little ordinary. She was ordinary, always had been. She’d make an adequate countess if he still meant to marry her on Monday. If he didn’t bring up the issue, she wouldn’t.

Yesterday he’d occupied himself with business.

When her new wardrobe arrived, she’d shut herself in her room and gloated over the beautiful clothes she found herself the shocked owner of. Even if they were blacks, greys, lavenders, whites, suitable for mourning. They suited her, but she did wish for a few blues and reds, but she appreciated that the whites were closer to ivory, the blacks deep, the lavenders nearer to blue than pink. Later. If she appeared in public in red, they’d know what to call her and she’d never lose the epithet “Scarlet woman.” Too easy to gain a nickname, too hard to lose it.

She chose the black she’d worn on her ill-fated shopping expedition, which had been expertly cleaned and repaired.

Robinson laced and hooked but chatted so much she threatened to give Faith a headache. While Faith had tolerated her chatter many times in the past, she almost snapped this morning. Nerves tightened, tingled, because this would be the first time society would get to see her. Or as many as visited St. George’s. From her perusal of the magazines and gossip sheets, she knew a fair number would attend. Perhaps more since they might expect a glance of the new Earl and Countess of Graywood.

Appalling thought. Her tension grew. Although she tried to breathe deep and regain some composure, her heart was drumming hard as she went down to the hall to find John. He was also attired in black. She took her time, lest she trip and fall.

“How are you?” he asked once she’d reached his side.

“Better for the sleep,” she said, managing to smile. Not too difficult, for he filled her with pleasure, the sight of him, the way he turned all his attention to her whenever she entered his presence.

Because she wanted to be as honest with him as she could, she murmured, sotto voce, “Nervous.”

He hugged a laugh. “So am I.”

The dowager countess arrived in short order, her daughters in her wake, wearing unrelieved mourning, and bonnets with veils covering their faces. Faith had a moment of doubt. Should she have worn a veil? The suggestion of one clouded her bonnet, but it wouldn’t cover her face. No, she decided. The spectators would think she had something to hide, and to mourn people she barely knew and who were not related to her at all would appear ostentatiously vulgar. At least, they’d say so. If she didn’t show enough respect, they’d call her brazen and ignorant.

Any excuse to castigate her. They’d have known the dead brothers, would have expected so much from them. Now hopes had gone and people they didn’t know now intruded themselves into their company.

They reached the church on foot. Many took carriages, but Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest, and taking carriages to church were looked on as an indulgence by some, especially the high sticklers. Since Lady Graywood graciously accepted the walk, they made a procession of it with two footmen and attendant maids.

Faith leaned towards John, who bent his head so she could speak to him quietly. “Perhaps we should persuade the attendants to circle us like satellites. Then we could form our own solar system.”

Gratified, she heard a low rumble of a chuckle although his features showed nothing except that the corners of his eyes creased a little. “Behave yourself, my lady, or I shall make them do it.”

Her turn to suppress a laugh. She knew people were watching, not obviously, but from behind curtains and out of the corners of their eyes as they too made their way to service.

“Which reminds me,” he went on. “Your grand new lady’s maid will arrive tomorrow. She’ll turn you out in fine style. My man, Kelly, is from Canada, but well used to serving me. I fear I’ll never shift him now.”

“He makes an excellent job of your appearance,” she said.

“I’ll have you know I do most of the chore of dressing myself, except for the final touches when I allow him to work his magic. He concentrates on keeping my wardrobe in order, trimming my hair, and shaving me. Not that I can’t perform many of those tasks for myself, but it would be beneath my dignity to do so, don’t you agree?”

When she risked another glance, he appeared again straight-faced, but with that gleam in his eyes that betrayed him, to her at least. A secret smile. “Totally,” she said, maintaining her solemnity, as befitted the situation. Perhaps she should have opted for the veil.

Outside the church a few people lingered, but not the Graywood party. Leaving the servants to sit at the back, John led Faith inside, waiting to escort the dowager into the pew of her choice. The high-backed seats gave a measure of privacy, but people could see them if they walked past or sat in the pews on their opposite side.

Nevertheless it meant the maids could come forward and help their mistresses to lift their veils. They tenderly smoothed the scraps of gauze on top of the bonnets in a careful arrangement of folds, adding discreet pins. Faith watched with interest, but gave Robinson a nod of dismissal. She didn’t need anyone to help her take anything off. The chill of the stones struck through her new, warm pelisse, so she would retain it, even though she could hear her mother’s voice from years ago. “You won’t feel the benefit when you go back into the cold.”

She didn’t care, she wanted to keep warm. She wished she could lean back into John’s body. As she recalled, he positively radiated heat. A crying shame she hadn’t known that before, when soldiers’

wives could use the warmth.

She carried her own prayer book, creased and worn now, her father’s father’s final gift to her before she left his house for the last time in order to become a bride to John Smith. When she’d seen relief in his features, she’d understood, but it had still hurt. One less child to provide for.

Faith had always sensed atmospheres and she sensed the tension and anticipation here, almost touch it. Such high emotions did not suit her, but she could tolerate them, and she set herself to do so.

After all, they might not be the cynosure of every eye.

Except that she was. Some members of the congregation would know him a little, from his boyhood. He may have visited while on leave from the army, she had no idea. Tinglingly aware of invisible eyes on her, she stood to sing the first hymn and kept her gaze strictly forward. She could not afford to slip for John’s sake. No behaving like a vulgar hussy, or worse, a provincial.

The vicar kept his sermon mercifully short, only half an hour, and it didn’t have any pointed references to anything she caught.

She knew that some clerics, in London in particular, where they had a distinctive and influential audience, would use the opportunity to make their voices heard on a political matter. If he did, she did not catch it.

Would he want to marry her here? John hadn’t mentioned the topic again and he’d only dangled it in front of her, like bait on a fishing line in the first place. The quiet period of reflection gave her the chance to think matters through.

The woman who attracted his interest enough to make him want to marry her would be fortunate indeed, but that did not form his reason for marrying her. A mixture of duty and convenience, rather. She could not give him the heir he so obviously needed.

Tears pricked her eyes during the last hymn before Eucharist. But when John glanced at her, she had the presence of mind to glance down, as if she needed to read the words. Already he meant more to her than he should.

The walk forward to receive the Host did not prove as much an ordeal as walking back afterwards, because they had to face the congregation. Deeply aware of John standing behind her, his solid proximity a protective gesture she appreciated, she still had to gaze to the front. She tried to school her features to show nothing but polite interest. It would be good practice.

They retook their seats and half an hour later they were free.

Although she wished to hurry down the aisle with her head down, Faith had to instead take John’s arm and greet a few people. She allowed the dowager to introduce her to her particular friends, ladies who intimidated with a look. They looked at her. Too much, though she hid the terror that clutched cold claws around her heart as well as she could manage. She’d read about these august personages, even seen one or two at a distance, the ones married to military men.

With a bold tilt of her chin she decided she had done all they had and more. She would not allow them to intimidate her. For John’s sake she would face them and answer their questions as best she could.

Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, a Queen of Almacks, the place that had dared to refuse the Duke of Wellington access when he’d turned up in the wrong clothes, gazed down her haughty nose at Faith. Nearly six feet tall, the lady had wed one of the wealthiest and best connected men in London, and she had the arrogance to prove it. “When did you make your come-out?” she demanded.

Faith didn’t stammer and she didn’t flush, but didn’t need John’s warning touch on her arm to know her reply mattered. “I did not. I’m a vicar’s daughter, ma’am, and I married from home.”

Mrs. Drummond-Burrell shot John a sharp glance. “You have been married for some time?”

Faith answered before John could take over the conversation.

“No, ma’am, I was married before.”

“I see. Anyone we would know?”

She allowed herself a faint smile. “I doubt it, ma’am. He was an officer in Lord Graywood’s regiment.” No need to mention how junior an officer. “After his death just before Waterloo, I married John.”

“I see. An interesting history.” Mrs. Drummond-Burrell gave her a long, considering stare. “Not one that fills me with confidence.”

Oh no. The disapprobation would kill any chance she had of being accepted by society’s inner circle. If John was to meet the people he needed to consolidate the earldom’s influence and wealth, she couldn’t lose. Unless she bolted. There was always that.

She had to work out her plan of escape more carefully. Her alternative, in case it should go wrong. John was better off without her. She would fight for him before she did anything of that nature.

She absolutely refused to leave him alone to face the ruin of a once-great family but she had only agreed to remain until he had no use for her any more.

“I supported the army. I worked alongside the men to remind them what it meant to win and to lose. I ministered to the sick and I took a hand in reading to the wounded.”

“Very commendable I’m sure.”

She hadn’t helped one bit. Mrs. Drummond-Burrell turned away. Faith’s heart sank.

John bent close to her and murmured in her ear. “Only the first skirmish. Hold fast.”

Yes. A campaign wasn’t won overnight.

Then the dowager took an interest in the conversation.

Seemingly absorbed talking to someone else, a small woman Faith didn’t recognise. Hardly surprising, considering how few people she knew. “I will hold visits in which my closest acquaintances will give their condolences. You may wish to attend some of these.”

“What time?” John put in.

“At two and probably all afternoon.” She glanced at John, showing him how little she appreciated his interruption. “It would be advisable,” she said in a voice lower than her usual stentorian terms.

Faith hadn’t needed her to say that. Of course it would, for the last countess and the present one not to appear at odds with each other. Appearing together in public, or as public as the dowager could manage in her state of mourning would only work for her.

She wondered why the lady would do this, when she seemed do antagonistic towards her, but decided that in the end, Family was All. It superseded everything else in the countess’s opinion.

She would do it.

Back at the house, Faith excused herself, drained by the experience and longing to put off the blacks that had dampened her spirits. The dowager showed no sign of anything but calm acceptance of their reception that morning. Not for the first time Faith wondered if she had any feelings at all. She’d lost her sons.

Charlotte and Louisa appeared quite bowed down. At least the dowager sent them to their rooms and told them she’d have refreshments brought upstairs. The necessary fast before the Eucharist had left Faith unfashionably and improperly ravenous.

She didn’t attempt to hide her pleasure when the butler informed them they could partake of a hearty breakfast at their convenience.

Opting for half an hour, the most she thought she could cope with, Faith went upstairs, only to come full tilt against a changed bedroom.

A being she could only describe as Superior straightened from her study of one of the garments laid across the bed. Taller than Faith, she had an air of stately confidence. Around thirty years of age, perhaps older and dressed in muted but excellent clothes that Faith recognised as better than the garments she had owned in the past. Any of them.

The woman swept a graceful curtsey. “Ma’am, I’m Turvey. His lordship engaged me as your maid. I regret that I arrived on the Sabbath, but I was told you wished for my services as soon as I was available.” Her attention strayed to where Robinson stood open-mouthed by Faith’s side. “I was previously engaged by Lady Honoria Howard, but she has married and chose to dispense with my services in favour of a woman engaged by her new mother-in-law.” Her cold eyes showed what she thought of that, and her sharp nose seemed to gain extra shine at the tip. Or perhaps she had moved it slightly so the light from the window glanced against it more fully.

“I see.” She had to take control for the start, but she needed this woman on her side. Easy. Easier than persuading society matrons she was one. This woman could become part of Faith’s armour. “I trust we can deal well together. Robinson here is my maid from my previous life, which was considerably more sheltered, and if you agree, she will become your assistant.”

Turvey narrowed her dark little eyes and gave Robinson a comprehensive study. “Of course, my lady, I will try to accommodate your wishes. May I enquire if you require a change of clothes?”

“Thank you. Yes, I would. I don’t plan to go out again today, and we won’t be receiving.”

“I think this would be suitable, if your ladyship agrees.” She held up the pale grey gown she had been examining. Other clothes were draped over chairs and the bed, so much that Faith wondered if they could all belong to her. Before this, she’d had a grand total of one ball gown, slightly torn and repaired, one dinner gown, half a dozen day dresses, a pelisse and a winter cloak, two bonnets and three pairs of shoes, as well as a pair of ankle boots. None of the first stare of fashion. Perfectly adequate for her needs. No longer.

A thought crossed her mind. “You must arrange this apartment as you wish, but please leave the old carpet bag where it is. It’s a kind of charm for me.”

Turvey bowed her head. “I will remember, my lady. If you desire to change...?”

“You have half an hour,” Faith said, deciding to treat this as a test to see if Turvey could produce results as impressive as she wanted. Her own dress was unspectacular, but neat as a pin. She wore her hair dressed close to her head in a severe style that only emphasised the sharp angularity of her face. Nothing gave Faith confidence that she would turn her into the great lady she needed to be.

Twenty-five minutes proved enough time for her to change her mind. At the end of that period, Faith had become what she and Robinson had striven for. Seemingly effortlessly, Turvey took her new mistress and fashioned a countess. First her hair, which she trimmed a little, adding more shape to the mass of curls that adorned Faith’s head. The snips gave her a neater fashion, more groomed. Just a couple of clips of the scissors. Then, without using the curling iron, but with a few dabs of oil, she tamed the curls, made the frizz disappear.

Turvey stripped Faith, helped her into a fresh shift and tutted over her stays. “We should order you several new pairs,” she said, “If my lady permits, when we have more time I will take your measurements. Then we will know what we have to work with.”

Faith nodded. “Call me ma’am in private. I have no desire to be addressed like a public meeting.”

As she’d guessed, Turvey appreciated the familiarity Faith granted her. “Thank you, ma’am. When are you planning to go into half-mourning in public?”

“After Easter. We have a ball planned. My husband was only a distant relative of the last earl so we feel we might appear ostentatious to appear in full mourning after that time. But we should show respect for our predecessors.”

“An excellent compromise,” Turvey said, “If you will permit me to give an opinion?”

“I depend on it,” Faith said. Robinson helped her step into the gown she’d chosen and Turvey drew it over her shoulders and fastened it for her. This gown buttoned down the front with twenty tiny pearls, slightly off-white in colour, complimenting the grey of the gown perfectly.

“I believe grey suits you better than deep black,” Turvey said, stepping back to assess the effect. “We can make half-mourning most becoming. Cerisot is a good designer.”

“You know her?”

Turvey didn’t not curl her lip but Faith guessed she came close.

“I have worked with her before. I believe her the best available at the moment.”

“You must advise me on how many garments I need and what quality. I won’t come out of mourning until later in the year.” If she was still here, she added mentally.

“Naturally, ma’am, but we can plan for that. A splash of colour once you are allowed to dress that way. A rich ruby or a deep emerald. Bolder colours would work with your complexion. It is fortunate you are not forced into the pastels that young girls are encouraged to favour.”

Faith shuddered. “Indeed. I did wear them briefly, but they didn’t become me.” Even with her depleted fashion sense she knew she’d never appeared to advantage in pale pinks and blues. Much less whites and ivories.

“Since you are a married lady we may venture into more adventurous avenues. Fashion is taking a turn for the deeper and richer tones. We may prepare. It’s as well we have time.”

While she spoke her fingers didn’t remain idle. She walked around Faith, twitching the gown, adjusting, bending to check the hem. Finally she pinned a confection of lace over Faith’s curls that went by the laughingly inappropriate term of cap.

Faith checked the clock on the mantelpiece. “I need to go down now.”

Turvey dropped a light shawl over Faith’s shoulders. “I will, if you please, continue sorting your gowns and making a list of items it would be advisable to buy.”

“Thank you.”

Leaving Robinson with her new supervisor, Faith went downstairs, trying to recall the lessons in deportment she’d briefly received from one of her older sisters. In this gown she felt better.

She hadn’t realised before how much good fabric and design could change the way she felt about herself. As always she’d glanced in the mirror before she left to ensure everything was on straight and her hem wasn’t crooked. She paused, mildly surprised by the woman gazing out at her. No flyaway hair, not a one. A figure that appeared almost elegant, though she’d always thought she lacked the height elegance needed. More than neat.

John confirmed her opinion when she walked into the breakfast parlour. He came to meet her, a glow in his eyes she had reason to know meant he had an interest in something more intimate than food. She smiled in response and he took her hands. “You look splendid.”

Thank you. With the heat of his body warming her, she allowed him to take her to the table and seat her. The dowager glanced at her. “Most unexceptionable. I assume your new maid has arrived?”

“Yes.” The dowager made her feel that her maid had more to do with her appearance than she did, but perhaps she had the right of it. Turvey had certainly given her a polish she knew she couldn’t achieve on her own. However, a twinge of doubt touched her and the bright edge of her happiness rubbed away a little. Not all of it, because John hadn’t said anything of the kind. “It’s only a day gown.” However much she tried, she couldn’t say it was normal.

This outfit was far from normal for her; one she’d probably have worn for a formal occasion in her previous life, despite the high neckline and the ankle-length skirt.

“We did well during our first public appearance, I think,” John said.

Charlotte took a sip of her coffee. “Yes, we did. Especially you, John. You appeared to the manor born.”

“Thank you. But I was, unlike Faith. I may not have been born an earl, but I did inherit a respectable competence.”

“A trifle too frank, I feel,” the dowager remarked. “Mrs.

Drummond-Burrell did not appreciate your honesty.” She allowed herself a faint smile. “However, we can use that. I know several ladies who hold Mrs. Drummond-Burrell in dislike. I shall ensure they know the lady turned away from you today for no reason that I could fathom, or anyone standing nearby. It could prove useful.”

She collected a refill of tea.

Faith enjoyed this meal, where the footmen laid everything on the table or the sideboard and then left them to get on with it.

Maybe she should start to manage the house the way she preferred it. She should certainly speak to key members of staff. “I met the housekeeper along with the rest of the servants when I arrived, but I should prefer to interview her. And the cook and the butler.”

Lady Graywood bowed her head. “Of course. However, you will have many duties to fulfil in the next few weeks. You might wish to leave the details for a while.”

She saw no reason to avoid giving compliments when deserved.

“As you say. I have rarely known a house so well-managed.”

A slight smile, surely? Was she making progress?

Lady Graywood sighed. “Unfortunately, Mrs.

Drummond-Burrell also has her friends. Rumours are circulating already, which she will no doubt hear and embellish. Someone whispered in my ear that you are an adventuress, that Graywood did away with my two sons for your sake.” Charlotte and Louisa gasped. So did Faith, truly losing her breath for a moment. The countess went on smoothly. “Of course I refuted it in the strongest possible terms, but it’s juicy gossip. We do not live in the pages of a gothic novel, and neither is Graywood a person who would consider such a move. I should have that particular vicious story quashed by the time the season begins in earnest. It makes the ball even more important.”

How could she say that? She’d just discussed the possibility of the person who had succeeded to the title killing his way there.

Murdering her sons. Even if she believed the rumour totally unfounded, how could she behave so coldly, as if her sons had nothing to do with her? Faith stared at her plate, trying to bring her emotions under control. Giving way to an outburst wouldn’t help anyone. The dowager wouldn’t change her mind and Faith would appear hysterical. Nobody would gain anything. If she repeated it enough she might come to believe it.

“How would you like to proceed with arrangements for the ball?

Would you wish me to help?”

“It is your affair.” Lady Graywood shrugged. “You may make the arrangements if you wish.”

Faith appreciated having something to do when stressed. In truth, the disruption after Waterloo had taken her attention from her husband’s death enough to give her breathing space to get over the initial shock. She had mourned him truly, but only after she’d escaped Cockfosters and his men, and found a safe place. For that reason she didn’t want Lady Graywood to give up her plans.

However much her ladyship might conceal her grief, Faith refused to believe her sons’ deaths had not affected her. “I have arranged smaller functions of course, but I have no idea how to go on with larger, more fashionable gatherings.” A hint that she could disgrace the family by her inexperience, plus a touch of deference. It should work.

She received a gracious nod in response. “If you desire, I can draw up most of the plans and let you know how they are progressing.”

“I wouldn’t want to put you out, Lady Graywood,” she said, one Lady Graywood to another, at least in the eyes of the world, if not in fact.

“Not at all.”

So polite, she wanted to stand up and scream and swear, just to break this fraught gentility. “I truly appreciate your help.”

“The family cannot disappear.” For an instant, a brief brush of time, Faith saw Lady Graywood’s eyes turn bleak, her mouth lose its firm line. Then she was back, the dowager she recognised. But that moment gave Faith an insight, one she hadn’t had before.

Lady Graywood had lived in an age of rigid self-control, when people were expected to keep their social calm above everything. At this level of society they were avidly watched, reported on, drawn in vile caricatures. She’d grown up with that knowledge, had learned from childhood up to hold that mask of indifference up to society.

Now she did it everywhere, even with her family.

Faith couldn’t hope to emulate her, nor did she wish to, but that brief insight had taught her that a real woman existed under the severe exterior. She might never know what the dowager honestly felt, but she understood that the older woman felt something. It made a difference. She couldn’t imagine what kind of life that would be but if she stayed, that might become her fate.

After the meal she said she was tired, that she wanted to rest, more to give the dowager an opportunity to retire than anything else.

Chapter Eleven

Upstairs, Turvey was still busy in Faith’s room, so John offered her the use of his bed. With a knowing smile. Why she assumed he’d leave her to rest she wasn’t sure. Instead, he followed her into the room, closed the door gently behind him and took her into his arms before he delivered the kind of kiss he hadn’t given her for days. He slanted his mouth across hers, held her face in his hands to keep her in the position to receive him and tenderly delved deep. His hands slid down her throat, caressing the sensitive skin and then around her waist to draw her close. She rested her head on his shoulder and kissed him back, tasting that flavour of coffee and John. She’d never forget it if she lived to a hundred.

