Blair Annette

Bolen Cheryl

Brant Lucinda

Hiatt Brenda

Scandalous Brides

CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright & License

A Gift For You

Scandalous Brides

New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Annette Blair, with Cheryl Bolen, Lucinda Brant, and Brenda Hiatt present bewitchingly scandalous brides and their dashing grooms in this boxed set of four full-length bestselling Regencies.

A Sprigleaf Publication

SCANDALOUS BRIDES by Annette Blair, Cheryl Bolen, Lucinda Brant, and Brenda Hiatt

First published, January 2014

Art, design and formatting by Sprigleaf

eISBN 9780987375285

2014 Kindle edition: ASIN B00FPQHK48

UNFORGETTABLE ROGUE ©2002, 2012 Annette Blair

First published in paperback by Kensington Publishing

Cover art ©2006–20012 Calista Taylor

A LADY BY CHANCE ©2011 Cheryl Bolen

Cover art ©2011 Cheryl Bolen

SALT BRIDE ©2010 Lucinda Brant

Cover art ©2010 Sprigleaf

To suit this edition the original prologue has been removed.

SCANDALOUS VIRTUE ©1999 Brenda Hiatt

First published in paperback by HarperPaperbacks, a division of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Cover art ©1999 Brenda Hiatt

Except for brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews, no part of this ebook may be reproduced in any printed or electronic form without prior permission from the publisher. Please purchase only authorized editions; do not encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of an author’s rights.

This is a work of fiction; names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Resemblance to persons, businesses, companies, events, or locales, past or present, is entirely coincidental.

LICENSE: This work is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be given away to others. If you would like to share this book please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you are reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

This title has received a QED seal for quality in eBook design. It can be read easily on screens both large and small.

Cover

Dedication

Beginning

Bonus Preview

About Annette Blair

— CHAPTER LINKS —

Prologue     1     2     3     4     5     6     7     8     9     10     11     12     13     14     15     16     17     18     19     20     21     22     23     24     25     26     27     28

With Love to Gail Bryson.

In fond memory of our time and travels together,

Especially our trip to St. Albans, England,

Where I set this book.

I love being a writer, but I miss working with you.

The first time you walked into my office,

I knew we would be friends.

After twenty-five years,

I believe I was right.

PROLOGUE

HAWKESRIDGE AT DEVILS DYKE

ST. ALBANS, ENGLAND, MARCH 1815

BRYCESON WAKEFIELD stood less than a breath away from becoming the Fifth Duke of Hawksworth.

His father moaned. “In life, I have failed.”

No man should die, or live, Hawk knew, calling himself a failure. “No Father,” he said, “Do not believe it.”

The old man grasped his hand with more strength than Bryce thought possible. “What do I leave behind?” he asked.

“Me!” Bryce wanted to shout. “You leave me!” But he said nothing. His sire voiced no pride in an only child, though neither did he repeat his litany of disappointments. How does one deal with a parent who had not so much as touched one’s hand for all of a lifetime and now clasped it to his heart?

One attempts, Bryce decided, to invoke the smallest spark of kinship. “You leave me behind, Father.”

Fervor brightened his sire’s gaze. “You, Bryce, you will make me proud?”

God knew he had tried. “I like to think I will.”

Hawk’s hope for approval waned with the weakening of the old man’s grip. “I will; of course I will. Tell me what I must—”

“Fight Bonaparte!” Obsession flared in the old man’s eyes for one bright moment. “Bring honor to my name. I would die… proud.”

A father’s last words: He would be proud if…

ONE

LONDON, SEPTEMBER 1816

BRYCESON WAKEFIELD, the Fifth Duke of Hawksworth, stood at the mouth of hell—not on the field of battle, but in the vestibule of a church, gothic and empty of guests.

There, he saw from afar, his wife, a bride with her bridegroom standing before a priest… and there, Hawk knew that living, again, just might kill him.

Thrice on his way to this improbable place, he had ordered the carriage turned around, and thrice he had turned it back.

Even now, he wanted to leave, rather than face Alexandra with the dreadful sight of him, scarred and battered by war, but her very presence drew him up that aisle like a beacon in a night-dark storm.

~   ~   ~

SMILE, Alexandra Wakefield told herself, as she turned to face her bridegroom, her attention captured, instead, by the bearded derelict making his lone way up the aisle, the tap of his cane a desolate echo in the vaulted church.

His bearing—tall, sturdy and wide-shouldered—as he took the front pew, and the sharp, intense gaze he directed her way, sent a shiver of startled awareness through her. He made her think, absurdly, of her late husband—not the first time Bryce came to mind today—but the brooding stranger watching her, as if he might devour her, looked nothing like him.

Bryceson Wakefield, the Fifth Duke of Hawksworth, a rogue by nature, swarthy, charming and handsome as sin, had enraptured every female who beheld him.

Alexandra had been no exception.

Beauty and his beast, some slyly called them, but Hawk was the beauty. The day he asked for her hand in marriage had been the happiest of her life. Then she learned the real reason he married her, and it hurt.

It hurt enough for her to say yes to Chesterfield’s proposal of marriage, one year to the day, after Hawksworth died at Waterloo.

At the memory, a sob rose in Alex, until the Vicar cleared his throat, snapping her back to reality with a hot rush of embarrassment. “Do you, Alexandra Huntington Wakefield,” he was forced to repeat, “take Judson Edward Broderick, Viscount Chesterfield, as your lawfully wedded husband?”

Panic gripped Alex, grief, soul-deep, but she had no time to regard it, as the brooding stranger stood, his jaw rigidly set, and tapped his cane on the floor. “You will pardon the intrusion,” he said, his husky and familiar voice swamping her in a miasma of yesterdays, “but my wife must decline.”

“Bryce?” Alex cried, but no sound emerged from her throat, none save the sob that had been trapped there. Then the chapel’s ceiling tilted, and dipped, and she kissed its floor.

Hawk hastened awkwardly to his wife’s side and ignored the agony of kneeling, aware that he would have the devil of a time rising again. But at that moment, he cared for nothing, no one, save Alexandra. “Give us a minute,” he enjoined the beleaguered Vicar, because warning her hovering bridegroom away, with even a veneer of civility, would be impossible.

“I object,” Chesterfield said, revoking the need for civility.

“What?” Hawksworth snapped. “You think I will abduct her from the altar? You would have no say, even if I did.”

His old adversary hissed and bared his teeth, like a hound after a bone.

“She is my wife,” Hawk said, as much to affirm his responsibility as to stake his claim. “Mine.”

“Gentlemen, remember where you are,” the Vicar admonished, as he took Chesterfield’s arm and urged him up and toward the sanctuary, nodding for the unknown groomsman to follow.

Hawk lifted and supported his wife’s head and shoulders, drinking in the sight of her like a man parched, shocked that the vision before him was not the hoyden he remembered. “Ah, my funny-faced minx,” he said, a rasp in his voice. “What were you thinking, while my back was turned, to go and blossom into a beauty, and to accept Chesterfield, of all people?”

Hawk had known for some time that Alexandra deserved better than a broken man like him, that for her own sake, he must set her free. But as he made his way up the aisle, he recognized her bridegroom and faltered in his resolve. Yes, he must seek an annulment as planned, but not just yet, for she also deserved better than the scoundrel standing beside her at the altar.

Hawk smoothed a curl from her brow. “You were such a discerning sprite; you cannot possibly love the knave.” Then again, she had married once without love, why not twice?

“Ragamuffin?” Hawk called, less in banter than in challenge, the old nickname certain to ruffle her feathers and bring her around. “I know I am scarred and changed,” he said, “but am I so horrid that you cannot bear to look upon the sight of me?”

Even then, Alex did not stir.

With a rush of panic, Hawk called for water, and almost as fast as he did, the Vicar appeared and offered a cup.

Chesterfield, two steps behind, knelt and reached for Alex’s hand.

“Do not,” Hawksworth snapped with the command of a man who led regiments, halting his wife’s accursed bridegroom like a hail of grapeshot. If only he had a weapon to hand now, Hawk thought as he placed the cup to his wife’s lips and tipped it upward.

She swallowed involuntarily, coughed, opened her eyes and swooned again.

Would she were overcome with joy, he mused facetiously as he stroked her cheek with the back of a hand, rather than frightened to death by the loathsome sight of him.

Hawk wanted to take Alex into his arms, stand and carry her as far from the cruelties of life as he could get her, except that he had become the ultimate cruelty. Besides, rising at all, without revealing his blatant and embarrassing weakness was a feat he had not yet mastered.

Without choice, but mortified all the same, Hawk gently returned his wife to the mercy of the cool marble floor. Then he stood in one resolute, pain-racked motion; no one, save him, aware of the cost to him in sheer willpower, or of the shout of anguish trapped behind his firmly set lips.

Chesterfield impaled him with a look, fists clenched at his side, malice in both stance and expression.

“Sorry,” Hawk said. “I lived.” Though he repeatedly questioned his survival, when better men had died, true regret escaped him for the moment. “You may carry my wife to my carriage, or I shall have my man transport her. Either way, you will say your goodbyes.”

To Hawk’s consternation, Alexandra’s lock-jawed suitor bent effortlessly to bundle her into his arms, rose as easily, and awaited further instructions.

Moments later, Hawk made his fraudulent, stiff-spined way down the aisle, repudiating pain, his concentration firmly fixed upon his wife, secure in her limber buck’s sturdy arms.

Other than his concern that Chesterfield might try to abscond with Alex, with him, her crippled husband, unable to prevent it, Hawk found that he was almost glad of his bride’s near bigamy, for it compelled him, if only for a time, to join his life to hers, once more.

Still, he detested the thought of imposing his scarred and savage self upon her.

Once upon a time, he had conceived of a naïve anticipation to return to her, a goal that grew daily stronger, as did he, until he saw his scarred face in a mirror, attempted to walk, and realized he might never be a man, in every respect, again.

By God, he wished things were different, that he was different, whole, that they could go back to the simple and easy friendship between them.

He wished… that he deserved her.

Selfishly, he wished that she had not changed. She used to be downright plain, but all his. Now she was beautiful. Breathtaking. And to whom she belonged was yet to be determined.

Her very presence infused him with the contentment of his youth, of their youth. Seeing Alex, again, uplifted him in an extraordinary, almost abstract, way. It brought him the same overwhelming joy that her calling him from the light had once done, when against all odds, the memory of her had brought him back to life.

When she had brought him back.

Either fate, or God, must have a sense of humor, Hawk mused. Of a certainty, they had switched places, he and Alex, for she was now one of the most beautiful women he had ever beheld. Exquisite. And him? Well, he had become beastlier than anyone could have imagined.

With the reminder, regret swamped him. Guilt. She would have fared better if—

But no. No. If he had died, she would be condemned to a life with Chesterfield, a fate Hawk could not conceive of, under any circumstances.

Look at the strutting, thick-skulled cockscomb, agile, capable, more comfortable in his strapping body than Hawk would ever be in this scarred and broken one. He wanted to beat the blackguard bloody just for existing, which was nothing to what he wanted to do to the cad for touching Alex, despite the fact that his robust assistance had been required, damn Chesterfield’s eyes.

As they approached the church’s thick, groaning, gothic doors, held open by an apprehensive Vicar, Hawk vowed that the day would soon come when he could carry Alex up a bloody mountain, if he pleased. Correction, if she pleased.

If only he were granted the miracle of time and strength to accomplish it.

A wife should rest secure in her husband’s arms, blast it… except that she would not be his wife for much longer, Hawk reminded himself.

As if his agonizing walk down the aisle, with its sights and insights, were not enough, Hawk was forced to feign perfect agility, and endure perfect hell, once more, as he climbed into his waiting carriage beneath her stalwart swain’s vigilant gaze.

Then, reward came, for he took excessive satisfaction in accepting Alex in his arms, especially as she was being relinquished by the furious man with whom she had damned near replaced him.

Still, she belonged to him for the moment, and since only he knew that their marriage must end, this moment must be enough.

He found himself tempted, however, to rub salt in her ousted bridegroom’s wounds, just for sport. But his increasing concern over his wife’s inability to awaken took precedence. “Alexandra?” Hawk tested her brow for fever, chafed her hands and brought them to his lips. “Ragamuffin, wake up.”

~   ~   ~

ALEX FLOATED in a sea of warmth, safe, secure, happy, an unusually blessed experience, since she rested comfortably in Bryce’s arms. But her singular dreamlike contentment began to trouble her. She remembered believing that Bryceson had, impossibly, returned from the dead. Then as in all dreams, everything shifted and she found herself carried in a death-grip by Judson for a long, long distance.

Voices had drifted above her, angry one minute, soft the next, hushing and admonishing, as well. She remembered a great deal of movement, hers—bouncing, jostling—and being held so tight, she could barely breathe.

As if, within the dream, her deepest, most private yearnings were being granted, Judson had handed her to Bryce, of all people. She became incredulous, then elated.

She loved being in her husband’s arms but hated facing Chesterfield with her guilty joy. She wished she could remain here, asleep, floating forever in whatever netherworld she existed.

Did death beckon then, finally, and would she feel as peaceful as she had sometimes imagined?

Would Bryce be there waiting for her?

As much as she wanted to give herself up to the promise of peace, someone called to her.

Alex shivered.

“Myerson, where did you put the lap rug?” That voice, again. Bryceson’s… but impossible. Alex was exhilarated and frightened by the sound. It could not be real. ’Twas not Lazarus, after all, she imagined hearing, but Bryceson Wakefield, Duke of Hawksworth, dead this last year and more.

She heard her own whimper as warmth covered her like a blanket, and she slipped blissfully back into that all-enveloping state of happy oblivion, there, in the only place where Bryceson’s arms could possibly remain around her.

“Myerson, Stephen’s Hotel, if you please. We will not be going on today, after all.”

Alex smiled at the sound of his voice and slipped deeper into the place where it dwelled.

TWO

HAWK SAW A SMILE curve his wife’s pale lips and he bundled her close as he regarded the two silent men by the open door of his carriage—Chesterfield, vigilant, scowling, the Vicar, a study in apprehension.

Hawk nodded. “I’ll just take her to bed, shall I?”

The Vicar’s lips thinned. Chesterfield growled and made to charge, but the Vicar stopped his forward surge. “You do not even know her,” her discarded bridegroom accused over the struggling Vicar’s shoulder.

Hawk’s heart beat at a frantic pace, for something in the accusation stung deep. He raised a speaking brow. “Not know her? I assure you that no man knows Alexandra better than I do.” After today, he no longer believed it, but he would not give her erstwhile suitor the satisfaction of hearing as much.

Someone shut the carriage door, severing Chesterfield from sight, but rather than the exultation Hawk would have expected, he experienced a flash of sympathy for the man. He, too, was about to lose Alex, though not quite so soon.

“She does not want you,” the malcontent shouted, negating Hawk’s compassion. “She wants me.”

Upon the blade-sharp echo of that sobering thrust, Hawk’s carriage began to rattle and dip, shiver and clatter, as it crept across the cobbled terrace before Holy Trinity Church.

When, at length, the vehicle pulled safely into London’s Sloane Square traffic, exultation filled Hawk, euphoria, followed by a shot of blind panic.

Yes, he had gotten Alexandra safe away, but Chesterfield’s parting volley, echoing in Hawk’s brain like a death knell, made him question every decision he had made since his father’s death.

Until today, he thought he could not fail Alex any worse than he already had, but suppose he was wrong? Suppose he had just broken her heart by stopping her from marrying the man she loved?

Could she love Chesterfield? It hardly seemed possible, given their dissimilarities. Then again, she might have changed, as he certainly did.

He had all but died and risen from the dead. Dying changed a man. War changed him the more. There were his scars, to begin with; how would Alexandra feel, once she saw the likes of them in the light of day?

She might take one look and run screaming into Chesterfield’s arms.

He and Alex had certainly switched places, and in more than looks, Hawk feared, for with his return, he might now become the thorn in her side.

And what would he do with her, now that he had her? Not that he did not know precisely what he wished to do. He was not so broken that he did not want to be her husband in every way, though desire and action were two entirely different matters. As were desire and duty.

Or trust and honor.

Hawk slipped a wisp of his wife’s rich nutmeg hair behind her ear and examined her in the fading rays of afternoon light filtering through the uncurtained carriage window.

During her growing up years, none of Alexandra Huntington’s features had seemed to match. Her eyes were too big and too bright for her small pale face. Her eyebrows, like unmatched wings, appeared drawn by an angry hand, brows one wanted to trace with a fingertip. Hawk did so now, amazed to see how much better they fit, nearly two years and one war, later.

Her mouth was still too wide, her lips too full, her nose elegant but tip-tilted. Yet the amalgamate had become all of a piece, falling into symmetrical and harmonious placement, all of a sudden, making of his ill-favored hoyden, a beauty, striking, and too remarkable not to be kissed.

Like the beast his scars proclaimed him, Hawk wanted to awaken the slumbering princess in just that way, or lay siege to her tower fortress. Or was beauty storming his beastly rogue’s lair, even in sleep?

Difficult to tell which tale fit. Hawk knew only that in this marriage he had created from whole cloth, he must take care not to play the jackal and claim her for himself.

Rogue wolf, after all, was the role for which he had been born and bred. But Alexandra’s role, and which of them would maintain the sturdier fortress, remained to be seen.

He already knew that there would be no happily ever after for them.

Still, to Hawk’s surprise, something akin to anticipation began to take root deep within him. He looked forward to every minute he would spend in Alexandra’s life, for however short the duration.

His decision to give her an annulment and set her free had been difficult. But not consummating their marriage might be easier than he expected, given his physical condition, and her penchant for staid, lumbering bridegrooms.

On the other hand, the course upon which he was determined might also be fraught with peril, for he could never tell Alex he was giving her up for her own good. If he did, she would fight him, rather than leave him, for she was in the habit of placing the welfare of others before her own. And he could not be so cruel as to pretend dislike, or worse, disinterest.

He could not dispirit so bright a flame.

A low, simmering flame, capable of flaring into blaze at any time, he remembered as he watched her sleep.

Unable to keep from stoking her fire and awakening her, Hawk touched his lips to hers in that age old, mythical rite. But Beauty turned the tale and awoke her astonished beast by deepening the kiss and bringing him to alert and rigid attention. A startling and extraordinary turn of events, in every respect, for Alex was exceeding eager, and he was sexually aroused for the first time since the battle of Waterloo.

Impatient to prove his prowess and taste her once more, Hawk parted her soft, sweet lips with his own, taking the kiss to a deeper, more intimate level, both testing himself and gauging his wife’s reaction.

Alex moaned. She sighed. She moved restlessly against him, enhancing his physical reaction. But rather than rejoice over his unexpected progress, Hawk worried about the lessons her blackguard of a bridegroom might have taught her.

He did not remember the imp kissing with such fervor before. Not that he had kissed her above twice, and then, in a brotherly fashion, except on the day of their wedding, when he had kissed her with promise, before saying goodbye.

How blind he had been, how foolish, kissing scores of others, when the flower of his youth could kiss like a dream.

Still, Hawk would give his fortune—if he were still in possession of it—to know the name of the man who had taught his wife this exquisite lesson.

To his delight, Alex sighed, then her lids fluttered, and her eyes, bright and soft as turquoise velvet, opened at last. For a moment, she appeared, for all the world, as if she were that princess of legend, waking from a years-long sleep… her eyes growing wider and wider as she regarded him.

As if seeking a touchstone to reality, she scanned the interior of the carriage with her gaze, the passing scenery, then his face, again, taking in and examining his every flaw.

Hawk watched a range of telling expressions flit across her amazingly unguarded features, though, not a one of them revealed her revulsion or disgust.

He supposed she must need to verify what might seem like a dream, but in the verification, her eyes awash with unshed tears, she appeared less certain as the silent seconds passed, but more curious.

Not fearful, nor pitying, but not best pleased either.

Then her frown deepened and her eyes turned to blue flames, and she lashed out and struck him square in the jaw. “Dead,” she shouted, her trembling voice a rusty rasp. “We thought you were dead. How dare you let us believe it.”

“Alexandra, Alex. Shh, calm down.”

“A year.” She smacked his shoulders. “A blasted year. No. Longer than that. How could you?” She slapped his arms as he tried to brace her. “Where the blazes have you been?”

When Alex kicked her dead husband’s shin, he winced. But when she smacked his thigh with a fist, all color left his face. Pain etched the harsh angularity of his firm jaw and ashen features, further whitening the new lines carved there. He had suffered—she recognized that now—and her wrath pricked her.

“You lived while we wept because you died.” Broken and elated by the shock of his return, Alex begged to understand. “Why did you not tell us?”

“I was not capable, not for some long time.”

“Because you were wounded?”

He nodded.

“Unable to speak?”

“For the most part, no.”

“You could speak?”

“When I was conscious.”

“You were unconscious for a year?” Her voice rose.

He winced.

“You lost your memory, then?”

Denial, again.

Alex wanted to strike him every time he refused an offered excuse. “Someone should have written to us.” She shoved his shoulder. “I am so…” Her sob took her by surprise, fast and wild and from the depths of her soul. She grasped his lapels to anchor herself in a careening world. And when that was not enough, she clutched him about the neck, afraid she would shatter, if he did not hold her together.

He held tight.

The storm did not last long. Alex was glad, for rage was exhausting. “I am furious with you,” she said after a calm moment.

“I know you are. It is no more than I expect.”

“And deserve.” She accepted his handkerchief.

Hawk nodded. “I do deserve it. Beat me, if you will, but mind my left leg… and my face.” There, he had said it, Hawk thought with relief. He brought his ugliness into the open.

At once solemn and assessing, Alex reached toward his battered and badly mended face, stopped, and pulled her hand back, as if he might burst into flame … as if touching him repulsed her.

Hawk rejected anguish, and an overwhelming need to crush her in his embrace once more, and donned his old devil-may-care mask. “What, Alexandra? Am I not still a handsome rogue? Does my countenance not please you?”

She frowned and reached again, hesitated again. And after too long a time to be borne, she extended her hand the entire distance between them, to finger a coil of the overlong hair lapping at his shoulders, unadulterated amazement overtaking her.

Hawk braced himself against the grateful quiver that her touch, even on his hair, engendered. “It’s beastly,” he said. “I know. Uncivilized, like me. If you find it in your heart to forgive me, can you tame me, do you think?” Would she even care to?

“I may never forgive you.”

“I guessed as much, but I am the eternal optimist.”

“You are the eternal charmer, but you will not charm your way back into my good graces.”

“I applaud your perception and your determination.”

Alex shrugged and fingered his overlong hair. “You remind me of a cat,” she said. “A night-stalking lion, jungle-bred and ravenous, but I am your huntress.”

“Odd, you remind me less of a cat’s doom than its plaything.”

“A mouse?” she said with more than a trace of indignance, her defense at the ready, if he did not miss his guess.

“Catnip,” he corrected.

“Oh.” Her turquoise eyes widened, making her appear even more beautiful, coy, flirtatious, yet naïve, unmistakably in need of a good loving, God help him.

The notion brought his body to hard attention once more. Rejoicing inwardly over the reaction, Hawk settled his delectable wife more intimately against him to enhance and savor the torture, her breasts no more than a stroke and a kiss away.

She moved a lock of his hair from his eyes, her warm breath bathing the scars on his face like a blessing, and Hawk caught her familiar, violet scent with a new rush of expectation.

As he sat stunned and entranced, she smoothed his beard, which shrouded the worst of his scars, and all but cupped his face.

In that instant, Hawk ached to turn his head and set his lips to her palm, knowing full well that if he did so, a slap might be his for the taking. Her very touch unmanned him, made him want to rush dangerously forward.

Such a mad turnabout—the wicked-as-sin Duke of Hawksworth, moonstruck, over the girl he once treated like a pesky pup.

But the paradox was not new. Alexandra, herself, the memory of her, laughing, teasing, driving him daft, had kept him going, kept him fighting for his life during those endless, pain-wracked months after Waterloo.

And all that time, a world and a war away, a lifetime away, when he still expected to die of his wounds, he was becoming enthralled with his own wife.

“I like it,” she said—of his beard, he presumed, for she was stroking it—but he was too taken with her touch to focus on anything else. “It makes you look a danger,” she said, catching his attention, as she fingered his scar.

“I am a danger; make no mistake—jungle-bred and rapacious, as you say. And well you should remember and keep a safe distance.”

But before he could garner her promise, Hawk was forced to close his eyes, as he entered hell, or heaven, for she had begun to trace the red, uneven welt with a gentle touch, from beside his eye, along its raised and puckered surface, down his cheek and into the depths of his beard, where it disappeared near his chin.

At the wonder of her touch, remorse rose in him, chiding him and ordering him to make amends. He could not keep her—he must not—for she merited better than a battered hulk for a husband, a man who would walk away with no glance back. An undeserving fool who knew not what he had, but sought instead what he could never have—his father’s approval.

Why did he not appreciate the people who cared about him, until he all but lost them? His nieces, Beatrix and Claudia, his Uncle Giff, Alex’s Aunt Hildy, and Alexandra, herself.

They were his family, though all of them, especially Alex, might have done better to remember him as he was, rather than see what he had become. A beast. Ugly. Disfigured.

“For your sake,” Alex said. “I am sorry your scars forced you to join the flawed human race, but you are still handsome in my eyes, and still the Bryceson I hero-worshipped.” With a fingertip, she soothed the hideous knot of discolored flesh nearest his brow. “Does it pain you—other than when you are rightfully beaten for your thoughtlessness?”

Hawk opened his eyes and feasted upon her, struck anew by her beauty, but more by her words. He had not felt like Bryceson for a long, long time… neither had he felt anything near human.

Would she understand if he said his inhumanity was the reason he had not contacted her?

He covered her hand against his face with his own. “At this moment,” he said, “even the memory of pain escapes me.”

“Your leg?”

Hawk shook his head, denying weakness until the end. But she gave him a disbelieving look, and he knew that with Alex, prevarication was useless. He shrugged. “On occasion.”

She tried to move from his lap then, but he held her in place, his hands at her hips. “No, stay. I am becoming fond of the ache; it is far better than feeling nothing, and I like you here.”

Her incredible blue-green eyes widened, swam, and Hawk scolded himself for the admission even as he agonized over what she must be thinking.

THREE

ALEXANDRA WAS IN A fair way to screaming as emotions bombarded her from every quarter.

Joy—for here, miraculously, sat her husband, back from the dead, the man she had been unable to forget, even during her wedding to another.

Sadness—for the time they had lost and the pain she had glimpsed, deep and abiding, behind his winking jest. Yes, his legendary perfection had been startlingly altered, but he had survived, for which she would remain forever grateful.

But fury hardened her heart as well. She had taken a great deal of satisfaction in pummeling the arrogant, marble-hearted rogue to pudding, though she had not expected to hurt him, which in turn hurt her.

So many people had mourned him, the very family he had all but deserted. Alex sighed. Yes, he had married her for mercenary reasons and left her at the church, yet her anguish was nothing to theirs.

But he was alive, after all, and perhaps the future could be set to rights, though a loveless marriage had never been her intent, not with Bryce at any rate. She had once naively thought that her love for him would be enough to carry them through life, but now, more than ever, she was uncertain. Despite the fact that he had kept his survival from her for far too long, she could think only that he was alive, against all hope.

To prove she was not dreaming, Alex placed her hand on the coarse fabric of his frockcoat to feel his warm, thickly muscled arm beneath, and her heart leapt as her spirit rejoiced. Alive. Her husband was alive and holding her in a way she had always imagined, in her deepest, most secret dreams, except…

Chesterfield would not take kindly to being set aside, especially after the bargain they had struck. This time, she had been willing to marry without love, in order to support the family she and Bryce had all but failed.

But Judson Broderick, Viscount Chesterfield, was a powerful and persuasive man. For agreeing to wed him, she had accepted a favor in advance, thereby granting him a hold over her, the stronger for her having cast him aside.

Bryce would not appreciate the irony. But there was nothing she could do, if he did not. She had thought he was dead, after all. Besides, he might never find out, if luck remained with her.

“Other than your justified anger at my, ah, tardiness, you have not said how you feel about this unexpected turn,” Bryce said, asking for what she dare not give—a glimpse into her heart. If he knew how she really felt, how much she loved him, had always loved him, he would flee in panic, bad leg or not. She knew him that well. “Despite my anger, I am glad you survived. Of course, I am.”

“Of course.” His scowl still had the power to set tinder to flame. “I suppose I do not blame you,” he said, “for preferring to be a new and beloved bride, rather than a reclaimed and convenient wife.”

Convenient. Ouch. So, it was laid bare. In the open. Irrefutable. Theirs had been a marriage of convenience. It hurt more to hear it from him than to suspect it, or hear secondhand.

Alexandra sat straighter, hurt overriding embarrassment, but before long, ire replaced pain, and she was grateful. “Do you think to take me for granted as you have done for the past year and a half, ever since we wed and you fled?” His turn to wince. Good. “As you tolerated me when we were growing up, while I trod in your wake, a devoted pup after its master? If such is the case, then you are right; I had rather be Chesterfield’s cherished bride.”

With as much dignity as she could muster, given the tardiness of her move, Alex shifted from her husband’s lap to the seat opposite, folding her arms before her and allowing several silent moments to pass, until she remembered that she should not show her hand.

She sighed and forced herself to relax. “We are married for good or ill,” she said, setting herself and her clothes to rights. “And neither of us has a choice in the matter. If we held sway over life, we would be God.” What a foolish statement, she thought. With Hawk’s return, God had granted her everything.

Nevertheless, she pinned her wayward husband with steely regard. “I will not be overlooked or under-appreciated. Not by you or anyone. Do so at your peril.”

“If I do, will you beat me?”

Behind the jest, Alex saw an easing of his anguish, though she dare not let down her guard. “If you force my hand, Bryceson Wakefield, I will… go and live in sin with Chesterfield.”

“The devil, you say!” The very demon flared of a sudden in the fire of Hawk’s eyes. Jealousy, she would name it, green and sizzling to a turn. “I see you have not changed your rule-breaking ways,” he said, as close to a sulk as one could imagine on a heartless rogue.

Alex shivered with the elation of success. “In case you have not noticed,” she said, adjusting the blonde lace on her low-cut, cream satin bodice, I am a big girl now. A woman. Chesterfield wants me.”

That devil in Hawk’s eyes leapt. “So you do love him?”

How dare he? Alex refused to cater to her husband’s fittingly overburdened conscience. She would not give him the satisfaction of revealing her true feelings. He did not deserve to know them. Not yet. Perhaps, not ever. “I said I was glad you lived.”

“Being glad I lived, and glad I took you away from the man you love, are not one and the same thing.”

“They are not, but Chesterfield is strong; he will recover.”

Hawk sighed, feeling the sharp bite of his wife’s pointed, though silent, censure. As she would not recover, she did not need to say… because she loved the man. Her omission spoke louder than her words ever could, and even Hawk could not utter them, for to do so would surely give them credence. “Chesterfield loves you, then?”

“He adores me.” Alex raised her chin. “It has been a delightful change.” She quirked a brow. “And an exhilarating experience.”

Hawksworth winced at the bald statement, remorse and possessiveness, both new and uncomfortable sensations for a rogue like him. Positively disconcerting for a man bound not to touch his wife.

“Poor Alexandra,” he said, running headlong into the subject with which he had been toying for weeks. “Would you rather we lived apart?” Even as the words left his lips, Hawk’s heart about stopped.

Alex paled to the color of flour paste. “That will not be possible.”

His heart caught the beats it missed and continued on its palpitating way, albeit a bit faster than normal, for he was as taken aback by her answer as he was relieved by it. Though he should not be, he reminded himself, for they must part in the not too distant future. “No?”

“Do not be foolish.”

“I am never foolish, Alexandra. I am occasionally blind, I have come to understand in hindsight, but never knowingly foolish. I should think that someone who cares naught for the rules and loves another might consider separation a solution.”

“Only an annulment would serve as a solution, as far as my alliance with Chesterfield is concerned, and well you know it. But the fact remains that neither an annulment nor a separation is possible, for your wards need no family skeletons further littering their rock-strewn paths in life.”

That she wanted an annulment at all, whether possible in her mind or not, damn near broke Hawk. And still, she had given no elaboration as to whether she did, or did not, love the man she had been about to marry.

Hawk found the lack more than frustrating. He found it ill-mannered, evasive, and downright exasperating. “My wards?”

“Your nieces, Claudia and Beatrix.”

“I know who you mean. I simply cannot imagine how two little girls can have any bearing on the matter.”

“You have been gone for nearly two years, Hawksworth. You must realize that Beatrix is now six, and Claudia, I will have you know, is due a season this year. She has some funds, but more beauty. With so small a dowry to her name, however, even something so simple as a separation in the family could be infamous enough an excuse for an ambitious mama to thwart a titled son’s unsanctioned attachment.”

“Then I take it that you will not be living in sin with Chesterfield… until after Claudia marries?”

“Do not push me, Bryceson.”

Feeling immeasurably uplifted of a sudden, Hawk nodded. “If Claudia is due a season, then so must you be. You cannot be more than two years older than she.” . . . and stuck with a beast. The intrusive thought sent Hawk’s spirits plummeting.

“Claudia is seventeen, and I am an old married woman of twenty,” Alex said. “There are many things I do need, but a season in London is not one of them, thank you very much.”

Hawk wanted to ask what it was she did need, but he might not like her answer.

Adoration, obviously, Chesterfield’s at least, but what about him? Would she accept his worship, if he were so foolish as to offer it?

At one time, he had thought she might.

And should he check himself into Bedlam today, or tomorrow, for having the idiocy to imagine it? Especially now.

The angel of death must surely scramble one’s brain, Hawk mused, hoping that rest and further recovery would set his bedeviled mind to rights. Until it did, however, he would tread warily and guard his heart. “I hope you do not expect me to adore you.”

Her easy laugh made Hawk see crimson. Was he still not good enough for her, then? Was the exalted Chesterfield an unexceptionable rogue? More attentive? Never more practiced?

“The family will be in alt,” she said, dismissing his ire, if she even noticed it, “in veritable transports, to learn that you lived. I am sorry to say that Jud is not much liked by any of them, except Claudia.”

“Jud,” Hawk said, giving the name a harsh, dull sound, “should be playing a crude musical instrument with his unshod feet in the remote reaches of America.”

Alexandra’s grin broke before she could stop it, and when she did, it was too late. She had warmed Hawk’s cold rogue’s heart in a way that organ had not been warmed since he left her. Unfortunately, the thaw made him deuced uncomfortable. “Wait a minute,” he said, pinning her with his look. “I would have expected you to try and defend your swain.”

To his entertainment, Alexandra raised that obstinate chin of hers, impaling him with narrowed eyes and glaring ire. She examined him so thoroughly that Hawk began to chafe with a disturbing need to hide his scars. Instead, he laid his head against the squabs and closed his eyes. Let her look her fill, and let him get on with being an object of horrified fascination. And, there, her reason for preferring Chesterfield came clear, for the knave stood handsome and unscathed.

Bedamned. Would his father not have a good laugh at this turn of events?

Once upon a fleeting time, Hawk’s many dalliances, a source of rare swaggering braggadocio to his father, had been legion and widely known.

If not for his sire’s deathbed promise of true pride, Hawk would not have gone to fight Boney, which turned out to be an idiotic reason to support a patriotic and worthy cause. Despite his injuries, Hawk was glad he had fought for England.

Before the war, however, he had not needed to walk with the aid of a cane. He had stood proud and strong, as prepossessing as any of the rogues in the Wakefield portrait gallery, as any London buck, including Chesterfield.

He had stood handsome, as well. A heartbreaker, women had once called him. A rogue, a ladykiller. He had been all that, and more. Even Alex had been fond of him then.

But he would slay the ladies no longer, not unless the women he gazed upon died of fright, as Alex had nearly done upon sight of him.

The doctors in Belgium had said one of his bayonet wounds sat close enough to his eye so only a miracle could save his sight.

Only a miracle could have saved his life as well.

Yes, he got his miracles, both of them, and for that he must give something back.

He must give Alexandra her future.

“Here we are,” he said, loathe to prolong his painful reverie. “Bond Street. I have rooms at Stephen’s Hotel until the end of the month. I think it best we spend the night here and travel on to St. Albans in the morning.”

Home in the morning. Alex could hardly believe it. With Hawksworth, her husband. To begin their life together. Finally. Though the bigger part of her rejoiced, a goodly part was still angry. He had used her… as she had used him, she must admit.

In the way he had needed a caretaker for his family, she had needed a home and medical attention for her aunt. Besides which, she loved him and had foolishly thought he cared for her. But the fact remained that if he had baldly told her his true reason for marrying her, she would likely have married him anyway. God knew, if she had known she would lose him, she certainly would have agreed to be his wife. Though then, she would have demanded to be a wife in deed as well as fact.

Lord, she was a love-struck fool, an idiot, a detestable weakling, who deserved what she got, because despite all of it, she was deliriously happy to have him back.

She loved him that much.

She only wished he loved her a fraction as much. She particularly wished that he had kept the fact that he did not love her to himself.

FOUR

DISGUSTED WITH HER calf-eyed self, Alex gazed out at Bond Street, a jumble of tall brick buildings with few courtyards or alleyways to separate them. Signs proclaimed establishments such as John Jackson, Boxing Salon, known to the sporting set as Gentleman Jackson’s. They passed Yardley of London, Smith Adam & Charles, Linen-drapers, and Mr. Weston, the tailor Bryceson had once frequented.

Alex’s heart sank as they passed Stedman & Vardon, Goldsmiths & Jewelers, which she and Bryce had visited on the day they wed, the day after he buried his father. As they passed, she wondered if he remembered the plain gold band he purchased for her that morning, and the wider one he had chosen for himself.

She had worn hers until she arrived at Holy Trinity Church earlier to marry Chesterfield, removing it in the carriage before going inside. Even now, the precious symbol of her marriage to her one true love sat tucked in a velvet box inside her reticule. What fate had befallen his wedding band? she wondered, as she regarded his unadorned hand.

Once they arrived at Stephen’s Hotel, Bryce seemed to struggle as he stepped from the carriage, though he did so in the same way his man helped him, without being obvious. Once he was down, Bryce turned to offer Alex a hand, and she took it, though she made certain not to burden him with her weight and quickly let go. She no more wanted him to lose his balance than to guess at her undying love.

The impressive hotel stood taller and less soot-stained than most of the Bond Street shops. On the Clifford Street side, there waited a score or more saddle horses and half as many tilburies. A six-horse dray—Barclay’s Brewery lettered in red on the side—was being unloaded of its delivery of wooden casks.

In the front of the five-story structure, men milled about in groups, talking, laughing raucously, reeling from overindulgence. Some of them were obviously dandies, but most wore the reds and blues of the military.

“Am I allowed inside?” Alex queried, stepping closer to her husband’s side as they walked arm in arm toward the black lacquered double front doors.

He patted her hand on his arm. “Stephen’s is mostly frequented by officers of the Guards—the Life Guards in red and the Royal Horse Guards in blue—but you, as my wife, will not be turned away. Though as the rare female among us, you will be much admired, I daresay.”

That surprised her. “Admired? Me?”

Bryce shook his head, as if she had made a poor jest. Alex wanted to call him on it, but they stepped inside the hotel and her attention was taken with the bustling activity and gentlemanly ambiance.

“You will be safe from the crush beside the stairs,” he said. “Wait there while I fight my way to the desk to claim my key.”

Feeling at sea, Alex kept her gaze trained on him while several men in uniform saluted as he made his way toward the front. She wished she could hear what he said that relaxed his subordinates and made them smile.

Closer by, a military man in the red of the Life Guards mentioned Hawksworth by name, catching her attention. “Excellent commander,” the handsome officer said. “Had the full respect of his men.” The speaker went on to say that Hawksworth was brave, forthright, and had saved his men’s hides a time or two.

One soldier shook his head, as if disbelieving. “How was it then that he was so carelessly given up for dead?”

Since awakening in his arms, Alex had wondered about that, as well.

“Hawk told me he was so near death as to be incapable of correcting the medic, dodging grapeshot, who pronounced him dead. So Hawk was painfully tossed on the body heap. Minutes or hours later, Hawk said, a peasant boy leaned over him to snatch the gold buttons from his coat and Hawk did the only thing he was capable of doing; he bit the blighter’s hand.

“The boy took him to the Waterloo Inn, but the doctors there, scrambling to save those more like to survive, said they could do nothing for Hawk. When our man was given up for dead that second time, the lad went looking for a dray and went back for him. Took Hawk home and his family nursed him back to health.”

“Good God.”

“Good lad.”

A body heap? Alex wished she had not eavesdropped, for she felt as boneless and light of head as she had at the church when she heard Hawk’s voice for the first time. But despite the dip in the room, she was determined to remain upright.

When Bryce called her name, the storyteller noticed her and must have realized what she heard, as he stepped forward, appalled, and lifted her into his arms. Despite her argument that she had not been about to swoon, the repentant officer carried her all the way up the stairs at Hawk’s direction. Mortified to have become a spectacle for the second time that day, Alex wished she could shrink from sight.

The man sat her down in a leather chair in the sitting room of a small apartment that looked very much like a gentleman’s study, while Bryce poured her a brandy. After she sipped it, while her husband stoked a fire in the hearth to “warm her and take the damp from the room,” Alex turned her attention to her rescuer. “Thank you for becoming my chariot.”

“If not for my thoughtless story,” he said, “you would not have needed a conveyance.”

“But it was a true story?”

He grimaced. “Indeed.”

Bryce looked from one of them to the other, silently questioning, but when neither of them enlightened him, he cleared his throat. “Alexandra, may I present Squadron Corporal Major Reed Gilbride of the Life Guards and a charter member of The Rogues Club. Reed, my wife.”

“Your wife? Congratulations are in order, then?” The officer bowed and kissed her hand.

Bryceson waved his friend’s congratulations away, as if their marriage meant nothing, and Alex’s heart sank. He must have removed his ring and never mentioned having a wife the whole time they served together. Alex swallowed the rising lump in her throat. “We married shortly before Bryceson joined the Guards,” she said to explain why congratulations were unnecessary, and to keep her husband from seeing her hurt. “Tell me about this Rogues Club.”

“We were bored playing at war, your grace,” her rescuer said, charming her out of countenance, for she had not been courted by a gallant for longer than she could remember. “So in our dreary tent, we formed an unofficial club.”

“But exclusive,” her husband said.

“Oh very,” her rescuer replied with a chuckle, regarding Alex. “My true identity is something of a mystery, you see, even to me.” He said it with a wink and Alex was doubly taken.

She smiled. “What must one do to become a member of this Rogues Club?”

“Why, be a rogue, of course,” Bryce said with a shrug and a wink of his own.

“He means we are all scamps,” the charmer explained, “who banded together against Boney in support of Mother England and in support of each other’s families, should the worst happen to any of us.”

“Sounds like a worthy club, then,” she said. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, C.S.M. Gilbride.”

“The honor is all mine, I assure you.” He bowed. “I shall leave you to recover and hope that I may see you again in the near future.”

Alex said her goodbyes and Bryce walked his friend out, shutting the door, leaving her alone inside. When he did not return for fully fifteen minutes, she began to think he had deserted her again. But he finally returned, followed by a succession of servants bearing a table, linen, everything necessary for an intimate supper. Other servants brought up the rear with her bags, which Hawk’s man must have taken from Chesterfield’s carriage at the church.

Dinner looked and smelled divine, but Alex was in a fair way to dozing off after such a taxing day. The joint of roast pork and fried sole were simple but delicious fare. She was just too tired to eat much beyond a nibble.

Hawksworth waited until everything to do with supper had been collected before suggesting they retire early, which woke her right up. Was this then to be the first night of their marriage? Finally?

Since this was supposed to have been her wedding day, Alex thought it fitting for the wedding night denied her nearly two years before.

This man leading her into the bedroom was Bryceson, after all, her friend, first, now her husband, her love.

Hawksworth, his friends now called him. Hawk.

She liked it.

Hawk, taking the pins from her hair, turning her in circles until he found the hooks beneath the rosebuds marching down the front of her cream satin wedding gown.

Hawk, opening and sliding her wedding dress off to bare her to her stays and petticoats.

And this was Alexandra, not only allowing her husband’s intimate attention but reveling in it, flattered and amazed to have so much of his focus directed her way.

He sat her on the bed and left her then. And like a bisque doll on a nursery shelf, Alex sat unmoving, waiting to be redressed, or undressed, or dropped and shattered, at whim.

Far in the back of her mind, she knew she was acting lovesick and calf-eyed again. But at this moment, she cared not a whit.

When Hawksworth returned, he laid her portmanteau beside her on the bed and extracted the gossamer gown she was supposed to have worn for her wedding night with Judson, one of several he had dared to purchase for her.

Hawk’s brow rose as he regarded it, then he set it aside and extracted the wrap that went with it. When he was finished, he lifted her foot to his knee, removing first one cream kid slipper, then the other.

As if she floated outside her body, and watched from afar, Alexandra wondered what or who had taken over her more sensible self and why she was letting it happen. But the only answer that came was love, or lovesickness, as she thought.

Why neither of them spoke, Alex did not know. Perhaps Bryceson was too busy concentrating on his task while she was too busy appreciating and noticing everything about him. She knew only that his topaz eyes were warm, kind, loving. Here stood the gentle boy who’d tended scraped knees, extracted slivers from small hands and dried a lifetime of silly tears. She saw that his shoulders were broader, his arms stronger, his huge hands callused, his sable hair prematurely silver-gilt.

His demeanor no longer bore the mark of a young god, perfect of feature and seeking admiration, but of a soldier home from war, wounded and scarred, though striking still, and virile. So potently male that Alex lost her breath just watching him. As opposed to his former chiseled perfection, Hawk’s face now bore a hard, flawed quality, which gave him an aura of jeopardy, a provocation that would draw women like moths to a flame.

He was definitely older, though she could not yet vouch for wiser, but after overhearing his amazing story earlier, she surmised that he could hardly have escaped some degree of wisdom. She did know that he must have survived a great deal more than he would ever willingly reveal. “Your father would be proud of you,” she said without thinking.

“If I had died fighting Boney, perhaps, but I expect that he would have considered any man mustered home, broken, as a failure.”

“But you were not mustered home because you were wounded. The war ended.”

“Gideon guarded Napoleon all the way to St. Helena, and Reed is still one of Wellington’s aides.”

When put that way, Alex knew he was right about his fanatical father, but what could she say?

She was embarrassed she had mentioned the man, but she was even more embarrassed when Bryceson slipped his hands up her leg to unhook her garters, and she shivered and squeaked, because she felt the lightning shock of his touch to her core.

He looked up and quirked a brow. “I am not going to ravish you, Alexandra.”

After a stunned, silent moment, she sighed with resignation. “I am sorry to hear that.”

Bryce reared back, and after a similar moment, he shook his head. “Stand,” he said, and she understood why his men obeyed him, as did she. He untied the laces on her half-petticoat, slid his hands down her hips to push it to the floor, and she stepped out. Her second was a full-petticoat and he helped her out of that with entirely too much experience, in the same way he loosened and removed her stays, expertly and efficiently.

At a knock on the outer door, he turned to leave her standing in her new lawn shift, and again like an empty-headed porcelain doll, Alex waited and hoped for more.

When Bryce returned, he slipped her white gossamer night rail over her head, down her arms then he helped her into her matching wrap. “You will surely catch your death without both,” he said, a hot, hard glint in his eyes. “Or worse.”

The tardy promise in those last two words—along with his piercing gaze—shivered her to her trembling knees.

When she was dressed in the night rail made for her trousseau, Bryce neither stepped back to admire her or his handiwork, nor did he comment further on the exquisite finery—a disappointment. He simply peeled back the bedcovers and urged her into its feather-filled warmth. Heart pounding, Alex did as her husband bid, moving toward the center, expecting him to undress and slip in beside her.

Instead, he pulled the covers up to her neck, sat beside her on the bed and waited, with a disapproving frown, as she freed her arms. Then he took possession of her hand. “I am afraid this has been a long, tiring, and shocking day for you,” he said. “And I am sorry for all of it. Reed told me what he said. I am especially sorry that you heard, but perhaps it is best you know. Get a good night’s sleep now, for we have another long day ahead of us tomorrow, though hopefully, a much less alarming one.”

“But what about you? Are you not going to sleep?”

“I am having the settee made up as we speak. I will be fine there for one night. I have slept on worse.”

Alex sat up and saw by his arrested gaze that the blankets had fallen away and exposed her breasts to his view. She did not cover herself and he did not look away, not for several pulsing beats. For the first time, she had her husband’s full and blatant male attention while she was conscious and could appreciate it, and she was glad.

When he did look away, she sighed. “Bryce, this is your bed. You are too tall for that short sofa. Come, sleep beside me.”

FIVE

HAWK CURSED HIS trembling hands as he tucked Alex back into his bed and admired the cloud of cinnamon waves forming a silken halo upon her pillow. Had any man ever needed such willpower as he was compelled to call upon at this tempting moment?

He regarded the siren for signs of the sprite who had, in turn, shadowed and vexed him through their growing up years. While he was grief-struck by the loss of that child, he was intrigued, no small bit, by the emergence of the woman. His first reaction was natural, his second, both unacceptable and a clear threat to his sanity.

As he rose, he bent to kiss her brow. “Sleep. I command you.” Then he stroked her cheek, snuffed her candle and left the bedchamber, shutting the door behind him.

In the sitting room, Hawk discarded his cane, his frockcoat, and untied his cravat before pouring himself a brandy with palsied hands. He made an awkward, confined pace about the room, twice or thrice, the better to tire to the point of exhaustion.

As he helped Alex from her clothing, he had ached for her corresponding ministrations, her cool fingers against his heated skin, as he had touched her, for her tenderness to be directed toward his comfort, her gaze toward his face, when all the while, she had been unable to bear the sight of him and looked away, instead.

Why had she said she was disappointed he would not ravish her? Was she teasing? Was she that angry with him?

Perhaps he was making a horrendous mistake in letting her go… Once upon a time, she had liked him enough to marry him. Perhaps she had even wanted him, then.

Perhaps she wanted him still.

Hawk damn near laughed. Perhaps delirium had once again set in…

Was she toying with him? Being facetious? She had, after all, liked Chesterfield enough to marry him, as well.

Hawk cursed. Here he was worried about her, trying to do what was best for her, while she was shaking the foundation of his conviction and undermining his altruistic intentions. Why could he not sense what she wanted?

Likely not him. Not anymore. No, he must give her that annulment as soon as may be, and free her from his abysmal self, though not so soon that Chesterfield might still be unattached when he did.

That part of his plan, he must alter.

When he had returned to England, weak, scarred, and furious at fate, he assured himself that his family was well. And when he was convinced they were, he delayed notifying them of his return. He could not ask them to endure the daily reminder of his failure—his scars, his very presence.

He had gone to the aid of his sister-in-law, Sabrina, and of Gideon St. Goddard—another rogue of the club—the husband he secured for her when he thought he was dying.

To get himself declared alive again, Hawk petitioned the House of Lords, and parliament in general, even the Prince Regent and a score of his advisers and friends, Tory and Whig alike. Some, Prinny would have at his side, were it not for the mad King’s sane moments, had more influence than perhaps was good for England.

Since Hawk’s father’s solicitor was unavailable, he sought another to notify Baxter Wakefield, his cousin and heir, that he lived. Hawk did it all, anything and everything he could, to avoid facing his family with his disagreeable self. By then, he had concluded that for Alexandra’s sake, he must release her from their marriage.

Then he heard that she was about to remarry.

That she loved someone else was all the more reason to let her go, though he could not allow her to commit bigamy. And so he had gone to stop her wedding.

Now, for the sake of his nieces, he must take up his responsibilities as planned and proceed as if his marriage to Alex would continue. This would give Claudia and Beatrix a chance to get used to having him back. He would encourage them to depend more upon him and less upon Alex.

When the paperwork reinstating him as the Duke of Hawksworth bore fruit, and what was left of his wealth, title and estates reverted to him, he would move his family from Huntington Lodge, Alex’s family home, back to Hawksridge, his own estate. By then, his nieces would perhaps be dependent upon him again and less destroyed by Alexandra’s departure from the bosom of their family.

Also, by then, Chesterfield might have married another.

More than anything in this world, Hawk wanted to keep Alexandra for himself. Second to that, he would keep her for his family. But with no choice but to give her up, he must at least keep her safe in their marriage, until Judson Broderick, Viscount bloody Chesterfield was absolutely out of the running for her hand.

No matter her seeming indifference to his scars, Hawk would not sit back and let Alexandra’s apathy, in the face of his appearance, turn to valor, which would most assuredly fester into disgust, and destroy the entire family.

Alexandra stared at the burgundy brocade bed canopy above her while the scent of the snuffed beeswax candle remained a lingering reminder of one man’s penchant—her husband’s—for walking away without looking back.

The bridegroom she had thought sacrificed to the wages of war, relinquished to the vaporous vagaries of perpetual rest, had been, quite impossibly, returned to her. A literal miracle, she had discovered upon hearing Reed Gilbride’s story. And yet, despite the wonder, Bryceson Wakefield had, once again, deserted her. He had left her alone in the center of his bed, steeped in hurt, shock and disappointment.

All the time he undressed her, she had anticipated undressing him the same way. She anticipated more kisses like the one they shared in the carriage. She expected the leisure and the right to kiss her husband whenever and wherever she chose. She ached to kiss the scars on his face, to press her lips to all his scars, to all of him, and she wanted the same intimate attention from him.

After nearly two years of marriage, she was long past due his husbandly ministrations. As his wife, she had fulfilled every single requirement, save one, the marriage bed, that lack not having been her choice. She deserved a marriage, signed, sealed, and consummated.

She wanted to go and shake him, scream, and rant but Alex bit her lip and tightened her fists, aware that she must conquer her tendency to be precipitate; else she would rush from the room with admonishment in mind and end up ravishing her husband as he slept.

’Twould not do to let him see how much she wanted and needed him. If she had learned one thing about the male of the species, young or old, it was that if a female’s attention was difficult to secure, then a male continued tenaciously in her wake, attempting to secure it, or her. By the same token, she had observed that while males could be encouraged by any sign of interest, however slight or fleeting, they soon lost enthusiasm for the chase, if the female appeared easy or eager to be caught.

Well Bryceson Wakefield, Duke of Hawksworth—her husband, by God—would not be losing interest in her any day soon; she would see to that. She was due a wedding night, Alex mused, and she would have one… despite her bridegroom’s detestable reason for marrying her.

When she had learned the truth of it, she had nearly expired, herself, of sorrow. ’Twas not said to her face, of course, but behind her back, by some of his friends, after Bryce had first left for the war.

She could have stepped away when she heard her name, of course, as she might have done downstairs when she heard Hawk’s, but she had not. That first time she eavesdropped, she learned that Bryce married her so she would care for his family while he went to war. One of his cronies said she would do anything for her husband’s pat on the head, “which is all poor old ‘Bry’ could bear to give her.” They said, “It was too bad he had not lived long enough ‘to bed the beauty’ she had become.”

To the devil with beauty. What did looks have to say to anything? ’Twas Hawk’s love she wanted, plain and simple.

Unlike the scores of women who had always flocked to the proud, handsome-as-sin Bryceson Wakefield, Alex had loved him despite his magnificence. All the while he had been trying to prove his worth to his father, and to himself, if he but knew it, Alex had loved the kind and gentle soul who dwelt inside the quintessential rogue.

Was she the only one who glimpsed that gentle man? Or had she been as blind to his faults as others were blinded by his beauty?

She wished she knew.

She was sorry, for Hawk’s sake, that his legendary good looks had been marred, but she hoped that without the outer trappings of perfection, he would discover and come to appreciate the good and gentle man he was.

That man, she yearned for—body, heart, and soul.

That man, she loved.

Though her concern over Chesterfield’s reaction to their cancelled nuptials, and her anger at her husband, went a long way toward dampening Alex’s inclination toward celebration, she still wanted, more than her next breath, to walk into the sitting room, slip into his embrace, and weep with unmitigated joy at his return.

But she could not, she thought, swallow her gathering tears. Not yet.

~   ~   ~

Hawk found himself standing outside a ruin of a manse, a dreamlike fog shrouding the night in ashen vapor, a ponderous regret cutting deep in his belly, for he bore the horrific sense that he had arrived too late.

At the sound of carriage wheels on cobbles, he turned to see Alexandra and Chesterfield driving away.

“No,” Hawk shouted. “No.” He could not allow them to live in sin together. Alex belonged to him, not to Chesterfield.

Hawk mounted his horse—miracle of miracles, he could do so without pain—and he chased the carriage for hours, it seemed, catching up only when the vehicle stopped at a lavish estate in the heart of the mist.

“Alex,” Hawk called. “Alex, I am here. No need to do this. Come, love. Come home with me.”

But she continued walking away, as Chesterfield stepped forward to block his path and keep him from following. “You gave her up,” the knave said. “Your marriage was annulled, at your behest, and now Alexandra is my wife. Mine.”

The blackguard laughed. He laughed until Alex called to him from an upper window, in that white diaphanous gown, her nutmeg hair flowing free and barely covering her sweet, lush breasts.

Alex, calling Chesterfield to her bed.

As if clamped in irons Hawksworth stood and struggled, unable to escape his invisible fetters, while Chesterfield entered the stately structure on his way to—

“No!” Despite his struggle, Hawk could not free himself from immobility. Neither could he reach Alex.

Soon it would be too late. “No!”

As if doom had risen from the depths of hell, his father began to laugh.

Alex awoke to a mournful cry and bolted from the bed. Bryceson was sitting up, trembling, elbows on knees, scrubbing his face with the flat of his hands, his shirt and trousers, even his bedding, drenched with perspiration.

She knelt before him and tried to take his icy hands to warm them between her own, but he grasped hers, instead, and brought them to his brow, as if none but her touch could soothe him.

“Bryce, what is wrong? Are you in pain? What can I do for you?”

“It was only a dream,” he said. “A bloody nightmare, like a fretful three-year-old.”

“Of the war?” she asked. “Was it terrible?”

He relinquished her hands. “Light a candle, will you?”

Alex did as he requested, then she poured him a brandy. “Was it terrible?” she asked again, handing him the glass of dark amber liquid.

He sipped it and laid his head against the back of the sofa. “Horrid.”

“Would you like to tell me about it?”

His sigh was heavy. “There was a huge, hulking dragon…” He paused and opened his eyes to regard her. “I believe it was purple. And scaly.”

Alex sat back on her heels. “You rat, you are toying with me.”

Hawk sat forward and fingered the hair coiled on her shoulder. “Toying with you, am I? If that were true, then I would be satisfied.”

Alex frowned. “What are you talki—”

“Your hair finally grew past your waist,” he said, extending the coil its full length. “You waited all your life for this.”

“You made fun of me, because I made you measure it.”

“Daily,” he added. “But I teased you more for your impatience, because it never grew fast enough. Nothing ever happened fast enough for you. You were so certain that one day your husband would adore your hair long and flowing past your waist.”

Alex regarded her hands, splayed on her knees, reluctant to discover what said husband really thought.

An ember snapped in the hearth.

“You were right,” Hawk said, thrumming her nerves and speeding her heart. “Go back to bed, Lexy. You will take a chill. Did you bring nothing warmer for sleeping?”

Lexy. No one else had ever called her that. Hawk’s tone had gone from gruff to teasing and she dared to regard him. “I understood,” she said, “that a bride wore less… rather than more, to sleep during the honey-month, though I have no firsthand knowledge, you understand.”

“A pity, that,” he said, as if he meant it. “Did Chesterfield realize he was taking a virgin widow to wife?”

Alex bristled and felt cornered once again, as if a misstatement now might carry a price she could not fathom. “We thought you dead for more than a year, Bryce. What makes you so certain that I remain untouched?”

Hawk’s jaw set; the fire in his eyes leapt, and under her hand, the pulse at his wrist trebled. “Are you saying—” He shook his head. “I dreamed…” After a long moment of expectation, he nodded and said nothing more.

Alex rose and went to open his portmanteau, regarding its contents, rather than her husband, as she answered. “I am saying, in all fairness to me, what I did after you died is not your concern—especially given the length of time between the event and your return.” She extracted a fresh shirt and went to offer her hand. “Come, sleep in the bed. You cannot stay here. The covers are soaked.”

“No, I am fine,” Hawk said, but he rose anyway, a measure of his nightmare-muddled senses, Alex thought, as he allowed her to lead him, much as he had led her earlier, into the bedroom. By her guess, the time must be going on two in the morning.

With the only light in the bedchamber coming from a candle left to drown in its own wax, and a scuttle’s worth of glowing embers, she sat Bryce on the edge of the bed and went for his shirt studs.

Stud by stud, Alex divested her husband of his damp shirt and replaced it with the dry one, though, neither of them sought to replace the studs.

Somehow they communicated without words that he would retain his trousers, though Alex ascertained, with a sweep of her hand along one tensely muscled thigh, that they were not as damp as his shirt had been. Then he allowed her to tuck him into the bed, and after she went around to climb in on the opposite side, he even accepted her warmth beside him.

“Cold are you?” he asked, after a silence, more in derision than question. “I warned you.”

“Umhmm.” Alex sought his hand, clenched tight at his side and cupped the hard fist, despite his resistance, taking a good deal of satisfaction in stroking his knuckles with her thumb.

He sighed, then, either in relaxation or resignation, Alex could not be certain which, as she kissed his temple.

“Be still and let a man sleep,” he said.

Before long, Alex heard the soft rumble of his deepened breathing and she reveled in the beauty of the moment.

Somewhere near dawn, during that sweet drifting time between sleep and wakefulness, Alex thought she felt a hand in her hair, someone’s breath upon her brow, a butterfly-soft kiss, but before she could ascertain whether it was a dream or not, her husband left the bed.

Pleased to believe she had not been dreaming, Alex slipped back into the waiting arms of Morpheus.

Hawk woke her hours later, close to noon, gruff and impersonal once more. They departed Stephen’s Hotel before breaking their fast, with his promise that they would stop soon.

Alex surmised that his sullen, somber mood must have to do with his nightmare.

SIX

AFTER TRAVELING for nearly an hour, in the throes of a need to drive himself beyond endurance, Hawk ordered a stop at the Old Welsh Harp Inn, along the Broadway in West Hendon. Alex needed to stretch her legs and refresh herself, and Myerson needed as badly to water the horses.

Hawk realized that this was not a war game he was playing, that slogging on would not catch the enemy unaware. Neither would it drive them beyond the enemy’s reach, for in weak moments, Hawk very much feared that his worst enemy lived inside him.

He secured a bedchamber where he and Alex might both freshen up, but as soon as they entered, the great four-poster in its center loomed large, bright and boldly inviting, in counterpoint to the future, which loomed dark, narrow, and depressingly bleak.

Alex did not love him, Hawk reminded himself, and she deserved better, at any rate. He excused himself and stepped outside on the pretext that she could refresh herself at her leisure and in peace and privacy.

When she came down, he seated her in the private dining parlor he had secured, and took his turn upstairs. By the time he returned, the future seemed so grim, that any appetite he might once have imagined no longer existed.

While they waited to be served, Alex caught him up on his sister Rose’s daughters, now his wards, all the while keeping her aversion to his scars from her expression, even in the well-lit parlor, where his every imperfection must appear obtrusive and hideous.

Beatrix had been four and her sister, Claudia, fifteen, when their widowed mother died of consumption. Among the few remaining members of Hawk’s family—besides his sister-in-law Sabrina and her children—Claude and Bea had been his wards for a year, Alexandra’s for nearly twice as long.

Alex regaled him with homely tales that revealed just how much she had come to love his nieces, proving he had been right in his decision to go to war. They had been better off with her than they would ever have been with him. If only they could all remain together now that he was back.

But he owed Alex such a debt of gratitude, the least he could do was set her free.

“Bea has so vivid an imagination,” Alex said, “that we never know what she will fabricate next. Last month, she told us she was a fairy. And what must we do before every meal but carefully fold her invisible wings for all of ten minutes, so she could sit properly back against her chair to take sustenance. Claudia informed her in exasperation one evening, that everyone knew fairy wings were supposed to fold flat without help, but Bea replied sadly that hers were defective.”

As the meal progressed, Hawk actually felt the knots ease from his shoulders and the heaviness of dejection lift from his spirits.

“At one point,” Alex continued, “the imp insisted for weeks that she had been turned into a mermaid, though her tail fin was suspiciously invisible. She reminded us, of course, that mermaids have no need of baths.”

“Devil take it, you did not allow her to go without bathing for all of that time, did you?”

“Oh yes, but not without the requisite swims to keep her scales shiny and magical.”

Guilt halted his laugh somewhere deep in his throat, where it sat like a lump of stone. So many of his comrades had died, and Hawk knew, more than most, how they felt at the last, making mirth impossible to sanction. “You have been a good parent to the girls,” he said. “Thank you.”

Sometime while they talked, the Inn specialty, turkey and ham pie with Cumberland sauce, Oyster Creams, and assorted savories, had been placed before them hot and well spiced. The service had been quick, the serving-ware and servers clean, and the ale smooth and dark. And despite himself, Hawk relaxed and ate the entire meal, even the Orange Fool—a dessert recipe likely filched from Boodle’s.

By the time they were ready to leave, the rain, which had barely begun when they arrived, was coming down in torrents.

“A good thing we are no more than an hour or so from Devil’s Dyke,” Hawk said, standing beneath the Welsh Harp’s small front overhang, watching their carriage shudder beneath the furor of the windy downpour.

“With the muddy roads,” Alexandra said. “That hour may very well turn into two or three.”

“Right. Shall we make a run for it, then?” They dashed toward the carriage, running between the raindrops, as the young Alex used to say.

After they set off again, they fell into a rather uneasy silence, Hawk dividing his time between trying not to stare at the agreeable sight of his wife, and gazing out the window. He no longer took any of the sights for granted, however, given the fact that he never expected to see her, or the town where they grew up, again.

“Nothing changes here,” Alex said, cutting the tension, as they drove through the center of St. Albans. “The old curfew tower stands yet.”

“As it has for centuries.” He almost felt welcome just seeing it.

Alex chuckled. “Remember the day I talked you into following that poor, keening sheepdog up to the top?”

“I remember every one of those ninety-three steps,” Hawk said, with a grimace. “I remember that somehow I got locked in at the top with her while she delivered six squealing pups.”

“Well, I went for help.”

“The pups were amazing,” Hawk admitted. “Though I still shudder over the scrapes you got me into.”

“I?” Alex said, using the same innocent tone that saved her satin skin that very day, though back then, he had not pondered her skin’s texture with such morbid and single-minded preoccupation as he had been wont to do today, Hawk mused.

“And there,” she said, with the excitement of a first-time visitor, “is a piece of the old Roman wall. My father said every other generation wanted to clean up those ruins.”

“Destroy them more like.”

“But somebody always managed to save the old city enclosure for succeeding generations.”

“I clearly recall the day a certain brat climbed that particular section, when she ought not, me at the bottom shouting for her to come down.”

“I told you there was a mewling kitten up there, and it was stuck, and I saved it, but you were such a scold, you made me fall.”

Hawk scoffed. “Did I also force you to tell your father that nothing hurt, until your wrist swelled like a hot air balloon, so a doctor must be fetched?”

Alex grinned.

Hawk shook his head. “As always happened, you charmed a chuckle from your father, while mine thrashed me with a birch cane for encouraging you.”

Drawn by the combination of sympathy and mischief in her eyes, Hawk was shocked anew by the desirable woman his bride had become, and discomfited anew by the tension churning in the pit of his belly because of it. Which made it doubly surprising to him, that any of the old ease in her presence existed, particularly with a war and two weddings now standing between them—never mind an annulment, if she but knew it.

This burgeoning physical awareness, however, was something new and as enticing as it was frightening. “How old were we,” he asked, “the first time you lured me into trouble?”

“I was three and stuck at the bottom of the dyke. You were eight and tried to rescue me.”

“Slipping down a forty-foot slope of mud was easy, as I recall, getting back up, impossible.” When he spotted her, his clothes had been, as always, pristine. Her knees had been scraped bloody, her dress torn, and mud caked her short, curly hair.

When they were rescued, after the most fun ever, they were in the same sorry state. That had been the first time his father warned him away from Alexandra Huntington.

“It only took being stranded together that day for us to become fast friends,” she said. “If I remember correctly, we were inseparable after that.”

“Because, no matter how hard I tried, I could not shake my tenacious shadow, a bit of a sprite, but more of a spitfire. So small, I thought you might break, though I soon discovered that you were sturdy as a tree trunk, and thrice as stubborn as its roots.”

“And I made you laugh, you said. You loved having me around. Do not pretend otherwise. Stubborn, did you say? Me?”

Hawk shook his head, looking back. “In my arrogant maleness, I did not, for the most part, mind keeping in tow, a female who venerated the ground upon which I walked, until I learned that you had been warning other girls away.”

Alex covered her mouth with a hand, but the bright light in her eyes revealed not one whit of remorse. “You knew and did not try to thrash me?”

“By the time my indignation took hold, I was off to Oxford and it no longer mattered. What drove me most to distraction was your goading me into some lark or other that broke a corresponding rule, for which I, not you, would be punished. I suffered mightily for that penchant in you. Why were you always after breaking rules, Alexandra?”

“I only broke a rule when I had good reason to do so. Besides, you made up half the blasted rules, yourself, as if rules and the following of them were the be-all and end-all of existence.”

“They are more than that. Rules, whether written or unwritten, like honor and ethics, are the very backbone of a civilized society.”

Alex closed her eyes and laid her head back, as if overtaken, at once, by weariness. “Pity you did not follow any rules where your family was concerned.”

Hawk winced, for her blade struck bone. Having come from a long line of privileged rogues, he had always attempted to act more civilized than his less-than-exemplary ancestors. He had prided himself on following a code of ethical conduct that would keep him from wreaking the kind of havoc his father and grandfather, and scores of other male ancestors, had perpetrated before him.

He had treated his tenants with generosity and respect, bedded only those women who wanted bedding—lucky for him, a great many had back then. He had gambled only with rich, greedy, bird-witted men who seemed to want to lose, Chesterfield prime among them.

Against his father’s exhortations that he owed more to his name than to marry the penniless Alexandra Huntington, he had married his maddening hoyden of a neighbor, the plague and nuisance of his growing up years. Because she had no other chance for marriage, or so he thought, and would have a better future as a rich and titled widow. And because she was prudent, trustworthy, resourceful and penniless, and would appreciate the favor he did her.

He had married her, because she would take better care of his family than he, while he was off fighting Boney, a glory for which his father had offered everything a son could ever hope to have.

Glory bedamned. His father bedamned. Waterloo had been worse than hell. He had gotten what he deserved, going off to war, but Alexandra had not deserved what she got, yet her life had been altered as well.

Hawk would never forget the look on her face when he bid her farewell at the church immediately following their wedding ceremony. God’s teeth, he had used her ill.

As if that had not been bad enough, he was so eager to fare off to glory that he married her and shipped off to France before the reading of his father’s will. He had known that all Hawksworth brides were well provided for at the time of their husband’s deaths. He had known it and counted upon it.

He still did not know what had gone wrong in the case of his bride, for his father’s old solicitor had also passed away, leaving everything in the hands of his nephew, who had been traveling since Hawk returned.

He had not known that he left his family to be cast off by his heir, without a farthing to their names or a roof over their heads. Or that they had been forced to take up residence in Alexandra’s ramshackle manor, between St. Albans and Wheathampstead. But, devil take it, she was right; he had not followed his own code of conduct where his family was concerned. God knew how they had managed, though he would learn soon enough.

Alex opened her eyes of a sudden, in something of a panic, as if to ascertain whether he was actually there.

“Did you fall asleep and think you dreamed me?” Hawk asked. “Or would that have been more of a nightmare?”

“I dreamed, but I did not sleep,” Alex said enigmatically. “And as to whether you might be a dream or a nightmare, if you do not already know that answer, then you do not deserve to know it.”

And what did that mean? With that faraway look in her eyes, Hawk had feared she was dreaming of Chesterfield, the bloody knave, but now he was not so certain.

“Tell me,” Hawk said, to turn her thoughts. “How stands ‘the house that Jack built?’”

“It stands.”

“Always a promising beginning.”

Alex nodded. “It is improved in some respects,” she said, “and worse in others.”

“I regret that I did not make provisions for you all,” Hawk said. “You were right. I ought to be drawn and quartered.”

Alex tilted her head, considering his offer, as if perhaps he ought, and Hawk felt that old need to suffer for his failures. What better did he deserve? “You must have wanted to trounce me when you found out–.”

“When you believe someone has died, your thoughts do not usually run toward vengeance,” she said. “But you should have realized, Bryce, that you could die in the war and that your heir might inherit. What were you thinking?”

He could offer no excuse, damn his eyes. He thought only of pleasing his dead father, but if he told her so, she would despise him the more, which he would deserve.

“What did faring off to glory get you, anyway,” she asked, “but dead, which might more easily be true, than not?”

“You are not telling me something I have not told myself a score of times. Now I have to undo the whole blasted mess, and my countenance does not help. Few people, if any, recognize me, though my voice, in some cases saves the day.”

“Your voice frightened me witless, coming from a derelict off the street, or so I thought you.”

Hawk paled and sat straighter. “My sincere apologies, Madam, but my physiognomy is not something that can be altered. God knows, I would, if I could.”

Alex sighed. “I have no aversion to your appearance, Bryce, which is not entirely unpleasing, you may not know. You were simply unknown to me at the time.”

“A derelict, Alex?”

“Look at your hair,” she said. “Did you ever, in your stylishly groomed life, wear it wild and flowing away from your face, for all the world as if it were a lion’s mane? Though it is too devilish dark to be any such thing, of course. And those clothes. They are not even yours.”

Hawk fingered the frockcoat he might have tossed on the flames a war and a lifetime before. “Do you not appreciate my stylish attire? Is the weave of the fabric not fine enough for you?”

“As if clothes ever mattered a jot to me.”

“These clothes were a gift from the peasant family who nursed me back to health, I will have you know.” Hawk shook his head, but he could not help looking back. “I remember they were as pleased to present them as I was to receive them. I have nothing else to wear, as things stand, and by the time Sabrina told me of your upcoming nuptials, I had less than an hour to stop you. I could think of no better way than to go myself, my destitute appearance notwithstanding.”

His words furrowed Alex’s brow. “Had you been in London long? And Sabrina knew you were there?”

SEVEN

HAWK COULD NOT precisely say why he had been back so long without contacting Alex, because he could no more explain it to himself than to her, but knowing the length of time would only hurt her, he decided on a temporary half-truth. “I have been back long enough to discover that you were no longer living in my London house and that you did, in fact, sell it, for which I planned to teach you some vengeful lesson.”

“I most certainly did not sell your house. What kind of lesson?”

“I learned the truth before your lesson was ever devised.” He shrugged. “I soon discovered that my heir tossed you out and later disposed of the townhouse, that you were living at Huntington Lodge and taking excellent care of the family. Again, thank you.”

“It was my pleasure,” she said. “I love them.”

Hawk grew uncomfortable with his inability to say how much his family loved her, without including himself in the declaration. He cleared his throat. “For all my dastardly ancestors’ rule-breaking, I doubt any of them ever found themselves in the incongruous position of trying to wrest, or should I say, rescue, what little was left of their fortunes and estates from the greedy hands of their improvident, globe-trotting heirs. Nor did any of them ever have to stop their wives from marrying another.”

“You are probing for the details of my alliance with Chesterfield, again, are you not?” Alex asked. She folded her arms and gave him a stubborn look, her expression implying that if he thought she would reveal any of those details, he had another think coming.

He tried regarding her in such a way as to entice her to take up his verbal gauntlet, but she firmed her spine with her likely resolve and remained adamantly silent.

“Tell me,” he said, giving up. “How is your Aunt Hildegarde? She was always my biggest fan. Did she mourn me for long?”

“Aunt Hildy did not mourn you at all.”

Hawk’s arrested shock at her response made Alex chuckle. “She did not mourn you, because she refused to believe that you had been killed. We tried to tell her, but doing so was like speaking to a stone, so we gave up.

“On the rare occasions she still asks for you, we tell her that you are on a hunting trip, or taking care of business in London. I thought that, perhaps, my marrying Judson and moving everyone to his house might bring her around, but none of that matters now, does it?”

Hawk looked away, unable to tell how Alex really felt about the turn of events. But they were nearing the Lodge and the thought of seeing his family, and of them seeing him, knotted his stomach and slicked his palms. The arrogant rogue of Devil’s Dyke, as frightened as a schoolboy who forgot his lessons.

The carriage climbed Gorhambury Hill—along the River Ver—towards Devil’s Dyke and the house where Alex grew up. With the placement of their family homes, fate had merged their lives at so early an age, Hawk could not remember his life without Alex in it.

Hawksridge, the home of his birth, temporarily his heir’s, sat at the opposite summit overlooking Devil’s Dyke, which formed the valley between. Hawk gazed westward to catch sight of his estate, but nearly a mile separated the houses, and he had forgotten that, other than in the dead of winter, the very woodland they had romped in grew too lush to allow for even a glimpse from the hill.

Besides, night had long since fallen, and the looming Lodge claimed his full attention. A few windows shone with light but the rest remained dark. And though a half-moon shone, he could not tell whether the house was still as much a leaking, tumbling pile as he remembered, or worse.

“Should I go in alone, first, and break the news?” Alex asked, as the carriage came to a stop before a set of weather-beaten granite steps. “I would not want your Uncle Gifford to have a seizure.”

“You think my scars will come as that bad a shock to him?” Hawk asked. Apoplexy was very near what he expected the first time people who knew him caught sight of him.

Alexandra regarded him as if he were daft. “Of course not. But I think the ghost of his dearly beloved nephew walking through the door, more than a year after his death, might do the trick.”

Hawk felt himself flush.

“I perceive that your scars are a great deal more of a difficulty for you,” Alex said, “than the people who must look upon you.”

“Therein rests the crux of the problem. They must look upon me, but they would not, if they could help it.”

Alexandra sighed and shook her head, as if she might argue the point, but the carriage door was thrown open and Claudia and Beatrix scrambled inside, out of the rain.

Even as the interior grew bright with the light from their lantern, they began tossing rice in the air. “Hurrah for the bride and groom. Hurrah, hurr—”

Sound stopped as if severed by a blade.

Hawk braced himself, even as he consumed the blessed sight of them, Bea bigger, but still a halfling, Claudia, nearly a woman, but sadder somehow.

When Bea focused on his face, she gasped and stepped back, regarding him fixedly, her curly little saffron head tipped in concentration. “Do I know you?” she asked, her small voice wobbling.

“Do not be afraid,” Hawk said.

To his horror, she began to cry as she climbed into Alex’s lap.

Hawk felt the blood drain from him and went stone cold, inside and out.

Alex wrapped Bea in love and soothing words. The little one had taken one look at him and was frightened to death. His worst nightmare come true, or one of his worst.

“Muffin?” Alex coaxed. “What is it, Love? Why are you crying?”

“That man made me sad. I miss my Uncle Bryce.”

Claudia’s gaze shot to his face then, as if the scales had slipped from her eyes, and she saw him true, and understood the reason for Bea’s confusion.

Hawk gave her a half nod, and as quick as he did, Claude covered her mouth with a hand and her eyes filled to brimming, not for the first time that day, if he did not miss his guess. Her tears overflowed and spilled onto her cheeks.

Hawk wished he knew whether she wept with happiness, or horror, or both. At least he understood the little one’s tears. “Come,” he said, lifting Beatrix away from Alex. “Come, Pup, I am Uncle Bryce.” He hugged her close and smoothed her hair. “No more tears for missing me. I am here, Sweet. I am here.”

Bea looked up at him, taking her lip between her teeth, her eyes wide, sobs escaping at odd moments, her expression moving from doubt to wonder. “Uncle Bryce?”

“Bumble Bea?”

“Uncle Bryce,” she screamed, throwing her arms around his neck. Then Claudia was laughing and hugging him, too, and all his girls, Alex included, wept openly, laughing through their tears.

And as Alex reached for his hand, and the little one kissed him all over his face, scars and all, Hawk felt, amazingly, as if he had come home… for the first time in his life.

Beatrix had so much to tell him that they did not move from the carriage for fully three-quarters of an hour, and even then, Alex kept telling her that she would have the rest of her life to catch him up.

“Hello the carriage,” came a gruff, old, curmudgeonly shout from the darkness. “Where has everyone got to?”

“In here, Uncle Giff,” Alexandra said. “Come in, out of the rain.”

Hawk shrugged at Alex, as his stodgy old uncle squeezed into the seat opposite, so busy ordering Claudia aside he had not yet regarded the seat across from him. And when, at length, he did, he simply furrowed his grizzled brow in bewilderment.

Hawk kissed Bea’s little head, firm against his chest. “I am Hawk, Uncle. I survived, after all.”

“No.”

“Truly, though I am a little the worse for wear, as you see.”

“No.”

Alexandra laughed. “Quiz him, Giff. You will discover that he knows all our atrocious middle names, including the most ridiculous of our secrets. No doubt about it. He is Hawksworth.”

“No.”

The girls burst into laughter and began talking at once, and Beatrix practically fell from the carriage, she was so excited, then she dashed for the house.

In the foyer’s dim light, Hawk noted his uncle’s hair had turned the color of pewter in the intervening time, and his manly physique may have thickened and shifted somewhat. But all in all the old boy looked fit and spry and he seemed much less a curmudgeon than Hawk remembered.

“Well what do you know,” his uncle said, quite belatedly slapping him on the back, at long last accepting the truth before him. “The dotty old magpie isn’t five feathers short a tail, after all, but wise as an owl.” Giff grinned. “Hildy,” he called, striding to the bottom of the stairs. “Hildy, you will never guess.”

“Alex?” Claudia asked, stepping near. “Did you find Uncle Bryce today? Or yesterday?”

Alex smiled. “He found me… before I married Ch—”

“Hurrah,” Claudia exclaimed twirling away from Alex and into her uncle’s arms. “I love you, Uncle Bryce.”

Hawk knew he had missed some pertinent component in that exchange, then he heard Alexandra’s Aunt Hildegard reproaching his uncle from somewhere on the upper floor.

Nothing had changed.

When Aunt Hildy started down the stairs, Hawk saw her focus on him right away. And she did not miss a beat, not even when she took his uncle’s arm halfway down. “Bryceson, you stayed away too long this time,” she chided, beaming, as if he had not changed a jot, as if she had been expecting him all along.

“But we forgive you, do we not, Alexandra? I am so glad you are back.” She stood on the bottom step, and still she barely reached his chin. “Though why your letters stopped more than a year ago, I cannot imagine. And it was too bad of the war office to ship you out a mere week after your wedding. Poor Alex wept for months about not even having your child with which to remember you. Now you have another chance, you can get on with having that family of yours while you are still young. I shall put in my order, now, shall I, for a big, noisy brood?”

His uncle Gifford’s sudden paroxysm of coughing turned into a strangled laugh.

“Ah, good to see you, too, Aunt Hildegarde,” Hawk said, feeling the tightening of his cravat.

The dear old lady bussed his cheek, but when she did, and he placed an arm about her shoulders, he realized, from the degree of her trembling, that she was a great deal more shaken than she was letting on. And when he bent nearer, he saw tears hovering on her lashes.

“Praise be,” she whispered.

“My sentiments exactly,” Hawk said, for her ears alone, kissing her cheek in turn. “Especially now that I have seen my best girl.”

Hildegarde swatted his arm but preened anyway. “Are you hungry?” she asked, stepping off that last step, and composing herself. “Thirsty? Have you dined?”

“I am fine,” Alex said. “How about you, Hawksworth?”

“Nothing for me.” Hawk felt all the nervousness of an imposter. Alex was treating him like Hawksworth, the stranger, rather than Bryce, the friend. His family believed good of him, when no good existed.

He had chosen to ship out immediately after their wedding, rather than risk leaving Alex with the child of a man she did not love. And he had not written, not to anyone, to sever their ties early, in hopes that when he was killed, which he daily expected, their shock and grief would be diminished.

Had Alex stayed somewhere else in London, alone for a time, to shore up a pretense of wedded bliss? Had she passed them news that supposedly came from him? Considering what her aunt had said, had Alex even pretended for a time that she might be carrying his child?

“Why has little Miss Beatrix not been sent up to bed, I would like to know?” Alex asked, cutting the tense silence, looking as uncomfortable as him, as she ruffled Bea’s curls. “It is gone past ten.”

“Because of your wed— Because these are special days,” his Uncle said. “Though we expected you yesterday.”

“Very special days, more than you can imagine,” Hawk said. To his mind, stopping Alex’s nuptials to Judson Broderick, Viscount blasted Chesterfield, offered a great deal more to celebrate than her marrying him might have done.

“Exhausting days, all the same,” Alex said. “And it is very late, past time for little girls to be tucked into their beds.”

“Time for all of us to go up,” Aunt Hildegarde said.

“But there is no bedchamber for Uncle Bryce,” Beatrix wailed in distress.

“Of course there is,” Alex said. “He shall have the master bedchamber.”

“But that is your b—”

Claudia had clapped a hand over her sister’s mouth. “You heard Alex, Little Miss Mischief, time for little people to be in their beds.”

“Big people, too,” Giff said, taking Aunt Hildy’s arm. “Let us all go up and allow Hawk and Alex the opportunity to, er, settle everything.”

That fast, she and Bryce were left standing at the base of the main staircase to regard each other. Alex wished the foyer did not seem so drab for his homecoming, while he appeared, for all the world, like a raw boy with his first girl, the way she was certain he had never appeared in the whole of his life.

“I do not want to put you out,” he said, wrapping dignity about him like a shield, much as he had done the evening before. “As you know, I do not sleep well these days. Any bedchamber will do.”

Plague take it, Alex thought. Was not a husband expected to sleep with his wife? They were home now. She was no longer in shock. And if she did not begin the way she intended to go on, then she would deserve the consequences. “There is no other bedchamber,” she snapped.

“There must be a dozen at least.”

“If they have beds, they have no mattresses.”

“Why ever not?”

Alex gave a long-suffering sigh. “When we were forced,” she stressed, “to return here, the mattresses had been turned into mouse houses, so we turned them out of our house, leaky and dilapidated as it is.”

Bryceson clearly bit back an oath, and that old impatient tic worked in his cheek. “The tower room in the attic,” he said, seeming to grasp at straws. “Isn’t there a chaise lounge, or a daybed, that would serve? When we used to practice our archery up there on rainy days, I am certain we proved the thing indestructible.”

“You are able to climb so many stairs, then?” Alex asked, hoping to discourage him.

“I climb better than I descend, it is true, but I can manage. Besides, I am convinced that the more I use my legs, the better they will work.”

Myerson cleared his throat from the door of the servants’ hall, self-consciously turning his dripping hat in his hands. “Excuse me, your grace, but the horses?”

While Bryce oversaw the stabling and feeding of the matched pair he had borrowed with the carriage, Alex carried a candle and bedding up three flights of stairs to the attic tower.

Sure enough, the huge, sparse circular chamber appeared dry as toast and looked exactly as it had the last time they played there, except for the additional dust. Everything as they left it, including their old archery equipment and the dratted daybed.

Thoroughly annoyed by the sight, Alex placed her candle on a table, and the bedding on the lounge. She went for a bow and arrow and set them up, crossed the room, and in a fit of pique, she let the arrow fly, hitting the target dead center.

“Rotten roof leaks everywhere,” she muttered, choosing another arrow. “Wouldn’t you just know it would hold above this one blasted room.”

She set the second arrow in the bow, but changed her mind about its destination and turned her sights, and her weapon, upward. “Bloody, stupid roof.” She sent the missile skyward.

The arrow disappeared into the darkened attic rafters, and almost as it did, a drip hit the floor, then another, and another, until rain dripped down in a vapid, steady rhythm. “Oops,” Alex said. “Must have been ready to give at any moment.”

Her mind worked and her smile grew as she chose yet another arrow and aimed it, unerringly, toward the rafters directly above the chaise lounge. But when she let it fly, nothing happened, and she could not tell exactly where it disappeared within the shadowed labyrinth of beams closer to the tower’s peak. “Drat.”

Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she stashed the bow, saw the daybed was dry, and sighed with regret. Doomed to spending another night alone. Double drat.

As Hawksworth entered, she beamed a bright smile. “Only one, small leak,” she said with feigned pleasure. “Your bed is fine. See.”

Even as they regarded the makeshift berth, an arrow dropped, flat on its side, dead center of the bed, and rain poured, literally, down, soaking the bedding and the lounge, rendering it completely useless.

Rainwater must have eased the arrow from the rupture where it struck and stuck, Alex mused as she bit her lip and regarded her husband.

He raised a brow. “Are we under siege?”

“I was… practicing,” she said, by way of feeble explanation. “And I heard… something. And I jumped… in fright. And, accidentally, my shot went wide… accidentally.”

“Very wide. Accidentally.”

Alex swallowed a knot of hysterical laughter, but she could not quite stop it from rushing forward, so she clamped a hand over her mouth.

Hawksworth regarded the source and sorceress of all his dreams, her turquoise eyes wide with trepidation, yet brimming with merriment all the same.

He shook his head. Behold the thorn in his side, his hoyden… his wife.

EIGHT

‘SLEEPING WITH ME will not be as dreadful as you seem to think,” Alex promised as they made their plodding way, arm in arm, down the stairs toward the family bedchambers. “My bed is big. You will not even know I am there.”

Hawk scoffed, feeling all the restrictions of a cage. “Well you will bloody well know I am there. If it were not so late, and you did not look so tired, I would fight you on this. You will be sorry when I push and kick and trample you in my sleep. You may end up more severely wounded than I.”

Alex bit her lip, appearing not the least worried or repentant. “Oh, Myerson,” she said when they saw his man in the upper hall. “Welcome to Huntington Lodge. Do you think you can bring up a tub and some hot water to my—our, dressing room? His grace will want a bath before I cut his hair.”

“His grace will not want his hair cut,” Hawksworth said. “And you would not be doing the cutting, if he did.”

“The bath, please, Myerson,” Alex said. “And thank you.”

Hawk followed Alex into a well-appointed bedchamber. The curtains and counterpane, like the upholstery on the two wingback chairs by the hearth, were covered in the deep turquoise velvet of Alex’s eyes. Pillows of gold brought the color, the very room, to life.

Upon her dresser sat a Roman pottery vase, one of the childhood treasures they had unearthed near Devil’s Dyke, though this one had always been Alex’s favorite. Colored pale tan to deep blue-gray, and looking as if someone had combed a staff of shallow half-circles in the clay before firing, the vase lent an air of reality to Hawk’s illusory sense of homecoming.

While the bedchamber was not rich by any standard, it was in better condition than he would have expected. “You expected to share this room with your husband, did you not?”

“On occasion,” Alex said. “Which is exactly what I am doing.”

Hawk nodded, hardly daring to believe it. He could be comfortable in this room, with very few adjustments, if only Alex would not expect him to play the husband— Correction, if he had the right, and the confidence in his ability, he would gladly play the husband.

With the manner of an artist evaluating a work of art, Alex regarded him critically. “Your beard is as wild as your mane. I will trim both.”

“You will not.”

“Hawksworth, do you want me to awaken in the night and scream because I have a beast in my bed?”

“You will have a beast in your bed, make no mistake.”

“The one now growling beside me?”

A rather foreign and uncomfortable bubble of mirth caught in Hawk’s throat, making it ache, making him angry. “Indeed.”

“There are beasts, and there are beasts,” Alex said, pointedly, shivering as if in anticipation. Damn.

“Just a little bit?” she cajoled, in the charming way that only Alex could. “I will only cut your hair a little bit. And after traveling all day, I am certain we would benefit from a hot bath.”

“We? One at a time, of course.”

“In a slipper bath? I should say so. As if there is any other—” Her grin shot an arrow of doubt straight to Hawk’s conscience. He was not the rogue of old and he should tell her so.

“There is another way, is there not?” she asked, her ripple of mirth and sparkling interest speeding Hawk’s heart. “Chesterfield promised me,” she tapped her chin, “that he would teach me all manner of entertaining pastimes in marriage. Now I fear there will be no entertainment… unless you teach me.” She released a sigh, heavy with irony, if only she knew it. Or did she?

Hawksworth began to sweat. He had known she would be like this, even about the marriage bed, eager for new experiences, excited, and exciting, drinking of life in huge greedy draughts. Bloody hell.

To protect her from Chesterfield, he had no choice but to remain her husband, Hawk told himself, which eased the constriction about his chest, somewhat, and allowed him to breathe again, barely.

A sad day, he thought, when the Rogue of Devil’s Dyke became the lesser of evils. Imagine a man of legendary prowess being pleased about that.

Imagine him being grateful.

Lo, how the mighty have fallen.

Part of him was relieved, and pleased, and grateful, that he had not broken her spirit, by leaving her to bear such burdens, as he might have done with a less lively individual, but another part was frightened by the very liveliness he admired.

Hawk looked up and caught his breath at the sight of her absently pulling pins from her hair before her mirror—watching him, in the glass, watching her. Her arms raised, her lush and generous breasts all but bared in proud invitation, she presented the ultimate picture of bewitchment, and seemed totally oblivious to the fact.

He should be shot for what he was thinking.

Drawn by her mesmerizing, almost come-hither gaze, her eyes in candlelight the very color and depth of the sunniest south sea, Hawk could not keep from approaching. He moved her hands aside to savor the sensation of his own in her hair, and removed her hairpins, himself. He had no sooner buried his fists, wrists deep, in the silken bounty, than the cinnamon mane tumbled down to her tiny waist and beyond in one long waving sweep.

Why not make her his in every way? They were married after all.

To the beat of his speeding heart, Hawk combed his fingers through the silken treasure, top to tail, literally, stroking her perfect bottom, twice or thrice along the way, almost by accident. The satin against his hands enticed him almost as much as those womanly curves beneath, so deliciously near that his palms itched to explore every gentle swell and graceful hollow.

He was in trouble. Big trouble.

He wanted her. He could not have her.

But he would be forced to lie beside her every night. All night. Sweating. Aching—if today was any indication—both a hopeful, and a dangerous, turn of events.

Alex turned her back on him then, and lifted her hair, presumably for him to undo the buttons down the back of her rose silk gown. Hawk closed his eyes, remembering how good she had felt in his arms yesterday in the carriage, how much he had wanted to hold her in the bed last night. He inhaled the scent of her—violets, woman, softness, and need.

Joy. Willingness. Life. Alexandra.

And just as he bent to place his lips against that spot at her nape begging for his kiss, Myerson called from the dressing room that his grace’s bath was ready.

Hawk stilled, cursed himself roundly, and after undoing the last of Alexandra’s buttons with all due haste, he took the opportunity to flee.

Once inside the dressing room, he shut the door and locked it, certain he would fail at the goal he had set for himself—to let her go. He hoped beyond hope that he would not, because Alex would pay an awful price for all of a lifetime if he failed.

After Myerson left, Hawk undressed and lowered his awkward and scarred body into the warm, lapping, incredibly soothing water. As heat radiated to his limbs and deep into his marrow, sweet and numbing, his screaming muscles calmed and so, too, did his fast-beating heart.

Alex had been right. A bath was just what he needed.

“I was right, was I not?”

Hawk jumped all of a foot, splashing them both, and feeling like an idiot. “How did you get in here?”

“Through the door. How else? I thought you might need my help. I could scrub your back.” There she was, again, that innocent three year old, coaxing him down a forbidden hill with no more than that wide-eyed look.

“Go away.”

“Why?”

The string of oaths Hawk released should have turned her face crimson and chased her from the room.

She grinned. “If you did not want me here, you should have locked the door.”

Hawk closed his eyes, because to see her was to desire her. “I did lock the door.”

At her ripple of laughter, he opened them.

“I know.” She allowed another salacious giggle to escape without a qualm. “The lock is broken. Everything in this house is.” She beamed as she approached the tub.

At the glitter of purpose in her eyes, Hawk reared back.

“Relax,” she said. “My intentions are honorable. I plan only to wash your hair, not to ravish you.”

Hawk sighed, inwardly, remembering ravishment with a great deal of wistful fondness, wishing it were possible, wondering what would happen if… “Be gentle with me,” he said, tired enough to allow the Good Ship Alexandra to stay her course, however fraught the waters with peril.

“Oh, I will.” Like warm, soft toffee, her words melted on her tongue, rich and honeyed with promise.

It was the most glorious experience of his life, Hawk thought, as Alexandra worked his hair in soft soothing strokes, with lots of rich lather, turning the process into a seductive dance.

With her talented soapy fingers, she stroked his neck, his shoulders, a way down his back, a longer way down his front, her slow, creamy, circling strokes teasing his senses and bringing him pleasure with just her touch.

Almost as good as sex, Hawk mused, though after a year and a half, he had about forgotten what that was like. Almost.

When he became aroused, Hawk waited with bated breath, to see if his erection would last, but it diminished, or he nodded off; it was difficult to tell which happened first.

Ultimately, he must really have slept, because he awoke to the sound of clipping, except that he was still in the tub, afraid to move, lest he lose an ear. “Are you cutting my hair?”

“I think so.”

“I would rather you were certain,” he said. “How did you go from washing to trimming in one step?”

“You must be exhausted, because you slept as if you had not slept in ages. I rinsed your hair and trimmed your beard a bit, but you never woke.”

“I did not get much sleep last night.”

“True. Bryceson?”

He was almost afraid to respond. Her very tone made him skittish. “Alexandra?”

“I rather prefer your hair like a lion’s mane, albeit a tamer lion. Would you mind if I only just trimmed that as well?”

Hawk released the breath he had been holding. “Fine.”

“The longer length fits with your beard, I think, and makes you look wickedly piratical. I expect you are too sleepy to plunder and pillage?”

Hawk bit back a new flurry of mirth. “I am sleepy. I do not think I have felt this comfortable or this relaxed since— Very.”

“Come, let me help you step from the tub, so I can help dry—”

“No, I will step out and dry myself off, after you return to your bedchamber.”

“But Bryce—”

Hawk pointed toward the door. “Out.”

“But we were children together. We swam together. Your scars cannot be that bad.”

“They are.”

Like a heartbroken pup, Alexandra turned away.

Hawk caught her hand to stop her as she passed. “Lexy, you have seen enough of my ugliness. Leave me some dignity. Please.”

Alex sighed and grudgingly recovered her spirits. “Well, if you express it that way, what choice do I have?” She shut the door quietly as she left, and Hawk breathed a heavy sigh.

Never having owned a nightshirt in his life, he prudently donned his dressing gown, thinking that medieval armor might prove worthless with the tenacious Alexandra. He grabbed his cane, snuffed the candles, and made his toe-stubbing way to the bed, cursing as he went.

“Serves you right,” Alex said, from somewhere across the room. “Am I to bathe in the dark, then?”

Hawk climbed into the far side of the bed and arranged the covers. “I humbly beg your forgiveness. Relight the candles, if you wish. The light will not disturb my sleep.”

He heard her exasperated huff, and when the candles were lit, she, too, wore only a dressing gown, and that, not well fastened. Hawk both raged and salivated as he watched her delightful breasts, better fit to spring free than in her seductive night rail the night before. And as she stepped into her dressing room, she gave him an amazing glimpse of one long and shapely leg, ankle to thigh, almost by accident.

Despite himself, Hawk imagined her dropping her dressing gown and stepping naked, about then, into the tub in which he had just bathed. If he had not vowed to set her free, he would go and join her, bedamned to his scars, her modesty, or anything else.

But he did not have the right, and no matter his bride’s reassurances, seeing each other through the gauze of wet garments at the age of ten, and seeing each other naked now, were nothing like.

Her innocence might remain intact, despite her denial to the contrary, but his certainly did not.

“I think you should come and wash my hair,” she called. “I washed yours.”

Hawksworth mentally applauded her tenacity and considered the tower room daybed with longing.

Accidentally, indeed.

He had been right, he mused, as he closed his eyes and drifted toward sleep, living again just might kill him. Then again, for the first time since the battle of Waterloo, living again felt rather… hopeful.

Hawk yawned. For a dead man, he had had a tiring day.

Alex was thoroughly disgruntled by the time she climbed into bed beside her husband. She was no expert, but she did not think that marriage beds were supposed to be tedious or dull as ditchwater. Neither did she believe that any of Hawk’s former mistresses had found him unconscious when they climbed into bed with him.

Though she was very much tempted to slip the bedcovers off and examine him at her leisure, she supposed that in fairness to his dignity, she should wait until she was invited, if the blasted day ever arrived.

She must, also, face the fact that Hawksworth had not chosen her as his bride in the truest sense, which might mean that he did not care to touch her, or could not bear to, which made her want to smack him as he slept, the paper-skulled jackanapes.

To be fair, however, ’twas only a little more than a year ago that he had been so badly wounded, he was taken for dead, and he could still be recovering his strength. She had caught the pain in his eyes too often to count, today, though he tried to hide it.

She had not seen the damage to his leg, not yet, at any rate, but the limb might very well be festering still. Leg wounds often did.

When all was said and done, however, even though she was not his choice, Hawksworth was her first and only choice. In addition, they were already married—till death do them part. But life could seem a very long time, if one was feeling neglected and… needy.

If Hawksworth did not plan to seduce her, then, perhaps, she should try and seduce him.

If only she knew how.

She supposed there were worse schemes than to seduce one’s own husband. Though seduction seemed too good for him, considering his reason for marrying her, and the fact that he waited so blasted long to let her know he lived. Punishment seemed a better choice.

Just thinking about his offenses made her angry all over again. And sad, and hurt, and… devil it, she wanted him to know how much he hurt her. She wanted him to feel her pain.

What she should do, Alex thought, turning yet again in her formerly comfortable bed, was make him worship her, as she had always worshipped him, to the point that she might pay him back in kind.

Let him ache to have her and see her walk away.

To do that, she would have to make him think she wanted him, until he wanted her as desperately. Then, when she was certain of his adoration, she could tell him of her cold-hearted plan to even the score between them. Better yet, she would get one of her friends, or his, to do the telling.

Let him see how that felt.

Then she could walk away.

NINE

ALEX SAT UP IN THE BED, for it seemed, at once, obvious and clear, that only after Hawk understood how much he had hurt her would they be free to go forward with their marriage on an equal footing. In which case, seducing him just might turn out to be the smartest plan she had ever hatched… and she had hatched several noteworthy schemes in her time.

She would do it, she thought, as she lay back against her pillows. As soon as she figured out how one went about conducting a seduction, she would begin a captivating campaign.

Alex smiled in the darkness, wishing she knew who she could ask about seductions in general.

When Chesterfield had embraced and kissed her, sometimes at length, he would tremble and close his eyes, as if against pain, and tell her he wanted her. When she questioned him, he promised after their wedding, he would teach her everything about married love, to set her as afire for him as he was for her.

If she had married him yesterday, she might now be receiving her second lesson.

Alexandra knew from her lack of regret she must be in a bad way, for she did not pine for Chesterfield or his lessons. No, she had rather lie needy beside Hawksworth till the end of her days, than be set afire in Chesterfield’s arms even once.

She rolled to her side to regard her husband, his marred but no less striking features lit by the moon. He may no longer be perfect of face, but no woman capable of drawing breath would be able to resist his air of masculine danger and denied vulnerability. Especially not she, who had been unable to resist him at his arrogant worst, or best, however one considered it.

Then again, had there not always been something of a hurt-boy vulnerability about him, which had simply risen to prominence with his scars from the war?

Lord, had nothing changed? She loved him. She wanted to protect him, to heal his hurts.

She desired him.

His topaz eyes still shone more than the jewels themselves, especially when he gazed at her pensively or furiously, as if he wanted nothing more than to set her over his knee—the delicious way he appeared when she said she would live in sin with Chesterfield.

Alex shivered.

At the inn along the way, when Bryce left her to go upstairs and refresh himself, she noticed he was as small of waist, as broad of shoulders, and as firm of bottom as ever—good form for a man, in her estimation. And in his black brocade dressing gown tonight, which formidable sight stole her breath, as he snuffed the candle, she could not help think him the most tantalizing rogue she ever hoped to make her own.

She tried to touch his leg with her foot, just then, but she could not quite reach. Sliding surreptitiously closer, so as not to awaken him, she stretched and tried again, but encountered his dressing gown.

Moving closer still, Alex slid her toes beneath the brocade silk and touched his bare foot.

He stirred.

She stilled, her heart beating as fast as a careening carriage.

After a minute, she moved her seeking foot further upward, a bit past his ankle and toward his calf.

Bryce moaned. Alex warmed. This could work.

Afraid to go further, lest she rouse the self-proclaimed beast, she was cheered nonetheless by the possibility of seduction as a form of vengeance, which came very near—in her mind—to eating one’s sweetmeats and keeping them, too.

With a smile on her lips, Alex slipped as near Bryce as she dared, without disturbing him, to savor the simple joy of sleeping beside the man she loved.

She longed for him to hold her; again, as he did in the carriage, but perhaps her forwardness put him off. Perhaps he had rather be the seducer. It was something to think about, she supposed, perhaps.

Right now, however, unable to resist temptation, Alex reached over to place her hand against his chest, atop the blanket.

To her surprise, at the contact, Bryce swept her into his arms, clasped her tight and spoke her name.

With a grin of triumph, heart singing, head tucked beneath his chin, top to tail against various and sundry parts of his firm torso, Alexandra reveled in her unforgettable rogue’s possessive embrace.

Tears filled her eyes for all her years of missing him and for having him back, beyond all imagining. And when she calmed and emotion turned to joy, Alex realized a little something about seduction. It must have to do with figuring out what those various and interesting parts were for and why one of them seemed actually to be pulsing.

Hawk woke to the light of bright morning, shocked and erect, and clutching a handful of titillating breast. Alexandra’s knee was positioned against his naked and vulnerable groin, her hand riding dangerously low inside his dressing gown.

More than anything, he wanted to explore the possibilities, but he had not the right, if he planned to let her go, which he must. Besides, since his bride was unused to having a man in her bed—please, God—he was afraid that if he took to exploring, he might surprise her into moving her knee a little too hard and a bit too fast, which could injure him the worse.

While he pondered his precarious situation, Hawk noticed, between the hanks of hair in her face, that Alex was watching him. “Do not move your knee,” he said, softly, so as not to startle her. But she must have realized just where it rested, because she jumped and did exactly what he tried to avoid.

“Oomph. Ouch! Alex, be careful.”

Like a spring-wound toy, she shot up and knelt over him. “Bryce, I am sorry.” She tugged on the bedcovers to pull them down. “Did I hurt your leg? Let me see.”

Hawk fought for his modesty, and won, barely. “My leg is fine.”

“Are you certain? Because if it is festering, and I bumped it…”

“It is not festering, but fully healed and pain-free at the moment.”

Alex released her breath and lay back down beside him. “Thank God.”

Hawk shuddered at the throbbing soreness in his nether regions. “They should have put you in the bible—pestilence, flood, famine, and Alexandra Huntington.”

With a proud, man-slaying smile, his bride turned to face him across the pillow. “Make that, pestilence, flood, famine, and Alexandra Wakefield, thank you very much.”

“Sorry, I forgot.”

“You forgot?” Again, she shot up… and shoved him from the bed.

Caught off guard, Hawk grasped the blankets and landed with a curse.

Alex rose and stepped right over him. “I am determined to cure you of that.”

“Of what?” he snapped, closing his dressing gown beneath the blankets, and trying not to stare at her in that appallingly diaphanous night rail.

“Of forgetting that I am your wife.”

“Oh.” Giving up the fight, Hawk pillowed his head in his hands and crossed his ankles, while his unrepentant bride fluffed her hair into a billowy curtain of cinnamon silk and stretched like a svelte and contented feline.

Like a practiced coquette, mischief in her glance, she watched him as she untied her bodice ribbons, not entirely unaware that the light of morning, behind her, turned her gown to air, and revealed every scintillating freckle on her lush and feminine form.

Hawk became aroused just watching, another very good sign, indeed.

He used to worry that the London doctor he visited when he returned to England was offering hope where only despair existed, but the medical man had been right after all. Time and rest did help. Last night had been his best night’s sleep in ages, entangled with Alex, as it were, and this morning, he felt new again. Not that he should be making a practice of such entanglements in the future, but the novelty of his sexual awakening was worth the risk.

Alex arched a wry brow. “With no more than the hint of a smile lighting your eyes, you still remind me of the proverbial cat that ate the cream,” she said. “But you should be hanging your head in shame for forgetting that I am your wife and a woman grown.”

Hawk quirked a brow. “You may safely assume that your womanhood has been made abundantly clear to me at this juncture.”

She tried to kick off his covers, but Hawk caught her foot and stroked her shapely ankle, until she closed her eyes and sighed.

When he made to slide his hand higher, she squeaked in surprise and Hawk let her go, knowing it was best, but before he realized what she was about, she succeeded in uncovering him.

Her turn to quirk a brow as she regarded the evidence of his manhood, as stark as her womanhood, though better covered. “Care to explain that?” she asked, with feminine satisfaction, of the arousal raising his dressing gown. “It used to happen to Judson all the time. Oh, but… where did it go?”

Shot with possessive fury, Hawk sat up. “You distracted me with your nonsensical chatter about your beef-witted suitor. I would have expected him to teach you what you wanted to know; though I am pleased I overestimated him.” His harsh tone surprised even Hawk, but before he could apologize, he saw that Alex’s eyes were no longer bright with mischief, but glistening with tears.

Even as she stepped away, Hawk wanted to call his words back. “Devil take it!” Hurting her had not been his intention. “Alex, I did not mean—”

A stifled sob escaped her as she ran.

“Wait, come back.” Hawk could not stand quick enough to stop her, before her dressing room door shut with finality.

Alex paced, attempting, at the same time, to catch her breath. What had just happened? What did Hawksworth mean, touching her ankle, her leg, in the way she would allow only a husband, only him to do, then insinuating that she might have permitted Chesterfield such liberties before their marriage.

She leaned against the door separating them and closed her eyes, tears slipping beneath her lashes, despite her attempt to stem the flow, despite her fury at herself for allowing them.

Her breasts ached and that place between her legs pulsed. There, she wanted Hawksworth, with a need, nay a desperation, the likes of which she had not experienced with Chesterfield, or anyone.

Had Bryce continued touching her, she suspected what might have happened had been the something wonderful Chesterfield enigmatically promised, but she sensed only Bryce could deliver.

After what he had just implied, however, how could she get close enough again to find out?

Alex turned and touched her brow to the door. “Why did you say such a horrid thing,” she asked, smacking her palm against the shuddering portal as if it were her stubborn husband’s chest. “Why?”

“Because I am a weak, jealous bastard,” Hawk said as faintly as her words had come to him. He closed his eyes, regret lancing him for causing her pain once more.

Why had he said it? Hawk wondered. Anger? Jealousy? Because he could not make love to her. Because if he consummated their marriage, he would bind her to him, without hope for her future, damn it to bloody hell.

She also deserved better than his abuse, which he had not intended.

He should grant her an immediate annulment and leave Huntington Lodge without looking back. He was too jaded for such an innocent. And still, he wanted to go to her, now, this minute, apologize until she granted him forgiveness, except that he must stand before he could take a step to do anything more.

Bracing himself against the agony of rising, Hawk realized that he deserved all the wretchedness God saw fit to give him, so he closed his eyes and pulled himself upright, be damned to the pain.

After anguish, at length, passed, he released his breath and opened his eyes… only to find Alexandra on the opposite side of the bed, horror etching her features and paling her skin to flour paste. “Lexy, forgive me. I can be a blackguard, sometimes.”

“You said you were free of pain, but in pushing you down, I hurt you by making you rise again.”

“Not as badly as I hurt you.”

“You move always with some difficulty; I noticed that. But rising from so far must be—”

“Getting easier by the day. Alex, listen. About my unforgivable insinuation—”

“I am sorry I pushed you. I meant only to be playful.” Alex lowered herself to sit on the bed, keeping her back to him.

“I wish I could say the same.” Hawk came around to sit beside her. He tried to take her hand, though it turned out that he ended up fighting her for it and lost. “Damn it, will you not hear me out?”

She looked him full in the face. “Not now. Please, I do not wish to speak of it, right now.”

“So be it, then. But later, you will hear what I have to say, if I have to tie you to the bed.”

With the image his promise engendered, life shot through Hawk once more, and he cursed his fickle body as he rose.

“Breakfast in half an hour, your grace,” Myerson called from the dressing room.

“Just a minute, man.” Hawk handed Alex a more modest dressing gown, and once she donned it, he called his valet into the room. “Since I no longer have bachelor quarters, or even a separate bedchamber, I will not require your services as valet for the nonce, but I do believe if it is agreeable to you that her grace has tasks you might perform about the house.” He looked to Alex for confirmation.

She had composed herself admirably. “Thank you, Hawksworth. Yes, Myerson, we very much need your services, if you do not mind. Meet me in the kitchen in an hour and I will go over your new duties. Until then, and if you have already broken your fast, you may see if Mrs. Parker can use your help.”

“Very good, your grace.”

After Myerson left, Alexandra went wordlessly into her dressing room, shutting the door.

Hawk dressed and made his way downstairs. Alex needed time to compose herself, and he required even more time to dislodge his very big foot from his very big mouth.

As he entered the breakfast room, conversation came to an abrupt, uncomfortable halt.

Hawk took the empty chair beside his uncle. “Good morning.” He nodded and took to buttering a piece of toast, aware he was cross as a bear. “Do not stop talking on my account,” he said, assuming that they must have been discussing his disfigurement, or his overlong absence, or any number of subjects for which he was heartily embarrassed.

“Come now,” he said. “We are family. I am certain you must have questions that have gone unanswered for far too long. Would you not rather ask than conjecture?”

To Claudia’s exclamation and Hildegarde’s gasp, a hedgehog ran from beneath the table. Then Beatrix crawled out from beneath and popped up between them. “I have a question, Uncle Bryce.”

“Excuse me,” he interrupted, “but did I just see a hedgehog cross the room?”

“That’s Nanny.” Beatrix, the unrepentant eavesdropper, came around to climb on his lap. “Do not worry, she will be back.”

“Nanny?” Hawk asked.

Giff chuckled. “Bea wanted to give her hedgehog a name with hog in it, but all she could think of was Hogmanay, except that Bea calls it Hogmananny, so that’s what she named her hedgehog.”

“Nanny, for short,” Hawk said. “Good name, Bumble Bea. I approve. Have you shown Nanny to your cousins?”

Bea shook her head. “Aunt Bree says Damon and Rafe have a cat and a dog both, so they will not care for her.”

“Ah, but I think they will. Hedgehogs are such unique pets, after all.”

“Really?” Beatrix beamed, picked up the toast Hawk had just buttered, and took a bite. “When can we move back to the London house, so I can show them?”

Hawk accepted a replacement for his toast from Hildegarde. “Thank you, Aunt,” he said, taking a bite to stake his claim. “Why do we not wait, Bumble Bea, until Alexandra joins us before I tell you how things stand with my title and estate.”

“You mean you have not even told her yet?” the wide-eyed child asked. “Take care or you will make her cry again.”

“Make her… cry? What are you talking about?” Could Bea have heard them earlier?

The child of seven-going-on-forty gave a long-suffering sigh. “Before you died—or we thought you did—you wrote to Aunt Sabrina, Damon, and Rafferty’s Mama, remember? They were staying with us then?”

Why did everyone suppose that he had forgotten the members of his family while he was away? “I remember.”

“You did not write a letter to Alex when you were dying, or even think of her at the last, and that made her cry.”

“Devil take it.” Hawk rose, taking Beatrix with him, and in silence he deposited her in his chair and exited the breakfast room.

Halfway across the hall, he saw Alex coming down the stairs and waited for her at the bottom. “Alexandra, we need to talk.”

TEN

‘NO, BRYCESON, I told you, I am not ready to talk.”

“This is not about what happened earlier,” Hawk said. “This is something I insist we settle, something I can at least explain.” He took his stubborn wife’s arm and urged her into the library.

“What is it? What is wrong?”

Hawk possessed himself of her hand. Surprisingly callused, it was small and pale, as opposed to her spirit, which shone bright and strong. “I am concerned by something Beatrix said.”

“If you let everything Bea says bother you, you will be disquieted for the rest of your days.”

“You cried when I wrote to Sabrina, before I supposedly died, because I did not write to you? Is that true?”

Alexandra turned to gaze out the window, except that she did not see the rolling lawn gone to seed, or the home wood overtaken by bracken, but her own life, as she had viewed it the day that letter came, stretching barren and pointless before her, without Bryceson in it.

“I was emotional, devastated, because I thought I—I thought you had died.” She shivered.

Hawk placed his cane on a nearby chair and slipped his hands down her arms to chafe and warm them. “You should have worn a shawl,” he said. “This place is as drafty as a dovecote.”

Alex closed her eyes, immersing herself in his nearness, and in his touch.

“I wrote to you first,” he said, from close behind, absently stroking her arms. “Or I began to, but I… I feared that I would expire at any moment, and I knew that Sabrina’s very life depended upon the arrangements I had made for her. So I put your letter aside, unfinished, to write hers, before it was too late.”

Hawk gazed into the past, at that smoke-hazed, bloody day, the pain and the horror of the Waterloo battlefield, of dead friends and dying comrades. Of lying atop the heap. He saw the blood in his eyes, tasted it in his mouth, and smelled it clogging his nostrils.

He remembered well the stench of death, especially his own.

In many ways, he had died that day, or a part of him had, anyway… until he beheld Alex from the back of that church, and had begun to come back to life, whether he wanted to or not, minute by minute, piece by lost and broken piece.

“Because I was incapable of writing myself,” he said, “an old woman at the Waterloo Inn wrote my final words for me. When I finished dictating Sabrina’s letter, I had no strength left, nor did I wish to share with a stranger what I could not seem to find the correct words to express to you. The last I remember, I was being excruciatingly loaded onto a dray for a trip to the country. Your letter was never finished, Alex, and I regret that more than I can say.”

“Where is it?” she asked, not turning from the window, almost as if she did not believe him.

“I never saw it again,” he admitted. “I lay delirious for weeks, in and out of my mind, despondent for months. Once I returned to London, I looked for your letter among the few meager belongings left to me, but it had disappeared.”

“I am sorry,” she said. “I would have liked to receive it, even half written. I wish someone had sent it. I would have been comforted to know that you thought of me at all, especially after the way we parted.” Her sorrow broke in a sob for their dreadful parting, for his unfinished letter, and for his hurtful words of that morning.

Hawk put his arms around her from behind, placing a hand flat against her abdomen, feeling a need to mark her intimately as his, and pulled her close.

Her head rested against his coat-front, his cheek against her hair. He must give her this much, at least, he thought. She deserved some truth. “If not for thinking of you, Lexy, I do not believe I would have survived.”

She turned in his arms then, her wide eyes bright. “That is perhaps the nicest thing you have ever said to me.”

“In that case, I should be horsewhipped.” The temptation to kiss her was strong, stronger than Hawk could resist.

“Your grace.”

They pulled apart.

“Your pardon,” Myerson said, red-faced, when he saw what he had interrupted. He held forth a silver salver with a visitor’s card upon it.

“Thank you.” Hawk took the card, read it, cursed inwardly, firmed his lips, and handed it to his wife. “Myerson, is the, ah, gentleman in question still waiting?”

“Viscount Chesterfield is in the drawing room, your grace, but he is not asking to see you. He wishes to see her grace. He was very specific about that.”

“I am certain he was. Thank you. You may go. Alexandra,” Hawk said, after the retainer had shut the door. “I shall leave you to greet your lover in private.”

“No,” Alex said.

Hawk stopped and turned, releasing his breath, clutching at hope. “Am I to understand that you do not wish to see Chesterfield?”

“No. Yes. I wish—I must speak with him.” She bit her lip.

Hawk shuttered his eyes and closed his expression; he knew he was doing it, but he could not seem to stop.

“I owe Judson a great deal,” Alex said, her explanation more accurate than she would wish.

“Then see him, you shall.” Hawk bowed. “Good morning to you, Madam.”

Chesterfield appeared astonished when Alex entered the drawing room, though he did not take a step toward her, for which she was grateful. “I did not think he would let you see me,” he said.

Alex remained by the door. “I am so very sorry about our wedding.”

Judson firmed his lips, much as Bryce had just done. “What happened was not your fault.”

“I deserve your anger and more,” Alex said. “Five thousand pounds you gave me in exchange for my promise to wed you, but I failed to fulfill my part of our bargain, and I cannot repay you. Not yet, at any rate.”

“Why do you not let Hawksworth worry about repayment?”

“I do not want him to know about the money, Judson, please. He would be angry that I took it. Let me repay you, myself, in time?”

“For once in his charmed life, let Hawksworth face his responsibilities. Everything has always come so bloody easy to the rogue. Looks, money, a title, women, all handed to him on a gilded platter.”

“You are not being fair. Hawksworth fought for his country and suffered mightily for its cause. His looks are altered irreparably; his title and wealth have gone to another.”

“But as for women, he ended with the best.” Chesterfield bit off a curse. “You understand do you not, Alexandra, that he set off to play at war and left you to carry his burdens? That is why he was shocked out of countenance and damned near broken. He discovered that war was not a devilishly entertaining sport or particularly glorious, either.”

Chesterfield’s words resembled her own often-uncharitable thoughts after Hawksworth first left. “No, there you are wrong. Do not be angry with him.”

“I have lost my bride and my future, yet you do not want me to be angry with the man who took them from me.”

“You do not love me, Judson. You wanted a mature wife, and I wanted a secure future for my family. No matter what has passed between us, it is finished now. Let us at least be honest with each other.”

Chesterfield nodded. “So be it.” He turned to the window. “You are in alt, I take it, that your true love has returned from the dead?”

True as the words were, Alex did not appreciate the way Chesterfield sullied the sentiment with his caustic tone. “Hawksworth is well liked by everyone,” she said. “Why do you dislike him so?”

“For that reason, I suppose. Because everyone else likes and accepts him, without question, while I see him as a spoiled boy, who takes and takes, but never learned to give. The very same reason he despises me. I see him as he really is. Selfish.”

Alex had learned long ago that Hawksworth disdained Chesterfield as much as Chesterfield disdained her husband, and where they were concerned, emotions ran high and animosity had festered too long to give credence to much one said of the other. But in her mind, it all boiled down to one thing. “You have always been jealous of Bryce, have you not?”

Chesterfield gave her a half-smile and shook his head, almost in wonder. “Yes, but that does not change the facts.”

“No, but it does color them. Let us be friends. Please.”

“The three of us? No. But I will not tell Hawksworth about the money, yet. That is as friendly as I can be right now.”

“Thank you. I will repay you before you feel the need to tell him. Why are you here? Is there something that I can do for you?”

Chesterfield cursed again, and sighed, as if in resignation. “I came to make certain you were all right. You had not come around by the time he took you away the other day, and I was worried about you.”

“I am fine, but I was in shock then, I think. Anybody would be.”

He stepped toward her. “Anybody, except you, my strong one.”

Alex stepped back. “Can we be friends?”

“If you find yourself in need of a friend, I would be a fool to apply for the position.”

Alex pulled her jilted bridegroom away from the door, where someone might hear them, and toward the center of the room. “I do need a friend, Judson. I need one badly. I need help.”

Chesterfield stepped closer and took her hand. “Tell me what I can do.”

“I need to stage a seduction and I do not have the least idea how, nor do I know anyone else I can ask.”

At the reverberating slam of the door, Claudia stepped from behind the drawing room curtains with a huff of frustration.

Alex exclaimed in surprise as she did.

“Drat,” Claude said. “I thought you had both left.” The seventeen-year old grinned. “You certainly set fire to his tail with that request.”

“You were listening,” Alex charged, partly in accusation, partly in admonishment, but mostly to hide her mortification. “You are worse than your sister.”

“I adore Chesterfield. He is my destiny. Of course I was listening, though I do wish he did not seem so broken by the loss of you. Do you not think that fate tore the two of you apart at the very last moment, so that I may still have him?”

“I think Hawksworth’s excellent recuperative powers were responsible, not to mention the little matter of our previous marriage.”

“Still I wish Chesterfield had been willing to discuss seduction,” Claude said dreamily. “I would dearly have liked to know how he would go about one.” Her gaze changed from otherworldly to worldly in a questioning blink. “Why do you need to seduce Uncle Bryce, anyway? I thought he was a master of seduction.”

“Who in the world told you that? Never mind, I do not wish to know.”

Claude giggled. “Do you want to know what I think you should do to seduce him?”

“Good Lord, no.” Alex lowered herself to the settee and covered her face with her hands, doubly chagrined. But as Claude sat beside her, she regarded the sagacious teen with a curious respect. “Claudia Jamieson, what do you know about seduction, anyway?”

“Not nearly as much as I would like, but— Does this mean that you are still untouched?”

“Claudia, really.”

“Oh, all right. I have often found that words alone can be very… stirring in the right circumstances. I was thinking you could tell Uncle Bryce that I have begun to ask some, er, rather embarrassing questions, which you, in your untouched state, cannot answer.”

“What good will that do?”

“Then you are untouched.”

“Claude.”

“Sorry.” The girl sighed in resignation. “Perhaps, if you can get Uncle Bryce to explain all the things every young woman wants, or at least needs, to know about dealing with the male of the species, you can, ah, ask a few more leading questions. You could even require a demonstration, which might, er, stimulate… things, enough to let nature take its proper course.”

“You devious little brat. Shame on you.” Alex grinned. “But you already sound knowledgeable. What do you know?”

“Only what I have garnered from watching the horses.”

“But horses are nothing like…” Alex regarded Hawk’s niece rather warily. “Of course they are not.”

“I do think they must be. I swam once with the Cruikshank boy—you remember little Harold—and everything on him, seemed a teeny, tiny version of, er, those things, on a male horse.”

Alex remembered Hawksworth as a child, though the word small had not seemed to apply even then. Then there was that growing something prodding her in the night, and standing as if at attention beneath his dressing gown this morning, which did seem to be very much like…

So much became clear to Alex of a sudden that she gasped. “But a man cannot possibly grow as long as a horse?”

“Well how the blazes would I know?” Claude spoke with utter disgust for her ignorance. “I hoped you would tell me.”

That absurdity sent Alex into peels of laughter.

“However long it might become,” the precocious teen said, giggling as well. “I would not know what in Hades to do with it, if it were dancing before my eyes.”

Alex composed herself as she straightened the pleats in her skirt. “I shall tell you when you are older,” she said, which set off a further bout of merriment between them. “Gad, what an inappropriate conversation.”

“Outrageous,” Claude agreed. “But nothing half so scandalous as the five thousand pounds you accepted from Chesterfield. How could you Alex? And what in heaven’s name did you use it for?”

Alex sat straighter. “My reason is not your concern. That I took it, and why, is between me and Chesterfield.”

Claudia narrowed her eyes and turned a becoming shade of envy-green. “Besides your promise, were you forced to give Judson anything else in exchange?”

“In exchange for what, pray tell?”

“Uncle Bryce!”

ELEVEN

ALEX AND CLAUDIA exclaimed in shock as Hawk walked in on their conversation about the money that Alex owed Judson. Claudia shot to her feet. “In exchange for, ah, dancing lessons,” Claude said.

Alex released the breath she had been holding.

Hawk’s jaw set and he leaned more heavily on his cane.

“I mean, you know, how to act when one dances. Chesterfield taught Alex,” Claude said. “And she was supposed to teach me—for when a man asks me to dance, if ever one does. I need to learn everything, and not just about dancing. I have just been asking questions, which Alex has been trying, and failing, to answer. Is that Bea calling?” Claude curtseyed and ran from the room.

“What was that about?” Hawk asked, seating himself opposite Alex.

“She has been asking questions is all, just as she said, things a young woman is curious about, and she was embarrassed that you walked in on us.”

“I see. I see, also, that your swain has left.”

“Do not mock him. Chesterfield was here because he was worried about me. Please remember that he would have rescued everyone in this house by marrying me, which he was very well aware of, and willing to do, anyway. If you had not survived, he would have made me a good husband, as I would have made him a good wife.”

“But I did survive.”

“Yes you did.”

“I am sorry, Alex, not so much for surviving as for every selfish thing I have ever done or said to you, including today, especially today.” Hawk cringed. “Perhaps I should apologize in advance for my every half-witted remark or action of the future as well.”

Alex rose and went to look out the window. “Do you feature a ride about the grounds this morning, to view the property?”

“First, you must forgive me, then you must break your fast, then we will take that ride.”

“You are right. I should eat something.”

Hawk sighed. “Eat then, after which we can tour the estate. He hooked his cane on his left arm, and took her on his right. They went to the kitchen, where their appearance together seemed to cheer the servants.

Hawk met Mrs. Parker, who served as both cook and housekeeper.

“Welcome home, your grace.” The woman bobbed a curtsey.

Hawk accepted a cup of coffee while Alex took toast and tea. “Have you spoken to your solicitor about your cousin and heir?” she asked. “The last I saw, Baxter was carrying on and spending money as if he might run through your fortune in a fortnight.”

“I did speak to my solicitor, but not to my father’s, who is the man that matters. My own agrees with you, however, that Baxter is like to squander it all. At least there is still Hawksridge. As far as the estate and title reverting to me, all possible petitions have been filed. It simply remains for them to be approved, signed and sealed, which, as you know, could take years, especially with my father’s solicitor having passed away as well, and his heir off in Scotland at the moment. Meanwhile, Baxter, himself, seems to be gallivanting in the American colonies.”

“Let us hope he gets stranded there.” Alex sipped her tea. “We are no worse off than we were.” Her expression softened when she regarded him, almost in wonder, as if seeing him for the first time, and incredibly happy about it, despite his earlier thoughtlessness. “We are, in fact, a great deal better off than we have been for some time.”

Hawk remained silent, afraid she was wrong and would soon realize it. That he had saved her from a dire fate and thwarted Chesterfield into the bargain, always a pleasure, was the best that had come of his return. What he feared most was that they had not even imagined the worst. “Ready for that ride?”

Alex rode Buttercup, a sorrel mare she had raised, herself, which served double-duty on the home farm. Since Hawk’s Arabian now belonged to Baxter, Hawk rode one of the field horses, Bumptious, a robust, light bay with three white stockings. A sad day for the horse set. If anyone from Tattersall’s saw him, Hawk thought, he would be forced to resign his membership in the Jockey Club.

Nevertheless, it was a fine, dry day for a ride, almost sunny, in fact. Bright enough for him to spot every cracked and broken window. Clear enough to see the gothic molding on the east tower as it fell to earth with a resounding crash, narrowly missing a mongrel that dashed away squealing, tail between its legs.

Once upon a young and selfish time, Hawk mused, he might have dashed away, himself, from this primitive and destitute situation in which he found himself—in name, in holdings, even in his own physical aspect.

Yet he could not look at Alex without realizing how very fortunate he would be, despite present circumstances, if he were worthy of her. In his weaker moments, Hawk wished to the devil that he had not sworn on his honor as a gentleman to set her free. But he had, and he must. He would not let her down this time, as he had let them all down when he abandoned them. He would not.

Hawk returned his attention to a perusal of the estate and pondered the ways and means by which it could be improved. For the safety of his family, the house itself needed immediate attention.

Given the clarity of the day, the damage seemed even worse. Paint peeled from molding, where molding existed. Bricks lay scattered on the ground, having fallen away in clusters. The manse looked as if a giant beast had gnawed upon it, taking several large bites from its corners.

As they rode, they saw deer feeding in flower gardens and wild ducks swimming in the huge bowl of a broken fountain. Ivy crawled along every surface of the house, and in some places, it had made its way inside.

At the bottom of the drive, near the gate, the sky shone bright upon the surprising sight of Alexandra’s Aunt Hildy leaving the abandoned gatehouse in the most furtive of manners.

Without words or conscious thought, he and Alex slowed their mounts and stepped within the trees, until Hildy passed. When they made to exit their cover, there came his uncle Gifford, out the same door, so over-easy in his gait and manner that he, too, caused suspicion.

As one, Hawk and Alex backed their mounts into the trees and waited for Giff to pass, as well, whistling, of all things.

Hawk saw his surprise reflected in Alex’s expression. “What do you make of that?” she asked.

“Ah, I had rather not conjecture.”

Her eyes widened before she shook her head, dismissing whatever notion entered it, and Hawk wordlessly followed her onto the drive.

Huntington tenants, he found, were few, but those in residence were hard workers, respectful, and protective of their mistress. Clearly, they adored Alex. Of him, however, they seemed to be reserving judgment, though most had the mistaken notion that he was some kind of war hero—another of Alexandra’s tales, Hawk feared.

Still most tenants had suggestions as to how he could alleviate his wife’s burdens by taking them over as soon as may be, and they were absolutely right.

“Perhaps when we get back to the house, you will allow me to go over the accounts,” Hawk said. “I may be able to find ways to improve the property and increase its yield.”

“I neither know how, nor do I have the time, to keep accounts, so there are no books to look over.”

“But, Alex, you must.”

“My father never did.”

“Which is precisely why the Lodge and estate are near ruin and have lost so much money.”

“Well, there is no money now to lose,” she snapped as she turned her horse. “So keeping books matters not a whit.”

“Alex, wait.”

She slowed her mount. “Perhaps you think you can do a better job than I have?”

Hawk slowed as well, and they trod along side by side. “Only in keeping accounts,” he said. “Those I will do better, for you never did them at all. But for the rest, given your obvious monetary restrictions, I am in awe of your accomplishments.”

Alex reined in her mare to overlook the property at the estate’s highest vantage point.

Hawk pulled up beside her. “You deserve commendation with thanks.”

Alex nodded, grudgingly acknowledging the compliment.

“There, down at the home farm,” Hawk said, “who are those workers in the field?”

“Uncle Giff is collecting the last of the summer vegetables, Claudia and Beatrix are weeding.”

“Good Lord. By themselves?”

“Of course not.”

“Thank God.”

“Aunt Hildegarde is catching the winged and multi-legged insects that eat the vegetation, and Nanny is helping by eating them.”

Hawk opened his mouth, but no words came forth.

Alex laughed. “They do not usually work alone. I am generally there working beside them.”

Bryce regarded her, as if she had turned green. “What have I done to you?”

“You have done nothing. I am grateful for our present situation.”

“Grateful?”

“To the lad who rescued you.”

“Ah, Gaston. A good lad, if a bit misguided.”

“How old is he?”

“Ten now, I think.”

“A baby? Robbing corpses?”

“A baby trying to survive. As are we all. Along that line, I have been thinking that besides keeping the accounts and managing the estate, I can also do most of the required repairs to the buildings, inside and out, I believe.”

“What we really need,” Alex said, regarding him from the corners of her unexpectedly mischievous eyes, “is someone to repair the roof.”

Hawk’s bark very nearly resembled mirth. “Roof climbing is out, at least for the moment. And do not say that you will do it, yourself, for I will not allow it.”

“Actually Beatrix is desirous of that position, the monkey.”

“Absolutely not.”

“My exact words. For the nonce, then, all leaks must simply… leak.”

Bryce nodded. “Unfortunately. How are we set for funds, Alex? Is there any money at all?”

This would be a good time, Alex thought, to tell Bryceson that she still had more than three hundred pounds left from the five thousand she had accepted from Chesterfield… under false pretenses, as it turned out. But she could not, for the revelation was not entirely hers to own, not to mention how angry Bryce would be.

“We have some little money,” she said. “With the planting, and the few animals we keep, we will not starve.”

Hawk frowned. He should have done better by them all. “I will write to Gideon this very day, to ask him to put in a good word for my petition with the Prince Regent, as regards the return of my title and property.”

“What about your military pay?” Alex asked. “Is there any of that left?”

“I can contribute the grand sum of one hundred thirty-seven pounds, two shillings, and three. Rich, are we not?”

Alex laughed. “We are, indeed. And since we are, it is time Claudia had her season. What better time than now, for we can also reintroduce you to society.”

Hawk shook his head. “I hate the thought of all that blasted society fuss.”

“Do you? When women were swooning at your feet, I thought you rather enjoyed the bustle and fuss.”

Hawk quirked a brow. “You used to loathe it.”

“I guess we have switched places, then.”

The words seemed to steal the very air from Hawk’s lungs. “Let us put Claude’s season off for a year,” he said. “Until the spring, at least, so I can recover my ability to walk without the cane.”

Of a sudden, Alex understood, because she remembered Hawk’s lifelong yearning for perfection, acceptance, approval, what have you. But understanding his need to recover his steady gait did not alter the facts. “A season will cost too much in the spring. Claudia would need a larger and grander wardrobe then. Besides, she is very nearly a spinster already.”

“Claude is a baby, certainly no spinster. And you will need a proper wardrobe, as well.”

“My bride clothes should suffice.”

Thunder glanced off Hawk’s dark, furrowed brow. “Purchased by Chesterfield? I think not.”

“I purchased some things, myself.”

“Good. You will discard everything Chesterfield purchased and wear only what you chose and paid for.

“Fine, then, I shall go about London in my corset and stockings.”

Hawk was struck dumb by the image of Alex striding down St. James’s Street in nothing but her corset and stockings.

When she raised a brow, he recalled the point of their conversation. “No season,” he said. “Not this year. We cannot afford one.”

“I have been saving for this, Bryce. I believe that Claude’s season is among the necessities we must afford.”

“At the best, we might be able to purchase her a new wardrobe, since you already have your blasted bride clothes—every item of which I despise for their purchaser. But dressed like this, I am barely fit for a gentleman farmer, never mind escorting my niece about the marriage mart.”

“In regards to your clothes…”

“I told you,” Hawk said. “These are all I have.”

“But the ones you left behind may have been relegated to a trunk at Hawksridge. If Baxter kept any of your old retainers, one of them might be loyal enough to your family to search the attics for you.”

“Even if my clothes were returned to me, we do not have the money to fire Claude off properly, I tell you. The entire family can hardly be accommodated at Stephen’s Hotel, and we absolutely do not have the blunt to take a house in town, even for so short a season.”

“Let us just see what time brings,” Alex said, enigmatically, even then turning Buttercup toward Hawksridge.

Shaking his head, sure there was some salient point he was missing, Bryce turned his plodding beast in the same bloody direction.

~   ~   ~

HERE ALEX THOUGHT, as they made their way along the poplar lined drive of Hawk’s stately family seat, the lawns were manicured and greening nicely, though the drive lacked that certain flair brought on by foot-high weeds.

As far back as she could remember the situation had always been thus. Hawksridge had shone bright where Huntington Lodge appeared tarnished.

In the opposite manner, however, her own dear father had always been everything a loving and doting parent should be, while Hawksworth’s critical, demanding sire had been a man given to furious wrath. Though she did not think that Hawk feared his father’s wrath as much as his rejection.

They stopped beside the rose garden when Leggins, the old head gardener, straightened and tipped his hat. “Blimey,” the grizzled man said, scratching his head as he regarded Bryceson. “Blimey, Guv, you ain’t dead.”

“Indeed not,” Bryce said, nearly smiling. “I do not suppose your new master is to home?”

“He is, your grace.”

“There is a pleasant surprise,” Bryce said to Alex. “We may get this settled much sooner than we expected. Good day to you, Leggins, and thank you. Alex, shall we face the lion in his den?”

“Now we may witness that seizure you worried about last night,” she said with a grin. “If Baxter does not yet know that you are alive.”

But Bryce did not smile. As a matter of fact, as they climbed the front steps, his jaw set decidedly more firm, and his lids lowered, shuttering his reaction.

When the door was opened, they saw immediately that Hawk’s old footman had been replaced. The current retainer bowed politely and did not so much as quirk a brow or twitch a face muscle when Bryceson gave his name, but led them directly to the blue salon.

“Everything is the same,” Bryce said, with stifled longing, as he gazed about the cerulean room, snowy clouds drifting upon its azure ceiling, and Alex’s heart near broke for his loss.

“Well, this is a surprise,” said a familiar voice from the doorway.

“Chesterfield? What are you doing here?”

TWELVE

CHESTERFIELD RAISED a surprised brow. “I might ask you the same question. My man said you wanted to see me.”

“No. We came to see Hawk’s heir. Are you staying with Baxter?”

“I do not know where Baxter has run off to, but you must have asked to see the master of Hawksridge, and since Hawksridge is now mine—”

“No,” Bryce said without thought. Then he regarded Alex and raised his hand in a sign of defeat. “I know; I sound like my uncle.”

“This makes no sense,” Alex said. “How came you to be in possession of Hawksridge?”

“Hawk’s cabbage-headed heir wagered and lost it to me in a card game not six weeks ago. I do think I will be changing its name. To my ears, there is something decidedly annoying about its current appellation.”

Bryce cursed.

Chesterfield nodded. “Precisely how I felt at the church the day before yesterday.”

“Hawk loves his home,” Alex said.

“Alexandra,” Hawk warned.

Chesterfield regarded Hawk with a raised brow. “You want Hawksridge? I will trade you… for Alex.”

“Do not be an ass,” Hawk said.

“Judson, be serious. You cannot keep Hawk’s home.”

“Hawksridge was Baxter’s estate to wager at the time I won it, and unless someone can pay me the fifteen thousand pounds that whelp of Satan owes me, I am bloody well going to keep it.”

Hawk cursed again.

“It would be a bargain at double the price,” Chesterfield said, his gaze moving between Alex—very much aware that he thought of her as his lost bride—and her bristling husband, who would as soon strike the man as look at him. “Whatever you wanted of Baxter,” their unexpected host asked, “is it something with which I can help you?”

“Yes,” Alex said.

“No,” Hawk replied as fast.

“Ah, a stalemate then. Can I offer you refreshment, or shall I have my man show you out?”

“Judson, really, there is no need to be rude.”

“Is there not? Odd I thought I was being civil to the blackguard who took my bride from me. It might interest you to know, Alexandra, that were it not for your fondness for this estate, I would not have been so anxious to acquire it. It was to be your wedding present, you see. Half the countryside kept the secret of my ownership, so I could surprise my bride on our wedding day. Otherwise, I might have called Baxter out, rather than accept it.”

“And done us all a favor,” Hawk snapped.

“Hawksworth!”

“God’s teeth, Lexy, you cannot blame me for wanting to thrash the blighter. He has run my entire fortune into the ground.” Bryceson regarded Chesterfield. “Your pardon for airing our dirty linen in your home. We will bid you a good day.”

“Well I’ll be dashed,” Chesterfield exclaimed. “That was damned near polite of you, Hawksworth. Will wonders never cease?”

“Go to the devil!” Bryce strode from the room, barely using his cane, and gleaning a modicum of respect from Chesterfield, Alex thought, from their host’s approving look.

After seeing Bryce rise from the floor this morning, she understood the likely cost to him in pain for that exit, and because of it, she too experienced a frisson of pride.

Hurrying to catch up, she passed by Chesterfield, who caught her arm and stopped her. “I will send his personal belongings over later today. He looks as if he could use them.”

“Thank you Judson. You are a good man.” Alex stepped near and stood on her toes to kiss his cheek, but he turned his head and caught her lips, extending the kiss. By the time Alex got her wits about her, Chesterfield was pulling away with a grin.

Alex blushed and stepped back, and when she did, she saw that her husband stood not two feet away, straight and proud and looking fit to kill. Were she guilty of the crime for which he silently accused, the fury in his expression might turn her to salt.

He most certainly had witnessed the kiss, if not their discussion about his clothes, for even from here, she could see that frenetic tic working in his cheek.

Chesterfield chuckled. “I am not so good a man that I cannot find amusement in this situation.”

“Shame on you,” Alex said. “I do believe I misjudged you.”

“You did. But do you not agree that a kiss, in exchange for what is owed me, is not too much to ask?”

Alex gasped. “I most certainly do not.”

Chesterfield chuckled as Bryce left the house, seeming not to care whether Alex followed or not.

Having been abandoned by her husband, Alex left shortly thereafter, but took the long circuitous route home, hoping Bryce would wonder if she was dallying with Chesterfield.

Let the dolt be jealous, if he was fool enough to think she cared to kiss anybody but him.

When she got back to the Lodge, the letter from Sabrina, which she had been anxiously awaiting, had arrived. Except that, after Alex read it, her emotions were mixed. Yes, she received the answer for which she hoped. But she also learned something that made her so angry, she wished she had dallied with Judson, or at the least kissed him back.

Though she would rather trounce her husband as speak to him at the moment, she marched straight to the study.

The French doors leading to the overgrown garden stood open, curtains fluttering in the early fall breeze. A light scent of roses wafted upon the air from the few remaining blooms tenacious enough to have survived death by strangulation.

Hawk stood before the hearth, resting one elegant, booted foot upon the cool grate. He twirled a raised goblet of brandy before his eyes, examining it as if it held the answer to all of life’s mysteries… if only he could find a way to make it give them up.

Tall, dark and perilously devastating, he was Hawksworth, not Bryce, imperious, rigid, in control. Here, she saw for the first time, the man who had expected to be a duke, cold, arrogant, a woman-slayer.

A ledger lay open upon the desk. Atop and all around it sat boxes of assorted estate receipts, as if Hawk had attempted and failed to make some sense of the monumental task. On the instant, Alex was sorry for her lack of bookkeeping skills. Then again, it served him right for staying away so bloody long.

When he bothered to look in her direction, as if he could care less where she had been, who she had been with, or for how long, he raised his secret-laden goblet higher in her direction and gave her an arrogant, brow-raised salute. Then he took a long, slow swallow.

She did not know whether he was angrier about the kiss or losing Hawksridge. Though she would place her wager on the estate as being of greater import to his mind.

Despite his show of nonchalance, there was something soulful lurking in her husband’s eyes that made him appear more human in his vulnerability. Grief, or sorrow, filled their topaz depths, and being allowed so much as a glimpse, jarred her.

But rather than step into his arms, which she longed to do—to ease those burdens and console him—Alex crushed Sabrina’s letter in her trembling hand and hardened her heart.

Damn the rogue.

He had let more than a year go by since Waterloo, with nary a word from him, and according to the information in Sabrina’s letter, he could have contacted her at any time for all of the past five months, at least.

He might be her long-lost husband, and a duke of the realm, when he got his title back, but he had a great deal of explaining to do.

Yes, she had some little explaining to do, herself, but not on his scale. Oh no, nothing like.

Again Alex wanted to berate him. Again, she kept her peace. “I have had a letter from Sabrina,” she said, when the silence stretched—her, raging inside, Hawk, daring her with his look to let loose, almost as if he ached for a good brawl. “She sends news I think you should hear.”

Hawk sighed. “Then hear it I must, I suppose.” He poured another liberal brandy and slouched into a butternut leather wing chair to listen, more or less.

Annoyed by his cavalier attitude, Alex stepped closer as she perused the missive, deciding to give him every foolish bit of news, prattle and promise alike, for which he pretended indifference. “Sabrina says that Juliana is growing like a weed, and at the advanced age of ten months, she has her father even more tightly wrapped about her smallest finger.”

A near-smile altered Hawk’s expression for a blink.

Alex faltered but continued. “Since Gideon has been relating the story of the American Indians, as told by James Adair, and embellished upon by adventurous travelers to the American West, the twins have formed a passion for Indians and have been war-whooping about the house for weeks. Just the other day, they tied Gideon to the stake.”

Alex chuckled. “Not to worry, says Sabrina, the fire they set was quickly contained and barely singed his eyebrows. Though the boys may not be able to sit for a week, nor may they leave the nursery for as long, not to mention their trip to the Royal Menagerie, which has been cancelled.”

Alex took the chair across from her husband, enjoying the letter, despite her ire at his haughty arrogance. Suddenly, she could think of him as nothing less than a duke. Where had Bryceson gone? she wondered. Had he never returned from war? Had she been deluding herself?

Only time would tell.

“Gideon is Bree’s new husband, I take it, the Duke of Stanthorpe? The match you made for her?” Alex asked.

Hawksworth nodded. “They are top over tail in love.”

“I do not believe it. Not Sabrina.”

Hawk shrugged. “I saw it for myself.”

“You saw that some time ago, as I understand it. About five months, as a matter of fact.”

“Ah. So that is your quarrel with me?”

“Quarrel? I have no quarrel with you, though I do wonder where we would be if I had not decided to marry and you had not been forced to stop me.” Alex held up her hand. “No, do not answer that. Spare me some dignity, please,” she said, using his words, gratified to see him wince.

“The reason I sought you out,” Alex said, “after your rude and abrupt departure from Hawksridge, was to tell you that Sabrina has arranged for Stanthorpe’s grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Basingstoke, to sponsor Claudia in London during the coming fall season. Since now is the little season and of shorter duration than the actual spring season, the cost will be much less and, therefore, easier to manage.”

Hawk sat forward. “We cannot afford either this year.”

“Did you know that Claudia has formed a tendre for Chesterfield?”

On the instant, a maelstrom of fury darkened her duke’s brow. “The devil you say.”

Alex gave a half nod, satisfied she had made her point. “The duchess is inviting us to stay with her at her townhouse on St. James’s Square, which eliminates the cost of taking a house. Sabrina arranged everything. We need only pay for Claudia’s wardrobe to fire her off properly.”

Hawk slammed his glass on the near table, dashing it to fragments.

Alex ducked to evade the spray of glass and brandy.

“God’s teeth,” Hawk snapped, coming to his feet in one furious and shocking lunge, his shout of pain for the move, as piercing to Alex as one of those shards might have been. Then he pulled her up and into his arms to crush her so close, she could feel him tremble, taste his fear.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Did you get cut?” He held her away then, examining her face, her arms and hands, kissing her brow, her fingers, disregarding the glass shards and brandy defacing his frockcoat, the blood at the tip of his thumb. “I might have hurt you. God, forgive me. I might have hurt you.”

“What is the matter with you today?” Alex asked. “Your restlessness is contagious. I have never seen you like this before.”

“I am so… unsettled, unsure—”

“Of what?”

“Of—” He hauled her back into his arms and opened his mouth over hers, drawing a response from her, even as anger boiled inside him—anger through which she could feel his power. But she did not regard it any more than he did. She simply gave and took succor at the only source from which she cared to give or receive it.

“There,” he said stepping back, leaving her breathless. “There. I am calmer now. What was the question?”

“I… do not remember. Oh, of what are you unsure?”

“I, who used to be certain of everything, am now uncertain of same.” He ran his hand through his untamed hair, certainly not the first time in the last hour. “You ask me to accept charity when I am used to giving it. I do not care for my sake, but it is driving me daft that I cannot provide for my own niece’s immediate needs. All these changes are too devilish much to swallow.”

“Especially for a proud man like you,” Alex said. “I know. But I am going to ask you to swallow again, because your own clothes are being packed for you as we speak.” She examined his frockcoat. “And with the results of your fury now mottling your coat, it seems you have no choice but to accept.”