He broke away to smile at her then kissed her again, slowly and thoroughly, pushing his tongue into her mouth and licking, then thrusting, imitating the act of love. Her body came alive, tingled where he touched her, the sensations spreading through her whole body.

Finishing with a few short, sweet kisses, as if he couldn’t bear to leave, he pressed his forehead against hers. “I had meant to leave you alone until you invited me back into your bed. I can’t. You are so sweet, so unbearably sensual. I need you all the time. How can this be?”

Breathlessly, not just from the kisses, she gazed up into his dark eyes. “It is, that’s all. I need you too. I’m not supposed to say that, am I?”

“Why not? Why shouldn’t you desire me the same way I desire you? What’s wrong with a wedded couple seeking each other’s company, especially after a gap of nearly two years?”

Her heart plummeted. “Because it’s not true, is it? We’re not married, not in truth.”

“It could be. It is. I did think of you when I had no right to, when you belonged to another man. Just because I couldn’t call you mine, that doesn’t mean that in the dead of night, at my heart, I didn’t think of you. Want you.” He gave a rueful smile. “I did. That part is as true as God.”

Mildly shocked, she tried to protest. “You shouldn’t blaspheme.”

“How did I do that? I need you, Faith. Why shouldn’t I say what I was feeling when I had no rights over you? I knew a brave, forthright woman who hasn’t changed at heart, merely grown more beautiful.”

She couldn’t believe that. She’d never appeared more than ordinary. Even when Turvey had dressed her, she’d gained a little polish, not suddenly emerged as a swan. It had never worried her before. She liked ducklings.

But the expression in his eyes—that said she was beautiful. So did his kiss, when he ravaged her like a man starved. As sensual as he’d been a moment before, now he took her as if he could do nothing else. He spread his hands over her, smoothed them down her body, over the curve of her hip and around to her backside, using his hold to cinch her close.

His erection pushed into her as if no layers of cloth lay between them. Hot, insistent, along with its owner. He broke the kiss to murmur, “I want you,” into her mouth, the words heating her tongue, her throat. Then he kissed her again, pressed her against the door. Just as she was lifting her legs to wind them around his waist, get as close to him as she could, he stopped. He fumbled for her hand and led her to the bed.

His eyes appeared as dark as she’d ever seen them, his lips damp, his mouth fuller than usual and slightly open. Glancing down her, he turned her around and gave a slight exhalation of relief when he found the fastenings to her gown. Her bodice sagged forward as he undid them. She didn’t try to keep it up but let it fall when it loosened enough for her to do so. She unfastened the buttons holding the sleeves tight to her wrists so she could slip it off. She heard the low curse when he couldn’t immediately unfasten the bow on her stays and she chuckled. “New maid, new knot,” she murmured.

“Tell her to use the old one. It was easier.”

He didn’t sound pleased, but she knew she hadn’t cause his displeasure. Impatience made him clumsy. He got the stays off then attacked her petticoats, which he managed with more proficiency.

That delighted her, since she was growing impatient too. She kicked the petticoats aside and bent to attend to her boots and stockings, pointing her bottom at him in a deliberately provocative gesture.

In response, he stepped forward, pressed his body against hers and then put his hand on her back, pressing her down, preventing her from straightening. “Stay there,” he said. “I want you like this.”

Cool air struck the backs of her legs when he raised her shift, and she knew he’d exposed her to his stare. She felt his attention like a living thing, avidly hot.

A moment when she pulled the bows loose from her boots, but she didn’t have time to take them off before he returned. This time his bare groin rubbed against her, the hair softly pressing against her naked skin. “Oh, John,” she murmured. “Oh that feels so good.”

“Open your legs.”

He’d have to bend his knees to reach her, since he was taller than she. But if she touched the floor and pressed against it, she could angle her backside so it tilted up. When she did as he bade her he could see her, how wet she was, and she couldn’t rub her thighs together for some small measure of relief.

Instead she felt his hand on her hip, holding her steady and his cock against her opening. “You look ready, sweetheart. I’m coming in. So lovely, as if you wanted me before I touched you.”

He deserved the truth. “I did. I wanted you when I should have been thinking of other things.” In church, however hard she tried to turn her mind to spiritual matters, she couldn’t stop her awareness of the man next to her in the pew. Now she had him. All to herself.

He proved it by working his plump cockhead inside her, moving slowly but with a surety of purpose that dictated the inevitable.

The slight tension at her entrance gave way as her body accepted his. He drove deep inside her, his steady penetration not stopping until his pubic hair grazed her. She shivered. “You’ve filled me up.”

“I have. And, my lady, I intend to fuck you until you scream.”

John was a man of his word, she knew that. In this position he felt impossibly deep, inside her deeper than anyone had gone before, the sensation more intense, verging on pain. Faith grit her teeth and endured, until he withdrew and plunged back, his balls colliding with her, touching the soft, wet flesh between her legs.

She huffed, grunted when he powered inside her once more, and then gripped both her hips, dragging her back against him as he thrust, granting her no mercy. “Take it all,” he said. “You hear me?”

“Yes, yes, I hear you. Yes!” The last when he grazed a particularly sensitive spot, and she found herself unable to bear it. She wouldn’t beg him to stop, refused to allow it. This was new country, and what she recognised as pain didn’t actually hurt, it introduced her to a new level of lovemaking—fucking. He’d called it that, and he was right. He was taking her, teaching her body to accept his in any way he saw fit, fucking her senseless.

Her body responded, as if it was soaring out of her control. Faith loved it, adored the feeling of helplessness, of being taken. Used.

God knew she’d been used before, but not this way. Not with a care for her, how she felt, what she wanted. For he changed his angle of entry when she moaned his name after a particularly hard and fast plunge, kept at that place to stimulate her.

Their bodies connected with a sharp slap, the only sound, other than their breathing and their murmured words she could discern.

If traffic moved outside, she remained unaware of it. If maids went about their duties and the other occupants of the house spoke and called to each other, she didn’t hear it. If the whole of the street outside had exploded in a ball of fire, she wouldn’t have noticed.

Nobody but this man mattered, the man driving inside her, relentlessly urging her higher until she screamed his name. Her body froze for an instant and then blossomed into its own flames, consuming her. Then, when he made a noise low in his throat nearly animal in nature, him too. He jerked, gripped her with a hold that might show bruises later. Marks she’d wear with pride because of the glory of this moment.

With a torrent of language that she’d never thought to hear in the refined John Dalkington-Smythe, he sank to his knees. He drew her down to sit on his lap, their bodies still joined. With shaking hands he pulled her close against his half-clothed body, holding her safe and still while they recovered from the cataclysm that had consumed them.

Gentle now, in contrast with the violence of his taking a few moments before, he cradled her bare breast, stroked it, gently urged her nipple to harden. His breath sounded harsh in her ear, heat blasting past it. He kissed the rim, then lifted her away. “Get into bed,” he said. “I’ll join you in a moment.”

He did so, and she went gratefully into his arms, snuggling close.

She told herself she felt so needful of the contact because she was naked and the sheets cold, while he radiated heat that she soaked up with a sigh of happiness. Moments like these had come too rarely in her life, simple unadorned pleasure.

“We should make an afternoon nap a regular event.” He kissed the top of her head, then when she lifted her chin to gaze at him, her lips. “You are wonderful. I find it hard to believe you’ve not had a more adventurous love life.” He chuckled at her complacent smile. “Do you know how many women would slap me for saying that?”

“Why? It’s a compliment. You think I’m adventurous?”

He smiled, and something more than physical warmth spread through her, concentrating on his face, his eyes, relaxed in a rare unguarded moment. Like her, he was always playing, always covering what he truly felt. Once for the sake of the troops but now for the family, all it represented and the people who depended on it for their living.

In this room only they existed, John and Faith. “So audacious,”

he said, and he pressed his lips to her in a longer caress. “When you’re here, life doesn’t seem so terrible.”

“Life isn’t terrible.” She snuggled closer, stretching her leg over both of his, uncaring that the movement brought her sex hard against his thigh. It wasn’t as if she had anything to hide after what they’d just done.

“Not when you express it that way.” He curled one arm around her shoulders, holding her firmly and he used the other to stroke her, running down her back until she stretched, catlike. “I could learn to enjoy it. Do you want to sleep?”

“I don’t care. I’m not an invalid.”

“You’re finding your new position a strain, aren’t you?”

She tried to scoff, but knew he’d realise she wasn’t telling the truth. “Aren’t you?”

“Somewhat, but I’m used to this kind of life, at least in short bursts. I had other plans.”

“The army.”

“As you say. After my parents died, I had nothing to keep me here. I’d always longed to become a soldier.” He huffed a half-laugh.

“Of course it proved nothing like I’d expected.”

“Better?”

“Different.” He kissed the tip of her nose and she slid her hand over his chest. He had little chest hair, enough to stimulate, not enough to deter her, for she had seen men as hairy as a bear before.

She enjoyed the smattering of dark hairs that demonstrated his masculinity. As if he needed to. She wanted to touch him lower, didn’t know if she should. The only other man she’d shared her body with preferred to remain separate after he’d taken her. She tried hard not to compare them, but sometimes she couldn’t stop herself.

John ensured she reached satisfaction too. While her previous husband—her late husband—had not always ensured she was as content as he with the marital act, the reason was probably because he didn’t know what she should or should not feel and didn’t have the imagination to try, or to ask. Or he was too tired. All too often exhaustion took them, so all they had the strength to do was roll into bed—if they were lucky and could commandeer one.

“The army taught me I could live independent of anyone,” he said. “Perhaps I became too self-sufficient. Now a new life has begun, and I have to accept the inevitable.”

“As do I.”

His mouth flattened. “I know about the bag, the one you keep packed.” She flinched, but said nothing. “I understand it too. I remember never taking out more than I needed from my baggage in case we had to move on in a hurry. Never knowing where we would be from one week to the next. Is that it, Faith, or are you truly planning to leave?”

She thought and he gave her the time she needed to muster her ponderings. “You’re better off without me in the long run. I don’t know if I can give you children.” She had never hidden from the truth, or she had tried hard not to.

“Did you ever think it might be his fault?”

“I had no way of knowing.” She stopped, aware she’d given away too much by the quaver in her voice. Too late now, but she stared at his chest while she told him, too affected to meet his gaze. “He didn’t remain faithful to me. I couldn’t expect it. Why should I?

Infidelity was part of army life, the women and intimate relations a way of passing the time and cheap. One of those casual liaisons had a result.”

“I don’t know if the child belonged to him and neither do you,”

he said, shocking her into meeting his gaze. Her eyes widened when she saw that indeed, he did. “I wanted to remind him of his duty by you, but it was none of my concern. It might have looked too particular. I satisfied myself that ensuring the woman had nothing she could pass on to you.”

“A disease you mean?” A smile touched her lips when she saw his hesitation. “You don’t have to hide that from me. I ceased to be a sheltered vicar’s daughter as soon as I entered my first army camp.

But I didn’t know that.” She paused, watching him. “Thank you.

That aspect did worry me. My husband wasn’t promiscuous, but I’m aware he took a woman or two.”

He stopped his rhythmic stroking and touched her chin, making her keep her attention on his face. “I never took more than one woman at a time. That is, I only ever had one woman in keeping. I didn’t have many. One in Brussels, one in Spain. Both long gone.”

“I know about the one in Spain. At least, I saw her leaving your tent one morning.” The shock when she’d seen it had taken her completely by surprise. “I shouldn’t have cared.”

“But you did.” He smiled. “I like that, Faith. I don’t intend to stray now I’m married.”

“You’re not married.”

“I am. To you.” He kissed her, touched his tongue to her lips before he withdrew. “Which is why I want to know if you mean to run.”

She might have known he’d never allow her to get away with one answer. “I did. I might. If it becomes untenable, if the rumours grow too loud, then you might be better blaming me for everything and claiming I fooled you along with everyone else.”

He leaned up on one elbow, his face hard with emotion, anger flashing in his stare. Propping his elbows either side of her, he took her face in his hands, forcing her to meet his gaze. “What is it, Faith? You’re no coward. I’ve watched you confront men twice your size and demand something of them. You never balked at doing your duty, or in facing the unpleasant facts of life. So why not now? Why this talk of leaving? That’s running away, retreating.

You’d do that?”

She swallowed. “For you, yes. You would deal better with someone younger, more acceptable to society. A fertile, beautiful woman...” Her voice tailed off as he continued to watch her. “I’m afraid.” He’d forced her to confront the truth. “The way those women stared at me today, and the notion that they’ll do it and worse. The gossip rags, the newspapers, they’ll be discussing me.”

“They will,” he said calmly. “But I’ll stay by your side. They’ll talk about me, too. They already call me an upstart, a crude soldier.

Do you think I’m crude, Faith?”

The remembrance of what he’d done with her not long ago brought the heat to her cheeks. “Only in the best way.”

His gaze softened and she felt the unmistakeable signs of his arousal. “I can’t do it alone, or rather I don’t want to. I can see no point.” He shook her a little. “I need you with me. You’re the only person who understands. We saw the same things, felt the same emotions. I can’t face this stultifying society without you. I don’t want to. If you leave, I might well retire to the country and make the best of what I have.” His mouth straightened, but she knew not because of her, at least not this time. “You should know all of it.

You have the right. I’ve been studying the books, those I have, and I’m not happy with what I’m reading. They would serve for anyone not as well acquainted with business as I am, but the title and the estates have been running at a loss. They shouldn’t have. The earldom owns valuable land, rich in minerals, lush and fertile.

There’s no reason for it.”

Shocked, she whispered, “Why would that happen?”

“Bad management, or worse. I need to take a personal interest.

The last earl didn’t appear to have a good head for business.”

“You knew him well?”

“Barely. I met him occasionally when as a boy, and once or twice in London when I came back on leave.” He sighed. “I travelled half way across the ocean with him. I knew his darkest secret. Not enough to understand him in reality.” He paused. “They liked me, the earl and his brother.”

She hadn’t realised. She’d thought both the brothers hadn’t known of his continued existence until recently. “Do you think someone has been manipulating the books?”

He shook his head. “I don’t have enough to go on. You must not tell anyone I said this, because I want them to believe I know little about estate management. One business is much like another at its heart and I can read a set of accounts much better than any of them know. Acting the fool can often garner far more information than aloofness.” His anger dissipating, he kissed her again, and this time the kiss lasted longer. “Promise me one thing, you won’t go without telling me first.” He released her, rolled off her, leaned over her, resting on one elbow. “We should marry in truth.”

“What?” Words left her. Startled out of her skin, she stared at him. He gazed back, waiting for her. “I thought I’d disappear.”

“Not now. If you leave, what will you do? Get a position as a governess? Not with the best in the land, because they’ll recognise you. Spend the rest of your life caring for other people’s children, deferring to your inferiors, earning a bare living?”

“They’re not my inferiors.”

“Everyone is your inferior.” The words rang around the room.

“You belong here, with me, by my side.”

She swallowed. The prospect tempted her beyond bearing, but she could not accept it. He’d learned about Cockfosters and he wanted to protect her. Her emotions rose up to choke her and she had to fight for her next breath. “I married once before from necessity.” She hadn’t understood her need to keep an option to leave until that very moment, but it was true. She didn’t want anyone to manoeuvre her into marriage ever again. From the moment her mother had seen John Smith at the local assembly, she’d decided he would do for one of her daughters, and Faith proved the lucky one. At least she got to quit the stifling atmosphere of the small town where she’d been born and brought up. This time she would make the decision herself, go into it knowing she wanted it, took responsibility for it. “I’m sorry, John, it’s only—“

He hushed her with a kiss, softly brushing her lips with his. “No matter. Just one thing. If our lovemaking results in a child, you will marry me immediately and without question.” He didn’t make it a question. She understood the reason for it.

“Yes.” If she had a baby, then she wouldn’t deny it its birthright.

She’d marry him. “Does the special licence expire?”

“Not for a while. Don’t leave it too long Faith. If you truly cannot bear it, if you want to go, tell me first. Promise me.”

After his confidences, it was the least she could do. She nodded.

“I’ll tell you. I’m so sorry I made you do this, accept me as your wife, I mean. If you’d let me go that first night, you wouldn’t have needed to.”

“After I saw you in moonlight?” He shook his head, tsking. “You think I could let you go after that?” He stroked her throat, touched his finger to the hollow at the base then trailed down to her breasts.

“Not a chance. Let me try to persuade you to stay. Another day, hmm?”

Chapter Twelve

Two weeks later, Faith was still not married, still living in the large house in Grosvenor Square. Still sleeping in John’s bed.

In her dressing room, she stared at the carpetbag for a full half-minute before she walked away.

She had her new wardrobe. Easter was a recent memory and today she would attend her first society function, a huge ball that the Duchess of Drayton was hosting to mark the opening of the season.

Of course Faith had seen the season, but not from this angle.

Not this close. She’d attended a large society gathering before, but not as one of the anointed, merely a poor relation. She’d worn her green Pomona gown, the one she’d packed away in her bag mainly to stop Turvey disposing of it, or the subdued blue dress, more suitable for balls. Not that anyone noticed her in either outfit. Now she had clothes designed for her by the most sought-after dressmaker in London, a maid who cared for her extensive wardrobe and added the town bronze Faith couldn’t achieve on her own, and a husband. At least, a husband in appearance, if not in truth.

This new gown was grey silk. The folds fell from under her breasts to the floor, the white embroidery delicate and fine, with seed pearls worked into the pattern of snowdrops. At the waistline she wore a jewelled belt, worth more than her house in Red Lion Square she’d guess from the weight of the silver and the size of the pearls studding the centre. Not coloured jewels, of course. She could only wear jet, pearls and diamonds while in mourning.

Only! She laughed, and Turvey lifted her head from where she was ensuring the shawl had no creases or loose threads. The gauzy silk wouldn’t last long, a total indulgence, but Faith had seen it and wanted it.

Turvey threaded silver ribbon through her curls and pinned a swag of pearl flowers to one side of Faith’s dark head. She wore a modest pearl bracelet and earrings.

She hardly recognised herself. Polished to perfection, she tried an experimental swirl and watched the gleaming folds settle around her, the glitter of silver catching the attention before it disappeared.

Turvey turned, apparently satisfied and arranged the shawl over Faith’s arms and shoulders. She’d finished. After an hour and a half, done. It took her half that time, no, less, to prepare herself with Robinson’s help, but for this session Turvey had banished Robinson to fetching, carrying and holding.

Time to go into the main room, and to meet her—she still couldn’t call him husband. She should feel worse about it because in the eyes of God they weren’t married, but secretly, Faith was enjoying her status.

It gave her confidence, in a perverse way, to know nobody realised except herself and her—John. Except he was most anxious to make her a bride. He’d been run off his feet, he claimed, and she believed it. One of his ships had gone missing. It had taken the combined efforts of John and his agent to discover it had blown off course. It arrived in the Netherlands after three days battling high winds. Another two days arguing with the authorities and recovering the vessel, ensuring no one had tampered with the valuable cargo. John had personally supervised the unloading and checked the items off the manifest, an action the dowager had approved of to the extent that everything quivered. While she didn’t have jowls, the loose skin under her chin had trembled with rage.

“This is the new world,” John had said. “Times are changing.

Wealth is no longer only in the land. The Graywoods own a small estate in Nottinghamshire. That is the richest piece of land we possess, not because of what it is, or where it is situated, but because of what lies underneath. One of the richest seams of high quality coal in the country.” He’d paused, exchanging a glance with Faith, but when they were finally alone, he’d told her he believed coal was a key to future prosperity. Faith hadn’t thought of the fuel in that way. After all, she knew nothing about coal, except it kept her warm in the winter and several large manufactories used coal to power their machinery.

She liked that John was so forward-thinking. An exciting new world and she could enter it by his side. If only she’d fall pregnant.

She’d never wanted that before, and the intensity had surprised her, but she was only just due, and she’d never had regular rhythms. It would be some time before she could suspect that she was in the family way.

Foolish to hope. That way lay madness. She had looked into the matter privately and discovered a title could to pass indirectly to someone not related or slightly related. Not passed on, precisely, but the crown could choose to re-create a title for someone else, if heirs of the blood weren’t available. That information pleased the dowager, because it meant her daughters could be instrumental in providing the Earl of Graywood of the second creation. Faith felt comforted, knowing the burden didn’t fall completely on her. It gave her the courage to stay. John was right. Running away was no solution.

She gazed into the mirror above the washstand and lifted her chin in a manner she’d seen several ladies enact. She’d come across a few, shopping or walking in the park, and they’d behaved towards her with icy indifference if the dowager had been present to introduce her. While they’d never treated her any differently, Faith knew they could be more friendly. Perhaps the dowager’s set was naturally arrogant and never noticed.

When Turvey opened the door for her, she sailed into her bedroom, the one she rarely used, only to dress and to rest sometimes, when John was out or busy. She’d practiced her walk, trying for an effortless glide and achieving something closer to her ordinary posture, just a little more elegant. It would do. Nobody expected her to have the deportment of a woman born to the aristocracy. Although they might hold it against her.

John was waiting. He didn’t move towards her but watched her come to him. Only then did he smile, the warm intimate caress he saved for her. “Magnificent,” he said and nodded at Turvey. “You have enhanced her natural beauty. I feared you would turn her into someone I didn’t know.”

Tears pricked Faith’s eyes. “What a lovely thing to say.”

He took her gloved hand and raised it to his lips. “Sincerity always is the best compliment and I’m telling nothing but the whole truth.”