Hawk tore away from her, wavered in his balance, and grabbed up his cane as if he might break it in half. Then he smacked the thing hard against the floor, leaned against it, despite himself, and made his way to the open French doors. “No and again no,” he said, not looking her way. “I will go about in my under drawers before I take that man’s charity.”

Alex went and placed her arms about him, laying her cheek against his strong, unbending back. “Ah my prideful rogue. They are your clothes, purchased with your money, clothes that were relegated to the ragbag when it was thought you died. Surely your pride will allow you to wear rags?”

He turned to face her. “No.”

Alex stepped nearer. “If you could bring yourself to do so, Claudia might have her season this fall.”

Her final words, or her stroking the hair from his brow, appeared to snuff his ire. “I hate London Society.”

Alex pulled her hand away and stepped back. “I wonder you spent so much time there earlier this year, then.”

He cursed. “Leave it be, Alex.”

“How can I leave it be when you left us struggling for months without caring whether we were fed or sheltered?”

“Of course you were fed and sheltered. I knew you were, besides which, I had every faith in your ability to care for everyone, otherwise I would not have left them with you in the first place.”

“So I have heard.”

Hawk’s head snapped up at that and his eyes narrowed.

Alex shrugged away the question in his look. “Why Bryceson? Why did you not come home to us?”

“If I knew, I would tell you. I will admit, however, that Sabrina believes I was running away.”

“From us? There would be no reason. Now if your father were alive, I would understand.”

“You would understand what?”

At the fury in his tone, Alex firmed her stance. “You know, yourself, that your father acted the tyrant, much as you are doing right now. He would never approve of you, broken as you are. Your words.”

“Do not be ridiculous,” Hawk said. “My father has nothing to do with any of it. The man is long since dead.”

“But never buried. You scrambled for his approval your whole life, Hawk, and never received it.”

Hawk’s eyes narrowed at that and the light of challenge entered them, though he remained rigid and silent.

“I do not believe you went to war for the glory, as Judson thinks,” Alex said, “but for your father’s approval, however posthumous. He was a hard man, Hawk, cold and heartless… as is any father who would prefer his son dead, rather than imperfect.”

“We do not know that for certain,” Hawk said, desperate to forgive the unforgivable, Alex feared. “I simply supposed as much.”

“Where a parent is concerned,” Alex said, softly, “supposition is usually based on fact. I think your reason for speculation was just.”

Hawk gathered his dignity about himself like a shield, much as his father had been wont to do, but Alex did not think the son would appreciate the comparison. “You go too far,” he said.

“In that case, I apologize. Let us return to our discussion of Claudia’s season, then.”

“Claudia is not to have a season,” Hawk replied with so much icy dignity that Alex feared she had lost the man she loved. “And you will not be discussing me with Chesterfield, if you please, ever again.”

“Bryce—”

“That is the last I will say on the matter.”

THIRTEEN

WHEN THEY SAT down to dinner, Hawksworth looked twice into his soup bowl—belly up, soft and white, tiny little feet, spiny back, sleepy eyes. “Excuse me,” he said. “But there seems to be a hedgehog in my soup.”

“There you are, you naughty—” Beatrix’s expression melted with love, and she smiled. “Oh, how cute. Nanny is having a nice warm soak.”

Hawk raised a brow and made to scoop the complacent critter from his cock-a-leekie soup. “Ouch!” Not complacent now, but a hard, spiny ball.

“Do be careful,” Bea said. “You will hurt her.”

“Hurt her? She pricked me. Look, I am bleeding.”

Bea kissed the wounded finger Hawk held up for her inspection. “Do not feel bad. She will get used to you. Let her scent your hand and soon she will let you rub her soft little belly.”

Hawk barked a laugh. “Myerson,” he said as his man began to pour their drinks. “I fear there is too much meat in my soup.”

Bea gasped and Hawk winked as he slid his over-full soup bowl in her direction.

After a fresh bowl of soup was placed before him, Hawk cleared his throat and looked about the table. “I am afraid, Claudia, that I have some rather disappointing news for you.”

Claudia stiffened. “What is it?”

“We must postpone your season for this year.”

“Yes, Uncle Bryce,” Claude said stoically then she wilted for half a beat. “But if a girl cannot be seen in the places where eligible men congregate, how is a she to find a husband?”

“A husband?” Hawksworth said, arrested by the notion, his fork halfway to his mouth. “I had not thought of your come out in quite that way. You are too young, at any rate, and the marriage mart is a hornet’s nest. I promise you would hate it.”

“Which words can only be spoken by one who has experienced the phenomenon,” Alex said.

“I am as old as Alex was, when you married her,” Claudia said.

“Really?” Hawk regarded Alex, just then, with rather too much concentration, she thought, considering the fact that they were in company. Now if they had been alone…

Almost as if he read her, Hawk started and cleared his throat, looking away.

Alex thought life might get easier if he could read her. And she did not know who was being more stubborn here, the uncle or the niece.

What was Claudia hatching, anyway? To her willful mind, only one eligible male existed in the kingdom, and he now lived— “That reminds me,” Alex said. “Hawk’s heir has struck again. It seems that he lost Hawksridge in a card game.”

Giff turned to Hawk in horror. “Shoot the blackguard.”

“Baxter or Chesterfield, Uncle? Though I must say, the notion has merit in both cases.

“Gifford, hush,” Hildy said. “Bryceson, please, the children.” Then she patted Hawk’s arm negating her scold. “Forget about Hawksridge, dear. Huntington Lodge is as much your home as it is ours, is it not Alexandra?”

“By law, it is entirely his, Aunt.”

“Except that the Lodge is not really—” No. Yes. It could be, Hawk thought. Because Alex was here, and his family, the Lodge could become his home. He could try to make it so. He shook his head. “It is ours,” he stressed. “Every splintered plank and broken brick.”

“Do not forget the leaky roof,” Beatrix added.

“Thank you, Bumble Bea, but Alex has taken it upon herself, more than once, to make me that particular reminder.”

Alex kicked him beneath the table.

“Ouch.”

“Who won Hawksridge?” Giff asked.

“Oh,” Hawk said. “I thought you realized. Chesterfield is the happy new owner.”

“Chesterfield lives next door?” Claudia cried coming to life. “Famous. I shall go and visit him this afternoon and welcome him to the neighborhood.”

“You will not,” Hawksworth snapped.

“Chesterfield, by God.” Giff laughed. “Now I understand your willingness to pursue pistols at dawn.”

Claudia looked chagrined. “Oh, but Uncle Hawk, visiting him is the polite and neighborly thing to do.”

“If you set one foot on Hawksridge property, young lady, I shall have you locked in your room until you are thirty. And until that advanced age, you will not so much as exchange greetings with the blighter.”

“Why do you consider him a scoundrel? Is it because he won your estate? That was an honest wager, was it not? Or is it because he nearly married Alex? You must know that Alex does not—”

“Claudia.” Alex widened her eyes to display her plea with determined clarity. “That will be enough,” she said. “Enough.”

“Of course.” Claude bit her curving lip and gave her unappetizing plate of cold mutton and mashed turnips rather more attention than was warranted, drat the girl.

Within moments, however, she looked up. “Uncle Hawk, Chesterfield is our neighbor across the dyke, like you and Alex were situated growing up. If I cannot go and visit him, can he not at least come to visit us?”

“Absolutely not. That man is not welcome here. You will not speak to him or look at him. You are not to wave, if he passes the gate.”

“But I… admire Chesterfield a great deal,” Claudia admitted, her face pink.

Alex leaned near Hawk to speak in confidence. “He will be a constant temptation living so near.”

“For Claude or for you?” Hawk straightened without her answer. “Claudia, there are a goodly number of better men than Judson Broderick for whom to set your cap.”

“But I love him,” she cried with all the drama of youth.

“You what?” Ashen faced, Hawk placed his spoon beside his bowl, as he gazed from his wife to his niece. “Do you, both of you, love the knave?”

“He is not any of the things you have called him,” Claudia said. “And I do love him.”

“Then you must find someone more suitable.”

“How?” Claude cried. “We live in the wilderness.”

“Bryceson,” Aunt Hildy said, “you will have the poor child mooning about the house, staring out windows, for the next year.”

Alex nodded. “With you know who passing by the gate thrice a day.”

“Give it up, Alexandra,” Hawk said. “You win.” He reached over to cover Claudia’s hand with his own. “Claude, if you can be satisfied with a compromise, the Duchess of Basingstoke has offered to sponsor you for the coming fall season. Sabrina and Alex arranged everything. When we reach London, however, you will be under strict orders from me to choose a more appropriate suitor.”

“Yes, Uncle Hawk,” she said, unable to hide the light of triumph in her eyes, making Alex wonder, again, what she was up to.

“Alex,” Hawk said, “you will write to the duchess and accept her kind invitation first thing in the morning. We will depart for London in three weeks, and I, for one, will be glad to see the last of Chesterfield.”

“I like Viscount Chesterfield,” Beatrix said. “When I got sick in town that winter, he rode a great distance in the snow for a doctor. Alex said I might have died, if not for him.”

“Is this true?” Hawksworth asked, turning to Alex.

Alex nodded. “An inflammation of the lungs. Little Miss Mischief frightened us nearly to death.”

“Alex did not sleep for fully five days,” Aunt Hildegarde said. “I was afraid that she would become so weak and exhausted that she would contract the disease herself.”

“I was fine.”

Giff winked meaningfully at her before turning to his nephew. “You should know, Hawk, that no one could have taken better care of us all in your absence, than Alex did.”

“I doubt even you could have done so well,” Beatrix said.

Hawk nodded. “I knew she would take superb care of you all. We owe her a great debt of gratitude.”

“We do,” Aunt Hildegarde agreed, sending a prideful smile her way.

“Do not be silly.” Alex frowned, embarrassed. “Any of you would have done as much for any of us who needed you.”

“Except that you are always the one we go to when anything needs fixing or settling or deciding, dear,” her aunt said.

“Now I am home,” Hawk said. “You must come to me when you need anything taken care of. Together we must ease Alexandra’s burdens.”

Bea shook her head, doubtfully. “I do not think that will work, Uncle Hawk. With a cane, you will not be able to do half the things Alex does.”

Hawk sighed, rose, and dropped his napkin into his plate. “Then I shall have to throw the blasted thing away.” He bent over Beatrix and pressed his lips to her little brow. “I am glad you did not die that winter, Pup. I would have missed my Bumble Bea.” He straightened and cleared his throat. “Alexandra, do you care for a walk on the terrace?”

Alex was concerned that he had pushed himself too hard that day. “You perhaps did not walk or ride so much when you were in London, Hawksworth. Do you not think you have had enough exercise for one day?”

“I do not, thank you very much. I shall practice walking with or without your arm. If you care to join me later, you will find me on the terrace.” Hawk quit the room without another word, leaving them all to sit in an uncomfortable, almost palpable silence.

“He is bristling,” Giff said, “to head the family again. Though he is not yet physically capable.”

“Are you saying that I am being too… too managing?” Alex asked, certain she was.

Giff rose, kissed the top of her head and squeezed her shoulder. “You have been a darling and a savior to all of us, Lass, especially to me, after the way I barked at you all in early days.”

He regarded the rest of the family. “I am saying that we must be careful, when we praise Alex, that we are not disheartening Hawksworth. From my own experience, after my time in the colonies, I know that a man home from war has much to deal with that is not within sight of his family, but in his head and his heart. The demons of war can be dark and tenacious, distorting even the obvious goodness in life. Past and present become entangled with a soldier’s confusion and self-reproach for living when others perished, and with his need to make life as it once was. Except he cannot go back, because time has passed and people have changed and learned to live without him.”

Giff smiled, easing the sad sobriety about the table. “Give Hawk time. Be patient with him. Let him know he is loved and needed.”

Alex saw Beatrix up to bed, helped her wash and heard her prayers. While she sat with the child until she slept, she considered Giff’s words. Not only was he correct in everything he said, but she realized Hawksworth’s burdens were worse for his having lost so much, including his heritage. No wonder he seemed unsure of everything.

Even she must seem lost to him, if he believed she loved Chesterfield, which she had encouraged to gain his attention. Gad, she wished she knew how she should proceed.

After Bea fell asleep, Alex went out to the terrace to look for Hawk.

When she arrived, Giff strode her way. “Enjoy the summer-like evening. It is beautiful,” he said as he made to climb the steps back into the house. “This old curmudgeon needs his beauty sleep. Goodnight you two.”

Acting stiff and unconcerned, perhaps somewhat upset with her for not joining him sooner, Bryceson silently laid his cane on a nearby bench and offered her his arm. Alex took it and squeezed. “Bumble Bea is all tucked up and sends good-night kisses,” she said, by way of apology, catching his nod of understanding, or forgiveness.

They began to stroll quietly, each lost in thought.

“I will not fail them again,” Bryce said, breaking the reasonably comfortable silence.

“Oh, Bryce. Of course you will not. You never really did.”

“Did I not?” His grimace of self-derision was more felt than seen. “Do not patronize me, Alex. I failed you, royally, by marrying you and leaving you to mop up my mess.”

“What mess?”

“I am sorry, I misspoke. I left you as the sole support of my family, with no home, or even a living to provide for you all—no mess there.”

Alex smiled. “Our family.”

“Ours, then, though you should not have needed to care for them alone.” He hesitated and regarded her pointedly before walking on. “Not that you did, entirely, if Bea is to be believed. Judson helped, I take it.”

Alex bit her lip. “Not in the way you suppose. You know this is the first time you use his Christian name.”

“I must be softening in the head. Likely because of what he did for Beatrix. Lord, it makes me sick to think of nearly losing her.”

“Well we did not lose her, and yes, in that way, Judson did help.”

“Then I must be grateful to the man, and we do have a mess now, one I made myself. But I am here, now, to straighten everything out, though, God help me, if I had not returned I would have served you better.”

Alex stopped and turned to him. “If you do not stop feeling sorry for yourself, Bryceson Wakefield, I swear I will strike you.”

“I am sure you would, if you were angry enough. I expect you would beat me, or toss me off the terrace in much the same way you tossed me from the bed this morning.” But Alex did not laugh as Hawk intended.

He reclaimed her hand, placed it on his arm, and patted it. “I am not feeling sorry for myself, but for you, Lexy.”

To his surprise she threw off his hold and strode off in a rage, before turning to face him. “Stupid, stupid man. How can you not know?”

Hawk frowned in bewilderment. “How can I not know what?”

Alex began to advance on him, and sensing the strength of purpose in her stride, he began to retreat at the same pace.

She grinned. “You are running without your cane, Bryceson. Did you realize it?”

Hawk faltered for running at all, not for lacking his cane. He needed to face his ghosts, not run from them. He should ask Alex, right out, what she owed Chesterfield, and in exchange for what.

Except that he was not as yet ready to deal with her answer.

Her person, however, he was very much ready to deal with. Too ready. Eager. Hawk straightened his spine and remained in place.

“Good,” Alex said as she continued advancing. “You will allow me to catch you, I take it?”

“We will see who is caught,” Hawk said, reaching out and pulling his wife firmly into his arms.

FOURTEEN

ONCE HAWK HAD ALEX well and truly captured, she raised her arms and feathered the hair at his nape with her soft, sweet fingers, kissing his scars and giving him her full, tantalizing attention. He responded by opening his mouth over hers at first opportunity.

Her response thrummed him to life, and he moaned and tasted a trace of mint on her lips and thought it never more delightful.

Hawk had barely acknowledged, even to himself, since his return to England, the strength and inevitably of his attachment to Alex, his overwhelming desire for her, yet suddenly the veracity of it seemed written, as if in blazing stars, across the darkening night sky above them.

She had always been his.

He wanted her more than he had ever wanted another woman in his life, and with an intensity that startled even him.

What a caper-wit he was, to perceive it, only now when it was too late and he could not have her.

She loved another. And he, her husband, who knew nothing of love, who had never wanted to, was broken of body and bound to let her go.

The rogue of Devil’s Dyke rides no more, he thought wryly.

Yes, the situation was laughable, but he could not laugh. For the first time in years, he was attracted to the irreverent brat who had teased and exasperated him their entire lives, to Alexandra, his wife.

The tardiness of his realization shamed Hawk, for he wanted her, almost to the point of madness. He sighed and kissed her again. Belated or not, the truth remained the same. They belonged together.

If only he could make her believe it. Now he had gone quite daft, for if he could make her care for him, if he was fool enough to try, might he not risk negating the likelihood of an annulment in the attempt?

Hawk set the quandary aside, for overriding sanity, his bride was eager and his body fit and pulsing—that worry answered to his relief and satisfaction. Finally, he was certain that, yes, he was physically capable of making love to his wife. Now he must simply find the strength to keep from it.

“Would that I could carry you up the stairs to our bed,” he whispered, his arousal firm and ready between them.

His bride smiled, coy, teasing. “And what would you do with me when you got me there?”

Hawk paused, sobering. What, indeed? “Excellent question.” He stepped back and ran his hand through his hair. What, indeed? Trap her in a loveless marriage with a disfigured rogue? Or set her free to choose the husband of her heart?

“Why do you not go up to bed,” he suggested when he saw her shiver. “The air has cooled and you will catch a chill. I will be up shortly.”

Alex sobered as Bryce stepped away and the brisk night air encircled her like the caressing talons of an icy villain. Her heart sank when she perceived that somehow, his mood had shifted and he no longer intended to make her his own, if he ever did.

Dispirited, she turned and without a word, strode toward the house.

“I am sorry,” she heard him say behind her, but what could she say to that? For she was more sorry then he.

In her bedchamber, Alex wandered aimlessly about, until her surroundings came into focus. A lush bedchamber prepared to receive a bridegroom, a moonlit night, perfect for seduction. What, after all, did she have to lose for trying when a mesmerizing web of sensuality ensnared her still?

Alex set tinder to flame in the hearth, producing a blaze that reflected the inferno raging inside her. By the time she finished bathing, she needed to open the windows to cool herself and the room.

From her dresser, she chose a most gossamer satin and lace negligee, sheer and striking. The cloth of pale jonquil shimmered even more diaphanous and alluring, with its threads of gold, than the white she had worn previously.

“Shame on you,” she had told Chesterfield, upon opening the box wherein the jonquil beauty nestled, and even with her betrothed’s passion-glazed eyes smoldering down on her, Alex remembered thinking that she would have liked for Bryce to see her wearing it, for him to see her as a bride bedecked for her bridegroom’s pleasure.

Poor Chesterfield. He never had a chance.

Her actions had been unforgivable where he was concerned. She should not have said she would marry him, for she never stopped thinking of Bryce, not even for a moment, not even as she marched down that aisle.

The gown and wrap fit like a dream and looked as if they were made of spun sugar. Before her mirror, Alexandra brushed her hair till it shone like polished mahogany, the glow from the fire reflecting the silver lights within it.

She expended a week’s candle allotment, placing lit tapers on every surface, small scattered tables, the tall dresser. She set several upon her dressing table, where the mirror reflected them double, a lush, enchanting image.

When Bryceson still had not come up, she glanced out the window, down to the terrace, and saw that he was making his slow way toward the house at long last.

Panic set in then and Alex wondered where he should find her when he came in. Not in the bed, for that was not romantic enough, by half, not in the truest sense. On the floor before the fire would be best, she thought, but why would she be sitting there?

She remembered Bryce coming to her the night before, to take the pins from her hair, and she went to pin it back up, shoving in hairpins, helter-skelter. Then she grabbed her hairbrush and hurried to sit on the carpet before the fire, her back to the door.

By that time she was so warm, she dropped her dressing gown from her shoulders, leaving her in the dangerously low-cut, cap-sleeved night rail.

Looking down at herself, Alex noticed with pride that she overflowed the bounds of her bodice.

Even better.

When she heard the rattle of the doorknob, she removed the first of her hair pins, brush in hand, as if she sat there, half naked, all the time.

The door opened and Bryce’s uneven footfalls stopped.

The silence pulsed.

After a dozen or more beats, Alex turned to see what was wrong.

Hawksworth the arrogant, tension investing his splendid frame, looked as if he had been turned to stone. Stubborn and craven, he wore an expression of cold horror but heated fascination.

A quick glance proved to Alex that that interesting portion of his anatomy had also taken note.

Better and better.

She returned her gaze to the hearth to conceal the light of triumph that she knew must be reflected there. “Come, Hawk, sit by me. I find it relaxing to brush my hair by the fire. Are the cool air and the warm blaze not a perfect combination?”

The mild scent of roses wafted up from the garden as the curtains billowed in the night-cool breeze, and the candle-flames danced. Close to the fire, warmth enveloped Alex, until she thought she might prefer no gown at all.

What a delightful notion. Except that if she threw off the gown as well, Hawk might turn tail and not look back. Her battle-scarred husband was definitely not ready for so advanced a stage of attack.

For half a beat, Alex wondered where the rogue of Devil’s Dyke had gotten to. What else had happened to him in Belgium that he had not brought his old self home again?

Perhaps she was pushing him too far, thinking to seduce him or die in the trying, so she relaxed and vowed to take her conquest a deal more slowly.

“Come,” she repeated, “sit by me.” She almost thought he would leave and go back downstairs, but he did not. Instead, he came to sit on the floor facing her, despite his obvious difficulty in lowering himself so far a distance.

“I am sorry,” Alex said when he winced as he did so. “I have hurt you, again.”

Hawk shook his head. “Stop reading my expressions and read my actions. I am here, where we both want me to be.” He took the brush from her hand and set it on the carpet.

As he pulled out her hairpins, she reached over to remove his diamond stickpin, the one he had worn at their wedding then given her to take home for safekeeping. She untied his cravat and removed it, feeling very much a wife with the simple but intimate task.

She encouraged him to shrug from his frockcoat and waistcoat and tossed them on a nearby chair. He let her remove his shoes and stockings. And after she did, she stroked his long, slender feet.

He took up her brush to run it through her hair as she removed several of his shirt studs and investigated the texture of the crisp, curling mat within the exposed vee.

His heartbeat quickened beneath her fingertips.

He shuddered and stopped her from removing any more studs, so as to keep his shirt. Then he moved closer, so close Alex lost her breath. As he leaned near, to bring her wrap up to cover her shoulders, his breath kissed her neck, his eyes bearing a spark so bright, she expected his lips to curve upward at the corners, and even when they did not, she might honestly say that he smiled.

When her hair was brushed to a sheen, Bryce pulled her down with him as he reclined upon the rug, bringing her full-atop him.

What an amazing place to be, Alex thought, looking into a hawk’s golden eyes, knowing they blazed with desire only for her.

As if to hold her in place, he filled his hands with her bottom, a satisfied sound rising from deep in his throat. Then he slid the skirt of her gown upward, ever so slowly, allowing the breeze to caress her ankles, her calves, her thighs and higher. And when he cupped her—bare hand to bare bottom—Alex gasped with the pure carnality of his claim.

He arched and pressed his firm male self against the place where she ached. If he grew any larger, he would be as big as a stallion.

Claude had been right. Men were just the same.

Lord, she loved her husband’s hands on her. She loved this decadent, intimate embrace.

“Like contented cats before the fire,” Hawk said, his lazy drawl animating the picture he created with his words.

“Is it your intention, then, to make me purr?” she asked.

Hawk nearly laughed. His bride had just issued a challenge, pure and simple, and she did so with a full complement of lowered lashes and tongue-moistened lips.

God’s teeth, she was a natural.

He could do this, he thought. He could bring them both pleasure without consummation. How else would he know where their relationship stood? How else to make her care enough to stay… if he was so foolish as to try.

“Sorceress,” he said, as he learned her with his hands, from her bottom to her core. He took to planting kisses as he did, upon a singular brow, along her nape, the pulse at the base of her throat, her luscious and willing lips.

And when he raised a knee and slipped it between her legs, she cooperated to the point that arousal darkened her eyes to midnight velvet, and softened her kiss-swollen lips to a pout of sensual invitation.

Keeping a firm hold on her bottom, Hawk cupped a breast, and the seductress arched to fill his palm. He fingered the nubbin, rubbed the silk of her gown over the puckered tip, back and forth, until she was peaked to perfection, pouting and proud.

He made her moan, and he grew harder.

He slipped his hand inside her bodice, callused flesh, to flesh of silk, and he grew harder.

In counterpoint to his firmness, Alex slid bonelessly to the carpet beside him, and Hawk lost not a moment in the transition. Seeking greater access, he tugged a bodice ribbon and slipped her gown off a shoulder to expose her creamy skin. He laved the crown of a breast, continued between the full and luscious globes, and watched her eyes smolder with sexual awakening.

He must be her first. He must.

Laving her and taking her into his mouth, he took to suckling, encouraged by her hands in his hair, at first pushing him away, then pulling him closer, now holding him in place with a purr of pure contentment.

He eased her to her back and rose above her.

Her mewling sounds of awe and pleasure served to arouse him further, until he was the Hawksworth of old, the rogue of Devil’s Dyke once more.

And when he perceived she would welcome him, he slipped his hand up her leg, until her breathing changed to short, quick gasps as her womanhood wept in anticipation of his touch. And when he breached her, her tears had readied her to receive him.

Only a virgin, literally untouched, could be prepared so readily. A virgin… whose sexual initiation should be undertaken by no one less worthy than the man she loved.

The intrusive thought struck Hawk like an ice bath. He swore and moved off her like a clumsy schoolboy, like the thoughtless cad he had proved himself. “I am sorry,” he said. “Alex, forgive me. I did not mean to take it so far.” He would not touch her again. He could not be trusted.

Struck, as if with horror, she rolled to her side and curled into a ball, her back stiff, yet, somehow breaking under the weight of what she had almost allowed. He would swear that if he touched her now, he would be pricked by a score of invisible spines.

“Forgive me,” he said again. “You deserve better. You deserve the man you love.” If he did not put some space between them, he would break every rule he had set for himself concerning this wife of his.

In London, he would begin as he meant to go on. Separate bedchambers would make it easier, which surely the duchess would afford them.

Alex said nothing as Bryce undressed and climbed into the bed.

An hour later, lying beside him, she wondered where she had gone wrong. He had almost broken her, changing his mind at such a time. But had he done so at her instigation? His words would not leave her. You deserve the man you love.

Had she made a calculated error in convincing him she loved Chesterfield? Had this entire debacle been her fault?

How could he not know ’twas him she had loved forever?

She supposed that they had made some progress. He did want her, if only physically, as she most assuredly wanted him, though her want was more encompassing, for it included hearts and spirits, minds, even faults and imperfections.

At the moment when he had left her aching with need, she thought she might wither and die where she lay, and yet there had been such a ridiculous amount of relief as well. But why?

Because Hawk’s father believed she was not good enough for his son, and she believed it as well?

What was wrong with her when she did not even know what she feared?

Sabrina would understand about her fears. She would know how she should go about seducing Hawk, if she should.

Simply telling Hawksworth that she loved him, after pretending to love Chesterfield, would make him think she pitied him for his scars, especially since he thought the world saw nothing but the scars.

How could she make Hawk understand that she wanted and cared only for him? That he was worthy of love?

How could she undo a lifetime of harsh persuasion?

How could she keep from losing him forever?

FIFTEEN

DURING THE NIGHT, Bryceson the rogue inevitably returned. Always, when Alex got near him as he slept, he clasped her close, as if she were his long lost love, precious and adored, and spoke her name before drifting back to sleep.

No matter how many times she approached him in the night over the next weeks, every time she did, she was taken aback with joy. Sometimes tears slipped down her cheeks unheeded as she drifted off in his strengthening arms.

If only he wanted her when he was awake in the same way he seemed to want her in sleep.

Blast it; she must spare no stratagem when it came to her seductive vengeance. Her goal was selfish, Alex knew, but she wanted everything marriage entailed, including a lesson in love for her husband.

A week before they left for London, Hawk threw his cane out a second floor window in a fit of frustrated rage.

Beatrix had slipped on a wet stair and landed on her bruised little bottom.

Because of it, Alexandra had climbed atop an old barn ladder in the second floor hall to replace the upper molding of a window, where rain had been driven in during another of the season’s torrential rains. The rising stream had floated down the hall and ultimately down the stairs.

While Bea had laughed at her flying antics, Alex had worried aloud that Hildy or Giff might be seriously hurt. And Beatrix made the mistake of adding that Hawk, with his cane, might also be, which bruised his fragile ego to begin with.

“Of course I would not,” he said. “It is for us to worry about the elderly, not the young.”

“But Alex says you are in pain sometimes and your leg is weak and we should be careful, Uncle Bryce.”

He raged all the while she and Beatrix dragged the ladder up to the landing. “Stop, I tell you and go away. I will tend to it, myself,” he charged them, but neither of them stopped to listen or do his bidding.

“Alex, do not climb that ladder, I tell you. Do not,” he shouted as he made his way up the stairs. But by the time he arrived at the base of the ladder, Alex was prying the rotted slat away and preparing to affix a fresh piece of wood to the spot. She was so preoccupied with her task, however, that when he spoke her name, she jumped and nearly fell from her perch.

That was when he swore, pushed up the sash and tossed his cane out the window. Then he slammed it shut, climbed the ladder, cursing all the way, grasped Alex by her waist and, with surprising strength, lifted her down to replace her, himself.

After that, without the use of his cane, Hawk walked with more discomfort and less grace, but he refused to take it up again from that day on, performing every single task anyone mentioned needed doing, no matter how difficult.

As good as his word to secure tenants and improve the estate, Hawk advertised locally and interviewed dozens of prospects. ’Twas not difficult to find applicants, given the soldiers and sailors seeking employment now that the war was over. There were, also, millworkers displaced by factory closings across the breadth of England, and farmers who lost their land because the summer rains and endless hailstones had ruined their crops, the wheat suffering worst of all.

Within two weeks, a dozen hard-working military men and their families moved onto Huntington tenant property. Some would work the home farm, completing the harvest, however sodden the crops. Two were ships’ carpenters, one a millwright and two others, bricklayers. They would make immediate repairs to the buildings, working in exchange for rent, and no monetary compensation, as there was no money, though Hawk gave each family a goodly-sized portion of land for their own use. Wives and children could work that for themselves and raise enough produce to feed their families and sell the excess at market for a respectable profit. St. Albans was a famous enough market town to make that effort more than worthwhile.

Hawk set himself up as Huntington’s estate manager. But in preparation for the time when he would take the family to London for Claude’s season, he taught one of their long-standing tenants to take over temporary management, for a lower rent and a larger cottage.

When Hawk found a widow offering two dozen black-faced Suffolk sheep for a pittance, he bought the animals to raise for wool. He secured several cows and a bull for similarly low prices, as more farmers were daily giving up and heading for the city. These he would raise for milk and beef.

Hawk’s diamond stickpin bought them a mare rumored to be in foal by Mercury, a prize-winning racehorse. The mare alone was worth more than the stickpin, for she was a prime breeder in her own right, and would produce fast, healthy, hard-working carriage horses. But if Mercury had sired her offspring that infamous day he broke loose and covered half the mares in Hertfordshire, then she was worth a dozen diamond pins for her foal alone. He named her Quicksilver.

If he was skilled at one thing—other than that for which he had become quite famous with the ladies—Hawk told Alex later, it was horses. And if he could not turn a profit with good horseflesh, then no one could.

Alex thought that if she could not get him to demonstrate his other famous skill, she was going to crown her gentleman farmer with his own pitchfork.

Several days before they were to leave for London, Claudia said that perhaps she did not need a season after all. Not this year, at least, and Alex laughed. “Do not even try to pretend with me, Missy,” she said. “You do not wish to go, because you have failed to talk Chesterfield into following us to town. Is that not right, or as near right as might be?”

Claude huffed and flapped a sheet to lay flat against Bea’s small bed. “Just because you are content to live without love, Alex, does not mean that I am.”

The words felt like a slap, and Alex gasped, looked into Claude’s stricken eyes, and exited the room at a hurried pace, only to plow into Hawksworth.

“Ho, steady, there.” Still unstable on his feet, he latched onto her for balance, and Alex pretended the same need, allowing him to hold her, treasuring the embrace. Between Claude’s harsh words and Hawk’s arms about her in the light of day, Alex began to weep. And, once the floodgates opened, she could not seem to close them.

Then Claude stood beside her apologizing, except that Alex could not focus on the girl, because of the wondrous look of concern in her husband’s eyes, which only made her weep the more.

Claude attempted to pull her aside, but Alex did not wish to be disengaged from Hawksworth’s embrace, and fortunately, he fought to keep her there.

Alex did squeeze Claude’s hand, however, giving her a look begging understanding, hoping the girl would realize that she could not miss this God-given opportunity with her husband.

Grateful for Claude’s dawn of understanding, Alex stepped with Hawk into the privacy of their bedchamber.

When he closed the door, shutting them alone inside, Alex fairly floated in the fixedness of his attention.

He urged her onto their bed and lay beside her, pulling her close. “Alex, sweetheart.” He wiped a tear with a fingertip. “Tell me what is wrong.”

“Hold me, Hawk. Please hold me.”

His gentleness was almost too wonderful to bear. Perhaps he did not love her, but Claudia had been wrong about one thing—Alex was not content to continue that way. Oh, she was not.

Because Hawk shushed and rocked her in his arms, she cried the more. She wept for all the years without his arms around her, and for Claudia’s words, because they sliced too close to the bone to be borne.

Alex felt more alive than she had since the night they nearly made love beside the fire. She wanted more such experiences. But almost as much, she wanted to know why her husband had not come home to her. “Why, Hawk? Why did you not find us as soon as you returned from Belgium?”

He kissed her brow, her lips. He sighed and resettled them, pulling the corner of the counterpane over them, like a pair of Egyptian mummies.

Alex experienced heaven in his arms, but hell loomed in the weight of his silence. Her fear that he could not have borne to come home to her was so great, she wanted to weep the more for his hesitancy.

“If I could understand, myself,” Hawk said, several, long minutes later. “I could explain it, though my staying away had nothing to do with my father, I promise you.”

Silence held sway, until Alex initiated a second kiss, which at length came to its inevitable, breath-seeking conclusion. They looked into each other’s eyes, then, almost into each other’s souls, and she remembered how, over the years, he had a difficult time overcoming his natural reticence. And Alex understood, with sudden clarity and great relief, that his current silence might have nothing to do with her, but with the man he had become, at heart—as perhaps did his previous silence. “Just talk and I will listen,” she said.

Reluctantly, Hawk nodded, understanding somehow, that this might be the most important conversation of his life, though he was not certain why. “You might have noticed,” he said, closing his eyes against a hoard of painful memories, “that I was badly wounded in Belgium.” He looked to see if she would wince or pale.

She did not. “I had noticed.”

“I thought as much.” He sighed. “Blast it, this is impossible.”

“Just talk.”

He gave her a half nod, wishing himself anywhere but here, compelled to speak of things he’d as lief forget. “For months after Waterloo, I thought I would die at any moment. Then for a while, after I began to recover, I was sorry that I had not died.”

“Oh, Hawk, no.”

He crossed her lips with a finger. “Shh. You promised you would listen.”

She kissed the finger, humbling him. “I apologize. Go on.”

Hawk pulled her closer, settled her head upon his shoulder, and allowed himself the luxury of burying his face in her hair for a moment. Her violet scent soothed him. “I was ashamed, for one thing. Better men than I had died, you see. Braver men, smarter, stronger, worthier men, who had made something of their lives. What right had I to live, with them gone?”

Alex shook her head.

“I did not promise, Lexy, that you would approve, I simply promised that I would talk, and frankly it is deuced uncomfortable without your disapproval.”

“Forgive me.”

He nodded. “When I suspected I wanted to live again, I was, frankly, afraid.”

Alex bristled and Hawk regarded her. “I am admitting, here, that Sabrina might have been right. Never tell her so.”

“Never,” Alex promised solemnly. “Go on.”

“I might have used Sabrina and the boys as an excuse to linger in London. She is also family, never as strong as you, and they were in trouble. Ultimately, I was glad I stayed, because I helped them with a situation plaguing them.”

“Then I am glad you stayed, as well,” Alex said. “Perhaps she will tell me about it one day. Sabrina is another stubborn one, like you, who keeps her problems to herself.”

“And you do not?”

“Of course n— No. Perhaps. Sometimes.”

Hawk hugged her tight for a second.

Alex was uplifted by the beat of his heart at her ear and the strength and need in his crushing, almost desperate embrace. “After you helped Sabrina and the children, why then did you remain in town?” she asked, prodding him to continue.

“I think—I know—that I did not want to force my wretched presence upon you all, for then you would see how damaged I was.”

Hawk shook his head, for he could not even understand. “Inside, Lexy, I still feel, sometimes, as if I was broken in so many ways that I was not put back together properly, as if I… live now in someone else’s skin—I know it sounds fanciful, but I cannot explain any better. I am sorry.”

With the same tenacity required to ignore the abiding ache in her heart when she first believed him dead, Alexandra ignored the fact that Hawk did not mention missing any of them, not even Claudia and Beatrix. That he never seemed to have worried about them.

“Even on the day Sabrina came to tell me of your wedding,” Hawk continued, “I was not yet ready to face any of you.”

Alex felt him shudder inwardly. “Then, without knowing how I got there, I found myself standing at the mouth of hell, inside a church, and I saw you, a bride beside your bridegroom. A woman. Beautiful. About to be joined to another.” He kissed her brow and held her fiercely for several long, delicious moments.

“My first inkling that I wanted to live again slipped into my conscious mind as I began that everlasting trek up the aisle. I could not for the life of me imagine why I had been so eager to go marching off to war, in the first place, or why I stayed away so long after my return. I knew only that you were mine and I must stop you from going to another.”

Though they were not quite the words Alex wanted—that he had missed her, needed her, cared for her—they were a great deal more than she expected and she whooped in happiness, and tightened her arms around him, kissing him wherever she could reach.

Hawk wanted to tell Alex, then, how much he had missed her. He wanted to tell her so badly that to keep from admitting it, he kissed her. Otherwise, he would commit himself to becoming her husband in every way, and that, he could not do.

He kissed her slender fingers, her wrist, the pulse at her temple, her invitingly parted lips. And just when her eyes darkened and his body came to life, a hedgehog ran across the blankets.

Alex screamed in surprise.

“What the… ?”

They heard a familiar giggle.

“Beatrix Ann Jamieson,” Alex said. “You come out this instant.”

Bea rose from the floor on the opposite side of the bed and came around to their side.

Hawk held Alex close, while little Miss Mischief, behind her, placed her elbows on the bed and rested her chin in her small hands. “What’re you and Alex doing up here in the middle of the day?”

Alex’s giggle was muffled against his chest, and as sanity returned, Hawk became more and more grateful to his Bumble Bea by the moment.

“We were, ah, taking a nap.”

“Oh, good.” Beatrix scrambled up onto the bed and climbed over Alex to squeeze herself into the tight place between them, crossing her shod feet and tucking her fists, as if to warm them, beneath her chin.

Alex removed Bea’s tiny kid slippers and pulled the blanket over her, tucking it up to her chin.

“Remember after Mama died, Uncle Hawk,” Bea said, snuggling in, “when you used to take naps with me, so I would not have bad dreams? I missed our naps when you were gone.”

“I missed them too, Pup.”

“Alex napped with me after you left. She sleeps quieter than you do, but I like napping with you too.”

“Thank you,” Hawk said, looking over at Alex, raising a brow at her chuckle.

“I like best having you both to nap with.” Bea gave a huge yawn. “It makes me feel safe and happy, like having a mama and a papa, both, again.” Then she sighed and closed her eyes, and before they knew it, she was snuffling like a contented hedgehog.

Hawk regarded Alex over Bea’s head. Just that easy, this little one had cracked the foundation of all his good intentions.

He reached over to take Alex’s hand and weave their fingers together. Then Bea turned on her side and buried her face between Alex’s breasts, sighing in sleepy contentment.

Lucky Pup, Hawk thought, Bea’s words playing in his head, whether he wished them to or not. Having Alex and him both was like having two parents again—a humbling but disquieting announcement from a six-year-old who had lacked parents for more than half her life.

Alex took Bea’s cue and fell asleep as well, her fingers still laced with his. And Hawk lay there and worried about them and watched over them.

His family… perhaps not wholly better off without him after all.

SIXTEEN

DAYS LATER, Hawk was still worrying Bea’s words like a pup with a bone. If he went ahead with his plan to set Alex free, what would losing her do to Beatrix, who had already endured the separate losses of her parents? Not to mention how she must have felt for losing him as well.

He recalled how she had wept for him when she had not quite recognized him. Now, here he was, back from the dead and planning to set Alex free, which amounted to the same thing as taking away her new mother. Poor Bea.

Poor Alex. She would never allow herself to be set free, if she thought Bea might suffer for it. So, how could he release her now, Chesterfield or no?

Hawk had detested Chesterfield for so long. For years, they had played some silent game, vying for the same stakes: women, money, and the respect of their peers. Hawk did not even know exactly when the game had begun or why.

He knew only that he had won, hands down, for the most part, until that fateful day at White’s, when Chesterfield and his father met by accident, apparently, and found themselves sharing a brandy and becoming fast friends. Later his father had said that Chesterfield was a good man, a man a father could be proud of.

The bitter taste of that pronouncement had lingered and festered inside Hawk, until the day his father contrived to offer him pride at the last, that fateful, consequential day.

After that, their old rivalry had been forgotten in the chaos of war and pain, until it flared anew, blazed, that day at the church, and worse since, until Hawk discovered that Chesterfield practically saved Bea’s life. Now he found himself trying to swallow an adjustment of his attitude toward his old nemesis.

To complicate matters, Chesterfield had come striding right up to him recently, there on Huntington property, while Hawk tried to help one of his seasoned tenants deliver a lamb, of all things. The lambing was not only Hawk’s first, but the delivery difficult at best, and out of season, so there was some worry that the lamb would be too weak and small to withstand a prolonged birth.

Chesterfield had ignored their struggle and ripped up at him. “Claudia is going to get herself into trouble visiting men at their homes, without a maid in tow, sending notes, inviting them to woodland trysts and unchaperoned walks,” the blighter shouted. “If you continue your lackadaisical guardianship in this way, Hawksworth, your niece will be ruined.”

“Do not presume—”

“It is one thing for her to be naturally friendly and exuberant here in the country,” Chesterfield continued, ignoring Hawk’s attempt to respond, “but entirely another in town. If she continues to care naught for her reputation, she will run wild in London and find herself at the mercy of some blackguard who misunderstands her and accepts the wrong invitation, with no care to her safety or good name. I trust I have made my point,” Chesterfield said, even as he stormed off.

“Just see that you stay away from her,” Hawk shouted after him.

“I am bloody well trying,” Chesterfield snapped.

“Wait,” Hawk said, stroking the laboring ewe to calm her. “What did you give Alex, for which she owes you something in exchange?”

Chesterfield cursed. “Her freedom, damn you to perdition.”

No matter that Hawk called the blighter back for his foolish answer, Chesterfield did not so much as falter or turn, but kept walking.

Still Hawk wondered which piece of the puzzle remained missing, for the ones he had garnered thus far did not fit.

Now, as their borrowed carriage carried them smoothly toward London, Hawk could not decide if he was grateful to Chesterfield for his warning about Claudia, or furious with him over his mysterious exchange, of sorts, with Alex.

He did realize, however, that Chesterfield was right about one thing. Hawk knew less about raising girls than he did about birthing sheep.

He knew even less about grown women, wives in particular. One wife. His. He needed to talk to someone with experience. Perhaps Gideon, though his fellow rogue had less experience with children than Hawk. But he did have a wife, Sabrina—Hawk’s sister since his late and villainous half-brother married her.

Not that Hawk could not speak to Alex about Claudia. He could and did, to a point, but he would rather not bring Chesterfield into any of their conversations, if he could help it—no need to remind her of what she had lost.

Besides, he could ask Sabrina about Alex as well as Claude. Bree seemed to know instinctively what to do in most situations, and she understood him so very well, in the same way he understood her. So much so that Gideon had once imagined they were in love with each other.

Now that was a story he would have to share with Alex someday.

Alex was pleased their two-hour trip to London remained for the most part uneventful. Hawk had dressed in his own clothes for the first time, a deal newer and more fashionable than the ones from his Belgian family. Though getting him to agree had taken a bit of cajoling and more than one satisfying kiss. He even agreed to have Weston take a few nips and tucks to bring his attire up to snuff, though he hated for the ton to become generally aware that his pockets were to let.

Claudia had pouted for days because she failed to talk Chesterfield into following them into town. And Hawk was inordinately annoyed with her for trying, after the truth came out, though Alex wasn’t quite sure how he learned it.

What worried her now was that Claude’s pout had disappeared, only to be replaced by the spark of satisfaction lighting her guinea gold eyes.

As much as she worried about Claudia, Alex had to laugh at Bea’s requests to use, and examine, the necessary at every posting inn between Devil’s Dyke and St. James’s Square, though it gave them all more than enough opportunity to stretch their legs.

“I miss Uncle Giff,” Beatrix said mournfully as she climbed into Hawk’s lap for what Alex hoped might be a nice long nap.

Saying goodbye to Aunt Hildegarde and Uncle Gifford had been difficult for all of them. The older couple opted to remain behind and skip the pleasures of London. Hawk said he was glad that a male member of the family would remain at Huntington Lodge to oversee the estate. And Alex was glad, because some of London’s pleasures could be too much for certain people.

“You know,” Claudia said, prompted by Bea’s comment, “if I did not know better, I would think that Uncle Giff and Aunt Hildy were pleased to be getting the house to themselves.”

Alex recalled the gatehouse incident with speculation, and by the look of him, so did Hawk. It occurred to Alex, then, that she might have consulted her Aunt Hildegarde about seduction. Though since the woman had never married, she might very well have fallen into an apoplexy of embarrassment, if Alex tried. Hildy and Giff could have visited the gatehouse for a perfectly innocent reason, after all.

“They are probably looking forward to peace and quiet,” Hawk said, “what with our mischievous eavesdropper safe away. What do you think, Pup?” He tickled Bea until she giggled helplessly and screamed for him to be careful of Nanny.

Everyone groaned. “Where is she?” Hawk asked, stilling, on the instant.

Bea took her ball of a spiny pet from her pocket. “Here she is, see?”

“Did I not tell you to leave Nanny home?”

Beatrix shook her head adamantly. “No you did not, Uncle Bryce. You said that Damon and Rafferty would like to see her. Will you take the twins with us to Astley’s Royal Amphitheater? Tell me again what we will see there?”

Alex knew there would be no rest for any of them this trip, no peace either, not today or in the weeks to come.

As they approached St. James’s Square, Hawk thought that Basingstoke House stood out like a diamond in a tasteful cluster of lesser gems.

The dowager duchess herself appeared an exquisite in every respect, petite as a sprite, disciplined as a general, and generous to a fault. Her home seemed to run like a finely geared French clock, and one hour in her company made him imagine that the twice-widowed duchess might have been a great help to Wellington on the peninsular.

She appeared as if nothing could ruffle her, until Nanny scampered under her dress and over her slippered feet.

Upon being presented to the duchess, Claudia curtsied prettily, making the older woman beam. “Enchanting.” She kissed Claudia’s cheek. “I vow that you shall be wed by spring, if not sooner.” And Claudia glowed.

“I made an appointment for us at Madame Suzette’s this afternoon to have Claudia fitted for her new wardrobe, if that is convenient for you both?” the duchess said to Alex.

Claudia looked as if she might dance on air at the prospect, and Alex accepted with thanks for them both.

After tea, Hawk and Alex followed a maid up to their apartment. “The duchess told me that we are invited to Gideon and Sabrina’s townhouse at Grosvenor Square for luncheon,” Alex told Hawk. “Afterward, Bea can remain there with Damon and Rafferty for the afternoon, while the duchess and I take Claudia for her fittings, and you and Gideon can do… whatever it is that London gentlemen do of an afternoon.”

Hawk appeared amused by her words, until they entered their apartment, which consisted of two dressing rooms, a huge sitting room, and one bedchamber. The bed itself was smaller, if that were possible, than the one they had shared at Huntington Lodge.

Hawk stood thunderstruck as he regarded it.

Alex stood grinning beside him. “I love it.”

All the way to Grosvenor Square, Alex was in a state of excitement over seeing Sabrina again, for they had not seen each other in more than a year, not since they shared Hawk’s townhouse right after Hawk went to war.

Months before Alex and Hawk’s marriage, Sabrina had escaped the villain her first husband sold her to, and sought refuge with Hawk and his family.

After Hawk left for the war, Alex and Sabrina, along with their families, had continued to live together for nearly five months. Then Hawk was killed at Waterloo, and Bree received his deathbed letter saying he had arranged her marriage to Gideon.

When Baxter Wakefield inherited Hawk’s fortune and estates, and tossed them all out, Alex moved her family to Huntington Lodge, and Bree moved hers to Grosvenor Square to await her mystery groom’s arrival.

Damon and Rafferty, Sabrina’s twins, became best of friends with Bea when they lived together, the boys adopting Claudia as their big sister, too. And Hawk and Gideon had served in the Guards under Wellington, so Alex knew that the entire family was as eager for the visit as she.

The Dowager Duchess of Basingstoke was Gideon’s grandmother, by blood, though Sabrina told Alex in a letter that the duchess treated her children—from her marriage to Hawk’s half-brother—as beloved great-grandchildren.

Sabrina’s youngest, Juliana, born shortly after her marriage to Gideon, had been named after the duchess, a fact for which the older woman was inordinately proud.

Hawk thought that their arrival at Grosvenor Square was like to rival the Vienna Congress in the rise and fervor of their voices—even after the children dashed up to the nursery. He shook Gideon’s hand, pleased to see his fellow rogue again.

“Ladies, Gentlemen,” the duchess said to quiet the raucous company milling about the foyer. “Let us have some decorum, if you please, and if we cannot, let us at least remove to the drawing room.”

Sabrina giggled and hooked her arm in the formidable dowager’s. “Yes, Grandmama.” Together the two women led the group up the stairs.

Alex exclaimed in wonder upon entering an exquisite drawing room, complete with twin fireplaces of topaz marble.

“This is just the beginning,” Sabrina said. “Wait until you see the rest of the house.”

“I am in awe.”

Gideon turned to Alex. “As well you should be. Hawk, present me to your beautiful bride, if you please.”

Hawk took Alex’s arm. “Alex, another member of the Rogues Club, Gideon St. Goddard, Duke of Stanthorpe.”

“Since Hawk and Sabrina are all but brother and sister,” Sabrina’s charming husband said, totally lacking the aristocratic air Alex expected, “and Hawk became my brother under Wellington, I shall consider you my sister.”

“Thank you, your grace.”

“Oh. Ouch. Please, may I call you Alexandra? And you must call me Gideon.”

“Or Uncle Stanthorpe,” Rafferty said joining them.

“Or Uncle Papa,” Damon added with a giggle.

Gideon scooped the twins off the floor, to dangle them one under each arm. “Ignore the scamps Alexandra. My name has become something of a family joke with them. And what do you call me now, you rascals?” he demanded, shaking them until they laughed.

“Papa, Papa,” they chorused.

Beatrix had entered behind them carrying the ugliest cat Alex had ever seen.

“What is that?”

“That’s Mincemeat,” Rafe said, as Gideon set him down. “Isn’t she beautiful? She keeps my feet warm at night and licks my fingers, and purrs soft and happy. And she is the best mama to her kittens I ever saw.”

“Then she is, indeed, beautiful,” Alex said as she petted the purring cat.

“Bea’s Nanny is something ripping, too,” Damon said. “But her quills hurt.”

“I told you to pet her in the direction they grow, not away from it,” Bea said. “She doesn’t know you yet, so she will curl in a ball and set her quills straight up to protect herself. When she knows you, she will let you tickle her silky belly.”

“Drizzle likes that, too,” Damon said, petting the short-legged beagle happily trailing behind.

The Dowager shook her head as she regarded her grandson. “Keep this up and we will have to open our own menagerie.”

Gideon raised his hands in complete guilelessness.

“Do not act the innocent with me,” his grandmother continued. “If Juliana becomes enamored of an India tiger, you will find a way to get her one.”

Gideon grinned and Hawk chuckled deep in his throat.

“Alex, you should see the baby,” Beatrix said. “She looks ever so darling standing in her crib, with only one tooth, and a little blue dress and bonnet, and dark curls, and she giggles when she sees the twins, and calls everybody Papa.”

“Julie is a brilliant child,” Gideon said. “Papa is her favorite word.”

“Papa is her only word,” his grandmother said, bursting her grandson’s bubble.

Hawksworth barked a near-laugh, the first Alex had heard from him, since he had come home. How relaxed he looked. How at ease of a sudden.

The change would be good for him—for the two of them.

SEVENTEEN

THEY ATE en famille, with everyone present but the baby. “I fed Juliana earlier, so she should be settling down for her nap, about now,” Sabrina said. “How pleased we are that you have come to town for the little season. I can hardly wait for a comfortable coze, Alex. Can you spend the afternoon?”

“Oh, no, I am sorry, but I cannot. We have an appointment for Claude’s fittings.”

“Nonsense,” the duchess said. “Claudia, what say you to letting me take you for your fittings?”

Claudia beamed and the duchess nodded regally. “It is settled then.”

Sabrina shook her head at her seventeen-year-old niece. “Claudia, I can hardly believe you are old enough to be entering the marriage mart.”

“Providing we can obtain entry into all the best balls and routs,” Alex said. “That is always a worry, is it not?”

The duchess waved her comment aside. “Your entry has been assured everywhere, my dears. I told you I would take care of everything. Sally Jersey is an old school chum.”

After luncheon, Hawk and Gideon decided they would go to Weston’s for a fitting of their own then to see if any news had surfaced on Hawk’s father’s solicitor.

“We might stop by Stephen’s Hotel as well,” Hawk said. “I would like to inquire as to some possible military men who need work and a place to settle. We have room at Huntington for six more tenant families.”

“London is teeming with out-of-work soldiers,” Gideon said. “Spitalfields has thousands who are half-starved and unemployed, never mind the number in workhouses and debtors’ prisons.”

“God’s teeth, I had not realized the situation had grown so dire.”

Gideon nodded. “It is an abomination for England’s defenders to suffer so. Between the war’s end and the poorest farming weather in years, I fear we are looking at bad times ahead.”

“Let us take a drive through the East End, then. Perhaps we can find a few soldiers we know. By having them as my tenants, we can help each other.”

“Excellent,” Gideon said as they donned their many-caped greatcoats and accepted top hats and canes. “I could use a few good men on my estates as well.”

They kissed their respective wives with an awkwardness, at first, for the public displays of affection, then with devilish gleams in their eyes for realizing it.

“Wickedly handsome rogues, are they not?” Alex asked from the open front door beside Sabrina as they watched the carriage depart.

“They certainly are.”

Alex chuckled. “My goodness, you amaze me. You, the original man-hater—not without the best of reasons, mind. But still, it is such a turnabout.”

“I am so very happy and… contented.” Sabrina shut the door. “Though I never expected to be.”

“I envy you.”

“You will have your turn. Tell me what has been happening with you and Hawksworth.”

“Before I can, you must answer a question that has been plaguing me.”

“Gladly. Please, sit. Would you like me to ring for tea?”

Alex shook her head in response to both. “Hawk said you told him I was marrying, but why did you never write to tell me he was alive and living in London?”

Sabrina paled and lowered herself to the settee. “Oh, Alex, it is so complicated.”

“I thought we were friends, Bree. I know Hawksworth is more your brother than your brother-in-law and thinks of you as his sister. I have made peace with that, even with the fact that you received a last letter and I did not. But why did you not tell me that I was not free to marry? Would you have let me commit bigamy?”

“Of course not, which is the only reason Gideon allowed me to go that morning and tell Hawksworth—so Hawk could stop you.”

“Allowed you?”

“Gideon was adamant that I not interfere, and I agreed about Hawksworth, for the most part. Oh, Alex, you should have seen Hawk when he showed himself to us, which was not until we were all nearly killed.”

“Killed?”

Sabrina waved Alex’s worried question away. “That is a story we will save for another time, but worry not, for the danger has passed. As for Hawk, he was in a dark place, Alex, wounded, deeply, and not simply of body. He was lost, almost of soul, as well. I might fancifully say he appeared as if he had died—and gone to hell—but in returning, brought his demons with him, because they clung tenaciously to his inner spirit.”

“Oh, Bree.” Alex sat as well. “Sometimes I have glimpsed such darkness in him.”

“It was frightening. He was frightening. We worried about him, feared for his sanity, that he might do something rash.”

Alex rose, hands fisted. She wanted more than anything to lash out in anger at her old friend. “And you did not think I could help him?”

“Hawk is better now, which must be because of you, so I wonder if we might have been wrong to wait, but we did what we thought was best, Alex. Gideon fought beside Hawk. He held Hawk as he died, and he warned me that a man home from war must make his own way through his demons, or be lost to them.”

Sabrina twisted a violet grosgrain bodice-ribbon as she spoke. “I wrote twice to tell you, but I never sent either letter for fear of betraying my promise to Hawk, for fear of hurting him. After we knew he was back in London, Gideon made discreet inquiries, to be certain he was taking care of himself. We invited him here several times, but other than the day he rescued us, Hawk never came.”

Bree shook her head. “On that day, I advised him to contact you, and he promised he would. We owe him our lives, Alex, and we wanted to respect his wishes and give him the time he begged us to give him.”

Despite herself, Alex wept over the things Bree revealed. She could not help herself. Hawk had suffered so much more than she imagined.

Bree handed her a handkerchief, and Alex wiped her eyes and her nose, and smiled, finally, before stepping into Sabrina’s waiting arms. “Thank you for being such a good friend,” Alex said, “that you went against your instincts to be mine, rather than hurt him.”

“You love him still, even though you were about to marry Chesterfield?”

“Still, and more; am I not the fool?”

“Hawksworth is a lovable man.”

“You know that because you love him, too. I thought at one time you and he…”

Bree giggled. “So did Gideon. Jealousy can be a very potent apprentice in getting a man to pay attention.”

“I have tried that, but now I am afraid Hawk is staying away from me, because he thinks I love Chesterfield.”

“Men can be so pigheadedly noble.”

Alex smiled as did Sabrina.

“Now tell me why your frantic note said that you and Hawk should be given one bedchamber only at Grandmama’s, no matter what.” Sabrina raised a questioning brow. “I must confess it has had me imagining all sorts of intrigues.”

“You did not say anything to your husband, did you, about the single bedchamber?”

“Lord, no. Besides, he would tell me not to meddle there, either, and I do so love helping others, especially when it comes to romance, now that I have a romance of my own—which is certainly what your request for one bedroom seemed.”

Alex sat and covered her friend’s hand. “Do you, honestly, Bree? A romance? Hawk said so, and oh, I am so happy for you. I am happy, too, that you want to meddle, because I honestly need your help. Our family’s happiness—Bea’s especially, but Claude’s, Aunt Hildy’s, even Uncle Giff’s—is at stake.”

“What about your happiness, and Hawksworth’s?”

Unable to sit still, Alex rose to wander the room. Buttercream damask covered the walls, with pale yellow, robin’s egg blue, and soft fern green in the upholstered furniture. The scent of beeswax and citrus freshened the air and calmed the spirit.

“My happiness must be Hawk’s happiness.” Alex turned to her friend. “But would it not be wonderful if they were one and the same?”

“Is that not your goal?”

Alex could only nod for the lump in her throat. She found herself having to swallow before speaking. “I… yes, but for that to happen… please, Bree, you must tell me how to seduce my husband.”

Sabrina rose to go to her. “Good Lord, you are having Chesterfield’s baby!”

Before Alex could answer, a hedgehog scurried across the drawing room.

Having had a great deal of practice, Alex caught the scampering critter and slipped it into her pocket. “Beatrix Jamieson, you little eavesdropper, show yourself this instant.” Muffled giggles and scurrying feet, on the opposite side of a second door, told them Bea would not be showing herself anytime soon.

Shaking her head, Alex turned back to Sabrina “Chesterfield’s baby? What are you talking about?”

“Why else would it be imperative to seduce your husband, unless it was to make it appear as if he fathered another man’s child—”

Alex burst into laughter and threw her arms about her friend. “Gad, Bree, I have missed you. Of course I am not carrying Judson’s child. I am not carrying anyone’s child. How the devil could I be?”

“Do not say Hawk has not touched you since he returned?”

Alex paled and looked away. “He has never touched me.”

“What, not even on your wedding night?”

“We had no wedding night. I lied to everyone and went to the St. James’s Hotel alone. Bryce said goodbye at the church after we married. He left for Dover that night and shipped out the next day. Sometimes I think he still finds me an annoyance, like when we were children. Do you think he does? I think he must.”

“I do not think so, not from the way he watched you during luncheon when you were not looking.”

“I wish he would touch me when I am not looking, or even when I am. I have tried to spark his interest, but I cannot. No, perhaps that is not quite right. I have sparked it, but I cannot seem to fan it into flame. God, Bree, when it comes to being a wife, I do not know where to begin.”

“In the bedroom?” Sabrina suggested.

Alex smiled. “I suspected as much.”

“Oh my.” Sabrina sat again and patted the seat beside her. “This is going to be very delicate, Alex, but if you want my help, you will have to share some of the more intimate details of your marriage bed with me.”

“There are no intimate details.”

“What nothing? Not even a tense moment when you thought he might devour you as if you were a cream pastry?”

“When he is asleep, he is very… friendly.”

“Excuse me?”

“He pulls me close and says my name.”

“Better than saying another woman’s name. And when he is awake?”

“There has been some interest, mostly when I am wearing one of the night rails Chesterfield purchased for our honey month.”

“Does Hawk know who purchased them?”

“Good God, no.”

“Then, perhaps you should tell him.”

“Are you out of your mind? Hawk and Chesterfield detest each other. Hawk does not even want me to wear my bride-clothes. He would be furious, he would—”

“Tear them off you?”

Alex grinned. “Like the beast he proclaims himself.”

“Exactly. It is called jealousy. Hawk might imagine Chesterfield seeing you in, or out, of one of those night rails and realize if he does not claim you…”

“I… may have ruined the jealousy ploy. I let Hawk believe I might love Chesterfield and now I am afraid he is thinking of letting me go.”

“Unless he cannot keep from touching you, himself… Once he gives in to that inclination, it will be too late to let you go.”

Alex laid her head back against the cushions and closed her eyes. “Do you really think so?”

“We may have to dangle you before him for a time, however, and have you walk away when he gets close. What else has sparked his interest?”

“Sometimes the way he looks at me is very disconcerting. And there is that portion of him that… reacts. It happens often, but sometimes at the strangest moments.”

“Like when?”

“There was the time he said he would make me listen if he had to tie me to the bed. But he stopped talking and got an arrested look on his face and… that… happened.”

Bree squealed with delight. “Lord I have the perfect situation in mind. But we must start small and work our way up to the ultimate seduction. Fetch a paper and pencil from my desk and let us make a list of the possible ways to catch his attention.”

“I am not sure if seduction will work, you understand,” Alex said opening the mahogany secretary in the corner and searching for pen and paper. “I am not even certain he is fond of me.”

“Pish tosh. He is. Let me think about what you will need—”

“Money could be a problem, Bree, but do not say anything. Hawk does not want anyone to know.”

“Fine, you have your night rails. Do you have a lace corset in black?”

“Of course not.”

“Then you may borrow mine, though Gideon might miss it. But we will have to take that chance. I can distract him with another. I will lend you some scented soaps and oils, some ribbons, black too, I think. One for each of the bedposts in the bedchamber where I had Grandmama put you.”

As Sabrina spoke, Alex began to make her list. Then she looked up. “Ribbons for the bed posts? Ah, Sabrina, will I be tying something to the bed?”

EIGHTEEN

HAWK AND GIDEON followed a gangly, red-haired young man into the beeswax-scented office of Mr. Warren Fitzwilliams, Esquire, nephew to Mr. Malcolm Fitzwilliams, solicitor to Hawk’s father.

“Gentlemen,” Fitzwilliams, the younger, said as he rose from a well-worn, chestnut leather chair. “Won’t you be seated and tell me what I can do for you on this splendid Autumn afternoon?”

The young clerk interrupted to offer refreshments, and afterward, he backed, literally, from the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

Hawk nodded to Fitzwilliams and turned to Gideon. “Gideon St. Goddard, Duke of Stanthorpe, may I present Mr. Warren Fitzwilliams, nephew to my father’s solicitor?”

Gideon and the solicitor exchanged pleasantries, until their attention shifted to the subject heavy on Hawk’s mind. “Frankly, Mr. Fitzwilliams, I find myself mystified and vexed that my wife was not provided for, like all Wakefield widows before her, when it was erroneously reported that I died at Waterloo. How did this miscarriage of all that is proper come about?”

Fitzwilliams pulled at his beard for several long moments as he regarded Hawk with a furrowed brow, clearly at a loss. “I do not understand. Why would your wife be provided for?”

Hawk scowled. “Because I am, or was until my, ah, mistaken demise, the Fifth Duke of Hawksworth. I should think that would be answer enough.”

“Oh, but… Oh my. Were neither you, nor your wife, present then, for the reading of your father’s will? I did not preside, myself, you see, or even attend. My uncle handled everything, but I remember him apprising me, during his final days, of your father’s peculiar codicil.”

Gideon sat forward. “Are you saying there were stipulations to Hawksworth’s inheriting, of which he knew nothing?”

Fitzwilliams regarded Hawk. “Let us allow your father’s words to speak for themselves, shall we?” He rose and went to a cherry wood cabinet, opened a drawer and shuffled through a series of yellowed and dog-eared records. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Here.” He withdrew a pouch of parchment, darkened with age and thick with documents.

Returning to his desk, he sat and sifted through the pouch, itself, until he came upon one sheet in particular, revealing less age than the rest, the writing upon it so spidery as to be barely legible. That sheet, he slid across his desk toward Hawksworth.

Aware that he regarded the thing as if it might rise up and strike, Hawk turned to Gideon. “You first.”

Gideon raised a brow. “Are you certain?” At Hawk’s nod, Gideon took up the document, almost with trepidation, read it once, then again. Shaking his head, he handed it to Hawk and sat back to await his reaction.

Hawk barely finished before he barked a harsh laugh. “Disinherited by God! The bounder died making certain I was willing to give my life for his bloody approval, handling me to the last, without honor enough to say that I would be stripped of all but my title, if I chose Alexandra as my wife.”

“I am sorry,” Mr. Fitzwilliams said, calling for his clerk to bring in the brandy.

Hawk watched the clerk pour. “Managed from the grave, by God.”

“And damned near into it.” Gideon accepted a goblet, himself. “Insidiously controlled, if you ask me. Did your father never say that he took exception to Alexandra?”

Hawk took a sip, closed his eyes, opened them and nodded. “Oh, Father did say so. He said so daily. But he took exception to so many people, who paid attention?”

“But why?” Gideon persisted. “What did he have to gain by disinheriting you? Or, perhaps I should ask what did he have to lose, if you married Alex?”

“Status for his name, his title, his heirs. That was all he cared about. Alexandra’s family was not high enough on the social ladder to be considered worthy.” Hawk shook his head. “If he had but known it, back when he first objected, Alex was no more than the pest who shadowed me. He might have put the thought in my head, by forbidding it. Even when we married—” Hawk stopped. How he felt about his wife was immaterial, especially as he had come to care a great deal for her over the last year and a half. More than he had ever thought possible.

“As ruthlessly controlling as your father was—judging by what you told me and I have just heard,” Gideon said, “the man must at least have expected you to attend the reading of his will. He could not have known you would marry and sail to France before the week was out.”

“If I did not marry Alex, I could not have gone to France. Every member of my family was the better for Alexandra’s care, better even than if I had stayed. If not for her, I could not have gone to fight Boney, for I had too many responsibilities.”

“It seems probable that your father had no more consideration for the members of your family than for you,” Gideon said. “He must have known you could die going to war, but he was willing to send you, anyway. I wonder if a place in history might not have been more important to him.”

“How could my actions affect his place in history?”

“Then power mattered, the power inherent in his ability to control you and the future, even after his death.”

Hawk cursed. “It no longer matters though, does it?”

“I wonder,” Gideon responded, regarding him so keenly that Hawk set his goblet upon the desk and rose.

“You are in the same place, are you not?” Gideon rose, also. “You would have married Alexandra, whether you knew about the will or not. What is the harm now?”

“My family’s strained circumstances might have been eased in advance, had I known. I might never have gone, had I known.” Hawk turned to the hovering solicitor. “The past cannot be changed. I understand that. But is there any way in which this codicil, or the results of it, can be overturned?”

“There are only two circumstances that might produce results, but none are guaranteed. We could attempt to prove your father of unsound mind at the time of the codicil. Or you might seek an annulment or a bill of divorcement.”

Hawk stopped himself from laughing outright at the solicitor’s words. An annulment, by God. If he let Alex go now, he might regain what little was left of his wealth. If he kept her, he would ruin her life, for she would certainly be destitute for the remainder of it. “My father was cunning,” he said, “but never insane.”

“If you do not mind my knowing, Hawksworth,” Gideon said, turning to the solicitor, “were there any other disapproved brides named by the old duke?”

The solicitor turned to Hawk seeking his permission to speak, and Hawk gave it with a nod.

“Only the bride you chose,” Fitzwilliams told Hawk.

“Ah, that is rich.” Hawk turned to leave.

“Oh, wait,” Fitzwilliams said. “I have something for your wife, obtained during the transaction she contracted me to perform for her sometime back. She was supposed to have picked this up on the day of her wed—er, ah…” The solicitor coughed. “She never came for it. May I send it along with you now?”

“Of course,” Hawk said, taking a sealed missive and placing it in the inside breast pocket of his frockcoat. He shook the solicitor’s hand, as did Gideon, and they made their way from the Leicester Square building.

At the top of the outside steps, Hawk placed his curly beaver atop his head and regarded Gideon, “Say nothing to Alex of this. I need time to think. I do not want her to know that my father disapproved of her. She will blame herself for the loss of my fortune.”

“Nonsense. How could she blame anyone, other than your father?” Gideon asked. “But it might be kinder to let her assume that Baxter simply squandered your wealth, which he has about managed anyway.”

“I would have done Alexandra a great service,” Hawk said, pulling on his gloves as they made their way down the marble steps, “if I had not married her in the first place.”

“When did you fall in love with her?” Gideon asked.

Hawk stopped. “In love with her?” Love? He knew nothing of love. “That is rather an impudent question, is it not?”

“We were comrades, we fought side by side. You died in my arms.”

“And saw you weep when I did.”

“Exactly.” Gideon shook his head, denying Hawk’s accusation of impudence. “I am sorry, but I shall retain the right of an insolent brother for the remainder of our days. You were fond of Alex at the time of your marriage. I know you were, but you did not care for her in the same way you do now. That is, also, very plain.”

“What makes you think so?”

Gideon held up a hand. “Do not prevaricate. You never revealed any of it, but I believe I came to know you well enough to realize as much. In addition, today I saw the way you regard her.”

“To use an old cliché,” Hawk said, “I am my father’s son and, therefore, incapable of love. To add another, I have learned that meeting Alexandra Huntington may have been the best luck I ever had. I simply did not know it, until my life passed before me. That really happens, by the way.”

Gideon shuddered. “You will forgive me, if I am pleased to have no such experience.”

“The problem is,” Hawk said once they were settled inside Gideon’s carriage. “I have been thinking for months that the best thing I can do for Alex is to let her go. But if I do, what is left of my wealth will revert to me. How is such a decision to be made?”

Gideon nodded wisely. “With the heart, my friend. With the heart.”

“Look who is speaking of hearts, the man who once said he had none.”

Gideon grinned. “Sabrina helped me grow one. And speaking of hearts, you offered tenancies and cottages to seventeen members of our old unit, when I distinctly heard you say you had, what, six cottages left unoccupied?”

“Right. Remind me to write to my manager today and have my carpenters begin building a dozen more.”

“But half of the soldiers and families you took on are leaving for St. Albans today. You heard them. Without your inheritance, do you have the blunt to build?”

“No blunt, but Huntington is enormous. We have a huge home wood and trees aplenty, stone for fireplaces, mud for mortar. And I warned the men, while you were speaking to Stewart and Guilford, that they would be three families to a cottage for a while. Their response was that they would have roofs and hearths, both missing from their lives at the moment. I feel badly that I was forced to take only men with families, however.”

“Those without have a better chance at the odd job anyway.”

“True enough.”

After making the rounds of their clubs, Hawk and Gideon returned to Gideon’s home late in the afternoon. They entered a favorite, small sitting room only to find Alexandra, curled up on a chaise with Juliana sitting on her lap, so totally absorbed that she did not even hear them enter.

Alex spoke to the babe softly questioning, while Juliana, herself, was so absorbed in Alex she seemed to be trying to respond with little coos and gurgles, her hands waving excitedly in the air.

It was a sight, Hawk thought. A sight to warm the heart. It made him want… everything he could never hope to have.

“Do you see how Juliana loves Alex?” Beatrix asked, coming in behind the men with an infant blanket that she brought straight to Alex. “Can we have a baby, Uncle Bryce? Would you not like to have one? Alex, can you get us one?”

When Bea mentioned getting a babe of their own, Alex looked up, and her eyes found Hawk’s, and when their gazes locked, something deep and ephemeral seemed to pass between them.

It was uncomfortable and tight, Hawk thought, though he could not put a name to it.

Whatever it was, he wanted none of it… or more of it.

NINETEEN

AFTER DINNER, Alex went upstairs to see what the duchess and Claudia had purchased in one afternoon of dedicated and relentless shopping. But Hawk had too much on his plate to linger, so he excused himself and went up to their sitting room in search of a glass of brandy and a modicum of peace.

Just thinking about his father’s will, enraged him. He untied his cravat and tossed it. His frockcoat followed as he dropped exhausted into a chair.

Quick upon the heels of sitting, he saw the solicitor’s missive for Alex riding a whoosh of air toward the blazing hearth. With an oath, Hawk shot to his feet to rescue the charring note. He had forgotten the thing existed, never mind giving it to Alex.

Hawk plunged his hand into the flames, grabbed it by its sizzling sealing wax, and jerked his hand away, tearing it open as he did. “Blast and damnation!”

Hawk forgot his burned finger as he found himself staring at a paid receipt for four thousand, six hundred and seventy-five pounds sterling. A note was added by Fitzwilliams to the bottom. “All debts gathered and paid. All vouchers destroyed.”

What in the world had Alex to do with such a large debt? Vouchers? Gambling vouchers?

Had she taken to gambling? To support the family?

Nonsense. Even if she had gambled and lost, she did not have the funds to repay so high an amount. Devil it; what manner of predicament had she got herself into?

Her laughter far down the hall made Hawk scramble to hide the evidence of his knowledge. He looked about and secreted the paid receipt in his portmanteau, stuffing that into the back of the closet. Whatever trouble his wife had gotten herself into, he needed to understand to help.

Poor, Alex, he thought, what had he driven her to, marrying her and leaving her destitute? And to whom did she owe the great sum she had used to pay what seemed for all the world like a gambling debt.

Alex stopped laughing before she entered her room. Sabrina was right, she needed to concentrate. If Sabrina’s oil was to produce the desired effect, Alex must now appear uncomfortable and in need of her husband’s aid.

Her hesitation to carry out a set of instructions that seemed patently dishonest fled in the face of Hawk’s appearance—handsome, deeply furrowed brow, open-necked shirt, skin-tight inexpressibles, and a goblet of brandy cupped within his long, tapered fingers.

A lady-killer. A rogue. And all hers… if she managed to seduce him.

Alex stepped forward and winced. “Oh. Ouch.”

Hawk reached for her arm with his free hand and set down his glass. “Alex? What is wrong? Are you hurt?”

“I seem to have twisted my back, somehow, when I bent to place Juliana in her crib.”

Immediately, her husband’s attention was focused entirely on her, just as Sabrina said it would be. Alex did not even need to ask him to rub her back, for he began all on his own. Neither did she have to fake her sigh of pleasure, for that escaped of its own volition.

“Oh, that does feel good,” she said, leaning against him, and wincing again, lest he think he could stop too soon.

“What can I do for you?” her concerned husband asked. “Would you like me to help you undress?”

Would she like him to ravish her? Yes to both. “Bree gave me an oily salve that she said would ease the spasm in my muscles. Do you think you could rub it on for me?”

Hawk took a step back at the request and Alex wondered if he realized that he did. “Of course,” he said.

“I will need your help to undress, first, though. Even raising my arms increases the pain.”

Hawk swallowed as he nodded and walked her to their bed, where she remained standing, hoping he would take over, in much the same way he had done that night at the hotel.

He did, but this time when he unbuttoned her dress, she made certain to move in such a way that his hand must skim her skin, but only once or twice, not to be obvious. When Hawk reached for her garters, Alex tugged her skirt upward to allow him better access, and a better view of her legs.

By the time she bade him remove her shift as well as her stays, perspiration beaded his poor, beleaguered brow. “I do not wish to get oil on the fine lawn fabric,” she said. “We cannot afford to replace it; neither can we allow my undergarments to ruin my gowns.”

“Of course,” he said, though Alex was disappointed that he somehow managed to cover her within moments of removing the shift.

No matter. The scented oil would do its trick, Bree had promised. She said she knew from experience that the oil could work magic.

The jar that contained the waxy oil was made of a pale milky-green glass. As Alex lay on her belly, naked beneath the covers, she watched Hawksworth pick up the jar and examine it as if it might bite, his big, capable hands trembling.

She hid her smile with a painful sigh, all the while watching, until he finally stopped hesitating and came to stand beside the bed.

“You might wish to remove your shirt,” Alex suggested, “so the cuffs do not get ruined. Getting into bed beside me might help as well. Kneading as you rub the oil into the muscles will ease the spasm, Bree said, and you will certainly not be able to soothe my aches from up there.”

An understatement.

Hawk retained his shirt, but rolled up his sleeves, wondering what horrible sin he might have committed in his lifetime to bring him to this abysmal pass. He had grown erect from undressing her, never mind rubbing her silken skin with oil. Never mind doing so in bed.

Still, he hurt because she did, so he removed his shoes and climbed into their bed beside her. Uncovering the jar, the scent that rose from the thick, waxen oil was like to do him in for good and all.

Spice, flowers… seduction.

Sex, pure and unadulterated. Raw. Lusty. Potent.

“This does not smell like medicine.” Hawk cursed the tremble in his voice and the tightening in his groin. “Are you certain this is supposed to ease your pain?”

“From what I have observed, it promises to accomplish everything Sabrina said it would. I hope she is right. For the wait is exceeding torturous.”

At this moment Hawk well understood torture.

Alex squeaked when he placed perhaps a little too much of the salve on her back. “I did not expect it would be cold,” she said.

“It will warm against your skin,” Hawk said. God knew he would. “Are you certain you do not have a fever?”

“I think I might. The room seems very warm, of a sudden. Lower the blanket, will you, so I can cool down and you can reach my lower back, which I believe is nearest the location of my problem.”

The base of her spine was a most beautifully curvaceous and inviting location. Hawk wanted to place his lips upon the very spot, but he denied himself and turned to his wife.

He saw her in profile, the curve of her cheek, her firmly set lips, and the globe of one breast, pressed against the mattress.

Would that she were pressed against him, anywhere.

Beneath his hand, her skin felt like satin, the more so for the oil easing his way.

“Mmm,” she said. “I like.”

Then after a few moments: “Perhaps you could use both hands.”

Inside Hawk, heat flared like a pitch torch as he placed the jar on the bedside table and extracted more of the oily cure.

“Oh, that is good,” his wife said on a throaty sigh. “Yes. Right there. Oh. Mmm. Just a bit lower.”

If Hawk were not already afire, he might self-combust.

“Harder,” she said with a satisfied moan. “To the left. Oh, God, yes.”

She sighed, she purred, she moaned. “Ah. Yes. Mmm, more. All the way up… yes… all the way down. Again, up and down.”

Hawk was like to explode. If he had ever entertained the foolish notion that he could not carry out his husbandly duties, his doubts had been set to rest.

As a matter of fact, any more of this and he would explode without sheathing himself in Alexandra’s tight, silken— Think of something else. “Did you enjoy your visit with Bree?”

“Hmm?”

Hawk frowned. Was she not the least bit tortured? “Am I putting you to sleep? How is your back?”

“Everything feels good, as long as you are rubbing.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

“Hmm?”

“I would feel the same, if you were tending me.”

“Nice. But Hawk?”

“Yes, love?”

“My upper back, toward the right and somewhat beneath my arm… I feel a slightish… twinge there as well. Could you rub me there?”

Hawk threw his head back and silently cursed all twinges to perdition. “Of course.” If she did not desist soon, he would show her how good a rubbing could feel.

Hawk ran his soothing, oiled touch from her shoulder to the side of her breast, almost to its tip, but not quite, garnering such a wondrous sigh of pleasure from his wife that he could almost imagine it as sexual. Not to mention what stroking her was doing to him. Her breast, he knew, would fit his cupping hand extraordinarily well.

“Alex? Would you like me to… ease you anywhere else?”

“Mmm hmm.” She purred like a sleepy cat.

Was that a yes? “What?”

She opened her eyes. “What?”

“You want me to rub you, where?”

“On my back, as I said.”

“I thought I heard you say you wanted me to rub oil on you somewhere else.”

“Do you think it would help?”

“Lord, yes.”

“All right. Go ahead.”

Hawk sighed feeling his frustration rise up with a need to throttle, never mind stroke. “Go ahead and rub… where?”

“Wherever you wish.”

Hawk damned near came. Then he stopped, because…

“Alex?”

“Mmm…”

“Do you want me to stroke your other breast, ah, shoulder? Would you like to lie on your back?”

But nothing could be heard save the ticking of the mantle clock. His wife had fallen asleep, naked; one oiled breast riding his knee, his erection somehow nestled against the small of her back, just below her tiny waist, and just above her beckoning bottom.

Hawk cursed, sighed, and blew out the candle before sliding perilously down in the bed, afraid to embarrass himself in the process, though he managed not. Then he tortured himself the more by wrapping his arms around his slick and scented bride, allowing his manhood to pulse incessantly against her as his hand cupped her beckoning bottom.

And before long, Hawk’s mind was so enmeshed in the puzzle of her charred receipt that his body calmed, quite of its own accord.

The following night, to protect his sanity, Hawk misplaced the jar of oil, not certain which of them was more disappointed, him or his wife.

Alex appeared so downhearted that he damned near unearthed the bloody thing from the drawer where he had hidden it, just to see her smile, never mind the splendid self-torture.

But sanity reigned, thank the heavens.

Alex curled up in the bed with a book and fell almost immediately to sleep.

Well, Hawk thought, there was still the puzzle of that paid receipt to solve, not the first conundrum concerning Alex since his return from Belgium.

He rose and went to his dressing room and just as he was about to don his dressing gown, Alex began to whimper as if she were frightened.

Hawk ran to the bed where she was thrashing and weeping and calling his name, so he climbed in beside her to take her into his arms and calm her.

She relaxed instantly, though she seemed to be trying to climb inside him, if that were possible.

That was when Hawk realized that he was stark naked and in bed with his now naked wife. When had that happened? He could have sworn Alex was wearing… something when he went into his dressing room.

Devil take it, she coiled about him, now, like the roots of a tree, and heaven above, did he love it. Hawk ordered his excited body to calm, even as perspiration formed upon his brow.

Even without perfumed oil, he knew this was going to be another long, hard night.

Alexandra smiled in her sleep.

TWENTY

TWO NIGHTS LATER, as they were preparing to attend a ball, their first, at the Viscountess De Monteneiro’s villa in Kensington, Alex came to his dressing room wearing the most amazing black corset Hawk had ever beheld. That, and a pair of white silk stockings and matching brocade, heeled evening slippers.

Her breasts, pushed upward and outward by the man-straightening garment, looked as if they might spring, literally, free at any moment.

“One of my garters is twisted,” she said, studying his open shirt, while Hawk hoped that his scars did not show.

“It is one of the garters in the back,” Alex said. “And I cannot seem to fix or fasten it.” She turned her back on him then and bent over to brace herself on a chair, presumably to give him better access to her wayward garter, though she afforded him a most pleasant view of her delicious bottom as well.

Did she realize it? Hawk was beginning to wonder.

Probably not. That would simply be too perfect a situation to be possible.

Nevertheless, Hawk was appalled but enticed, and more interested than he should be in every satin inch of exposed skin and scrap of black lace.

Unable to stoop so low, literally, he placed a chair behind her and sat down.

No doubt about it, her garter was twisted beyond anything he had ever seen, not that he had seen that many up close. So close, he wanted to kiss the inner silk of her thigh. So close, he skimmed a finger, just there, and heard her intake of breath when he did, which was nothing to his own reaction.

“I like that,” she said.

Did she mean she liked him helping with her garter, or she liked his more intimate touch?

No matter, for when he finished, she toppled gently backward onto his lap. Resting her head against his shoulder, she sighed. “This is nice.”

But she started to slip, and he grasped her to keep her from falling and ended up cupping her warm center, neither of them daring to breathe.

They remained that way, until Hawk realized Alex was throbbing beneath his hand, as she must feel him against her bottom.

When he added pressure to his cupping palm, her sigh was real, her regretful thanks something of a mystery as she rose, straightened, and departed without looking back. “I will be ready in just a few minutes,” she said.

Hawk was hard as a pikestaff. “Well I am ready now!” he shouted. Let her come back and question that statement, as she had once questioned the evidence of his physical reaction to her.

“I will not be fit to be seen in company for at least ten minutes,” he groused to himself.

Damn. She was asking for it.

Was she? Asking? And did she even understand for what she asked? Or know she was doing it?

Impossible.

Half an hour later, to mark Claudia’s first ball ever, they stopped to see how she was doing in her preparations and found her as excited as a child at Christmas. After kissing her cheek and wishing her well, they left her to finish and went downstairs.

The duchess had invited Gideon and Sabrina, Reed Gilbride, and the old Duke of Hazelthorpe, to make up numbers at the dinner she was giving before they left for the ball.

As they all waited for Claudia to come down before going in to dinner, Hawk stepped away to greet Hazelthorpe, while Reed approached Alex.

“C.S.M. Gilbride, how good it is to see you again.”

“Please, you must call me Reed.”

“Thank you, Reed. As titles go, both Squadron Corporal Major and C.S.M. are entirely too long.”

“Agreed. You are looking lovely and bright this evening. Not at all pale and peaked as you were the first time I saw you.”

“How ungallant of you to say so.” Having practiced social coquetry earlier that day with Claudia, Alex tapped his hand with her fan.

Reed laughed. “I am not a gallant,” the military man said, “which you will soon realize. But I do know a beautiful lady when I see one. A true lady.”

“Do me the honor of treating me as a friend, rather than a lady, please, for I will never really be one of those.”

Reed nodded. “My pleasure.”

“Thank you. As a friend, may I ask what life was like during the war? Hawk has changed to a great degree and I have a need to… I do not know, help him, or simply be his friend and confidant, perhaps.”

“A wife who is a friend and a confidant.” Reed nodded. “A novel thought. Oh, do not frown. I am not making sport.” He took her arm to walk her toward the far end of the spacious salon. “I will tell you about Hawk, if you promise not to divulge whence you received your information; else he will have my head.”

“We have a bargain.”

“You must know that his father… taunted him, shall we say, into joining the Guards. You can imagine, then, that Hawk did not know what he was getting himself into.”

Alex nodded. “I feared as much.”

“When the fighting began, Hawk realized immediately that he was out of his depth.”

Alex felt sick, but she firmed her spine, and Reed was gentleman enough not to mention her weak moment. “Please continue,” she said.

He nodded. “Hawk rose to the occasion, and distinguished himself more times than anyone realizes. I do not know if Gideon is even aware of this, but your husband is quite the hero. The volley that nearly killed him was originally aimed at Stanthorpe. I saw it happen, from too far away, and with too many of Boney’s troops at hand, to make a difference. But Hawksworth was there, and he covered Gideon’s back as the enemy struck, and fought their attack, himself.”

Sabrina gasped. Until that moment, they had not realized she was approaching.

Gideon heard, saw her stricken look, and came to her.

Hawksworth was right behind him. “What happened?”

By then, Sabrina had stepped into her husband’s embrace, but she regarded Hawk. “You saved Gideon’s life?” She turned back to her husband. “Did you realize, Gideon? Reed saw Hawksworth step between you and the Frenchman who felled him, otherwise you might have been as badly hurt as he was in your stead. Or killed.” Sabrina’s eyes filled and she began to kiss her husband as if she would not stop.

In his turn, Gideon pulled her tight into his arms and kissed her soundly. As this was not an embrace meant for public exhibition, the rest of the company made their way back across the room.

“Perhaps we should go on to the ball without them?” Reed suggested.

“Nonsense,” the duchess said, lacking her usual aplomb, for she looked as shaken by the realization of nearly having lost her grandson as Gideon and Sabrina were.

Alex was upset, too, and Hawk must have noticed, because he put his arm around her waist and turned them away from the room at large. She rested her head on his shoulder. “You never said anything,” she whispered.

“What was there to say?” Hawk shrugged away her words, though she liked the way he was looking at her, as if he were seeing her for perhaps the first time.

From behind them, Reed cleared his throat. “Ah, perhaps I had better go on to the ball, alone?”

Hawk tore his gaze from her—that was the only way to describe it—and regarded Reed. “We will all go. Claude would be crushed if we did not. If she ever comes down. How long can it take one girl to don one gown?” he asked, easing the tension.

Claudia did finally come down, but during dinner, Sabrina and Gideon announced their decision not to attend the ball, after all. It had been clear to everyone, and a bit uncomfortable, to see how in love they were, how badly they wanted to be alone, after learning how close Gideon had come to being wounded, or lost, at Waterloo.

During dinner, Gideon, Sabrina, and the duchess, in turn, thanked Hawk for saving not only Gideon, but all of them, ultimately, with his battlefield heroism. Alex could see that the praise made Hawk uncomfortable, and by the time they were ready to leave, he was a bit snappish.

Wraps were donned and carriages called for in a rather brisk manner. There was nothing left to say to Gideon and Sabrina, after all, except goodbye.

Since two of the duchess’s carriages had been brought round, and because Hawk felt a sudden and inexplicable need to be alone with his wife, he suggested that Claudia and Reed, the duchess and Hazelthorpe, travel in one coach, and he and Alex would take the other. Claude, in particular, embraced the idea, for Reed was a handsome rogue and being escorted to the ball on his arm would bring a newcomer like her a deal of admiring attention.

When the carriage moved off, Hawk crossed to sit beside Alex, in want of her nearness. He took her hand, raised it to his lips and wished he were worthy of her.

He also wished that he had as much faith in the institution of marriage as Gideon seemed to have.

“They are very much in love, are they not?” Alex said, gazing off into some romantic distance, likely thinking of Chesterfield. “I envy them.”

“Oddly, I do too, though I am not certain why.” He and Alex had been friends forever, Hawk thought. If she did not love elsewhere, she would be the best wife for him. He liked and respected her, admired her. After everything, he cherished her. If she were willing, he would happily take her to his bed every night for the rest of their days and be faithful unto death.

If they were not already doomed to parting, it seemed to him, that love—if the myth existed—might enrich what they already shared. But no matter how hard he tried, Hawk could not wrap his mind around the disappointing and insubstantial concept. “Do you think it exists, really?”

“Do I think what exists?”

“Love. My parents preached it, until my mother’s early death, but I do not think they practiced it, as happens in every ton marriage I ever saw, until Gideon and Bree’s.”

“I think love does exist. My father said it did. When he was last ill, he said that he had missed my mother for the entire sixteen years of my life, and though he was sorry to be leaving me, he was happy to be going to her.”

“Love beyond life?” Hawk said. “Does that not seem improbable?”

“Gideon and Sabrina appear to have such a love.”

“If I had not seen those two tonight, I would say you are wrong, but I am beginning to believe it. Between them, the elusive emotion seems very much alive and thriving.”

“With their children, the five of them epitomize what I have always supposed a family should—unity, caring, the sharing of even the smallest joys and sorrows.” Alex blushed and gazed out the window. “They are fortunate.”

“Yes.” Hawk yearned for something like, himself, the closeness of mind and spirit that Gideon and Sabrina shared. Oh, he had always had women, but never someone so much his own that she would breathe for him, if she could.

As Sabrina seemed willing to do for Gideon

As Alex had always seemed willing to do for him.

Hawk regarded Alex anew, then, as though…

He shied away from the thought, for the staggering power of Gideon and Sabrina’s love alarmed him, as did the corresponding responsibility, which only made him feel less worthy and more determined to let Alex go.

Yet despite that, he yearned to keep her hand in his and to walk beside her, however halting his steps, as long as fate, and Alexandra Wakefield, herself, would allow.

Beyond life… Imagine.

As if sensing his mood, Alex leaned her head against his shoulder and looked up at him, and Hawk could do nothing but open his lips over hers.

He was going to unearth that jar of oil tonight and offer to rub her back for her, just so he could remove that black lace corset, himself.

The Viscountess De Monteneiro’s Kensington Villa was everything Alexandra had supposed a villa must represent—a fortune in marble and gold, art and artifice, glitter and glut. Gaudy. Uncomfortable. Hot. Crowded.

“A veritable crush. A sweeping success,” the raven-haired, husband-hunting Viscountess prattled effusively. Immediately as they entered, she set her sights on Hawk, but when she realized he was taken, she turned her narrowed kohl-lined eyes upon the man in the scarlet tunic.

Reed winked at Alex, bowed over Claudia’s hand, made an irreverent comment about the power of a uniform, and gallantly escorted the Viscountess De Monteneiro into the middle of a verdant Italian marble dance floor, for the most scandalous of dances, the waltz.

Hawk’s injured leg would not allow him to participate in that dance, but Alex was just as happy to lend him her arm as they strolled around the perimeter of the ballroom greeting old friends and meeting new. Some of their acquaintances had already learned that Hawk survived, but were seeing him now for the first time since he went to war. Others, who had not known, were astounded and excited.

One matron fainted upon sight of him.

“It is my scars,” Hawk whispered, standing back, as others attempted to bring her around.

“It is your ghost,” Alex responded in kind.

His friends all seemed to hold him in high regard, Alex noted, though the ones she had long ago overheard discussing beauty and his beast acted rude and knowing.

“I dislike that bunch,” Alex said as they moved away.

“I always knew you had excellent taste.”

She stopped. “But they are your friends, are they not?”

“Not,” Hawk denied with a firm shake of the head. “They are acquaintances to whom I had rather not give the time of day. Hangers-on, the lot of them. They talk an impressive talk, sometimes, but drivel slides off their tongues too much of the remaining time.”

TWENTY-ONE

REED GILBRIDE BOWED before Alex. “Alexandra, may I have the honor of this dance?”

At her husband’s urging, Alex allowed his fellow rogue to lead her onto the dance floor.

“You are preoccupied,” he said after a few silent minutes.

Alex nodded. “Guilty. I apologize.”

“Care to tell me about it?”

“It appears as if I might have made a judgment based on flawed information.”

“A common enough occurrence, and mostly harmless. Anything I can do to help?”

“Tell me more of Belgium.”

“Hawk’s time there, you mean? You are in love with your husband, I think. Is that not frowned upon in this society?”

“You force me to say that you are impertinent and I must deny you an answer.”

“You must, because you do not want your avowal repeated, I think. I wonder why?”

“Tell me about the family who nursed him back to health? Did you ever meet them? What were they like? Did they live in a thatched hut or a brick manor?”

“I never went to their home, but I did meet the patriarch and the boy, in fact, on the day they brought Hawk to the ship to sail home. I had a commission to dispatch for Wellington here in England and we traveled home together, Hawk and I.”

“When was that?”

“About eleven months ago.”

Hawk had been back much longer than anyone knew, Alex realized then, but he had not contacted Gideon and Sabrina right away, either. The pain around Alex’s heart eased, somewhat, for after speaking to Sabrina, she now understood that he had taken the time he needed. “What did you think of the people who saved Hawk’s life?”

“They were generous to house and nurse a man they did not know. The family was poor, that was apparent, though not so poor when Hawk left as when they took him in.”

“What do you mean?”

“As young Gaston accompanied Hawk, on his litter, aboard ship, the old man told me that Hawk had given them his gold buttons, his jewelry, everything he owned of value, including the greater portion of his military pay. The old codger tried to give it all back to me, so I could return it to Hawk. But I thought if he wanted them to have his thanks, then he would not take the gifts back, and I convinced the Belgian to keep it. Did I do wrong, Alex?”

“No. Oh no. I would have given them anything for what they did,” she said, aware that the only jewelry Hawk had taken were his signet ring and his wedding band. “You have answered a question that has been plaguing me, though. I will purchase him a new signet ring for Christmas, perhaps. Do you remember if it was the one set with rubies, or emeralds? I cannot seem to recall.”

“Hawk never wore a ring that I noticed in the months we fought together. I was surprised he had any to give them.”

And for Alex, that said everything. His wedding band had received no better treatment than his signet ring.

When Reed returned Alex to her husband’s side, however, the sight that met them made Alex feel as if the past five years had never happened, that they were back at the St. Albans Assembly Rooms, and she was a fool to love the Rogue of Devil’s Dyke.

Women buzzed around Hawk like bees in a summer garden. Except that he looked as if he did not enjoy his popularity as much as he used to, which improved her mood somewhat. Still, she could not help disliking the beauties in his entourage for their lash-batting and simpering.

“You might have discouraged them,” she told Hawk in the carriage on the way home.

“Discouraged who?” he asked, taking her hand once more and cupping it upon his thigh, his atop hers, as if to keep it there. This time he had not even bothered to sit across from her, but beside her from the first.

“The women who were flirting with you.”

“Flirting? Are you daft? With this face?”

“Are you blind? They were all about you.”

“Reed or Claudia probably mentioned my catching the volley meant for Gideon, though I wish they had not. But there could have been no other reason, believe me, except a morbid curiosity for grisly details.” Hawk’s eyes lit with wisdom. “Are you jealous, Alexandra?”

Alex sighed with disgust for overplaying her hand. “Of course not.”

Hawk shrugged, philosophically. “I rather thought not.”

“You seem to think it impossible that a woman would find you attractive.”

“Alex, I am a fright. Of course it is impossible.”

“I will grant you that as opposed to your former perfectly chiseled countenance, your scars give your perfection more of a hard edge, but you—”

Alex thought Hawk would growl or laugh, he looked so incredulous. “There is nothing perfect about this face.”

“Perhaps not, but your appearance is striking, nonetheless. I am extremely sorry to say that your scars give you an aura of danger that will draw women like moths to a flame.”

~   ~   ~

“THE DEVIL YOU SAY.”

Hawk and Gideon had an appointment at Gentleman Jackson’s the following day. Gideon suspected that a boxer’s footwork might strengthen Hawk’s leg, and Hawk thought anything worth trying.

“Listen, Hawk,” Gideon said before they stepped from the carriage onto the pavement before the boxing salon. “When Bree and I use that aromatic oil, I find that only sandalwood soap removes the telltale scent of its perfume. You might take a few jests this morning for that air of the boudoir about you.”

Hawk regarded his friend quizzically. “What aromatic oil?”

“The one you and Alex obviously borrowed last night. I would know that scent anywhere. It makes me randy as hell.”

“Well, stay the devil away from me.”

“Do not be cross. What games a man plays with his wife in the bedchamber are his business.”

“Obviously not, for you know more about it than I do. Tell me; are there any healing properties to this aromatic oil?”

Sabrina introduced Alexandra to the most amazing and decadent wonder in all England, a huge bathing tub wherein one or two people could immerse themselves to their chins.

Gideon had recently had them specially made in Edinburgh for all of his houses, including his grandmother’s. Sabrina said that some of her fondest memories had been created since theirs had been delivered.

Alex was afraid that by the time her seduction was complete, she would not be able to look Sabrina’s husband in the eye again.

She intended to use the tub that night and had come up to bed first, but she did not order it filled until she heard Gideon’s carriage depart. He and Hawk had been closeted together all evening discussing estate management and horse breeding.

The last kettle of hot water was just being poured when Hawksworth entered his dressing room. “Here you are,” she said. “I thought that perhaps you would like a nice hot bath before retiring tonight. It is all ready.”

Alex left her husband to keep his dignity and undress in peace, while she, in her own dressing room, undressed and slipped into a peach silk dressing gown.

When she heard sounds to indicate Hawk was settling into the tub, she waited another few minutes before returning.

Could his eyes have gotten any bigger, Alex wondered, than when he beheld her in the silk wrap that outlined her every curve?

“God’s teeth, you are breathtaking.” Hawk seemed less appalled, for once, than fascinated, which Alexandra thought a very hopeful sign, indeed.

“Thank you. Now close your eyes.”

“Why on earth would I do that?”

“So I may get in with you.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I do believe you are stuttering, Hawksworth. We seem to have misplaced the oil for my back, again, remember? And the hot water will ease my pain. Now close your eyes or I shall be forced to drop my wrap and offend your sensibilities.”

Alex suspected from that sound deep in his throat that Hawk fought a chuckle as he closed his eyes. Then she waited one tantalizing moment, to see if he would peek, before lowering herself into the heated bliss.

Hawk sprang to vibrant and willing life as his outrageous and seductive wife tangled her naked legs with his in the stroking water.

That was when he began to believe that across the tub from him sat a seductress, formidable, determined, no matter how innocent she looked with her cinnamon hair piled atop her head, loose wisps framing her face. A siren, with the crests of her breasts skimming the top of the water. A woman. His woman.

What would she do if he claimed her now, which he was beginning to believe she wanted? Of course she would wonder why he had not as yet made her his wife in every way. Except that, he would have thought, if she loved another, she would be relieved, not anxious for a consummation.

Why the aromatic oil disguised as a healing salve?

Where did he stand with her?

Perhaps it was time to find out.

“This is heaven,” Alex said, sighing and purring, her head resting against the edge of the tub, her eyes closed, a feline smile playing about her full and luscious lips.

“Much like when we were children,” Hawk said, “when we swam after digging in the mud for treasure, except the sky is not blue above us and the water is a vast deal warmer.”

Alex opened her eyes and grinned—God’s teeth, hers was a lethal smile. “And we cannot catch frogs or lie in the sun to dry,” she said.

“How does your back feel?”

“The warm water does soothe it.”

“Come, turn around and I will soothe it the more.”

As he suspected, Alex was ready, with barely a surprised blink, to try anything. Hawk spread his legs and settled her between them, her facing away from him.

Kneading her torso beneath the warm water became an exercise in pure sensual pleasure, and the sounds and sighs coming from his wife only served to heighten the experience.

When Hawk brought his arms around and began to stroke her midriff, Alex relaxed against him. When he cupped her breasts, she stiffened for a moment, likely in shock, and then she arched to fill his palms. But when he skimmed his hands lower, she about stopped breathing.

He kneaded lower and lower… until he found her core, and she squeaked and reared back, encountered his erection, and surged forward, as if she planned all along to reclaim her original place across from him. “There,” she said. “That feels better.”

Hawk coughed to hide a bubble of laughter, surprised that mirth had claimed him so wholly. “How did you know this tub existed?” he asked, to alleviate her obvious chagrin. “This is not the one in which I bathed previous.”

“Is it not splendid? Sabrina said that the servants will always bring the small slipper bath, unless you ask specifically for this large one.”

Alex must feel more adventuresome at a distance, Hawk thought, for she was calling his bluff and stroking his inner thigh with her foot. He closed his eyes then, and suspended his own breathing, for she was definitely working her way higher and higher, until…

Hawk wanted to kill Sabrina for this fantastical notion she put in his wife’s scheming head. He could not even rise and leave the bloody tub, because if he did, then the most horrible of his scars would be visible, not to mention the size of his—

The moan of pleasure he heard must be his own, Hawk realized, which shocked him to the point that he opened his eyes, and met Alexandra’s very surprised ones. “What did I do?” she asked. “Did you like it? Or hate it?”

“Liked it,” he said. “But do not expect me to run, as you just did.”

“Did you feel as I did, before I ran?”

“I think it highly possible.”

“But you will let me do as I wish?”

Hawk nodded, trepidation skittering along his nerves. “No more running for me,” he said, reminding himself as well as her. “Do what you will. I am staying where I am.”

He expected she would rise on the instant, like a nymph from the sea, and make a startling exit from the tub. As a matter of fact, he looked forward to the sight.

But while she did rise like a pearl-glistening sea nymph, she did not leave the tub, but stood, perfect in every way. Then she took two steps in his direction and looked down on him, smiling, full and deadly, and lowered herself to straddle him, luscious breasts to hairy chest and pulsing core to rod of steel.

All Hawk’s fight left him as he surged to heartier life. He could do nothing but gape, and throb, and devour her mouth when she set her lips to his.

He kissed his brazen wife with the appetite of a man starved for nothing resembling food. He skimmed her every curve and hollow, in the same way she grazed every inch of him.

Every throbbing inch.

When she closed her talented hand around him, her instincts were flawless.

A year of celibacy and a week of hard torture… and Hawk came on the instant.

“Bloody hell!”

“Good Lord, did I break it?”

TWENTY-TWO

BAXTER WAKEFIELD came back to town on the thirteenth of November, and the first thing he did was show himself at Basingstoke House to pay his respects to his no-longer-deceased cousin Bry.

Hawk would rather the blighter had stayed in America as enter polite society, but what could he do but allow his cousin to be admitted to the library, at least, wherein the duchess kindly allowed them some privacy.

“Dissipation looks to sit heavy on your shoulders, cousin,” Hawk observed. “Or should I say that it sits dark beneath your eyes and heavy upon your person. Hard work depleting a fortune, is it not?” Hawk raised the decanter his way. “Brandy?”

Baxter laughed. “I may not have gotten the title, Bry, but the money’s a good sight more fun.”

“I daresay.” Hawk knew he could not ask his cousin to keep the conditions of his father’s codicil to himself, for if Baxter even suspected that Hawk wanted it kept from Alex, there would surely be a price for his silence. A price Hawk could not afford to pay… any more than he could afford not to.

“What do you want?” Hawk asked.

The blackguard fingered a Bristol Glass brandy decanter and a French silver salver, before going on to examine the Rubens and Canaletto on the wall. “Believe it or not, I want to make peace with my family,” he said, though Hawk noticed he did not say it while looking him full in the eye.

Hawk frowned. “Out of money already, are we?”

“You are, and though I have spent more than you will see in your lifetime, I am still a rich man.”

Bully for you, Hawk thought, as he considered the ramifications of one good, hard right to the solar plexus.

Baxter grinned as if he could read Hawk’s thoughts. “Since I am ready to settle down, however, I yearn to have my family about me.”

“You yearn for their respectability to net you a rich bride.”

The library door opened. “Oh, I am sorry. I did not know you had a guest.” Alex made to back out, and Hawk was grateful.

“No, wait,” Baxter said. “Present me, cousin, to this luscious wench.”

Alex stiffened.

Hawk set his goblet firmly down, lest he pour it over his cousin’s bumble head. “Alex, allow me to present my scapegrace cousin, Baxter Wakefield. Baxter, my wife, Alexandra, the woman you tossed out when you inherited.”

Baxter grinned and took her hand. “If only I had known, we might have come to a… satisfactory arrangement.”

Hawk stepped forward.

Alex scowled and retrieved her hand. “Your grace.”

“What?” Baxter asked with a laugh. “’Twas not me who got the title. That’s all Hawk’s and welcome to it. Much good it’ll do either of you without the blunt to make it sparkle.”

Alex looked from Hawk to his cousin and back. “Hawksworth?”

Already Hawk wanted to flatten his cousin, and he hated when Alex used his full title. It could only mean he was in trouble.

Baxter laughed at the obvious awkwardness of the moment and made his whistling way to the door. “Invite me to dinner,” he said, “and I will leave you to settle your differences in peace.”

“Not to dinner,” Hawk said. “Other plans. But to the Winkley ball tomorrow evening. You will accompany us?”

Baxter bowed. “My pleasure.”

When the door clicked behind him, Alexandra rounded on Hawk. “What was that about?”

“It was better than having to eat with him.”

She stamped her foot, a measure of her frustration, for she never had done, even as a child. “What did he mean by saying that you got the title?”

“Father played me dirty, Alex. The title has always been mine, but Baxter got the money, the houses, everything else.”

“How long have you known?”

Hawk picked up his brandy and stepped toward a shelf of gold-leafed books, as if he might examine them at length, but he took a sip of his drink, instead, and when he finished, he turned to her. “Since we arrived in town. The day Gideon and I went to do whatever it is that gentlemen do of an afternoon, we saw the solicitor.”

“And you did not tell me?”

“Fitzwilliams is looking into ways to break the will. I did not say anything because I had hoped I would not have to give you the bad news about our poverty.” Half-truths again. How he hated the need for them. Damn his father.

“Poverty is nothing new to me.”

Hawk stepped up to her and grazed her cheek. “I have proved to be a sorry provider, have I not?”

“No, it is not that. It is simply—” She sighed. “I thought husbands and wives were supposed to share the good and the bad. Instead, you and I seem to do nothing but keep secrets.”

“What? Are you keeping secrets from me as well?”

Alex examined his face, his eyes. “Keeping secrets, plural? As well, meaning: in the same way that you are keeping them from me? Do you have more?”

“I asked you first.”

“You asked me nothing.”

“How does your back feel?”

“There is a good question. Why?” Alex reached for his cravat. “Did you find the oil?”

“I did.”

She nodded as if everything was settled, and it was, in a way. They had silently agreed to hold their secrets, or at least the discussion of them, for the nonce, while they compromised to play this dangerous teasing game they both seemed to enjoy.

Perhaps it was a start, Hawk thought, his body tightening in anticipation of her sweet, sweet torture, as he followed her up the stairs.

~   ~   ~

CLAUDIA AND BAXTER became great friends, in the same way that Beatrix and the twins were friends. They joked and laughed and shared secrets. Hawksworth relaxed his panicked guard, for they were cousins, however distant, and they acted like brother and sister.

When Claude had no escort, Baxter accompanied her wherever she needed one, always under Hawk’s or Alexandra’s or the duchess’s watchful eyes, of course.

Baxter had either turned over a new leaf, Hawk surmised, or he was on his best behavior. Or he truly did seek the approval of his relatives, for he had not so much as committed a social blunder or gambled a single farthing since returning to the bosom of his family.

To Claudia, Baxter confessed his want of a wife, after much prompting by her, extracting her promise to keep his secret. He also confessed his want of an introduction to a certain Miss Phyllida Middlemarch, who just happened to be Claude’s new bosom bow.

“Did you know that Phyllida is the heiress to the vast Middlemarch fortune?” Claude asked.

“Really? No, I did not. Forget the introduction, then. I am sure that I am not good enough for her.”

“Nonsense. You are a prize catch.”

Baxter bowed. “I am humbled that you should think so.”

In her turn, Claudia confessed her wish to make Judson Broderick, Viscount Chesterfield, so jealous that he would lay himself at her feet and beg her to marry him.

“Perhaps,” Baxter said. “We could help each other.”

The following day, Claude wrote a letter to Chesterfield, in St. Albans, which she handed to Baxter for his approval. Baxter read aloud.

My Dear Chesterfield,

You must not worry about me any longer, neither must you imagine that I will importune you further with my silly childhood infatuation.

“Oh, not silly,” Baxter said. “Call it naïve. He will be charmed by the notion and less likely offended.”

“Lord, you are a sly one,” Claudia said, pulling a fresh sheet of stationery her way for a new draft.

Baxter grinned. “Thank you.” He continued reading.

London, it turns out, is great fun without you, as my cousin, Baxter Wakefield, has returned to the family fold and escorts me everywhere I wish to go. He is not only my escort, but my confidant and friend, perhaps even my knight in shining armor. He will play a key roll in my choice of husband, make no mistake, which role I had originally offered you, if you will remember. Consider yourself crossed-off my list of matrimonial prospects, and thank you for refusing.

Baxter barked a laugh. “Nice touch that. It will lay in his belly like a summer apple, green and sour. And your vague wording is masterful.”

Claudia grinned.

Baxter read Claude’s closing paragraph.

Enjoy your country solitude. By the time you hear from me again, my name might have changed. Wish me luck.

Your friend,

Claudia Jamieson.

A week later, Chesterfield appeared at the Wellbank affair, a fine specimen of a man in a black tailed frock coat and snow-white linen. Claudia hoped she was not drooling as she marked his approach.

“Miss Jamieson.” He bowed before her, even as she noted her uncle, not too far distant, and hoped that he would not clamp eyes on her companion any time soon.

Calling upon every inch of sophistication she could muster, Claudia offered Chesterfield her hand, which he raised to his lips, shivering her to her marrow.

“Dance with me,” he said, in his own arrogant way. “Now, or your uncle will have you over his knee, and me meeting him at dawn.”

Claudia looked up and saw Alex, Uncle Bryce in tow, heading their way, so she stopped playing coy and took Chesterfield’s arm to accompany him onto the dance floor for the set forming.

“Just in time,” she said as she and Chesterfield clasped hands and turned to begin the dance. “Uncle Bryce is fuming. I can see the smoke from here. Oh, Lord, he and Alex are joining the set. He will hurt his leg.”

“He is fine. What did you mean by saying you were considering Baxter’s suit?”

“Why? Do you not think us a good match?” Claudia laughed at the appalled look on Chesterfield’s face as the dance separated them and they went off in opposite directions.

As Alex passed, she suggested that Claude leave Chesterfield to the older ladies. Her uncle simply leaned over to growl in her ear.

Claudia giggled.

As she awaited her turn to be accompanied down the strolling length of the dance line, Claudia gave her resistant suitor her undivided attention. “What I actually meant was that you need no longer worry about me, as Baxter has taken it upon himself to escort me wherever I would like to go.”

“What makes you think I was worried about you?”

“You spoke to my uncle and gave me away.”

“He should know better than to allow—” Chesterfield danced off on someone else’s arm, his eyes smoldering as, of necessity, he turned away.

“I like Baxter,” Claudia said when she passed Chesterfield.

When her uncle passed, she growled back. “I like Chesterfield.”

“You cannot possibly care for the swine,” Chesterfield said less than a beat later.

Claudia laughed and danced off with a soldier of the Royal Horse Guards, a handsome rake in a blue tunic.

“About Baxter,” Chesterfield snapped when they were partnered again.

“He makes me laugh and has taken me to shops and museums and introduced me to his friends, as I am introducing him to mine.”

“You do not want to meet the kind of friend that blackguard will introduce you to. And the parents of your friends will certainly not appreciate the kind of—”

“How else am I to find a proper husband?”

“There is nothing proper about Baxter Wakefield. What can your uncle be thinking?”

“He is thinking to marry me off and be shed of me.”

Chesterfield laughed aloud, catching the attention, and the admiring glances, of scores of women. “Do not pretend that giving you a season was Hawksworth’s idea. He would likely rather keep you chained to the schoolroom, as would I, if you were my—”

“If I were your what?” Claudia examined the look upon Chesterfield’s face with a great deal of hope. He appeared… arrested… uncomfortable, and very warm. “Why did you stop speaking?”

“Pay attention to the steps; you will trip me up.”

“When are you going back to St. Albans?”

“Tonight. Sooner.”

“The duchess is giving a ball in my honor the day after Christmas. We are hoping to announce my betrothal that night.”

Chesterfield missed a step. “To whom?”

“I do not yet know. If I send you an invitation, will you come?”

“Probably not.”

“Will we see you at the Sefton ball this Saturday, then?”

“Certainly not.”

Alex approached Chesterfield as he returned a glowering Claudia to the Duchess of Basingstoke’s side.

“Stay away from her, Judson,” Alex said, after Claude was carted off by a group of young people. “You are too old for her.”

“I am not too old for you, and look where that got me. Dance with me.” Before Alex could protest, she was waltzed onto the floor with the man she had nearly married. “Believe me when I tell you that I am not old.”

“You are right, thirty is not old, but it is nearly double Claudia’s age. Claude will not be eighteen for three more weeks. She is too young for you.”

“Do you suppose I might corrupt her in ways that Baxter will not?”

“Keep your voice down. We are on the dance floor, for heaven’s sake.”

“Then let us get off the dance floor, by all means.” He waltzed her out the door and onto the terrace, but once he had her there, he simply tightened his hold and waltzed her closer and faster.

Alex pulled from his arms and stepped back to catch her breath.

“Let us have this out once and for all,” Chesterfield snapped. “I was good enough to marry you, if I would buy your way out of poverty, but not good enough to marry your niece? Is that not a double standard, Alex? I am disappointed, for I expected better of you.”

Alex held her hand to her hard-beating heart. “You are a good man, Judson. I know you are, but her uncle does not yet realize it. Besides, you are only giving the child your attention to annoy Hawksworth. I am more your age than Claudia.”

“And well I know it, but I thought we had already concluded that anything between us was impossible.”

“It was. It is,” she said, looking away. “I should never have said yes.”

“There is something you should know, Alex.”

She looked sharply up. “What?”

“I am not pining for you. I simply do not want to see her hurt.”

“Who?”

“Claudia. She is like the sunshine, that one, and she has the ability to slide beneath your defenses when you least expect it. She makes me want to make a pet of her one minute and throttle her the next.”

“Did you never experience that wild urge to beat me?”

Chesterfield shook his head. “Never.”

“You are in love with Claudia.”

“Do you suppose that wanting to beat someone is love? I had rather suspected not.”

Alex nodded. “I think any strong emotion is certainly a sign.”

“So of course you wish Hawksworth would become so enraged as to want to beat you?”

Alex turned away.

“Even in moonlight, I can see the glint of tears in your eyes. Are you that unhappy with the sorry state of your marriage?”

“The state of my marriage is not your business.”

“It is my business when you cannot repay me the money you owe me. Some marriage, if you must keep such things from your husband.”

Alex bit her lip in shame, because he was right.

Chesterfield took her into his arms. “Ah my poor Alexandra.” He removed his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her eyes, then he kissed her, but more like a brother than a lover.

Yes, he cared for Claudia, Alex thought regarding him fixedly, but no good would come of it.

“Do not think that your pretty tears will get me to forgive the five thousand pounds you owe me,” he said.

As if she had been slapped, Alex stepped from his embrace.

“A good thing you let her go, Chesterfield, else I might have had to remove her by force.”

Alex shivered. “Hawksworth!”

TWENTY-THREE

HAWK RAISED A BROW. “Chesterfield, you seem to make a habit of kissing my wife.”

“I grew fond of the custom during the months before our wedding.”

Jaw set, Hawk took Alexandra’s arm and led her toward the garden, glad the duchess chaperoned Claudia in the ballroom. His mind held no doubt now that Alex was jealous of Chesterfield’s attention to Claudia, and if he were forced to go back inside at this moment, and had to be civil, even once, he might do something rash.

Having also just learned that his wife borrowed five thousand pounds from her lover did not improve Hawk’s mood, though he supposed he should not be surprised. Whether the borrowed money paid the mysterious vouchers was another matter, though Hawk was willing to make an educated guess that it did.

The funds to repay Chesterfield would be hard to find, Hawk thought, though find them, he would. Why had Alex taken the blackguard’s blunt in the first place? And why did she not trust her own husband enough to confide in him?

He just might have to beat her later, Hawk thought, after he removed her clothes and slathered her with oil.

From the garden, they made their way around the Wellbank Mansion to the front. Hawk sent a note inside to the duchess saying that Alex was ill and he was taking her home. Did she mind chaperoning Claude on her own?

Her reply was prompt. She would be happy to help. As a postscript, she added, “Get Alex to bed.”

Oh, he would. He certainly would.

In the carriage, Hawk pulled the curtains down before the vehicle had barely begun its trek across town. Then he pulled his wife onto his lap and took her mouth.

Hawk ran his hands through her hair, dislodging pins, holding her head still so he could ravage her mouth, suckle her tongue. “I am furious with you for nearly marrying him, for kissing him, and for taking money from him,” he said when he came up for air.

She seemed to revel in his less than gentle tactics but stopped to catch her own breath. “I am furious with you for leaving me after our wedding, for not providing for us, for not telling us you survived, for—”

“Shut up and kiss me.” Hawk made love to his wife with his touch, his tongue, and his lips.

Alex followed suit.

Why she suddenly slipped her hand into the front flap of his inexpressibles, Hawk knew not, he knew only that she had found herself a handful of randy man, hard, pulsing, and ready to spill. He covered her hand to stop her. “Do not.”

“But you said you needed practice to regain your staying power.”

“And so I do.”

“I want to help, and I want to touch and know all of you.” She knelt on the floor of the carriage, no matter that he kept trying to pull her upward, and she kissed him. There.

Hawk shuddered, he called her name, but he remained in control, and improved his staying power.

The carriage slowed. “Devil take it, he must think I called for him to stop,” Hawk said. Gathering his wits, he called for Myerson to go on. “Circle Hyde Park,” he added, and when he felt the vehicle change direction, Hawk knew his instructions were being followed. Myerson might suspect what they were about, but he would never reveal any of it.

Hawk pulled Alex from her knees, and brought her astride him. He wrapped her hand around him and gave her the rhythm. Then he played the same cadence, slow and easy, at her center.

Damn Chesterfield to hell. She was his.

Her head went back and she pulled air from her lungs. When he could tell from her moist, swollen bud how ready she was, as swollen and ready as he, Hawk shouted for Myerson to take them home.

Alex whimpered, she was so undone, as he redressed her. She laid her cheek against his shoulder while he put himself away, something of a challenge.

“We have arrived,” she said when they stopped.

“Not quite,” he said, and then he carried her from the carriage, and up the stairs.

The black lace corset was shed in a flash and Hawk laid Alex atop the covers, where he could devour the sight of her. Then he lay beside her to free himself and urge her astride him, but this time he rocked her and inflamed them both, until they reached a modicum of satisfaction.

Alex wept. Hawk understood. It was not enough, yet it was the best he could give her.

They were doomed. Whichever direction they went with their lives, together or separate, would be the wrong direction.

For days, Hawk rose before Alex and went up to bed after her, as well. He was confused, his mind filled with either taking her to bed, or murdering her lover.

Because he was thinking of returning to the country, he asked Reed and Gideon to join him in taking Beatrix, Damon, and Rafferty to Astley’s Royal Amphitheater in Lambeth, as he had promised.

While Reed did not consider taking children anywhere a good idea for any reason, Gideon thought it a splendid notion and readily agreed. Eventually, so did Reed.

Hawk had not given his niece and nephews much attention since returning from Belgium. Besides, he desperately needed to turn his thoughts to something, or someone, other than Alex.

Beatrix was the daughter he never had, and he adored his nephews, scamps that they were. He had missed them all, and spending time with them held the promise of a certain peace.

Gideon generously procured a private box on the arena level, though the children might have swung from the rafters, as sat on their bottoms, they were so excited, making Hawk question his notion of peace.

Damon favored the performing monkeys, but Rafe much preferred the equestrian showmanship for which Astley’s was famous. Beatrix adored the bespangled dame who performed with a broadsword, cutting and slashing her way across the arena, though later, she said she saw Baxter across the way kissing that lady. Hawk stepped between Bea and the view, concerned that Baxter was slipping into his old ways.

Not even the boys were fond of the thunder, lightning and hail spectacle, and when the reenactment of the Battle of Waterloo began, the three men regarded each other with disgust, and left without another word. Hawk was glad, however, that they attended, almost as glad as the children, though Reed ended the evening more skittish about children than ever, after Bea vomited in his lap.

They got home late, and by the time Hawk got Claudia to help clean Bea up and put her to bed, he found Alex asleep, or so he thought. He had no sooner pulled the covers over himself, than she came and burrowed into him.

Hawk sighed with a mixture of satisfaction and frustration, and a need to speak, as he placed his arm about her, so as to pillow her head on his shoulder. “Why did you borrow five thousand pounds from Chesterfield?” There, it was said.

Alexandra’s sigh was impossible to gauge, though bowing to the inevitable seemed a good interpretation. “I did not borrow the money. I was never supposed to return it. We were supposed to be married.”

“Ah. But what did you use it for?”

“I cannot tell you that.”

“Why can you not be forthcoming with me?”

“I am being as forthcoming with you as you have been with me.”

“We are talking, again, about my not contacting you upon my return, are we not?”

“You are.”

“Imagine that.” Hawk sighed and tried to curb his irritation. “Alexandra…”

“Yes, Hawksworth.”

“Gambling… while seeming to be the answer to acquiring vast sums of money with little or no effort—”

“How did you guess?”

“Brilliant deductive powers… and a hot fire.”

“What?”

“It does not matter. Simply give me your oath that you will never gamble again and I will say no further word about it.”

“I can honestly say that I have not placed a wager since I asked Fitzwilliams to pay the vouchers, nor will I gamble in the future.”

“Thank you, I—”

“Will say no further word about it.”

“Right.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Why are you still awake?” he asked, barred from probing further into her gaming. “Are you unable to sleep?”

“I have been thinking.”

“Come to any conclusions?”

“Not a one.”

“I have,” Hawk said.

Alex rose and leaned on an elbow to regard him, though the light cast by the moon shone too pale to read his expression.

Hawk knuckled her cheek. “Tomorrow, I am going home to Huntington Lodge.”

“You are leaving me?”… again, Alex thought.

His turn to raise himself. Had she sounded regretful? “Leaving you? Nonsense. I need to speak to the estate manager, or he needs to speak with me, I should say, judging from his letter. And I would like to check on the property, the progress of repairs, visit the new tenants, see how they get on, and make certain they have enough to eat.”

“You are a better man than the one who went to war.”

“Balderdash. Quicksilver is due to foal any day, and if the new cottages are coming along, I thought I might start the men on enlarging the stable. Gideon has offered me the pick of his breeding stock, you know, with the excuse that I would not have lost my inheritance, if I did not watch his back and die in his place.”

“And you are willing to accept his offer?”

“Of course not, but I am considering borrowing his best stallion to cover Quicksilver next spring. There is pride rooted in honor, but there is also a point where pride becomes stubborn and foolish.”

“I am pleased you finally realize it for the most part. You are going to make the estate profitable, are you not?”

“I certainly hope so. Will that please you?”

“Only if you are the one managing it.”

“What a remarkable statement,” Hawk said. “Go to sleep.”

“How long will you be gone? Do not forget that we are invited to remain through Christmas. Gideon and Sabrina will come to stay as well.”

“I shall be home in plenty of time for Christmas,” he promised.

“Oh, Grandmama’s birthday celebration is the week before. Perhaps you can be home in time for that?”

“We will see.”

Alex wanted to weep. She wanted to beg him not to leave her again, but she could not bring herself to do so. He was sorry he had married her; she knew he must be.

His father had been right. She had never been good enough for Hawk.

~   ~   ~

THE HUNTINGTON LODGE estate might not be thriving, but it was a beehive of activity and progress. The most important repairs on the house were done, inside and out. No more roof-leaks, broken stairs or drafty windows. The house, itself, was still plenty ugly, but warm and dry and infinitely more livable.

Aunt Hildegarde and Uncle Gifford were not only grateful for the improvements, they were downright agreeable, so much in complete agreement, as to make Hawk almost as suspicious as he was pleased to see them.

The new cottages stood two stories high, thatched of roof and simple of design, but warm and cozy. The soldiers and their families worked hard—clearing land on the home farm for a larger spring planting, digging foundations for more cottages, repairing and whitewashing the old, building the new—whatever his manager set them to.

Most of the tenant cottages now housed only two instead of three families. Several of the male tenants, members of his old unit, could not seem to break the habit of saluting him, but Hawk was working on that as well.

Mrs. Parker baked bread and made soup daily to keep everyone fed, which Hawk had asked her to do, to see their tenants through the winter, until they could begin to plant their personal gardens and fend for themselves.

Hawk either observed the daily activity from atop Alexandra’s horse, or on foot, or he got right down and worked beside his tenants. Sometimes Giff rode with him.

Hawk spoke with everyone: man, woman, and child, alike, listening to their ideas to improve the estate. The fact that he was nearly as penniless as they were made them seem to want to work the harder.

One soldier’s wife suggested a pottery, and Hawk thought that might be a good idea, given the clay on the land. Another suggested a weaving loom or two, given the sheep, for blankets and wraps for winter. If they kept this up, Huntington Lodge would become a community unto itself.

Four soldiers brought horses they could barely afford to keep, so they were happy to lend them to the breeding pot, up at the stable, for winter hay and feed. Not that Hawk would use all of them, but he would make use of at least one.

Through all the positive progress, however, Hawk worried… about his marriage, about Alex, for he saw her everywhere. He worried about how he was going to repay her debt to Chesterfield. Five thousand pounds might as well be fifty thousand right now.

Why did she love Chesterfield?

Did she love Chesterfield?

A prosperous Huntington Estate would be an excellent gift with which to leave Alex. But working beside her for a lifetime, to turn it into a successful venture, would be the greatest gift of all.

But a gift for whom? Him? Or her?

He wanted to make their marriage work, but he did not want to assure his happiness at the cost of Alexandra’s. Except… how could she have gone from Chesterfield’s arms that night at the ball to practically mounting him ten minutes later in the carriage?

Which of them did she love? And was he an idiot for imagining he might be counted as a possibility?

His uncle approached him one day as Hawk was fretting over the problem and pacing the winter-barren orchard. “Would you like to talk about whatever is bothering you?”

Hawk shook his head. “I suppose it would be useless to say nothing is?”

Giff chuckled. “Sometimes I think you favor me in temperament more than you favor your own father.”

“Thank you. That is the nicest thing you could say.”

“You still ache to please him, though, do you not?”

“How did you guess?”

“I never succeeded, either, and as old as I am, a little part of me wishes I could do more than please him. Just once before I die, I would like to best him.”

Hawk nodded his understanding.

“Let me just say,” Giff continued, “that you did not fail your father. He failed you… with his inability to love. Do not make the same mistake.”

Hawk faltered in his steps then stopped altogether. “I want to do what is best for Alex.”

“It seems to me that you are already doing that.”

“But suppose she still loves Chesterfield.”

“If you do not know who the lass loves, you are a blind man.” Giff put his hand on Hawk’s shoulder. “The demons of war can distort even the obvious good in life. Do not let war win, Bryce. Open your eyes and see what you have. Do not let your father win, either. You are a good and worthy man, worthy of Alexandra’s love, and of so much more.”

Hawk swallowed, nodded and walked on, his uncle lending his silent support beside him.

“Uncle Giff,” Hawk said after a bit, stopping again. “You bested him years ago.”

Giff chuckled at the jest. “How’s that?”

“You have always been a better father.”

TWENTY-FOUR

AFTER NEARLY THREE WEEKS at Huntington Lodge, Hawk could not stay away from Alexandra one day longer. So he packed his bags, talked Hildy and Giff into coming with him for Christmas, bid his tenants farewell, and set off.

As their carriage approached London, Hawk fingered the carved acorns atop the small wooden casket Chesterfield had returned with his clothing. The cask contained Hawk’s father’s wedding band, signet ring, and a gaudy diamond he acquired on his grand tour.

Hawk kept his stickpins inside, as well as a few childhood treasures, like the Roman coin he and Alex dug up at Devil’s Dyke on the day they met, and the tiny alabaster bust they found near the water meadows sometime during the halcyon days of their childhood. Alex kept many more of their treasures, but Hawk had claimed only those two.

When they reached the outskirts of London, Hawk bade Myerson to take him to Bond Street, to Stedman & Vardon, Goldsmiths & Jewelers, and then to take Hildy and Giff on to St. James’s Street. Hawk would catch a hack home.

At the establishment of Stedman & Vardon, Hawk opened his cask and removed his father’s gaudy diamond, willing to sell every piece of jewelry he owned for the five thousand pounds needed to remove Alexandra from Chesterfield’s debt.

The jeweler was a jolly old man, bald of pate and cunning of brow. He popped in his jeweler’s eye and remained silent for far too long, examining the ring at every angle. “It is paste,” he said, tossing it Hawk’s way. “I hope it did not come dear.”

“It was my father’s,” Hawk said catching it. Perhaps the man thought to swindle him, though the establishment had a superior reputation in the ton.

Since Hawk knew what he had paid for his emerald stickpin, he offered that, as a test, for the man’s inspection.

“Seven hundred,” the jeweler said, which was honest, even generous, but not enough, and Hawk did not think the rest, together, would amount to that much again.

Nevertheless, he emptied the casket onto the glass case and pushed the jewelry forward, piece by piece. The childhood mementos, he tossed back into the box, but the man gasped and began speaking so fast, Hawk could barely understand him. “May I see them, at least,” he begged, and Hawk saw his gaze centered on the treasures in the cask.

Hawk relinquished the miniature bust, now lost in the man’s large hand, and the jeweler regarded it with awe, examining and running his fingers over all. “I will give you eight thousand pounds,” he said with nary a blink.

Hawk’s breath caught in his throat as he regarded the shrewd businessman. “Twelve thousand, cash, now.”

The man paled to the point that he placed the bust on a carefully laid piece of black velvet, and took out his handkerchief to wipe his brow.

After a considering minute, he picked up the coin, rubbed his thumb over it, examined its surface, and narrowed his eyes. “Thirteen for both.”

“Sixteen,” Hawk countered, fisting his hands to keep their trembling from giving him away.

“Fourteen and a half.”

“Fifteen and not a penny less.”

The jeweler nodded and Hawk followed him into his back room.

Still quaking in reaction, Hawk went directly to Child’s Bank. After his business there was concluded, he went on to forty-six Berkeley Square.

Chesterfield entered his townhouse library less than five minutes after his butler had invited Hawk inside. “To what do I owe the honor, and all that rubbish?”

“Why did you not go back to the country, as Claude said you intended?”

“Excuse me?”

Hawk shook his head. “Sorry, I digress. Something in you gets me to bristling.”

“If you must know,” Chesterfield said. “I decided that, for the moment, the city has more to offer in the way of entertainment.”

“This should help finance your stay, then.” Hawk handed Chesterfield a bank draft for five thousand pounds and a receipt for same. “Sign the receipt, and Alex will owe you nothing more.”

Chesterfield nodded. “Come into some blunt, did you?”

“Just a deal of good luck. It started the day I met Alexandra.”

“I once thought the same,” Chesterfield said, handing him the signed receipt. “But a recent, interesting… diversion… is beginning to make me feel like a man of good fortune, once more.”

“I am glad to hear it. Good day to you,” Hawk said. “I hope that our paths shall never cross again.”

“I am sure you do.” Chesterfield followed Hawk down to the foyer and watched him make his way to the front door.

Hawk turned at the last. “You will notify Alex that she owes you nothing, but under no circumstances will you reveal that I paid you.”

“In that case, she will think I am being generous in forgiving the debt.”

“So be it, then.” Hawk tipped his hat and strode out the door, and Chesterfield’s respect for him grew tenfold.

Hawk arrived at Basingstoke House while the household was still in uproar. “They are getting married,” Claudia shouted from the stairs, as Hawk handed Myerson his top hat, cane and greatcoat.

“Who is getting married?”

“Aunt Hildy and Uncle Giff.”

“Good God.” Hawk made his way up the stairs to the drawing room and went straight to Alex. He squeezed both her hands, kissed her cheek and ached for her lips. “They never said a word to me.”

“Well, you were terribly preoccupied, dear,” Hildy said as she came and offered her cheek. “Wish us happy.”

“I do. Giff, you sly old bachelor. This will change everything, you know.” Hawk shook his uncle’s hand.

“It certainly will.” Giff coughed and leaned close. “I am too old for all this sneaking about.”

“We would like to lease the dower house, if you would allow us?” Hildy looked from Alex to Hawk and back, clearly unsure as to which of them she should ask.

Hawk looked to Alex for Hildy’s answer.

“You may have the dower house as a wedding gift.”

“I shall write today to have Davis set someone to doing the necessary repairs,” Hawk said. “When will you marry?”

Giff regarded Hildy. “Next Saturday?”

Hildy nodded, her smile radiant. “The day before Christmas Eve.”

“Immediate repairs.”

“A week,” Alex said. “Gad, we have a lot to do.”

Though the beauty of youth had long since deserted Hildy and Giff, and the years had left their mark, Hawk saw such love, such adoration, in both their gazes. Neither seemed to see anything but beauty in the other. In their own ways, they were as scarred as him, by time, but that did not seem to matter a jot to either of them.

Hawk turned to Alex then and found himself mesmerized by her smile. I missed you, he wanted to say. I want to take you to bed.

Without a word, she took his hand and led him from the room, as if she read his thoughts.

No one made a move to question or stop them. “Do not forget that we have guests coming for Grandmama’s birthday dinner.” Claudia’s words floated upon the air behind them.

Hawk allowed Alex to precede him into their apartment, and then he followed her in and shut the bedchamber door.

“I told you I would be back.”

Alex stepped into his arms.

~   ~   ~

DINNER WAS A frustrating affair to begin with, Hawk thought, for there were too many people. Besides him and Alex, Giff and Hildy, Hazelthorpe and the duchess, Gideon and Sabrina, someone had included Baxter and Miss Phyllida Middlemarch in the invitation, along with Chesterfield, of all people.

“What the bloody devil are those three doing here?” Hawk whispered to Alex as he escorted her in to dinner.

“Claudia said that they will make Grandmama’s party as merry as mice in malt.”

Hawk wanted to kiss her again, even though they had kissed for all of an hour. First just standing there, the door at his back, then with him sitting and her in his lap, then on the bed. And just when things began to get interesting, the bell rang and it was time to dress for dinner.

Hawk wished to the devil that Chesterfield would find a wife of his own. He wanted to be free to ask Alex the question he ached to ask—whether she would stay or go—but he did not feel safe doing so with Chesterfield available for her to go to.

Hawk now knew that he could be brave in the face of war, but in life, he was still a coward.

By the time he grasped the conversation going on about him, the duchess had invited Baxter and Chesterfield to spend Christmas with them, and when Hawk realized it, he nearly swallowed his deviled kidney whole.

Claudia, the brat, smiled with satisfaction. “If you arrive on the morning before Christmas Eve,” she said, “you will be here for Aunt Hildy and Uncle Giff’s wedding, then for Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and my ball the night after. Chesterfield, you will come?”

The man had the audacity to look from Hawk to Alex and grin, then he winked at Claudia. “I would be honored.”

“And you, Baxter?” the duchess asked. “It has been a long time since you spent Christmas with your family.”

“I look forward to it,” he said, too cocky by half.

Alex had decided before coming downstairs for the birthday celebration that she had teased Hawksworth long enough. Tonight she would stage her ultimate seduction. She even wore her mother’s cameo on a black silk ribbon as a signal to Sabrina.

Between them, they made certain Hawk’s glass was always full. Bree said that spirits would relax him so he would let down his guard, promising it was nothing like drugging him. Hawk would know what he was doing. Then she explained in great detail, from careful observation, said she, how a man would respond to each enticement.

Making love seemed to be something of a refined game with Sabrina and Gideon, besides an expression of the profound feelings they shared. Sabrina said their spirits and hearts became closer with the physical expression of their love.

More than ever, Alex wanted that experience. She wanted Hawksworth as her lover, as well as her husband.

Everyone wanted to play cards after supper. Vingt-et-un or Whist. A table was set up for each. Chesterfield and Claude would be partners, and Miss Middlemarch and Baxter.

Alex heard her aunt ask Giff to partner her.

“You hate playing cards, remember?” Alex told Hildy, who laughed at her sorry memory and sat with the duchess for a comfortable coze.

Alex took Giff by the arm to be escorted about the room. “I am so pleased that you will be my real uncle now.”

“And I thought I would die a lonely old bachelor.”

“You were never a lonely old bachelor. You have always had Bryceson. He thinks the world of you. We all do.”

Giff grinned. “Imagine that.”

“Have you and Hildy had an opportunity to talk?”

“Us? We talk all the time. Hildy and I have no secrets from each other.”

Alex smiled. “I am glad to hear it.”

Hawksworth’s and Gideon’s after-dinner brandy goblets emptied fast and often. The rogues sat across from each other, Gideon telling Hawk about his first shocked sight of the pregnant bride Hawk had secured for him.

Alex caught Sabrina’s eye. Both men had imbibed enough, they agreed with a nod, especially as Sabrina seemed to have a special night planned, herself.

Alex dubbed Bree the queen of seduction then, for even as Alex watched, all Bree had to do was walk up behind her husband and skim the shell of his ear with a finger. Like a shot, she had Gideon’s undivided attention, and almost that fast, they said their good-byes and were on their way home.

Someday, I would like to be that married, Alex thought, as she approached Hawksworth. She tried stroking his ear, but he batted the air as if she were a pesky fly. Then she sat on the footstool by his chair and took his hand. And while he played with her fingers, he was engrossed in a story Hazelthorpe was telling.

“It has been a long day,” she said, and Hawk nodded. Perhaps he was too relaxed. Was that possible?

Drastic times, Alex thought. “Hawk,” she said. “My back aches.”

And that was all it took. They were on their way within moments, Alex feeling cherished, for she caught the possessive look Hawk tossed Chesterfield’s way before escorting her from the room.

She had also caught the look Chesterfield gave Claudia then, which bore looking into, and nipping in the proverbial bud, but not tonight.

Tonight was for her and Hawk and she intended that it would be spectacular.

TWENTY-FIVE

WHILE HAWK UNDRESSED in his own dressing room, Alex undressed in hers. She set lit candles about the bed, and stepped from her gown before getting in. She lay on her stomach and made sure the bedclothes were barely covering her, before she hugged her pillow and closed her eyes.

But when she heard her husband approach, she opened them, for Hawksworth in his black brocade dressing gown was as gorgeous as a mythical god. And, lo and behold, said myth climbed into bed with her.

He skimmed a hand down her back without the oil, as if for the simple pleasure of touching her, with nothing, not even oil, between them.

He could have no idea how badly she wanted to do the same, to open his dressing gown and let her hands wander at will, which she would do, before this night was over.

They kissed and kissed before even opening that pale green jar. Then the oil, or her reaction to it, or both, did its magic. Alex was not certain which of them was more ready. She did know who was more stubborn. Hawk would not give in to his need any more tonight than in the past, so when she pretended sleep, he lay beside her and throbbed against her forever, until he slept.

Lord, she hoped Sabrina’s theory was correct, that he would sleep deeply and be easy to seduce when she woke him.

Alex slipped carefully from the bed, to be certain Hawk did not wake. The black ribbons on her dressing table were already tied with the necessary knots. All she need do was slip the loops over the bedposts, which she did with dispatch, and then over Hawk’s wrists and ankles, and pull, tight.

Except that he needed to change position. Drat.

Whatever she tried, she could not get him to move. At length, she touched his ear, and he rolled to his back, swatted air, and let his arm fall, leaving it extended.

A good thing Sabrina gave her long and sturdy ribbons. Within minutes, Alex had her husband bound, wrist and ankles to the bed, and what a picture he made.

She climbed in beside him, giddy as a child at Christmas, with the most marvelous black brocade package before her, just waiting to be unwrapped.

First, she untied the sash on his dressing gown. Next, she opened it, one side at a time, until the beauty of her husband was fully, finally, revealed to her.

Except that beauty was not what she saw first. His wounds were, and they were hideous.

Sorrow rose in Alex and she swallowed several hard times to overcome her need to weep for the pain he must have endured. His scars were formidable, wide, thick, ruddy. His left thigh was all one big knotted scar narrowing to a burst of long thin scars, as if the bayonet’s blade had gotten caught and must be thrust up and down to free it.

A whimper escaped Alex as she bent to kiss the marked flesh, which must be sensitive, because Hawk moaned and tried to shift away. Alex panicked. She had barely begun, and if he woke, her seduction would be finished.

As she watched, he calmed and remained sleeping.

Alex sighed. No wonder he limped. ’Twas a wonder he was a man whole. And he was. She had seen and felt his magnificent manhood. Ah and he was beautiful there, too, even at rest, as was his chest, which she dared not as yet touch, and his face… and his soul.

Alex examined everything at length, all his various and sundry man parts, the one that would become hard was soft as silk, the soft ones were squishy.

She cupped his ballocks as she fingered his length, and just like that, the little devil came to life. Hawk sighed with her every stroke.

He gasped and she jumped, then she fingered the sudden droplet that appeared and rubbed it over the tip, and Hawk moaned and grew two lengths on the instant.

Ah yes, like a horse.

She closed her hand around him, as he taught her in the bath, and she felt his ballocks firm and tighten, felt his entire torso start and stiffen.

Prickles chased up her spine and along her nape and Alex looked up… and saw that he was watching her, his topaz eyes hard as flint, but bright as fire.

Her heart tripped, while lust and fear fought for dominance. “Ah… now that I have it in my hand,” Alex said, “I do not know what to do with it.”

Hawk tried to move and saw that he was bound, and the fire in his eyes leapt.

Alex got scorched.

“Mount me,” he said, growing impossibly larger, his voice deep and demanding. “Have your siren’s way with me. But do it now, by God. I have waited too bloody long as it is.”

Her heart about to pound from her breast, Alex swung a leg over Hawk, but given his current size, mounting him seemed physically impossible. “I do not think it will fit.”

“If you wish to take the lead, then do so, if you wish me to lead the way and make it easier for you, free me.”

“No, you have been too skittish to follow through, and I will not go one more night untouched.”

Hawk groaned and Alex saw that tic working in his cheek. He seemed actually to be suffering.

“I am coming. I am coming,” she said.

“So had I better be, and soon.”

Alex giggled, but she nearly managed at the same time to fit him to her, except that. “Really, you are enormous. Is this normal?”

He grinned. Hawksworth grinned. For the first time in years, she saw his smile.

Alex grinned as well, so happy of a sudden, she could hardly bear it. “Prepare yourself,” she said. “Because this is going to be wonderful.”

“I expect nothing less.”

“Ouch. Drat.”

“Wait. Do not hurt yourself.”

“Can I do that?”

Hawk sighed. “Release me so I can at least prepare you to receive me.”

“Absolutely not. How would you prepare me?”

“I would make certain you were… fluid.”

“Wet, you mean? Oh, I am. Touching you always does that to me. It is a good thing then? I did not know.”

“It is a good thing.” Hawk pulled against his fetters and cursed. “Set me free, so I can make you mine, once and for all, damn it.”

“No. I will make you mine, instead.”

“Be gentle with me.” That spark of mirth was back in his eyes.

Oh how wonderful it was to see. “Ah,” she said, finding the right place for everything suddenly and impaling herself, ever so slowly upon him. “There, that did not hurt, did it?”

Hawk hissed and bared his teeth.

“It did hurt! Do you want me to stop?”

“Good God, no!”

“What should I do now?”

“Push harder, I have not breached you yet.”

“Can you not help?”

Something akin to a groan and a pained laugh escaped Hawk as he arched and impaled her in one deep thrust.

Alex screamed, but as the scream died, her shock turned to wonder, then joy, and she smiled, because… “You are all the way in. I am no longer a virgin! We should celebrate.”

“Move from that spot and I will strangle you.”

“Yes, Bryce. What would you have me do next?”

“Ride me.”

“Pardon?”

Hawk used his hips and urged his wife to follow as he went, and when she did, and they began to move with more speed and greater unity, wonder struck, and she learned what men and women had known through the ages. Making love with the mate whose soul touches yours can be a most incredible experience.

Halfway to heaven when she made the discovery, Alex continued to climb toward the firmament, her wonder growing apace with her pleasure, until Hawk called her name and she answered, and followed him up and over the precipice.

She dozed astride him, her face against his chest, his arms around her, until the feel of him hardening inside her alerted her to her position and his growing need.

Alex sat up, pushed the hair from her eyes, smiled, and they made love, again.

“When you set me free,” Hawk said, “be prepared to spend a month on your back.” He thrust upward, and upward, prepared to love her in whatever position she wanted. In the tub or out. At Huntington Lodge or at the bottom of Devil’s Dyke—there was a thought.

Thrice more she took him, or he took her, and thrice more they rode toward the stars, until Hawk was so desperate for the freedom to love her as he wished, that he all-out yanked at his tethers… and snapped a bedpost.

Alex screeched as it came down.

“Are you hurt? Alex?”

She was not hurt, but laughing, laughing so hard that she could not catch her breath. And when he saw, and realized what they had done, Hawksworth began to laugh as well, full bodied and throaty. It was… not a bad feeling.

That lump for his dead comrades still clogged his throat, but a yearning for life, for Alexandra, filled him as well, so he stepped from his bonds, the inner bonds of sorrow, first. Then, as he regarded his hysterical wife, he divested himself of the outward bonds of black satin, took her into his arms and loved her again.

This time Hawk led the loving, slow and easy, gentle and sweet. It was everything beautiful living could offer—touches, kisses and soft warm strokes. He was marking Alex as his, when he should not, God help him… for he could not help himself.

Alex opened her eyes at about noon the following day and looked into the sultry, satisfied cat’s eyes of her lover.

Hawk’s somber expression relaxed then and his eyes crinkled at the corners… and his lips… A smile she saw growing there. And tears filled her eyes, but good tears, of wonder and happiness.

“I… missed you, Lexy. I missed you so much sometimes that I could have shouted for wanting you.”

“Why did you take so long to say so? Why not make me yours?”

“I did not want to chain you to a marriage with someone you did not love. I wanted to be able to set you free, if that was your wish. For your own good, I kept from you.”

“For my own good? My good?”

“Well not for mine. I have been aching to have you.”

“You have been aching? What about me? What gives you the right to decide what is right for me, to make up rules in my name? Who do you think you are?”

“Your husband.”

“Oh, of course. And husbands have that right.”

“They do.”

“But you have decided that you might no longer be my husband. Then you would lose your right to make decisions in my name, correct?”

“Correct,” he said, wavering, unsure of himself.

“Fine. Then our marriage is dissolved in all but the signed documents. You have no more rights over me.”

“Wrong. We can no longer annul the marriage. You are stuck with me.”

“In that case, I want a bill of divorcement.”

Hawk paled and panic infused his features. “Then you shall have it.”

“Good. Now I may make my own decisions. Can you guess what I have decided?”

“No, I cannot.”

“Since you have no say in the matter, I have decided to take my former husband as my lover.” She mounted him, and Hawk offered no resistance, as a matter of fact, the look of panic left him and the color returned to his face.

“I may no longer have you tied to my bed,” Alex said. “but I am going to have my wicked, seductive way with you, anyway. And you are going to—”

“Pull you into my arms and suffer the consequences.”

TWENTY-SIX

ALEX BARELY GOT downstairs that afternoon before Sabrina arrived with the children to return Beatrix who had spent the night at Stanthorpe House.

She and Sabrina watched the boys chase Bea up to the nursery, and then they went into the small salon for a comfortable chat. The minute they were alone, Sabrina put a fretting Juliana to her breast to suckle and calm her. “Now, tell me what happened,” Sabrina said. “Every detail.”

“I will tell you my every detail, if you tell me yours.”

Sabrina gaped, wide-eyed for a moment, then they both dissolved into laughter. Sabrina smiled. “Your seduction was… satisfactory, I take it? You are positively aglow.”