She swallowed back her tears. She didn’t want red-rimmed eyes or dark shadows under them, not for her first society appearance.

Telling herself she would hardly be the focus of everyone helped a little. John took her from the room and they went downstairs, where the dowager and her daughters were already waiting. They still wore unrelieved black and they would not attend tonight.

While the dowager had deemed small gatherings appropriate, an event as large as the Drayton ball would not be seemly for the closest relatives of the deceased. Faith had used it as an excuse for them not to go but the older Lady Graywood had dismissed her concerns with a wave. “Go and make your mark. I only ask that you remember the dignity of the family you have married into. I have no doubt you will not disgrace us.”

Almost praise from the dowager. Now Faith saw the light of approval in her eyes. However, she said nothing, merely adjusted the fit of the black armband she wore underneath where the short sleeve of her gown ended. “Give my best regards to the duchess, if you please, and tell her I will be visiting next Tuesday, at her next at home.”

Charlotte and Louisa brightened. Amelia, standing in what had become her customary position just behind the dowager, smiled broadly. “You look wonderful, Faith.” Although the dowager disapproved, Faith had insisted that Amelia continue to use her given name.

“Thank you.”

John took her outside and handed her into the carriage with a flourish. Turvey already waited outside, and she arranged the folds of Faith’s gown for the least amount of creases. Faith felt like a fashion doll, arranged and primped for the satisfaction of someone else, the outside world. She said as much to John when the carriage had begun to move.

He took her hand and tugged it, so she had to lean closer to him, then he leaned in and delivered a long, luscious kiss. She’d become addicted to his kisses, but she tried to pull away this time. He only held her firmer until she gave in and let him have his way. When he finally released her they were both breathing a little heavier. “You are beautiful,” he said. “Remember that. Tonight I’ll show you some society beauties. They are no better than you are, you’ll see.”

Her smile felt natural for the first time today. That he thought her beautiful was enough.

Entering the huge house in St. James’ Square proved enough to tax Faith’s nerves. Flambeaux flamed outside in their holders either side of the imposing front door, thrown wide to reveal the glow of candles within. Liveried flunkies waited to spirit away their outer clothing, and maids stood by, ready to attend to the needs of the guests.

She’d known she would feel nervous, expected it, but she had never let anyone affect the way she felt about herself before and she didn’t like it. Deep down she still felt like the child in the vicarage, the one in the middle who nobody had much time for and had become adept at melting from view. No hope of that tonight.

She sniffed the air. The house smelled different, not of the rose-leaf pot-pourri the dowager favoured, but more like spiced oranges. The aroma plunged Faith back to her own home in Red Lion Square. Every winter she’d pushed cloves into oranges and put them on stands to permeate her rooms with the scent of the season.

This house smelled the same, providing the link she needed, the reminder that everyone at heart, under the fine clothes, shared a commonality.

A few heads turned as she entered the large salon on the first floor that had been turned into a ballroom for the evening. She had wondered at the duchess using a private residence to entertain two hundred guests. But with the complete range of state rooms thrown open to visitors, they had plenty of room. At least they did at the moment. This ball would turn into a squeeze, as society would have it, not successful unless the place was overflowing. The hundreds of candles and the press of guests would transform the place into a hothouse.

Even this early, at nine o’clock, the guests had arrived in good numbers. Enough space to move about. The duchess came forward to greet them, an affable smile firmly fixed to her face. “So pleasant to see you. Such a tragedy to hear your news!”

Faith correctly assumed she meant the death of the brothers, and put her features into the gravity such a discussion deserved.

“Indeed. We never expected this honour, much less to achieve it in an unhappy way.”

The duchess bestowed a nod on her. No snub, then, despite her tactless greeting. Faith had been half afraid everyone would turn their backs, a recurring nightmare over the last few days and one that had disturbed her dreams. Nobody did. As John took her around the gracious room and introduced her to various people, she noticed some drifting away. They didn’t give her the cut direct, the hurtful back-turning that would have equalled social death. No, it was far more subtle.

Enough guests agreed to meet them, and discussed the death of the brothers, which she supposed was natural, but she tired of it, then felt guilty. She should mourn them for longer than two weeks.

She’d known Stephen slightly, Vivien hardly at all, but she felt only mildly sad at their passing, and sorry for the loss of two upstanding young men.

She’d seen too much death, had the emotion leached out of her by years of watching men go off to die. Eventually welcomed the numb feeling that came with bad news, better than the sick dread and days of depression. Sometimes guilt made her try to care, but it never worked. Even when John had died she hadn’t felt any grief for a full month, but she put that down to delayed shock. Even then, she’d cried for John Dalkington-Smythe as much as for her husband.

Maybe her anxiety made her edgy, but she hadn’t relaxed into this ball, not at all, despite John’s assurances.

These people made her feel the same way she always had in their presence—apart, not a member of their exclusive club. She didn’t belong here and everyone knew it, including her. Her tension threatened to make her nervousness increase, then they would gossip about her and say how ill-bred she was. Determined to deny them that pleasure, Faith stuck her polite smile in place and continued to move and chat.

Once aware, she saw the glances cast their way, watched some guests move away from them. Subtle, but nobody would miss it.

Everyone there that night would know and would gossip. Some she knew by sight, and they seemed the most exalted guests and the highest sticklers. She danced once, with John, and then another time with another gentleman he knew well, a friend from the army.

By then she was fighting to hold back her tears. Rejection always hurt, however much she told herself it didn’t. Not that she’d allowed it to come between her and what she wanted. Until now.

At least no one was rude to her face. It was like trying to catch an eel—elusive. Just when she thought she had the answer, the reason for the not-quite rejection, it slid away from her. Everyone was too polite, and if she’d asked outright, they’d refuse to reply. Probably castigate her for an ignorant provincial, or boring, unforgiveable sins in the eyes of society.

“Such a tragedy about the earl.” If she heard that sentiment once more, she’d scream, but instead she nodded gravely and agreed.

Couldn’t think of an appropriate answer.

She longed to point out whatever part of society they belonged to, the constant harping seemed nothing short of rude. People should have consideration for John’s unfortunate position. Some glanced away when she looked in their direction. That told her they were having a fine old time gossiping about the new Earl and Countess of Graywood. Irresistible scandal about people they didn’t know, but people they considered below them.

She couldn’t wait for the evening to end. Her first social occasion as countess ended in depressing anti-climax as she collected her wrap and hat and waited at John’s side for the carriage.

They didn’t speak, but he reached for her hand and clasped it warmly.

At home, she allowed Turvey to disrobe her in silence. Even Robinson’s usual ebullience seemed lacking, but perhaps it was the, to her, late hour. Dressed in her nightclothes and wrapper she sat at the dressing table to allow Turvey to brush out her hair, and saw the connecting door move.

John was still fully clothed. “I have an errand.” He bent over her and kissed her cheek. “You must be tired. Go to bed without me.”

So she didn’t even have the comfort of his arms, although she settled in the bed in his room, as she’d become accustomed to doing. She didn’t cry herself to sleep, but her sense of failure rested on her, a heavy weight on her chest.

She awoke when he got into bed with her, and though he murmured “Go back to sleep,” she turned around into his arms. It occurred to her that she would find great difficulty sleeping without him, although they had only slipped into the practice in the last two weeks.

“I should have slept in my own bed,” she murmured, her cheek nestled against his bare arm. She’d wanted his scent around her to soothe her to slumber but it hadn’t worked very well. The events of the evening spun around her head. However much she’d tried not to think of them, they returned to plague her.

“I’d have joined you if you had.” He kissed the top of her head and glanced down at her face. The room should have been dark, but someone had left one of the shutters over the window open.

Moonlight filtered through so she could see his features dimly delineated in silvery light. Tilting her chin up with a gentle touch of his fingers, he grazed her lips with his and they shared a long, sweet kiss. Faith loved the way he did that, as if he savoured every moment of it.

It went some way to smoothing her ruffled feathers. Here in this bed only they existed. Nothing else mattered. His strokes soothed, but they aroused as well and she felt the familiar dampness gather at the apex of her thighs.

He broke the kiss, breathing a little heavier than before. He framed her face with his hands, studied it as if he’d never seen her before. “Perhaps you’re better leaving town for a while.”

Alarm streaked through her. “Why? What’s happened? Is it about tonight?” The anxiety that had clawed at her ever since the ball increased in strength, her stomach twisting into knots. “They hate me, don’t they? Do they know we’re not married?”

He sighed. “Were it merely that I’d remedy it tomorrow, despite your misgivings. I’ve only given you time because you asked for it, but now, I fear you’d be better off without me.”

“What are you talking about?” She was the liability, not him.

“Did they find out I’m the widow of a mere lieutenant?” Her heart plummeted. They’d rejected her, not him.

“No. They can ask and I will tell them. You noticed the people moving away from us tonight?”

Bitterness clogged her throat. Not quite her nightmare, but close enough. “Yes, I did.”

He glanced down at their bodies, so closely pressed against each other, only her night rail between them, then back at her face. “I went to the clubs and conversed with men I can trust. Men I served alongside.” He stroked her cheek, his palm cupping it warmly. “The reason for our treatment this evening is not what you’re imagining.

They’re saying I killed the two brothers in order to inherit the title.

That rumour has flourished and prospered.”

Pulling away, she sat up, staring at him in horror. “What? How dare they?”

He watched her, his features clear of expression. “We sailed on the same ship. Society doesn’t know me; I was always the poor relation as far as the sticklers were concerned. That’s only fostered the rumours, that I’m an outsider and, they think, one with barely a modest fortune. What concerns me is the rumours are remarkably accurate.”

She caught her breath. “In what way?” In her heart, she had no doubt John didn’t have anything to do with the brothers’ deaths, but what else was there?

His eyes hardened. “The details. They know how exactly it happened. That I was safely secured and they were not. That they weren’t dressed appropriately. That Stephen died trying to save Vivian.”

No, she wouldn’t believe it. He was leading her to believe the rumours were true, and she knew they weren’t. “You couldn’t help.”

“And you believe that?”

Any hesitation and he’d take it as a negative response. “Yes, of course I do.” She didn’t need to pause, she knew the truth. Either that, or her entire moral compass had gone awry. She lifted her hand and curled it around his powerful upper arm. His muscle flexed under her palm but he didn’t throw her off. “I know you. I watched you lead your men through years of the worst conditions anyone could imagine, and you never lost your integrity and your beliefs in what was right. Why would you kill two men you barely knew?”

“Because they treated me as a steward-in-training for much of my childhood?”

“You walked away from that. You didn’t need it. And you’re wealthy.”

“You only have my word for that.”

“And the word of your shipping agent,” she reminded him. “But I didn’t need it. I believe you.”

He gave a harsh laugh. “More fool you. You could be in bed with a murderer.”

She moved closer, felt him tense, but he didn’t move away.

“You’ve killed people, as most soldiers have, but never by murdering them.”

He said nothing for a few moments, then let out another great sigh. “I should send you away. Keep you safe. You shouldn’t have to face this.”

“Absolutely not.” All at once, her idea of leaving seemed ridiculous, foolish. She couldn’t go, not on account of this new crisis, but because she’d never leave him behind. Never forget him.

She’d tried before and it hadn’t worked.

“You can go to the country. I have business there you could undertake.”

She shook her head, her curls clinging to the pillow. Somehow she’d lost her nightcap, and her hair was free. He usually pushed the cap off, although Turvey furnished her with a fresh one every night.

She should tell the maid not to bother. “We can both go to the country when the season is done. We can’t retreat, John.”

“We’ve done it before. Not all campaigns are straightforward.”

Her hold on his arm tightened. “You’re not giving up, then.”

“God, no!” Finally he moved, reached for her and thankfully she went, tangled her legs with his, curled into him, his warmth surrounding her. Instantly she felt so much better, protected, cared for, things she’d never experienced in her life before. With John, every day was an adventure, but one they shared, and more often, experienced apart. “I can’t give up. I don’t know how. But I don’t want to take you with me.” He paused and she listened, unsure what he meant to say. “Down with me, I mean, if the worst happens.”

“The worst?”

“I could be arraigned for murder.”

The words dropped fatefully into the silence. “So my leaving you would help prove your innocence? I don’t think so, John. If you send me away, I’ll move to my old house and visit every day. I won’t let you push me out. I believe what you told me, and I will not go.

John, I waited for you.” Bearing his name meant she had the reminder of him every day. She’d never forgotten him. “I spent two years living off an income I wasn’t entitled to.”

“Shhh.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “I’m glad you did.

Without that, you might not be here.”

“I’m staying. Don’t think about asking me again. We face it together.”

When she lifted her chin to meet his gaze, she met his lips instead. He kissed her, opening her mouth with a flick of his tongue to explore her with a luscious thoroughness she knew she’d never get enough of. Eagerly she responded, increasing her grip on him, uncaring if she left a mark or not.

He lifted himself over her as she opened her legs to accommodate him. The way he settled between, his shaft, already hardening, hot against her stomach, made her squirm. “I want you,”

she whispered, the words for him alone.

“Me too.” He kissed her again, while his hands slid up her body, taking her nightdress with them. He broke the kiss long enough for her to lift her arms so he could tug the garment over her head and discard it. “Without this, I’d be bereft.” He gazed down at her.

Beyond reticence with him, she moved her shoulders, to display her breasts to him.

Avid desire filled his gaze. “So lovely. All this beauty a few tents away from my own.”

“I wasn’t always lucky enough to have a tent.”

He groaned. “I’d have made certain you always had somewhere comfortable to lay your head at night. Even if I had to become your mattress.”

She believed him. As she watched, he visibly relaxed, the taut lines around his mouth relaxing, his lips turning up slightly at the corners. One part of him was anything but relaxed, though. It nudged her when he moved to stroke her, supporting himself on one arm, the muscles bulging in mouth-watering perfection.

She curled her arm around his neck and drew him down for another kiss, letting her body say the things she couldn’t. Didn’t know how to. In her life she’d never tried to articulate the emotions coursing through her. Even desire had never felt so insistent, so raw before. He took her with an expertise that told of his observation of what she liked and his willingness to give it to her.

When their lips parted, he shifted on to his knees, never taking his avid gaze from hers, while he took his cock in his hand and pumped it. The head strained dark purplish-red, the shaft flushed with colour, hard. She couldn’t take her attention away from it, watched the bead of liquid emerge from the tip and reached out to claim it as her own. He let his hand fall away, gave her control.

“You’re so handsome,” she murmured. “I had no idea, although I thought I did. I used to dream—“ Startled, she broke off and her stare flipped to his face.

“Thank you,” was all he said, but his tongue flicked over his lower lip, and she wanted it again. “I don’t want you to change. I never want you to look at me as if you didn’t care, or worse, as if you despised me.”

“I’ll never do that.” She couldn’t be more sure. “I swear it.”

He shook his head slightly, as if he found it difficult to believe.

“The best part of this was coming home and finding you here. A ready-made wife. I couldn’t have chosen better.”

It meant so much to her that he didn’t resent what she did. He had every right to. Her guilt had been so overwhelming when he’d come home that she’d have done anything to amend for it. Now she’d do anything, with no reason except she couldn’t bear to see him hurt or in trouble. Another woman might have resented the necessity, but not once she’d seen him. Then she had to consider herself lucky.

“Make love to me, John,” she said. “Fuck me.” She’d never used that kind of language in the bedroom before, not thought it attractive. Now, with him gazing at her like he wanted to devour her, preparing his erection so he could enter her, she appreciated the physical side of marriage as never before. She’d always imagined the mental part, the partnership, practical surviving the important part, but now she couldn’t think of anything more urgent or imperative. She wanted the physical, longed to see his need for her body as hers for him.

Curving her legs around his, her arm around his neck, she drew him down. His cock only needed a little guidance, and then, poised at her entrance, it pierced her and she cried his name when he slid deep. He kept his penetration slow and sure, so they could both experience every bit of his entry completely. Every fraction of an inch. When he grazed the spot inside her that held the key to her sensuality, she concentrated and knew when he touched it. The responding shivers racked her, and Faith closed her eyes to experience it better.

“So good,” he whispered, his voice holding awe. “So wonderful.

The way you take me, I could stay here forever.”

She chuckled, low in her throat. “No you couldn’t, though we could try. Maybe this summer?”

The last vestige of her resolve to sneak away disappeared then and there. How could she run from this man? She couldn’t leave him. She needed him, to know he was happy. He’d made it as clear as possible he wanted her by his side, so she had no choice but to stay there. When she wasn’t under him, taking him deep into her body, hearing his groan as he pulled out and pushed back in. She opened her eyes, smiled at him.

He kept his movements slow. No hurry and he adjusted his position a little, lifting on to his elbows so he could watch her face as he fucked her. No, no he was making love, she was sure. Every touch he gave her was a caress. She loved when he lifted one hand to cup and stroke her breast, then bent to take it into his mouth. He licked around her nipple, sucking in time with his thrusts.

Her back arched, thrusting her nipple into his greedy mouth.

She responded to his urgent drives by bracing her hips and backside against the mattress. That provided resistance so he could plunge deep, and deeper still.

She drew her nails down his back, not enough to pierce the skin, but to stimulate him. The action gave her some relief from the tension building inside her, readying her for the inevitable. Her culmination, the moment when everything stopped before the rush of emotion and sensation that froze every nerve, forced her to cry his name.

Her channel clenched around his shaft, repeated the motion in a series of ripples, and he lifted his head from her nipple, choked her name and—pulled out of her. His seed gushed over her belly.

He hadn’t done that since he’d brought her to this house and his action devastated her.

As overcome by his rejection as she’d been by his possession, she felt him regain his breath. He rolled away from her, leaving the bed to go into the dressing room. She watched numbly when he returned with a cloth, attended to her, wiped her stomach and then lower, between her legs.

She half expected him to dress and leave, but instead he slid between the sheets and lay next to her, his head propped on his elbow. He didn’t touch her. She didn’t reach for him, didn’t dare, in case he moved further away.

“Why?”

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand her. “A last minute decision.” He smiled wryly. “I thought it was wrong. I shouldn’t trap you in any way. If you’re not expecting now, I shouldn’t keep trying to ensure you were.”

“Is that what you did? Tried to impregnate me?”

He kept her gaze, didn’t flinch from the condemnation in her eyes. “No. Yes. I want you, never forget that fact. The moment I saw you when I came home, I wanted you. I’d seen you last before the battle. You didn’t appear as before but I felt exactly the same.”

She recalled the clothes she’d had. Although she owned two decent outfits, she didn’t use them often. Like most other women she wore practical garments in drab colours, darned and mended when needed. She’d screwed her hair up into a tight knot, and sometimes, when she couldn’t get water except to drink and cook with, she’d stayed grubby. Not the respectable widow she’d taken care to appear as when she lived in Red Lion Square. “I didn’t, did I?”

He touched a curl. “You’d had your hair cut.”

She burst into laughter, shock as much as amusement. “That’s what you noticed?”

“Yes. I like it. I desired you first, and only after did I recognise you.” He withdrew his hand and she felt the urge to grab for it, and hold it close to her heart. Foolish, especially as anger and bewilderment still simmered through her.

“So why reject me?”

He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“You pulled out.”

He huffed. “I wanted to give you choices. You have your bag packed in the dressing room. I don’t want you ever to feel obliged to stay, or to sacrifice something you need for anyone else.”

“For you.” She knew what he meant. “I’ll do it for you and it’s not a sacrifice. So long as you don’t do it again.”

He shook his head, the light from the window flickering over his sharp-cut features. “I don’t understand, but if it makes you unhappy, I won’t do it again, I promise.” He lay down and opened his arms. “Come here.” He paused. “Please.”

She went, felt herself welcomed. She never wanted to leave and she didn’t feel she’d sacrificed anything.

Chapter Thirteen

Sweating, John cried out and sat bolt upright. “Jesus!”

Beside him, Faith stirred and mumbled, then she was awake too.

“What? John, what’s wrong?”

He closed his eyes, recalling what had woken him, shocked by what he knew wasn’t a mere dream. How could he tell her? He couldn’t, that was all. He couldn’t watch her while she realised the full implications of his revelation. “Nothing,” he said. He lay down and reached for her. She’d know he was shaking, but he couldn’t help it. He needed to hold her. Dawn was filtering through the clouds outside, illuminating her as she lay there, hair adorably tousled, eyes sleepy, her body warm. “A nightmare,” he told her. “I was at Waterloo.”

“I thought you didn’t remember.” She burrowed closer.

He wrapped his arms around her, letting her presence seep through him in a healing wave. “I remember the anticipation in the morning, and taking my troops to the farmhouse. That part.” He kissed the top of her head. “Go back to sleep.”

Snuggling in, she closed her eyes. He loved the way she did that, curled around him as if afraid he’d run away. Ironic, when that was what he’d worried she’d do. She was right, if she disappeared to a quiet life in a small town he might never find her. He had to leave her bag in place, knowing the imperative she didn’t become trapped.

Keeping the vision at the forefront of his mind, he waited until his rapidly drumming heartbeat slowed, forcing deep breaths into his lungs. What had appeared a nightmare was cool reality. His memory was complete. To fill the time before he could go over the recollection, so vivid now, and decide what it meant, he thought through the events of this evening.

Tonight their relationship had shifted. He feared he was about to become the pariah. He would not ask her to share that fate with him. The idea repulsed him, urging him to push her away before he dragged her into the mess. His instinct to protect her superseded everything else. Last night, the way the society sticklers had treated her made him want to do violence. If anyone ever looked at her again the way he’d seen some women do, he’d kill them. Strangle them with his bare hands. She had endured too much to end with a tainted legacy, which might be all he could give her.

Two forks in the road ahead. Either the rumour would die a natural death, or it would flourish. He had to kill it, and he’d only do that by implicating someone in its propagation. He couldn’t prove definitively the brothers had not been murdered, although he’d certainly instigate enquiries with the ship and crew involved.

The rumour had either been started deliberately by someone wishing him harm, or by general malicious gossip. The latter would take more effort to squash, but the suddenness with which it had arisen made him suspect the former.

He stared out the window. Dawn was breaking. He pulled the covers up to shield her from the light. He’d unlatched the shutter the night before, when he’d come to bed, wanting to see her while she slept. As it happened, he’d seen far more once she’d woken. A smile curved his lips at the memory.

But not what had woken him from his peaceful slumbers. No gap in his memory remained. Waterloo. The stink of black powder and blood, the clink of horse tack, the distant pounding of cannon, the not-so-distant whistle and boom when a ball landed close, the yell of a man, surprised out of life into sudden death. The mud that made action so difficult, worsened by the churning of several thousand booted feet.

Wellington called the officers to attend him, gave them their orders, and ran a quick survey of the area on the big maps, before conducting a rapid discussion with his fellow officers. Then he’d returned to his company and given the command to march. The women watched the men move out, tension on their lined, dirty faces.

Before tonight his memory had faded when they reached Hougoumont. Now, fully awake, he went through his actions that day. He’d recalled the sturdy building teeming with soldiers.

Wellington assigned several companies to protect the important strategic point, his only one of them. They’d arrived, staked their position and John had consulted with his fellow officers, exchanging the information they needed to keep the farmhouse in British hands and to distract the enemy from other attacks Wellington had planned.

So far, so normal. He’d survived campaigns, followed orders, issued them, fought his way to the next engagement. This was different, because they knew if they held fast here, they’d end the long, exhausting wars against Napoleon. A sense of optimism had suffused even the hearts of the jaded officers determined to do their duty today.

There his memories had faded except for a few disconnected shadows flashing back in the dead of night. Not tonight. He’d watched the scene as if viewing something happening to somebody else, at a distance. Until the end, when he’d shot back into his body and the pain and despair had tortured him. To come through everything to die this way!

He saw himself, unkempt hair, worn uniform, grubby linen shirt, covered in mud, yelling orders. He’d taken his station near the big double doors leading to the main courtyard. His men and those of the company opposite had shored them up with whatever they’d found to hand. The courtyard had several outbuildings, the tiles on the roofs smashing down around them when men had climbed up to hold their guns at the ready, extra dangers that could kill as surely as a musket ball. The enemy was outside. Eventually the gates would give way. They waited, as they had before in similar situations, with grim inevitability.

John took stock, ensured he’d stationed his men for the best available places, nodded to his fellow officer. They’d counted the blows as the battering rams had taken their toll of the sturdy farmhouse doors never meant to withstand a siege.

With a shout from outside, the doors shattered, and the French poured inside. Fighting was hand-to-hand and desperate, but the allies were holding their own and fighting back. John had seen first one man go down, then another, then a swathe. If they didn’t take care they’d lose too many, and the position would fall. Always cool under fire, counting that an attribute, he’d analysed, ordered his men to fall back and regroup, and then turned to realise he was isolated. If he didn’t get back, he’d stand in danger of being taken prisoner. No, of being killed, because nobody was taking prisoners today. He didn’t care about that as much as he should, but he refused to die failing his duty.

Turning, he saw a man in the familiar colours of his regiment, and sighed his relief that he wasn’t alone. Together they could plough a course back to the others.

John Smith had other ideas. Disbelieving, John watched his lieutenant raise a bloodied sabre and slice it down, aimed right at his head. Automatically he parried, the contact of the blades shivering down his arm, then went in to disarm the man. When Smith tried to knock his blade aside he met the weapon with his own and twisted, managing to wrench it from Smith’s hand. Over the cacophony of orders, bugles, men yelling in different languages, he made himself heard. “Fall back, man! It’s me!” for he’d assumed Smith, taken by bloodlust, hadn’t recognised him in this morass of Berserker rage.

So when Smith nodded, his blood-spattered face grim, John ushered him forward. Unwilling to let the unstable soldier out of his sight, he’d thought they had a chance of regaining safer ground.

Until Smith grabbed something from the ground. A floor tile, an inch thick piece of terracotta. John could see it now, its sharp edges, fresh where it had broken in its tumble from above. In a vicious move motivated by desperation, if the expression in his eyes was anything to go by, Smith swung the makeshift weapon at him.

Too late he ducked, but if he hadn’t, the tile would have struck him hard and deep, and he’d have died for sure. Instead, he’d managed to deflect the direct blow, although the oblique one had been enough to nearly kill him. Blood flooded his eyes, and although he’d fought the blackness descending on him, with a sigh of surrender, he’d lost.

Smith had left him for dead, or someone had struck him down.

Too intent on murdering his superior officer to care for his own safety, John presumed, one of the enemy finishing his worthless life.

John Smith had inflicted the injury that had nearly carried him off. Faith’s husband. Her first husband, he corrected himself viciously.

However hard he tried, John couldn’t recall any more. He must have passed out cold. The ghouls had arrived and stripped him. As well he hadn’t come to when that was happening, because they would have killed him in case he recognised them later.

Then someone had taken him to the medic’s tent. There he’d woken with no recollection of who he was. If he knew then what he knew now he’d have considered himself blessed, but his memory had returned completely. He’d remembered his identity almost immediately, but once he assured himself of the outcome of the battle and that Wellington would not need his services, he’d decided to remain silent while he worked out his options.

Most of John’s remaining memory had returned over the following month in patches, dreams, nightmares of the battles he’d fought.

He decided to become anonymous John Smith for a while, long enough to get away to a new place. Start again and perhaps kill the bad dreams and the sense of futility that had dogged him in the first few months after Waterloo.

If he’d told them his real name, they’d have dragged him back to Britain, killed him with kindness, and then he’d be back fighting the family, no doubt ending by marrying one of the dowager’s daughters. His personal fortune was mostly liquid, in funds he could access anywhere with nobody any the wiser. So he’d opted for peace and a chance to live his life his way. Once he’d reached Canada, he’d sent the letter back home to assuage his conscience, then considered his duty done.

Now he’d do anything, as long as he had Faith with him. Face any number of dowagers, all the disapproval society had to throw at him, as long as he didn’t drag her down with him. He smiled at the woman in his arms, who was snoring slightly, probably because she had half her face mashed against his chest. He couldn’t let her go. It would kill him.

Selfish, considering what might lie ahead, but he couldn’t help that. He wouldn’t let her go yet, not until he knew she was safe.

That attack worried him enough to keep him awake nights. He needed to counter it, discover if it was safer for her to live with him or without him.

How could he tell her that her husband had tried to kill him?

She’d leave for sure, overwhelmed with guilt or shame or some other emotion. Stupid, but he knew his Faith by now. He bared his teeth to the unseeing moon, now fading in the face of the sun. He needed to track down this Cockfosters bastard, discover if he was acting on his own, or if anyone was paying him. Taking a lady with connections into a house of ill-repute was asking for trouble, especially when there were poverty-stricken girls for the taking. He had to keep Faith until then. Relief filled him when he followed instinct with rationality, and realised he had a reason to keep her with him. Not just his desire to hold her close and never let her go.

He could think of no reason for John Smith to want him dead—except one. He had to link the attempt with the visit to Smith’s tent the night before the battle. The same man, who’d probably wanted more than gambling debts. He might well have lured Smith with promises of cancelling his debts, a promise to wipe them out if Smith killed his commanding officer.

Cockfosters was the link, no doubt about that. He knew John Smith, probably instigated the otherwise senseless attack on him, and now he returned to threaten Faith. John had to find him.

An unknown heir, maybe, waiting in the wings to claim his prize. With the earl and his brother dead, only John lay between him and the title. John could no longer trust Roker to instigate enquiries on his own. True, he’d arranged for a few advertisements in newspapers around the country, a common occurrence, but he needed to increase his search. Ensure no heir existed, or identify one.

Or someone might want the title defunct. Someone wanting revenge for an unspecified act, or someone with another motive.

That begged for close inspection of the earldom’s accounts and holdings, something he was doing in any case. Even the dowager stood to gain from his death, with her income reverting to her and her daughters inheriting the unentailed parts of the estate, but he had no concerns on that score, merely because of her strong pride in the family and title. Charlotte and Louise? They couldn’t say boo to a goose. No, not them.

A cold hand clutched his heart when he realised something else.

He closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing.

By taking Faith into his bed, by sleeping with her every night, he’d put her in danger. Servants gossiped, and if anyone asked they’d find out easily enough. Claiming her as his wife had been bad enough, but showing her such partiality was worse. Whoever wanted him dead must know Faith might quicken. If she announced a pregnancy, then she was dead too.

Potential enemies crowded in from all sides, but he suspected they all coalesced into one person. Whoever it was would have to get to her over him. So he had to live too.

* * *

Later that day, John drummed his fingers on his desk. “If Roker doesn’t arrive in five minutes, we’ll start without him.” He cast David Carlisle a hard glance. “Feeling better?”

“Thank you, yes.” David Carlisle gave a bleak smile. “My lord.”

That must have choked him, to use the title.

John returned the smile. “’Sir’ will do.”

“Of course.”

John exchanged a glance with Thomas Pilkington, sitting at his ease, coffee cup in hand, one lanky ankle crossed over his other knee. Thomas raised a brow, but showed no other sign of response.

John knew him well enough to interpret that as gentle amusement.

Carlisle had delayed his arrival in town because of a severe bout of influenza that had grown from the chill he’d laid claim to last week. John saw no signs of the illness in the healthy features and clear blue eyes. Carlisle was a handsome devil, if a woman happened to prefer mid-brown hair and pale eyes, with a face of Classical proportions. Not forgetting the superior attitude that went with the knowledge he was employed by one of the premier families in the country, of course.

John didn’t have to wonder how Carlisle had taken the news he’d inherited the title. He could see it in every line of the hard, condemning face.

Just as he was about to begin his meeting, a tap on the door heralded the entrance of Roker. He apologised profusely for his late arrival, claiming the traffic as an excuse.

“You’ve lived in London a long time,” John observed mildly, as a footman furnished Roker with a seat and a cup of coffee. “Could you not have adjusted for that?”

Roker didn’t answer, but took his seat and refreshment. John nodded dismissal to the footman. He knew how much gossip travelled from house to house—it was how the world knew he habitually shared a bed with his wife. At this stage in his investigations he couldn’t afford for anyone to know what he planned to do in this room in the immediate future.

He began the meeting.

“I’ll travel to Graywood as soon as I can to inspect the estate, then I’ll visit the other sites.” He tapped the ledger Roker had given him with his forefinger. “This shows a few failings recently. The income from the farms is down, and rents are up. Is there any reason for that?”

Roker and Carlisle exchanged a glance, but John couldn’t tell from the quick glance what they meant. Collaboration? He and Pilkington had come to some conclusions in the last few days, and both agreed bringing the steward and the man of business together might prove interesting.

“Times were hard in the war years,” Carlisle said, “And a couple of poor harvests hit our earnings badly.”

“Did the mines flood?” At Carlisle’s stare of incomprehension, John added, “The coal mines. You do supervise those as part of the holdings, don’t you?”

“Yes.” After a pause Carlisle added, “Sir.”

John gave no indication he’d registered the insolent second’s silence. “I understand demand for coal is rising, not falling. So were the mines flooded? Some other disaster, perhaps?”

“We had a series of small incidents. And the mines are deep ones, taking more expense to excavate.”

John didn’t believe that, but when he glanced at Pilkington, his agent gave a slight shake of his head. One lie. Roker didn’t respond to the mendacious answer, but surely he should know it was a lie? “I thought prices were improving.”

“It’s an expensive mine,” Roker put in before Carlisle could answer. “Deep and dangerous to work. Keeping it safe costs a great deal.” John had more than one mine. He had a map with their locations plotted out, or had Carlisle forgotten those lessons twenty years ago? John had spent a week poring over the plans, then he’d been sent north to investigate them, an experience he’d never forgotten. He wondered if Carlisle had undertaken the same exhaustive investigation.

“We should have had this meeting some time ago, but matters conspired against us,” he said, deliberately avoiding Carlisle’s eyes.

He wanted the let the man know his displeasure. “I want you to take me through these figures and give me the state of affairs of the Graywood earldom.” He’d remember what they said, but just in case, he pulled out a notebook from the top drawer of his desk and opened it, prepared to take notes. Pilkington did the same.

“Last year’s profits appear remarkably low,” he said coolly,

“Although the ledger remains in the black.” Barely.

“That is when the expenses are removed,” Roker put in. “The town house is not cheap, and the late earl insisted every estate was kept in readiness in case he wished to stay there.”

And so it went on. For each issue he brought up, they had a ready excuse. The mines were too deep to yield a good profit, and a series of disasters had depleted them even more. The crops had a series of bad years, disease attacking the harvest. A ship had sunk with cargo on board, reducing the investment. Companies they’d invested in had failed.

Nobody could be that unlucky. And yet, the estate made just enough profit to run the houses. Enough to prevent anyone asking too many questions.

Just when John thought he might roar with rage, someone tapped at the door and John bade him enter. The footman crossed the room and gave him a card on a tray. After John informed him he wasn’t at home, the footman left.

Nobody had called. The card was John’s own, given to the footman to bring in as the pre-arranged signal that this meeting had served its purpose. John never expected to get much from either Roker or Carlisle, at least nothing that would help him resolve the current situation.

Much to his relief he got to his feet and the others followed suit.

He’d said everything he wanted to and mildly accepted their increasingly feeble excuses. It didn’t escape his notice that his steward’s expression lifted as he got to his feet and bowed. He claimed his illness had made him weak and he just wanted to return to bed when John made a solicitous enquiry after his health. Luckily not in this house. With Faith’s permission, he was staying at Red Lion Square.

Did she miss her previous life, with her quiet circle of friends and a social life that didn’t depend on making powerful connections? He’d taken her away from the life she’d made for herself and plunged her into something she’d not been ready for.

Now he bade fair to immerse her into the scandal of the season, one they couldn’t answer with simple denial. Like the hydra, as soon as one head was lopped off, another appeared to take its place.

He sighed.

Come to that, he didn’t particularly want this, either. The notion of living with Faith in the small but comfortable house in Red Lion Square struck him as paradise right now.

However, this life had its compensations. He was not about to cavil at living at one of the best addresses in London and his new ability to command respect, although not, sadly, by all people.

“I think we have gone as far as we can today, gentlemen.” He glanced at Pilkington. “Although, Thomas, I would appreciate the opportunity to discuss the vessel ‘ Good Fortune’ with you before you leave.”

No such ship existed, and Pilkington knew it. The ruse was merely an excuse for Pilkington to remain behind without unduly raising the suspicions of the two other men.

After the steward and Roker had left John rolled his shoulders, shucking off a responsibility he didn’t want in the first place. He crossed to the sideboard and unlocked the tantalus, before pouring them both a generous measure of brandy. “So what do you think?”

Thomas accepted a tumbler of amber liquid with a word of thanks. “They seemed equally guilty. If there is something nefarious going on, then they are complicit. They supported each other’s stories, and they had the lies straight. But don’t forget, they could have brought this sad state of affairs about by good old-fashioned incompetence.”

John resumed his seat and took a restorative draught of brandy.

“Something is definitely wrong with the earldom. Whether it is through incompetence or fraud remains for us to discover.” He took another sip, the liquid warming its way to his stomach. “A certain amount of incompetence is definitely involved. They didn’t research me, or you for that matter, and discover exactly who they were dealing with. That, to my mind, is crass stupidity. Who goes into a business meeting with less than all the information they can muster? But I believe wilful deception is involved also.”

“Call it what it is.” Thomas put his empty tumbler on the desk.

“Fraud. You could have them hanged for it.”

The thought left John strangely unmoved. “I may decide to ruin them instead, if that’s true. Much worse. I will uncover everything they did and call them to account. Soon. The rumour they’re spreading about the death of the brothers could be dangerous if allowed to continue for much longer.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “We need proof, otherwise our names will be mud. For myself I care little. Why should I care about a family that openly despised me and only put up with me because it was expected? I’m fortunate I didn’t need them. However, there are employees who will be put out of work and my wife—she doesn’t deserve this.” The thought choked him. He wanted nothing but pleasure to come Faith’s way from now on.

“It’s more than that,” Thomas remarked. “You have a decided partiality for Lady Graywood, my friend. Could it be you’re in love?”

John laughed and then paused, broke off his contemplation of the sharp cuts incised into his brandy tumbler. Could it? Could his old colleague be right?

He hadn’t thought about it before. Love? He’d never considered it. He respected her, of course, and he cared for her. However, he didn’t know what love was. He couldn’t see it, couldn’t define it. So how could he ever know for sure?

The knock at the door came as a relief, because he disliked thinking about matters beyond his ability to control or describe.

He’d believed his relationship with Faith a welcome one. She was a delightful bed companion, loyal and an asset socially. They made a good team, but love?

They could only see the footman who entered from the waist down. The huge pile of tomes he held rose above his head and obscured the rest of him. “My lord, there are more.”

He gave Thomas a half smile. “Bring them in,” he said to the footman. “All of them.”

Five minutes later they contemplated the stack of ledgers the footman had laid on the floor, the desk being too full and no other surface large enough. “Our strategy seems to have succeeded rather well.”

Relieved Roker kept the books at his office and not locked away somewhere, John studied the piles of heavy tomes with a frown.

“We must give Burrows a bonus.”

“I will. He’ll make partner one day.”

While Thomas and John had kept Roker and Carlisle busy here with their interminable questions, they’d sent Burrows to Roker’s offices with a note of authority. When Roker returned to his establishment, all hell would break loose there because John had every single ledger relating to the Graywood estate transferred here.

John heartily wished he could be there to see the fuss.

He would deny Roker and Carlisle access to the house unless he gave explicit permission for them to enter it. Work to do.

He removed his coat and tossed it carelessly over the back of the chair before he rolled up his sleeves and gave a happy sigh. At last, real work, something he understood. “I’ll tell them to inform callers I’m not at home, then get to it. Once we’ve established a pattern, we can pick it up in previous years, but I foresee a few days’ hard work until we do that.”

He’d also sent a carriage to the abbey with orders to collect the ledgers and journals from the last ten years and bring them to town.

He’d designed the trip to cross paths with Carlisle on his way to London. They should arrive soon.

A shame he couldn’t unravel what the men had done by simply killing them, or dismissing them from his service, but he needed proof. Not for himself, but for the courts, if he decided to prosecute, and for his own peace of mind. Together, he and Thomas would discover not only what had gone missing from the estate accounts, but who was responsible for the losses. Despite his personal animosity towards Carlisle, he remained perfectly willing to give him the benefit of the doubt but after today, the odds against him had shortened. His eager acceptance of all Roker’s stories strongly indicated his active involvement.

John’s heart warmed at the thought of finally getting to the bottom of the concerns that had been niggling at his mind since he’d first looked at the estate accounts. Comparing them to his own success seemed churlish. But in a few cases he’d seen such spectacularly different results from similar investments that his mental antennae had bristled into life, waving wildly.

“Do you think we’ll have Roker and the steward around here tout-suite, claiming that you’ve stolen their books?” Thomas asked.

He lifted the book nearest to him and opened it.

John chuckled. “That would be interesting. I planned to keep the steward in London kicking his heels, but Roker will discover what I’ve done the minute he returns to his office. I imagine your man left Roker’s office in turmoil.”

Warmth spread through him at the thought of the work ahead.

At last he could do something instead of uselessly demanding figures and poring over a heavily doctored ledger that merely made him suspicious because he couldn’t uncover the truth there. In the next few days they’d know not only what, if anything, was going wrong with the estate, but who was responsible for it. And, by implication, who’d dared to lay hands on Faith. Because John was almost sure the two events were linked. He didn’t believe in coincidences. Not of that import, anyway.

Chapter Fourteen

“I am tempted to cancel the evening,” Lady Graywood said as she lifted the coffee pot and helped herself to a cup. When Amelia attempted to come to her aid, she batted her companion away impatiently. “Responses have proved disappointing.”

Faith knew, but she found it a relief to discuss the problem openly instead of furtive references to the lack of replies to the invitations that had gone out a full week earlier. She glanced at John who had laid his knife and fork down very carefully. “Does that mean they won’t come, or that they are reserving their options?”

“Probably the latter, but I cannot tell for sure.” The dowager picked up the cream jug, then replaced it in favour of the milk. “I imagine we will not be totally devoid of company. I can call on several more people to help fill the rooms, but I was expecting a far better response from the people who—matter.”

Faith understood what she meant. The ones who would bring the society leaders with them. The ones who would let them into the exclusive informal club that controlled the places John needed to reach in order to restore the family coffers. She didn’t remain unaware the estate could be doing better, but she also knew the recent decline in the economy meant more people were scrambling for fewer opportunities.

Not that anyone would know it from the elegant furnishings in even this room, a private family room where they took their breakfast. Though why anyone would want more than one dining room eluded her. She did like that the room caught the morning sun, though. The furnishings were lighter and more feminine than in the large, imposing, mahogany-dominated chamber upstairs.

In her heart of hearts, she accepted the inevitable, and although her appetite had disappeared at the dowager’s words, she forced herself to reach for the toast.