“As are you.”

“Ouch! Do not bite, Mama, sweet. I wish babies did not get their teeth quite so soon.”

“Is that not the time to wean a babe, then?” Alex asked, sincerely curious, since, after the night past, she could very well find herself in the family way.

Sabrina closed her bodice and sat her daughter on her lap to pat her back. “Yes, it is. I love the connection that nursing gives me and my babies, but I will have to stop soon.” She smiled. “I am expecting Stanthorpe’s child.”

“Ah Sabrina,” Alex said rising and going to hug her friend. “I am happy for you. I hope you are pleased, since this is your fourth.”

“I am thrilled, because it is Stanthorpe’s first, though you would never guess it to see him with the others, would you? And still he is as excited as a schoolboy on holiday. More so. But I think you have been avoiding my question.”

Alexandra rose with a dreamy smile. “In response to your question, let me ask a question of my own. What do you think the Duchess of Basingstoke will say when she discovers that we broke the bed?”

Sabrina whooped. “Oh, good show! Gideon will be green with envy, for you have managed to do something that we have not.”

Alex giggled.

“Ah, you are happy.”

Alex sighed. “I am, and yet… Do you think I am good enough for Hawksworth? His father once told me that I would not be a fit wife for him.”

“That man was a self-centered bully. He cared for none who suffered for his cause. Oh, Alex, I am so certain that you and Hawk care for each other, and yet, you seem at cross purposes the better part of the time.”

“I have always loved him—you know that—but I assure you that Hawk is only making the best of a difficult situation. He would never have married me, if he did not need someone to care for his family while he went to war. I know that. But he is a good man and he will be a good husband.”

Sabrina shook her head and seemed about to argue when Hawksworth came in. “I saw Demon and Rapscallion upstairs,” he said, kissing Sabrina’s cheek, “and knew you would be about. How is the little one?”

“Asleep, thank goodness.”

“Here,” Alex, said, taking Juliana, “let me take her up and put her in a crib, so you two can talk.”

Hawk watched Alex leave. “She looks a treat with a little one in her arms, does she not?”

Sabrina shook her head. “How long have you loved her?”

“Love? I am quite certain that I am incapable of love. Why do you ask?”

Sabrina threw her hands in the air. “Blind the two of you.”

“I do not know about blind,” Hawk said, “but I must be stupid.” He regarded her earnestly. “I know, because I have done a very stupid and unloving thing.”

Sabrina scoffed. “What, pray, is that?”

“I have ruined Alexandra’s chance for happiness.”

“How?”

“I have made it impossible to give her the annulment she deserves.”

“Deserves? Annulment? What nonsense is this?”

“She merits better than a broken man like me. She should have the man she loves.”

“Who is… Chesterfield… who… you hate.”

“All right, then, she deserves the man she loves, as long as he is… other than Chesterfield.”

“No wonder she needed to—”

“Needed to what?”

“Who the bloody devil would you consider good enough for her?” Sabrina shouted. “No one, I say.”

“You are overwrought and talking nonsense.”

“I am? Do you remember how downhearted I once was about not having Gideon’s love? Remember what you told me? ‘Learn to trust,’ you said. ‘Trust is everything.’ You also knew instinctively that love must be earned and returned, if one wished to keep it.”

Sabrina patted his arm. “It is past time you learned your own lessons, Hawksworth. You were running from life when you told me those things, and I am sorry to tell you, but you are running still.”

On Saturday, the Vicar arrived for Hildy and Giff’s wedding at quarter to one. Hildy arrived at one fifteen. At two, Uncle Gifford was yet to be found.

While Hawk went off in search of his uncle, Baxter took Alex to one side. “I must say that I understand my cousin’s determination to keep you, no matter the cost. I must also say that I very much appreciate your help.”

Alex stiffened. “What are you talking about?”

“It must be grand to have so much power as to accomplish what so many men tried and failed before you.”

“What have so many tried and failed?”

“To bring down the great Hawksworth, of course. Ruin him. How does it feel to have been the one to finally impoverish him and… bring him to his knees, so to speak?”

Baxter’s tone was so filled with innuendo, and his demeanor so forward, that Alex took a step back, but he stepped closer. “You do know that I inherited in his stead, because his father disinherited him for marrying you, do you not? That there was a codicil to the will?” Baxter shook his head in disbelief. “The funny thing is, Hawk might annul the marriage, or divorce you, and get his inheritance back, but he refuses.”

Despite her horror at the revelation, Alex knew she faced the true Baxter Wakefield, a blackguard, as they once suspected. “I am afraid that I must ask you to leave.”

“You have no say in this house.” Baxter smiled, though his eyes did not. “Ah, there is my dear Claudia.”

Not two minutes later, Hawk came for Alex and Hildy. Giff was waiting to see them in the library, and Alex would do or say nothing to spoil her aunt’s wedding.

Hildy trembled as Alex and Hawk escorted her into the book-lined room. “It is all right if you have changed your mind,” Hildy said to Giff as they entered.

“My dear,” he said from across the room, looking quite forlorn.

“Be happy, Giff. That is all I care about. Changing your mind will not break me. I am a tough old bird, remember?”

Giff cursed and crossed to her then she was in his arms. “My tough old bird.” He kissed her brow. “And if I were worthy of you, I would be honored to be your husband. But, Hildy, I am not. You are better off without me.”

“What nonsense is this?” Hawk asked, even as he remembered Sabrina asking him the same question, even if Giff’s unworthiness rang another familiar alarum.

Alex touched Hawk’s hand to calm him. “Giff, what is this about? I think my aunt has a right to know, even if Hawk and I do not. Do you wish the two of us to leave?”

“No, Lass,” Giff said, seating Hildy and sitting to take her hand. “I want you to hear what I have to say.”

Hawk and Alex sat.

“I am an old reprobate,” Giff said. “A scoundrel, a rakehell, worse. Put simply, I do not deserve you, Hildegarde Huntington. While it might appear that I have put my profligate ways behind me, I have only recently laid the last to rest, and even then, I was not capable of doing so on my own.”

“Giff, no,” Alex said.

The old man shook his head. “Enough of protecting me, Lass.” Giff regarded Hawk. “You have been the son I never had, and I wanted you to be proud of me, so I have kept my counsel since you returned, but I must speak now, because Hildy and Alex deserve my candor. You deserve it.”

“Giff, honestly—”

“I am a lousy gambler. I have always been, but it is Alex who paid the price. Your wife paid my gambling debts, Hawksworth. Your niece, Hildy, who was already responsible for the lot of us, got me out of debt. To the sum of nearly five thousand pounds. I do not know how she paid it, but I have been so afraid that the cost would break her.”

Tears filled Gifford’s eyes. “Forgive me Alex, Hawk.” He bent to kiss her aunt’s hand, humbly bowing before her. “Forgive me, my love.”

Hildy cupped his face and brought it up to hers. “There is nothing to forgive. But thank you for telling me. I have always been proud of my niece, but never more so than at this moment.”

“As am I.” Giff smiled. “If you care to take this old reprobate in hand, you tough old bird, I wish very much that you would do so. If you cannot, I understand.”

Alex rose and led Hawksworth from the room, shutting the door behind them.

“Why did you not tell me?” he asked, when they were in the hall. “Why did you let me chastise you and make you vow to stop gambling?”

“What was there to say?”

Hawk seemed surprised at her hard tone.

“Those were your words to me, remember, when I asked why you had not told me you saved Gideon? You and I talk all the time, Hawksworth, but I swear to God, that we manage to do so without speaking one word of significance. And frankly, I do not think deceit, or conscious omission, is something I can live with. As to that bill of divorcement… I was not joking. Please seek one as quick as may be.”

Alex knew she left Hawk reeling when she went to ask the Vicar and the rest of the guests to be patient.

When at length Hildy and Gifford arrived, their wedding was perhaps the most beautiful Alex ever attended. So beautiful, she could not stop weeping.

Twice Hawk tried to pull her aside to speak to her, twice she managed to rebuke him. “Fine,” he whispered at the last. “Giff and Hildy’s wedding is not an appropriate time or place for the conversation we need to have.”

The thought and ramifications of which skittered up Alex’s spine like a portent of doom.

“But we will talk,” he promised, “and before this day is done.”

The house reverberated with wedding guests and Christmas guests. It rang with the whoops of two little Indian boys and a small Indian princess, named Beatrix, all of them excited by the notion that in two days time, gifts would be brought in the night by a Saint named Nick.

“Baxter, stop encouraging them,” Claudia said.

“Shh,” Baxter whispered, pulling Claude aside. “I am trying to create a diversion, so we can escape.”

“Are you certain this is a good idea?”

“What, Claude, crying craven?” Baxter laughed at the whooping children. “That’s right, Rafe, see if you can scalp that blighter by the wassail bowl.”

While Rafe and Damon performed a war dance nearby, a barking beagle and an ill-favored cat chased a hedgehog beneath a table upon which rested said wassail bowl, nearly knocking the bowl and at least one guest off their respective pedestals.

Despite Claude’s consistent warning, Baxter encouraged the marauding savages, increasing their overabundance of energy.

When war inevitably broke out, very little got broken, except an iced Christmas torte and the temper of a certain vicar who did not appreciate the notion of wearing same.

To calm the guests, and the bride and groom’s nerves, Hawk and Gideon were encouraged to accompany three Indians up the stairs, each savage carrying a cat, a pup, or a hedgehog.

“You will never guess, Uncle Bryce,” Damon said, “but Papa tells the most amazing stories.”

“A story it is, then,” Gideon said.

Bea climbed into Hawk’s lap to cuddle and listen to the story of a blue fairy and a handsome prince, until she got drowsy and yawned and Hawk kissed her brow.

“I love you, Uncle Bryce,” she said, patting his bewhiskered cheek. “You will always be my most handsome prince.”

Hawk felt a hard old knot of sorrow melt at her words and he looked up and saw Rafferty, with the ugliest cat in the Kingdom draped over his shoulder, petting it with devoted care. That boy did not see a stub tail, scarred fur the color of mud, or a torn ear. Quite simply, he loved that cat so much, he was blind to its flaws. As Bea seemed blind to his scars.

Hawk stood, nodding for Gideon to continue his story, and went to place Beatrix in her little bed. She woke when he laid her down and asked him to take a nap with her, so he lay down beside her.

When he woke, the color of the sky outside her window had changed to smoke. As he rose, Beatrix woke as well.

“Did you have a good sleep, Pup?”

She stretched and nodded. “I dreamed that instead of having Chesterfield’s baby, Alex was going to have a baby for us. Would that not be nice, Uncle Bryce?”

Hawk stopped moving when Bea’s words penetrated, and now he could barely breathe. He kissed her nose. “Stay with the twins and Uncle Gideon, will you?”

Hawk went downstairs to look for Alex, his heart beating a wild tattoo.

He found, not a mob of guests in the drawing room, or anywhere, but the Duchess of Basingstoke pacing the gold salon, wringing her hands. Alexandra’s Aunt Hildegarde, with tears in her eyes, was trying to calm the woman.

“What has happened?” Hawk asked, feeling as if he stepped into a nightmare. “Where is everyone? Where is Alex?”

Hildy began to weep. “Alex has run off to Gretna Green with Chesterfield.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

‘YOU KNOW, Alex, you can ride inside the carriage,” Chesterfield said. “You do not need to sit up here on the driver’s box, and freeze, just to keep me company.”

“We should have taken the horses,” Alex said. “Then we could have gotten there faster.”

“We could not take the horses. I told you, after we catch up with Claudia and Baxter—and after I shoot Baxter—we will need the carriage to take Claudia back. I suppose I shall have to wait to beat her until we get her home.”

Alex scoffed. “Tell me again what Baxter’s note said.”

“That he was taking Claudia to Gretna Green to ruin her reputation, and if I did not arrive with ten thousand pounds before morning, he would ruin her in truth and separate us forever.”

“Even Baxter knows you love her.”

“He is a fool. A dead fool.”

“Do not be rash,” Alex warned.

Chesterfield laughed hard and self-mocking. “I was not rash when it came to you, Alex. I did not want a simpering miss nor a green girl who would bore me to tears. Neither did I want a social butterfly who would spend all my money. I wanted a rational, mature, unspoiled female to give me an heir and grow old by my side. I was not rash when I chose you, and look where that got me.”

“Point taken,” Alex said. “But will you have the patience for a girl like Claudia?”

“Claude has more wisdom and maturity than we sometimes credit her for. She has been forced into growing up, has she not, having lost her parents and then her uncle, for a time?”

“I have seen her maturity, yes, but I have also seen the little girl, the child who wants what she wants.”

“And how does that make her different from you?”

Alex laughed. “She overheard us that day, right after our near-wedding, when you came to the Lodge.”

“She told me.”

“When did she? You have hardly had a moment to talk.”

“Alex, once Claudia knew I lived at Hawksridge, she used to sneak over there at every opportunity. We went for walks, we played billiards. She even helped me deliver a foal. We have talked; believe me, though never more thoroughly than on the night she climbed in my bedroom window at two in the morning. That was the day you came to London.”

“The little twit.”

Chesterfield grinned.

“Judson Broderick, what did you do?”

He look affronted. “I remained on my best behavior, I assure you.”

Alex squeaked. “I know your best behavior. I was betrothed to you.”

Chesterfield cleared his throat. “She remains untouched, I promise you.”

“Look at me.”

He did, but he failed to infuse his look with the depth of innocence she would wish. “Hah. Just barely, I think. Drive faster.”

“Hurrying now will not change anything.”

Alex paled. “But you said—”

Chesterfield cursed. “That is not what I meant. I meant that hurrying would not change the past, and we should probably worry about what Claude will do to Baxter,” but Chesterfield urged his matched pair on, nevertheless. “When I know she is safe, I really am going to beat her.”

“Ah, Judson, you do care for her.”

“Do you think Hawksworth will let me have her?”

“Not in a million years.”

~   ~   ~

AS HAWK BEGAN his trek through the shrouded fog of the chill December night, he knew that Alex was lost to him. He knew it, yet he could not stand aside and let her run off with Chesterfield.

He had not looked back when the duchess and Aunt Hildy called to him, but walked faster than he thought possible. Continuing on to the stables, he found a guest’s saddled Arabian, ready for imminent departure, which he mounted, and rode, hell for leather, down the mews road.

He had not even slowed his pace when Myerson and the horse’s owner tried to chase him down. He simply headed north toward the outskirts of London and straight for Scotland.

Where the devil had he gone wrong?

Alex, of course—she was where he went wrong. Not by marrying her, but by being so stupid as to leave her after he had been so brilliant as to marry her.

Because of that—because of his running off to war and getting himself killed—she had become desperate enough to accept Chesterfield. But had she found it necessary to seduce the man to get him to offer marriage? Was that how she got herself with child? If she were with child, which Hawk could not bring himself to believe.

Seduction—that was laughable, when it was exactly what he suspected her of attempt—

No, with him, she had succeeded in her passionate, single-minded, effort to… make it appear as if the child she carried was his?

The probability hit Hawk like a blow, sharp, breath-stealing and… still impossible to believe.

She had been a virgin when he breached her, said she was and appeared to be—though there must be ways to make it appear— Hawk cursed, nearly as muddled now as when he woke to discover that she had tied him to the bed. Even then, he wished he had not drunk so much that night—that glorious, incredible night.

Again, Hawk urged his horse to greater speed.

Damn it to hell; no one was going to have Alex, but him, baby or not. No one. He was certainly not going to sit idly by while she and Chesterfield lived in bloody sin together.

Hawksworth shouted a curse into the night. He was her husband, damn it, and he would bloody well remain so. No one could possibly love Alex more than he did.

Did he? Was he capable? Love?

Yes, by God, and he would not let her go. How could he? How did one cut out one’s own heart? Which must explain why he had not finished his deathbed letter to her. Could he not bring himself to say goodbye?

Devil take it, had he loved her even then? Before then? When?

As Hawk rode neck or nothing along the Great North Road, he tried to mark the events in his life that led him to fall in love with the scourge and shadow of his growing up years.

He looked as far back as that tiny mud-drenched urchin standing at the bottom of the Dyke, looking up at him as if he were a bright silver knight, her very own.

He saw a young girl, all arms and legs and big turquoise eyes, warning other girls away from him. He saw the joyful look on her radiant face when he asked her to marry him, then her broken expression when he said goodbye after the ceremony, her chin raised despite her pain.

He saw Alex, the woman, seduction-bent, who bound him and loved him in a fever of passion, with a physical abandon he never imagined married love could embrace.

Hawk shook his head. No single event had made him love her, but all of them, everything about her—faults and strengths—had nurtured and grown his love, not to mention the sense of worth with which she had endowed him upon sight.

To Alex, from the beginning, he was everything.

To him, now and for eternity, she was everything.

He must tell her so, finally, in the event that he was the most fortunate of men and she loved him, as he once, long ago, suspected, but denied.

No more putting it off, even if, after he was finished slicing open his heart for her inspection, she chose Chesterfield after all.

If she had the courage to run off with the blighter, for whatever reason, then she damn well had the courage to leave him, if that was her choice.

And if it was, he must let her go, once and for all.

Hawk did not know why it had taken him so bloody long to realize the possibility of love. He only hoped it would not take Alex as long.

He hoped, beyond hope, that he was not too late.

“I am no longer certain that this is a good plan,” Claudia told Baxter, “pretending we are eloping so Chesterfield will be drawn into following. Perhaps he will not realize how much he loves me, but that he had much rather live without such pranks. Perhaps we should turn around.”

“This is a brilliant plan,” Baxter said. “Chesterfield will think so, too, once he has you in his arms.”

“And you are certain we will be home by nine? Uncle Hawk insists upon it, even though I am nearly eighteen.”

Claudia turned to regard the inn they had just passed. “Oh, wait, that was the Georges Inn where you said a maid would be waiting to chaperone me. You said we would wait for Chesterfield there, and there is where I said, in my note, he could find me. Baxter… tell your man to stop the carriage.”

When he remained silent, Claudia crossed the interior of the vehicle to touch her cousin’s arm. “Baxter, what are you doing? We cannot leave London so late in the afternoon. It is gone past four.”

Baxter looked at her as if she had sprouted horns, and for the first time, Claudia saw a man she did not recognize, a stranger she began to fear.

“You are worse than a baby,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that the note I left for Chesterfield in place of yours was worded a bit different. I mean, shut up and let me think for bloody sakes.”

At about two in the morning, Hawk entered the Gretna Hall Hotel, just over the Scottish border, the second inn he’d tried since reaching Scotland. As he did at the first inn, Hawk went straight to the bedchamber the maid said was occupied by an English couple, hoping that, this time, the occupants were not positioned in the bed so as to stop his heart.

Again, Hawk pushed the door open without knocking. “Alexandra Wakefield, I do not care if you carry the cad’s child, I will not allow you to live in sin with him.”

Alexandra and Claudia gasped.

Chesterfield barked a laugh, even as he held a pistol aimed at Baxter’s ballocks. Baxter, himself, on the floor, gagged and bound.

Everyone began speaking at once.

“Cease!” Chesterfield shouted until nothing could be heard save Baxter’s muffled pleas.

“I take it I am the cad in question?” Chesterfield drawled. “And that somehow you have it in your head—”

“Do not even say it,” Alex snapped. “It was Beatrix, was it not? The eavesdropping little hoyden.”

Hawk felt himself go cold. “Then you are—”

Alex raised her chin. “Of course, I am.”

Again, Chesterfield laughed. “Damn, I have not had this much fun in an age.”

Chesterfield’s words and his mirth relieved Hawk of worry. Alexandra could not be carrying the man’s child.

Claudia even grinned at the comment, though Chesterfield rounded on her for it. “Do not think you are off the hook, Miss, for you will be turned over my knee, the minute we get home.”

“What is going on here?” Hawk asked, assimilating the scene: Chesterfield standing over Baxter, the tears in Claudia’s eyes, Alexandra’s arms about her, Alex’s worry. “Alex? Claude? Are you all right?”

“I have a bruised jaw and bloody knuckles,” Chesterfield grumbled. “But do not ask if I am all right.”

“Baxter kidnapped Claudia,” Alex said. “Of course we are not all right.”

Claudia shook her head in denial. “Not exactly kidnapped, Uncle Bryce, but I did not know that he planned to take me this far. I swear I did not.”

“I told you, Hawksworth, to take care of her,” Chesterfield said. “This is exactly what I predicted would happen, otherwise.”

“I suppose you think you can do better?” Hawk asked.

“I bloody well can. As a matter of fact, I expect permission to marry her for my part in this.”

“She is already married to me, damn it!”

Chesterfield looked to the heavens in a bid for patience. “Stop being love-bit for a minute and listen. This is not about you and Alex but about me and Claudia.”

“If I cannot think for seeing Alex, it is her own fault, for she has been single-minded—”

“Hawksworth, do not.”

Claudia grinned and nodded for Chesterfield to try again.

“Hawksworth, I respectfully request your permission to marry your—”

“Permission denied. You are not half good enough for her.”

“Uncle Hawk!”

“No, Claudia, your uncle is right,” Chesterfield said. “I am not half good enough for you. And since you are not half obedient enough for—”

“I will second that,” Hawk said, scowling at his niece.

Chesterfield nodded. “Good, we are in agreement.”

“We are, for once.”

“Fine then. While we wait for the law to come and claim this cod-head, let us play a game of cards.”

“Cards? Now? Are you out of your mind? Besides, you know I always win.”

Chesterfield shrugged. “My skills improved while you were away. Let me prove it with one hand. The winner gets Hawksridge.”

“Of course I will not play for those stakes.”

“Why not?”

“Look at the way Alex is grinning. Even she knows that you are trying to give the estate back to me. You will let me win, and I do not like to be let win. I do not want my home handed back to me on a gilded platter, nor will I accept it as a bribe for my niece’s hand.”

“You think I am a card cheat then?”

“Of course not. You are simply not as good a player as I am.”

“You as much as said that I would throw the game, which makes me a cheat in your mind.”

“I know you are not a cheat, but I believe you would— I do not know what you would do, but… you are not to be trusted right now. Lust will do that to a man.” Hawk regarded Alex with a raised brow and stern expression. “I should know.”

Chesterfield smiled. “Perhaps I am simply a good man who would like to see you have your home back.

Hawk looked annoyed. “Perhaps.”

“Perhaps, I am a good man who loves your niece and will take excellent care of her.” Chesterfield looked pointedly at Claudia. “I will certainly keep her too busy to get into trouble.”

Hawk noted the way his niece and his nemesis regarded each other. Hope, love, filled their gazes. Was this what happened when one loved? One could recognize the emotion in others? “Damn.”

Claudia screamed in victory and tore from Alexandra’s arms to fly into Chesterfield’s. The kiss Hawk witnessed made the uncle in him bristle and want to do harm. He went over and slapped Chesterfield on the back, hard. “We had best find a parson.”

Chesterfield looked up, eyes ablaze.

“To the parson,” Hawk repeated. “Now.”

“What, now?”

“Either that or we take Claudia home. I will not have you kissing my unmarried niece in that unseemly manner.”

Chesterfield focused on the blushing Claudia, the light of awareness entering his eyes. “Now is a very good time.”

They left Baxter in the taproom to await the law, and after they did, Chesterfield stopped to face Alex. “I did not forgive the five thousand pounds as I let you believe. Hawk paid the debt, but he did not want you to know.”

Hawk cursed.

Alex ignored him. “When did he pay it?”

“A few days before Giff and Hildy’s wedding, the day he returned from the country.”

“Thank you Chesterfield, for telling me.”

Chesterfield nodded. “Now my conscience is clear. Claudia, will you have me?”

Ian McGillivray married them in a quaint corner of the hotel itself, making their wedding a deal more special than the two-minute, over-the-anvil ceremony that might have taken place at the old thatched and white-washed blacksmith shop down the street.

By then Baxter had been carted off, and all four made their way back upstairs to spend what was left of the night. They would set off in a few short hours, so they could be home in time for Christmas Eve with the family.

“Goodnight, Alex,” Chesterfield said, kissing her cheek and shaking Hawk’s hand. “Goodnight, Uncle.” Chesterfield grinned, put an arm around Claudia, hugged her close, and laughed all the way to their bedchamber.

TWENTY-EIGHT

HAWK ESCORTED ALEX into their own chamber, his jaw so rigid by the time the door closed, she half expected him to hand her that bill of divorcement.

“You are not carrying his child,” he said.

The phrase—as much of a query as an order—struck like a clap of thunder, echoing off the walls and shivering Alex to her roots.

“Will you raise it as your own? As your heir, if I have a son?”

Hawk paled and wavered, but firmed his stance. “I will.”

That her confirmation did not bring his instant consent to a divorce infused Alex with sorrow and hope, for if she did not force him to dissolve their marriage, he would lose everything… as she would gain everything. If they did divorce, there might be enough of his inheritance left to regain Hawksridge. “Why?” she asked.

“I realized, on my way here, that even when I could not step from my father’s control, I found a reason to marry you that was more important than him, and more important than me… Beatrix and Claudia. They needed you, so I married you, despite my father.”

Hawk fixed his regard on her then, with such deep concentration—or was it longing—that Alex began to pace, for she could not stand still. She wished he had opposed his father for his own sake, for if he did that, she would know that he was free and spoke the truth from his heart.

“Bea still needs us both,” he said.

Alex sighed, aching for the one who would suffer most for their parting, but even Bea would suffer if their marriage stood on so rocky a foundation. “I know she does.”

Hawk nodded. “You once said that we must remain together for the sake of the family? Do you still believe it? Though it is a great deal to ask.”

The dart went straight to her heart. “Is it?”

“God’s teeth,” Hawk said. “I mean it is too much to ask of you.”

Alex saw from his appalled expression that he spoke true. “Are you certain that staying together is what you want?”

“More than anything.”

That surprised her. “The rogue of Devil’s Dyke for a lifetime? I do not know. Do you think you can manage me?”

“No one has ever been able to manage you.” Hawk’s eyes actually smiled. “But if you mean, can I bear our remaining married? I can, if you can.”

They were still playing games, of a sort, and Alex despised it. “I would have a promise.”

“Then you shall have it. I am in your debt for at least a dozen.”

She wished she could collect every one. “This is more of a demand.”

“Name it.”

“No more secrets.”

Hawk bent to a hearth framed with delft tiles to light the fire. “What do you want to know?”

The sight of him performing the homey task made Alex want a life with him so badly that she had to swallow twice before she could speak. “Why did you not tell me that you lost your inheritance, because you married me?”

Hawk set tinder to flame then rose to face her. “I did not know about the codicil to my father’s will, until I saw the solicitor, and then it was too late.”

“It was not too late,” she said, her voice rising. “We could have gotten an annulment back then. And you are still speaking in half-truths.”

“Alex, shh.” Hawk stepped forward to take her by the shoulders, as if she must hear him. “That it was too late had nothing to do with our consummated, or unconsummated, marriage. It had to do with my unwillingness to let you go.”

“Too stubborn to give up?” she asked stepping away, for her resolve could vanish in such joy, and then she would have no strength left to let him go.

He raised a brow. “Among other things.”

Alex could not bear an elaboration; she carried too many unanswered questions. “Where did you get the five thousand pounds to pay Chesterfield?”

Hawk’s quick smile weakened her knees, boding ill for her cause. “Remember the tiny alabaster bust we dug up near the water-meadows a hundred years ago?” he asked.

Alex could not stop her smile. “You love that piece.”

“I love it even more now. I sold it for a tidy sum. My good luck, I should have realized, began the day I found you. I will tell you all about the sale later, but know that, even after paying Chesterfield, there is enough left to set the Lodge and property to rights and begin breeding horses.”

“How much were you able to get for it?”

Hawk grinned. “Fifteen thousand pounds.”

Alex gasped. “But that was enough to buy back Hawksridge! Why did you not give Chesterfield the money for your estate? Why pay my debt?”

“It was not your debt.”

“You did not know that at the time.”

“Freeing you from Chesterfield was more important—no, that is wrong. You were more important to me.”

“But Hawksridge is your heritage, your home.”

“Alex, my home is wherever you are, whether in a mansion, or at the bottom of the Dyke. Besides, I find myself looking forward to the challenge of bringing Huntington Lodge back to its former glory.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Which is something I want more than my next breath for us to do together.”

Alex might rejoice at Hawk’s words, if not for his father’s will. “Your father warned me,” she said, turning away, fingering a blue damask bed-curtain. “He said I would be the worst possible wife for you.” She looked up. “I should have listened, for now I have made you turn your back on your birthright.”

“My father was a heartless schemer, whose machinations served only him, his plans, his power to control. You are the wife for me, Alex, the best wife, the only wife I want.”

Beguiled by his words, Alex pulled away. “No. Listen. If I had not married you, you would not have been able to go to war, so you would not have been wounded and scarred, or lost your home and your wealth. Hawk, you have lost everything, because of me.”

“I have lost everything, only, if I have lost you. Why will you not believe me?” he asked, stepping once forward for each of her steps back. Catching up, he placed his hands on either side of her face. “Listen to my words, Alex. I love you, and I want to stay married to you. In so saying, I am fully cognizant that I repudiate my father, thereby burying him and his hold over me—over both of us—once and forever.”

Alex nearly shouted for joy. Hawk’s declaration was everything she dreamed, but it was time for her to be honest as well. “You should know,” she said, stepping to the window and looking out, “that I planned to seduce you as a form of revenge.”

Hawk wanted to tell her that hers was a sweet revenge, but he could see that she was serious, and this was no time for levity. “Why did you?”

“After you left for France, I heard your friends talking—though you recently said they are not your friends. Still, they knew that you married me only to care for your family. They said you could not bear to touch me, and since you had not… touched me, I thought they knew what they were talking about.”

“Oh, Alex, I am so—”

“Do not say it. I am sick unto death of people being sorry for me. When you came home… No, you never did come home, did you? When you stopped my wedding, and still you did not touch me, I vowed to seduce you, until you said exactly what you just did, that you wanted me, loved me, and then I was going to walk away. And because I learned your true feelings from someone else, I was going to have someone else tell you mine.” She did not say that she planned for them to go on with their marriage afterward, because now they could not.

“How could you learn my true feelings from someone else, when I did not know them myself?” Hawk shook his head. “I cannot believe that you thought of vengeance as you seduced me? As we loved, Alex?”

She looked away.

“So,” he said, “is it finished then? Are you planning to leave me now?”

Alex looked at the door and knew she must, but before she took two steps, Hawk blocked her path. “I meant what I said; I love you, though you have never said as much to me.”

“And have it thrown in my face? I think not.”

“Then you do love me?”

Alex laughed, mocking them both. “Only forever. Only since I looked up from the bottom of Devil’s Dyke and saw you coming to my rescue.” She raised a hand at his step forward. “No, do not come any closer. My admission does not mean that I will fall at your feet. Besides, I was never good enough for the handsome-as-sin Rogue of Devil’s Dyke. Why am I now?”

“Alex, you are—”

“Is it because people say I am… no longer unattractive. Is that why you think you love me? Because Hawk, beauty fades with time. Always.”

“I have learned a great deal about beauty since my return. I have seen it, first-hand, in a little girl’s adoration. In a little boy and his motley cat. An elderly couple’s love.” He smiled. “I saw beauty every time your back ached.” He touched her lips with reverence. “I see it in the way you kiss my scars.”

Alex’s eyes filled. Hawk wiped away a tear. When had he stepped close enough?

“Let me tell you something else. I never saw beauty in the man you termed a handsome-as-sin rogue. What I saw in that man was worthlessness. My father approved of rogues, so I became one, and I enjoyed the role, for a time, but I am not that man. Not quite. I am the man you have encouraged me to become. The man you see before you.

“As, layer by layer, everything I once thought important was stripped away, I saw, revealed to me, what was truly important. You, the girls, Aunt Hildy and Uncle Giff, Gideon, Sabrina, and their children. Us, working and making a home, together, caring for our family… together.”

Alex made to speak, but Hawk stopped her with a finger to her lips. “Let me try to explain why I could not bring myself to come home to you. If I never thought the handsome rogue worthy—and I did not—imagine how I felt about the beast, who, by some foolish blunder of fate, cheated death.”

Alex sobbed and stepped into his arms. “You are not a beast, you are n—”

Hawk opened his mouth over hers and kissed her with passion, with hunger and wonder, desperate to make her understand how much she meant to him. To take her love and give it back, to connect with the mate to his soul.

“Beauty,” he said, looking into her eyes, “resides where gentleness and love are the most wondrous of gifts.”

“And within one who would give his life for a friend.”

“I fell in love with you,” Hawk said, “while I was healing in Belgium, long before I saw how beautiful you had become… or so I thought. But sometime during my long ride here, I traced my love as far back as that mud-spattered urchin at the bottom of the Dyke.”

Alex toyed with his cravat. “Perhaps you love the memory of me.”

Hawk urged her toward the canopied four-poster, the fire in his eyes reminiscent of that night-stalking lion. “I am certain that is not the case, for I am in love with a hoyden,” he said, “who would shoot an arrow through the roof to get her husband into her bed.” He began to undo the buttons at her bodice with single-minded determination. “I am in lust with a siren who would tie said husband to her bed to seduce him… exquisitely.” He kissed her neck and nudged aside her bodice to kiss the crown of a breast.

“I cherish the woman who gave a mother’s heart to the orphaned daughters of another.” He kissed her brow. “I thank and honor the lass who kept a curmudgeon’s greatest secret to give him the gift of his family’s respect.”

Alex bit her lip as tears blurred her vision.

“Do not go out that door, Alexandra Wakefield, for I would only follow. Do not walk away from me, please, I beg you. I could not bear to lose you.” He tried to pull her down on the bed with him, and despite her attempt to resist—to do the right thing and let him go—she toppled, landing atop him, her gown’s skirt settling over her head like a veil.

Hawk’s eyes darkened as his hands traveled the length of her body. “Will it hurt the babe, if I make love to you?” he asked, melting her to her marrow and making her his for good and all.

“Ah, Hawk, I can resist you no longer. You think yourself unworthy of love, but you are so worthy, you would raise another man’s child as your own. But there is no need, my love, for no man has touched me, save you. How could you not know?”

He became endearingly sheepish. “I fear I imbibed rather a lot that night.”

“Ah… speaking of secrets…”

His eyes widened. “Damn. You drugged me.”

“Never, but I did make certain that your brandy glass stayed full.”

“Sorceress.” He nuzzled her breasts, and rolled her onto her back, to rise above her. “This bed is too bloody big,” he said with a grin. Then he bent to her and threaded his fingers through her hair, on either side of her face and brushed her cheeks with his thumbs. “How would you feel about giving Beatrix a mama and a papa, both, for Christmas? We could adopt her, if you—”

“Oh, Hawk, yes. And we could give her the baby she wants.”

“This Christmas, she will have to settle for a mama and papa.” The fire in his eyes leapt and his body surged to life. “Though, if we begin now, and try very hard, perhaps we can fulfill her second wish next Christmas.”

“Yes, yes, and ye—” He stopped her with his kiss, unable to wait a minute longer to have her mouth again.

Some while later, Alex cupped his cheek. “I love you.”

Hawk was humbled and so grateful he could hardly draw breath, and neither the lump in his throat nor the speck in his eye mattered. “You will keep this wreck, who—all the king’s horses and all of his men failed to put together again?”

“I should beat you for doubting it.”

Hawk shook his head. “I should have known that you would accept me, broken as I am, but you deserve so much better, that I had the devil of a time asking it of you.”

“No need to ask.”

“I do not deserve you, but God help us both, I love and want you. Please, will you forgive this unforgivable rogue for waiting so long to come home?”

“Not unforgivable, but unforgettable. Even as I walked up the aisle to marry another, I thought only of you.”

He kissed her. “Now, about that baby…”

~ THE END ~

Continue reading for an excerpt from The Rogues Club Book Three: Unmistakable Rogue.

BONUS PREVIEW

Unmistakable Rogue

ROGUES CLUB — BOOK THREE

PAINSWICK, THE COTSWOLDS, ENGLAND

VICAR CLIVE POMFRET remembered the smell of blood in the Sunnyledge tower that night…

He had gagged as he descended the dank stone stairs to inform Edward St. Yves, Earl of Barrington, of his wife’s passing. At the salon door, Clive stopped at the sight of his sister, Thea, kneeling before the earl. Thea—a vicar’s sister, a devil’s mistress—displacing a wife about to give birth, shaming her brother before his flock.

“Poor Clive,” Thea drawled, her smile spiteful. “Papa always said you had a mean scowl.”

“He said you would be a whore, and he was right.”

The earl cursed with impatience. “What about my heir?”

“Your wife is dead.”

Barrington shrugged. “See to the burial. The child?”

Clive fisted his hands. “Twin boys.”

Barrington grinned, and Clive knew that the devil would raise those boys to be just like him. “Both dead,” Clive said, the justice of his pronouncement confirmed by Barrington’s vulgar oath.

Upon returning to the tower, Clive ordered a maid, big with child, to follow him. He could not save his sister’s soul, but he would save those boys, body and soul, and if Barrington suffered in the saving, so much the better.

To the maid, Clive presented the languid twin, with eyes as dull as a gray English sky. To the midwife, he gave the boy suckling a fist, his eyes as bright as hellfire—devil’s eyes.

Clive fixed the serving women with his gaze. “Name and raise the boy you hold as your own. Tell them nothing of their roots or of the other’s existence. If you leave Sunnyledge tonight, and go your separate ways, there will be a fat purse for each of you now, and another yearly until they are grown.”

The maid’s eyes had widened at the mention of money.

“It is the will of God,” Clive intoned, calling upon a righteous vicar’s fire,” that the events of this night remain forever sealed. His wrath upon you and yours for eternity should you reveal them!”

“Thea? Thea?”

Thea heard her brother call as if from afar, tearing her from his deathbed memory, and her first shocking glimpse of that thirty-year-old scene, back to the present. Edward’s sons had lived! She remembered a babe’s cry that night—an omen, she thought, that the Barrington line must continue through her.

But Edward had never married her.

“Right my wrong,” Clive begged, now, with hellfire so near, it singed his brows. “Tell them who they are.”

“No one will believe their father’s whore, Clive.”

“I have proof,” he said, fighting for every breath.

Thea rose so fast, she knocked over a ewer of water, grasped his suddenly sodden shoulders and shook him. “Where? damn you.”

At the shock of cold water, he began to cough. “Book.” He coughed up blood. “Cask—”

Thea stepped from his entreaty and watched, unaffected, as he gasped, gurgled, and slumped over… finally.

“If you do not go straight to hell,” she said, turning to rifle through his desk, “then the place does not exist.”

She found their names and directions, and there beside her brother’s dead body, Thea Pomfret wrote identical, anonymous notes to Reed Gilbride, Essex, England, and William Somers, Beaupre, France.

April 4, 1817. You are the missing St. Yves, Earl of Barrington, heir to Sunnyledge. See Everard Sennett, Executor, Gloucester, England. Beware there is one who would steal your heritage.

~   ~   ~

GLOUCESTER, THE COTSWOLDS, MAY 1817

‘ARE YOU STEALING those children?”

Caught beside a second-story workhouse window, Chastity Somers swallowed her scream and gathered the little ones close. The moonless night, perfect for her scheme, became her foe. She could discern nothing, no one, save darkness in the alley below.

The owner of the deep, disembodied voice seemed to linger, but she dare not. She must get her new and unexpected brood to safety, or fail her husband’s young cousins the way she had failed William, himself.

With no choice but to brazen it out, Chastity nodded her hood further forward and readied her best English accent. “Do not be ridiculous. You cannot steal what is already yours.”

The intruder made no reply, so she lifted the last of the four children out the window and shut the sash.

“Kitty?” Luke’s version of her name echoed loud and alarming as he tugged her sleeve. “You are stealing us.”

“Hush, Luke.”

“It’s all right, sir,” Matthew called down. “We wanted stealing.”

Galvanized by the boy’s defense, Chastity shook herself. “Mark, take Bekah’s hand. Stay by the window, all of you, and hold the sill.”

They would not be taken away from her, again, Chastity vowed as she lowered herself from the attached shed’s eaves and dropped the remaining distance to land on her bottom in the dirt.

Amid a discord of giggles, a hand grasped her upper arm, racing Chastity’s heart, trapping her scream inside her throat, but her captor must have sensed her fear, for he gentled her, somehow, with the very touch that alarmed her in the first place.

His nearness, his very scent—horse, leather, and man—put her in mind of… rescue and… sanctuary, as William had once done, except that her sense of well-being was stronger now than it had ever been with… Chastity shook off her foolishness. “I did not hear your horse approach,” she said, seeking the ordinary in an extraordinary situation.

“I call him Stealth,” the man said, sounding every bit as safe as she hoped. “He served me well at Waterloo.”

Relieved by her growing fancy that the military man meant them no harm, Chastity allowed him to help her stand. She should be afraid, she supposed. He had fought her people at Waterloo, but her sheltered convent background, which was hardly conducive to a judicious caution, had taught her they were all God’s children. Equal. Besides, she sensed a hint of the trustworthy even in the tone of his voice.

“The children are not afraid of you,” he said, reflecting her wonder over her own lack of fear.

“Of course they are not. How do you know?”

“Frightened children rarely laugh.”

Neither lonely ones, Chastity remembered from her own childhood, hoping she was employing the same, faultless instincts as the children, where this man was concerned.

Reassured, but unnerved all the same, by his hand on her arm, Chastity nevertheless regretted the loss of human contact when he released her. But she had no time to regard it, for Bekah’s cough urged their removal from this unhealthy place, and fast, lest the children be incarcerated, again.

Even if the man was a threat, Chastity thought, she would bargain with the devil to keep her little ones safe. “I have to get the children down,” she said. “Thank you for your help, but we can manage on our own.”

The devil had the impertinence to laugh.

“Be quiet,” Chastity hissed.

“You are a few tuppence short a quid,” said he, “and will get exactly what you deserve for this night’s work. Children are nothing but trouble.”

“Children are gifts from above.”

“Hah! Vengeance, more like.”

Chastity perceived some vexation in the man, but no real threat. For all his curious notions, he seemed of a mind to let her and the children go. “We shall be fine. Truly. Thank you for stopping, but you may be on your way without further concern for our welfare.”

“’Tis not concern detains me, but astonishment. Why would anyone seek the encumbrance of children?”

Shaking her head, Chastity turned toward the four waiting atop the workhouse shed. “All the world and his wife would step over a dead body in the middle of St. James’s,” she snapped. “But I do something the least… uncommon, and am observed by someone who investigates. Matthew, lower Bekah to me.”

Chastity hugged the littlest close as she received her. “Good. Now Mark, then Luke.”

“Kitty, I’m hungry,” Luke said as she set him on his feet.

“I know, darling. Hush, now.”

Deep within the bleak bowels of the parish workhouse, a bell began to toll. “Jump, Matt,” Chastity ordered, thrusting Luke into the stranger’s arms. “You’ll have to help,” she said, scooping Bekah into her own. “Hurry.”

Reed Gilbride heard, rather than saw, the woman hasten away, her stolen brood hard at her heels. Then he realized that if he failed to follow, he would be stuck with the urchin dangling before him. “Damn.” Reed slung the lad under his arm like a sack of grain and gave chase, Stealth trotting behind.

Despite being carted off by a stranger, the lad’s giggles over his tumbling ride testified to the rare joy in his short life.

Reed had to give the woman credit, pluck to the backbone, she was. Either that or daft, he thought, as he followed her through noisome village byways, dodging running steps and reeling vagrants, all the while wondering why he got involved.

He had reached Sennett’s office hours early, and gazed about, thinking to find a light at an inn, when in the alley across the way, a cloaked form in the window, silhouetted against the dim interior of the workhouse, caught his attention. A matron of the asylum, he thought, until he noticed the children’s profiles atop the attached shed roof. A curious sight, yes, but he should never have intruded. What cared he for a flock of raggle-taggle street brats or their provoking protector?

The bell from the workhouse faded in the distance, and when the woman slowed, Reed set the lad in her path. “Here, you snatched him, you take him. I’ll not be left to foster somebody’s brat. I’ve had enough of children to last forever.”

“You need to have that ice chipped away.”

Birds called their first good mornings. Too bad it was still an hour or more till full light, Reed thought, for he conceived an urge to see her face, discern her age and examine her features. Her words and manner contradicted his impression of her as a matron of any kind. “What did you say?”

“The ice around your heart: you should have it removed.”

If he owned a heart, her honey-warm voice might complete the task on its own, Reed mused, before stifling the maggoty notion. “What the devil are you about?”

“Watch your language around the children. We were running because… because of a—”

“Fire?”

To his surprise, she laughed, the sound a balm to his senses. “I was rescuing them.”

He damn near laughed with her. “What a whisker.”

“Oh, no, not at all. Telling falsehoods would set a bad example.”

“And stealing children would not?” He winced at her gasp. “Pardon my lack of faith in your mothering,” he added by way of reparation.

“Kitty ain’t our mother.”

“Hush, Luke.” She ran a hand through the rag-mannered lad’s hair and brought him close for a quick hug—not the action Reed expected of a reprimand.

Even if he managed to peel away her hood, as he itched to do, dawn was still too far away to make a glimpse worthwhile. Yet something about her, with her odd accent, and odder notions, called to him, which he liked not a whit. “Where are you bound?” he asked.

“What difference does that make?”

“None, make no mistake, but it will matter to someone before long. You have money, of course.”

She hesitated a fraction too long. “Of course.”

Reed shook his head. “Of course not!” He took her hand and slapped a guinea into it. “Feed them. If you scuttle down back alleys, you’ll get pinched, but if you stroll hand in hand, as if you haven’t a care in the world, no one will notice you.”

They would not come looking, Chastity knew. Fewer mouths to feed would trouble no one, not in that hellhole. “Why should I take your advice, and why would you give a perfect stranger money?”

“Perfect, no. Daft, more like, stealing children in the middle of the night. Damned if I know why I bother, or you should listen, except that you seem to care about them.”

“While you care about nothing.”

“I care if I get tossed into Newgate with you. Nevertheless, if you can keep from getting pinched, I think you might do right by the brats. Good-bye,” he said, “and good luck.” Reed saluted, grabbed Stealth’s reins, and walked away.

“Come along, children,” he heard the daft woman say.

That their footsteps kept time with his, Reed found alarming. He stopped.

They stopped.

Shaking his head, he turned. “Are you following me?”

“Of course not.”

“Yes we are, Kitty.”

“Hush, Luke. Which way are you going?” she asked. “Toward Eastgate or the Island?”

“Which way are you going?” he countered.

“Eastgate.”

“Ah, well then, I am going toward The Island.” In truth—as directed in his odd, anonymous note—he was returning to see Mr. Sennett, the solicitor whose office sat diagonally across from the workhouse. “Good day to you.”

“God go with you,” the woman said, “whoever you are.”

Reed stopped and turned with a laugh. “Sorry, Kitten, God and I do not keep company.”

A moment of dismay held Chastity as the stranger’s chuckle faded, and she resisted an urge to call him back. An enigma was he, that faceless man who professed to dislike children but would foster a lad rather than abandon him.

Chastity watched until dawn broke over the horizon, and he disappeared from sight, his benevolent guinea warming her palm.

With her four exuberant charges, she began the seven-mile trek from Gloucester to Sunnyledge in Painswick.

As they walked, Chastity thought back to certain aspects of her previous day’s meeting with the solicitor to whom William had been directed by his anonymous note.

“Where did you get this?” Mr. Sennett had asked after he finished reading the note.

“It was sent to my husband, William,” she said. “And it prompted him to travel here. He wanted to settle an injustice, which I assumed amounted to claiming his heritage, except that he was taken by a wave in a channel storm and drowned on the way.”

“Please accept my condolences, Mrs. Somers.” Mr. Sennett shook his head in dismay. “While I am the executor of the Barrington Estate, I have no idea what this note means.”

“I had hoped it meant that Sunnyledge belonged to my husband, and now to me.”

“Even if your husband was the Barrington heir, which I doubt, the claim would now be that of his son. Is there a son?”

“No.” Chastity sighed. “I wanted the estate for a children’s home, Mr. Sennett.” If she had remained a nun and taken vows, she would have opened such a home at the Abbey. Now, for the sake of William’s young cousins—the children God had surely placed in her keeping—she must make it happen. She must, for after three short weeks, she loved them already.

Chastity raised her chin. “Though an inheritance would have helped, I will open a home for orphans. Workhouses are a disgrace, you see, and no child should be raised without love. Perhaps you can direct me to someone with a philanthropic nature? The sisters who raised me care for the sick with such contributions. Or perhaps one of your clients has a house…”

Mr. Sennett frowned as if startled. “Fancy Barrington’s estate coming to light now, and fancy you having the one argument in the kingdom could move me. According to Barrington’s will, if no heir is found, twenty years from the date of his death, which is three months from now, I am to award the estate to a charity of my choice.” The solicitor settled into his big leather chair. “Tell me about your children’s home, Mrs. Somers, every detail.”

And so she had, then seeing his interest, she was encouraged to elaborate. “The opportunity to love, and have that love accepted and returned, is essential to all of us. My home will be special, as my children will feel wanted, they will feel a sense of belonging by working toward its upkeep. The older will care for the younger. In that way, they will become close.”

“Family members are not always close, my dear. As a solicitor, I have seen many a family rift.”

“Do you not think that abandoned children would be more inclined to appreciate familial relationships?”

At his approving smile, Chastity opened her reticule. “I listed the cost per child, per week, month, and year for food and clothing. I have added a bit for dolls and— I do not know what little boys play with.”

“Tin horns, toy drums.” He smiled. “Boys are noisy.”

“I—” She almost said she knew—she had learned as much at finding the children in William’s aunt’s cellar. “I imagine so.”

“Your ideals make me fear for your practicality in this matter,” Mr. Sennett said. “You have listed nothing for a caretaker, a housekeeper, nursemaids, tutors.”

“I will do what must be done. The children will help.”

“I haven’t seen a child yet who could run a house. Listen to me in this. If I allow you to have Sunnyledge…”

Chastity thought her heart would leap from her chest.

“On a trial basis,” the solicitor cautioned. “You must hire the necessary help. The caretaker left about a fortnight ago; you will hire another. As you will no doubt set the house to rights, I will pay you a housekeeper’s wages and give you a monthly allowance for upkeep and maintenance. You will need supplies, though the house should provide much in the way of necessities.

“I cannot believe you would— Are you a philanthropist?”

Mr. Sennett chuckled. “Hardly, my dear, but there is little likelihood that an heir to Sunnyledge will be found. I must find a worthy charity soon, and who knows, your children’s home might prove to be the very one. As a boy whose mother drowned in gin, I met the worst and best of men. A children’s home may be the way for me to repay the gentleman who took me in and raised me.”

The solicitor sat forward. “In asylums, in workhouses, everywhere, there is greed, cruelty, evils I will not name; I doubt you know of their existence. But every once in a while, I come across a person of caring and compassion. The man who raised me was such a man. I believe that you are such a woman.”

He held her gaze. “But you must understand what I want, nay, demand of you, and why. You must know, clearly, right from wrong, and teach those precepts to the children. Only in that way can you nurture them properly.”

Chastity considered the workhouse, where children died daily. She did know right from wrong, and leaving Matt, Mark, Luke and Bekah in the workhouse would be wrong.

“If I find that you have acted in other than a moral, conscientious, or lawful manner,” Mr. Sennett had continued, “you will lose Sunnyledge, and I will see that you never open a home for children, anywhere, ever.”

Chastity’s heart had raced then; it raced now. She had acted conscientiously and morally by telling the parish she would raise the children. Taking them would have been legal, but for a corrupt church elder who had sent them to the workhouse because she would not pay his price.

All would be well, she reassured herself now as they continued their trek. No man, save one, knew what she had done, and that man, she would never see, again.

Chastity told herself, over and over again, that she had done the right thing, as they continued on and the landscape changed. Clustered cottages gave way to sprawling farms. Grasslands, divided by dry stone walls, became hilly uplands. Hillocks grew forested; roads narrowed.

By the time the valley before them revealed the jaunty jumble of structures, requisite to bustling village life, dusk streaked the sky with lavender. “This is it,” Chastity said her sense of destiny so intense, a frisson of alarm stepped on its heels. “Painswick.”

By virtue of the steep cobbled track descending into the village, the children gamboled headlong hand in hand, Luke laughing all the way.

Amid hawkers’ songs and hot, spicy scents, Chastity admired a bonnet placed in a shop window by a barrel-bellied, frock-coated merchant. “Two pounds, three? That’s highway robbery,” she said.

Luke shifted the bag containing their clothes and William’s medical supplies and tugged at her sleeve. “I’m gonna buy that for you someday, Kitty.” As she bent to kiss his cheek, he ruffled her hair, freeing the powder she had used to drear its chestnut hue, which made her sneeze.

After buying food and supplies, she bought her giggling band each a ha-penny pie and a peppermint stick for less than a thruppence. They ate while they watched the village children roll misshapen hoops in the wheelwright’s dooryard.

Afterward, Chastity sought directions to Sunnyledge.

“Oh my, no,” said a buxom matron, all agog. “Not that God-forsaken place. It’s haunted, don’cha know. Many’s the night they’ve heard her pitiful wail, that lost soul searching for her missing babes. They died with her, some say, but their wee bodies were never buried.”

Chastity held Bekah closer. “If you could direct us.”

The matron shook her head. “If you insist.” She pointed. “There it is, top o’ the hill.”

A honey-gold manse stood guarding the valley, its chimneystacks straight as parade soldiers at full attention. Mullioned windows—as tall as the first floor, and wide as they were tall—reflected the sun as bright as that off the stone itself.

“It’s a bloomin’ castle,” Matt said.

“Magic,” whispered Luke.

Mark snorted. “Where our dreams will come true.”

“Splendid,” Chastity said, “as if it’s made of gold.”

“That’s the sun on the stone—Painswick stone. The old earl’s dead. That’s his house. You kin?”

“If you could tell me how to get there.”

“Go left at the row of yews and take the hill straight up. Been abandoned for years. Except for a daft caretaker, now and again, most won’t go near the place.”

Chastity gave her thanks and they went on their way, but the villager followed. “It’s farther than you think. You got a key? Can’t get in, if you don’t have a key.”

Chastity kept walking.

“You’re braver than I would be,” the tenacious woman called from a distance a moment later.

Luke blew his shepherd’s horn that Chastity had saved for him. WARRONNK!

Mr. Sennett was right. Boys were noisy. She would never be able to thank the solicitor for giving her the use of Sunnyledge—though if he ever found out that she rescued the children after he set down his rules… The possible consequences of her actions made Chastity shudder, even as Rebekah began to wail.

“How old is Bekah?” Chastity asked.

“Three ’cept we dunno when we’re gonna be the next number,” Luke said.

“Don’t mind that noise she makes,” Matt said. “She does that lots. Wish she would talk, though.”

“She’s dumb.”

“That will be enough, Mark,” Chastity said, coming to a faltering stop. Sunnyledge may have looked warm and inviting from the vale, but up close, after dark, it looked decidedly bleak, forsaken, and forbidding.

The key was useless. A mere nudge opened the door, the wind taking it the rest of the way. With the children attached to her skirts, Chastity stepped inside, stifling a nervous urge to giggle. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

WARRONNNK!

Chastity shrieked and fell against the door, her hand to her fast-pumping heart. “That will be enough horn-blowing for now, Luke. Anyone here has expired from fright by now.”

Chastity tried to lock the door, but the keyhole turned with the key, so she pushed a chair against it, cutting off the last sliver of moonlight. “Bother, I am such an idiot. I do not even have a candle.”

“I can see in the dark,” Matt said. “We hid in Aunt Anna’s cellar so long after she died, we never saw the sun.”

“Do you think you can find the kitchen?”

“I’m good at finding things. Be right back.”

Chastity sat on the floor, Bekah, Mark, and Luke, cozy and warm, nesting in her black wool skirts. For once, she was glad William had not seen fit to replace her religious habits during their short marriage. She had, however, removed all symbols of her religious life, so that her gowns looked like proper widow’s weeds.

“Found the kitchen, Kitty. And candles,” Matt called.

A short while later, the children ate some of the bread and cheese she’d bought, as exhaustion overtook them, and a sense of destiny, profound and peaceful, enveloped Chastity.

Settled for the night with Zeke, their lame rabbit, on a mattress plumped with Chastity’s aprons and nightshifts, one old habit and one Sunday best, Luke said they hadn’t been so comfy since Mum left.

“I was worried,” Matt said with a yawn, “that you wouldn’t come for us at the workhouse, like you promised.”

Mark scoffed and rolled to his side, presenting his rigid back. “We would never have gone to that horrid old place, if you hadn’t turned us in.”

If she failed to breach that barrier Mark kept erected around his heart, Chastity worried that it would become as hard as the stone in these Cotswold Hills.

How could he be so angry, yet cuddle his baby sister so lovingly? Perhaps this child, who professed to need no one, needed her even more than his brothers and sister did. One thing was certain: Mark would never forgive her for trying to gain their custody through the proper channels first.

After she buried William, Chastity had gone on to Aunt Anna’s without him. There, she found that his aunt had died, leaving his young cousins, abandoned at her passing, hiding in her cellar to keep from getting separated or going to the workhouse.

Chastity had marched them to the vicar to say she would take them. The vicar passed her to the curate, the curate to the beadle.

Chastity shuddered remembering the beadle’s lustful suggestion as to how she could purchase them. Since she refused to pay his price, however, the beadle had relegated the children to the parish workhouse with nary a blink.

So much for following the rules, Chastity thought, unable to forget Mr. Sennett’s words, “If I find that you have acted in other than a moral, conscientious or lawful manner, you will lose Sunnyledge, and I will see that you never open a refuge for children anywhere, ever.”

Chastity thought of the workhouse, where children younger than hers, died. She remembered the baby girl born the week she worked there trying to get hers back, how much she’d wanted to take the babe as well. She thought of Matt’s protectiveness, Mark’s anger, Luke’s trust, and Bekah’s cough…

In taking them, she had acted conscientiously and morally. Except for the beadle’s lust, her guardianship would be lawful as well.

Mr. Sennett had told her that he tried to bring the conditions of asylums and workhouses to the notice of people who could improve them, but their lack of response angered him.

“Do you never get so incensed,” Chastity had dared to ask, knowing she planned to rescue William’s cousins the next day, “that you wish to take matters into your own hands?”

“We cannot give in to such,” he said. “To have lasting effect, reform must be undertaken in a lawful, orderly manner. There is never an excuse to breach rules.”

Chastity sighed. Having been an orphan, the solicitor lauded her wish to open a home where children without parents would be loved. She only hoped that he would come to understand that taking these few had been necessary.

She bent to them now—warm, safe, unafraid, bellies full—covered a shoulder, stroked a brow, and prayed, for their sakes, that all would be well.

Then she sat to take down her hair, as she examined the kitchen, aglow from a fire in the old stone hearth.

Sunnyledge—a haven—someday perhaps, a home.

The hell of it was, Reed Gilbride thought, rubbing the back of his neck, looking up at Sunnyledge, the house was so damned big, he could search for years and never find the truth of his birth. As for secrets, the place fairly reeked of them.

Even the cryptic note he had received added to Sunnyledge’s aura of mystery—the note that roused in him an anger, tempered oddly by hope. Such anger, he usually reserved for the people who gave him life and threw him away. And the hope? Well, that just made him madder, until Sennett killed expectation by saying that the note must be a hoax. The solicitor said that he had seen more than one, worded exactly the same way. He also suggested that a Barrington by-blow had no claim here.

Still, Reed could not give up. As a child, he would have settled for knowing who his parents might have been. Now he bloody well wanted to know why he had not been good enough for them to keep. Who gave away a child at its birth to the Gilbrides, of all people?

He led his horse around back to find it shelter.

Why did the woman who raised him—if you could call it that—refuse to talk about Sunnyledge? Why act as if the devil would swallow her whole, if she did? Could this place hold the key to his past? Him, the Earl of Barrington, as the note suggested?

Leaving the horse in a rickety old stable, Reed mocked himself with a laugh as he pulled up his collar against the cold drizzle, returned to the entrance he had found, and picked up his satchel. He might be a bastard in more ways than one, but with or without Sennett’s approval, he needed to find out.

Now that Boney had been defeated, and he’d retired from the Guards, Reed looked forward to a life of peace and quiet, and the occasional willing woman. But first he must search for his roots, this being the place to start.

“Damn, it’s cold.” Almost as if fate heard, a blast of wind and rain conspired to smack him in the face, and open the door with a flourish—the thunderous crack of it hitting the wall loud enough to wake the Sunnyledge ghost herself.

Reed saluted and stepped inside, a sense of inevitability filling him, as if he had arrived after a thirty-year sojourn, turned an invisible corner, and could not return the way he had come.

What was more, he did not want to.

In the kitchen, Chastity had heard a loud, grating sound and shot to her feet. After a heart-pounding, frozen moment, her arms and legs prickling, she located a meat cleaver in a kitchen drawer and closed her trembling fingers around its smooth bone handle.

Unmistakable Rogue at Amazon

ANNETTE BLAIR

CERTAIN THAT I must once have lived in Regency England, because I love wearing capes, I nevertheless began the this century juggling a writing career with my administrative duties as Development Director and Journalism Advisor at a notable New England Prep School. During that time, my books garnered multiple Booksellers Best Awards, LORIES Awards, Laurel Wreath, Blue Boa, Aspen Gold Awards, RIO, Southern Magic, More than Magic, Orange Rose, Winter Rose, PRISM, Beacon, and Colorado Awards of Excellence. I’ve won Write Touch Readers' Choice Awards, an Orange County Book Buyer's Best Award and three Anne-Bonney Readers’ Choice Awards out of four in the same contest.

Once I became a full time writer, I added cozy mysteries and bewitching romantic comedies to my Amish and Regency historical romances. Last year, I finally made the coveted New York Times Bestseller list. I’ve written for Five Star, Lachesis, Kensington and Penguin Publishing. At forty books and counting, I am now enjoying the rewarding world of self-publishing.

Besides writing, I love traveling with my husband, spending quality time with my family, collecting 19th century glass slippers and hearing from my readers. Contact me at:

annetteblair.com

Twitter

Pinterest

To find out when a new book is available, sign up for Annette’s mailing list at Facebook

Cover

Beginning

Bonus Preview

About Cheryl Bolen

— CHAPTER LINKS —

Prologue     1     2     3     4     5     6     7     8     9     10     11     12     13     14     15     16     17     18     19     20     21     22     23     24     25     26     27     28     29     30     31

PROLOGUE

LONDON, 1808

ANNA DE MOUCHET studied the deck spread face down in her hands. It was remarkable that no one ever noticed how the birds’ eyes varied on the back of the cards. Narrow eyes were face cards. Cards of lower denominations featured regular eyes. And the birds on the aces had round eyes. Of course, the men who had played at her mother’s tables would have been more engrossed in the beauty of the dealer than in the etchings on the cards that assured her mother’s winnings. Anna flipped over a king and smiled as she heard her chamber door smoothly open.

“Mademoiselle!” the maid screeched as she lightly kicked shut the door behind her and nervously scurried into the room, balancing her young mistress’s breakfast tray. “Your mama would be most furious were she to know you still play with her cards. She desires nothing but to make a fine lady of you, cheri.”

No one was closer to Anna’s mother than Colette, who had accompanied Annette when she fled the Terror more than fifteen years ago. Had it been discovered Annette de Mouchet was a noblewoman, Colette could have lost her head.

“But I don’t want to be a lady,” the girl protested. “I don’t want to go to that fancy school. Unlike Mama, I know I will be treated with no more civility at Miss Sloan’s School for Young Ladies than we have received from our hostile neighbors here on Grosvenor Square.”

“But your mama wants you to make friends with the daughters of the ton. After all, are you not one of them?”

Anna thrust out her chin and spoke through compressed lips. “I can never be one of them and well I know it.”

Shortly after breakfast Anna was surprised to see a crested barouche in front of her house. The crest did not belong to any of her neighbors on Grosvenor Square, and her mother had not entertained noblemen since they moved here from Marylebone a year ago.

Anna walked to the morning room to see who was calling but found the doors closed and heard angry shouts from within.

“I will not have the illegitimate daughter of a French whore at school with my own daughters,” an angry male voice said.

“My daughter has just as much right to be there as yours,” Annette said defiantly. “Even more, for her father was more exalted than you, my lord.”

Proud of her mother’s fiery retort, Anna listened, fury pounding in her chest, as the man spoke.

“You schemed to get money that should have gone to Steffington’s duchess, but you can never buy rank for your bastard.”

Annette’s voice quivered. “I took not a farthing from Steffington while he lived. Only his love. That is why I receive your rancor. Because of me, he would not bed your wife’s sister. Now his money has come to his only child.” Her voice cracked. “If it takes every shilling I own, our daughter will be a fine lady.”

“Not by going to Miss Sloan’s School for Young Ladies,” he countered angrily. “I have a letter from the headmistress. She regrets to inform you there is no room for Anna de Mouchet.”

The door suddenly flung open and a portly man in fine clothes swept past Anna without looking at her.

Anna scurried across the room to her Annette, who collapsed on a silken sofa, sobbing into her hands.

“Mama, please don’t be upset,” Anna soothed, leaning so close to her lovely mother she could smell her rose water. She gently hooked an arm around her. “I will be much happier here with you, and not with daughters of that horrid man. Pray, who was he?”

Sniffing, her mother gazed toward the doorway and spoke softly. “That was the Marquess of Haverstock.”

ONE

LONDON, 1813

THE MARQUESS OF HAVERSTOCK dismissed his butler and firmly closed the doors of his library himself before showing his friend to a comfortable club chair near the fireplace and pouring two glasses of port. He settled in a broad chair before the fire where the smell of burning coal was strongest. “Our necessity for utmost secrecy cannot be stressed enough,” Haverstock said in a voice much lower than his usual commanding style. “I have to be particularly cautious in this house filled with wretched females.”

Ralph “Morgie” Morgan took a rather large swig of port. “Don’t know how you tolerate it, my good man. Five sisters.” Morgie shuddered as if the port had been poisoned.

“There are only four left, now that I’ve married off Mary.”

“Oh, jolly good. Only four,” Morgie said good naturedly.

Now the marquess shuddered. By the time he had provided four more dowries, he would not be able to afford to get married himself. Not that he wanted to, but still he cursed his father for leaving them so lean of pocket.

As if reading his friend’s mind, Morgie said, “You really aren’t bound to provide hefty dowries for the gels. Got to leave something for yourself.”

“Then I’d be no better than my father.”

Morgie swallowed and cast a glance at the painting of the marquess’ brooding father over the fireplace. He loosened his cravat. Even from the grave, the former marquess could render one uncomfortable. Diverting his gaze from the intimidating portrait, he said, “I say, you’d have pots of money if you’d spend more time on your own affairs and less at the Foreign Office.”

“Duty to one’s country must take precedence over personal gratification. Which recalls me to the matter you and I need to discuss.”

“Ah, yes.” Morgie glanced at the door, then lowered his voice. “Came straight away to inform you the loan has been approved. Thank the bloody good Lord my father approved it before his recent demise. Otherwise, I’d have the devil to pay to get a shilling before his estate is settled.” He looked pleased with himself when he announced, “I’ll have the money in the morning.”

The marquess’s eyes brightened. “Excellent.”

“Excellent for you. And even for England, but bloody bad for me. Since we could not disclose the clandestine nature of the loan, I had to say the whole bloody fifty-thousand pounds was to pay off my gaming debts. I feel like an utter baboon.”

“Come now, Morgie. Your heavy gaming is a matter of public knowledge in London.”

Morgie took another drink. “Never lose more than I can afford.”

“That may be, given that every member of your family has more money than a nabob. And it is my good fortune that my closest friend is a member of the renowned Morgan banking scions.”

Haverstock quietly studied his friend as Morgie slightly loosened his expertly tied cravat. Morgie, as Haverstock had referred to Ralph Morgan since their days at Eton, might not possess the keenest intellect, but he displayed impeccable taste. Perfectly tailored clothing – with extra padding over his slim shoulders – set his figure off to distinction, and his dark brown hair always appeared portrait perfect in the most fashionable, understated style. In addition to his exemplary physical appearance, Morgie’s manners were above reproach. Because of his vast wealth, he was accepted everywhere despite that several members of the ton, including Haverstock’s deceased father, quietly snubbed Morgie because of his Jewish lineage.

“If you get the money in the morning, we should be able to leave for France the following day,” Haverstock said, fingering the cut crystal glass from which he had yet to drink. He did not share his friend’s excessive fondness for liquor. “It’s imperative we’re in France by the twentieth.”

Morgie nodded, patting his chest. “Had my tailor make a special coat lined with several inside pockets to hold a large portion of the money.”

Haverstock sat up straight, his black eyes flashing with anger. “You didn’t tell the man you’d be carrying large sums of money?”

“Course not, Haverstock. What do you take me for? I’m not a bloody idiot. Told the tailor I’d be traveling and had to carry documents, snuffboxes and hordes of medicinals.”

Haverstock relaxed his large frame and smiled. “It’s just that except for a select few who work with me at the Foreign Office, no one is to know we will be traveling with the money.”

“And none of them know either your destination or the recipient of the cash. Correct?”

“Only me. And only because I speak French as a native. I’ve received excellent information from our French official in the past, and I completely trust his validity.”

“How can you trust a man who sells his own country’s secrets?”

Haverstock steepled his hands in thought. “It’s because he’s a patriot he wants to thwart Napoleon. Too many Frenchmen have spilled blood for Boney.”

“Right he is about that Corsican monster, but does this Frenchman have no conscience about his information leading to the slaughter of more French?”

“He’s been able to assuage his conscience by convincing himself the emperor’s armies now consist mostly of foreigners who’ve been conquered by the French.”

“Can’t fault that, either.”

Rising, Haverstock blew out a nearby tallow. “You must stay here tomorrow night so we can get an early start the following morning.”

~   ~   ~

ANNA PULLED OFF her drab brown gloves and carefully placed them on her silken bed before untying her equally drab bonnet and depositing it next to the gloves for Colette to put up when she returned from her half day off. Of course, Anna was in for a thorough scolding from her life-long abigail. First, Colette would be angry because she had gone to the East End without her protection. Anna smiled, amused at the unlikeliness of the thin old maid preventing even the harmless fleecing of a street urchin.

Next, Colette would chide Anna for going out in such unfashionable attire.

“You must always dress as the grand lady you are,” Colette recited daily.

But despite the last wishes of her mother, Anna knew she would never be a lady, nor would she ever be welcome in the fine homes of Mayfair. She dropped onto the chaise and lamented the dreariness and hopelessness of her life. She was eighteen years old, the owner of a large fortune, not at all unattractive, yet she had no hope of being presented. And even less hope of marrying a gentleman.

In her loneliest moments she gave way to a deep, aching longing to share her life with a man who would accept her as an equal, someone who would love her and give her the children she so desperately wanted.

Even more than the partnership and the children, she hoped for a love as powerful as her parents’, a love so strong they had happily deflected society’s scorn. But her parents’ imperfect union had created a daughter who could never belong to either of their worlds.

Anna cast her head heavenward. Oh, Mama, I’m sorry to disappoint you.

The most social situation Anna ever encountered was her Sunday morning church service where the ladies enviously eyed her exquisite clothing while the men endeavored to make her acquaintance.

She stretched out her legs and sighed. It is I who is so unfortunate I need the people of the East End more than they need me. In the five years since her mother’s death, the trips to the East End had provided her only joy. She had no friends. No male admirers. Her solicitor was her only caller. She had long since dismissed her dancing master over Colette’s objections, for Colette still harbored illusions that Anna would go to fine balls and dazzle the young men as her mother had done in France so many years ago. The devoted Colette would never concede the futility of Annette’s dreams for her daughter.

While Anna was engaged in her morose thoughts, Perkins rapped forcefully at her chamber door. “A caller for you, Miss de Mouchet.”

Anna sat upright, startled by the announcement. Her solicitor had been here yesterday, so he would not be calling again. Who could her caller be? Walking to the door, Anna asked, “Pray, who is it?”

As she opened the door, Perkins handed her a gentleman’s card.

It was Sir Henry Vinson’s.

“Tell the gentleman I will be down in ten minutes.”

Even if she had never been particularly fond of Sir Henry, she would meet him in one of her most fashionable morning dresses. Colette might contemplate murder otherwise.

As she removed the old East End garments, Anna wondered why Sir Henry would be calling. She had scarcely seen him since her mother’s funeral. She had always suspected he had been in love with her mother, but Sir Henry was far too selfish to marry. He must be fifty now, and she had yet to hear of him marrying.

She felt a stab of fear at the fleeting thought that perhaps he wished now to marry. To marry her for her fortune.

She would never be that desperate.

~   ~   ~

SIR HENRY GAZED OUT the window at Grosvenor Square. He was surprised over his own nervousness at facing Annette’s daughter. Of course, his very future could depend on the outcome of the meeting. He hated to admit a mere girl held his fate in her inexperienced hands, but he remembered her deft hands effortlessly shuffling and dealing cards as one born to the task. Smiling, he knew it was in her power to bring him the riches he had sought for so long.

Twenty-five thousand pounds now. And later, the promise of a ministry in France. Bonaparte himself had offered the Palais Vendome to Sir Henry if his activities here in London met with success.

How he despised these arrogant English aristocrats! Especially the straight-laced Haverstock. Though the young marquess avowed disdain for his deceased father, he very much reminded Sir Henry of his sire. Both men had been decidedly cool toward Sir Henry, and the son shared no confidences with him though they worked in the same department at the Foreign Office. He was every bit as haughty as his father had been.

Sir Henry’s back was to Anna when she entered the room. He turned when he smelled the rose water. Annette’s scent. He froze as Anna greeted him. It was as if he were being transported back in time nearly thirty years, to the Recheaux Chateau, recalling a time of lavishment that was now as buried as the pharaohs and as unlikely to ever be resurrected. A time before the revolution.

If it weren’t for her very English voice, Anna de Mouchet would be an exact copy of her mother, he thought, his heart racing even now as he remembered his devotion to Annette. No woman had ever been more beautiful. Yet, this girl before him was. He noted her dark brown locks which glistened golden in the late afternoon sunlight. Her creamy, petal-soft skin with natural pink in her cheeks set off her spectacular eyes. They were large and almond shaped and the color of rich coffee beans. God’s teeth, but they were beautiful! Even her figure was perfection.

And, he noted appreciatively, she had inherited her mother’s taste for what was the finest a modiste had to offer. She wore a pink gown of exquisite cut, just low enough in front to reveal her ivory chest and to display the promise of a woman’s full breasts. His eyes traveled down the length of her, resting at her satin slippers that were a perfect match to her dress, both of them accenting the blush in her cheeks.

“Ah, Anna, you are the very picture of you mother.”

“I perceive that as a compliment, Sir Henry.” She indicated a settee. “Do have a seat. Will you have tea?”

He lowered his tall, thin frame on to the settee. “No, my dear. Just looking at you will be enough nourishment for me.” He reminded himself not be a glutton, reaching for the whole larder at once. He would take his bounty a little at a time by manipulating the girl with steady doses of prevarication.

She blushed and sat in a chair several feet away. She knew she should tell him how very good it was to see him, but Anna deplored lying. Instead she said, “I trust you have been well? I’ve not heard from you in a very long while.”

“Since your mother’s funeral,” he said, his expression grim. “You are probably wondering why I have come.”

“Old friends don’t need a reason.”