Out of the blue a wave of nausea hit her, swirling her stomach.

Forcing a smile to her face, she excused herself and headed upstairs to her powder closet.

She barely made it in time but as she crouched over the chamber pot, she heard someone come in behind her. She prayed it was Robinson, or Turvey. She could trust both of them not to fuss.

No such luck. When she leaned back on her heels and reached for a towel, instead she heard a masculine croon. He drew her back to rest her head against his chest while he wiped her mouth gently with a damp cloth, then handed her a glass of water to rinse with.

Faith closed her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“Is this the first time?”

She shook her head, her cheek nuzzling the starched linen of his shirt. “Yesterday and the day before.”

“Last week?”

“Perhaps.” She recalled feeling queasy, but that didn’t mean a thing.

“Hmm. When did you have your last courses?”

Exasperation filled her. This careful tenderness made her nervous. “I knew you’d jump to conclusions. It can’t be that. I’ve eaten something that disagrees with me, that’s all.” Of course she knew the possibility. In the past when the possibility arose, however inconvenient, she had quickened with excitement. She refused to let that happen again.

He said nothing, but watched her, waited, until, to break the tension filling the air, she said, “If you must know, about six weeks ago, but it’s hardly surprising. I’ve had a lot of—changes in my life recently.” And she often had her courses late or she skipped a month.

The way he stroked her back soothed her, helped to settle her grumbling stomach. After a few minutes, when it because clear she had finished being sick, he gave her fresh water to sip. When she felt ready to move, tucked one arm under her knees. He lifted her, rising to his feet seemingly without effort, before taking her into the bedroom.

He laid her on the bed as gently as if settling a feather, which was far from the case. Then he sat next to her and practically, without fuss, helped her to take off her outer garments and stays, leaving her in her shift. Glancing around, he found her robe. She shrugged into it. All in silence.

He left the room. She thought he’d gone away, and closed her eyes, glad of the soft sheets and the relative quiet. But he returned and put something down on the table. “Wine and water,” he said.

He helped her to sit, banked pillows behind her and held the glass for her.

She leaned against the soft support, sipped the mixture slowly, the dry wine a tart flavour that banished the other. “Thank you.”

When she handed him the glass, he put it on the nightstand, returning to sit on the bed next to her. “Now we may talk,” he said, his voice steady, kindly but not overburdened with emotion.

“You’re a sensible woman. You know pregnancy is a possibility.”

“An unlikely one.”

He brushed aside her protests by touching a finger to her lips. “If you are, we marry immediately.”

She nodded. She couldn’t argue with that, refuse to allow her child its birthright. “It would be a miracle.”

“Miracles happen every day.”

His enthusiasm, although he’d carefully banked it, was evident to Faith. It worried her that he jumped to conclusions, exactly the reason she’d refrained from telling him. “Please, John. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t let yourself think it.” She swallowed and glanced away, finding a loose thread on the quilt lying over her. She made the pull worse by picking at it. Anything rather than meet his eyes.

The green thread pulled up a series of small gathers behind it. “I’ve been through this before. Waited, and thought. I used to pray for it, even on the hardest of marches, in camps, and I’d tell myself the rigours of army life meant I hadn’t conceived.” She frowned, plucking the thread right out. It left a run in the silk. She searched for another. “Possibly, but I can’t be sure. Nothing happened, John.

Ever. To my knowledge I never conceived.” She dared a glimpse at his face.

He put his hand over hers, and she met his gaze once more. His tender smile warmed her and despite her determination to keep his feet on the ground the concept crept into her mind. To hold his child, to care for him or her. If she allowed herself to wish for it, she’d be lost, for she’d never wanted it as much before.

He squeezed her hand. “Even if we were more certain I’d want to keep the secret, because I know you’re uncertain and doubtful.”

He paused. “Have you thought that your maid has also marked the lack of your courses? That she might spread the news?”

“Turvey?”

He shook his head. “Robinson. A pleasant girl, but a gossip.

How could she hold such a nugget to herself?”

She sat up, alarmed, only to find herself gently pressed back against the soft pillows. “We can’t stop her, sweetheart.”

The endearment had its usual effect, weakening her resolve.

While she was fighting her tenderer emotions, her agitation subsided. He didn’t mean it. She had to remember that, but every time she found it harder to recall the simple fact. “If I’m not—“

“Don’t worry. Gossip circulates, then when it comes to nothing, it’s forgotten in favour of the next on-dit.” He urged her into his arms, and she laid her head on his shoulder with a thankful sigh.

Casting up her accounts had given her a headache. The telltale pressure in her temples had already begun. “If you’re not, then you’re not, but I want you to behave as if you are. Take care of yourself, eat well and rest every afternoon.”

“They’ll know.”

“They, ” he said firmly, “matter nothing compared to your health.” He kissed the top of her head. “I will not have you put at risk.” He got up, laid her down and lifted the coverlet to lay it gently over her. “Rest. Ring for Robinson when you’re ready.”

She had no choice, it seemed and she was only too glad to rest, if truth be told.

* * *

John left the bedroom more determined to care for Faith and ensure her well-being. The strength of the resolution surprised him, as did the sudden upsurge of joy when he realised he might become a father. He hid that from her as best he could, because it made her so concerned. Her temporary weakness helped, but he could not hide his pleasure from himself.

However he must retain his perspective. She was correct, although she appeared determined to believe the problem lay with her and not with her last husband. He’d never heard of the late John Smith fathering a child in or out of marriage.

He cut his thoughts right there, savagely refusing to believe it until it was proven. If it was ever proven. He would not show her his disappointment if she was right and the problem went away.

But he would care for her, and she mattered above all others.

Deciding to go into the study and get a little work on the ledgers done, he didn’t turn around when the doorbell clanged. At this short distance, the bell sounded loud, almost discordant. He’d have to have it seen to. If Faith was to get any rest, he’d have to deal with that bell.

“Lord Graywood!” The male voice sounded determined, commanding. He didn’t know it. Making a swift decision to meet the visitor, slowly he turned and faced the caller, who by the tenets of polite behaviour was not supposed to see him until bidden to do so. The demand in the voice intrigued rather than insulted him.

Standing on the threshold, not yet allowed on to the sacred marble floor of the entrance hall was a man who seemed vaguely familiar, although John felt almost sure he’d never seen him before.

John studied the stranger steadily and had his stare met equally indemonstrably but with a determination he liked. He nodded to the footman. “Let him through, Davis.”

The footman bowed slightly and let the visitor in. John stayed where he was, and let the newcomer approach him. He was dressed neatly and well, as befitted a gentleman, in dark coat, crisp white neckcloth and bottle green waistcoat, a gold pin nestling discreetly in the folds at his throat. “May I help you?” John said politely.

“I believe so,” the man said. Unlike most men of his rank, John had become used to meeting people on an informal basis. The last earl would probably have continued into the study, allowed the footman to bring him a card on a salver, and then made his decision. John couldn’t bring himself to behave so inconsiderately.

“My name is Edward Smith. Rather, Edward Dalkington-Smythe. I understand you’ve been looking for me?”

His eyes. That was it. Closer, John could see the eyes. He saw them in the mirror every morning. That wasn’t proof of anything, but for the second time that day anticipation rose in his chest.

“Have I?”

“Yes, sir. I may be a distant relative. In fact I’m certain I am. I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier. Yes, I do have proof and I sent copies, but when I visited your man of business he claimed to have never seen it. He said he’d searched for years. Called me an impostor.” He gave a derisory laugh.

Alerted and intrigued, John nodded. Was the man so uncaring of the position and fortune he stood to inherit if his claim were proved? “Please come through.” Changing direction, he crossed the hall to the back parlour. The servants had cleared the room of breakfast dishes. With the table folded and against the wall, had reverted to a small sitting room. He didn’t want to show the man any of the ledgers he had strewn about the study.

He bade the visitor sit. “Please explain.”

Edward Smith nodded and took a place on one of the Sheraton sofas pushed against the wall. The quiet elegance here didn’t appear to daunt him, as it might someone unused to luxury. He refused refreshment when John indicated the decanters on the sideboard. “I did not know anyone was searching for an heir until I read of the death of the previous earl and his brother in an article in my local newspaper. I am generally too busy to read a paper from end to end, but the name caught my eye.” He grinned. “Not Smith, but Graywood. I sent the proofs you would need, but I sent copies, so when I came to London on business, I decided to enquire personally.” He gave a short laugh. “I’m sorry, you must be unaware of who I am. My great-grandfather was your great-grandfather’s younger brother. Their father gave him a small parcel of land and told him to go when he refused to bow to his will. They were not friends and never saw each other again.”

John frowned, remembering something he’d heard once, long ago. “The old man was a disciplinarian, was he not?”

Edward gave a sharp nod. “So I’ve been informed. My great-grandfather refused a life in the church when offered because, he said, he had no vocation. Our relative didn’t see the problem.

Since my great-grandfather was one of seven children, four of them boys, he had no expectations of the title and made the most of his life. His branch of the family, mine, has since prospered. Believe me sir, I have no need of a title or entailed lands. I have enough wealth of my own.”

That remained to be seen. If he were posing as heir to a great estate, John would say that kind of thing. But the man had an air of prosperity, understated confidence that spoke of being used to command. “Are you in business?”

“Yes, sir, I am. My great-grandfather reverted to the simpler form of the family name, and set up making cloth for the foreign markets. From that we invested in shipping. We’re based in the north, from Newcastle-on-Tyne.”

Smith. That was the hell of it, such a common name. He knew of a business imaginatively named Smith and Sons who dealt in cloth and shipping. Definitely no relation of his. “You have brothers?”

“I do. Two. My brother has three sons.” Smith gave a shame-faced grin. “The title isn’t short of heirs.”

“If your claim is proved.”

John watched carefully but Edward Smith didn’t flinch. He nodded briskly. “Naturally. I can provide the necessary proofs. But may I speak frankly?”

“Of course.” John got to his feet. “But I’m forgetting my manners. May I offer you refreshment?”

Smith shook his head. “I don’t need anything, thank you.”

John sat down, leaned back. “You were saying, about being frank.” The offer of refreshment had demonstrated showing acceptance. That was the point in the conversation where he either offered hospitality or showed Smith his back.

He believed this man. His instincts had to be razor sharp. While they were not his only method of assessment, he had enough faith in his ability to assess a character to believe in this man’s honesty.

Smith nodded, and the corner of his mouth quirked in a smile.

Another gesture John recognised in himself. “I believe frankness is the best policy on most occasions. How well do you know your man of business?”

“It depends which one,” John said. “My personal agent and business partner is a person I would trust with my life.” Although not his wife. He wouldn’t trust any other with her. “However the man who deals with the affairs of the earldom, Roker, I hardly know.”

Edward raised a brow. “The article said you lived in Canada?”

“I did. When I joined the army I sold everything except one house and invested my money. I did well. In Canada I started in fur and developed the enterprise.”

Smith didn’t appear surprised. “I did some research. Smith and Pickering is one of the biggest trading empires in Canada these days. I asked a few contacts. Does Roker have the handling of any of it?”

“He does not. I wish to keep my business separate from the earldom for the time being. There is enough to assimilate without attempting that.” He could see no reason not to vouchsafe that piece of information, although he had decided to play his cards close to his chest for now. Only the other day he was wondering if a hidden heir could be responsible for the attacks on Faith and himself. Now, out of the blue, an heir appeared. Possibly fraudulent, possibly indigent. He want excellent proofs before he believed anything Smith said.

“I have no right to advise you, but I would say, take care with that man.” Smith shifted his attention, glanced out of the window that afforded a view of the garden beyond. In the distance, a gardener was doing something to a trellis of greenery. John guessed Smith was finding his confession difficult.

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s hardly my place.” Smith’s attention returned to within the room, to the portrait over the fireplace, a conversation piece from about fifty years ago. It showed the family drinking tea, holding their handle-less cups with great delicacy. John thought he discerned a resemblance. The shape of the head maybe, or the eye colour.

Smith looked straight at John again. “I came to London partly to see you. Understand, sir, I have no interest in the earldom, except from duty. I have my home, my family, and a prosperous business.”

He hesitated. “Extremely prosperous. I trade for the most part, and I own an share in several other enterprises. My brothers would be appalled if I suggested a move to London. We have no desire to change our lives. The first I knew the earldom was short an heir was when I read it in the paper.”

He broke off and his mouth flattened. “When I contacted Roker, he told me he’d searched the records thoroughly, but I cannot believe he could have done that. We have never hidden ourselves. It wouldn’t have taken too much research to uncover us.

But nobody did. Nobody contacted us.”

John distinctly remembered Roker telling him he’d hunted high and low for an heir. That alone convinced him Smith was telling the truth, or at least some of it. “You say you have proof?”

“Letters, journals, family papers and legal documents like marriage certificates. Yes, sir, in abundance. I have the necessary papers lodged with my man in the City. If you wish for confirmation, there are public records like parish registers, commercial agreements and so on. I will furnish you with any you require.” He paused. “Not with Roker, though. I would refuse to allow him to do more than view the documents since he appears to have mislaid the others.”

Roker had obscured the existence of an heir. John’s suspicions hardened. “I’d like to see the evidence, and to invite Pilkington and his clerk to view them also.”

“By all means. Any time you wish.”

The ready agreement encouraged John to believe Smith. His thoughts drifted to the woman upstairs and what this news would mean to her. With that burden off her mind, she’d rest easier about her condition. The earldom would not depend upon her producing an heir and she could finally forget about leaving him so he could sire a son on a younger woman. He didn’t want a younger woman.

He wanted Faith.

That last made up his mind for him. “Today wouldn’t be too soon. As long as I may call upon Pilkington to verify what I see.” He trusted himself to assess the documents, but they would need formal verification before he could accept Smith as heir. Looking at him, John saw shadows of himself and of his late cousins. The colour of the eyes and their shape, certain physical quirks reminded him forcibly of himself and added up to a truth he had no desire to deny. Which was why he’d ask Pilkington to research the man and examine the documents he owned. He wanted it too much to be impartial.

* * *

Walking to the offices of Smith’s man in an office close to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, John had time to think, to analyse his thoughts. He found Smith an agreeable companion in these circumstances, not intruding in unnecessary conversation when he sensed his companion did not require it. The walk was substantial, but nothing to two men in rude health, one of whom had served as a soldier, used to long marches.

Although they didn’t feel the need to engage in polite conversation, they tentatively discovered a little about each other.

He liked Smith’s pragmatism and sense of duty, found him a man who had felt the need to establish his credentials because of his desire to do the right thing.

After viewing the papers, letters, trivial exchanges of mundanities in handwriting, as well as the formal documents which, to his eyes, seemed perfectly genuine, he was convinced.

Edward Smith was his heir, and had two nephews who could continue the title. Although he added the caveats that the documents must be verified formally, he confessed his acceptance.

Smith didn’t appear overjoyed, more pragmatic. “I don’t intend to change my life,” he warned John.

He’d been so sure an heir existed, but had left it to Roker to discover the details. Having at first assumed the man had too much on his plate, rather than a deliberate muddying of the truth, John had allowed his personal creed to slide. John preferred to have a finger in every pie, to keep track on everything that concerned him.

While he left details to trusted staff, he rarely allowed anyone to promulgate anything in his name without checking first. He’d developed his reputation for reliability that way.

When it came to the earldom, he’d never thought of it as his. He hadn’t earned it, nor had he made it. But faced with the reality of the situation, he had to accept it as his. Something he needed to take seriously and permanently.

Like Faith, he’d toyed with the idea of disappearing. After all, he’d done it once before. His memory had returned faster than he’d let anyone know after Waterloo, and now it was complete.

Absolutely complete.

Another thread. Did everything devolve to the same man? Had Roker promulgated the deceits and the attempts on his life, or was Roker interested only in himself and what he could skim from the proceeds? It could be Carlisle. Maybe both. It frustrated John that he didn’t know for sure, but he would.

Standing in the office of Smith’s solicitor, with red-sealed document containers on floor-to-ceiling shelves, John recalled his background. “The Dalkington-Smythes broke into my happy childhood every year to teach me estate management. If I invite you and your family to stay, be assured it will be purely for the pleasure of your company. I joined the army partly to escape the sadness when my parents died, and partly to elude the Dalkington-Smythes.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Edward replied. “My parents have died, also, but I lost my mother last year and my father ten years ago. I had them for my formative years.”

John envied him. “I’m telling you because of the reason I felt I had to get away.” He picked up the glass of excellent port Edward had handed him. He glanced at the man of business, who seemed a solid man. He had a more mundane practice than Roker, but John liked him and would definitely have him investigated with a view to employing him at a future date.

If Roker was cheating him in any way, John would not hesitate to take the business of the earldom away, which would mean he’d need another agent. Pilkington couldn’t handle it all, nor would John wish him to. Besides, Thomas was more in the nature of a partner these days.

They left the offices in good accord, and after bidding Thomas farewell, John decided to accompany Edward to his lodgings before going home. The walk would give him time to think.

He would strive to keep the businesses separate as much as he could. Earldoms meant entails, bequests, pensions, dowries and other costs that should rightly draw from the estate, not the business he’d carefully constructed to perform an entirely different task.

He grimaced. He was procrastinating and he knew why. His detestation of the events he was about to describe. “From the age of seven, every summer I went to Graywood Abbey and underwent training. I was heir to the heir to the estate but both boys were healthy, so nobody expected me to inherit. However, I studied and worked hard, learned the Graywood estate and its wealth. Not until I turned thirteen did I learn why they wanted me to do this.”

Smith nodded. “Did you enjoy these lessons?”

“By no means.” The part he hated admitting to. “I thought the boys considered me their equal, but they spent a lot of time away from the Abbey. I had a room in the guest wing. Only later did I learn the room was usually occupied by valets and servants who needed to be close to their masters. That subtly showed me my place as under-steward to David Carlisle, the son of the current occupant of the position. The Carlisles were as set in their position as the earls, almost as difficult to displace. They made me subservient to a boy who treated me as worse than the dirt on his shoes. I thought he despised me for my stupidity, for at the time I was a shy boy, not truly comfortable in company.” The army had soon knocked that out of him. “I fought David Carlisle, though, when he would have bullied me.” A slow smile crept over his mouth. “I found a little compensation. However, I paid for it in the long run, for I believe he despises me still.” He shrugged. “I don’t have the best opinion of the man, I confess. Nor did anyone do anything about it when I told them. Not that the earl or his family were in residence often.”

“Is he a clever fellow?”

He knew exactly why Edward asked that. “He has a good degree of intelligence, although he resists learning new ways. He thinks to patronise me still, but while two years as a boy is yawning chasm, now it is nothing at all. Less than that.”

When he invited Smith to the planned ball, John admitted that the company might not become the fashionable squeeze of legend.

“The dowager has done enough to ensure reasonable attendance.”

“You are a military man, sir. Could you not call on your acquaintances?”

John stopped dead in the middle of the street and smacked his hand against his forehead to knock some sense back into it. A passing chair-mended, burdened with a tool kit and a few bits of wood cursed at him. John ignored him. “I’m an idiot. A complete fool.” He could only put his omission down to his concern with the estate and the way it was losing money hand over fist.

Abruptly, he changed direction. “If you will excuse me, sir, I have a call to make.”

Chapter Fifteen

After finding his first quarry not at home, John left his card and went after more prey. After so much prevaricating, he’d had enough and he would take the action for himself. Although he hadn’t visited London for some time, he doubted the areas he wanted to visit had changed a great deal. The rookeries.

Going into the rookeries meant death for interlopers. He knew that, too. Warrens of alleys, buildings about to tumble down, deliberately mined with holes in the road and carefully placed debris. Some of the houses were rigged to collapse when required, filled with people who officially didn’t exist; whores, cutpurses, pickpockets, riff raff of the lowest kind. A whore earning a living wouldn’t choose to live in St. Giles or Seven Dials, just as a successful thief would set up house elsewhere.

Frustrated in one ambition, to discover who was bilking the estate, he would not remain bedevilled in the other.

Hovering on the edge of St. Giles, he watched and waited. He wouldn’t go in unescorted, although he’d made a detour to his house to collect the weapons and assistance he required. Pistols and a sword, not usually worn in London these days, but his army sabre not only acted as a deterrent, he felt better with it on. More himself, more the man in control of his own fate. The footman standing in the hall actually widened his eyes when he saw the arsenal his master was arming himself with, but he didn’t comment. By the time he did, if he did, the items would return to their spaces.

Not that he cared for the opinions of one footman. Except the man was standing behind him now, his fancy livery abandoned in favour of a plain street coat, similar to John’s own.

He reconnoitred the territory, marked it with an eye to retreat and attack and chose a likely spot for his station. The change from respectable to disreputable happened within the space of a few streets, and where they stood wasn’t the most salubrious area. Not the most insalubrious either. But he’d tired of waiting for a result and rather than see Faith threatened again, he’d take the chance.

John had seen the lookouts in the alleys beyond. He waited until someone passed by, clearly headed for the internal part of the rookery. While the man’s coat was torn and filthy, John had still recognised it as army issue. The lower orders tended to wear their uniforms most of the time, as they had little else, and after they left, they kept the habit.

“Soldier!” He rapped out the command, and exactly as he’d expected, the man came to a sudden halt, a movement, he guessed, born of several years in the military.

The man turned, his expression blank. His blackened teeth and face greyed by dust and grime attested to his poverty-stricken situation but he had retained the upright stance of the soldier.

“Sir?”

John had seen worse smiles. Not many, but a few. “I want information. If you can furnish me with it, I can reward you.”

The man remained standing to attention. John recognised the blockish attitude adopted by the serving military man when he didn’t want to answer a question, but didn’t want to be accused of insubordination either.

People stared at them, the woman standing with her back to the monument set at the centre of the road, the one holding seven street signs. She was displaying more of her body than she was hiding. Her sagging bodice failed to cover her equally sagging breasts, her gown torn at the front, open for anyone to view what she was selling. Two men stood at the junction of a nearby road, leaning against a house. John wondered if they were holding up the house, if once they moved away, the whole structure would crumble into the street. Someone standing outside a shuttered house in a better state of repair, dressed practically and cleaner than the others present, apart from John and his companion, stared openly. The bully, for so John guessed he was, unfolded his arms and let them hang loosely by his sides in a classic gesture of preparedness.

John forced himself to relax his body and push his head forward.

By his stance he demonstrated he didn’t fear, that anyone coming for him would have to take a beating before he surrendered. Most of these situations were about bravado and facing the opponent down. This was no exception.

He kept his attention on the man three feet away from him, not afraid of the silence, waiting him out. Eventually the soldier cocked his head. “What are you, a recruiting officer?”

John curled his lip in a sneer. “Hardly. In any case I wouldn’t come here for new blood.” He used the word deliberately, saw the man’s eyes register the hint of violence. “I’m looking for a ruffian called Cockfosters.”

“Why not go there, then?” He jerked his head in the direction of the rookery.

“Because I think he’s here.” He didn’t, not for sure, but this den of iniquity was fairly close to the Exchange, where his wife had met his quarry. If he didn’t live here they would know the man well enough to give him shelter. Recognise him as one of their own.

The stink of urine and horseshit rose to cloud his nostrils.

Unlike many gentleman, the odour didn’t bother John overmuch.

He registered it and put it aside as of no interest to him.

“What’s in it for me?” his target demanded.

Tricky. If the men knew how much he had on him, they wouldn’t hesitate to kill him for it. On the other hand, if he stood down, they’d kill him anyway. He’d known worse situations.

Shrugging his shoulders to loosen them, he took a step forward.

“Five guineas now, another ten on delivery.”

The man snorted. “You want me to deliver Cockfosters to you?

Are you mad or just a fucking idiot?”

An army man for sure from his language. If he’d been more adventurous with his use of curse words, John would have put him down as navy. “I only need to know where he is. You don’t have to tie a bow around his neck.” He paused for effect. “If I want that done I’ll do it myself.”

He felt rather than saw the agitation of the footman at his back.

He’d brought him to run for help if he needed it, not that he’d have much faith in aid coming before they’d killed him. At least his loved ones would know what had happened to him.

This time his subject allowed a smile, one John would try hard to eliminate from his memory. John flipped his coat aside, displayed his sword as if by accident. He kept it in a scarred leather scabbard, one he’d oiled regularly for ease of use. The man glanced at it, then at him. “Don’t matter if you do know. Nothing ‘e can do to me.”

So either Cockfoster’s master or his own would protect him.

John dug in his pocket and produced the money. The gold gleamed, too bright and cheerful for this place. The bully standing in front of the whorehouse took a step forward. John moved to the side slightly, so he had him under observation. “You don’t get it until you’ve told me.”

He didn’t give the man much of a chance, unless he could run fast. The ex-soldier licked his lips, and shot a glance around his field of vision. “’E’s dead.”

John kept his hand open by an effort of will. His mind reeled with the news. He had no reason to doubt this man, because he’d have no reason to lie. Alive, he was worth more. “How?”

“Yesterday. Don’t know what ‘e did, but ‘e upset somebody. Not an accident, not taken. Shot. Found in St. Giles. Probably at the bottom of a night soil cart by now.” He lifted his lip in a dark sneer.

“Otherwise I’d get ‘im for you and get the rest of the cash.”

Snatching the money out of John’s hand, the man sprinted, the two actions one smooth motion, leaving John stunned in his wake.

But not from the sudden flight.

Dead? He released a long string of curses. The bully, who’d gone back to leaning against the wall, grinned at the language. Probably heard them all and could top them.

Rather than wasting his time swearing, John should get out of here. The others in the area were too far away to have heard everything that passed, but John sensed his time was up. He stopped himself wiping his hand on his breeches. The bystanders might not appreciate the gesture.

The bastard had killed the man he’d paid to attack Faith. Deep down, John knew it. That in his mind skewed the evidence in David Carlisle’s favour, the man, who as part of his job, regularly handled weaponry. John would have loved to know if Cockfosters died from shotgun wounds, the weapon of choice of the hunting set, or a more practical flintlock. Or even one of the new rifles that were becoming so fashionable. As the Earl of Graywood, he owned several sets of exquisite duelling pistols. Not appropriate for serious work, he thought, so he’d left them at home. Pretty enough, but he’d never concerned himself with elegance and prettiness.

Not until he’d met Faith.

He was slowly retreating to the safer areas, although he wouldn’t be out of danger for two or three streets. He had to take the risk of turning his back. He nodded to the bully and glanced at the footman, who for all his size was visibly quaking.

John turned around, waiting for the heavy thump in his back that would signify a hit. They felt like that at first, merely a hard push, as if someone had struck him with the flat of his hand. Then the pressure increased and hell happened. For the first second, it felt like nothing at all. He’d only felt that deadly pressure once, but that was one too many times.

One street, then two. At a measured pace, not looking behind but allowing his man to check. Only when they reached the relative safety of Covent Garden Piazza did he breathe out in relief. “I never want to go there again,” he said, turned around and headed for the West End, quickening his steps to a level that threatened to leave the footman behind. Despite the atmosphere redolent with rotting fruit and vegetables, products of the market that took place here every morning, the air smelled fresh and clean. The faster he walked, the deeper he could breathe, but he’d never get the stink of the gutter out of his nostrils. Like the scent of the battlefield or the aroma of a gentleman’s club after an all-night session, the smell distinctive and memorable. He wished it were not so.

The walk gave him time to think. The man who’d tried to murder his wife was most likely dead, killed by an unknown hand.

It didn’t take a genius to realise that someone didn’t want the man to tell what he knew. Maybe his enemy wanted to remain hidden, and a man as distinctive and with a name like Cockfosters wouldn’t elude someone determined to find him.

It also meant Edward Smith could be in danger. Strange how John didn’t consider Edward a threat, but he did not. His investigations had shown him Smith had nothing to gain from the inheritance except a title, which wouldn’t help him a great deal in his line of business. He owned considerable wealth, his life established and happy. Most of all, the man exuded honesty, and his business dealings were above board and fair.

No, not Edward. He was an ally, if anything. He’d send a message to Edward to lie low until the night of the ball.

John had his proofs, except the attempt on Faith’s life, because he had no doubt now that was what it was. Not an extortion threat, but death, with some greed thrown in. Enslaving her in a brothel would have meant death, by the hand of a violent customer, or disease. If Cockfosters could get something else from her, he would, and greed had proved his downfall, since Faith had got away. It had given John, alerted by the footman who’d followed at a distance and kept a discreet eye on her, time to reach her side.

Everything went back to her, to Faith. John took a corner smartly, back to the days when he needed to cover ground quickly.

He wanted to get away from the experience in Seven Dials, preferably change his clothes and wash. Maybe order a bath.

Remove the filth of corruption.

* * *

John had time to call on an old colleague before he went home that night, the one he’d decided to call on earlier. This time he found him at home.

Before dinner, he made a brief announcement to the dowager and her daughters. “We believe we’ve found the heir to the earldom.” He gave a succinct account of the proofs and the history of the man. Faith, standing by his side, as always, greeted the news with a visible sigh of relief. Now the succession didn’t depend on her. John pressed her hand and regarded the dowager with interest.

Her expression didn’t change, but he knew by now the lady was processing what he’d told her. “He’s single, you say?” she demanded.

She’d got that far very fast indeed. Yes, her daughter could do worse. Not that John said it. “He is. He has considerable investments and business interests. In fact, he could give the earldom a run for its money.”

“Is he presentable?” she asked of John.

“He seems a good man, and for better or worse he is the heir to the estate. We have formal applications and confirmations to undertake, but the proofs are so compelling I doubt we’ll have any problems.” By accepting Edward Smith as his heir, he was taking some pressure off her shoulders. The title would live on. “I think it best to keep his identity to ourselves for the time being, until we have the proofs legally attested.”

The dowager readily agreed to that.

Edward arrived, dressed impeccably, his manners perfect. The dowager unbent so much as to offer him a gracious smile, before she proceeded to interrogate him on his family and circumstances. She required Edward to take her in to dinner, and he accomplished the feat in stunned silence. By the time they sat at table, his smile resembled a rictus.

One Faith eased by talking to him in a sensible manner, asking about his business and then posing some intelligent but non-interrogatory questions. He answered in such a way as to indicate he had considerable wealth.

“You intend to remain in London, then, sir?”

“Until this matter is cleared up,” Edward answered the dowager, offering a smile. “I have excellent agents and managers, although in the general run of events I prefer to visit my businesses on a regular basis.” He helped himself to the roasted parsnips, which gave him a moment’s respite.

“You do not manage your concerns yourself, then?” The dowager visibly brightened and graciously allowed him to deposit a parsnip on her plate, a sign of respect if ever there was one. A gentleman could have any number of concerns, but it was better if he didn’t have first-hand experience every day. Gentlemen did not get their hands dirty, or ruin the manicures their valets had slaved over.

John suppressed his snort. During the last few weeks he’d met men who answered that description perfectly. He’d soon learned a lack of callouses on the hands didn’t necessarily make a man less able to cope with the more uncomfortable aspects of life.

On the pretext of reaching for the buttered carrots, Faith contrived to nudge him. He must have made a sound when he tried to suppress his inappropriate sound of derision. He turned his head and grinned, so fast only she should see it.

She grinned back, apparently not caring who saw her. He liked that about her.

“I paid an overdue visit today,” he told her. Lady Graywood glanced at him.

“You have acquaintances in London?”

At least John had taken her attention, giving Edward a chance to recover from her interrogation. “Only military ones. This one is the highest. I paid a visit to the Duke of Wellington.”

The dowager raised a brow. “Indeed? I wasn’t aware you knew his grace personally.”

“Yes, he knew me. I had the fortune to exchange views with him on several occasions. The duke preferred to discuss his strategies with his officers in the field, who had reviewed the terrain.”

Belatedly, he realised if he carried on discussing his war years he might become one of those military bores who occupied a corner in his club, desperately engaging the attention of anyone who sat with him. The glory years. Not that John saw them that way. “The duke had heard of my return to London, of course, but he waited for me to come to him. He always said he was available to any of us if we needed him. I should have remembered that sooner.” He regarded Wellington as a brilliant commander and meticulous planner. He’d learned a lot from the man his troops called Old Nosey. “He professed himself glad to see me, and he’s invited me to attend the Waterloo Dinner next month.”

The dowager gasped. The duke invited only thirty-seven or at the most thirty-eight men to the dinner commemorating the battle.

It was an extremely prestigious event, conferring serious favour.

“He says he’ll try to come to the ball and he’ll mention it in a few circles.” He should tell the whole story. “He said he is not looked on highly by the most fashionable.” He paused. “However, with my efforts and with his I can confidently state the ball will not be completely devoid of company.”

“Indeed, sir, men in red coats often attract the highest sticklers.

Although many are younger sons, they are frequently generously endowed with everything a young lady would wish for.”

Faith choked. John decided she’d pay for that later, in the most pleasurable way. Of course she meant the men in question could to take care of fastidious young ladies like Charlotte and Louise. So if Edward failed to satisfy in some way, the dowager would have others in reserve. John expected nothing less.

He showed the dowager a calm countenance and agreed with her judgment. “Sometimes a younger son can outstrip his older brother.”

“As the Duke of Wellington so amply demonstrates.” The dowager heaved a sigh. “Such a shame about his brother! A sad wastrel.”

He actually had a snippet of information. “The duke is buying Apsley House from his brother the marquis. He should be in full possession of the house before too long.”

The dowager raised a brow. “Good news. The house is in an excellent position.” Now she had some useful news to exchange with her acquaintances. Gossip was currency in the circles the dowager moved in.

“He plans to build.” The duke had been full of his plans to expand and develop the property, and after his warm welcome John had endured much discussion on the plans for another wing. If nothing else it proved the duke was full of juice. More stock for the dowager, and a promise to attend the ball. That should please the besom.

* * *

Later that evening, when Faith walked into her bedroom from the powder room, she found John waiting. He wore his robe, his legs

bare beneath and he sat on her daybed watching her with a smouldering heat that turned her limbs to jelly. She glanced behind her, but her maid had already left.

Without further hesitation she went to him. He got to his feet to greet her. He took her outstretched hands and used them to bring her close against his body, where his arousal became immediately apparent, pressing against her. Neither were wearing many clothes. All to the good, since it was obvious what he intended. Her body prepared itself for him as if he’d trained her, arousal dampening the space between her thighs and her breath quickening. No sense pretending she didn’t want him, so when she tilted her head up to him she expected his kiss.

He didn’t disappoint her. Lowering his head to the perfect angle, he pressed his lips against hers. He touched his tongue to the velvet softness, a request for entry she had come to anticipate and dream of at odd times of the day when she should be thinking of something else. He banded his arms around her, but held her loosely, his hands spread, one to encompass her back, the other her bottom. He cradled it, pressed her against him so she felt the rigidity of his erection.

He kissed her lavishly, generously and she returned his embrace, the powerful muscles under her hands shifting as he changed position to bring her closer. He invaded her mouth with his tongue, avidly exploring as if he’d never tasted her before, moving his lips over hers, his tongue, and she was not idle. John, this man of hers, liked her to participate, not merely take what he gave her. His encouragement had given her the courage to venture forth in her own adventures. She tasted him back, relearning the unique flavour of John. She loved the way he groaned into her mouth, sending delicious vibrations coursing through her. He brought every part of her body to a state of readiness.

For him. Nobody but John did this to her, or ever had.

His breath gusted hotly over her cheek and then he drew away.

“I want to make love to you, Faith. Need to.”

His expression said more than his words and what she saw in his eyes made her falter, draw back to examine his face with more concentration. Warmth, heat, and the sexual awareness she knew by now, but something else, a raw awareness, something new.

She didn’t ask. She only smiled because she recognised that expression. She’d felt it herself for some time. Impossible to ignore any more, it was time for them to take the next step. Whatever that was, wherever it took them.

She said nothing, only nodded. He took her hand, a gesture that felt strangely intimate after they had experienced each other’s bodies so closely, and drew her to the bed. The covers were turned down, revealing the pristine sheets, not a crease visible. They were about to change that.

Smiling, he loosened the fastenings on her silk robe, his fingers snagging on the fine material. She didn’t help him, but performed the same office for him. Unlike her, he was naked beneath. As he shrugged his robe off his shoulders to fall to the floor, she took a moment to admire his fine figure. She saw well-shaped muscles, small scars that signified a life well lived. She had a few herself, a couple of burn marks from cooking in primitive conditions and a white line on her thumb where a knife bit deep before she pulled it away.

He unfastened the buttons at her neck and wrists, not allowing her to do anything for herself. She enjoyed the sensation of helplessness, as if she was too fragile to do anything. He knew how capable she was in reality. He chose to treat her as if she were fashioned from spun glass. A smile curled her lips when she realised that wouldn’t last long. She raised her arms as he drew the garment off over her head. She’d worn coarse linen, fine cotton, silk.

Sometimes hadn’t undressed to sleep. As he stared at her as if looking at her for the first time, she knew he’d gaze at her in the same way, whatever item of clothing she’d just removed. It didn’t matter to him.

He helped her into the high bed, not so high she needed steps to climb in, although a small stool stood ready by an adjacent wall.

The action opened her to him, made her reveal the most intimate secrets of her body. Instead of modestly concealing herself, she pushed the covers back more, and lay back, her legs parted to expose herself to him. Like a Roman empress inviting another lover into her chamber. Except this was the one lover she had, that she would ever want.

He took his time, watching her, but his arousal jutted forth, the head shiny and damp, an aggressor to her sex, dripping with need for him, soaking the sheet beneath her. “You’re so perfect,” he said, his voice husky. “I want you so much but I don’t want to stop looking at you.” Leaning forward, supporting himself with one hand against the mattress, he touched her with the other, slid one finger into her wetness, across her clitoris and deep into her.

Making a sound low in her throat, she pressed her head back into the pillows banked behind her and groaned. “John.” His name, so precious to her now. “Come to me.”

The cry of the siren over the ages, and it worked as well as ever.

He climbed up and came over her, his legs straddling hers, his cock almost reaching on its own towards its welcome.

Bracing himself on one arm next to her, he took his shaft in hand and guided it to her. He used it to caress her clitoris and slit, then pushed the head inside her, meeting barely any resistance. One kiss and the heat of his gaze had done that, made her so open to him that he could take her any way he chose, despite the size of his cock.

He filled her completely, making her realise all over again how perfect he was for her, fitting her snugly to the point of overflow.

“It feels good here,” he murmured. “Like I belong.”

She curled her arm around his neck, brought him closer. “You do.”

He drove deep, waited there, their body hair meshing, their juices combining to create something new. Then he pulled out, so he could fill her all over again. She sighed, stretched, arching her body voluptuously to meet his, opening herself as much as possible.

Bending her knees, she set her legs either side of him. That gave him the freedom to move, not restraining him by lashing her legs around his waist, or telling him what to do. She wanted, needed him to satisfy himself, sate himself on her and if she came, well and good. If she didn’t, good too, because the sensation of having him inside her beat anything she could do for herself. His body lay over hers, big and powerful, the tender expression on his face giving way to raw passion as his movements increased in tempo and intensity. He withdrew almost completely with every stroke, then thrust right in, their bodies colliding, her breasts trembling against the powerful muscles of his chest, gleaming with sweat.

He bent to kiss her, long, wet and lascivious. Without warning he changed his rhythm to hard fast, shallow jabs, rousing her until every nerve in her body responded to him and she cried out into his mouth. He broke their kiss so she could shout the sudden climax that arrived swift as a bolt of lightning. His name shattered the stillness outside the confines of their bed.

She gasped, suddenly short of breath, and he watched, his dark eyes fierce, civilisation stripped away to reveal the warrior beneath.

He changed his tempo again, driving deep once more, watching her as he achieved his own culmination.

Fresh heat and wetness gushed into her in violent, draining spasms and he jerked with every one. He kept his eyes open, kept her gaze as each spurt of his seed jetted into her until she dragged him back for another kiss. Their mouths opened, tongues met, stroked, caressed and the violence of his thrusts brought her high again, a responsive orgasm jolting her body, so they shared the aftermath.

John looked so good like this. He rolled to one side, his body gleaming with well-earned sweat, and reached for her, demanding rather than requesting. She went to him, knowing she belonged.

He pulled her tight against him, their bodies connecting from head to toe. She tucked a leg between his, her wet sex pressing against his thigh, the scent of their lovemaking rising to remind them of what they had just done.

He kissed her cheek, her ear, then drew a deep breath. “I love you, Faith. For years I watched you, I wanted you. I dreamed about you in the wilderness, but I never imagined anything this perfect.”

She doubted what she was hearing, but he’d articulated it well enough. He deserved the truth.

She closed her eyes, still afraid of what she might see. She’d never been this close to another human being, never felt so intimately connected with anyone. The truth bubbled up inside her, refusing to be denied a moment longer. If she said it and she was wrong, she couldn’t take it back.

He’d had the courage to say what they both felt in their hearts.

So should she. She opened her eyes, stared directly into his, warm and waiting for her. “I love you too.”

With a smile that bade fair to break her heart, he cupped her cheek in one warm palm and kissed her. Soft, gentle, undemanding, but so full of joy all she could do was respond as fully as she could manage. No lascivious kiss of desire, this, but one of fulfilled and complete happiness. He finished the kiss only to touch his lips to hers again, as if he couldn’t prevent himself doing it. She snuggled closer, let him bring her completely into the shelter of his big body and set herself to enjoy this unique moment. He kissed away her tears, murmured to her, “No crying, Faith. Sweetheart, my love, don’t cry.”

Several moments, as it turned out. One kiss turned into another and his shaft, previously softly contented, showed signs of returning to life. With a chuckle, he disengaged and leaned back, bringing her with him so she lay over him, her legs straddling his body. “Faith, you’re a complete surprise. I never expected to come home to a wife, much less discover that wife was you. I didn’t expect to want you so much. And I didn’t expect to fall in love with you.”

“I didn’t expect you to be alive,” she said, smiling. “But I’m so glad you are!”

“Did you think you would be?”

She picked her words carefully. “I felt shock when I first saw you, as how could I not? Then fear, because I had no idea what you would do. You could have condemned me, commanded me to leave the house in Red Lion Square, because I bought it with your money.”

He shook his head. “Never. Even when I thought you an adventuress, a state of affairs, I have to admit, that didn’t last long, I wanted you.”

She stroked a lock of hair back from his forehead and he caught her hand and kissed it, sharing a smile with her. “Did you tell Wellington about us?” She didn’t have to explain what she meant.

He knew.

“No, he assumed we were married on the field. Our story holds.”

“What do we do now?”

His eyes turned grave. “My love, we stay together. That is my first concern. However, you know what I’ve been about.”

She thought of the piles of ledgers in the bookroom. “Yes. Did you find what you needed?”