“Ah, Anna. You make me ashamed I have not come sooner. Actually, I have been thinking about your mother—and you—a great deal of late. A situation has arisen which Annette would have been able to effortlessly handle. I think, though, you are the very one I need.”

“You need me?” Was the wretched man going to offer for her hand?

He resituated himself on the settee and met her gaze squarely. “I have a business proposition to make.”

Thinking only of his balding head and long nose, she refused to look him in the eye, sincerely hoping his proposition wasn’t matrimony. “But, I assure you, I am quite well off.” She tried to sound mature.

“No one ever has enough money, Anna.”

“But I live quietly and my needs are not great.”

“There is no one who could turn down twenty-five thousand pounds.”

It was a very great sum, indeed. She would be foolish not to listen. Leaning forward, she asked, “What do you want from me, Sir Henry?”

“I remember how well you played cards as a child.”

She stiffened. “I haven’t played in years.”

“Ah, but one of your skill never forgets.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Does your proposition have something to do with me playing cards?”

“Indeed, it does.”

“Then I can listen no more. My mother abhorred the idea of my playing, and I respect her memory too much to disregard her wishes.”

“Anna, I’m offering a vast sum for one night’s play.”

She wasn’t tempted, but she was curious. “Pray, what do you wish of me?”

“I know a very foolish man who will come into possession of fifty thousand pounds in cash tomorrow. I intend that half of it will go to you and half to me. For reasons I cannot disclose, I cannot relieve him of the money. That is why I need you. I plan to bring him to your parlor where you will make sure he is plied with the liquor for which he has a great fondness. Then, you will suggest a game of cards. You will suggest simple wagering and allow him to win at first. Then, as the stakes are raised, you will begin to win—using skills learned from your mother.”

Anna sprang to her feet, fully intending to show him the door. “What you suggest, Sir Henry, is not only cheating, but stealing, and I will have no part of it.”

“Sit down, Anna, and hear me out.”

“There’s nothing you can say that will change my mind.”

He stood up and walked to her. “Who is the man you hate most in this world? Who is the man you blame for your mother’s death?”

Without hesitation, she answered, “The Marquess of Haverstock.”

Sir Henry’s cool green eyes glinted. “Just so. My plan will ruin Lord Haverstock.” Sir Henry lifted her chin. “Wouldn’t that make you happy, my dear?”

“Nothing would make me happier. I loathe the man. But I cannot do it. To do so would be breaking a solemn promise to my mother.”

“For God’s sake, Anna, she’s been dead five years,” he said harshly, then softened. “Trust me. Annette would be proud of you for making twenty-five-thousand pounds in one day. She knew that large fortunes open many doors.”

”I will not change my mind.”

A frown on his narrow face, he strolled to the window and stood there pondering his next move. He would have to reveal more of the true scope of his plans. More carefully fed lies. But he had confidence he could persuade her to do what would be far more repugnant to her than cheating at cards.

TWO

‘COME, LET US SIT TOGETHER,” Sir Henry said, walking to the damask sofa. “I have much to tell you.”

They sat down, Anna leaving a wide gap between herself and her caller.

A solemn expression on his face, Sir Henry turned to Anna and spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. “Since the money didn’t tempt you, I’m going to have to take you in my confidence.”

She eyed him warily.

“Were my superiors to know what I’m about to tell you, I could be in serious trouble.” He took a deep breath. “You see, I work at the Foreign Office—as does Lord Haverstock. The two of us are directly involved in French espionage.” A pained look crossed his face. “Sadly, we suspect Lord Haverstock is in the employ of the French.”

“How could such a man ever have been given a position of importance?” Anna asked, dismay and disgust in her voice.

“Actually, it is Lord Haverstock’s son I’m speaking of. The father—the one you despise—is dead.”

“Then I have no complaint against the son. I know too painfully the injustice of branding the child for the sins of the parent.”

“But I assure you the son is equally loathsome. He must be thwarted. Through his greatest friend—Ralph Morgan of the Morgan banking family—the marquess is secretly securing a loan for the French. Mr. Morgan believes the loan is for the English to purchase information from a French official.

“The money is to be ready tomorrow. It had been my hope to have you win the money from Mr. Morgan to keep the French from getting it.”

Anna’s eyes widened. “That, sir, is a horse of a different color.”

He nodded with satisfaction. “It was your mother’s desire that you become thoroughly English. Are you telling me you consider yourself an English patriot?”

“Can you doubt it?” Anna challenged.

A smug smile curved his lip. “How far would you go to prove your loyalty?” He got up and paced the floor. As much as he hated the thought, Sir Henry knew what he was about to propose would cost him the twenty-five thousand pounds for which he so keenly hungered. But if this new plan came to fruition, Anna could be his goose who continued to lay golden eggs.

“Could you marry for the love of your country?” he asked.

Her brows shot up. “What do you mean?”

“Marry Lord Haverstock. Become a spy for England. Get close to him. Learn his secrets. Pass them to us.”

Anna laughed. “I assure you, Lord Haverstock would rather swing from the gallows than marry me.”

“You underestimate your own charms, Anna.” Sir Henry came back and sat next to her. “Consider this. Say you played cards with Mr. Morgan before he can get the money to his friend. You win the fifty-thousand pounds Haverstock borrowed. Haverstock could fear for his neck since he has no personal fortune from which to replenish the money. I am persuaded you could wrangle a marriage proposal from him in exchange for giving him back the money.

“But then the money would go to the French!”

Sir Henry’s eyes sparkled. “Yes, but the English would have you in Haverstock’s house. Think what you’d be able to learn as his wife! You could be a wealth of information to us.” To himself, Sir Henry hoped she could learn the identity of Haverstock’s contact in France. Napoleon would surely pay a hundred-thousand pounds to learn who the treacherous informant was. Any number of lucrative possibilities presented themselves to Sir Henry. He cocked his head and studied Anna, a smile twisting his lips. “Lady Haverstock. Think, Anna, how much your mother wanted you to be a lady.”

Her eyes stared vacantly for a while. The very thought of becoming the wife of the horrid marquess repulsed her, leaving her with a deep melancholy, a futile longing for a mate to whom she could give her heart. If she went along with Sir Henry’s plan she would have to bury her hopes for a loving husband. She would have to welcome to her bed the son of the rotund Lord Haverstock. The son was most likely as disgusting as the father. The thought made her cringe.

But to go along with Sir Henry’s scheme might not be so great a sacrifice. Her life was utterly empty. As Haverstock’s marchioness surely she would at least have entry into society, not that she craved the balls and social whirl. But how wonderful it would be to have friends to share a conversation with, to have someone to ride with in the park.

Then, too, if she were to become Lady Haverstock, she could fulfill the deathbed promise she had made to her mother.

Her feelings hardly mattered when weighed against England. For the first time since her mother’s death, Anna felt needed.

“I will win the money from Mr. Morgan,” she said.

~   ~   ~

IT WAS VERY DISTASTEFUL to Sir Henry to dress so innocuously, but he could take no chances he would be recognized by Ralph Morgan. He had watched, unobserved, as Morgan entered the bank. What was taking the man so deuced long? Sir Henry yanked in his fob and noted the time on his watch. The fool had been in there for an hour. As he placed the watch back in his pocket, he saw Morgan leave the bank, his step jaunty as he carried a small leather valise to his barouche where half a dozen liveried men assured his protection.

So the man wasn’t half the fool Sir Henry had thought. Still, Sir Henry was puzzled. Fifty thousand pounds should be in a portmanteaux, not a small valise. Nevertheless, Sir Henry mounted his horse and followed at a discreet distance.

Assured that Morgan was home, Sir Henry hurried to his own house to change and prepare for his next step. In less than an hour, he was being shown into Morgan’s opulent parlor.

“My dear Mr. Morgan,” Sir Henry said, “I was passing by and decided I must pay you a call. You and your friend Haverstock have been much on my mind of late.” He watched Morgan as he sat down. He seemed heavier than Sir Henry remembered. That was it! He carried many of the sovereigns within his coat. Sir Henry’s respect for Morgan’s intellect increased.

“Pray, why is that, Sir Henry?”

Sir Henry took out his snuff box, withdrew a pinch and inhaled. Then, smiling mischievously at Morgan, he sat down in a tufted chair and said, “The female conquests of you two are rather well known. I believe there is a certain rivalry over which of you can escort the loveliest women.”

Morgan’s face colored. “More often than not, Haverstock wins the beauties.”

“Alas, it is hard to compete with a title.”

“Oh, it’s not just his title. Given the choice between a man small of stature like myself or one as huge and rugged looking as Haverstock, most women prefer the bulk.”

“That may be, but if a beautiful woman were to see you first, I am sure you could win her over with your elegance of person.”

Morgan blushed again.

“That’s why I’m here. There is a great beauty who has recently come to London. Since it’s too early for the season, none of the bucks have made her acquaintance. Take my word on it, there is not a lovelier woman in all of England. And I propose to introduce you to her today.”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you not interested in her for yourself?”

Sir Henry shook his head. “I’ve long since given up young maidens as well as the thought of marriage. Fifty is much too old to change my bachelor ways.”

A slow smile crossed Morgan’s face. “Got a bit of time on my hands. Where do we meet this nonpareil?”

“We will present ourselves at her house on Grosvenor Square.”

Morgan lifted a brow. “Then she’s not—-”

“Not a lightskirt. She’s a gentlewoman. However, have no fear she will try to grip you in parson’s mousetrap. She has quite a fortune of her own.”

Rising, Morgan said, “If it’s all the same to you, old chap, I prefer to take my barouche. Feel a lot safer with my able men surrounding me. So much crime of late, you know.”

Getting his greatcoat from his regally liveried butler, Morgan announced that he was going to Grosvenor Square.

~   ~   ~

WEARING A SOFT WHITE GOWN that revealed her ivory neck and decolletage, Anna presided over the tea table, engaging Mr. Morgan in talk of the campaigns in the Peninsula. Then, telling him she knew men much preferred port, she began to fill and refill his glass with the Portuguese liquid. It was at that point, Sir Henry took his leave.

Since Anna had neither a parent nor a companion to chaperon, for the sake of propriety she had arranged for a maid—the one closest to her size—to don one of her fine dresses and sit in the parlor doing needlework.

Despite that Anna was tired from having practiced her card playing with Sir Henry throughout the night, she charmed Mr. Morgan as the future of England depended on it.

After the liquor began to relax him, Anna said, “I cannot pretend that your reputation has not preceded you, Mr. Morgan. Your every activity merits scrutiny from the ton. Even I have heard a great deal about you. For instance, I know you are in possession of a large fortune.”

“Sir Henry tells me you, too, have vast wealth.”

“Yes. It seems we have that in common,” she said. “I have also heard that in one night you can win or lose sums large enough to dower half the ladies coming out in any given year.”

“Kind of you to mention winning. Seems I do much more of the opposite.”

She lowered her impossibly long lashes and favored him with a bewitching smile. “I do not believe that for a moment, Mr. Morgan. I am sure a man such as yourself possesses great skill.”

“You are all kindness, Miss de Mouchet.”

“I adore playing cards though my skill is sadly inadequate.”

“We shall have to play sometime.”

She looked up hopefully. “Should you like to play a few hands of vingt-un today?”

“Capital idea.”

Anna summoned her servants to set up the card table while she and Mr. Morgan established the rules. She easily persuaded him to wager. Then, they decided to change the dealer with each game and to allow the dealer to win double the wager for having a pontoon.

For the first half hour of play, Anna consistently lost but insisted on increasing the amount of the wager with each new game.

After they had played an hour, Anna’s winnings amounted to ten thousand pounds.

Patting his coat laden with money, Mr. Morgan said, “I say, my luck had better change. Don’t care to face Haverstock when he’s in a rage. Such a large man.”

Anna shivered, remembering the elder Lord Haverstock’s rage, though she had no recollection of him being excessively large. “Pray, why should Lord Haverstock care what you do with your money?”

“He, ah,” Mr. Morgan stammered, “He holds a strong dislike for gaming.”

As Mr. Morgan’s consumption of liquor increased, his skill decreased. Relieving him of his very considerable funds was as easy as blinking, Anna thought. Even without the marked cards, she could have effortlessly plucked her winnings from the drunken man.

“Devilishly bad luck I’m having,” he uttered, throwing down his cards. “Better cut my losses and leave.”

“Pray, do not get discouraged,” Anna coaxed. “I just know you will win the next hand.”

With Anna’s help, he did win the next hand. “’Pon my word, my luck is most decidedly changing,” Mr. Morgan said happily while Anna dealt the next hand. He had a seven showing; her visible card was an ace.

She had a king face down and could tell that Morgan’s bottom card was a number between two and ten. She declined a hit; he took one. It was a four. He took a swig of port and smiled broadly, proudly flipping over his cards. They added up to twenty-one.

Then Anna revealed her pontoon and scooped up the money on the table and an additional fifteen thousand.

For the next hand, the wager was twenty thousand. He dealt Anna a face card down, himself an ace down. His next card was a nine, hers an ace.

He smiled broadly. “Can’t possibly have two pontoons in a row.”

“I am sorry to say I can, Mr. Morgan,” Anna said, watching him utter an oath before he began to scrawl an IOU.

~   ~   ~

WHEN NIGHT FELL and Morgie still had not called, Haverstock’s anxiety grew. He decided a visit to Morgie’s town house was in order. There, he discovered Morgie had gone out with Sir Henry Vinson. Haverstock arched a brow. He did not know Morgie was acquainted with Sir Henry. Having a rapport with Morgie’s servants from the frequency of his visits, Haverstock’s gentility did not prevent him from asking where Morgie had gone.

“He’s gone to Grosvenor Square, my lord,” Morgie’s butler replied.

Haverstock rode his gig directly to Grosvenor Square, where the presence of Morgie’s barouche indicated which house his friend visited.

The marquess surveyed the stately four-story house approvingly before mounting the steps and rapping on the door. After presenting his card to the butler who greeted him, Haverstock said, “I have an urgent need to see Mr. Morgan.”

The butler looked nervous, but since he was unaccustomed to callers, showed the marquess to the parlor.

Haverstock was horrified at the sight he beheld. There, Morgie lazily stretched out in a chair at a game table, a glass of port in his hand. But it was the table which drew Haverstock’s attention. On it stacked crooked towers of gold sovereigns. Hundreds of them.

And sitting opposite Morgie was a young woman of exquisite beauty.

Haverstock strode up to her, bowed and said, “Charles Upton, the Marquess of Haverstock, at your service.”

A puzzled look on her face, Anna sputtered, “But you cannot be the marquess. You look nothing like your father.”

“You knew my father? May I have the honor to make your acquaintance, Miss—-?”

She extended her hand hesitantly. “Miss de Mouchet. Anna de Mouchet.”

That name! He had heard not only his father but also his mother speak of the de Mouchet woman in the most demeaning way. It was the de Mouchet woman who had deprived his Aunt Margaret of the fortune due her as Steffington’s duchess. It had been said the de Mouchet woman had presided over a gaming establishment. And it was the de Mouchet woman who had borne the old duke’s child out of wedlock while Haverstock’s poor aunt went to her grave barren. This woman he now gazed at must be that child. And she had obviously inherited her mother’s evil ways.

He looked at her beauty only with contempt now. “How much has he lost?”

“A very large sum, my lord,” Anna said smugly.

“How much?”

“I believe it is about fifty-thousand.”

“Pounds?”

She nodded, slipping the marked cards in the false bottom of a drawer of the table. A perfectly legitimate deck remained on the table.

Since her hands were under the table, Haverstock had not seen her action. He grabbed the deck that remained. “I will have a look at the cards, Miss de Mouchet.”

“Please, do. I have nothing to hide. You will find I won the money fairly.”

Mr. Morgan made an attempt to straighten his spine. “I say, Haverstock, bit rough on the girl. I take full responsibility for my losses.”

Haverstock ignored his friend as he examined the cards for several minutes. Then he looked around the room. “No one else has been here while you played? Someone who could have been observing my friend’s hand and passing the information to you?”

“No one,” Anna snapped. “Unless you count my companion who has not moved from her chair on the other side of the room.”

He turned to observe the young woman who sat sewing at least twenty feet away. “May I ask who the dealer was?”

“The deal changed with each hand, my lord,” Anna said calmly.

He flung the cards back on the table as Morgie began to slide from his chair.

“Deuced fool. He’s passed out,” Haverstock said, lifting Morgie effortlessly and carrying him to a nearby sofa.

Then, Haverstock turned back to Anna, malice on his face. “I don’t know how you did it, but I submit that you are a cheat and a thief, like the French whore who was your mother.”

Her face growing hot with rage, Anna rose. “Get out of my house at once!”

Fury flashed in his eyes as he glared at her icy beauty. “I will not leave until I have my friend’s money back.”

“That, my lord, is impossible.”

He knew Morgie would make up the losses within the next few months, but that would be too late for his meeting with Monsieur Herbert.

By holding back his anger and negotiating with the woman, perhaps he could get the money by tomorrow. Drawing a step nearer to her, he said, “Forgive me. I spoke rashly. It’s just that it’s imperative that I have the money tonight.”

“As I said, that is impossible.”

“I will give you a promissory note to return the entire sum with ten percent interest before the end of this quarter. That’s another five thousand pounds for you.”

“My answer is still no.”

In silence, he stared at the lovely creature for what seemed like several minutes, phrasing the words that gathered in his mind. “I know you to be a woman of fortune. May I ask why you cling so obstinately to this money?”

She lifted her defiant gaze to him. “It is because I have no love for the House of Haverstock. Your father treated my mother cruelly and unjustly, and my mother was the kindest, most loving woman I’ve ever known.”

From the way he had heard his father talk of Anna’s mother, he could well believe his father’s treatment of the woman. And he knew only too well how cruel his father could be when dealing with those he felt were beneath his rank.

“Surely you cannot blame the son for the sins of the father?” he said in an apologetic voice.

Her eyes as cold as Sienna marble, she challenged, “Does his blood not run in your veins?”

He spoke slowly and almost with a gentleness. “I am not my father.”

“But you also insulted me. For that you will pay.”

~   ~   ~

ANNA LOOKED UP into Haverstock’s piercing black eyes. She had never stood so close to such a large man before. He had to be several inches over six feet. Everything about him was large from his broad shoulders to his deep, resonant voice. He neither looked nor acted like the man she remembered as his father. Whereas his father had been fair, the son was dark. His thick black hair crept slightly further back on his forehead than she guessed it had a decade earlier. And a fleshiness around his square chin added to his maturity without detracting from his good looks. His somber face featured a full mouth and fine aquiline nose. She found him quite handsome, and his presence had a disturbing effect on her. She wanted to detest him but found she could not, particularly after he had so humbly said You cannot blame the son for the sins of the father. Without speaking unfavorably, he had acknowledged his parent’s meanness.

As if in defeat, he lowered his huge frame into a chair. “Is there nothing I can do to get back the money?”

“Perhaps there is,” Anna said, her voice decisive. She walked to the window and stood looking out on the square, her back to him. Finally, she turned to him and smiled. “I can think of no better revenge against your father than for you to marry me, the daughter of a French whore.”

THREE

HAD HIS DECEASED father walked into the room, Haverstock could not have been more shocked. He opened his mouth to protest, but no words came. He merely looked upon the temptress who glared at him with a challenge in her eyes. The woman must be mad to make so ridiculous a suggestion.

Yet he found himself contemplating her proposal. He had given marriage little thought, largely because he had no money to set up his own household. He had known he would someday have to marry a woman of fortune. And here was a woman of great fortune whose beauty was unmatched. But he could not give serious consideration to her demand. He could not marry a woman of such low morals.

After a long silence, she crossed the room to him. “You said you had to have the money tonight. My way is the only way you will gain possession of it, my lord.”

“Can you not give me a fortnight to contemplate the matter?”

“Certainly. If you can wait a fortnight for the money.”

“But I leave tomorrow on a trip and must have the money then.”

“Then you must marry me tonight.”

“God in heaven, woman, I cannot marry you tonight! We have no license.”

She hovered over the card table, her hands raking through the gold coins. Lifting her eyes to his, she spoke casually. “With your rank, I am sure you could ride to Lambeth Palace tonight and secure a special license from the Archbishop himself.”

He rounded the table and planted his feet in front of her. “And who, pray tell, would marry us tonight?”

A flicker of triumph flashed in her eyes. “I can take care of that matter, my lord.”

He had less than forty-eight hours before his meeting in France. What was he to do?

He decided to shock her. “Do you mean to say you would bed a man you despise?” Surely the thought of making love with him would repulse her into changing her mind. “I would insist on it, you know.”

Her eyes widened. After a moment, she whispered, “Yes, I could do that for I want children very much.”

He lifted a brow. “Children of Haverstock blood?”

“They would also have the blood of Annette de Mouchet,” she countered.

His eyes traveled over the soft curves of her perfect body and, against his will, he wondered what it would be like to have such a woman beneath him in bed. He felt himself wavering.

Then he thought of his mother’s reaction to the match. He would rather throw himself beneath a runaway coach and four than tell her. She had loathed Anna’s mother. And like her husband, his mother would never be able to think of Anna as anything but the illegitimate daughter of French whore, certainly not of the breeding to be the Marchioness of Haverstock.

“I doubt my family would ever accept you,” Haverstock challenged.

She threw her head back and laughed. “Do you think I care? I know very well what your family thinks of me. Which makes my revenge all the sweeter. I want to hurt your family as your family hurt mine.”

His voice softened. “What is it my father did to cause such loathing?”

A flash of anger leapt to her eyes. “He killed my mother.”

Haverstock’s brows lowered. “Come now, I know my father was no saint, but he did not kill anyone.”

“Oh, he didn’t lift a finger against her, but he killed her as surely as if he’d fired a musket ball through her heart.”

A look of concern swept over his face. “How so?”

“It is a long story, and I do not have time to tell you tonight. Another time, perhaps.”

“You don’t have time because you plan to marry tonight. Correct?”

She nodded.

Why did the prospect of marrying the doxy leave him with a gnawing emptiness? Surely he had not harbored hopes for a loving marriage. His own parents clearly had not married for so sentimental a reason.

Marriage to a wealthy woman did have its merits. Anna de Mouchet possessed a large fortune and uncommon beauty. He could bring worse to his bed.

God, but the woman balanced his honor and his ruin in her delicate hands, and he hated her for it. She had the power to unravel four years of his relentless labor to restore the good name of Haverstock his father had so thoroughly soiled.

Haverstock got to his feet. “I am a defeated man. I go now to Lambeth Palace.”

~   ~   ~

ANNA, A GENEROUS BENEFACTOR to St. George’s, scribbled a note begging the curate to come at once to Grosvenor Square. She then set about selecting a wedding gown. She chose a gown she had never worn, an elaborate dress of white sarcenet, suitable for a presentation gown. She had known she would never be presented to the queen, but nevertheless had commissioned the gown to please Colette.

As much as Colette wanted Anna to be a fine lady, she was not at all pleased over this marriage, protesting when Anna informed her of the vows that would be exchanged that night. “Not the man most despicable!”

“He is the son of that man,” Anna defended. “He’s nothing like the father.” She hated not being able to confide in Colette the real reason for marrying the marquess.

Tears glistening in her eyes, Colette had asked, “What of amour?”

It was a question for which Anna had no answer.

Once Colette had fastened Anna’s silken buttons, Anna stood back to gaze at herself in the looking glass. Her bare ivory shoulders curved into tiny puffs of sleeves. The neckline was much too low for a young maiden, but now she would be a married lady. Gossamer layers of silks softly gathered below her bosom, falling along the smooth curves of her body. In the back, the dress flowed into a train edged with pearls. The queen herself could not have a lovelier gown, Anna thought approvingly.

She slipped her feet into dainty beaded white satin slippers and pulled on long, opera-length gloves.

Dismissing Colette, she walked back and forth to the window. What could be taking the man so long? Was the archbishop not at home? Had Haverstock changed his mind? The second prospect more likely. The Marquess of Haverstock did not seem to be a man who would allow himself to be forced into marriage. Especially to her, the daughter of a whore.

She heard the clopping of hooves on the square and hurried to her window. A gig with a lone rider approached her house. Haverstock had come. She pulled away from the window and tried to calm the rapid beating of her heart. Was she doing the right thing? Was she being foolish?

A moment later, Perkins rapped at her door. “Lord Haverstock has arrived, Miss de Mouchet. And the clergyman is also waiting.”

She opened the door. “Show them into the par—-” Then, remembering that Mr. Morgan was stretched out, dead to the world, on the sofa, changed her mind. “Show them to the salon, Perkins. I will be right down.”

She was unable to take the next irrevocable step, the step that would indelibly alter her future. She had to remind herself that she would not only be helping her country but also granting her mother’s last wish. She pictured her lovely mother, wasting away on her deathbed, meekly whispering, “Promise me, Anna. You will show them all. You will be a grand lady.”

Tears streaking her face, Anna had replied, “Yes, Mama. For you, I will be a lady.”

If only she could satisfy her own wishes for a loving partner. Raising her head proudly, Anna strode from her room and descended the stairs.

~   ~   ~

HAVERSTOCK AND THE CURATE were sorting out the matter of the license when Haverstock smelled the rose water and turned to gaze at his bride-to-be. Her head held high, she regally glided into the room. A sense of unreality shook him. It was as if he levitated from his own body looking down upon her ethereal beauty. She looked so angelic in her flowing white gown, she seemed framed in a radiance, like a Madonna in an old Italian painting. No mortal woman had ever appeared more flawlessly beautiful than this woman he was about to marry.

The curate spared them the awkwardness of a greeting. “Will there be any attendants?”

“Only the two of us,” Anna said softly. “If you have need for witnesses, my servants can oblige.”

The clergyman nodded, then stood the bridal couple in front of him. Standing between them, he began the ceremony.

Haverstock found himself taking Anna’s delicate, gloved hand in his own. Her touch was devastating. He cursed the swell of life in his groin. He was responding to beauty, not goodness.

Anna recited her vows in a voice barely above a whisper.

Then it was his turn. Would he love, honor and cherish her until death? the clergyman asked. If only he could, he thought, a deep, sinking feeling of hopelessness engulfing him. He promised to forsake all others. Perhaps he could honor that one pledge, provided she satisfied his sexual needs. Then he felt coarse and cheap. She was a brood mare, he a stud.

When it came time to place a ring on her finger, he took off his signet ring and slid it over her gloved finger. It could have fit over two of her slim fingers. “When I get it from my mother,” he whispered, “the Haverstock ring shall be yours.”

After the ceremony and after Haverstock thrust a handful of guineas into the curate’s palm and dismissed him, the two of them faced each other in the suddenly chilly salon and found themselves at a loss for words.

“I will make arrangements with my solicitor in the morning, my lord,” Anna said. “You will find me generous.”

Anger rose within him. Did she think he was to be bought like a horse at Tattersall’s? “I do not want your bloody money!” he snapped.

She faced him calmly. “Nevertheless, my lord, it is yours. Whatever I have is now yours. And, of course,” she said bluntly, “your title is now mine.”

“Yes, it is, Lady Haverstock,” he said, malice in his voice. “Bought in an unfair manner.”

Stinging under his rebuke, she fingered the large signet ring and shot her husband a perceptive gaze. “Tell me, my lord, is your mother in London?”

He looked at her warily. “Yes.”

“Yet you chose not to get her ring tonight. Am I correct in saying you would rather not inform your mother of our marriage?”

He walked around the pianoforte, avoiding her gaze. “I shall notify her. But since I will be gone these next two weeks, I find the idea of conveying the information by means of a letter much less confrontational. I shall pen the letter tonight. She will receive it tomorrow and will have two weeks to prepare Haverstock House for you. I give you my word, you will be mistress there.”

“Do you know, I have no notion of where your seat is.”

“It’s in Devon.”

“I’ve never been there,” she said, moving toward the pianoforte and forcing him to meet her gaze. “Is it quite lovely?”

“Quite. But Haymore needs much work.”

“If you don’t want my fortune for yourself, then perhaps you can put it to use restoring Haymore.”

Had the cursed woman invaded his very thoughts? How could she have known how strongly he wanted to bring Haymore back to its former glory, before his father squandered his money at the gaming tables?

“I may consider that,” he said coolly, erecting a barrier between himself and this woman, his wife. He must not let her get too close. Stiffening, he addressed her: “Madam, I go to my town house now to ready for my trip. Do me the goodness to have one of your servants rouse my friend, Mr. Morgan, at four in the morning.” He turned his back to her and stepped toward the door.

The ceremony had been legal enough, Anna thought. Haverstock had even addressed her as madam, but she did not trust the man. In the eyes of the law, she was still not his wife. And if the marriage were not consummated, he could easily dismiss her with an annulment once he had spent the fifty-thousand pounds. Though she did not desire him, she knew what she must do.

She strode to him and laid a gentle hand on his arm. “I know you are in haste to prepare for your journey, my lord, but you forget this is our wedding night. I would have the marriage consummated before you leave on your journey.”

His eyes lingered over the perfection of her face and once again cursed her touch that brought the swelling in his breeches.

FOUR

IF CONSUMMATION was what the woman wanted, then she would have it, Haverstock vowed angrily as he paced the masculine chamber adjoining hers. He would take her swiftly, with no allowances for pleasuring her. Wife she may be in name, but name only. He would satisfy her legal whim and be gone. He had other matters to see to tonight.

After an adequate amount of time for her to ready herself, he rapped at her door, then entered. The room’s only light came from a fire glowing in the hearth and a single taper beside her gilded bed. She was in the bed, propped up on mounds of lacy pillows, her freshly brushed hair hanging loose around her lovely face. She wore a white lace gown buttoned to the neck and looked impossibly innocent. He held back a snort, doubting her innocence. The woman was the daughter of a whore and was herself most likely a cheat and a thief. Certainly no innocent.

He would not accord her gentlemanly courtesies. “You are to remove your clothing, madam,” he said, his voice as clear and cool as an icicle.

Her eyes widened for a hint of a second, then she moved to the edge of the bed, blew out the candle and began to unbutton her gown.

“I want the candle lighted,” he said harshly. “I am your husband, and I want to see what I’m getting.” He scooped up the candle, strolled to the fireplace and relit the wick from the flames. Walking slowly back to her bed, he watched her lift the gown over her head, then clutch the coverlet to hide her breasts, her face flaming.

He set the candle on the marble top of her bedside table and leaned over her, lifting her chin with his finger. “I cannot believe the former Miss de Mouchet blushes over the prospect of displaying her lovely body.”

“It is just…” Anna whispered, “I did not know this act was performed… totally naked?”

His laughter shook the room. “Yes, my dear, we shall perform the act totally naked. I pity your former lovers if they were denied the pleasure of your entire body.” His hand moved from her chin, down the slope of her chest, where he flicked off the covering and cupped a full breast while his thumb plied her pink nipple.

“There have been no lovers, my lord,” she said in a shaky voice.

He removed his hand and met her bewildered gaze. “Do you mean to tell me you’re a virgin?”

All he saw were her huge, brown eyes staring at him like a frightened doe as she nodded.

“So you say. There are ways a man can tell if a woman has been with a man.”

She lifted her chin and spoke in a voice now devoid of shakiness. “I’m very happy to learn that. Then I will be exonerated of at least one odious deed.”

“Oh, but my dear,” he said, sitting beside her on the bed and stroking her breast, “there is nothing at all odious about the deed.”

“Then you’ve done this before?”

He guffawed. “God in heaven woman, I’m two and thirty years old!”

Softly, she asked, “How old were you the first time?”

He remembered the fair Denise at Oxford and smiled. “Eighteen.”

She spoke in a whisper. “I am eighteen, too.”

He struggled with himself not to feel sympathy for her. He would soon know if she was a whore.

Her eyes flicked to his hand as he kneaded her breast. “I suppose this a ridiculous question to ask one’s husband, but what is your first name, my lord?”

A smile curved his lips. “Charles.”

“Have you ever had a mistress, Charles?”

“That is no concern of yours, my dear. I vowed to your priest tonight that I would forsake all others, and I intend to keep at least that part of my vows, provided you satisfy my bedroom needs.”

“I will endeavor to try,” she said softly. “Oblige me by being a good teacher.”

He got up from the bed and blew out the candle. She was either a damned good actress or truly a virgin. If she had never seen a naked man before it was no wonder she was shaking. He began to remove his own garments, determined to end this charade of her virginity. His breeches fell to the floor and he climbed on the bed beside her.

“Wife,” he said formally as she moved to make room for him beside her, “Let us begin to discover a few things about each other.”

He could hear the lonely howl of the wind outside the casements as he pulled her to him, slipping one arm beneath her and wrapping his other around her. He felt her warmth as his chin nuzzled in the hollow of her neck, the fragrance of her rose water mingling with the softness of her loose hair. God’s teeth, but she smelled good and felt good! His manhood throbbed.

He would not kiss her, not yet. She wanted consummation. She would get that, and only that. She was stiff as a poker. He forced her thighs apart, and she quickly clamped them back together.

Entry would not be easy with such resistance. He could see he would have to relax her. He began by stroking her back, and as he sensed an easing in her tension, his large hands slid along the smooth flesh of her bare hips, pressing into her roundness, nudging her closer with his hands, establishing a rhythm that continued when he ceased to pull her toward him.

While their bodies rolled into one another with a lulling, hypnotizing motion, his hands kept up their fluid stroking of her satin skin.

With unexpected pleasure, he felt her body mold into his, and he took delight in hearing the shortening of her breath. Virgins and wives, he had been told, lay rigid while their husbands took their pleasure. That Anna was no ice maiden brought relief mingled with disappointment.

He eased her back flat to the bed and leaned over her, his lips finding her breasts and closing around a nipple. She began to softly whimper.

Once again, he forced her thighs apart, and this time she widened even further. When his fingers found her wetness, her whimpers turned to moans as she raised her hips toward his stretched out body. He lowered himself into her and felt himself sheathed in her tight slickness. In a frenzy matching his movements, he called out her name once. Twice. Three times.

As he sunk deeper into her sweetness, he felt her stiffen and cry out in pain. And he knew he must be gentle with her. For she was indeed a virgin. As well as his wife. Holding her tightly and whispering her name, he heaved a gasp as his seed spilled into her.

He lay very still, loosening the tightness of his hold, staying within her, brushing the moist hair from her brow, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, and at last pressing trembling lips over hers.

He had never before called out a woman’s name as he had with Anna. But, then, he’d never had a woman like Anna. He had always avoided deflowering virgins. And there was no shred of doubt that Anna had brought her virginity to this bed tonight. The thought softened his anger and hatred for her.

Yet as his wife’s name had tumbled almost reverently from his lips, her blatant enjoyment of their intimacy made him want to curse her and the long line of cyprians whose blood ran in her veins.

Why couldn’t this sexual encounter affect him as all the others in his past had? He had always been able to take his pleasure with commitment of nothing more than a few pounds. But tonight was so different. The physical pleasure, he must admit, had been, indeed still was, intense. By far the most intense he could remember. But there was something more. Something that seemed to envelop his mind and his emotions like nothing he had ever experienced. An alien tenderness toward the mere girl who shuddered beneath him, bereft of her innocence, nearly overpowered him.

He cursed himself for his weakness. And for the first time in his life he wished he could have been more like his heartless father. Why couldn’t he have taken his pleasure from Anna without feeling? Why had he bent like a spring shoot and blown out the blasted candle? He had treated her with the same compassion he would have shown were she his own chosen bride and not a scheming chit who would stop at nothing to gain his title.

Yet against his will, his arms closed around her even tighter, and her feel and her scent swamped him with an odd sense of tenderness.

~   ~   ~

NOW THAT IT WAS OVER, Anna willed herself not to stroke the supple muscles of his body. Now that she could gather her thoughts somewhat clearly, she wanted to die of shame. Years of careful grooming to act like a lady, to look like a lady and to think like a lady had come unraveled like a cheap ball of yarn. All because her body betrayed her.

She had thoroughly succumbed to the intoxicating love making of the selfish traitor who was now her husband.

She had acted like a whore. Like the woman everyone thought her mother was. But Anna had never believed what others said of her mother. Her mother had told her that what happened in privacy between her and Anna’s father was beautiful because they loved each other.

At least Annette had her own self respect in the knowledge that her body belonged to the man she loved.

Anna could not even say that.

She must be a whore. That’s what the English said of beautiful French women. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps there was a curse over French women that caused them to be slaves of the flesh.

Two things kept her from gathering up her things and fleeing: the knowledge that she was helping England, and the fact that the marquess would be the only person who knew of her shameful weakness.

~   ~   ~

REMOVING HIMSELF from Anna’s bed while she slept started a perplexing quandary in Haverstock. He would have enjoyed staying with her all night and taking her again when she awoke. He would like to awaken with her beside him, the morning light displaying her youthful voluptuousness.

He quietly dressed, collected a small valise containing gold coins, then braced the cold and took himself to his house on Half Moon Street. There, he packed for his journey. Not only did he not wish to wake his valet, but he did not want even Manors to know of his mission.

Once he had packed, he sat down to pen a letter to his mother informing her of his haste to marry before his business journey. He would tell no one the circumstances under which he and Anna married. He told his mother the clandestine marriage was necessitated by his mother’s dislike of Anna’s family. Now that the act was done, he wrote, his mother would have to accept his choice for a bride. “I beg you will welcome my wife and accord her the respect she deserves,” he concluded, after telling her Anna would be mistress of Haverstock House within a fortnight.

Next, he wrote to Anna.

Lastly, he left a letter requesting his secretary inform the newspapers of the nuptials between Miss Anna de Mouchet and the Marquess of Haverstock.

With those duties done, he personally walked round to the stables to collect his horse for the ride to Morgie’s town house. As Haverstock had instructed Anna’s servants, they had roused Morgie and taken him home.

When Haverstock arrived, Morgie awaited him, fully dressed in riding clothes and packed for the journey. Hanging his head rather shamefully, Morgie asked, “Is France still our destination, or do you take me to Newgate?”

“We will discuss your indiscretions once we are on the boat for France,” Haverstock said sternly as the two men mounted their horses and rode off into the early morning’s darkness.

On the ship, though the two men shared a private cabin, little conversation occurred. Their dialogue consisted of Morgie, who unpleasantly expelled the contents of his stomach, insisting that he was dying and Haverstock assuring him his discomfort was the result of the ship’s motion or an overabundance of liquor.

Once in Bordeaux, they took rooms at an inn near the waterfront. Over dinner, which Morgie barely touched, he ran a thin hand through his hair and said, “I say Haverstock, I’m bloody ashamed of losing the deuced money. How’d you get it back?”

“I won it back,” Haverstock lied.

Morgie appraised him admiringly. “Thought you detested high-stakes gaming—because of your father.”

Haverstock washed down his bread with the wine this region was famous for. “What else had we to lose?”

“Right you are,” Morgie said cheerfully. “By the way, did you not find Miss de Mouchet quite the loveliest creature you’ve ever beheld?”

Haverstock’s heart quickened as he remembered Anna’s lovely, pliant body beneath him. “Indeed I did. In fact, she is no longer Miss de Mouchet. The next time you see her, you may address her as Lady Haverstock.”

Morgie spit out his wine. “The hell you say!”

Haverstock’s black eyes shone mischievously. “How could I possibly leave for a minimum of two weeks and hope she remained unattached when I returned? There was only one thing to do. I rode to Lambeth Palace for a special license.”

Morgie pursed his lips. “You’re teasing me. I don’t believe you for a minute. You’ve never done an impulsive thing in your life.”

“Ah, but my dear friend, I never before met the ravishing Miss de Mouchet.” Remembering Anna’s extraordinary beauty, he almost believed his own words.

~   ~   ~

EXHAUSTED FROM PLAYING CARDS with Sir Henry throughout the previous night, Anna slept for ten hours. When she awoke, warmed by the sun that directed through half dozen windows, she felt something else, too. Between her thighs a deep soreness reminded her of what had occurred between her husband and her.

Her eyes snapped open and she turned to see if he were still beside her, knowing by the light outside that he would have left hours ago. She wondered if he had departed as soon as he had taken his pleasure or if he had slept all night within her arms.

She saw the indentation on her satin sheets where he had lain and experienced a feeling of loss. A chill settled deep in her bones. She pulled the covers around her snugly. How much more reassuring it would have been to awaken with him beside her, pressing soft kisses on her, letting her know their lovemaking had been acceptable, that she was a wife, not a whore.

Enveloped by her eternal loneliness, she now felt bereft and soiled by his seed which still moistened her sheets. The Haverstock seed, she thought, her heart pounding painfully.

FIVE

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, a page from Haverstock House brought Anna a letter from her husband. She carried it to her chamber, now their chamber, and quickly broke the seal with trembling hands and stood beside the bed to read it.

My Dear Wife,

By the time you read this I will be far away. I disliked taking my leave without saying good-bye to you, but you slept so soundly I knew you needed the sleep too badly to be awakened. My mother has now been informed of our marriage and has been instructed to make Haverstock House your home. I will call upon you when I return to London, and I look forward to continuing your instruction.

Yours,

Haverstock

Anna held the letter to her breast, a warmth blanketing her. The letter was an unexpected pleasure, coming from a man who fully intended to honor his vows. This dark lord was indeed not his father’s son. This man she had married—this man who had taken complete possession of her—intended to honor his vows.

If only he could be honorable toward his country, she thought bitterly.

She tied the letter in pink satin ribbon and placed it in a drawer of the table beside her bed.

In bed that night, she had difficulty falling asleep. She wondered if Haverstock had given the money to the French by now. She rued his treachery. Inexplicably, she wondered if he had given a thought to her.

~   ~   ~

DURING THE NEXT TWO WEEKS Anna attempted to keep so busy that Haverstock would not intrude upon her every thought. At the beginning of each day, she dressed meticulously in the latest fashion, expecting a call from her mother-in-law, whom she knew was informed of the marriage. But that call never came.

Anna and Colette—with outriders in addition to their already formidable assortment of attendants—visited the East End and distributed clothing, coins and food to the unfortunate.

Anna kept busy at a number of other tasks. She started fancy work of her own complicated design. She portioned off each of her servants and oversaw the packing of her most essential possessions. She made arrangements for letting her house on Grosvenor Square.

When two weeks had passed, Anna found herself running to the window with each clop of horse hooves, checking to see if Haverstock had arrived. With every breath she took, she thought of him. And cursed herself for doing so.

~   ~   ~

WITH AN ARMED Morgie standing watch, Haverstock met with his French contact at a farm house on the outskirts of Bordeaux. The meeting went well. Monsieur Herbert presented Haverstock with several pages of dates and descriptions of shipments to troops in the Peninsula as well as their locations. In exchange for the information, Haverstock handed over the fifty-thousand pounds.

“My necessity for the money grows urgent,” the fleshy Frenchman said. “Soon, I will be forced to leave France.”

Haverstock cocked a brow. “How so?”

“Our government has been informed that a traitor is passing information to the British. As yet, no one knows my identity.”

“I have told no one your name,” Haverstock said.

“Are you aware that someone who works in your Foreign Office is a spy for the French?”

Haverstock experienced a sinking feeling. “Are you sure?”

The Frenchman nodded. “Just as he does not know my name, I do not know his. But I must warn you to be very cautious.”

During the journey home, Haverstock was thankful he could keep busy reading, translating, and memorizing the documents. For the first time since he left London, he was too busy to think of his strange marriage and the unwanted attraction his devious wife solicited in him.

He was pleased to learn some of the documents even sketched out battle plans and enumerated French troops. All in all, England had struck a good bargain by paying Monsieur Hebert for the information.

Near the end of the journey, Haverstock translated a great deal of the information into code and burned the originals, keeping the coded papers on his person at all times.

As he and Morgie approached London, Haverstock faced a dilemma over whom to see first: Anna or his mother. He had written to Anna that he would see her immediately upon his arrival, but he also wanted to smooth things out with his mother before bringing Anna home.

In the end, his impatience to once again look upon Anna won out. Was she really as lovely as he remembered? He could still remember how it felt standing before the cleric holding her slim gloved hand within his own and placing his signet ring on her finger. Her recalled how small her voice had sounded when she recited her vows. And he would never forget the picture of her sitting in the bed, attempting to cover her exquisite body while declaring her innocence in a shaky voice. Most of all, he remembered the feel and smell of her naked body against his own. As he drew near Grosvenor Square, he felt like a schoolboy in the flush of his first flirtation.

SIX

MORGIE ACCOMPANIED Haverstock to Anna’s house. Haverstock brought his friend along to prevent himself from raising her skirts and taking her on the floor of her parlor. For when it came to Anna, he was consumed by lust.

When Perkins answered the door, Haverstock said, “Please announce me to my wife.”

Perkins showed the two gentlemen into the parlor, and a few minutes later Anna glided into the room. Haverstock’s mind had not embellished her extraordinary appearance. If anything, she was even more beautiful than he remembered. He had not seen her by the light of day before. She wore a soft white morning gown sprigged with violets, with purple velvet ribbands at the edge of the three-quarter sleeves and at the flounce at the hemline. Her skin above the low-cut bodice was as smooth and white as he remembered and her face as flawless. In the sunlight he could see deep brandy-colored highlights in her rich brown hair.

He took her hand and kissed it. “I trust you have been well these past sixteen days, Anna.”

Her face colored ever so slightly when she assured him she had enjoyed good health.

Remembering his companion, Haverstock indicated Morgie and said, “You remember Mr. Morgan, my dear?”

Morgie swept into a deep bow. “Your servant, Lady Haverstock.”

“Do sit down,” Anna told them as she sat on a rose brocaded settee, “and tell me of your journey. Where did you go?” Haverstock took a seat on a French chair that looked much too small for his large body. “We had to check on various investments around the country.”

“The investments you needed the money for, my lord?” she asked.

He pursed his lips and frowned. “Have I not instructed you, my dear, not to address me as my lord?”

“I am sorry, Charles,” Anna said.

“Yes, my dear, we needed the money for the investments.”

“Have you seen your mother?” she asked.

“No. I came here straight away. How soon can you be ready to move to Haverstock House?”

“I am ready now. I have made arrangements to let this house.”

“Very good,” Haverstock said. “By the way, has my mother called?”

“No, but I did not expect her. I cannot blame her for being disappointed in the match. She has no doubt decided I am completely unsuitable,” Anna said in a confident voice. “Beside your mother, who else is in your family?”

“I have five sisters and a brother. I bought James colors, and he is now in the Peninsula.” He shook his head. “Worry like the devil over him.” Sighing, he added, “My sister Mary married last year and lives in Cornwall. The sister closest to me in age and in temperament is Lydia. She’s thirty and has no prospects of marrying. Unfortunately for her, she resembles me very much. I fear she is much too tall and too broad to attract suitors—which is a loss for them for she is quite the most agreeable woman I have ever known. But, then, I might find her so because she thinks and acts more like a man.”

“Bruising rider,” Morgie added. “And a capital whist player.”

“It’s easy to see that Lydia is your favorite,” Anna said.

Haverstock thought for a moment without responding. “I suppose you’re right. Lydia, too, is probably the most loyal to me, because of the closeness of our ages, I expect.”

“What about the other three sisters?”

“I’m sorry to say they are a pack of empty-headed females who will all marry quite well. They are tolerably good looking and think of nothing except the latest fashions and hair arrangements.”

“And what are their names and ages?”

He thought for a moment. “I am not particularly good at remembering that sort of thing. I know Charlotte is the youngest. She’s seventeen and will come out this next season.” He skewered his face in thought. “Let me see, Cynthia came out last season and turned down several offers. I believe she’s holding out for a peer. I think she’s nineteen. Then there’s Kate. She’s a year older than Cynthia.”

“The three youngest seem very much of my own age,” Anna said.

“And I am sure they will adore you, for you possess that which they hold above all else—an enviable wardrobe.”

“Then outfitting them in all new clothes will be very enjoyable for me.”

His eyes narrowed. “I told you I don’t want your money, Anna.”

“In most matters, my lord, I will abide by your decisions, but when it comes to my money, I will spend it as I like, and providing your sisters with beautiful clothes will give me great pleasure.”

He rose and paced the room. With his back to her, he said, “I go to make sure Haverstock House is ready for you, madam. If all goes well, I will collect you later this afternoon.”

She offered her hand first to Morgie, then to her husband, who kissed it softly before he took his leave.

~   ~   ~

LYDIA WAS THE FIRST to meet him when he entered Haverstock House. She wordlessly pulled him into the morning room and spoke quietly. “I don’t need to tell you how distressed Mama has been over the news of your marriage. She’s taken to her bed. What’s come over you? You’ve never done a rash thing in your life.”

He placed his hands on her broad shoulders. “When you meet her, you’ll understand.”

“Knowing you as I do, I cannot believe you would enter into a gross misalliance. I will endeavor to make your wife welcome in every way.”

He kissed his sister on her cheek. “You are the best of sisters.” Then he swept from the room, mounted the stairs and found his mother in her bed in the marchioness’s chamber.

His face flushed with anger, he said, “This room was supposed to have been made ready for my wife, Mother.”

Tears seeped from her eyes. “I have been much too upset over your marriage to do anything.”

“You have had sixteen days to get over the shock. You are to remove yourself at once from this bed. My wife moves in this afternoon.”

“Charles, you are heartless.”

“I am not throwing you out on the streets. You will merely move down the hall. I am thirty-two, Mother. Did you think I would never take a wife?”

She sniffed. “It is just that I thought bans would be posted and I would have more time to prepare for the changes.” Bursting into fresh tears, she said, “And I never in my wildest nightmares thought you would marry so far beneath you.”

“My wife is the daughter of a duke, and her mother was a member of the French aristocracy. I hardly think that is beneath me.”

“Her mother was a—-”

“You will not speak ill of my wife or her mother,” he interrupted angrily. “Ever! Is that understood?”

“Can I not even hope that you will change your mind about the marriage?”

“No, you cannot.”

“Then the marriage has been consummated?”

His jaw stern, his lips a straight line, he replied, “Indeed it has.”

She observed her first born. “You are exactly like Steffington. He was totally obsessed with the de Mouchet woman. Just because she possessed an extraordinary beauty. Is the daughter also beautiful?”

“You will have to judge for yourself. I am of the opinion that her beauty is unrivaled.”

She shook her head. “You’re breaking my heart just as Steffington broke my poor sister’s heart.”

“Aunt Margaret is dead,” he said sternly. “Steffington is dead. Annette de Mouchet is dead. You need to put the past behind you, Mother. Don’t blame Anna for the circumstances of her birth. And let us hope she does not blame us for the cruelty she and her mother received from Father.”

Late that afternoon, the Haverstock women gathered in the saloon to meet the new marchioness. Anna had selected an impeccably cut dress of deep gray wool with matching pelisse. The pelisse was trimmed in claret velvet and a claret-dyed ostrich plume jutted from the fashionable gray hat which sat askance on her head. She carried a huge fur muff dyed in the deep claret and wore gray leather boots. She felt rather like a fine horse being trotted before bidders at Tattersall’s as Haverstock escorted her into the salon where the awaiting females unabashedly took in her every feature and cast envious glances at her exquisite attire.

One by one, Haverstock introduced her first to his mother, who offered a cool greeting, then to each sister before taking a seat beside his wife on the sofa.

Haverstock strongly resembled his mother, Anna thought. The dowager was a large woman, more in height than in weight, though she carried a good bit of matronly padding. And, like her son, her eyes were black and her hair still a dark brown.

Lydia shared the coloring and stature of her brother and mother, and Anna thought she looked even older than her thirty years.

The three younger sisters bore little resemblance to the others, though they looked remarkably like each other. They were small, though not as small as Anna, and were fair and blonde.

“I understand you have a rather large staff,” the dowager said to Anna.

“I bring only my abigail with me,” Anna answered. “She has been with me my entire life and with my mother before that.”

Anna noted Haverstock’s mother stiffened at the mention of her mother.

“I suppose I should have checked with you these past two weeks to determine how many you would bring so we could ready quarters for them, but I have been indisposed,” the dowager said.

Lydia got up and rang for a servant. When the butler entered the room, she told him to instruct servants to ready a room for Anna’s maid.

“Thank you, Lydia,” Anna said gratefully.

Awkward silence followed before Cynthia asked Anna, “May I inquire as to who is your modiste, Anna? Those are quite the most exquisite garments I have ever seen.”

Anna smiled. “If it is agreeable to you, I will take you girls there tomorrow and have Madam Devreaux design gowns for each of you.”

“My wife is possessed of a great fortune which—above my objections—she is determined to shower upon my family.”

“I do not find that objectionable at all,” Kate said, grinning.

Her mother cast a disapproving glance at Kate. “I think not tomorrow, girls. Remember, there’s a rout at the Abernathy’s tonight and you will not get to bed until very late.”

“Then the day after,” Anna interjected authoritatively. She had decided to exert her authority from the start. The dowager would not be given the opportunity to undermine her.

Her face grim, Haverstock’s mother turned her attention to her son. “You and your wife will accompany us tonight?”

Anna noted her mother-in-law had refrained from referring to her by name.

“I think not, Mother,” he said. “I wish to enjoy a quiet evening at home with my wife. You forget, we have been apart for over two weeks.”

SEVEN

THE TWO OF THEM sat before the fire in Anna’s chamber and partook of a light dinner in near total silence. After the servants took away the dishes, Haverstock poured two glasses of brandy he had brought back from France, giving the snifter to Anna, then sitting beside her on a settee in front of the fire.

She took a sip and grimaced. “I have never had brandy before, my—-, Charles.”

His eyes flashed mischievously. “What! A French woman who does not appreciate excellent brandy?”

“I am not a French woman,” she said defiantly. “My mother held a great bitterness for her country, and her greatest desire was that I be thoroughly English. I was baptized in the Church in England, my mother spoke only English to me—though Colette spoke only French—and my sympathies in this awful war are entirely with the English, I assure you.” Her chest tightened as she ruefully remembered her husband did not share those sympathies.

“So I have married a thoroughly English woman,” Haverstock said gently. He took her hand in his.

His touch had a profound effect on her. “There was just one area where my mother did not succeed in Anglicizing me,” she said, trying to retain her outward composure while inside she fairly sizzled from the feel of his huge hand clasped about hers. “It was her fondest wish that I be educated at Miss Sloan’s School for Young Ladies. I had no desire to leave my home, but Mama was insistent.” She stopped and gazed into her husband’s obsidian eyes. “It was your father who kept me from the school.”

“Surely that’s not why you hold him accountable for your mother’s death?”

“It broke her heart,” Anna said softly. “After he left that day, she cried inconsolably. It was a bitter cold January day and she left the house without even a shawl. She walked for hours in the square. I didn’t know she had gone out. She came home when night fell, blue with cold.” Anna’s voice lowered. “She took lung fever and was dead a month later. At her death bed, she made me promise I would be a lady.”

Haverstock released her hand. “So that—more than revenge against my family—was your reason for coaxing me into marriage.”

“You are very kind to use the word coaxing when you know very well I forced you,” Anna said lightly, her lips curving into a smile.

“’Tis my fate to be shackled to an authoritative female,” he said teasingly. “I shall not be master in my own home.”

Was it the brandy or her husband’s presence that spread a liquid ease to the core of her body? She almost laughed over her mind-numbing desire for this man she had been prepared to stoically tolerate. She had come to crave the very sound of his voice, his powerful body, his ruggedly handsome face. But most of all, she ached to be held by him. With full cognizance, she knew this longing for what it was: an extremely strong physical attraction she could never confuse with love. For she could never give her heart to one who turned against his own country, his own brother.

Her voice husky with a passion she tried to repress, Anna looked up into his eyes. “You will be my master, my teacher, Charles.”

Their eyes met and held, that feeling of oneness she experienced on their wedding night enveloping Anna again. She wanted to feel his lips on hers, to feel herself cradled within the comfort of his arms.

He gently touched her face with a finger, and she found herself lifting his hand to her lips. That instinctive gesture removed all barriers between them. His burly arms came around her as she moved into his chest, resting her head against him, listening to the thumping of his heart.

His head lowered, and she lifted her face until she felt the soft warmth of his mouth on hers and slipped her arms around him, basking in the solid feel of him.

After the kiss, he spoke softly. “I have something for you, my lady.” He reached into his pocket and presented her with a huge emerald ring surrounded by diamonds.

She drew back and looked at it but did not take it from him. “Will you put it on?” she asked.

He slipped it on the third finger of her left hand. “I shall have it cut down for you, my dear.”

“I hate to remove it, Charles. It is very beautiful. I feel so…so undeserving.”

A frown furrowed his face. “It belongs to you, for you have become my wife in every way, or have you forgotten?”

She stared into his black eyes, remembering how thoroughly he had taken possession of her. “I am yours,” she said breathlessly.

Over her clothing, his palm stroked her breasts, massaging them with surprising tenderness. The effect on Anna was devastating. Her body came alive at his touch. It was for this moment she had lived the past sixteen days.

With practiced ease, he unfastened her buttons and lowered the top of her gown, then her chemise and stays. Her gaze dropped, and she saw the contours of her own sizable breasts in the glow of the firelight. Though no other man had seen them before, she was not embarrassed.

He reverently lifted a breast in both hands. “Oh, my Anna, you have the body of a goddess.” His lips covered her breast, his tongue circling the tip, then taking it deep into his mouth and suckling.

Warmth flowed deep within her. My Anna. How magical those words sounded, how blissful he made her feel with every magical stroke.

When he gazed up at her, his face wet and heated, something seared inside of her like flame to parchment.

He stood, his majestic body blocking the firelight. Her breath hitched as he threw off his coat, planting his booted feet and standing tall, the fire to his back. My dark titan. Her eyes flitted from his broad shoulders beneath the soft linen shirt, down his v-shaped torso to his flat waist, then rested on his straining groin. She wanted to see his flesh golden in the firelight. She wanted to feel its moistness against her own bare body.

His black eyes hungry, he held out his hands to her, drawing her to a standing position as her gown and chemise pooled on the carpet. She moved to untie his cravat, her eyes never leaving his, then she slipped her fingers beneath the soft linen shirt, stroking his moist flesh. She deftly unfastened his buttons, and he assisted her in removing his shirt.

His eyes devoured every inch of her bare flesh, his uneven breath a catalyst to her own surge of…desire. She had finally been able to put a name to this craving she held for this man.

Effortlessly, he swooped her into his arms as if she were paper and carried her to the bed where he gently set her on its silk coverlet and lay down beside her, drawing her into himself. His lips came down on hers in a wet, open-mouthed kiss while his smooth, strong hands moved over her back, down her hips, then her legs. A wet heat gushed between her legs. How could one man have such a nearly debilitating effect on her? She was powerless not to arch into him.

Those magical hands of his moved between her thighs and inched upward until her thighs parted as his long finger slipped into her wetness. With breath labored as if she’d been running, she circled his tongue with her own, windmills of pleasure spiraling through her thoughts, thoughts that were nothing more than pulsing fragments: Desire. Need. Love.

He withdrew his finger, trailing its wet path over her stomach, the erotic gesture robbing her of breath.

When he raised his hips to remove his breeches, she almost could not bear the brief separation, almost could not bear the anticipation of his next move.

The glorious spectacle of his skin glowing golden in the soft firelight was nearly as compelling as drawing a breath. She softly stroked the firm muscles of his chest and its mat of soft black hair, moving toward the swell of his manhood. Her hand curled around him as a deep groan escaped his throat. That she could solicit such a primeval noise from her giant exhilarated her.

His hands began to work their magic on her again, first one finger, then another sliding into her warmth as she widened herself even more. All thoughts now obliterated from her mind save for this meeting, this melding with her dark giant.

She initiated a hungry kiss, then a series of feverish, wet kisses as she arched her body into his, her breath even more labored. She felt his heat, his warm breath on her, his manhood brushing against her. And she parted her legs and guided him into herself. He plunged deeply as her whole being rocked with the numbing pleasure he gave her. His motions quickened, her body trembled convulsively. He kept saying her name, and she reveled in it.

Their chests heaving together as if one heartbeat united them, Anna’s hands dug into her husband’s back. Where dream left off and reality began Anna couldn’t say. All she knew was this was what she lived for, these dreamy moments when nothing else intruded on their world of two. She savored the feel of him within her and lovingly stroked his firm body.

He rolled back to his side. She moved, too, to keep from disengaging him. His powerful hand lightly touched her temple and brushed away the damp hair, softly kissing her brow. He began to trace her features with a long finger, placing soft kisses on her eyelids, her nose, then came to brush gently on her mouth. She smelled his heat and the brandy and the scent of their sex and was oddly sated by it.

She kept her arms around his rock hard back. Her face rested on his chest, his harsh, heavy breathing reassuring. She lay in the peace of him, a deep contentment washing over her.

~   ~   ~

HIS MIND IN A DRUG-LIKE STUPOR from the sensations she had aroused and the overpowering emotions she touched, he held her close, delighting in her rose water scent and the feel of her smooth skin against his own. When the sensual fog began to clear from his brain, he remembered everything clearly. The way he languidly kissed her mouth and her extraordinary body. The way he had been more intent on giving her pleasure than in seeking his own. The way he called out her name repeatedly. In a lifetime of vagrant passion, he had never done these things with a woman before.

He held her close, stroking her satiny flesh with a gentleness that surprised himself. Soon, her rhythmic breathing told him she was asleep. While his own body craved sleep, his mind fought it, his thoughts racing with exhilaration brought on by the fragile beauty of the woman he held in his arms. The unnamed yearnings of the past sixteen days, he knew now, had been his deep hunger for Anna. His own Anna.

His arms cradled her. He reveled in the bliss of his possession. He remembered his vow to cherish her, and he knew that whatever lay ahead, he would protect her until his dying breath.

When he awoke in the morning, Anna’s huge brown eyes peered into his own and a sweet smile lit her lovely face. She had pulled up the sheet to cover her nakedness.

He trailed a single finger along her cheek and the slope of her chest, then down further, to gently follow the contour of her breast. “Your aptitude for learning exceeds my expectations.”

He stifled her smile with a heavy kiss. “Now, to continue your instruction.”

EIGHT

IT WAS WELL PAST DARK when Haverstock came home the next day. Anna had been watching from her chamber window and scurried down the broad staircase to greet him.

She watched warily as he gave his greatcoat to the butler. His step slow, his hair tousled, Haverstock looked tired enough to have performed yeoman’s work at great length. Her heart caught at his haggard appearance. He looked to be twice her age. Then, she realized his secretive post at the Foreign Office was what drew all his strength, and a bitter anger welled within her.

At the foot of the stairs, she remembered Sir Henry’s instructions to play the adoring wife. She held out her hands and forced a smile. “My lord, you look so very tired.”

A flicker of pleasure passed over his face as he gazed at her. “That I am, my dear.”

“Please bring a fresh pot of tea to my chamber,” Anna instructed Davis, linking her arm through her husband’s and mounting the stairs. “You must come warm yourself before my fire, Charles. A cup of tea is just what you need.”

Haverstock collapsed on the settee in front of her fireplace. She bent over him, tenderly loosening his cravat. “There, now, get comfortable and relax.” Their eyes met, merging them, driving the anger from her. She stroked the shadows of his beard. “You have worked far too hard today.” She told herself she was merely playing the role Sir Henry demanded of her, winning her husband’s confidence through her feigned devotion. The problem was, she feigned little where Haverstock was concerned. When she was with him, he earned an unpretentious affection.

Only when they were apart did she recall his traitorous deeds. Because then she was not drawn to the depth of his black eyes and not seduced by the nearness to his tall, golden-skinned body.

He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Sit by me, Anna.”

She obliged.

“It is so very good to be home. I will be fine now,” he said. “It occurred to me today that I should like to possess a miniature of you so that I might look at it when I am away.”

“I am greatly flattered,” Anna said, hoping her voice did not reveal the leaping excitement in her pulse. She squeezed his hand and shot him a concerned glance. “Now tell me what is it you work yourself so hard for?”

He ran his large hands through his hair and sighed. “When my father died, I learned that he had foolishly lost most of the family’s fortune. Since that day, I have contrived to restore the money as well as the Haverstock good name—neither of which have I been particularly successful.”

“Oh, Charles, I would so very much rather you take my money and not work so hard. Your companionship, I find, far preferable to this house full of females.” She had felt so alienated and lonely at Haverstock House without Charles. Though one day was no gauge of how well she would get along with his family, this first day brought bitter disappointment. Her mother-in-law had not come out of her chamber all day. Anna longed to get away from this house, to go to Haymore. “Could you and I not go to Haymore?” she suggested.

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, my dear, but I cannot consider it at this time for I have far too much work.”

The butler entered the room with a tea tray and set it on a table in front of the settee.

“Thank you, Davis,” Anna said as he bowed and departed.

Haverstock watched Anna as she poured tea into a gilded cup. “It distresses me that you are so unhappy here, Anna. Has my family not made you welcome?”

“It is not that,” she said, handing him is tea. “It is just that they kept to their rooms most of the day, except for Lydia, who has been quite wonderful. She gave me a tour of the house and explained the various family portraits and even showed me the butler’s pantry.”

“How do you like Lydia?”

“She is the most wonderful of sisters. I count myself very fortunate.” Anna poured herself a cup of steaming tea from the silver pot. “She tells me she does not like town life. Perhaps that is what has me longing to go to the country. She described the green hills and country lanes. She’s quite enamored of horses, isn’t she?”

He laughed. “Yes, it’s an enthusiasm not shared by my other sisters. Lydia very much enjoys the outdoors. When we were reduced to just one gardener at Haymore, Lydia actually took to working side by side with Benton trying to restore the park there to what it had once been—another futile effort, I’m afraid.”

“I should love to see Haymore.”

He took her hand in his and warmly pressed it. “And so you shall. I promise as soon as the war—I mean, as soon as I’m finished with my work, I shall take you there. It can be a honeymoon.”

“You are so very good to honor your marriage vows when marrying me must have been extremely distasteful to you.”

“Oh, yes,” he said mischievously, “it is such a burden to be shackled to such an ugly woman.” He cupped her breast. “I have to force myself to make love to the old dragon.” His other hand began to unfasten the buttons on the back of her dress. “Such dreadful unpleasantness.”

She ran a hand along the rigid planes of his face.”Don’t force yourself, my lord.”

“In truth, I’m powerless to deny myself when I’m with you, Anna,” he said in a low, husky voice.

~   ~   ~

SATED BY HIS WIFE’S compliant body and feeling her smooth warmth against him, Haverstock held her close long after they made love. Her touch had the power to free him from the discomfort of the day’s long hours of writing down all the maneuvers Monsieur Herbert had painstakingly written in French.

Haverstock wanted nothing more than to trust Anna and felt guilty that he had not been honest with her about his duties. A marriage should be built upon truth and trust, and he fully intended this to be a real marriage.

But he did not really know Anna. He had been with her but three days. Three days that had reoriented his world. Nothing would ever be the same again. No woman had ever consumed him as engagingly as Anna. He could not be near her without experiencing an overwhelming rush of possessive tenderness, and more than that, an urge to make love to her until there was no breath left in his body.

Like the purity and passion Anna brought to their marriage bed, this wife of his was a paradox. It seemed inconceivable that the woman who likely cheated and schemed to gain his title could be the same gentle lover who offered herself so completely.

With thoughts of Anna circulating in his mind, he gave way to his exhaustion and fell to sleep.

He was awakened an hour later by Evans rapping at the door. Haverstock started up, then saw a fully-dressed Anna standing near the door.

“What is it?” she asked, her amused glance shooting from the closed door back to her naked husband.

“Her Ladyship asks if you plan to join the family for dinner.”

“Tell her we will be down presently,” Anna replied with authority.

Lighting a taper, she strode to the bed and leaned down to kiss her husband. “Shall I perform your valet’s duties, my lord?” she asked with mirth.

“I beg that you don’t.” He climbed from the bed. “Your touch has a very devastating effect on me, I’m afraid. I would never make it to dinner were you to offer me assistance, and I fear my mother’s wrath excessively.”

Anna set down the taper and bent to pick up her husband’s clothes that had been rapidly discarded in his haste to bed her. “Do you think your mother knows what we’ve done here?”

He took the breeches she handed him, stepped into them and cast her a bemused smile. “Most certainly.”

Anna blushed.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, my dear,” he said, lightly touching her chin. “All married people do it. Do not forget my mother gave birth to seven children, so she most certainly has done it any number of times.”

~   ~   ~

THE DOWAGER AND HER DAUGHTERS were already seated at the long dining table when Haverstock and Anna came down. He glanced at his mother, sitting at the foot of the table. “I see you still sit at the marchioness’s place, Mother. How very kind of you to encourage Anna to sit by me.” He slid out a chair for Anna beside his own at the head of the table.

She took a seat, casting a quick glance at her mother-in-law, who glared at the couple. Once again, Anna felt like a horse being trotted out at auction as her sisters stared at her.

“That is a most becoming dress, Anna,” Charlotte said.

“Thank you,” Anna said as a footman uncovered salvers and heaped buttered crab on her plate. “I am blessed to be the owner of a fine wardrobe. The only thing I lack is lovely ball gowns. For reasons which I am sure you are aware, I have not been in society.”

Charlotte lowered her eyes.

“We shall remedy that soon, my love,” Haverstock said. “It will be my good fortune to escort the loveliest woman in London to all the balls this season.”

“If she hasn’t been in society, how did you meet her?” the dowager asked her son.

Anna’s insides crumbled. She wondered how Charles would answer.

“Actually, Morgie knew her first,” Haverstock replied truthfully, then took a bite of French beans.

Anna’s pulse returned to normal, but she still felt slighted that her mother-in-law chose to address Haverstock instead of her.

Turning to his wife, Haverstock said, “With the Season just a few weeks away, I suggest you commission gowns, Lady Haverstock.”

“Yes, my lord. I should like to pay Madam Devreaux a call tomorrow.” She turned to the sisters. “Would you like to accompany me? No one can turn out the lot of us better than Madam Devreaux.”

“Mama once had a gown fashioned by the modiste,” Kate said. “It was quite the prettiest gown she ever owned. That was before Molly had to start making our clothes.”

“Then you all must come with me tomorrow and select wardrobes for the season,” Anna said, smiling. “We’ll send the bills to Charles. Whether he wants to admit it or not, he is quite fat in the purse now that he has married me.”

“Now that I have you as a sister,” Lydia said to Anna, “I will not need to provide propriety for the girls. I would far prefer not to attend all the balls, and I care nothing for clothes.”

Anna threw a dubious glance at Haverstock.

“I understand perfectly, Lydia. My marchioness can take your place, and you can be spared the tediousness of attending the functions I know you find so very unpleasant.” Turning to his wife, he added, “Lydia would far prefer to sit home reading.”

“Then I am happy to be of service,” Anna said. “But should you need a new dress, please go to Madam Devreaux and send your dear brother the bill.”

All of them, except for the dowager, laughed.

After dinner, they retired to the parlor where Haverstock and his mother played Anna and Lydia at whist while the other girls perused fashion magazines and discussed the various gowns they would request on the morrow.

The whist game was evenly matched, with both sets of partners displaying uncommon skill. The lead zig zagged until Anna and Lydia prevailed as the winners.

“I may have to take my wife as my partner next time, Mother,” Haverstock said. “She possesses remarkable skill at cards.”

“Of course she does,” the dowager said, a sly smile on her face. “Look who her mother was.”

~   ~   ~

AS THE FAMILY MEMBERS prepared to go to their bedchambers, the dowager said, “A word with you, Charles.”

Anna met his gaze, then began to mount the stairs.

“Of course, Mother.”

Once Anna was upstairs, the dowager said, “I find your conduct most inappropriate. You must be sensible to the fact that you have four maiden sisters in this house who do not need to be exposed to your lust.”

“I presume you are referring to the fact I have spent much of my time in my wife’s chamber.”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes cold.

“I must ask that you not use the word lust when you talk about anything that occurs between my wife and me. It is expected that a newly wed man enjoys the company of his wife. Granted, a husband and wife wanting to be with each other is a novel experience for our family,” he said curtly.

She gasped as he turned his back to her and began to climb the wide staircase.

NINE

ANNA WAS HARD PRESSED to determine if the three sisters or Madam Devreaux were the more excited over the flurry of measuring and ordering of dozens of dresses and gowns. Kate, Charlotte and Cynthia had timidly entered the shop bearing dog-eared copies of fashion magazines and brimming with ideas—all of which the French modiste was only too happy to accommodate. Madam Devreaux grew even more accommodating when she learned her long-standing patron, the exquisite Miss de Mouchet, was now the Marchioness of Haverstock. Anna could tell from the gleam in the French woman’s eye, she was already planning on the commissions that would come her way when the Haverstock women were seen in society wearing her gowns.

Anna’s ideas for her own ball gowns met with appreciative compliments from Madam Devreaux.

When they finished at the modiste’s, the four young ladies happily stepped into the Haverstock barouche, Anna casting a dubious gaze at the grey skies as she allowed the coachman to assist her into the carriage. She hoped the rain that saturated the ground that morning would not return. Haverstock had promised to take her to the park this afternoon, and she wanted nothing to interfere with the outing.

Anna directed the coachman to the milliner’s on Conduit Street.

“This has been so very much fun,” Kate said.

“Especially for me,” Anna responded. “I cannot tell you how delightful it is to finally have sisters. I do not at all recommend the life of an only child.”

“I am sure you’ll never be lonely again,” Charlotte said. “It seems Charles can hardly bear being without you.”

“Such a difference has come over him since his marriage,” Kate added. “He is most certainly not the brother we have always known.”

“Oh, not at all,” Charlotte agreed. “What ever happened to that stern, tight-fisted brother of ours I am sure I cannot say.”

“I beg you not speak ill of your brother,” Anna said. “If he seemed parsimonious, it was because he worried excessively about providing well for all of you.”

“It is so sweet to see how devoted you two are to each other,” Charlotte said. “I hope the Season brings me a man as besotted over me as Charles is over you.”

“He is indeed that,” Cynthia concurred.

Anna wanted to protest. Charles certainly was not besotted over her. If he were, he surely would be with her every day instead of trudging off to his office. She had to admit she satisfied his…what had he called it? His sexual needs. But nothing more.

When the coach stopped in front of the milliner’s, Anna urged, “Do hurry, girls, for I must be back in time to ride in the park with Charles.” She fully intended to dress to perfection, hoping she could make him proud, fondly recalling his words the night before. “This will be my first opportunity to display my lovely wife,” he had said.

“Do you mean to say Charles is actually going to stop working to take you to the park?” Kate uttered in shocked tones.

“He must be besotted,” Cynthia added as she stepped from the coach.

The three girls purchased nearly every bonnet in the shop, so many that the coachman was obliged to make another trip after depositing the ladies at Haverstock House.

~   ~   ~

COLETTE’S DEFT HANDS fashioned ringlets about Anna’s face as Anna watched the artistry in her looking glass. From time to time, Colette would be seized by a coughing spell and have to stop.

“That’s a terrible cough, Colette,” Anna said, concern in her voice. “You’ve never been susceptible to taking a chill.”

“Never before have I slept in so cold a room,” Colette said, sniffing.

Anna spun toward her abigail. “Surely you don’t mean there is no fire in your room.”

Colette nodded.

“Come, show me your room,” Anna instructed, her eyes flashing with anger as she leaped to her feet and headed toward the door.

Colette led Anna to a tiny, dark chamber on the fourth floor. Anna looked over the musty smelling quarters with dismay. The floors were of cold stone, with no rugs. A tiny straw bed took up most of the small room, which had just one casement, where cold air whistled through a jagged crack. There was no fireplace.

Her lips compressed in anger, Anna said, “This will never do.”

Amidst a flurry of French protests from Colette, Anna stormed toward the dowager’s royal blue chamber, where she found Lydia joining her mother, doing needlework before a crackling fire. The dowager directed a frosty gaze at Anna as her daughter-in-law entered the room unannounced.

“My lady,” Anna said breathlessly, “I must speak to you about an important matter.”

The dowager did not ask Anna to sit. She merely cast cold blue eyes at her, then continued with her sewing. “And what is that, pray tell?” She ran her needle into the linen as she spoke.

“Of the sadly inadequate room that has been allocated to Colette.”

“To whom?” the dowager asked calmly.

Anna, knowing very well the dowager knew to whom she referred, bit back a derogatory retort. Honey, not vinegar, Anna cautioned herself. She would use honey to get what she wanted. “My dear maid, my lady. I fear I have spoiled her excessively these many years. She is unused to staying in a chamber where there is no fire. Her constitution is rather delicate. If you cannot find a servant’s room with a fireplace, then I may have to insist on moving her into the guest room down the hall.”

An amused smile crossed Lydia’s face at this announcement, Anna noted, but Lydia stifled it before her mother noticed.

The dowager raised her brows at Anna’s suggestion. “I am unused to French customs. Your servants mingle with their betters?”

Anna fought back her seething anger. “I am not French, Mother. I merely want to provide my maid what she is used to.”

Avoiding Anna’s eyes, the dowager said, “I am ignorant of the fourth floor, but there must be some rooms with fireplaces. What do you know, Lydia?”

Lydia got to her feet. “There are several. I will see to it that Colette is moved into better quarters.”

“And, please,” Anna said to Lydia, “see to it there is a rug on her floor.”

~   ~   ~

DRESSED IN A DEEP, rose velvet pelisse trimmed in soft white fur at the collar and cuffs and down the front, Anna glided down the staircase, her hand tucked into a fur muff while her bonnet dangled from the other hand. Haverstock and Morgie watched her from the foot of the stairs, admiration in their gazes.

“How lovely you look, my dear,” Haverstock said, bowing over her hand and pressing it to his lips. “Do me the goodness to entertain Morgie while I change into more suitable attire.”

He mounted the stairs as she turned her attention to Morgie, whose well cut coat of dark blue superfine represented the understated elegance for which Morgie was noted. “Won’t you come with me to the morning room, Mr. Morgan?”

As soon as they sat down, Morgie said, “Good effect you have on Haverstock. Don’t know when I’ve seen him leave that office while it was still light outside. Man works too deuced hard.”

“I agree with you most emphatically. I’m attempting to persuade him not to work so hard, but I fear it is a losing battle, Mr. Morgan.”

He nodded. “Please call me Morgie. Everyone does.”

“Very well, Morgie.”

“I must apologize for intruding on your ride. Newlyweds and all that. But Haverstock insisted.”

“Of course he did, and glad I am of it,” Anna said. “Charles has told me how you are his dearest friend, and I am grateful that he means to advance my friendship with you.”

He cast his eyes downward, turning his hat in his hands. “I must also apologize for my state of inebriation that day on Grosvenor Square.”

Stung by her guilt over that day’s events, Anna spoke gently. “You have nothing to apologize for. In fact, I should apologize to you for forcing so much liquor on you. I shall have to plead ignorance of the world. You see, I am not only an orphan but also an only child and have not been at all in society. I had no idea how a gentlewoman was to act. Then, too, I was rattled over having so eligible a gentleman in my parlor.”

Morgie colored at this.

“I hope we will become friends,” Anna said as her husband opened the door.

Haverstock said, “That, too, is my most sincere hope.” Anna felt a pang in her chest as she gazed at his virile good looks.

“Sorry to learn she’s an only child,” Morgie said, rising. “Was hoping she had a sister.”

Linking her arm to Charles’s first and then to Morgie’s, Anna said, “I don’t, but Charles has four. I am sure he would be most happy to make you a brother.”

“Never thought of that,” Morgie said as they reached the front door that was held open by a footman. “Course those three little ones are rather young for me, and Lydia is…” he cast a quick look at Haverstock.

“And Lydia has no desire to marry,” Haverstock finished.

In the phaeton, Haverstock took the ribbons. “How did your morning go, my dear?” he asked.

“Oh, very well. The girls will unquestionably be the best dressed on the Marriage Mart this year. I feel so very badly, though, that Lydia got nothing. You know Charles, I’ve been thinking…”

“Better watch out, old chap,” Morgie interjected.

Anna smiled at Morgie and continued. “Being city-bred, I know nothing about horses, but couldn’t you select a mount for Lydia? The two of you could take morning rides in the park. I think she would love that.”

She watched as a smile brightened Haverstock’s face. “I believe she would. I’ll go to Tatt’s tomorrow.”

“I say, wouldn’t mind tagging along.” Morgie turned to Anna. “Haverstock’s noted for his knowledge of horseflesh.”

“No doubt Lydia was heavily influenced by her older brother,” Anna said.

The entrance to Hyde Park was a great bottleneck where conveyances of all kinds politely took turns at entering. Haverstock and Morgie tipped their hats to any number of minor acquaintances.

From beneath hooded eyes, Haverstock cast a quick glance at Anna. The white, fur-lined brim of her rose silk bonnet provided a perfect frame for her lovely face and its fringe of dark ringlets. Her rose scent seemed far sweeter than all the flowers lining the beds of Hyde Park. He was very glad indeed to be here with her today. Though he wished it were sunny, he was grateful for the absence of rain.

With pride, he introduced his bride to several acquaintances along the way but avoided long conversations that might snare the procession of equipages.

“I say Haverstock,” a voice called.

Haverstock looked ahead a short distance and saw his old friend John Thornton, whose gig was mired in a muddy track just ahead.

“Could you and Morgie give a hand?” Thornton asked. “Can’t seem to budge this old hack.”

Haverstock reined in. “Only too happy to.” He gave the reins to Anna and leaped, along with Morgie, from the gig.

Paying no heed to the mud, the marquess and his friend got behind Thornton’s gig and put their shoulders to it until it advanced, the men shouting their approval as it did so.

The sudden movement of Thornton’s gelding caused one of Anna’s horse to bolt. As it leaped forward, the ribbons were pulled from her hands. She screamed.

Haverstock looked up to see the phaeton careening off at great speed. God in heaven, what was I thinking? Hadn’t she just told him she didn’t know anything about horses?

He cursed and ran after the gig, able to think of nothing, save Anna’s body crushed from a horrible spill.

He sprinted after the runaway carriage, but the gray only gained ground on him. In bitter futility, he stopped and tried to catch his breath, his eyes never leaving the phaeton and the terrified woman in rose velvet.

As the gray came to a wood, it turned as if it were rounding a track and headed back to where Haverstock stood. He stood his ground in the horse’s path and heard Anna scream at him to get out of the way. As the gray’s pounding hooves came upon him, Haverstock stepped aside and leaped at its neck, grabbing both neck and mane and trying to pull himself on the beast’s back. He was dragged several feet before he could throw a leg over the horse’s back and mount it. All the while he heard Anna’s horrifying wail.

Within seconds, he brought the phaeton to a stop. He slid off the horse and in two long strides was in front of Anna, reaching for her with his huge outstretched arms. She threw herself into his protective embrace. He held her trembling body tightly to him, then set her down and spoke in a voice more calm than he felt. “Are you unhurt?”

Her face ashen and voice quivering, she replied, “My lord! You could have been trampled!”

He smiled. “Madam, it appears I need to teach you a thing or two about handling horses.”

Morgie ran up. “God’s teeth! I was bloody worried about both of you! You could have been killed, Charles. Never should have given her the ribbons, old boy. Fool woman—-” He shot an embarrassed glance at Anna. “Beg your pardon, my lady.”

Anna smiled weakly. “It’s quite all right, Morgie. I am quite the fool when it comes to horses.”

The news of Haverstock’s heroics spread rapidly, and he proceeded to be complimented several dozen times, all of which he found so excessively tedious he cut the ride short and left the park.

TEN

TTHE DAY AFTER Anna was introduced to London society as the bride of the Marquis of Haverstock via their well publicized romp in Hyde Park, a dozen ball invitations arrived by morning post. Anna and her sisters perused them at the breakfast table where, for the first time since Anna had moved in, the dowager joined them.

It was also the first time the dowager spoke directly to Anna. “The best thing about your and Charles’s marriage is that it ensures the two of you escort the girls to the season’s balls, releasing me from that chore. Having already presented four daughters, I am much too old to keep such late hours. The older one gets, the more the comfort of one’s bed beckons.” The dowager added another spoon of sugar to her tea. “And I know Charles is chomping at the bit to display your loveliness to all of London. He obviously wasted no time in commissioning your miniature.”

That was as close to a compliment as Anna suspected she would ever get from her mother-in-law.

“It turned out quite nicely,” Lydia said. “Though one must admit the artist had a lovely subject.”

Feeling uncomfortable, Anna changed the subject. “Mother, you must instruct me on which invitations we are to accept.”

The expression on the dowager’s face softened as she reached for the invitations, eyed them hurriedly, then discarded five that would have to be turned down. The others she handed to Anna with instructions that Lord Haverstock would attend these.

Though her mother-in-law assured Anna that Haverstock’s secretary could handle the correspondence, Anna personally wrote notes of regret after breakfast to the rejected five, explaining there were previous engagements for those nights.

~   ~   ~

COLETTE’S HAPPY ANTICIPATION of the Wentworth Ball reminded Anna of a child excitedly awaiting Christmas. The old abigail smiled and hummed as she swept back Anna’s dark hair, allowing a halo of ringlets to fall around Anna’s face. “If only I could see how you outshine all the others, cheri,” Colette said.

“You are most decidedly prejudiced.” Anna peered into the looking glass, quite satisfied over Colette’s artistry.

When Colette finished fashioning Anna’s hair, she assisted her in dressing.

“Pray, how do you like your new quarters?” Anna asked.

“Tres bien,” Colette said as she removed the dress from its hanger. “It is not dreary like the other because on a corner it is, and sunlight comes through windows on two sides.”

“I am very happy to hear that,” Anna said.

“And lovely new carpet is now on the floor.”

Colette helped Anna into the dress, then fastened the satin buttons which ran down the back.

Anna stood back to observe her appearance in the cheval glass. The gown’s sarcenet overskirt split down the front to reveal the contrasting silk of the underskirt. Where the overskirt split, wide gold bands gave the impression of an inverted V. The same gold banding edged the train that flowed from the back.

Colette fumbled through Anna’s drawer and brought out long white satin gloves which she handed to Anna before standing back to admire her charge in full length. “Oh, mon cheri, you are most beautiful.”

The last touch was to fasten in Anna’s hair a gold band from which three white ostrich feathers swept upward.

“If only your mama could see you,” Colette said. “She would be so happy.”

With a poignant smile, Anna whispered, “She sees.”

Anna sat down before her dressing table to slip on gold and white slippers as a tap sounded on her door, and Haverstock entered the dressing room. He wore a well cut royal blue velvet coat with diamond buttons over a white shirt and white knee breeches.

Anna smiled at her husband as she thanked Colette and dismissed her.

Haverstock moved toward Anna, unable to take his eyes from her. Her loveliness never failed to captivate him, whether it be watching her sleep under dawn’s hazy glow or admiring her in promenade attire as she chatted merrily with his sisters. When he was close enough to smell her rose water, he felt a sense of heady intoxication. He trailed a finger along the satin smoothness of her shoulder.

“I have brought you something,” he murmured, holding out a velvet box the size of a loaf of bread.

She took it and opened it. Dozens of diamonds sparkled in the candlelight. “It’s the most beautiful necklace I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s yours for a lifetime. My mother has reluctantly relinquished the jewels to the new marchioness.” He reached to unfasten the necklace. “Allow me to clasp this on your most exquisite neck, Lady Haverstock.”

When he finished, he said, “Now, if you please, rise so that I might determine if you will do.”

“I am sure I will do, my lord, for your mother herself cast approval on this gown,” Anna said with false confidence as she stood.

Haverstock circled her. “I can see I will be the envy of every man at Lord Wentworth’s tonight.”

Her amused eyes met his. “I hope I don’t bring you embarrassment.”

“I beg that you avoid the card room, my dear,” he said teasingly. “It wouldn’t do at all for Lady Haverstock to relieve my friends of their money.”

“I shall endeavor to obey you, my master.”

He looked down into her laughing eyes and kissed her softly.

~   ~   ~

HER HUSBAND’S obvious pride in her did much to relieve Anna’s fears over her reception at the Wentworth’s. For apprehension had made her sick all week. Details of her background by now trickled off the tongues of the ton, she knew. She kept remembering the scathing words she had heard her husband’s father utter behind closed doors on that cold January day half a decade earlier. The daughter of a whore will not attend school with my daughters. Would others also wish to avoid tainting their women with her presence? Would she be snubbed at the Wentworth ball?

As they sat in the dark carriage waiting for the queue in front of them to unload their finely dressed ladies and gentlemen at the Wentworths’, Charlotte said, “I am so very nervous.”

“You will do well,” her brother assured. “I have never seen you more lovely.” His eyes traveled over her virginal looking white gown.

“Charles never said such kind words to me last year when I came out,” a pouting Cynthia said.

Kate answered, “Oh Charles is much kinder and more appreciative of beauty since he married.”

“The three of you are quite beautiful,” Anna added, trying to instill in her sisters the confidence she lacked.

As Charlotte proceeded to voice her fears of being a wallflower, Anna’s thoughts turned to her own fears—fears far greater than the embarrassment of not having a dancing partner.

Finally, their barouche pulled in front of the stately house where footmen posted like sentries on every other step all the way to the opened doorway. Anna’s apprehension accelerated, as did her heartbeat, when she gave her hand to her husband and alighted from the carriage.

They passed through the doorway into a brightly lit room. Her eyes flitted to the flickering chandeliers laden with rings and rings of tapers. In this room alone, Anna guessed, over a thousand candles burned.

At the opposite end of the massive hall, Lord and Lady Wentworth greeted their guests. While Anna and Haverstock waited in the reception line, Anna felt certain her husband could hear the rapid pounding of her heart. The next few minutes were critical. A smile and a kind word from Lord or Lady Wentworth assured Anna of an acceptable reception. Coldness sealed her doom.

Soon, she was face to face with her host and hostess, whom she judged to be old enough to be her parents. Anna found herself staring at Lady Wentworth’s diamond necklace, oddly wondering how the woman’s slender neck was not misshapen from the weight of the spectacular jewels.

“It is my great pleasure, Lord and Lady Wentworth, to present you to my wife,” Haverstock said.

Anna shyly stepped forward and curtsied.

“You did well to marry her before the season,” Lord Wentworth said in a fatherly voice to Haverstock, “for one of her beauty would not have lasted long.”

“I am aware of my good fortune,” Haverstock said.

Lady Wentworth took Anna’s hand. “London is abuzz with the story of Haverstock’s heroic rescue of you in the park. We are very happy to meet you at last, my dear.”

“Thank you, my lady. Being here tonight is very special, not only for me but also for our sister, Lady Charlotte. This is her first ball.” Anna reached for Charlotte and presented her.

With the dreaded introduction behind her, Anna squeezed her husband’s hand as they climbed the marble staircase. Haverstock introduced her throughout the upstairs ballroom.

Had Anna not been so confident in her appearance, she would have been mortified at her reception. Men and woman alike stopped conversations and stared at Anna as she walked by on her husband’s arm.

It took nearly an hour to make their way across the crowded room. Anna stiffened when she saw the bald head of Sir Henry Vinson amidst a group of men against the far wall. He met her gaze and smiled, walking toward Anna and Haverstock.

“My dear Anna, how lovely you look,” Sir Henry greeted.

Haverstock looked puzzled. “You know my wife?”

“Yes, we are very old friends. I have known her since she was but a baby,” Sir Henry said, “and I must tell you, Haverstock, she was beautiful then, too.”

Anna detected an uneasiness in her husband in Sir Henry’s presence. Haverstock soon directed his gaze a bit farther away and excused himself and his wife, saying he had to speak to a friend.

Haverstock found seats for his wife and sisters and left them to get ratafia.

As he passed Sir Henry, Haverstock invited the man to have a smoke with him on the balcony of the adjoining room.

On the balcony that faced Berkeley Square, Sir Henry accepted a cigar Haverstock offered, and the two men stood smoking in the chilled air.

“You are wondering why I wanted a private word with you?” Haverstock said, blowing out a pungent puff of smoke.

“Yes.”

“It pains me to admit I have not been completely truthful to my very satisfactory wife,” Haverstock said. “Anna does not know of my post in the Foreign Office.”

Sir Henry took a long drag on his cigar. “I see.”

“I beg that she will not learn of it from you.”

“The nature of our work makes secrecy a necessity, my good man,” Sir Henry said.

Haverstock tossed his cigar away. “I am glad we agree on that.”

~   ~   ~

WHEN HE RETURNED to the ballroom, Haverstock found his wife and sisters surrounded by admiring men clamoring for dancing partners. “I claim my wife for the first dance,” he announced, holding out his hand for Anna.

Though conversations hummed from every part of the room, Anna felt as if her every footstep echoed on the wooden floor as she followed her husband to join the other dancers. The pounding in her chest returned. Dancing with a dancing master in her own drawing room was altogether different than doing the quadrille with a host of strangers and an even greater host of onlookers. But Haverstock put her at ease, teasing her about the flock of men who had already begged to stand up with her. She was so relaxed in his company she did not even have to think about the dance steps. They came naturally. And not once did her feet betray her.

Her feet did begin to hurt after an hour of non-stop dancing. She was most thankful when she could finally sit down. She sat alone, fanning herself rapidly in a vain attempt to displace the room’s heat while tying to spot her sisters on the dance floor. But it was her husband—so much taller than all the others—who stood out most as he danced with Kate. Anna felt a flash of pride as she watched him. His manliness made all the elegant dandies look like fops. And though he did not warm to the social whirl, he performed satisfactorily at every level from dancing to conversing.

A man smelling of sandalwood came and sat next to Anna. She turned and saw it was an exquisitely dressed Morgie. “How very good it is to see you here,” she said with pleasure.

“I confess to holding no great fondness for such events,” he said, “but Haverstock demanded I come. Seems he wanted to guarantee his sisters would be assured of dancing partners.”

“How very sweet of him, though his fears were completely unnecessary. The girls have danced every dance.”

Morgie watched the dance floor. “Terrible cravat on Weatherford,” he murmured. “Wonder how much Tolivar paid Prangle to dance with his fat sister?”

“Morgie, you are so very wicked.”

“Not wicked. Just honest.”

“And critical. Pray, what would you say about me if I were on the dance floor now?”

“Don’t criticize friends—not that I could find anything disparaging to say about you.”

“I am glad we are friends.”

“I see Kate and Charlotte and Cynthia. Where’s Lydia?”

“She did not wish to come.”

“I’ve always said she was the smartest of the lot.”

“You are quite honest. And correct.”

Sir Henry’s voice broke in. “Ah, Lady Haverstock, how good it is to find you seated. I beg you will grant me this dance.”

Anna excused herself to Morgie, stood up and took Sir Henry’s proffered hand, limping slightly because her left foot had blistered.

“Are you all right, Anna?” Sir Henry asked.

“It is just that my feet are unused to the dancing.”

“Then we must sit this one out,” he suggested, leading her from the room, down a cool marble hall and into an asparagus green library.

Seeing that there was no one else in the room, Anna came to an abrupt halt. It would do her reputation no good to be found alone with a man who was not her husband. “I beg that we return immediately to the ballroom. My husband would not approve of me meeting with another gentleman here.”

Ignoring her request, Sir Henry moved to close the door. “But, my lady, an authority much higher than your husband demands that you hear what I have to impart.”

Trembling, she sank into a chair.

ELEVEN

HIS EYES NARROW, Sir Henry watched Anna gaze up into her husband’s face while they danced. Only when the marquess was her partner did Anna come alive with laughing eyes and a relaxed grace. Sir Henry noted the way she tenderly caressed Haverstock’s broad shoulder, the way their hands locked in a familiar clasp, the way she casually brushed a stray lock of dark brown hair from her husband’s forehead. Damn. The woman’s fallen in love with her husband!

After hearing of Haverstock’s heroic rescue of Anna in the park, Sir Henry suspected the marquess was excessively fond of his wife. But now he knew Haverstock’s feelings toward Anna far exceeded fondness. Even when she danced with others, Haverstock’s eyes followed his wife with every beat of the music as she glided through throngs of richly dressed dancers.

What a fool he had been not to have anticipated this unwanted complication. The girl would be far less pliable now. He would have to be very careful how he manipulated her. At this point, it wouldn’t do at all to suggest any harm could befall her husband. Just simple revelations about his supposed activities would suffice. When Anna helped him uncover the identity of Haverstock’s accomplices, a tidy sum could come his way.

Later that evening, Sir Henry found her and quietly escorted her from the ballroom to the library. He lowered his voice. “You must find out the identity of your husband’s contacts in London. Information your husband’s passed has cost thousands of British lives. We must stop them.”

“Even my husband?”

He shook his head. “He’s far too valuable.”

“I have learned nothing at all in these weeks we’ve been married.”

“You must find a way, my dear. And soon. Despite that he and I—both of us being fluent in French—oversee espionage operations, your husband fiercely protects his contacts, even from me. He’s obsessed in his drive for success. Few men trusted him—because of his father. The former marquess’s arrogance cost him dearly. He always had to be superior to everyone, had to have the best, bet the most, lose the heaviest. It came to the point where he refused to pay his gaming debts. The son has been driven to clear the tarnish from his family name even at the cost of his country. His coldness extends to everyone. He trusts no one, except Ralph Morgan.”

“Did Morgie accompany Charles to France?”

Sir Henry nodded. “Those two are closer than most brothers. I’ve heard that Haverstock came to Morgie’s defense when the two were just boys at Eton. Seems Morgie suffered greatly because he descended from Jews. As the story goes, Haverstock saved Morgie as he was undergoing a vicious beating by several chaps. The fellows all looked up to Haverstock. He was a viscount then and a full head taller than all his classmates. To this day, Morgie fairly worships your husband. Were Haverstock desirous of using his friend’s head for target practice, I have no doubt Mr. Morgan would oblige.”

“Yet you don’t believe Morgie knows about Charles’s treason?”

“I think not. The Morgans have a deep hatred for the French, particularly since Boney robbed them of their Prussian holdings.”

Sir Henry rose abruptly. “We must return to the ballroom,” he said, offering her his hand, “before your husband misses you. From now on we will meet at noon every Wednesday at Hookam’s.”

The library door burst open, and Anna saw the dark giant who was her husband standing in the doorway, his mouth an angry grim line, his eyes flashing. She felt as if the air had squeezed from her lungs.

Haverstock directed a steely gaze at Sir Henry. “I wish to speak privately with my wife.”

“By all means. I’ve been regaling Lady Haverstock with tales of her youth.” Though he was a tall man, Sir Henry seemed small as he swept past Haverstock to exit the library.

~   ~   ~

HAVERSTOCK HAD BEEN pleased when he was dancing with his sister to observe his wife and Morgie engaged in conversation. When he looked back a minute later, he noticed her gone. A deep frown etched Haverstock’s face as he spotted the back of Sir Henry’s bald head and saw him leading Anna from the ballroom.

He had never warmed to Sir Henry, though he was forced to work closely with him. Haverstock could not fault Sir Henry’s efforts. Despite that the man had spent much of his life in France, he was a true patriot to the English crown. He was accepted everywhere, including in the beds of half the matrons in London.

Perhaps it was Sir Henry’s treatment of women that rankled Haverstock. He cast off mistresses without even a small settlement, and he divulged intimacies about married women that no man of honor would countenance.

That Sir Henry directed his attentions on Anna displeased Haverstock excessively. His concern mounting, he could hardly wait for the dance to be over so he could go to his wife.

When the dance finished, he looked for Anna and Sir Henry at the refreshments table but did not find them. With growing concern and anger, he searched for them on the empty balcony.

Blast the woman! He had let her impeccable taste and cultured voice fool him into thinking she was a every inch a lady, when at her first ball she behaved as a strumpet.

Now that he had found her in Lord Wentworth’s library, Haverstock itched to crash a fist into Sir Henry’s face and drag his errant wife from the house. But he refused to give fodder to the gossip mongers.

His face rigid, Haverstock closed the library door and spoke with controlled anger. “You have conducted yourself in a totally improper manner, Lady Haverstock. Closeting yourself alone in a room with any man is a breech of propriety, but to do so with a bachelor who is noted for his dalliances with married women is inexcusable.”

“But, surely—”

He cut her off. “You and I both know there was no love on your part when you schemed to become my wife, but since you are my wife, I will expect you to give every indication of being a faithful mate. Is that clear?”

Anna nodded. “I see now that my behavior was deplorable.” Her voice cracked. “I will endeavor to conduct myself in an acceptable manner if you can only forgive me.”

She could portray innocence most convincingly, he thought as he led her from the library.

The remainder of the ball, Haverstock hovered possessively over his wife, attempting to appear jovial to counteract any unpleasant rumors that could have resulted from his wife’s tete-a-tete with Sir Henry.

But on the carriage ride home, he dropped the artifice. While his sisters chatted merrily, he sulked.

“Did you not find Captain Smythe to be quite the most dashing man at the ball, Kate?” Cynthia asked.

“Indeed. A pity he’s only a second son.”

“La!” Cynthia said. “I would not care were he to show a preference for me for I think he’s positively the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.” Turning to her younger sister, she said, “I vow, Charlotte, you danced every dance and not twice with anyone.”

“I did dance twice with Mr. Hogart,” Charlotte said quietly.

“Was that the man with the terribly ill-fitting coat?” Kate asked.

“You cannot judge a man merely by his clothes,” Charlotte defended.

“But really, he stood out like a sty on the eye,” Kate said.

“I’ve never heard of Mr. Hogart,” Cynthia added. “What kind of family is he from? Do you know anything of him, Charles?”

Haverstock snapped to attention. “Who?”

“Mr. Hogart,” Cynthia chided.

“Never heard of him,” Haverstock said gloomily.

“Well, I can tell you all about him,” Charlotte said, her eyes sparkling. “He has neither money nor family, but he is wonderfully kind. He is quite pious and plans to become a minister.”

Kate rolled her eyes. “Charlotte, my dear, you can do far better. Pray, do not encourage the poor man.”

“If he should do me the goodness of calling, I assure you I will be all that is amiable to him,” Charlotte said with spunk.

Anna applauded Charlotte’s deep goodness but deemed it wisest to keep her own views private for fear of angering Kate or Cynthia. Besides, she did not feel like talking. She still stung from her husband’s words. Schemed to become my wife. No love on your part.

With those thoughts—and Sir Henry’s instructions—keeping her awake, Anna was unable to sleep. She heard Charles in his dressing room, but he never came to her. It was the first night since she had been at Haverstock House that Charles did not share her bed.

~   ~   ~

LYDIA AND HER BROTHER, fresh from riding in the park, joined Anna in the breakfast room the following morning.

“Oh, Anna,” Lydia said excitedly, “the chestnut Charles bought me is undoubtedly the best piece of horseflesh in London. Charles said she was your idea, and I do most gratefully thank you.”

“Seeing your face so lively is thanks enough,” Anna said. Davis entered the room and directed his gaze at Haverstock. “Her ladyship requests your presence in her chamber, my lord.”

~   ~   ~

“YOU SENT FOR ME?” Haverstock asked, striding into his mother’s gilded chamber where she took a breakfast tray in bed. He noted the grim set to her face. Even in her youth, his mother had not been a beauty. But she possessed what his father wanted in a wife. She was the daughter of earl who settled a generous dowry, and she bore him seven children while maintaining a cool detachment from her husband.

“Sit down,” she commanded, her voice sharp.

He did as bid.

“I have been delivered a letter this morning—never mind who sent it. It informs me of your wife’s deplorable conduct last night. You have brought me untold disappointment in your choice of a wife, Charles. Once a whore, always a whore.”

Overcome with rage, Haverstock rose and towered over his mother. His voice quivered with anger. “I will not allow you to speak of my wife in such a manner. She is a total innocent. If she behaved with impropriety last night, it was because she is ignorant in the ways of the ton.”

“She has bewitched you,” the dowager said with disgust. “We cannot have the daughter of that horrible woman bear the title Marchioness of Haverstock. Divorce her before she can become the mother of the future marquess. Don’t you see, Charles?”

“I see that you are dangerously close to breaking the bond of my filial duty, Mother. My wife made an innocent mistake. Do not speak so of Anna again.”

He turned on his heel and left the room.

TWELVE

TODAY, MORE THAN ANY TIME since her mother’s death, Anna was in a blue funk. A terrible one. She had not slept at all the night before.

Over and over she had remembered the harshness of Charles’s words spoken in anger—anger she richly deserved. She wondered how she could learn from Charles the truth about his activities when he refused even to share her bed. At the core of her misery was fear over what would happen to him if she betrayed him.

Perhaps by going to the East End she could purge herself of self-pity.

On her way back to Mayfair after her visit to the East End, Anna lacked her usual feeling of satisfaction. She had brightened one day in their lives but had done nothing to improve their lot. Poverty bred poverty. These people had no skills, no knowledge. They were locked in a never-ending cycle of misfortune. If only they could learn trades to earn a living wage. But how could they?

She had an idea. She and Colette were skilled at needlework. Perhaps they could provide fine fabrics and threads and instruct the women. As their skills increased, the seamstresses might even be able to get commissions to sew for the upper classes. Her idea snowballed, and Anna’s gloom shed like layers of an onion. Some of the women—with her assistance—would be able to open shops. A modiste. A milliner. A tailor. Glove maker. Purveyor of fine christening gowns.

Her eyes sparkling, Anna turned to Colette. “You and I are going to open a school for seamstresses in White Chapel.”

An understanding smile lifted Colette’s weathered face. “Tres bien. That is an idea most good, my lady.”

~   ~   ~

HAVERSTOCK STIFLED A YAWN as he attempted to decode a message from one of his men in the field. He had fitfully tossed and turned throughout the night, unable to sleep, fighting the yearning to go to Anna. Yet, his anger stopped him. No, anger was not the right emotion. Disillusionment was closer to the mark. His wife was an enigma. On the one hand, she was the loving innocent with whom he shared a touching intimacy; on the other, a scheming hoyden who got Morgie drunk and most likely cheated to take possession of his substantial funds. This same hoyden had conducted herself like a trollop at Lord Wentworth’s.

As he had done so many times before, Haverstock wondered why Anna so fiercely wanted Morgie’s money when her own fortune supplied everything she could ever need. Perhaps his mother had been right. Something about Anna’s innocence did not ring true. While he cherished the maidenhead she brought to their marriage bed, he questioned her scruples. Was she a scheming seductress who delighted in manipulating men? Was he, indeed, bewitched by the daughter of Annette de Mouchet?

The thought disturbed him. Until last night when her actions enraged him, he had been totally smitten with her. Did she know what power she held over him? What a weakling he had been for a lovely face and soft, compliant body. Well, he would show her! He would have to resist the temptation of her lovemaking and free himself of the bonds of her entrapment.

He could never free himself with the divorce his mother so eagerly sought. After all, Anna was his wife. She could be carrying his child at this very minute. Lord knows they had ample opportunities to conceive. He would always be responsible for her.

He vowed to devote himself so much to his work he would have little time to dwell on Anna and her bewitchment. If he did not have to behold her loveliness, he could resist her and maintain his dignity. He would be safe from her charms while he continued to take her into society, but he would not himself be alone with her. And she would never again have the opportunity to humiliate him as she had done with Sir Henry.

His thoughts turned to his work, still troubled over Monsieur Hebert’s announcement that a traitor lurked in the London office. Who could it be? If only he could learn the wretched creature’s identity.

~   ~   ~

THE POSIES BEGAN ARRIVING at Haverstock House long before the gentlemen sending them started calling on the lovely sisters, putting the household in a flurry of excitement. Abigails scurried about with freshly pressed dresses and hair combs in an effort to render the ladies suitably attired to greet their bevy of admirers.

It fell to Anna to provide chaperonage, since the dowager had made known her own refusal to leave her chamber. As Lydia conveyed her mother’s message to Anna, she blundered. “I declare I do not know what has come over Mother these past weeks. She seldom leaves her room. Why, since Charles’s marriage—”

Anna’s stricken face halted Lydia in mid sentence.

“Oh, I am so very sorry, Anna,” Lydia whispered, her face flaming.

“I daresay your mother cannot help but resent me.”

Lydia walked to the dressing table where Anna sat and embraced her sister-in-law. “Give her time,” Lydia said. “When Mother knows you better, she will accept you as she does her own daughters.”

“Forgive me for saying I do not find that comforting, given what I perceive as your mother’s lack of maternal affection.”

Lydia sank on Anna’s bed, her brows plunging together. “You are right. Mother has never been overly affectionate to her daughters. I believe it was because her own mother died when she was but a toddler. She had no example of motherly devotion. All of her love was directed at her sister, Aunt Margaret. You know Aunt Margaret was your father’s wife?”

Anna’s eyes widened. “I did not,” she said softly. “It explains so very much.”

“Mama and Aunt Margaret were like two bodies sharing one heart. When Aunt Margaret suffered in her marriage, Mother felt it just as keenly. I believe it is because of your mother’s role in Aunt Margaret’s unhappiness that mother resents you.”

Anna nodded solemnly and did not speak for some time. “You said your mother has shown little affection to her daughters. What about her sons?”

“Though you have probably observed little evidence of it, Mother has always been terribly wrapped up in Charles. He always had to have the best. He had to be at the top of his class. And Charles being Charles, he endeavored to please. Only in his choice of a wife was he not guided by her. She has always made it clear she wanted him to marry Lady Jane Wyeth.” Meeting Anna’s pensive gaze, Lydia added, “I don’t think the woman has been born who would be good enough for Charles in Mother’s eyes.”

Anna’s chamber door whipped open, and Charlotte came flying into the room, wearing a posy of wilted pansies. “Oh, Anna, Mr. Hogart is downstairs as we speak. Can you please accompany me now?”

Though Anna wanted to know more about Lady Jane Wyeth, this was no time to ask. She rose from the dressing table, giving a last fleeting glance into her looking glass at her peach-colored muslin. “Of course.” Turning to Lydia, she asked, “Do you accompany us?”

“I wouldn’t think of missing the opportunity to meet the paragon, Mr. Hogart.”

By the time the three ladies entered the saloon, several other expectant young bucks awkwardly occupied chairs throughout the room. As hostess, Anna greeted them first, then ordered tea. Within minutes Cynthia and Kate—both dressed to perfection in Madam Devreaux’s creations—sailed into the room with smiling faces.

To Anna’s astonishment, Kate fixed her attention on a Mr. Reeves, whom Anna judged to be forty years old. He possessed neither title nor good looks. He squeezed into clothing he must have worn when he weighed two stone less. His fleshy chin sunk into his highly starched cravat, and the top of his balding head reflected the afternoon sun that shafted into the room.

Anna watched with interest as Cynthia singled out the dashing Captain Smythe, who appeared to appreciate Cynthia’s fair beauty as much as Cynthia was attracted to his handsomeness. Anna appreciated Cynthia’s taste. Captain Smythe’s broad shoulders filled his red coat with its highly polished buttons. He was tall and dark with a ready smile and elegant manners.

Though Anna knew with certainty four men now in this room had sent flowers to Charlotte, Charlotte chose to wear the pitiful bouquet sent from the modest Mr. Hogart. Anna observed that no one except Charlotte spoke to the common-looking man and was reminded of Kate’s remark that he stuck out like a sty on the eye. Indeed, the poor man was as out of place with these pinks of the ton as a briar patch at Kew Gardens.

Except for his limp white shirt, he dressed entirely in black, in clothing that had long ago fallen from fashion. A slight man of medium height, he looked much younger than the other men in the room. His hair was still a pale blond, framing a too-earnest face. Despite his lack of fashionable clothes, Mr. Hogart, with his clear blue eyes and fine nose, exuded an elegance of person. Anna decided she quite liked the boy.

“Charlotte tells me you plan to be a minister,” Anna said to Mr. Hogart as she handed him his tea. “Church of England?”

He clumsily took the cup. “No, my lady. I am a Methodist.”

The banter of a dozen young people suddenly stopped and all eyes riveted to the ill-dressed Mr. Hogart. Had he said he was a Buddhist, they could not have been more repelled, Anna thought.

“How very interesting,” Anna said, forcing a smile. “I confess to having found Mr. Wesley’s tracts rather thought provoking.”

“If only my parents were as enlightened as you,” Hogart said. “They do not approve of my choice.”

“What is it they wanted for you?” Charlotte asked timidly, admiration in her eyes.

“My father had hoped I would take over his farms.”

“He is a squire?” Anna asked.

He nodded.

Turning her attention to Captain Smythe, Anna asked him to tell the gathering about his activities on the Peninsula, which he did, fully enrapturing Cynthia. Even Kate, who scorned him as a second son, seemed to hang on his every word.

As darkness began to fall, Haverstock entered the salon, his eyes meeting Anna’s first, then addressing the visiting gentlemen.

Anna noted with pride that he did not scorn Mr. Hogart as the others had. She scooted over on the sofa so Charles could sit next to her, but he remained standing, pacing the room. He refused Anna’s offer of tea and seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts.

After the callers took their leave, the sisters queried Haverstock.

“Did you find Captain Smythe to be possessed of all that is agreeable?” Cynthia asked.

“Though Mr. Hogart is much reserved, I could tell you liked him,” Charlotte said. “Didn’t you, Charles?”

Haverstock stroked his sisters with the responses they desired. Meeting Kate’s gaze, he said, “Did I detect a preference on your part for Mr. Reeves?”

She nodded, her lashes coyly sweeping downward.

“How can this be?” Charlotte asked. “You spurned the man two seasons ago.”

“But that was before it was known that he stood to succeed Blassingame’s dukedom. It seems His Grace of Blassingame failed to sire sons,” Kate said. “And Mr. Reeves is his nephew,” she announced brightly.

Cynthia whirled at her elder sister. “Do you mean to say you would marry Mr. Reeves solely to become a duchess?”

Kate held her shoulders regally, her eyes dancing. “Why should I be content to be a mere lady when I could be a duchess?”

“That is positively irksome!” Charlotte protested.

“You won’t find it so irksome when I am addressed as Her Grace,” Kate said, strolling toward the doors. “I don’t know about you girls, but I for one must select a gown for tonight.”

Her sisters began discussing what they would wear as they followed Kate from the room.

Anna turned warm eyes to her husband. “Won’t you come to my chamber, Charles?”

“I think not, my dear,” he said. “There are matters I must discuss with my secretary.”

Swallowing her disappointment, Anna reminded him of the ball they would attend that night.

“Be assured I will escort you, Anna,” he said, his eyes cold obsidian. “I dare not leave you alone lest you seduce every blood in breeches.”

Blood rushed to her cheeks and she hissed, “That’s unfair, Charles!” She lifted her skirts and ran from the room before he could see her cry.

THIRTEEN

ASMILE FIXED ON HER FACE, Anna pretended to listen to her sisters’ chatter in the carriage ride home from the ball, but her thoughts were on her husband, who now sat silently beside her. She had felt like a fairy princess all night as her Charles, her Prince Charming, lavished attentions on her. He had danced with no woman other than her. He had solicitously procured ratafia for her and her sisters whenever they gave the slightest appearance of being thirsty. He had hovered over her all night, his hands caressing or stroking her in a tender fashion.

But now, with no one but family to observe, he shunned her, brooding in his corner of the carriage, and she knew the entire night had been a sham. In public, he would appear the devoted husband while distancing himself from her when they were alone. Why had this bleeding rift occurred between Charles and her? She had to repair it. How else could she learn the truth about his French activities? It was unthinkable to admit there was any other reason for her deep concern.

The swift rounding of a corner pushed Anna against her husband. She felt the heat of him, the comfort of his sturdiness and yearned to feel the length of him pressed against her. Demurely casting her gaze at his somber face, she swallowed her disappointment over his refusal to look at her. With constricted heart, she studied the grim set to his mouth and achingly remembered a time not so many weeks past when those same lips had the power to make her pulse leap with desire.

~   ~   ~

WHEN THEY ARRIVED at Haverstock House, he climbed the stairs beside Anna and wished her a curt good-night at her chamber door.

“There are some matters I hoped to discuss with you,” Anna said. “Won’t you come sit in my chamber for a few minutes?”

He gazed into the wide-eyed innocence of her face. Though he had determined to resist her seductive hold on him, he found no power to deny her simple request.

She led him to the settee by the crackling fire and bid him to sit on it next to her.

“I don’t want to interfere with your morning rides with Lydia,” she began, “but I desire to join you. That day in the park, you did vow to teach me about horses. I would like you to select a calm mount for me and allow me and a groom to accompany you each morning. The groom could instruct me while you and Lydia take a galloping romp.”

He remembered the fear that had gripped him when he had heard her screams and watched, terrified, as the furiously pounding grays carried her away. He remembered the desperation he had felt when he thought he was losing Anna. She did need to learn about handling horses. “You can begin tomorrow,” he said.

“One more thing,” she said. “Will you be taking me back to the park promenade any time soon?” she asked.

“Not in the foreseeable future for my work is most pressing.”

The flicker of disappointment that passed over her face oddly pleased him.

“Then I solicit your permission to ask Morgie to take Lydia and me to the park some afternoons. After my faux pas at the Wentworth Ball, I want to seek your permission before I spend a minute in the presence of another man.”

“Morgie is not another man. You are at liberty to be in Morgie’s presence whenever you like, but I do prefer that you take Lydia along.” He got to his feet and bent over her, placing a chaste peck on her cheek. “I’ll see you in riding habit in the morning, my lady.”

When he reached the door, she called his name.

He turned, cocking an eyebrow.

“Are you still angry at me?”

God’s teeth but he wanted her! “I was not so much mad as disappointed, my dear,” he said, opening the door and leaving the room.

As he tossed restlessly in his big empty bed, he wondered why his power to resist her brought him no joy.

~   ~   ~

DRESSED IN CYNTHIA’S RIDING HABIT, Anna met Lydia in the entry hall the following morning, and the two women sailed past the footman who held open the door. Amidst a shroud of fog, Haverstock and the groom held reign to four horses on the cobblestone street below.

Running his eyes appreciatively over Anna, Haverstock said, “That color becomes you, my dear.”

She glanced at the deep green velvet. “I borrowed it from Cynthia.” Fighting back tears when her husband had curtly taken leave of her the night before, Anna had immediately scurried to Cynthia’s room to secure a suitable habit, for the two women were near the same size.

“The bold color suits you far better than Cynthia,” he said, cinching his huge hands about the span of her slim waist and lifting her on to the gray.

Displeased over her husband’s backhanded compliment, Anna shot him a narrowed glance.

He placed the ribbons in her hands. “The first thing you need to learn is that when you pull on these, the horse will slow.” Haverstock nodded at the groom. “Jimmy and I selected this easy stepper for you.”

Anna defiantly turned her attention to the groom. “So you’re Jimmy.” She scrutinized the young man from the top of his curly mop of blond hair to his mud-splattered boots planted firmly on the street. He was tall, though not as tall as Charles, and looked as if his recently sprouted limbs still awaited the meaty flesh that would come with age. She hoped he would suit her plans.

He bowed. “Yes, me lady.”

Stroking her horse’s mane, she asked, “And what is his name?”

Jimmy stifled a laugh. “’is name is Lady Gray.”

“I do hope my ignorance of horses will not try your patience too sorely.”

“I have confidence yer ladyship will be riding with the best of ’em in no time,” the groom said.

Haverstock’s eyes flashed mischievously. “My wife, I have found, is a prodigious student.”

Remembering her husband’s tutelage on lovemaking, Anna felt the heat rise to her cheeks.

Jimmy gave Lydia a leg up while Haverstock mounted his bay, and guided it alongside his wife. He rode next to Anna all the way to the park, soothing her fears and giving her rudimentary instructions about handling horses.

When they reached the park, Anna urged him and Lydia to go on in their usual manner while she and Jimmy stayed back.

Haverstock would not go until he delivered instructions to the groom. “Jimmy, my good man, I leave my wife in your hands. Please see that she doesn’t get herself killed. She knows nothing of horses.”

“Really, Charles,” Lydia said, “You’ll have poor Jimmy afraid to blink his eyes.”

Once Haverstock and his sister were no longer in sight, Anna turned to Jimmy. “I must confess to not being totally honest with you, Jimmy. While I do desire to learn to ride, what I desire most is your help in protecting my husband.”

“Yer husband is a noted whip, me lady. He hardly needs me help.”

“I do not fear he will break his neck. What I fear is that he will stop a musket ball.”

Jimmy’s eyes widened.

“I’m deathly afraid someone means to kill him, and I would like you to keep a protective eye on him.”

“I’ll do more than that, me lady,” he said through gritted teeth. “If I sees anyone trying to harm me master, I’ll kill ’em with me bare hands.”

Anna shot an appreciative glance at his large hands. “I shouldn’t like to put you in danger.”

“Don’t fret over me. We both got to make sure Lord Haverstock stays ’ealthy.” He gave her a knowing wink.

She bestowed a warm smile on the young groom. “Whenever you can free yourself, I wish for you to discreetly follow his lordship. Pay attention to anyone he meets, to anyone who looks suspicious.”

He nodded.

“There’s one other thing, Jimmy. No one else is to know about the danger to my husband.”

“I can hold me tongue.” Digging his heels into his mount’s underbelly and instructing Anna to do the same, he headed off in the direction of Haverstock and Lydia, careful to stay at Anna’s side.

As they advanced down the trail, Anna grew used to the feel of a huge horse beneath her and began to relax. She learned how to make Lady Gray turn to the right and left, how to slow down and speed up. As her confidence increased, she did far more of the latter.

Before long, they saw Haverstock and Lydia some distance away, their horses racing neck-in-neck.

“Never mind about me, Jimmy. I’m feeling quite at ease now with Lady Gray. Watch for anyone who looks suspicious.”

“Ye mean like hiding behind a tree or the like?”

“Exactly.”

Jimmy took to his task like a kitten to warm milk, his attention roused by every man he saw. Keeping Anna close, he cantered off down a shaded lane after a lone equestrian, only to circle back when the well dressed man rode toward the Serpentine.

Presently, Haverstock and Lydia came galloping from a thicket. Anna watched Lydia tenderly stroke her mount’s lathered hide. She watched, too, the lively look of amused affection that passed from brother to sister, and she swallowed hard, jealous that Charles did not share such a bond with her.

Holding her shoulders regally and attempting to appear as if she had been born to ride, Anna rode out to meet her husband.

He slowed and watched appreciatively, then spoke to the groom. “I must commend you. I see my wife is still in one piece.”

“Her ladyship is a right fast learner.”

Haverstock’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “Ah, yes. I have found that to be quite true.” He rode alongside Anna. “You will be galloping with Lydia and I in no time.”

“I fear Lady Gray is giving me false confidence.”

“She’ll do well for you. Have you no fears like so many simpering females do?”

She shook her head. “I find riding most exhilarating. Would that we could be riding at Haymore.”

He shot her a curious glance. “Why such a strong desire to go to the country when you are city bred?”

They left the park and rode two-abreast along the street.

“It is precisely because I have never been in the country I long for clear skies and vast stretches of green as far as the eye can see.” She turned softened eyes on her husband. “And I desire a husband who is rested and given to pleasure seeking rather than one who is determined to work himself to death.”

His brows came together. “Have I been such an ogre?”

She spoke gently. “Never an ogre, Charles. You are almost always all that is kind. I was so very proud of you yesterday when you were the only man who spoke with courtesy to poor Mr. Hogart.”

“What manner of host would I be to ignore a guest in my own home?”

“You obviously did not learn your manners from your father.”

He failed to take her bait. “You said I was almost always kind. Have I hurt you, my dear?”

“I daresay I richly deserved your scathing words at Lord Wentworth’s the other night, but they wounded excessively.”

He remembered reminding her theirs was no love match, telling her to appear faithful. His own foolish anger had caused him to hurt her when, in truth, she had not earned such cruel rebuke. Her only transgression was her total innocence. How innocent she looked now with the early morning light dancing in her dark locks. A fullness expanded in his chest as he thought of her gentle voice and compassion toward the unfortunate Mr. Hogart. She seemed almost childlike in her purity. How it tugged at his heart to know he had caused her pain.

Yet, he had resolved to resist her charms. He had to know who the real Anna was.

~   ~   ~

THAT AFTERNOON Morgie showed up in the Haverstock drawing room, nervously twirling his hat in his hands while begging the marchioness and Lydia to accompany him for the afternoon procession through Hyde Park.

Anna bestowed a grateful smile on him and silently thanked her absent husband for encouraging his friend to escort her. “Oh, Morgie, how very kind of you to take pity on Charles’s neglected wife,” Anna said. “I cannot speak for Lydia, but I assure you a ride in the park would be most welcome to me.”

Morgie’s eyes met Lydia’s.

“I thank you for including me,” Lydia told him as the two women went to get their bonnets.

The sisters sat on either side of Morgie as he took the ribbons. When they left Half Moon Street, Lydia spoke to Anna. “I must warn you Mama has decided to hold a dinner.”

“I am glad she will leave her room,” Anna said.

“But it’s no longer her place to be hostess at Haverstock House,” Lydia protested. “You’re the marchioness now.”

“I am hardly ready to fill your mother’s shoes,” Anna said. “If it’s her desire to introduce me to her friends I cannot fault that.”

“I am sure all of her acquaintances will be there,” Lydia said. “And you, too, Morgie.”

“Depend upon it,” he mumbled. “Promise to be my partner at whist, Lady Lydia.” He shook his head. “Never saw a woman who understood the game as you do. Like a man.”

“Perhaps that is because you and Charles always treated me as one of the fellows,” Lydia said.

A smile curled his lip. “Remember when you were the only girl we allowed in our fort that summer?”

Lydia tossed her head back and laughed. “I suspect, Morgie, you were repaying me for hooking your worm when we went fishing.”

He shuddered as he directed his phaeton to Hyde Park. “Cannot abide those slimy things. Most fortunate to have had you.”

“Speaking of fortunate,” Lydia said, her eyes sparkling with delight, “have you seen my horse?”

“Was with Haverstock when he bid on her at Tatt’s, and uncommon bidding it was, too. Never in all my days saw a beast go for four-hundred guineas.”

“Four-hundred guineas!” Lydia clutched her hand to her ample breast. “Why, that’s a fortune!”

“Your brother can now afford it.”

Anna was thankful he did not elaborate on her wealth.

“Would you like to ride her sometime?” Lydia offered Morgie.

“I should say! That would be jolly good.”

“Charles and I ride every morning just after dawn.”

He winced. “Too bloody early for me.”

“Why, Morgie, I thought you’d be settling down now that Charles has married,” Lydia said.

“You know very well, your brother started settling down four years ago. All he thinks of is work.”

When Morgie returned his passengers to Haverstock House, Anna asked him, “Is your mind quite made up that you will not ride with us in the morning?”

“Quite sure,” he said emphatically. “An afternoon ride is one thing, but rousing myself from slumber to ride in the morning mist is not my idea of pleasure.”

“If you would but try it, I am sure you would like it,” Lydia said.

Morgie wrinkled his nose and frowned.

FOURTEEN

IN THE ABSENCE of her husband’s company, Anna filled the next several days in much the same way. She accompanied Haverstock and Lydia on morning rides in the park. She and Colette worked on establishing their sewing school. And at the fashionable afternoon hour, Morgie would collect her and Lydia for the procession through Hyde Park.

The nights, too, were much the same. Balls and routs with her beaming husband at her side. But in the confines of their home, he ignored her and left her to sleep alone.

As the night of the dowager’s fete approached, the house throbbed with preparations. Bouquets of fresh flowers rose from vases everywhere, silver was polished, hundreds of candles jammed into tiers of crystal chandeliers. The dowager roused early from her chamber each day, dressed in colorful morning gowns, and personally supervised all the preparations. She spent days composing her select guest list, for which she neither solicited nor accepted recommendations. She even ventured a trip in the barouche to Madam Devreaux’s and commissioned herself a lilac gown.

Haverstock was not so busy he neglected to notice his mother’s ministrations. On the morning before the dinner, he stayed behind in the breakfast room to have a private word with her. “It’s good to see you have emerged from your chamber and embraced tomorrow’s party,” he began.

She smiled.

“However, I cannot but feel you are treading on the marchioness’s domain.”

The smile drained from her face, replaced by a cold stare. “I merely want to assure your wife makes the right contacts.”

“I appreciate that, and know Anna lacks the breadth of your acquaintances. But I must remind you this is her home. I beg that you allow her to take her proper place at the table tomorrow night.”

“How could I not when you have so plainly reminded me that my old seat is now Anna’s?” she challenged.

“Very good,” he said through compressed lips. “While you are remembering that, try to remember to treat my wife as if you thought her the crowning jewel in our family coronet.”

“Really, Charles, that is carrying it too far.”

“I think not. She is the wife I have chosen. I am happy with her, and if you cannot be agreeable to the situation, you can find somewhere else to live.

“That horrible woman is going to drive me from my home—from my own son’s affections.”

“She is doing no such thing, and she is not a horrible woman.” Kicking back his chair, he rose swiftly, his face red with anger, and he pointed a finger at his mother. “Not one more word against her. Ever.”

~   ~   ~

AS ANNA BECAME more experienced sitting a horse, Haverstock insisted she ride the trails with him and Lydia, leaving no opportunity for a private word with Jimmy. She particularly wanted to talk with him before her noon meeting with Sir Henry at Hookam’s. The opportunity came when Haverstock and Lydia began to argue over the merits of a pair of horses who were to run against each other at Newmarket that day.

“I shall meet you at the stables after breakfast,” Anna whispered to Jimmy, who nodded.

After breakfast she found Jimmy outside the mews, and he told her Haverstock had neither been followed nor met with anyone who appeared suspicious. “But if anyone ever threatens Lord Haverstock, ye ’ave my word on it, they’ll ’ave to get by me first.”

“You’re a dear,” Anna said sincerely as she stood on her toes to kiss his cheek.

Within two hours Anna was strolling through the book-crammed aisles of Hookam’s where she saw Sir Henry, taller than everyone else, perusing a thick volume in the corner that featured books in Latin.

She was pleased he had selected that section because no one else was there. Brushing past him, she whispered, “I have learned nothing.”

He turned and followed her, grabbing her arm tightly. “It displeases me excessively that you’ve been so useless. We’d have been better off to have taken the fifty-thousand pounds.”

“Unhand me,” she said through gritted teeth, looking around to make sure no one was watching. “I am doing all I can. You forget Charles and I were not at all acquainted when we married. It takes time to build trust.”

“How many more will have to die while you build trust?”

“I refuse to take the blame for the casualties of this dreadful war.” She glared at him before turning on her heel and stalking off.

~   ~   ~

FOLLOWING THE MEETING with his mother, Haverstock angrily threw off his riding clothes and paced to the window of his dressing room where he beheld a curious sight. Anna was walking to the mews. Didn’t the fool woman know a marchioness did not set foot near a stable? Jimmy came out and a few words passed between him and Anna, then Anna stood on her toes, gave the groom a peck on the cheek and turned to walk back to the house.

Haverstock felt as if he had been kicked in the heart. Until this moment, he had always liked Jimmy. The groom had been in Haverstock service since he was a wee lad. Now he had grown into a fine looking young man. He must be eighteen or nineteen. Anna’s age.

God in heaven, surely Anna was not—It was too preposterous to contemplate. There must be some reasonable explanation.

Once again, Haverstock pondered the enigma that was his wife. He longed to know which of her personas was the true Anna. But more than anything, he experienced a strange longing to be the object of her complete devotion. And for the first time since he had married her, he felt completely bereft.

~   ~   ~

“DID YOU SEE MY WIFE this afternoon?” Haverstock asked Morgie, who sat across the table from him at White’s that evening.

“I did, and I seem to recall her telling me you had a fete to attend tonight.” He raised a quizzing brow at his old friend.

Haverstock lifted a glass of brandy and drank. “These events grow tedious. I have decided to spend my evening with you, old chap, and get thoroughly foxed.”

“Haven’t seen you in your cups for the past decade.”

“It’s this blasted marriage. A smart man you are to stay single.”

“Why is it when I see you with Lady Haverstock I have the distinct feeling you’re king of the mountain?” Morgie said wistfully. “Makes my own existence seem utterly idle.”

“That’s the thing about a wife. They can bring you the most complete joy one moment and sink you to utter despair another.”

“Can’t picture Anna bringing anyone despair. Much too sweet.”

“I saw her stand on her toes and plant a kiss on her groom’s cheek.”

Morgie began to laugh. “So that’s what’s got you down! You have little knowledge of your wife’s character if you don’t know of her affectionate nature. Why she’s pecked me on the cheek any number of times for what she calls my kindnesses to her. Always she stands on her toes and places a chaste kiss on the cheek.”

Haverstock could not deny Anna’s affectionate manner. Only with him, her kisses had been more than a brush of lips across a cheek. He seared even now remembering the taste of her sweet mouth open under his. God in heaven, it had been so long since he’d held her in his arms. An intense, physical aching strummed throughout his body.

“Somehow I do not find it reassuring to know my wife goes around kissing all manner of men.”

“Be assured her ladyship has eyes for no one but you. Always, it’s Charles this, and Charles that. Poor Charles, he works too hard. She’s positively besotted over you. Lydia teases her all the time about her devotion to you.”

My God, Haverstock thought, was she going to be exonerated yet again? Tonight he had determined to make her miserable for being so outrageous a flirt. But he was once more remorseful.

~   ~   ~

WHEN HER HUSBAND did not come home at the usual hour, Anna grew alarmed. She and her sisters dressed for the evening’s fete, and still Haverstock did not show. Anna urged her sisters to go on without her. She could not leave until she knew if her husband was all right.

Dressed in a gown of golden and lavender threads, she paced her chamber, surprised she had not worn a hole in the floral carpeting in front of the window. Images of her husband injured or in pain knotted her stomach so tightly so thought she would cry.

At eleven o’clock and still no word from him, she threw on a cloak and left the house, making her way to the dimly lit mews. She entered through a creaking door and began to mount a rickety staircase, softly calling Jimmy’s name.

The strapping lad met her on the stairway. “Is something amiss, me lady?” he asked, concern in his voice.

“Oh, yes. I am excessively worried about my husband,” she said as she retraced her steps, with Jimmy following her. “He has not come home, nor sent word. I know something has happened to him,” she said in a shaking voice.

“What can I do?”

“I would like you to make inquiries. You know where his friend Mr. Morgan lives?”

Jimmy nodded.

“And his lordship is a member of White’s on St. James, though he seldom goes there.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “If you find him, and he’s all right, please protect him.”

“Me word on it.” He began to saddle a horse.

Anna returned to her lonely room, having sent her maid to bed hours earlier. She languidly removed her cloak and gown and slipped into a sleeping shift with no thought of sleep. She continued to nervously pace the floor, saying every prayer she had ever learned.

It was unlike Haverstock not to have sent word had something prevented him from coming home. Therefore, she grew convinced he had been injured. She became sick with fear. In spite of all the reasons she should dislike him, she could not. She had come to need him as she needed air to breathe. Whatever evil deeds he did, she would love him.

There. She had finally admitted it. I love my husband. Despite that he was a traitor.

Several hours later, she heard a light footfall along the hallway and ran to open the door.

“Oh, thank God,” she whispered.

Haverstock came to stop in front of Anna’s door. “For what are you thanking the good Lord for, my dear?” His eyes swept over Anna from her worried face to the tips of her toes.

“You are all right.”

“Quite, and why may I ask was Jimmy waiting outside White’s?”

She thrust out her chin. “I sent him to look for you. I was excessively worried about you.”

“You seem uncommonly close to the groom,” Haverstock said with disapproval.

“He is loyal to you.”

Haverstock reached to stroke her pale cheek. “And you?”

Tears glistened in her eyes. “You need ask?”

Drawn into the depths of her haunting eyes, Haverstock moved closer to Anna, backing her into the room and softly closing the door behind them. He gathered her into the circle of his arms and held her close. “I’ve been such a brute.”

“No you ha-a-a-v” she began to protest. “Well, actually, you have. Could you not have sent round a note tonight?”

His hands stroked her back. “I fear you are shackled to rather a beast.”

Anna lifted her head. “How can two people be shackled who are never alone with each other?” she said breathlessly.

“I plan to remedy that tonight, with my lady’s permission,” he said throatily.

In silent answer, she linked her arms around him and rested her face against his rock-solid chest.

“God in heaven, it’s been too long,” he uttered softly, drawing her even closer.

She smelled the brandy on his breath and knew by the odd glint in his eye and the unevenness of his words, he was in his cups. It was only the liquor that made him want her, but she did not care. She had yearned for weeks for the opportunity to feel his hands move possessively over her, to melt their bodies together in the most intimate blending and—more than anything—to show him the depths of this intensely physical love she held for him.

His lips came down on hers, softly at first, then nearly bruising from his frenzied hunger. Her own breath was as labored as his, her kisses wet and open. For weeks, she had planned this union and how she was going to abandon all modesty to tenderly offer herself as Charles’s instrument of pleasure. But now that the craved meeting was occurring, she had no control over her body. His every touch rendered her subservient to her own betraying need. She could only moan, and tremble and arch against him in a numbing, mindless effort to be thoroughly possessed by her dark giant.

He lifted her, scooping her into his arms as he crossed her chamber and tenderly laid her on the bed. Leaving the candle glowing, he slowly and agonizingly removed her clothing until she lay before him naked, his breath catching as his eyes combed her ivory flesh.

Drawn by the simmering depths of his black eyes, Anna’s unwavering gaze united with his as her deft hands reverently stroked the hardness between his legs. She was gladdened by the flicker of pleasure that passed over his face just before his head lowered to her breasts and took one into the warmth of his mouth.

Her hand slipped beneath his breeches so she could feel the length of him. He called out her name and freed himself of the clothes that separated their two willing bodies.

Lying beside her on the satin spread, he drew her into his flesh and held her close. “Oh, my Anna,” he whispered breathlessly.

She loved the sound of his words. My Anna. If only she could truly belong to him. She lifted her lips to his. He kissed her thoroughly, his hands gliding over her and coming at last to her wet, burning core. She arched and trembled and thought she would go mad with this insatiable need. So much for her plan to seduce her husband. She knew not how long it was before he stretched himself over her and came into her fully, for one action was an extension of another, and all spiraled in an endless whirl of intoxicating pleasure in her foggy mind.

Even when their passion was spent, their wet, sated bodies intertwined and their hearts beat together as one.

Wrapped in each other’s arms, they both fell into a deep slumber.

~   ~   ~

THE SUN WAS HIGH in the sky, its warmth penetrating Anna’s room when Haverstock awoke the next day. At first he did not remember where he was, but when the act of lifting his head brought great pain, he remembered the liquor. And much more. All his resolve to resist Anna had vanished like the winter snows in the face of her extraordinarily provocative presence. He shuddered even now remembering the feel of her writhing beneath him. For some inexorable reason, he thought of Morgie’s words. With Anna he was king of the mountain. Oh, yes. No woman had ever made him feel as he did when he was with Anna. Not just king of the mountain. King of the world.

“Does your head feel as if it came in contact with a brick wall?” Anna asked with mirth.

He opened one eye and gazed at her, lying on her stomach beside him, her dark hair falling to her milky shoulders. Despite his head, he could get started all over again, he thought, drinking in her loveliness. “It seems my wife has a keen understanding of the after effects of liquor.”

“Shall I ring for a servant to bring you tisane?”

“Can’t tolerate the stuff.” He eased up to a half reclining position, his eyes still on Anna. “I wasn’t too…forceful with you last night?”

She shook her head.

He sank back to a mound of pillows. “I do not think I will leave the house today.”

“Glad I am of that,” she said with fervor. “Your mother, too, desires your presence here with last-minute decisions about tonight.”

He rolled across the satin spread and brought his arms around Anna. “And what preparations do you tend to today, my lady?”

“Your mother has spared me of all duties,” she said, no hint of complaint in her voice.

His lips trailed along her face, the slender column of her neck and to her breasts. “Then you have time for wifely duties.”

Her arms came around him. “I could be coerced,” she whispered hungrily.

FIFTEEN

WHILE HER HUSBAND and sisters helped sooth their mothers’ demands of the servants, Anna and Colette slipped away for their daily trek to the East End. As they did each day, they walked to Piccadilly and hired a hack for the journey to White Chapel. Not only could the Haverstock crest announce their presence to any manner of criminals, but its presence in so undesirable a borough would likely insure the dowager’s wrath, Anna thought.

Mindful of their safety, Anna had solicited Jimmy’s protection for these afternoon trips. It was highly unlikely that their dependents in the East End would allow a hand to be brought against the former Miss de Mouchet and her French maid. Young and old, the bare-legged, bedraggled females flocked to Number 14 Highberry Street—the building Anna’s solicitor had leased for the sewing school.

Anna and Colette had delighted in purchasing spools of every color thread, three dozen pair of scissors and bolts of muslins from the linen drapers. Mr. Wimple had arranged to have tables and chairs delivered, and in a very short time, the free school was filled to capacity, and a waiting list no had twelve names on it.

Though they stayed only two hours a day, the time passed quickly, with Anna and Colette darting to and fro, instructing the eager learners in the rudimentary art of fine sewing.

In a very short time, Anna became especially attached to a young woman who was about her own age, though Sally already had two babes she brought with her each day. Sally was a quick learner with an even keener desire to secure a good job working for a dressmaker to fine ladies. Her stitches were neat and tiny, and she possessed a flair for matching color and pattern. She wore the same dress every day—one of Anna’s castoffs—but Anna was pleased to note it was always clean.

“How long before I be good enough to earn me a livin’ sewing, me lady?” she asked Anna.

“Though your progress is excellent,” Anna said, “you must remember you will have to compete with those who have been sewing all their lives.”

The thin blonde nodded knowingly. “How much do they make in a day?”

In truth, Anna had never given the matter a thought. What kind of daily wage did a seamstress make? “How much would you like to earn?” Anna asked.

“Enough to get me and me girls a nice little house with a garden.”

“What about your husband?”

Sally colored. “I ain’t got no husband.”

“No one helps you provide for your babies?”

She shook her head. “I want them to have it better than I’ve had it.”

Anna bent down and picked up the older of Sally’s girls and held her close. She felt oddly jealous of the unfortunate Sally who possessed a world of wealth in her two lovely little girls.

But since lying with her husband last night, Anna felt less lonely. A flush of sweet fulfillment swept over her at the memory.

~   ~   ~

HE’D BE DEUCED GLAD when his mother’s dinner was behind him, Haverstock thought as he directed his gig to Piccadilly. He only hoped they did not lose every single servant. Three had quit in tears this morning, and it was now his mission to secure some last-minute replacements at the agency.

Humming to himself and jostling the ribbons, he had to admit neither his abominable head nor the dowager’s ill humor could diminish his good spirits today. An overwhelming tenderness washed over him at the thought of Anna. His lovely, wondrous, generous, loyal Anna. What a fool he had been to ever distrust her.

It was while he took his pleasure remembering the luxuriating feel of her beneath him that he thought he saw her from the corner of his eye. He turned to make sure and saw her, with Colette at her side, offering coins to a hackney driver.

Anger flushed his cheeks at what he saw next. Behind Anna and towering over her like a protective gargoyle was Jimmy.

When Anna was completely dressed that night, she dismissed Colette and waited for her husband to come escort her downstairs. She heard him speaking to his valet in the adjoining dressing room. Then she heard a door open and presumed Manors had left. But still, Haverstock did not come. After several minutes passed, she entered his dressing room. Her husband was not there.

She crossed that room and entered his sleeping chamber. No one was there either. She glanced at the ormolu clock on his mantle. Guests would already be arriving. Surely he had not gone on without her. She waited five more minute—which seemed like an hour. Still, he did not come.

She returned to her room, opened the door to the hallway and heard a hum of voices from below. Fighting back tears of dejection, she squared her shoulders and glided downstairs.

Haverstock stood next to his mother in the receiving line. Swamped by the forlorn feeling of utter isolation, Anna fixed a smile on her face and regally strode to take her place at her husband’s side.

“How lovely you look, my dear,” he said coolly before introducing her to the guests at the head of the line, a Mr. and Mrs. Basil Fortesque.

After the Fortesques moved on, Anna found herself face-to-face with the prettiest woman she had ever seen. She was small and blond and fair with a filmy saffron dress.

“May I introduce you to my daughter-in-law, Lady Jane,” the dowager said sweetly. “Anna this is Lady Jane Wyeth. I’m sure you’ve heard us speak of her.”

The woman’s name struck Anna like a fierce blow to the windpipe. She was the one the dowager had chosen to wed Charles. Anna trembled and could not find her voice, but somehow that ridiculous smile remained fixed on her face as she nodded at the gorgeous woman in yellow whose poise and assurance made Anna feel even more unworthy to be standing beside Charles as his marchioness.

Lady Jane dipped a graceful curtsey and offered Anna felicitations on her nuptials and compliments on her copper-colored gown.

Next, Anna was presented to Lady Jane’s parents, the Earl and Countess of Langley, who gave every indication of doting upon their daughter.

After the 40 guests were seated at the huge dining table, Anna went cold when she saw Lady Jane at the opposite end of the table, to the right of Haverstock. No doubt, the dowager had placed Lady Jane there to underscore Anna’s total inadequacy to be the Marchioness of Haverstock.

Dinner was interminable. Course after course and hour after hour, it went on. An ache in her stomach rid Anna of any appetite. She felt hot from all the candles, and started fanning herself. All that separated her from totally succumbing to a fit of embarrassing crying was the presence of Lydia on her right and Morgie on her left.

Early in the evening, Anna watched as Lydia gave a cold glance in the direction of Lady Jane.

“Lady Jane is very lovely,” Anna said.

Lydia frowned. “She is exceedingly spoiled. Lord and Lady Langley lost three babes before she—their last—arrived. I fear they coddled her excessively. Her vocabulary is largely peppered with her two favorite words: I and me.”

A gleam danced in Morgie’s eyes. “What a devilishly wicked tongue you possess, Lady Lydia.”

“I learned all my malicious ways from you,” Lydia said. She returned her attention to Anna. “Of course, she is so lovely, I doubt the men ever listen to a word that issues from her beautiful face.”

Every glance, every word that passed between her husband and Lady Jane sent tremors of fear and dejection through Anna. She could not help but recognize the fair lady of noble birth possessed the pedigree and confidence she herself lacked. And Anna felt more woefully inadequate than ever to be Charles’s wife.

While a facade of carefully feigned civility cloaked Anna’s agony, her sisters appeared in high spirits. Kate had arranged to have Mr. Reeves on her right and proceeded to dazzle the retiring man with her marked attentions. Cynthia, too, had persuaded her mother to seat Captain Smythe beside her, and the two spoke animatedly to one another.

Only Charlotte, with the rather handsome Mr. Churchdowne at her side, lacked gaiety. No doubt she pined for Mr. Hogart, whom her mother obviously found unworthy of an invitation.

After dinner, Anna sank into a seat at a whist table with Morgie and Lydia and found herself being introduced to Mr. Churchdowne, who would make a fourth at their table.

As she had throughout dinner, Anna once again found the man’s clear blue eyes on her, and she felt uncomfortable. Lydia explained that Mr. Churchdowne had only this week come to town.

“I confess to having noticed you in the park with Mr. Morgan yesterday, Lady Haverstock,” he said. “I was consumed with jealousy toward Mr. Morgan.”

Shocked the man could speak thus to a married lady, Anna was at a loss for a reply.

He took the deck of cards in his long, slender hands and began to deal. “Might I hope to escort you one afternoon?”

“I am a married woman, Mr. Churchdowne. The reason my husband allows me to ride with Mr. Morgan is that they are the dearest of friends, with Morgie being quite like one of the family.” She gave a fake little laugh. “Also, my husband feels dreadfully guilty that he has no time for me.”

“Your husband is an utter fool.”

Anna attempted to treat his remark flippantly. “I beg you speak no ill of my husband. He is quite a dear.”

Her husband’s voice cut into Anna’s circle. “How did you find dinner, my love?”

She looked up at Haverstock, handsome in his black silk coat and white knee breeches stretched across his muscled legs. “I am sure it was excellent.”

“But you hardly touched your food, I noticed.”

She was thankful he had noticed her at all. “I do not feel particularly well, Charles. I daresay I would retire early if this weren’t my own house.” The words stuck in her throat. This was not her house. She did not belong here. Nothing reinforced her unwelcomeness more than her exclusion from the receiving line tonight. Burned into her memory was the vision of her beaming mother-in-law standing proudly beside an amiable Charles, greeting their old friends.

The dowager cut into their conversation. “Oh, Charles, here you are. Some of the ladies are singing in the salon. I thought you could turn pages for Lady Jane while she plays the pianoforte.”

“I should muddle it excessively if I tried,” Haverstock said with finality, taking his leave from Anna but not going to the salon.

Somehow, Anna got through the night without embarrassing tears, but excused herself as soon as good manners permitted.

She allowed Colette to remove her gown and boast on how lovely she looked. “I peeked from the top of the third floor,” Colette said. “No woman was a match for my Anna. You were most joli of all.”

“Did you not see the lovely little blonde in yellow?” Anna asked.

“Very pretty,” Colette said stiffly. “But her beauty, it paled next to that of you.”

Anna held up her arms as Colette pulled the night gown over her head. “It is not a warm gown,” Colette said, her eyes sparkling, “but with his lordship beside you, you will not be cold.”

Colette knew every time Charles shared her bed, Anna thought. After the old abigail left, Anna climbed on the bed that only this morning swayed under their gentle lovemaking. What had gone so utterly wrong in so few hours? Anna wondered. What had she done to repulse him? These melancholy thoughts kept her from sleep. As time passed, she heard Charles in his dressing room and against all reason hoped profoundly he would come to her again.

Neither her desire for him nor her craving for sleep were to be realized.

SIXTEEN

STILL DRESSED in her riding habit, Lydia burst into Anna’s room the following morning. “I was worried about you when you did not show up for your morning ride,” she said, coming to sit at Anna’s bedside. “Are you still unwell?”

Anna knew it was futile to be less than honest with her perceptive sister. “If you must know, I’m in rather low spirits. Did you not notice how Charles excluded me from the receiving line last night?”

Lydia nodded solemnly. “It was dreadfully inexcusable of him. It will never happen again. I’ve already spoken to him of it this morning, and he agrees it was thoroughly thoughtless of him. I don’t know what has gotten into Charles lately. He’s been his beastly old brooding self.”

Anna sat up and flipped her hair from her face. “If you learn what troubles him, please share it with me.”

Removing her riding hat and mindlessly twirling it in her hands, Lydia hesitated a moment, then said, “Speaking of sharing, would it be excessively rude of me to inquire where it is you and Colette go each afternoon?”

Anna leaned back into her pillows. “I suppose it does seem mysterious. Though it’s not something I talk about, it’s not anything I am ashamed of.” Anna told Lydia about her years of helping those in the East End and of the newly established sewing school. Lydia nodded knowingly when Anna disclosed that she chose not to take the Haverstock barouche on these forays.

When Anna finished, Lydia exclaimed, “What a delightful scheme! I would love to make whatever insignificant contribution I could at your school. Would you and Colette mind if I forced my company on you?”

“We would gratefully welcome the help.”

~   ~   ~

HIS EYES STRAINED and his hands ached from decoding messages from the Peninsula, but Haverstock still managed a fleeting rush of pride. The information he received from Monsieur Herbert had contributed to the French defeat at Salamanca. Haverstock had been very careful to personally dispatch the information himself to keep it from others in the London office.