“Yes we did. We compiled a report, and made copies, distributing them around various offices under seal. The report puts both Roker and Carlisle in the picture. It seems to have started as a series of minor deceits, such as go on in many estates. But these two escalated matters. Too ensconced in their positions to believe they could be ousted, they perpetuated ever increasing and ever more transparent deceptions. Carlisle pocketed the profits from the mines and invented non-existent disasters and purchases for imaginary equipment, as well as taking a share of each crop we produced. Roker set up a false company that charged the estate exorbitant amounts for work that could have been done for half or a quarter the price. It’s all there, and recorded now.”

“Will you prosecute?”

He grimaced. “Not yet. We need to ensure the estate is strong enough to weather the storm. Otherwise the gannets will arrive, picking over what’s available. If they discover the earldom isn’t as wealthy as they suppose, they’ll come in for the kill. Refuse us the loans we need, reject proposals for improvements or further investments. I’ll support it from my private income, something I’m well able to do, and institute new systems. Then we can face anyone.”

“How long will that take?”

“About six months. Can you bear that?”

She nodded. “With you I can bear anything.” Not rhetoric. She meant it, couldn’t imagine a situation she couldn’t put up with as long as John shared her life.

He smiled and kissed her. “Thank you for that.” He swallowed.

“I know I’m selfish, expecting you to take such a risk, but I need you with me. I need to know you’re part of my life, and always will be.”

“Always.” She promised without hesitation, an oath as binding as any she’d made in church.

They shared the kiss that bound them to the promise. He smoothed his hand up her back, pressed gently between her shoulder blades to keep her in place. Not that she needed it. His eyes were brighter when they finally broke the kiss.

“What next?” she said. Not because she cared, but because she’d need to know, so she could support him in whatever he decided to do.

“I’ll remove Roker and Carlisle from their positions of trust.

Roker isn’t in my employ; I’m one of many clients, but without my custom, he’ll lose the rest. He knows that. However, I won’t return the books to him and I won’t allow him to make any significant decisions. The likelihood is he’ll agree, if only to mollify his customers. He won’t fuss. Carlisle, however, might do that. I plan to send him north to a smaller estate. That should keep him out of the way for a while.”

“This wilderness you talk about,” she said. “Could I live there?”

“With the bears and the bugs?” His hold on her tightened. “No, my love. But you’d like Canada, at least the civilised parts. I might take you some day. But for the rest, I’m earl, and nothing can change that. It’s not as if I can resign from the position. So we carry on as we have been doing, caring for each other and taking care of business.”

“Business?” She smiled, relaxed as she’d rarely been before.

“The earldom, my business concerns, our baby, if there is one...”

he stopped when he saw the way tension had tightened her face.

She felt her smile turn rigid, the tears prick the back of her eyes. “If there isn’t, then we cope with that, too. The earldom has an heir. If we have a child then we’ll welcome it.” He touched his lips to hers, a brushing kiss. “We don’t even have to be concerned about the sex.”

“Don’t expect it,” she said, forcing calm into her voice. “I might disappoint you.”

“Impossible,” he assured her, and he pressed another kiss to her lips. “Whatever happens, you’ll never do that.” The next kiss took a little longer to accomplish and they were both breathless when it came to an end. “Faith, I love you. You heard me, and it won’t be the last time you hear it. You make me want to protect you and to make you proud of me.”

“I am. Very proud.” A tear escaped, trickling down the side of her face. She didn’t wipe it away. He caught the drop on one finger and glanced at it before touching the tip of his tongue to it and sweeping it away. “I will never stop trying to make you proud.

We’re good together.”

“Yes,” she said, another tear escaping, but this of happiness.

She’d never imagined such complete joy existed, or if it did, that it would ever happen to her. “I don’t deserve this. I usurped your name, stole your pension and your money. You should have cast me out, denied me.”

“If it had been anyone else, I might have done.” He smoothed her tears away with his hands. “Don’t cry, Faith, I can’t bear it. I wanted you when I first saw you when you were married, and I knew I could not take you. I knew you weren’t entirely happy, but nobody in that army could claim they were content. You and your husband seemed to deal well together for all he was rougher than I thought you deserved.”

“Vicar’s daughter,” she reminded him, smiling. “I knew nothing when I agreed to marry him and worse when I agreed to follow the drum. I thought it sounded exciting, more fool me. John—John Smith—had a house in Portsmouth where I could have lived, or he offered to set me up closer to him. I thought the army sounded like a fine life, and so it proved from time to time. I don’t regret making the choice. I saw things, met people, experienced more than I ever could have expected or had the opportunity to know about.” She paused, thinking back, watching for any sign of tedium on his beloved features. “Women often lead sequestered lives. I was one of many children, overlooked and disregarded for the most part. John was the first man to take notice of me, and I was flattered. When he proposed, he was frank with me, said he wanted a companion as much as a bedfellow.” Heat rose under her skin, but she kept his gaze. Honesty was harder than she’d imagined. “We did deal well together, but bed, intimacy—“ Now she did flush, and dropped her head to bury her forehead against his shoulder. “Forgive me,” she muttered hotly.

“Nothing to forgive.” His voice was soothing, quiet. “I knew you shared his tent. How could I not? It would have been strange had it been otherwise. I only felt jealousy that you weren’t sharing mine.”

He paused, cupped the back of her head, threaded his fingers through her hair. “When I came back, when I saw you, I was glad.

Glad you were mine at last. There was never any possibility of me throwing you out. I would have moved heaven and earth to finally have you. In Canada I tried to forget you but I couldn’t get you out of my mind. I’d wake up thinking about you. My last mistress had black, curly hair—“ He gave a shaky laugh. “My very last.”

She lifted her head. “I suppose you could say I’m your mistress.”

“Not for long.” He held her face between his hands. “We will marry, Faith. Tomorrow if you wish.”

She thought of the day and couldn’t see a moment she’d have to herself. Without realising it, her life was settling into a busy routine.

“Maybe after the ball? We have a lot of preparations to make.”

The ball was set for the end of the week, and it was Tuesday already. “Maybe. As soon as we can arrange it, but you’re right. I want a honeymoon after the ceremony.” He drew her down for a kiss, and that sparked another conflagration neither of them seemed to be able to control. Nor did they want to.

Chapter Sixteen

“They won’t consider this too light-coloured?” Faith loved the gown, but now she had it on, she was not sure she should wear it.

“After all, I’m in mourning.”

“I find it perfectly acceptable, ma’am, perhaps somewhat conservative in tone.” Turvey sounded certain. She’d dressed Faith’s hair with lavender silk ribbons and pearls, matching her lovely clothes. The lavender silk gown had seed pearl embroidery, snowdrops drifting towards the hem. She’d never worn anything so exquisite in her life.

In a surge of pleasure, she pirouetted, the fabric swirling about her, the image in the mirror blurring. Still smiling, she stopped, let the skirts spiral around her legs, then spin out again to settle perfectly around her feet.

Only to come face to face with John.

He was smiling, his eyes glowing with the expression he held only for her. Although she’d seen him often in his town wear, in evening clothes he looked magnificent. Tall, broad-shouldered men should wear nothing but crisp black and white, she decided. The ivory embroidered waistcoat looked good, too.

He held a flat black box and as she watched, wordlessly, he opened it.

Pearls. Large, alive, gleaming in their pristine perfection. “Family treasures?” she managed to ask.

He shook his head. “Yours,” he said.

Her first reaction was to take a step back. Had he bought them for her? Why would he do that when she could use family jewels?”

Being the man who knew her best in this world, he understood without her telling him. “Because you deserve them,” he said.

“Because you will look beautiful in them. More beautiful,” he corrected himself with a smile. “Because we need to make a splash tonight.” His voice lowered. “Because I love you.”

Dear God, if he gazed at her that way they’d never get downstairs. He made a twirling motion with two fingers and she turned around. Turvey took the box while John fastened the double string of pearls around her neck. He caressed the sensitive skin at the back of her neck and bent to kiss the base, in the place that sent shivers through her. He loved her. He’d told her often in the three days between him first saying it and today. She responded as much, and delighted in the expression it brought to his face. His stern countenance softened and lightened, and he showed his real pleasure in her saying the words. His delight gave her the courage to tell him more, to rely on him more. She still felt vulnerable when she did so but that weakness decreased every day.

She had deceived this man, stolen from him and he responded by taking her in, then by loving her. She deserved much less than that. She had discovered that deserving something had little to do with love. That happened no matter what.

Tonight she had to prove herself worthy of holding the title of countess. The jewellery and the clothes gave her the fortitude to do so. Not that she wouldn’t have stood in front of the assembled great and good in her old Pomona green gown, if John stood by her side.

But she could vie with attendees tonight in full knowledge she was as stylish as they. It helped. If she had John she could face anything.

Turning, she gave him a bright, unforced smile. “Does the necklace suit?”

His returning smile, warm and loving gave her her answer. “I’m proud to have you as my wife.”

She wasn’t, although soon she would become his wife. She’d finally allowed him to set the date for the following Monday. They would quietly enter the church and become joined to each other.

Nothing would separate them then. Nothing but death. But, she realized, that applied now, without the benefit of clergy. They were only making formal what they had promised one another.

Turvey hooked the earrings into place, and clasped the matching bracelet around her lower arm, before draping a fine gauze shawl over her elbows, barely a strip of fabric, but so fine and beautiful it proclaimed wealth and privilege. It added a sliver of concealment, coquettish rather than hiding anything.

John held out his arm. “Come, my love, my countess. Let’s face the ravening hordes.”

She laughed and the shadow of her amusement remained when they entered the drawing room to meet their dinner guests, the privileged few who would then help to open the ball. At least the people they’d invited had come.

Faith’s tension showed no sign of decreasing any time soon, tightening her stomach muscles, throttling her. However, she utterly refused to let John down so she smiled and chatted, racking her brains for non-controversial topics. Interesting dinner subjects, so she couldn’t discuss the war, her particular area of expertise. She went for politics instead and shortly discovered the subject of the recent Habeus Corpus Suspension Act held most people. The return or otherwise of prisoners was one that currently engrossed many. Since the end of the war had resulted in the mass return of soldiers who could find nothing to do except engage in criminal activity. Or so some of the dinner guests would have it. But Faith, who had known many of the men, knew them to be good hearted, but desperate to find a source of income to support their families.

Despite the glares coming her way from the dowager she refused to be cowed into stupidity, or making the kind of inane comments Charlotte and Louise were engaging in.

For reward, she received encouraging smiles from her husband and the respect of some of his military colleagues sitting around the table. Not all, though. In the debate she forgot her nervousness and concern that she would do something inappropriate, or they would reject her out of hand. She no longer cared. Only that the men she’d known for so long not receive the blame for something they could not change; namely the influx of men, too many for them to obtain respectable positions.

Indeed, she grew so engrossed she barely noticed the changes in the three-course banquet until the last remove was taken away. The footmen whipped away the cloth to reveal the smooth, polished mahogany surface beneath and provided the wine for the toasts.

After the royal toast and a meaningful one for the Princess of Wales, who everyone knew was in the family way, even though the news was not official yet, the dowager’s glares coalesced into a coughing session that effectively broke into the discussion long enough for Faith to recall her duty. She led the ladies into the drawing room, where a professional keyboard player entertained them on the harpsichord, and fashion and balls became the topic of conversation.

“You have some interesting opinions,” Lady Graywood said.

Already aware she may have taken the discussion too far, Faith cringed inwardly, but outwardly merely furled her fan and smiled.

“I did not always live this way.” And wondered anew how she would cope with living in this way, becoming a leader of society, holding more balls like this. Smiling and agreeing with people she disliked because they needed to gain an advantage. She would not behave hypocritically, but apart from that decision, she had few other opinions on her future life. It had become obvious to her that leaving John was no longer an option. Almost she could wish for the position of beloved mistress, so she could live quietly somewhere under his protection. Although of course she was a mistress, in one sense. At least until next week.

The thought made a smile flicker over her lips. Lady Graywood stopped in her recital of what her daughters were doing, and what she expected of a well-brought up young lady. By implication she condemned Faith, but aloud she complimented her on her forthrightness and her decided beliefs.

Faith cringed more. By the time John and the other gentlemen entered she was once again ready to sink into the first hole that happened to open in the floor.

Being John, he noticed something in her appearance and came over to join her. He held out his hand, commanding rather than requesting and she placed her own hand over his, allowing him to draw her to her feet. Heat burned through the thickness of two pairs of evening gloves, attraction that seemed constant and unwavering. He wanted her even here, his regard made that clear, but not to anyone else. How long had he felt that? She had avoided his eyes for so long, knowing she wanted him. Only recently had she allowed herself the indulgence of meeting his gaze, allowing him to see into the depths of her soul. “We should go in soon,” he said.

They’d opened the smaller drawing room that would become the card room once the ball had begun. The larger one would form the main ballroom. With the furniture either removed or pushed against the walls, the suite on the first floor of the house would accommodate at least two hundred guests. Although the ball would not be considered a fashionable squeeze unless at least another hundred arrived.

He tucked her closer so she could curl her arm around his. “You were magnificent in the dining room,” he said, loud enough for the dowager to hear. “Never change, will you?”

Faith knew her tension had allowed the dowager to reach a vulnerable part of her, the part that refused to believe she could perform the office she had fallen into. That would happen less and less, she determined, and nobody except John would ever know of her doubts.

Committed to her action she raised her chin and met his concerned gaze with an unwavering smile. “Thank you. I may not be the kind of countess that has gone before, but times are changing and I will be my own sort of countess.”

His eyes glistened with emotion. “I know you will. I expect nothing else of my brave, clever Faith.”

She knew his words were heard by more people than the dowager. He had declared his devotion to her in words few people would misinterpret. She could face anything, do anything with him by her side.

Guests began to arrive and they moved into the ballroom. Any doubts Faith had about the gathering were quickly dispelled as even at this unfashionably early hour, the rooms filled. Not only with the military men the Duke of Wellington had sent their way.

The uniforms of the officers made a fine display in the elegant and spacious rooms. Their ladies glittered with jewels and sparkled with wit or vitriol, depending on their temperament and intelligence. Faith tried for dignified interest, knowing she could not compete with some of the society dames present. At least not yet. In time, she would.

Faith wouldn’t repeat her moment of doubt.

Many of the military men remembered her, and instead of commenting on her previous life, they called her “Friend” and treated her with kindness. Even though some of their wives gave Faith glances that indicated something else. Perhaps they wondered how she’d snared a prize like John, considering she was married to a lowly lieutenant before, barely scraping the level of respectability.

She knew, and she cared for none of the trappings he owned. Only him. She’d happily go with him to the other end of the earth, to the wilderness he referred to when he talked of his fur-trapping venture.

She opened the dancing. Not her forte, but she coped well enough. Watching John as they completed the complicated steps of the formal dance that opened the ball, she knew she would prefer to dance with him than anyone else.

However she had a position to maintain, something she suspected would become a tedious constant in her life. Easily tolerable if she had John to support her. And do other things, she thought with a secret smile.

When John led her off the floor, he took her to a senior army officer, a general by the adornments and insignia on his uniform.

Then he excused himself to attend to his duties as host and lead the highest ranking female present on to the dance floor. The man gave her a knowing grin. “You were not thinking of dancing just then, were you, my lady? That kind of smile is an indicator of character.

Women will smile at the thought of new jewellery, a pretty gown, a social coup or a more personal topic. May I ask what yours was for?”

She bestowed a gracious smile on him, not at all like the one earlier. “You may ask, sir.”

He was still chuckling when he led her out for the first country dance. “Don’t hold with the modern predilection for dancing with one person alone,” he said. “Dances are for making acquaintances.

How can you do that with only one partner?” She tended to agree, but since the waltz had held sway in fashionable ballrooms since its introduction over ten years earlier, she had requested the quartet they’d engaged to play some.

Her first surprise was when she overheard the dowager giving her far more credit than she deserved for the evening. While not a raging success, it was proving popular enough it would not be castigated as a disaster. She would remain content with that and build on it. Think in the long term, now John had persuaded her to stay.

The way he had induced her almost made her smile again.

Watching her through heavy-lidded eyes as she arrived late to bed last night, waiting for her to disrobe, making her feel a delicious wanton, wickedness guiding her movements. He’d taught her he loved her to take control in the bedroom, and how much she enjoyed doing so. As well as when he took over, unwilling or unable to wait.

Her body heating with the remembrance, she worked on concentrating on her steps when another military gentleman took her on to the floor.

The rooms were filling nicely as the evening went on and people were staying, not taking one look and leaving, as people sometimes did. The terror of boredom seemed endemic in London society.

Either that, or the vying for attention led to fatigue with the efforts.

For the first time Faith appreciated her decision to be herself, rather than don a persona for her public appearances. While she understood their need for privacy, now more than ever, she knew that would not work for her.

As her latest dance partner took her towards the sideboard where light refreshments and drink were laid out, her foot slipped.

She frowned down at the polished wood, the floor consisting of pieces of wood inserted in a detailed pattern. This room was intended for dancing and she had no wish for her rooms to be turned into ice by over-zealous servants.

Just one piece, the black. She would ensure that never happened again.

When she looked up, it was into a familiar pair of brown eyes.

The hooked nose and austere features, combined with the dark, bushy eyebrows often deterred most people from familiarity with him. But Faith had seen him in very different circumstances to these and she could smile at the most distinguished soldier in the nation with unreserved pleasure.

He took her hand and bowed over it. “Lady Graywood, it’s a delight to meet you again.”

“Your grace, thank you for coming.”

She’d expected to see her husband when such an honoured guest arrived, and she wasn’t disappointed. John bowed and the two men exchanged the greeting that old colleagues might engage in, after formal bows were disposed of.

The duke surveyed the ballroom. “I see my influence has not entirely died. I brought the Arbuthnots. I trust you are not as much a stickler as some?”

The strong rumours surrounding the Duke of Wellington and Mrs. Arbuthnot were not abating. However, few people had shunned them either. Nobody denied the hero of Waterloo. “I’m flattered,” she said before John could comment. “Mrs. Arbuthnot is reported to be an engaging and intelligent woman and I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

A bit of flattery to the people who meant the most to him rarely went amiss. The duke favoured her with a warm smile. “Indeed she is. I would be delighted to introduce you.” His marriage a failure since he returned from Belgium, the duchess residing in the country for the most part, everyone knew the duke took his pleasures elsewhere, and Mrs. Arbuthnot was the current favourite, albeit with the connivance of her husband.

Faith blinked. His grace was granting particular attention to her.

At the most she’d hoped for a brief appearance, but Wellington showed every indication of remaining and exerting his charm, which was considerable but rarely used for anything or anyone he disliked. He was not appreciated in some quarters, but the majority applauded his efforts for the country. Without him, Britain might not have come out of the recent bloody and expensive wars as well as it had.

Now the man frequently proclaimed the saviour of the nation was leading her out for the next country dance. Beyond her wildest dreams. Even the dowager was wearing a satisfied expression, as near as Faith had seen to an outright smile.

She was happy. Her ball, thanks in great part to the dowager and John was a great success. She had found the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with, and she finally had a purpose.

What could possibly go wrong?

Unfortunately, Roker and David Carlisle had decided to attend this evening. Faith had hoped they would not but had sent the invitations as a matter of courtesy when the idea for the ball was first mooted. As Wellington guided her through the steps and then they separated to perform the parts of the dance that would bring them back together at the end she took the opportunity to observe the two men who for their disparate reasons wanted to see her husband humiliated, or at the least brought under their thumbs.

Carlisle would prefer to continue running the estate his way and maybe he was also in cahoots with Roker, who had been robbing the estate blind for years. John had told her everything, shared all his information with her. There was no longer any doubt.

Faith had no doubt John would be dismissing the two man, perhaps prosecuting them in the courts after the ball. Just as she knew Roker must be aware of his intention, because John had commandeered his files and had not returned them. The bookroom was piled high with dusty old ledgers, and the door fitted with a new lock. He and his associates had drawn up a final report, had it copied and distributed around various offices, so destroying the evidence wasn’t possible.

At least they weren’t downstairs trying to break in to the study.

John had stationed a footman inside the room in case anyone tried any such ploy.

The duke executed a tricky turn, bringing them back together and as she spun under his arm, she caught sight of her husband, stern-faced, confronting Roker and Carlisle. Something untoward was happening. Edward Smith was approaching the group at a fair clip. Faith didn’t have to see her to know the dowager was keeping a weather eye on what was fast becoming a confrontation.

Although she badly wanted to cross the room and give him her support, she dared not because she was partnering the guest of honour. She didn’t want to let him anywhere near the people standing to one side of the bathroom. Even though they were speaking softly, that would not last long, if the expression on John’s face was any indication of the progression of affairs.

Before she could prevent him, the Duke of Wellington escorted her off the dance floor, heedless of the pattern in the dance. He headed for the little group with determination, herding Faith, his hand grazing the small of her back.

“There appears to be no evidence of the marriage,” Roker said, his voice ringing clearly so as many people as possible could hear.

He flourished his paper. “This says that your wife’s first husband was killed at Waterloo, not just before it. That would not give you the opportunity to marry her before the battle. Moreover, there is no record of your marriage, my lord. I have searched for it, since you did not see proper to furnish me with the papers I asked of you.”

A chill spread rapidly through Faith’s body, invading every part of her, until the blood in her veins threatened to freeze. She couldn’t move, couldn’t say anything, words whirling through her head, none of them making any sense.

Control, Faith.

Dignity was all that remained to her. Her thoughts coalesced, settled, and all the while Roker was destroying her life, word by word. She’d only just begun to believe in what she’d gained, but now with her world crashing around her, she recalled what had got her here. A lie. She’d adopted a life not her own, used assets that didn’t belong to her. Nemesis had come to collect the debt.