This afternoon he would meet Pierre at their new meeting place. Poor Pierre suffered under the delusion that France would once again be what it was before the revolution. Before Pierre’s wife and children had been slaughtered. To this end, he risked his life countless times on clandestine missions to France in the cause of Britannia. Because he still had friends in positions of importance, Pierre had been able to provide Haverstock with invaluable information. All for a few guineas and the satisfaction of knowing he hastened bringing peace to his native soil.

Haverstock, too, would do anything in his power to bring this devastating war to an end. For his own self, it could not be too soon to get his brother back in England. Every time he heard of casualties in the Light, his stomach did an odd flip, and he worried about James. God, but it would be good to see his little brother again.

He wondered what James would think of Anna. Of course, being a connoisseur of beauty, he would love her. And how would she feel toward him? Would she kiss him and flirt with him? He did not like to think of it.

At least she had not flirted with that insufferable Harry Churchdowne last night. How Haverstock longed to get in the ring with him at Jackson’s. The man did not even have the decency to avert his gaze from Anna all night. Morgie had told Haverstock that Churchdowne had the audacity to ask Anna to ride with him in the park.

Now that he was thinking on it, Haverstock was not as receptive to her riding with Morgie as he once had been. And he really didn’t like the idea of her kissing Morgie, either. Morgie was one of the juiciest prizes on the marriage mart. He was tolerably good looking, extremely well dressed, fun to be with and in possession of a vast fortune. Then, Haverstock remembered Anna knew Morgie before she knew him. And it was not Morgie she desired as a husband. She desired him. She had not sought to be his wife for love. Quite the opposite, he painfully reminded himself.

His breath caught. Did she still hate him? Had she feigned concern for him only to secretly go about wreaking havoc on his life? He thought back to all the times she had seemed so genuinely concerned over him. Especially two nights ago. He could still see her ashen face as she opened her chamber door and thanked God he was all right. He could almost feel her trembling beneath him as she gave him the greatest sexual pleasure he had ever experienced.

Was all that an act to conceal her lewd ways? She had willingly gone alone to Lord Wentworth’s library with Sir Henry Vinson. She had gone alone to the stables where she had been rather intimate with Jimmy. And she and Jimmy had obviously gone off together in a rented hack. Why would the Marchioness of Haverstock, who had half a dozen conveyances at her disposal, rent a cab unless she was concealing her destination?

He put his head in his hands. He was better off before his marriage. He might not have been happy then, but he certainly was not happy now. That cursed wife of his was a constant source of consternation. Why just this morning he had to fight against his urge to check on Anna. When she did not show up for their morning ride he remembered she had not felt well the night before. Throughout the entire ride he worried foolishly about her.

That was the problem with a wife. Good or bad, they belonged to you. You had to take care of them. To care for them. And despite all the reasons why he should not care for Anna, he still cared for her and wanted to protect her. For her, he had said terrible things to his own mother.

Would that he had never laid eyes on Anna.

~   ~   ~

“REALLY, LYDIA, your brother would be shocked if he knew you discussed such things with a man,” Anna chided as they rode through Hyde Park in Morgie’s curricle that afternoon. Lydia and Morgie had made a wager concerning the probability that Lady Rand, who was very much married, would meet with John Hancombe, her lover, in the park that afternoon.

“Morgie doesn’t count as a man,” Lydia said.

“Don’t know that I like your line of reasoning, Lyddie,” Morgie said.

A broad smile crossed Lydia’s plain face. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. What I meant is that you’re like a brother, not a man with whom I have to act properly.”

“Nice to know ladies don’t have to act properly when I’m around,” Morgie said mischievously.

“The fact is,” Lydia continued, unflapped by his remark, “you’re better than a brother. Charles has been an absolute ogre lately.”

“I will accept that as a compliment, even if it is at the expense of my best friend.”

“You must allow, Lydia,” Anna said, “Charles is very tolerant of your wagering on horses even though it is not a ladylike pursuit.”

“As well he should, since he led her down that unladylike road himself!” Morgie defended, nodding to an acquaintance who passed by.

“I have no complaint in Charles’s treatment of me,” Lydia said. “I could hope for him to be more amiable at home and to not stay away so much. When he’s home, he’s cross and tired and acts as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders.”

“That he does,” Anna lamented.

With smiling faces and a profusion of waves, they drove past Cynthia and Captain Smythe. When Captain Symthe’s phaeton was well past them, Lydia turned to Morgie. “Has the expected union between my sister and Captain Smythe made it into the betting book at White’s yet?”

“Indeed it has,” he said, calmly reining in.

“Oh, please enter a wager for me, Morgie,” Lydia said.

“’Pon my word, Lyddie, even your brother would draw the line at that.”

She pouted. “But I know, as a gentleman, you will not disappoint me, Morgie.”

“Very well, Lyddie. What bet do you wish me to place?”

“That Captain Smythe will make his offer by the end of the fortnight.”

“It would not surprise me if Mr. Reeves did not offer for Kate by that time also,” Anna said.

“Now I draw the line at betting for a marchioness,” Morgie said. “Haverstock wouldn’t like that one bit.”

“I assure you, Morgie, I have no desire to wager.”

Lydia’s eyes narrowed. “I cannot like that match one bit. Kate positively detested the man two seasons ago, and now because she believes he will be duke, she welcomes his address with enthusiasm. It would serve her right if old Blassingame took a young wife and sired sons.”

Anna refrained from commenting, though her thoughts matched Lydia’s.

“Morgie,” Lydia exclaimed, “you’ll never guess where Anna and I were this afternoon.”

“Let me think. Was it Bedlam?”

“No!” Lydia said with feigned irritation.

“Am I to enumerate all the sites in London, or do you enlighten me?”

“I shall enlighten. We went to Anna’s sewing school in the East End.”

“In the East End?” he queried, his gaze leaping to Lydia.

She nodded.

“On what street, pray tell?”

“Oh, a most unfashionable street, to be sure,” Lydia answered.

“Whatever are you talking about? A sewing school?”

“Yes. Anna has founded a school to teach sewing skills to the unfortunate so that they can seek employment. She and her maid give instruction there every afternoon. They allowed me to come today, and I enjoyed it excessively. I found that I was able to make a small contribution, and it was most rewarding.”

He pulled rein and shifted his gaze to Anna. “What does Haverstock have to say about this?”

“He doesn’t know.”

“She’s not hiding it from him,” Lydia added.

“Oh, no,” Anna said. “I would tell him all about it if he were interested. It’s just that we are seldom alone together to share a conversation.”

“Well, I can tell you he would not at all countenance you two going to that part of town unescorted.”

“Oh, but my groom comes along to keep a watch out for our safety.”

He frowned. “I can’t say that I like it—nor would Haverstock.”

Lydia’s eyes narrowed. “Well, we are not going to stop!”

“Then, I’ll have to accompany you.”

As they left the park, Lydia spotted Lady Rand’s carriage heading down a little used path. And behind her, John Hancombe followed in his gig. “You owe me a crown,” Lydia happily announced to Morgie.

~   ~   ~

JIMMY STOOD POST outside the Whitehall building that lodged the Foreign Office. Day after day he had stood in watch for his master, but his lordship never left the building before dusk. On this day, however, Jimmy’s heart quickened in anticipation when he saw his master skip down the marble steps just before two in the afternoon. He watched as Haverstock waited for his gig to be brought around, then Jimmy mounted his own horse and began to follow.

A hackney coach rounded the corner, cramming between Jimmy and the gig to obstruct his view of Haverstock. With a spurt of speed, Jimmy passed the coach just in time to see Haverstock turn onto Charing Cross. Holding back fifty yards, Jimmy also veered onto the busy Charing Cross, and within minutes followed his master when he turned onto The Strand, which was thick with pedestrians and every sort of conveyance. Before long, Haverstock pulled up in front of St. Clement Danes Church.

Unconsciously reciting a snatch of the nursery rhyme Oranges Lemons say the bells of St. Clemens, Jimmy watched as Haverstock tied up his gig and entered the church. Jimmy tied his horse around the corner and went back to the church’s entrance, where he gently eased open one of its massive doors and slipped into the vestibule. Walking like a cat on soft paws, he edged toward the front of the vestibule and saw Haverstock sitting in a pew at the front of the darkened church where he was the only occupant.

A moment later, Jimmy heard the door squeak open and he darted into the shadows. A short, swarthy looking man who dressed like a gentleman strode down the center aisle of the church and sat next to Haverstock. They talked for a few minutes.

While they were talking, Jimmy quietly slipped from the church. He saw a black gelding tied up next to Haverstock’s rig. Rounding the corner, he untied and mounted his horse and waited for the swarthy man to mount the black gelding.

A few minutes later, the man came out of the church and took off on the black horse, with Jimmy following at a discreet distance. The man rode to Billingsgate where he purchased fish. From there he rode through the bustling city, avoiding as many toll gates as he could, much to Jimmy’s satisfaction.

After an hour, the man left his mount at a livery stable near Russell Square. Jimmy held back and watched as the man walked from the stable to a slender house in Bloomsbury. Number twenty-three.

SEVENTEEN

AFTER ANNA AND CHARLOTTE had walked through Green Park, Jimmy awaited at the foot of the steps to Haverstock House, begging a private word with Anna.

She watched Charlotte mount the steps before turning her attention to Jimmy. “Is his lordship all right?”

“Yes, me lady,” he answered. “It is just that I followed him from that building in Whitehall, and he met with a man under what seems to me very suspicious circumstances.”

Anna walked some distance away from the footmen, Jimmy at her side.

Jimmy told Anna of the secretive meeting at St. Clements and proudly announced that he followed the man to his lodgings at Number twenty-three Tavistock Place in Bloomsbury.

“What did the man look like?” Anna asked.

“’Bout forty years old. He was of dark complexion and medium size. Dressed like a gentleman but was not flush with money, if ye know what I mean. Made a big effort to avoid paying tolls.”

Anna nodded and thanked Jimmy before returning to the house. She would finally have something to report to Sir Henry when she met with him the following day.

~   ~   ~

INSTEAD OF COMING straight home that night, Haverstock chose to go to White’s where he had the good fortune to meet Morgie.

The two men sat alone at a table and proceeded to consume a large quantity of port. Haverstock kept a watch over Harry Churchdowne, who sat with a group of young bloods on the other side of the room. “You would think with as many women who set their caps at him, the insufferable man would not have to dance attendance on married women,” Haverstock said.

“What if the lady’s husband has no desire for her company?” Morgie challenged.

Haverstock met his friend’s quizzing gaze. “You have it all wrong, my dear fellow. I have a very great desire for my wife’s company even if she vexes me to death.”

“Strange way you have of showing it.”

“I get so blasted angry with her. Do you know what she has done now?”

“Enlighten me.”

“She and that maid of hers have been going off with that same old groom in a rented hack! I ask you, why would the Marchioness of Haverstock be renting a hack if she didn’t have something to hide?”

“Have you asked her?”

“Course not. Can’t let her think I’ve been spying on her.”

“Nor can you let her know you care. Heaven forbid a man should care about his wife.”

“Now, Morgie, blast it all! You make me sound like the one who needs to apologize.”

“I believe you are, old chap. I do, in fact, know why your wife rented a hack, and I assure you it was all perfectly innocent.”

“Enlighten me, if you please.”

Morgie shook his head. “I believe you and her ladyship need to talk. Ask her yourself.”

Haverstock stiffened as he saw Churchdowne rise and walk toward him. “I will bloody well strike a blow to the man if he tells me one more time how fortunate I am to have wed Anna before the ton discovered her,” he whispered to Morgie.

“Fancy finding you here, Haverstock, when I saw your wife not half an hour ago.”

Haverstock raised a single brow.

“Yes, I had the good fortune to speak with Lady Haverstock at the entrance to Green Park. She was quite alone though she insisted she was meeting Lady Charlotte there. A pity. Were such a beautiful woman my wife, I would never let her out of my sight.”

“I suppose you offered your services as her escort,” Haverstock said.

“Yes, indeed, but she refused me again. You may be assured when the novelty of her marriage wears off, I will be first in line for her favors, Haverstock.”

Haverstock leapt to his feet and crashed his fist into the smaller man’s jaw, knocking Churchdowne to the floor. He was ready to assault the man again when Morgie restrained him and led him from the club.

~   ~   ~

WHEN HAVERSTOCK ARRIVED HOME, he found Mr. Reeves waiting for him.

“Ah, my lord, I beg a private word with you.”

Haverstock, knowing very well what Reeves had come for, led the man to his library and offered him a chair near his desk. The man was a good ten years his senior, and Haverstock did not at all warm to the idea of having him for a brother-in-law. Especially since Kate herself had spurned him two seasons previously. He ran his eyes over Reeves. Though Haverstock was certainly no judge of what was considered handsome, he knew that no maiden could be attracted to this man who sat nervously before him. A circle of fat hung under his chin and on his waist, where one of the buttons of his waistcoat popped open. His coat, too, was much too tight. Had he gained so much weight of late or did he insist he was the same size he was decade earlier?

“You may have noticed my partiality toward Lady Kate,” Reeves began.

Haverstock nodded.

“I have come to ask your permission to pay her my addresses.”

“Have you spoken with her yet?”

“No, my lord, though I daresay she is aware of the constancy of my affection. I felt it proper to speak to you first. I am not a wealthy man, but I have grand prospects since I am the heir to my uncle, the Duke of Blassingame.”

Was that all the poor man had to recommend him? “You most certainly have my permission to court Kate, but I cannot speak for her. If she welcomes your suit, you have my blessing.”

A smile crossed Reeve’s perspiring face.

“Glass of port?”

Reeves thankfully accepted.

~   ~   ~

WHEN REEVES LEFT, Haverstock hastened up the stairs and knocked on the door to Anna’s chamber.

Her sore feet soaking in a pail of hot water when her husband entered her room, Anna looked up and smiled at him.

“I see your feet are no better than they were on the way home last night,” he said.

“Oh, they do not hurt nearly as much,” she said, removing them from the water and toweling them dry as she dismissed Colette.

“Did you speak with Mr. Reeves?” She walked barefoot to the settee and beckoned for him to join her.

“Did everyone in the house know of his call?”

“Of course.”

“And, pray tell, what was my answer to be?”

“Kate said you would be delighted to have her a future duchess.”

“And you?” he asked.

“I said you would tell the man you would abide by your sister’s choice.”

He lifted her hand and kissed it. “It seems my wife knows me better than my sister.”

“I do not think she will be happy with the man, Charles.”

“Nor do I, but it is a scheme of her own making.”

She smelled the liquor on him, and knew it had loosened the rigidness that so often kept him from her. “Did you go to White’s?”

“Yes. I met Morgie there.”

“You seem more relaxed. While other wives complain about their husbands frequenting their clubs, I must welcome it if it brings you more often in my company.”

He seemed unable to remove his eyes from her. “Where did you go in a hackney carriage?”

“How did you know about that?” she asked.

“I saw you paying the driver the day of Mother’s dinner. You were with Colette and Jimmy.”

Her mind spun. The day of the dinner. That night he had treated her so abominably! Could the two events be related? Why would he be so angry about her going somewhere with Colette and her groom unless he thought she had something wicked to hide? She burst out laughing. “Oh, Charles, why did you not speak to me? I have nothing to hide from you.”

“I’m speaking now.”

“All of my life I have done charity work in the East End. I do not like to take the Haverstock vehicles there for fear of attracting the attention of thieves—or worse. I did take Jimmy along for protection.”

“What kind of charity work do you perform?”

“For years, I just took clothes I no longer needed, some food and coins. Recently, Colette and I started a sewing school so some of the women can learn a skill to seek employment. Lydia is now serving as one of the instructors.”

“While I commend your intentions, I do not at all like you going there without more protection.”

“You sound exactly like Morgie.”

“He knows?”

“He found out just this week. He insisted on providing escort today, though my feet were too sore for me to go. I understand from Lydia he provided an impressive escort.” She thought this would please her husband, but anger flashed in his eyes.

“Morgie has no business taking care of my wife and sister when I am perfectly capable of doing so. It displeases me that you hide these things from me, Anna.”

“I have hidden nothing,” she snapped. “It is difficult to talk with one’s husband when the two are never together. And that is not my fault, either.”

A slow smile curved his lip, and Anna found her own anger melting.

He drew her to him and whispered, “I do not think you should go out tonight, Lady Haverstock. Your feet are much too sore. I have plans that will not require you to be on your feet.”

EIGHTEEN

FOR ONCE ANNA ARRIVED at Hookam’s before Sir Henry. She did not dare go straight to the Latin section for fear of attracting attention. What manner of woman would have knowledge of such? Even though there would be no privacy there, she walked to the corner which featured a rather large selection of poetry books. Her mood was so bleak she was drawn to morose verses. She swept past women reading Blake and men perusing Wordsworth, picked out a dust-covered volume of Donne and took it to another corner where a half dozen wooden chairs composed a makeshift reading room. No one else was there. She sat down, held her book with trembling hands and tried to read.

She had been unable to sleep the night before though Charles lay contentedly asleep at her side, an event that should have brought her great satisfaction. But the happiness was marred by the impending meeting with Sir Henry. The information she would pass to him could brand her husband a traitor. She wondered if a British peer could hang for treason. The thought horrified her. She would rather die.

She watched Sir Henry enter the shop. He saw her immediately but gave no sign of recognition. He quickly found a very large book and brought it to read in the chair next to Anna’s.

Anna held her book and ran her eyes from left to right, whispering to Sir Henry as if she were reading a poem. “I have learned something, but before I share it with you, I must have your promise no harm will come to my husband.” Why was it, she wondered, she was the one who felt like a traitor?

After a minute, Sir Henry held his opened book almost in front of his face and spoke. “Why would we harm someone as valuable as Haverstock? He will lead us to bigger fish across the channel.”

“I believe I have a fish for you,” Anna whispered. “Number twenty-three Tavistock Place. Bloomsbury.”

“His name?”

She shrugged.

“What does he look like?”

“Small. Well dressed. Dark hair and skin. About forty years old.”

“Your husband has met with him?”

“Secretly,” she whispered.

A smile played at his thin lips as he got to his feet and left, leaving the book on his chair.

~   ~   ~

MR. REEVES—now happily betrothed to Kate—stood near the marble mantle beaming at the morning callers who gathered in the parlor of Haverstock House. Anna detected a new proprietorial air about him in these surroundings. He acted as if he were welcoming the visitors.

“How very agreeable it is to see you today,” he told Mr. Simpson, who danced attendance on Charlotte.

“Does Captain Smythe come today?” Anna asked Cynthia as she prepared the tea.

“I am sure I do not know,” Cynthia answered with irritation before turning to Mr. Simpson and flirting.

Cynthia’s normally sunny disposition had taken a decided turn for the worse since Kate had announced her engagement. Everyone at Haverstock House had expected that Captain Smythe would offer for Cynthia before Mr. Reeves entered into contracts for Kate. But still the captain had not discussed marriage.

Davis entered the room and announced Lady Langley with her daughter Lady Jane Wyeth. The two well dressed ladies glided into the room with unwavering smiles and courtly addresses. On this summer day Lady Jane wore a soft muslin dress the same blue as her eyes. It displayed to advantage her perfect figure and lovely skin. Anna felt pangs of jealousy. Had Charles possessed even the smallest fortune, he most likely would have married Lady Jane long ago, Anna surmised. She wondered if he regretted not marrying the petite blond.

Lady Jane, who sat in a chair near the sofa where Anna presided, glanced at Anna’s pink dress. “How lovely you look, Lady Haverstock. Simply everyone in London talks of your exquisite taste in clothing. I must know who your modiste is.”

Anna handed Lady Jane a cup and saucer. “I have never used anyone but Madam Devreaux.”

“Of course!” Lady Jane exclaimed. “I should have known. The French are so clever with fashion. It stands to reason you being French would naturally select a French dressmaker.”

“I really don’t consider myself French,” Anna said, holding back her annoyance. “I was born in London, spent my entire life here, and though my mother was French, my father was thoroughly English.”

Lady Jane tilted her head slightly, raising her brows. “Really? But was your name not de Mouchet?”

The room became suddenly lifeless before Lydia interjected, “Tell us, Kate, when do you plan to marry Mr. Reeves.”

Anna was grateful for Lydia’s intervention. Though she had lived every day of her life with the stigma of being illegitimate, she did not care to hold herself up to ridicule in her own drawing room. And she would never forgive Lady Jane for being so rude. Of course the woman—as indeed all of London—knew of Anna’s background.

“We thought to marry at the end of the season here in London,” Kate said, casting a sweet smile at Mr. Reeves.

“So much more convenient for all our family and friends than travelling to Haymore,” Mr. Reeves said. “My uncle, the Duke of Blassingame, is in town, you know.”

“Yes, we have had the good fortune to meet him,” Lady Langley said.

Evans announced Mr. Hogart, and the room became lifeless again.

He entered, still wearing his ill-fitting black garments which Anna no longer noticed. She noted his freshly combed very blond hair and the look of sincerity on his angelic face and heartily welcomed him, scooting over and making room for him next to her on the sofa.

“Mr. Hogart studies to be a minister,” Anna said as she prepared his tea. “Tell us, Mr. Hogart, are your beliefs centered more around God and the hereafter or on loving thy neighbor, thus entering the kingdom of heaven through good works?”

“Both actually,” he said with animation. “Though I confess to being more earnest about the here and now and doing what I can for others in the here and now.”

Charlotte fairly glowed with admiration. “I am given to understand he has helped all manner of wretched persons.”

“My sister, Lady Haverstock, also directs much of her attention to helping the less fortunate,” Lydia said.

Anna cast a disapproving glance at Lydia. “It is not something I speak of.”

“How delightful!” Lady Jane said. “I did not know you were a Methodist.”

“One does not have to be Methodist to help others,” Anna said, giving Lady Jane a cold stare.

“Like her husband, Anna is Anglican,” Lydia said.

Davis announced Mr. Harry Churchdowne, who strode into the room all elegance and good manners.

Anna was not pleased that he had come. She always felt terribly uncomfortable in his presence.

Mr. Reeves took it upon himself to greet the newcomer. “I say Churchdowne, bit of a surprise to see you here after the incident at White’s and all.”

Churchdowne gazed around the room. “Haverstock’s not here?”

“Oh no, my good man, Lord Haverstock is seldom home at this hour,” Mr. Reeves said.

“I had hoped to apologize to him for something I said at White’s the other night.”

“I will convey that to my husband,” Anna offered. She had heard nothing of an incident at White’s.

Churchdowne walked toward her, his eyes never leaving hers. “I beg that you don’t, since you were the subject of our discussion.”

The life was once again sucked from the room. Anna wondered if all the people in the room held their breath. Never had she felt more uncomfortable. What on earth could her husband and this man be discussing at White’s that would concern her?

Before she could be forced to respond, Evans opened the door and announced Captain Smythe, who entered the room with jaunty grace. He swept into a bow before Anna, greeted her, then turned to Cynthia. “Lady Cynthia, you will be pleased to learn I bring a letter from your brother James.”

Cynthia gave a cry of delight, then turned hopeful eyes to her elder sister.

Lydia took the letter from Captain Smythe and read it silently, tears springing to her eyes. When she finished she told those gathered about her brother’s experiences at the Battle of Salmanca, and talk of the war occupied the remainder of the time.

~   ~   ~

IT WAS A COOL EVENING. Sir Henry wore a light coat and beaver hat as he stood beside a half dozen iron balustraded steps to a dark house on Tavistock Place. His eyes never left a slender red brick house across the street and down five houses: Number Twenty-Three. From his inquiries, Sir Henry had learned that Pierre Chassay, a once well-to-do Frenchman, occupied Number Twenty Three. Further inquiries with his friends in France netted Sir Henry the offer of ten-thousand pounds to silence the little Frenchman.

Never having earned his money by performing such a deed, Sir Henry had given the matter considerable thought before executing his plan. He did not give serious thought to the matter of accepting the offer. There was nothing he would not do for money. But having accepted, his thoughts now focused on how to perform the deed and get away with it.

The door to Number Twenty Three opened, and a short, dark-haired man emerged. He walked down the darkened sidewalk to the other end of the block from where Sir Henry stood.

Sir Henry pulled his hat down further on his forehead and set about following Monsieur Chassay. When the small man rounded the next corner, Sir Henry’s long legs took broad strides to catch up. He barely turned the corner when he saw the Frenchman enter The Boar and Barrel public house.

From within the pub Sir Henry heard the raised voices of men happily whiling away an evening. Sir Henry would be careful not to come in on Monsieur Chassay’s well-dressed heels. Standing in shadows a few doors down, he watched a number of modestly dressed men enter the establishment. After ten minutes, he entered. He had an immediate sense of Monsieur Chassay’s presence without having to move his head in the Frenchman’s direction. Sir Henry had known the Frenchman would be alone, standing by the bar and quietly observing those around him. Since Chassay was on the left side of the bar, Sir Henry went to the right. Not removing his hat, he ordered ale and drank it slowly, keeping his quarry within his sight.

Before long, Monsieur Chassay ordered more ale. He talked with no one save the employees of The Boar and Barrel.

Sir Henry nursed his drink to keep his mind clear and sharp.

In all, Monsieur Chassay drank four bumpers before donning his hat and coat and leaving.

Sir Henry set after him immediately. The street was empty at this late hour. Though his prey was just a few yards ahead, Sir Henry could barely see him for the fog which appeared to rise from the sidewalks. He hastened his step and soon came abreast of the Frenchman. Trying to sound inebriated, he said, “I say, lost my way around here. Could you direct me to Russell Square?”

Monsieur Chassay looked up kindly at the tall man whose hat was pulled all the way down to the tops of his eyebrows. He moved his shoulder and head in the direction of the square, then faced Sir Henry and gave directions in a thick French accent. Sir Henry moved closer, his hand in his pocket. Chassay’s glance darted the bulge in the Englishman’s coat, fear flashing in his eyes.

In one swift move, Sir Henry withdrew his stiletto and thrust it into Chassay’s heart. The Frenchman gasped, his hand grabbing Sir Henry’s wrist. But his strength, like his blood, oozed from his body. His hand fell. His eyes went cold. And he slumped forward, groaning. The knife embedded in him, his blood spewing on his killer’s hand.

Sir Henry put an arm around the smaller man and dragged him to the steps of the nearest house and released him.

The body of Pierre Chassay crumbled to the cold sidewalk, his blood pooling about him, the knife still protruding from his lower chest.

Sir Henry removed his own blood-stained gloves and put them in his pocket as he hurried away.

~   ~   ~

ANNA COULD SCARCELY believe her good fortune. Two nights in a row she would be able to enjoy a quiet evening at home with her husband. Three months ago she would never have believed she could be so bored by society and so desirous of solitude. Though being with Charles was hardly solitude. She watched him as he leaned back into the comfort of her settee and stretched his long legs in front of him. A lump came to her throat. To think that three months ago she did know of his existence. And now he occupied her thoughts every hour of the day and invaded her dreams at night.

May I hope that your feet are better tonight, Lady Haverstock?”

“Oh, yes indeed. I entertained a large number of morning callers today and still conducted the sewing lessons in the East End.” She came to sit beside him.

His hand covered hers and gave it a squeeze. “I suppose Morgie provided escort.”

She nodded. “You should never have need to worry over the safety of Lydia or me for Morgie absolutely smothers us with protectors.” She noted a stray lock of black hair on his forehead and brushed it away. “I believe all his concern is for Lydia. They are as comfortable together as hand in glove.”

“She’s always been like a sister to him. They practically grew up together, you know.”

“Don’t I! They are forever reminiscing about things they did as children at Haymore.”

“Was Morgie one of the morning callers?”

“No, but Kate’s intended and Cynthia and Charlotte’s objects of affection were in attendance.”

He stroked his chin. “Let me see, Captain Smythe was paying court to Cynthia. Who, pray tell, has Charlotte singled out?”

“Who is the only man she has ever spoken favorably of to you?”

“Surely you do not expect me to remember all the men who have stood up with my sisters these past weeks.”

“Now, think on it, Charles.”

“The shabbily dressed Methodist?”

She nodded.

“But he hasn’t been around of late.”

“I think not by choice. He seems excessively fond of Charlotte.”

“You have talked with him?”

She nodded again. “He’s very serious, very kind and, I believe, very much in love with Charlotte. I’ve made inquiries and learned he is of good family though he cut himself off some time ago because they did not support his decision to enter the church.”

“A man of principle, then?”

She kissed his cheek. “I knew you would judge the inner man, not the outer.”

“Far be it from me to be taken in by beauty,” he said, smiling as his eyes appreciatively traveled her face and down the length of her.

“Were there other callers?”

“Oh, Mr. Simpson, who is smitten with Charlotte. Lady Langley and her daughter and Mr. Churchdowne.”

Her husband stiffened at Churchdowne’s name. “Would that I had been here to properly dispatch the scheming Churchdowne,” he said angrily.

“Actually, he said he was calling to apologize to you.”

Haverstock’s brows lifted. “Did he say what he was apologizing for?”

“Only that it concerned me. I felt so excessively uncomfortable, I did not wish to pursue the matter, but now I expect a full explanation from you.”

“I struck the man.”

“Oh, Charles, surely not at White’s?”

He nodded.

“Had he…alluded to my parentage?”

Her husband nodded solemnly.

She swallowed, avoiding the scrutiny of his all-seeing eyes. “Oh, I almost forgot!” she said. “You’ve a letter from James.” She walked to her desk and brought him the envelop.

He couldn’t open it fast enough. As he read, his eyes moistened. He read it slowly once then reread it. When he finished he sighed and looked into Anna’s eyes with a softness she had never seen there before. “We’ve been spared once again.”

Until this moment Anna had never realized the depth of her husband’s attachment to his younger brother. How could one brother daily jeopardize his life for his country while the other betrayed his country, thus betraying his brother? Oh, she did not at all understand this man she was in love with.

“May I read it?” she asked.

He handed her the letter.

James gave a brief but modest account of his role at Salmanca and with sadness told of the men he had lost at Badajos.

He inscribed a personal note to each member of his family. To his mother, he begged that she not worry about him and hoped she would be up attending balls with her beautiful daughters. To Lydia he wrote, “Oblige me by exercising Sultanna for me when you are at Haymore. I can trust you to give her a good romp.” Not knowing about Charles’s marriage, he reminded his brother that he was not getting any younger. “It is past time for you to chose your marchioness, you know,” he wrote. “With your good looks and title, any beauty in London would be glad to have you—even with no fortune.” Without having heard about Mr. Reeves, he kidded Kate that he fully expected her to be a duchess by the time he returned. He told Cynthia he hoped to be home in time to see her marry the man of her dreams, and he warned Charlotte against bringing home any more stray kittens.

Reading his letter brought James to life for Anna. She stiffened as she gazed at her husband and thought of his treasonous deeds. Wordlessly, she handed the letter back.

“I don’t think my mind is ever free from worry over him,” Haverstock said. “And since our marriage I’ve wondered countless times what he would think of you. How you would like him.”

She realized the reason he did not look at her was because he spoke of deeply personal feelings. He even admitted that she occupied his thoughts a great number of times. The admission was something the oh-so-formal marquess never did. And it one again made him dear to her. This time it was she who covered his big hand with her own slender one.

But it was her husband who initiated the intense lovemaking that followed.

NINETEN

SHE HAD ENJOYED this morning’s ride, Anna reflected as she reached for a hot scone. Charles and Lydia had invited her to race them, and although she did not catch up to the superior riders, she had managed to exhaust her thoroughly lathered mare and work up a decidedly healthy appetite herself. After washing and changing clothes and allowing Colette to repair the damage to her hair, she faced her husband across the breakfast table.

He appeared engrossed in perusing the Morning Gazette.

“Does you lordship find my appearance more tolerable than when you last saw me?” Anna asked.

The corner of his mouth lifted to a crooked smile. “I find your appearance last night the most agreeable of all. I like your body bare and your hair down.”

Anna colored and glanced about the room to assure herself they were alone. “A Godiva fetish, I daresay.”

The skin around Haverstock’s eyes crinkled from his broad smile.

“Any news from the Peninsula?” she asked.

“Articles, yes. News, no,” he answered, his glance skipping over the headlines.

In a matter of seconds, his mirth vanished. He stiffened and cried out, frightening Anna.

Her first thought was that something terrible had happened to James. She sprang from her chair and rushed to his side.

“What is it?” she asked. “Is it James?”

He ignored her, his eyes racing over the small print. She followed his gaze and saw that he read an account of a vicious murder in Bloomsbury.

When he finished reading, he flung the paper aside. “No, it’s not James. A friend of mine has been murdered.”

“How dreadful,” she said, gently stroking his shoulder. “Who was it?”

“Pierre Chassay. A true friend to England—as well as to his native France.”

“Does he have a wife and children?”

“No. They, too, were murdered. In the Terror.”

Anna sank in a chair beside her husband in order to read for herself about the unfortunate Mr. Chassay. “Poor man. How was he murdered?”

“A dagger to the heart.”

Anna winced.

Haverstock pushed his food away, got to his feet and curtly took his leave.

Anna picked up the paper and began to read the account of the murder. Her heart nearly stopped when she saw where the “deceased victim of this most heinous crime” resided.

He had lived at Number Twenty-three Tavistock Place.

The swarthy little man!

Her pulse drumming, she read on. The owner of the Boar and Barrel related that the little Frenchman came to his establishment every night. Though he was quiet, Mr. Chassay was well liked by everyone. “The gent couldn’t of ’ad an enemy in the world,” Mr. John Moore said. Mr. Moore went on to say there had been a suspicious man in his establishment the same night as the murder. The man kept his hat on the whole time he imbibed at Mr. Moore’s, and he left as soon as Mr. Chassay did, although they sat on opposite sides of the pub and did not appear to be acquainted.

Mr. Moore described the suspicious man as speaking like a gentleman. He was tall and thin.

Had she driven the dagger into Mr. Chassay herself, Anna could not have felt more responsible for his death.

~   ~   ~

HAVERSTOCK HAD GONE straight to his office and torn through the files. Just as he had known, there was no file on Pierre Chassay. Haverstock had taken care to protect the identity of those who supplied him with information. No one had known of Pierre except for Monsieur Hebert, and those two were life-long friends who would never betray one another.

From behind his broad walnut desk, Haverstock gazed out the window at the passing carts below, their drivers carrying hay and milk and coal throughout the hurried capital. His hollow insides churning, Haverstock keenly felt the demise of the little Frenchman, the patriot who had no one else to mourn him. He pictured Pierre proudly wearing his worn black coat of excellent cut and fabric every time the two men met. Haverstock remembered the wistful expression on Pierre’s face when he spoke of restoring France to days of dazzling glory after the mad Corsican was annihilated.

Though he had died far from his native shores, Pierre would be buried in France, Haverstock vowed. And when the unspeakable horrors of this war were behind them, Haverstock would see to it that Pierre receive recognition from the country for which he gave his life as truly as a soldier on the battlefield.

He also vowed Pierre’s death would not be in vain. If he had to die doing it, he would find the murderer and save England from his vile clutches.

He continued to stare out the window at the evidence of man’s indifference to the life of one immigrant. Life went on though Pierre lay cold. The lad continued to hawk his newspapers, the old woman her posies. The hackney driver raced along with his fare.

As surely as he knew his name, Haverstock knew Pierre had been killed because of him. Someone had learned of their meetings. Someone knew that Pierre passed along valuable information about the French. But how?

God in heaven! Haverstock thought, a stabbing jolt to his already unsettled stomach, someone must have followed him to St. Clement’s. What an utter fool he had been! He had violated one of the first strictures of foreign service agents. Feeling safe on British soil unmarred by war, he had not watched his back.

Never again.

~   ~   ~

AS HE WAITED in front of the Foreign Office building for his mount to be brought around, Haverstock’s gaze swept over the entire area, searching for anyone who looked suspicious. But it was too soon to tell.

Once on his horse, he took a circuitous route to The Strand, glancing over his shoulder as he rounded each corner. At some distance behind, he noted a lean young man on a roan gelding. With each turn, the man stayed behind him, though not close. By the time Haverstock reached The Strand, the gelding was still far behind him. In front of St. Clement’s Haverstock came to a stop, but unlike usual, he did not dismount. He boldly waited until the gelding came near. With his hat shielding his eyes, he watched the gelding come closer, but as it neared St. Clement’s, it turned a block short of the old church.

With an angry flick of his ribbons, Haverstock spurred his mount back over the distance they had just traveled. He turned on to the narrow lane where the young rider on the gelding had turned, and he saw the back of the man astride his now-stationary mount. Haverstock slowed and came to a complete stop beside him.

And he saw the rider was Jimmy.

Anger flared within him like blazing torch. His own groom had betrayed him!

His eyes met Jimmy’s. “So it’s you who’s been following me.”

Jimmy nodded.

“At whose behest?”

Jimmy swallowed. “Lady Haverstock.”

Haverstock felt as if he had been slapped in the face. Unconsciously, he noted the knuckles of Jimmy’s long, slender fingers whitening as he grasped the reins. Haverstock’s eyes traveled over the groom’s sturdy body and wondered why he could not recall watching the lad grow into a man. “Don’t try to tell me she wanted information about me meeting with another woman.”

“I wouldn’t lie to ye. ’er ladyship asked that I ’elp protect ye. She ’as a bee in ’er bonnet that someone means to ’arm ye.”

“And, of course, she wished a full report on anyone I happened to meet under suspicious circumstances.”

Jimmy nodded again.

“You told her about the small man who lived on Tavistock Place?”

“Yes, me lord.”

The simmering anger he had felt over Pierre’s death came to a full boil, and before he realized what he was doing, Haverstock delivered a blow to Jimmy’s freckled face, nearly toppling the youth from his horse.

Shakily bringing himself astride, his back straight and proud, Jimmy said, “Neither me nor ’er ladyship would ever ’urt ye, me lord.” He wiped a trickle of blood from his mouth.

A pity a lifetime of service to the Haverstocks had not warranted what Anna won in a fortnight. Haverstock felt doubly betrayed. “You are to leave my service this day,” Haverstock ordered, swiping the gelding with his crop.

He shook as he watched Jimmy ride off. As mad as he was at the groom, he was angrier at his wife. God in heaven, he had married a French spy! If he had grieved over Pierre’s death, he grieved tenfold over Anna’s deception.

He had been betrayed by the woman he had given his name. And so much more. At the thought, a deep, gnawing feeling unlike anything he had ever experienced seared through him. Was Anna’s deception of recent origin or had the entire marriage been hatched months ago by French conspirators? He groaned aloud. Had all her gentle innocence been feigned?

Had that first card game with Morgie been to gather him—not Morgie—into her vicious net? Morgie had never been her target. Always, he had known, it had been him. Something about the events of that day had long disturbed him, and now he knew why. He had been manipulated by a woman of cunning and skill. And someone of even greater cunning and skill must be manipulating her.

He remembered Monsieur Hebert’s warning. Suddenly all the hazy pieces of the puzzle fit together in startling clarity. Sir Henry Vinson was the traitor. It had been Sir Henry who had introduced Anna to Morgie. Sir Henry who met Anna for a private tete-d-tete in a most public setting. And, most damaging of all, Sir Henry matched the description of the man who had been at the Boar and Barrel, the man who had murdered Pierre.

His heart drummed wildly when he realized Anna, his lovely, lovely wife, had been a party to the murder. He went numb at the memory of last night when his lips hungrily roamed over her extraordinary body. His breath grew short when he remembered her softness enfolded against him as she slept contentedly with her head burrowed into his chest. What an utter fool he had been!

As he began to ride along the narrow streets of The City, he planned how he would confront Anna. In his outrage, he wanted to hurry home and expose her. Send her to the Tower. Watch her head roll. Then his more reasonable, practical side took control and he realized he could use her to implicate Sir Henry and possibly others. As difficult as it would be for him, Haverstock would not reveal to Anna that he had learned the truth about her.

~   ~   ~

DAZED OVER THE MURDER of the Frenchman, Anna was thankful it was Wednesday so she could meet Sir Henry face to face and sever their connection. The description in the newspaper left little doubt that he was Pierre Chassay’s murderer. Would that she had never been spurred by misguided patriotism. She should never have trusted Sir Henry. His information had all seemed so plausible.

But now she did not know what was true or what was fiction. She knew Charles felt genuine remorse over the Frenchman’s demise. He had called him a patriot to England. In his stricken state, he would not have fabricated such a description.

Could it be Sir Henry—not her husband—was the true traitor? Sweet heaven! That had to be nearer the mark. Hadn’t Charles always been a man of honor? He was as dissimilar to his father as fire to ice, as good to evil.

Amidst such tumultuous thoughts, she donned her pelisse and bonnet and readied for the trip to the book store. She must wipe Sir Henry from her life.

She went early to Hookam’s, as did Sir Henry. He stood in the Latin section examining a book, his eyes on her as she walked toward him. A quick glance assuring her no one else was near, Anna whispered, “I shall have nothing more to do with you. I would never have helped had I known you would murder the poor man.”

His eyes went cold. “I won’t deny it, Anna. I would do it again to save the lives of our men. Pierre Chassay was Haverstock’s messenger to the French.”

She had no idea whom to trust, but she knew without doubt which man was more honorable. “I can help you no longer,” she repeated in a clear voice.

“You have to. We must have the identity of the man Haverstock met in France.”

She lifted a book and studied the meaningless title, her insides quaking, her mind numbed with confusion. “Perhaps you did not hear me. I said I can no longer work with you.” She put the book back and swept from the store.

~   ~   ~

DRENCHED FROM THE RAIN he had been oblivious to during his meandering ride through the old town, Haverstock entered his home, shedding his wet garments, and was immediately assaulted by the females who lived there.

“Charles! James is on his way home!” Lydia announced with delight.

“Squire Ainsley awaits you in the drawing room,” Kate added.

“The head groom informs me you dismissed Jimmy,” Anna said angrily. “How could you? He’s been in your service his entire life.”

“From whom did you receive the information about James?” Haverstock inquired of Lydia as he began to mount the stairs, divesting himself of his wet jacket.

Hurrying after her husband, Anna nearly slipped on water that puddled behind him.

“His entire regiment is coming home,” Lydia said.

“Isn’t it too, too wonderful!” Kate exclaimed.

Anna reached for the wet coat. “You will surely take lung fever, Charles,” she chided.

Ignoring her, he asked, “Squire Ainsley is here?”

“Indeed he is,” Kate said. “He is acting most peculiarly. I believe he would like to speak to you privately.”

“I daresay he’s still grieving over Mary,” Lydia said.

“Tell him I shall be down as soon as I change into dry clothes.”

Midway up the stairs, he turned to Anna, who was by now beside him. “I will not speak to you of Jimmy, my lady. He displeased me excessively, and you cannot change my mind about sacking him.”

Anna remained quiet, following her husband to his dressing room where Manors awaited. “Please close the window, Manors,” Anna instructed. “I do not want his lordship to take a chill—if he hasn’t already.” She gave every indication of staying while Haverstock changed.

“Oblige me by leaving the room, Anna,” he said sternly.

TWENTY

HIS HAIR STILL WET but displaying no signs of receiving the contents of a rain cloud, Haverstock strolled into the library.

Its lone occupant, Squire Ainsley, rose and bowed.

“How good it is to see you are no longer in mourning,” Haverstock greeted.

Though a widower might be expected to take on a solemn look and bow his head gravely at the mention of his deceased wife, Ainsley did not. He smiled at his old neighbor, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “As Mary always said, ‘Life goes on.’”

Haverstock poured port for each of them, and both men sat down in broad, comfortable chairs.

Having known Ainsley all his life—though the squire was eight years his senior—Haverstock knew the man felt his wife’s loss keenly. However, Ainsley’s face wore a perpetual smile. Were he to be the bearer of tragic news, Ainsley would likely grin as he conveyed the morbid details.

“Your children are well?” Haverstock inquired.

“Quite well, thank you, though the girls sorely need a mother’s guidance.”

It suddenly occurred to Haverstock that Ainsley had traveled to London to seek Kate or Cynthia or Charlotte for a bride. “I forget now. How many children have you?”

“Six. Meg, the oldest, is twelve.”

“All are girls, are they not?”

“Actually, the babe Mary lost her life bearing was a boy. Little John’s a year old now.”

“And I thought I was cursed to have five younger sisters.”

Ainsley began to laugh hardily. “I am given to understand your home has added yet another female, my lord.”

Haverstock’s eyes narrowed. “Ah yes. Lady Haverstock.”

“My felicitations. I look forward to meeting her ladyship.”

“You must dine with us tonight.”

“Oh, I couldn’t impose on your hospitality.”

“It would be a pleasure, not an imposition.”

Still smiling, Ainsley looked nervous. “I have come to London, Haverstock, because I particularly wanted to speak with you.”

So he was right, Haverstock thought. The man wanted to offer for one of the girls. It was really too bad for the poor fellow that all three of them had engaged their affections elsewhere. He truly needed a wife. But, then, his sisters would poorly fit into Mary Ainsley’s broad shoes. Haverstock thought of the plump matron who had totally dominated her small, cowering, doting husband. Haverstock raised a brow.

“I beg permission to call upon Lady Lydia with serious intentions.”

Lydia! Her astonished brother reeled from the shock. Why, the man could not seriously want to claim Lydia for his wife. No man had ever courted her. But as he thought on it, Haverstock realized she was imminently qualified to preside over Greenley Manor. Add to that her love of children and her life-long friendship with John Ainsley, and there was really no surprise at all. Except that the decision to offer for Lydia seemed too wise to have been hatched by the agreeable squire, who held few thoughts in his head that had not been put there by someone else.

“I must admit your proposal has taken me quite by surprise, Ainsley,” Haverstock replied.

“I daresay you long ago accepted that Lady Lydia would not marry, despite all her superior qualities. I remember well Mary telling me what a shame Lady Lydia was not blessed with beauty for she would make some gentleman a fine wife.”

“Your wife was extremely wise.”

“Oh, that she was. But so is Lydia. She always was so much smarter than the other girls. I like that.”

And you need that. “Of course, it would give me great pleasure if my sister would entertain your suit, but that truly lies out of my hands. I give you permission to call on her, but any decision will have to be my sister’s.”

The slim man nervously smoothed a hand over his wavy hair. “Yes, yes, of course.”

Haverstock stood. “We will look forward to seeing you at dinner, then.”

As Haverstock gazed after the departing Ainsley, he wondered if Lydia would favor the man’s suit. Would a woman who had been raised as the daughter of a marquess settle for marriage to a country squire? Would she give serious consideration to Ainsley’s proposal, in light of the fact he had overlooked her eligibility the first time he selected a bride?

~   ~   ~

“BEFORE YOU KNOW IT, Mr. Ainsley, your girls will be having their season in London,” the dowager said.

The squire, who sat across from the dowager Lady Haverstock at the long dining table, gave a funny little laugh. “I daresay you’re right. Time does march on.”

“How old is Meg now?” asked Lydia.

He finished chewing his peas before answering. “Twelve.”

Anna had been watching Ainsley’s behavior toward Lydia with interest. Before they had come down to dinner, Haverstock had asked Anna to see to it Lydia sat next to the squire, but her husband would divulge no more information.

In fact, Charles had been quite abrupt with her. When she asked him if she should wear the Haverstock Jewels, he had acted indecisive before nodding, and when she asked him to clasp the jewels about her neck he had done so with considerable coolness. His behavior was in marked contrast to what it had been just this morning when he pulled her back into bed every time she tried to rise. He had murmured endearments and nuzzled soft kisses to places that made her blush now.

But tonight he treated her with no more familiarity than he would a charwoman. Her loving partner of the past two nights was as far removed from the cool host opposite her as day to night.

Once more she had angered him, and once more she knew not why. He was understandably upset over his friend’s murder, but she sensed that for some odd reason his anger was directed at her.

If only she could push aside her hurt feelings and act as gay as Kate and Mr. Reeves. Instead she forced down her food and barely kept up the civilities of polite conversation. She longed for the solitude of her room where she could nurse her grief. Such a horrid day it had been. First, she learned poor Mr. Chassay had been murdered, and it had all been her fault. Then sweet Jimmy had been sacked. Now, her husband gave every indication of loathing her.

She must learn where Jimmy was and at least give him a character and some money to tide him over. He had been such a dear, doing her bidding as if he’d been in her service all his life. A jolting thought caused her to nearly spill her wine. Could Jimmy’s allegiance to her have something to do with Charles booting the poor lad? For some reason, Charles had acted resentful of Jimmy. He had even acted as if he were jealous of the gap-toothed youth.

A knot twisted in her already upset stomach. Sweet heaven! What if Charles learned Jimmy had been following him? Had he learned that she and Jimmy were responsible for the death of Pierre Chassay?

If that were the case, Charles had every reason to treat her with the utmost hatred.

She must find Jimmy.

As she watched Lydia and the squire, Anna became convinced the man had come to London to win Lydia’s hand. He deferred to Lydia with his every comment.

Obviously unaware of his intentions, Lydia treated him as she would any neighbor. There was no flirtation, no coyness in her manner, only sincere friendship and solicitations for his children. Lydia would be the ideal wife for the widower.

But Squire Ainsley was in no way the man for Lydia, Anna realized as she watched the good-natured fellow. The topic of Lydia’s new horse seemed the only one over which the two shared an interest. The only subject on which he could converse at length was farming, a subject which caused Lydia to turn her attention to Anna while he regaled her brother with the merits of his new reaper. Anna could only imagine the poor man’s disapproval of Lydia’s witty criticisms of lesser mortals. The two would never suit.

Anna turned her attention to her mother-in-law. “You must be overjoyed that James is coming home, Mother.”

A wistful smile swept across the dowager’s face. “That I am. Sons are a woman’s greatest blessing.”

~   ~   ~

ACTING UPON HER mother-in-law’s mellow mood, Anna begged the woman to be her partner at whist after dinner. Not liking to lose, the dowager accepted Anna’s offer. Lydia readily made a third, against her brother’s suggestion that she entertain the squire.

“I would far rather play cards,” Lydia said, “but I welcome the squire as my partner.”

The sun-darkened skin crinkled around Ainsley’s hazel eyes as he chuckled. “I thank you for the invitation, Lady Lydia, but I’ve never been able to master the game. I would be most happy to watch you and your brother. Perhaps I can learn.”

~   ~   ~

HAVERSTOCK MUTTERED under his breath as he took a seat at the card table. A very poor host indeed he was to John Ainsley, claiming Lydia for his own partner and depriving Ainsley of a chance to speak privately with her.

He dealt the cards and was surprised that Ainsley still stood behind Lydia’s chair, studying how she arranged her hand. Ainsley was a good man. He would treat Lydia well. And most importantly, tonight he had completely ignored a table full of beauties—two of them quite eligible—to direct his every attention on Lydia.

Lydia deserved that kind of devotion. By God, he hoped the man succeeded in his suit. Even though Haverstock would dreadfully miss Lydia. He had been closer to her than he had ever been to any woman. Until Anna.

Just as he was discovering his complete satisfaction with the married state, he realized his bride was a French spy.

A quick glance at his hand revealed that he would be able to control trump. It wasn’t matrimony he had come to enjoy. It was Anna. Not just her great beauty. The sound of her sweet voice, her gentle yet passionate lovemaking that had completely enslaved him. And most of all, he had rather liked the heady feeling of possession Anna solicited in him. He enjoyed worrying about her and feeling protective toward her.

Now, he had to forget any affection he held for the harpy. Because of her, Pierre Chassay was dead.

He felt the brush of Anna’s leg against his, and involuntarily in took a deep breath. He would have to avoid being close to her. Her very touch weakened him.

Anna and his mother won the first hand, which increased his mother’s good humor.

Ainsley still stood directly behind Lydia’s chair.

“Have you been to Hyde Park?” Anna asked the squire.

The corner of Haverstock’s mouth lifted to a smile. So his wife was going to do her best to promote a courtship between Lydia and Ainsley.

“No, I haven’t yet, though I would beg to claim Lady Lydia to ride with me tomorrow afternoon.” He smiled down at the top of her black hair.

Lydia did not even look up. “I’m afraid I’ve promised to chaperon Anna and Morgie tomorrow.”

“What she means,” Haverstock explained, “is that my friend Ralph Morgan has kindly agreed to take my wife to the park because I am much too busy. Lydia accompanies them for propriety. However, I find that I am able to take Anna myself tomorrow, so you are free to ride with John, Lydia.”

Now, Lydia bestowed a smile on her old neighbor.

Haverstock tossed out the wrong card and silently cursed himself. Not only was he playing foolishly, now when he least wanted her company, he had promised to take Anna to the park.

~   ~   ~

ALLOWING HER HUSBAND to assist her onto the gig, Anna hoped he did not notice the dark half moons under her eyes. She had lain awake all night, longing to take the few steps that would bring her to his room, to his strong arms. Not only was her heart bruised, but she physically ached to be held in her husband’s solid embrace. There was nothing she wouldn’t do to earn his affection. Except go to his room like a beggar.

They followed the rig Ainsley had profusely made excuses for. “I know it’s not as grand as you’re used to,” he had said apologetically while Lydia had assured him of its suitability.

During the silent ride Anna watched the grim set to her husband’s face.

She was unable to chide him for his coolness toward her. If her suspicions about why Jimmy was sacked were correct, she had truly earned her husband’s loathing.

This morning she had endeavored to learn Jimmy’s address, but the head groom had informed her Jimmy had gone to his cousin’s in Kent. Apparently, Jimmy had an open offer of employment at the establishment where his cousin was employed. However, the head groom had no idea the name of the establishment. Anna was thankful she had pressed a handful of coins on Jimmy, supposedly for tolls, the day before he received the ax.

“You know,” Anna said to her husband, “Lydia and the squire will not suit.”

He turned surprised eyes on her. “My wife is not only an expert at cards, dancing, and fashion, but she is also clairvoyant.”

Anna laughed. “One does not have to be clairvoyant to see what’s as plain as the nose on your face.”

“Then you must know John Ainsley would make Lydia a worthy husband,” Haverstock said.

“Oh, I will not deny that. And I am sure he would be pleased with her performance as his wife.”

Haverstock turned on to the most heavily traveled lane. “But?”

“I think he would bore Lydia excessively. Think on it.”

Her husband apparently took her advice, for he remained silent for several minutes.

“Before we married,” Anna said, trying to topple the wall that had erected between them, “did you bring young ladies here?”

He did not answer for a moment. “I suppose I did.”

“I shall be very jealous,” she said, her lips forming a pout.

“Would that I had married one of them and saved myself from an almond-eyed vixen,” he muttered ruefully.

Anna felt as if her heart had been torn from her chest.

She watched as Ainsley turned his curricle on to a little traveled lane and knew that was where he had chosen to propose to Lydia.

“To mimic my sister Lydia,” Anna said flippantly, “shall we take wagers on Lydia’s answer?”

“Five quid says she accepts,” he said.

“It’s a bet!”

TWENTY-ONE

LYDIA CAME EARLY to Anna’s room the next afternoon.

“Morgie won’t be here for half an hour,” Anna said, motioning for Lydia to sit beside her. “Let’s talk.”

“I confess I desire private conversation with you,” Lydia confided.

“You’ve asked Mr. Ainsley for time to consider his offer?”

Lydia’s black eyes clouded. “You know?”

“Of course,” Anna said, smiling. “Being ever-so-proper, the amiable Mr. Ainsley first solicited your brother’s permission to call upon you. And besides, anyone with eyes in their head could see how besotted Mr. Ainsley was over you at dinner the other night.”

“Then I must have very poor eyes, indeed,” Lydia said in a low voice. “He quite surprised me with his offer.”

“Have you decided when you will give him an answer?”

Lydia nodded. “I will tell him tonight.”

“Then—-then, you’ve decided?”

“Oh, yes. I shall have to accept. You see, it’s my first proposal. I shan’t be able to wait thirty more years for another, and I should very much like to be married, to be mistress of my own home, to have children.”

“You are on good terms with the squire’s children?”

“Very good. I am flattered that he would entrust their care to me, for he’s a very devoted father.”

“He will make a dutiful husband.”

“To be sure,” Lydia said, her eyelids downcast, her voice scratchy.

“Of course, you’re not in love with him.”

“Perhaps that will come,” Lydia said, trying to sound cheerful. “And even if it doesn’t, I will have far more than I ever thought to have.” She straightened her shoulders and forced a smile. “What does Charles think of the offer?”

“He thinks Mr. Ainsley’s judgment most superior, and he is determined the man will treat you like a princess.”

Lydia threw back her head and laughed. “Bless Charles!”

Anna took Lydia’s hand. “There is no one else, is there, Lydia?”

“Why, of course not.” She did not sound convincing.

“You’ve never fancied yourself in love?”

“If you know me as well as you think you do, dear sister, then you know I am much too practical to go about swooning over unattainable men. My eyes are good enough that I know the woman who faces me in the looking glass is not close to being tolerably attractive.”

Anna could not argue with Lydia’s assessment of her appearance. “It is true that your stature is somewhat larger than the accepted mode, but you have many fine features.”

“Pray, enlighten me.”

“Your hair is a rich black, like a rook in sunshine. If you took more pains with its styling, I believe you could look like a Grecian goddess.”

Lydia laughed out loud.

“Do take me seriously. You also have very fine eyes. I ought to know. They’re exactly like Charles’. One look into his eyes, and I’m his slave.” Only to Lydia could Anna be completely honest.

“What a fine notion! Do you think Ainsley will be my slave?”

“I can not imagine the two of you being anything more than amiable. Can you see yourself sharing your innermost thoughts with the squire?”

“Goodness no! The man is far too polite. How wicked he would think me if he heard my sharp-tongued musings on half the people to whom I am acquainted.”

Anna appraised Lydia’s figure, what could be seen of it in the brown serge gown that did a thorough job of covering it. “It is my opinion, he admires your body.”

Lydia blushed crimson. Though low cut dresses were in vogue, she avoided wearing them, tending to dress like someone’s maiden aunt or gentlewoman’s companion.

“You do possess a bosom any woman would covet. You should divulge more of it.”

“I should feel like a doxy!”

“No one will ever take you for a doxy, Lydia.”

“If I’m going to be betrothed, I suppose I am going to have to allow you to help me select a suitable trousseau.”

“With pleasure. Now, before we go to the East End, I would like you to allow Colette to arrange your hair fashionably.”

~   ~   ~

ANNA KNEW CHARLES would not come to her chamber when he came home. He would go to his dressing room and don fresh clothing for the Taylors’ ball, avoiding any private conversation with her.

When she heard him talking with Manors in the adjoining chamber, she quietly opened the door, greeted both gentlemen, then walked up and placed five pounds in her husband’s hand. “It seems you won the wager, my lord.”

Wearing a freshly ironed shirt and gray breeches, Haverstock looked from his hand to his wife’s face, realization dawning. “So our loss will be Ainsley’s gain.”

Anna nodded.

His mouth set in a grim line, he said, “I will make the announcement at dinner.”

Before dinner, Lydia met with Ainsley in her brother’s library, freeing Haverstock to announce the nuptials over the dining table where the newly betrothed couple stood somewhat awkwardly while the family toasted them.

Even in his enthusiastic toast, Haverstock’s face bore no sign of happiness. Indeed, none of the family showed signs of elation over Lydia’s engagement. Cynthia burst into tears. “What are we going to do without Lydia?” she asked, her voice muffled with sobs. “This is so sudden.”

Anna suspected Captain Smythe’s failure to make Cynthia an offer brought on her tears as much as attachment to Lydia.

“Wouldn’t it have been nice to have had a double wedding?” Kate asked, placing a bejeweled hand on Mr. Reeves’ arm. “But we’ll be wed before your bans are posted.”

Now two of Charles’s sisters were embarking on misalliances, Anna thought with sadness. She shot a glance to the end of the table where her own husband sat, and her heart constricted. It wasn’t just his size that gave Haverstock commanding presence. Everything in his dark good looks—the stern cut of his square jaw, the wisdom in his black eyes, the strength of his magnificent body—exuded authority. Anna realized she had no right to judge anyone’s choice of husbands. She certainly had not married for love. And for all she knew, her husband still could be a French spy. More the pity. For now she would probably love him were he a homicidal maniac—though she could not seriously imagine him doing anything that was not honorable.

If only she could prove that Sir Henry—and not her husband—was the French spy.

But the truth was no more attainable than Charles’s love, she lamented.

Anna noticed the dowager’s disposition had taken a marked turn for the better in the past two days. Was it because James was coming home? A contented smile softened her black eyes at the announcement Lydia would be taken down off the shelf.

“I must say, Lydia,” Kate offered, “your hair looks uncommonly good tonight.”

Lydia beamed at Anna. “Anna’s Colette arranged it for me.”

“They will do well by you, Lydia,” Haverstock said.

“Tomorrow Anna and I will go to Madam Devreaux’s for my trousseau.”

“Do you mean Anna knew about the engagement before your very own mother?” the dowager demanded.

“I am afraid, Mother,” Haverstock intervened, “the close friendship between Anna and Lydia excludes most of us. The two share many things we are not privy to.”

The dowager gave a snort. “Like those afternoon romps. One would think they were going to a leper colony.”

“I feel so very fortunate Anna has come into our family,” Lydia said.

Squire Ainsley lifted Lydia’s hand and placed a kiss on it. “Not nearly so fortunate as I that you are coming to mine.”

Color rose to Lydia’s cheeks.

Following dinner, they rode in two carriages to the Taylors’ ball. Lydia and the squire rode in Haverstock’s, and Kate, Cynthia and Charlotte rode in Mr. Reeve’s.

“I beg that you not ask me to stand up with you, squire,” Lydia said on the way to the ball. “I am a most deplorable dancer.”

Taking her hand in his, the squire said, “Please, call me John. And I am pleased you are not partial to dancing because I fear I have two left feet.”

Looking at the pair across from her in the dimly lit carriage, Anna wished Lydia wore a more lovely dress. The drab green was serviceable, but a special night like this called for an elegant dress.

“I wonder if Captain Smythe will be at the ball,” Lydia said.

“One wonders if he will ever come up to scratch with Cynthia,” Anna said. “What do you think, Charles?”

In his brooding mood again, Haverstock hugged the side of the carriage, not even allowing his leg to touch her skirts. He met her gaze. “Pardon?”

“Do you think Captain Smythe will offer for Cynthia?”

“I don’t know that I’ve ever given it a thought,” he said stiffly. “I daresay the matter is between Cynthia and the captain.”

“I think he’s behaved shamefully,” Lydia said. “All these weeks he’s been leading Cynthia on. Everyone expects a declaration any day. As pretty as she is, no other man will even come close to her. And now the captain’s become conspicuously absent.”

“Shameful, indeed,” the squire uttered.

~   ~   ~

THOUGH IT WAS LATE in the Season, the crowd at the Taylors’ was the largest Anna had seen. Haverstock and Anna led the newly betrothed couple around, introducing the squire to everyone as Lydia’s fiancé.

After spending over an hour on introductions, the gentlemen settled Anna and Lydia at chairs against a wall in the ballroom and went to procure refreshments.

Vigorously fanning herself against the room’s stifling heat, Anna did not notice Sir Henry had walked up to claim her for a dance. A frown on her face, she slowly closed her fan and rose to her feet, stiffly offering him her hand.

“How delightful it is to see you tonight, Lady Haverstock,” Sir Henry said, leading her on to the dance floor.

Anna did not respond.

Since the dance was a waltz, he gathered her into his arms and whispered, “Have you found out the information we need so desperately?”

“My husband tells me nothing, and if he did, I would not tell you.”

“What about Ralph Morgan? I see you two together every afternoon at Hyde Park. I think you could get anything you want from the man.”

“You mistake the matter,” Anna said with vehemence. “Mr. Morgan escorts me out of friendship to my husband.”

“Mr. Morgan is noted for having an eye for beautiful women, Anna. And in case you have not looked in your glass lately, you are incredibly beautiful.”

“I assure you Mr. Morgan is completely oblivious to any beauty I might possess.” Anna saw her husband return to where she had been sitting, holding two drinks. He scanned the dance floor until he saw her. Then he stiffened.

At that moment Lady Jane, wearing a heavily embroidered ivory gown, walked up to him, bowed low to say something to Lydia, then straightened up again and spoke to Haverstock, an angelic smile on her face. Anna’s stomach plummeted when she saw her husband give Lady Jane the drink he had brought for her.

The dance seemed interminably long, and Anna discouraged conversation with Sir Henry. She could not take her eyes off Haverstock and Lady Jane. Why wouldn’t the woman leave? Now she was fanning herself. The next thing Anna knew, Lady Jane acted as if she were going to swoon. Only Anna was sure it was feigned to solicit Haverstock’s interest.

He gently took the slim blond by her elbow and led her from the crowded ballroom.

“I see your husband’s marriage has done nothing to cool his feelings toward the lovely Lady Jane,” Sir Henry said.

So Lady Jane did have a claim on Charles’s feeling, Anna thought morosely, unable to respond to Sir Henry.

When the dance was over and Sir Henry restored Anna to her seat by Lydia, Lydia greeted Anna wryly. “Would that I’d had a banana peel to throw at Lady Jane’s delicate feet.”

A smile crossed Anna’s face. “How wicked you are.”

“Not as wicked as she. I have never seen a more unbelievable attempt at fainting.”

“So I’m not the only one who thought so,” Anna said.

“I hope my fool of a brother can see through her.”

Anna felt a tap at her shoulder. She turned and saw Mr. Churchdowne.

“May I have the pleasure of this dance, Lady Haverstock?”

Anna gracefully rose.

~   ~   ~

HE KNEW THAT SHE didn’t love him. He knew that she never had. He knew she was responsible for Pierre Chassay’s death. And she was an enemy of his country. So why did it hurt so badly to see her in the arms of Sir Henry and Harry Churchdowne?

Haverstock smirked at Jane. She had always fancied herself a marchioness. His marchioness. And she had always annoyed him. She was no more faint than he was. After giving her a suitable amount of time to cool off, he asked, “Do you feel up to standing up with me for the next set?” Something in his pride made him want to show Anna other women could be attracted to him.

“Oh, I’m quite refreshed now, my lord,” she said, setting a possessive hand on his arm as he led her to the dance floor.

He swept by Anna, ignoring her while giving a curt nod to Churchdowne. He gave his full attention to acting as if Jane were the most important person in the room. He made a great deal of seriously looking into her eyes. He laughed and smiled at everything she said. He squeezed her hand. All the while he watched Anna from the corner of his eye.

It was as if there were no one else on the dance floor except his beautiful wife. He watched her lovely body moving gracefully beneath the soft drape of her sky blue gown. And with a bitter rage, he watched Churchdowne’s face as his earnest eyes caressed Anna.

Damn that Churchdowne! Haverstock kept thinking. Did he have to hold Anna so close? And how dare he dance with Anna after the scene at White’s. It might give Anna a bad name.

“Since you’ve gone and married,” Lady Jane said, “I have decided to marry, too.”

“And who is the fortunate man?”

“I cannot tell you since I have not yet received the offer, but I expect it within the week. I will say that he outranks you.”

Haverstock raised a brow.

“And he’s quite old, so I may have to take pleasure with a younger man like you, Charles.”

Somehow, with all her faults, Haverstock could not imagine Anna speaking as Jane just did. Jane of the impeccable lineage, he thought disgustedly.

TWENTY-TWO

MADAM DAVERAUX ran her discerning eyes along the sizable length of Lydia and spoke to Anna. “I have not seen this sister before, no?”

Anna shook her head. “This sister’s tastes run to riding habits more than ball gowns, but now she will need a trousseau.”

Within minutes, the modiste’s assistants scurried around Lydia, measuring her, holding lengths of various shades about her face. All the while Madam Devreaux exuded excitement.

Anna realized the dressmaker extraordinaire was not just counting the generous sums she would receive for the commissions, but she was also being challenged creatively to transform Lydia from the ugly duckling into the beautiful swan.

“Do you not agree, Madam Devreaux, that Lydia’s breasts are one of her best assets and should not be covered?” Anna asked “To be sure,” the woman said, leading Lydia into a dressing room. There, Lydia disrobed, and Madam Devreaux draped a bright white sarcenet from just over her bosom to the floor.

Anna stood back and gazed. Lydia looked almost pretty. Certainly striking. “You are a positive genius, Madam. Lydia looks quite lovely.”

Lydia gave a skeptical glance into the glass. “Do you not think the bodice is too low?”

“Not at all!” the modiste said. “We only see the top of what promises to be exquisite endowments. Your husband-to-be, he will be enraptured.”

Lydia’s face clouded.

Madam Devreaux had undoubtedly said the wrong thing, Anna thought. The idea of intimacy with the squire was not welcome to Lydia. Anna remembered with deep longing every torturing touch from her own husband. Despite the pain of losing him, she would do it all over again. Better the pain than going to her grave never having experienced their magical blending.

Anna watched the young assistants work. “Tell me, Madam Devreaux, are your helpers good needlewomen?”

“But of course. Only the best.” The dressmaker wrote some measurements down on paper.

“What kind of wage do they receive?”

“I pay a generous wage,” she defended, not mentioning a sum.

“Have you need for another employee?”

The woman nodded. “This season we have been so terribly busy. My poor girls, they work into the night. I could undoubtedly use another.”

“Sally!” Lydia exclaimed.

Anna’s eyes danced with delight. “Exactly.”

“You have someone?” the modiste asked.

“She has no great experience,” Anna said, “but her work is good, and she is an excellent learner. To compensate for her lack of experience, I propose to pay her wages during her apprentice period—without her knowledge, of course.”

Madam Devreaux smiled broadly. “Of course.”

“Oh, Anna, what a delightful plan,” Lydia said. “I cannot wait to see her face when we tell her.”

“I say, Lyddie,” Morgie said on the way to the East End that afternoon, “you look different.”

“It’s her hair,” Anna said.

“Oh, yes. Quite becoming,” he said.

“Lydia is to acquire a new wardrobe for her trousseau,” Anna announced.

With shaking hands, Morgie reined his horse, pulling to a complete stop, then turned wide eyes on Lydia. “Your what?”

“My trousseau,” she answered. “Did you not know I am to be wed?”

“I did not!” he snapped. “By all that’s holy, I see you twice every day, and you don’t even have the consideration to tell me something as momentous as your wedding plans. Just who in the bloody hell is it you’re marrying?”

Anna’s gaze shifted from Morgie to Lydia, and her long-standing belief in their affection for each other was confirmed. A pity Morgie did not realize the depth of his feeling for Lydia.

“Squire John Ainsley,” Lydia said.

Morgie took up the ribbons and began to canter, avoiding Lydia’s gaze. “Never heard of the man.”

“He lives quite near Haymore. He’s a widower,” Lydia said.

“I am sure you don’t have to explain the man to me,” Morgie said, his lips compressed.

An uncomfortable silence filled the carriage. Unconsciously, Anna listened to the clopping of hooves, the cracking of whips, children at play. A fog horn on the Thames.

Presently, Morgie said. “This is the second cannonball wedding betrothal I’ve heard of today. You’ll never guess the other one.”

“Enlighten us,” Lydia said dryly.

“Blassingame has offered for Lady Jane Wyeth.”

“But the old duke must be eighty years old!” Lydia said.

“He is but five and seventy,” Morgie corrected.

“Do you realize how this could affect Kate’s plans?” Anna asked.

Lydia’s hand flew to her mouth. “Goodness! If the duke and Jane have a son, poor Mr. Reeves will have no prospects, and Kate will never be a duchess!”

“Delicate subject, I know,” Morgie stammered, “But the babe might not even have to be the duke’s, if you know what I mean. Men of a certain age have difficulties with that sort of thing, I am told. He’d be pleased as punch to have everyone think him capable.”

Lydia blushed and purposefully looked away from Morgie’s direction.

A throbbing torment raged through Anna as she remembered her husband with Lady Jane the night before. Had they been planning to become lovers once Jane married the old duke? As much as she could picture Jane scheming behind her husband’s back, Anna could never imagine Charles denying Kate her heart’s desire.

“Anna,” Lydia said, “Kate’s wedding’s only two days off. I fear she will stop it if she learns the duke’s plans.”

“That might not be a bad thing,” Anna said.

“But Kate deserves to be miserable. She’s such a schemer. It’s either her being miserable or poor Mr. Reeves—whose only mistake is falling in love with Kate.” Lydia set her chin forward. “I shall not tell her about Blassingame.”

Anna hated to see Kate locked in a loveless marriage, but it was of her own choosing. Whether or not Mr. Reeves became a duke really had nothing to do with winning Kate’s love. That he would never be able to do. Perhaps Lydia was right to keep the news of Blassingame’s plans from Kate.

Morgie ran a skeptical eye over Lydia but said nothing.

At the sewing school, Morgie stayed with his equipage, as he usually did. Anna, Lydia and Colette divided themselves among the students. Sally sat at the end of one of the tables with her two little girls, who wore patched dresses. She was putting the finishing touches on a new dress for her eldest girl.

“I think the dress will be the very thing to show your new employer,” Anna said.

Sally’s blue eyes lifted hopefully, a slow smile coming to her lean face. “You mean I’ll ’ave a proper job?”

Anna nodded.

By now Lydia had come, all smiles.

“You will be an assistant to Lady Haverstock’s dressmaker,” Lydia said. “The most fashionable women in London are patrons of Madam Devreaux.”

Sally reached down to her toddler, swept back the little one’s blond ringlets and hugged her, tears brimming in her eyes. “I don’t know what to say, me lady. I’m so excited.”

“During your apprentice, you will earn two shillings a week.”

The young mother’s eyes nearly popped from their sockets. “Oh, I can’t thank you enough!”

“No thanks are needed. It is your own skill and determination that have won you the position,” Anna said.

A dreamy smile on her face, Sally said, “Some girls may have wanted to be a princess, but all I’ve ever wanted was to be a fine dressmaker.”

“That you are,” Anna said.

When they met Morgie outside, he introduced a skinny lad who could not have been over nine years old. His body was bruised, and his hair and tattered clothes were dirty. It actually surprised Anna that Morgie of the meticulous dress would allow himself so near the urchin. Most men of his station would not.

“This is Andy,” Morgie said, placing a hand on the boy’s scrawny shoulders. “Got a fancy over horses.”

“Master Morgan’s been letting me work with ’is ’orses,” Andy said.

“In fact,” Morgie announced, “he’s going to become my groom.”

Andy hopped on back the coach, the others got inside, and it took off.

Lydia lifted approving eyes to Morgie. “How wonderful of you to take in the boy, Morgie.”

He shrugged off her praise. “He’ll make a fine groom. Loves animals.”

“What of his parents? Isn’t he awfully young to leave them?” Lydia asked.

“Poor lad has no family,” Morgie said. “I’ve been throwing coins at him from time to time for helping with my mounts, and I believe that has been his only means of survival.”

“That is so good of you,” Lydia said, admiration in her eyes that swept over his pensive face. “I do not understand how a young child like that could not have a family.”

“Too many mouths to feed. No home. No known father and a faithless mother. Any number of reasons,” Anna said lowly. “And though we cannot repair the problem, we can lift the load from a few to make their lives easier. Hopefully, others will do so also.”

“Mr. Hogart and Charlotte, I do believe, mean to do good works in their lives—that is if Charles will allow them to marry,” Lydia said.

“You must know Charles sets no store over rank and riches,” Anna chided. “And besides, Mr. Hogart has failed to ask the question.”

“He’s not going to,” Lydia said. “He is much too gallant to ask Charlotte to