Roker waved his damned piece of paper under John’s nose.

“This says there was not enough time between Smith’s death and the battle for you to have married his widow.”

John raised a brow, never so haughty as in this moment. “Your assiduity does you proud. A shame I cannot say the same of your legitimate work.”

“I have done nothing wrong.”

“Indeed you have, sir.” John glanced around, caught her eye and Faith knew what he meant to do.

John was about to reveal the secret he had worked so hard to conceal—that the Graywood estate was all but bankrupt. The information would plunge the estates into the doldrums, tell every powerful man and woman in London that the holdings were vulnerable, ripe for exploitation.

He would do this to protect her from the danger of revealing her as a deceitful whore, a woman living in sin, deceiving society and then the man she married. Rather than that, she’d confess. Her fault, all of it. He could not do this for her sake.

She took a breath and opened her mouth. “I—“

The Duke of Wellington, up until that moment a silent bystander, took a part, cutting incisively into her speech and addressing Roker. “You have incorrect information, sir. Indeed, I myself was present at the wedding.”

Faith blinked up at him. Why would he lie?

Rattled but game, Roker came back at him. “There are no records of any wedding, and if one took place then it was bigamous.

Which, as I’m sure your grace is aware, is a crime.”

The duke gave a tight smile, drawing himself to his full, considerable height. “In wartime, records may be sketchy or inaccurate. Not having faced combat, I’m sure you believe everything is carefully arranged.” In the duke’s case, it usually was.

He was always meticulous in his planning, careful to retain records, maps, and all the paperwork. For this, he was prepared to traduce his reputation? “Timing is approximate. It is true little time passed between the death of Lady Graywood’s first husband, and her marriage to her second. As far as she knew, she was widowed twice in the space of a week. I am surprised she survived, much less thrived. She is a courageous woman, followed the troops throughout much of the war, from Spain to Belgium, to bring her husband comfort and companionship. Sir, she married and she is married still.” He turned to John, effectively showing Roker and the silent, but wide-eyed David Carlisle his back. “I would appreciate it if you removed these people from my presence. I would appreciate the waltz your charming wife granted me ten minutes ago.”

The dowager, standing within earshot, gave the quartet a signal and they struck up an appropriate tune. Without waiting for her permission, the duke swept her into his arms and on to the floor, straight into a waltz.

“I learned this with John,” she said remembering the night. It helped to go back, to do justice to a man who, while not perfect, had a wonderful sense of adventure that had persuaded her to leave the dour vicarage and venture on the journey that had led to Waterloo.

“John Smith?” he murmured.

“He loved dancing, and he taught me how to laugh.” Her gaze flicked up to her partner, startled at making such a revelation at such a time.

“He was a competent soldier,” the duke replied. “If he were not, I’d have heard of it.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Wellington was known as meticulous, despite his statements of a moment ago. “Did you suspect anything before you arrived tonight, sir?”

He didn’t prevaricate. It wasn’t his way. “Yes, I did. I remembered the commendations after the battle. Your husband was among them. Whatever drew Graywood to admit to the marriage, I believe it was with the best of intentions. I owe him. He was injured in the service of his country, under my command and I did not do enough afterwards to ensure the veracity of the hurried account from the surgeons. As it was, John Smith was buried as Graywood. That will be rectified.”

They executed a turn, and every eye was on them. She forced a smile. “Thank you. But I forced Graywood into the deception. He returned to England and discovered he was married. I did wrong, sir.”

“Then you must endeavour to make it right. He is devoted to you. I understood that as soon as he began to talk about you when he visited me. Do nothing to damage that or I will personally see to it you are punished.”

She didn’t doubt it. He spoke too firmly for her to think of any other course of action. If John wanted her gone, she’d go. She didn’t consider anything else.

The dance finished. After ensuring she had a cold glass of wine to refresh and fortify her, Wellington took her back to where John stood on the edge of the dance floor. Of Roker and Carlisle there was no sign. When she glanced around, John took her hand. “You will never see them again. I promise you that.”

She nodded. John smiled at her. “If they are capable of committing such a deception they do not deserve to remain in my service. I have dismissed them both.”

“Good thing too,” Wellington put in.

Without his word, this evening could have turned out very differently. As it was, Roker and Carlisle had planted the seeds of their own destruction. After such a damning statement, nobody would expect John to continue to employ them.

Suddenly, to her utter shock, he went down on one knee before her. “Since it appears that the records of our marriage have disappeared, I have the great fortune to do this again. Faith Smith, will you do me the honour of becoming my bride? Of allowing me to cherish and care for you all the days of my life?”

She didn’t realise she was crying until a tear touched the corner of her mouth, the wet drop startling her into a response. “John, are you sure?” She meant she’d leave if he wanted, but already she knew her doubts did neither of them justice. The wine in her free hand trembled, but she held the glass tightly, the chill seeping through her heated hand.

He ignored everyone, the cream of military circles, some of the most important people in the land standing silently, waiting for her answer. “Never more certain.”

“Yes, John, I’d like that very much.” She gave a shaky smile.

“Thank you.”

Chapter Seventeen

Of course the ball was a huge success. Everyone agreed nothing would cap it and it was labelled the event of the season before the season had properly started. Not even a sad squeeze could overtop it. The news circulated as fast as than a man could leave one gathering and speed to the next. More people arrived, ready to witness the sight of John, Lord Graywood, dancing with his wife all evening. Or the woman soon to become his wife, whichever account one preferred.

Faith needed his support, as the revelations of the evening had overcome her. Not since, as Wellington had put it, she’d been widowed twice in a week had she felt her life spin so much out of control. The dowager, triumphant, pushed her daughters into the arms of the eligible young men crowding in from the clubs.

Dowagers were tutting over in the corners of the room, delightedly whispering behind their fans.

John had eyes only for her. They left before the ball came to a close, John claiming the woman he still insisted on calling his wife was exhausted by the events of the evening.

At the door to her room, he drew her close for a sweet, tender kiss. She leaned her head on his shoulder, let him support her while he took his time licking into her mouth, his hand cupping her cheek, his arm holding her snugly. When she gave a small moan into his mouth, he drew away, gently parting their lips and lifting his head. “Sleep well, my love.”

“You aren’t—you don’t want to...?”

“More than anything else I can think of, but I don’t wish any opprobrium to come your way. We’re not out of the woods yet, sweetheart. From the moment I officially realised our marriage might be irregular to the time I meet you at the altar, I will not compromise you. I’ll sleep at my club, so we won’t even share the same roof until then.”

She wrapped her arms around him and held on tight. “I want you. Don’t make me sleep alone.”

“You won’t. Turvey is spending the next two nights with you.

After that, you will spend all your nights with me. All of them.” He growled low in his throat and bent to kiss her again. This time he ravaged her mouth with an intensity that left her in no doubt that he wanted her as much as she did him.

He would not relent, instead opening her bedroom door and gently urging her inside. She allowed her maid to undress and wash her, too tired to do anything for herself. Left to her own devices she’d probably have slumped on the bed fully dressed, fine gown and everything.

As it was, John was true to his word, and Turvey spent the following two nights in a truckle bed in Faith’s bedroom while he very publicly entered his club and slept in one of the bedrooms there, returning for breakfast the next day.

By then they knew their fate. John had Roker and Carlisle arrested, pending investigations. Although the scandal had rocked society, it graciously accepted that John’s wealth would cover the immediate debts. His reputation as a businessman and the emergence of a new, wealthy heir persuaded society that the crimes had not depleted the estate of too much of its resources. Its assets and the new business arrangements he was entering into with Edward ensured the future prosperity of the estate.

He would take care of the position he’d been trained for, that of land steward, until he found someone to replace Carlisle. He smiled as he recounted his decision to her over the breakfast table after 232 | Lynne Connolly

church that Sunday. “I never thought I’d be glad of those miserable summers at Graywood.”

The dowager, still arrayed in deepest mourning, nevertheless appeared calm and more settled. As she should be, since both her daughters had gained small courts of their own and bade fair to find husbands by the end of the season. “They were necessary. I had no idea Carlisle was making those visits uncomfortable for you, but I would have insisted on them in any case.”

“You wanted me to become the steward?”

“My husband considered the possibility. He told me Carlisle might not prove competent for the position. However, in time he seemed to cope. Not the best of stewards, it’s certain, but he managed. Or so I thought.” She paused. “However I must confess Roker totally fooled me.”

“He meant to.” John shook out his napkin and spread it across his lap before a servant could perform the task for him. “Unlike Carlisle, Roker was competent. Too greedy, though, and he wagered money that wasn’t his on risky ventures that never came to fruition.”

“Is that not what you did?” Lady Graywood suggested.

John shook his head. “Not precisely. I never did it with someone else’s money.”

The dowager sniffed. “He will get what he deserves. And with his disgrace dies that rumour.”

“I’m so glad.” She actually appeared so. “I never believed it, you know, and I’ve been refuting it wholeheartedly. Laughing at people who repeated it. Tonight I added that Roker originated the rumour. They will die. Already the news of the Princess’s pregnancy is becoming the latest news.”

Strangely touched, John blinked, reached out and touched her hand. “Thank you. There’s more, and these are things I can’t prove.

But I know them to be true.”

He waited until she gave a nod, then turned his attention to Faith. “Roker intended for the estate to revert to the Crown. In the ensuing confusion he could conceal his losses and nobody would enquire too deeply. Bad luck and economic depression would account for the poverty of the estate. Carlisle, full of resentment that I should inherit, went along with his plan. I think the scheme occurred to them after Vivian’s wife died without bearing him a child. They knew Stephen would never marry. I was their main concern, as I could marry and provide heirs. Edward had not contacted them after the initial letter, so they tried to obliterate that side of the family in the records. I do have proof. Besides, Carlisle hated me. They paid John Smith to kill me on the field at Waterloo.”

He went on, despite her strangled gasp. “He was behind Cockfosters getting your husband into debt and he used that to persuade him. It must have been a shock when you appeared in London as my widow. But when it became clear you knew nothing, as my widow you were no threat to the estate. Roker also obscured the connection that would have led to Edward Smith. Again, I have proof. As far as he knew, I was dead. It is fortunate that my first letter from Canada went astray, or he would have pursued me. Also fortunate I sent my second to Vivian in Vienna, instead of here because he would have made another attempt to have me killed.”

He curled his lip. “Not man enough to do it for himself.”

“My sons,” her ladyship said. For the first time Faith heard a note of vulnerability in her voice. “You said he paid someone to have you killed. Did he do the same for them?”

John swallowed and met her gaze directly. The dowager’s eyes gleamed with a trace of tears. “I don’t know,” he said honestly.

“Certainly Vivian’s death was an accident. I saw him slip and fall, too far from support to save himself. Stephen, I’m not so sure about. I didn’t see him fall, someone passed between him and me at the crucial moment. The storm was swift and violent, but I wouldn’t put it above him to have someone on board, waiting his chance.”

The dowager nodded. “Thank you for telling the truth,” she said quietly, once again in control of her emotions. Faith didn’t know whether to admire the dowager for her complete control, or pity her that she could not share her grief with the people she knew would not condemn her for it.

Shaken, Faith went about her duties quietly that day. She arranged for the sale of the house in Red Lion Square and performed the household tasks that were not so different to the ones she was used to, after all. At one point she lifted the old carpet bag in her room and glanced at her maid. “Have this put in storage, if you please.” It had served her well, but its time was over.

The tasks gave her time to come to terms with the fact that someone had tried to kill John. Not just someone, but her husband.

Her first husband. He hadn’t asked her if she knew anything about the matter, such was the trust between them now. He didn’t have to ask. He already knew.

* * *

The dowager wore regal purple when she attended the wedding the next day. Faith wore ivory. She could not bring herself to wear white, but she wouldn’t wear mourning on her wedding day. Today she didn’t even wear the discreet black armband.

Sophia and Charlotte, obedient as always wore grey and sat next to their mother, heads bowed, exchanging glances. But for Faith, one of them could have expected to marry John and become the Countess of Graywood. However, John couldn’t have made his choice more clear and Faith was past guilt now. He wanted her and he would have her.

The thought of how sent her knees to soft trembling. Not in fear but eager anticipation.

She barely remembered the service when she tried to recall it later. Only the cool feel of the gold ring he slid on to her finger—a new one, not the one she’d used for the last several years, first as John Smith’s wife, then as the widow of John Dalkington-Smythe.

That lay in her jewellery box, the casket not as bare as it used to be.

She wore the magnificent string of pearls that John had given her.

Robinson had brushed out Faith’s hair that morning and threaded a simple ivory ribbon through it before Turvey had reverently placed the bonnet over her curls.

Faith had no idea if John noticed the care with which she’d dressed. He only gazed at her as if she were the answer to all his dreams, which she could not help considering a foolish notion. Not that she would castigate him for thinking so.

How could she, when she could hardly concentrate for the overwhelming joy that suffused her?

They had elected to wed at ten in the morning, before most of fashionable society was about. Their ploy worked, for nobody more than the family appeared in the small but fashionable church near their home.

Their home. She ruminated on that during the short ride back to the house, this time with her hand tucked into John’s. “I never imagined I’d think of Grosvenor Square as home.”

“Wait until you see Graywood. I want it to become our real home. It’s beautiful and peaceful.” He squeezed her hand as they arrived. “Do not expect to spend long in those fine garments, my lady. I intend to make you pay for the two nights I slept in the club, cock in hand, wanting you with every inch of it.”

“John!” She turned her head to conceal her blushed, but he touched her chin and turned her back to him.

“It’s the truth. I want nothing but honesty between us from today until the day we die.”

The thought that he would be here with her until she passed her last breath gave her comfort and a kind of wonder, that he would spend that time with her.

True to his word, he barely allowed her to taste her wedding breakfast before he declared she was too tired with the recent exertions of the ball and now the wedding. He courteously drew back her chair for her as she got to her feet and faced him, almost shyly. Despite her experience, and now being married for the second time in truth, she felt like a young maiden, unsure of what lay ahead.

On the other hand, the knowledge of what had passed between them already made her sex damp. It swelled, became more sensitive, so although she should care that the dowager gave her a knowing stare, she could not bring herself to do so.

They bypassed the bedroom Faith had used for the past two nights and went straight to the one John declared would be theirs henceforth. “Every night, come here. Don’t consider using any other place. This is ours, our room, our sanctum.” He lifted her hand to his lips, brushing the knuckles with a tender kiss, the soft pressure making her shiver with anticipation.

He pushed open the door, the last one lying between them and their total intimacy. “No more barriers. You are mine, and I intend to make you happy.”

“I want to do the same for you.”

“Why?” He closed the door behind them. “Guilt, a desire to please?” But he was smiling, his words a gentle tease.

“Because I love you. I need you to be happy.”

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again they held raw passion. For her. “My only love, come to me now.”

He cursed as he fumbled for the fastenings on her gown. He soon discovered the buttons at her neck and then down her back, concealed by a flat placket and pleats, and he undid every one.

“Why so many?”

“It makes the gown fit well. Turvey can undo them in half the time.”

He groaned. “I should have allowed her to do it for you. I want you Faith, but I want you to keep this gown. It’s a reminder of the first of our days together as man and wife.”

Finally the gown came loose and she let it fall from her shoulders, off her arms. When she lowered them, the garment slid down her body to the floor.

Why should John have all the fun? She shoved his coat off his shoulders. Because he did not wear his coats so tight it took two men to reverently ease it away from his body, he could shrug it off, allowing the finely tailored cloth to join her beautifully made gown on the floor. The floor covered with an exquisitely fashioned oriental carpet.

For all she cared they could be wearing coarse woollens and be in a country inn, or a makeshift tent. She only had eyes for the man before her, stripping off his finely embroidered waistcoat and lawn shirt, revealing his powerful chest, carved muscles inviting her touch. No need to resist. She smoothed her palms across his nipples, glorying in the sensation of the sharp points over solid muscle, reminding her of what a pure male felt like. She’d missed that touch so much that two nights had seemed endless. “I woke up several times last night and you weren’t there.”

He smiled down at her. “That will never happen again. Faith, my wife, come to bed. And say it.”

She frowned in confusion. “What should I say?” She’d already told him she loved him and she expected to say it many times tonight. Then she knew what he meant. “John, my husband.”

His broad and tender smile told her she’d discerned the truth.

“You think I didn’t notice you never called me that?”

“I couldn’t do it. Even in my mind. I meant to leave you and then, when I decided to stay, I still wasn’t your wife. I am now.”

He unfastened her petticoats, then her corset, turning her around to get at the laces. “That’s for sure. Why did you decide to stay?”

“Because it occurred to me you would be unhappy if I left.” It was that simple. Not because she loved him and wanted to stay more than she wanted her next breath, but because she’d leave him totally alone. “And I didn’t want you to touch anyone but me in this way. Look at anyone but me like this.”

“I never will.” The last of her garments disposed of, he took her in his arms and kissed her. Her breasts pressed against his chest, the heat they generated enough to set the day on fire. Sure she wouldn’t leave this room today, nor would he if she had anything to do with it. His tongue entered her mouth in carnal invitation and she returned the lavish, passionate kiss, sinking into him with wholehearted pleasure. He explored her as if he’d never kissed her before, taking her with every stroke. Reminding her of what they were about to do, his tongue imitating the action of his shaft. Faith drew away, panting. “I want you naked.” It was the honest truth.

She needed to reacquaint herself with the body of the man she’d been fortunate enough to ensnare in the net of love.

He still wore his pantaloons and his underwear but not for long.

After helping him dispose of his boots, she undid his fall for him.

Roughly, she dragged his clothes away before dropping to her knees and taking him into her mouth to claim the first drops of his desire.

The smooth head filled her mouth, and she ran her tongue around the flange underneath until he groaned and begged for mercy. “I want you now, Faith.” He sounded breathless, as if he’d run five miles or more. “Turn around. Hold on to the bed.”

Wide-eyed, but eager as he, she did as he bade her. She turned around, held on and spread her legs so he could see, smell and touch the evidence of her need for him.

He made a sound deep in his throat, half-groan, half-sigh, and touched her. He pushed a finger inside her, bringing it out and sliding it along her crease to touch the swollen nub at the front. Her cry might have raised the alarm, had not the household been aware of their activity. Sturdy doors lay between them and the rest of the world but the volume of the sound she made wouldn’t have been stopped by solid furnishings.

Not that she cared. Neither did he. “That’s the way, sweetheart.

Scream for me. Cry out, so everyone knows what we’re about, because I don’t intend to keep it a secret. London will know the Earl of Graywood is unfashionably in love with his wife and fucks her senseless every night. Then he makes love to her and soothes her with sighs and pretty words.” He kissed her shoulder, so tenderly she hardly felt the caress. “I want you every way, Faith. Fiercely and softly, facing each other and spooning close. Head to foot, you sitting on me, riding me to oblivion, me on top, driving into you so hard you won’t be able to close your legs for a week.”

“Oh God, John. Take me now, for pity’s sake.”

With a rough laugh, he prolonged his torture no longer, for she was ready, more than ready. His cock nuzzled her entrance, then he pushed, and entered her with a completeness that left her in no doubt of his readiness for her. “I wanted to do this to you from the moment I saw you in the doorway of the church. Quite desperately so the vicar nearly had to marry us in our bridal chamber.” Her responsive laugh turned into a moan as he slid one arm around her waist and dragged her against him. “Lean forward, my love. I’m going to take you hard and deep. You’ll come so much you’ll see stars.”

He gave her no mercy, even when she begged for it, reminding her, “If you want me to stop, I will, but hold on if you can. You will come, Faith, and often. This is only the first time today. Can you feel me, deep inside you? Do you want me to stop?”

“No!”

He thrust deep, then withdrew nearly all the way and hammered into her again, turning the action into a series of ramming thrusts that took her breath, then her senses. The smooth wood under her hands, the slight roughness of the embroidered bedcover against her waist, all registered. She feared she would never feel them again without a reminder of this sublime lovemaking. No, he was right, fucking. He took her, forcing her to come. When he felt the first helpless spasm of her body, he called her name, words of encouragement flowing from his tongue in a litany of desire.

“John, I don’t think I can bear any more.” She gasped the words, lightning shooting through her, sensations she had no words for, so out of her experience were they. Even his close attention in the last few weeks was as nothing compared to this. “You will always feel me there. Remember this, Faith, how your new husband took you so relentlessly.”

“I will. Forever.” She knew she would. Responding to a flurry of quick jabs, she leaned forward more and pushed out her backside to impel him deeper. Her astonishment and doubt of a moment ago forgotten, replaced by hungry lust. “I want more.”

He gave it to her, chasing another climax and she revelled in the sensations coursing through her. Every part of her body seemed sensitive, every gasp and drop of sweat intensified as they correspondingly heated and cooled her. Her thighs hit the bed with every drive, until the rhythm they set sent fire through her, prickling to the tips of her fingers and each hair on her head.

This time they came together, the gush of his seed inside her punctuated by the staccato clench of her channel around him and their mutual hoarse cries of fulfilment.

He fell half over her, his body protective, warming her, probably too much. Not that she cared. “Forever, Faith. I love you.”

“I love you, my husband. Now we’ve done the fucking, can we get to the lovemaking?”

The household also heard his sudden yell of laughter and everyone smiled, even the dour dowager Countess when she thought nobody could see her.

Things had worked out rather well, after all.

Content

Counterfeit Countess
by
Lynne Connolly

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen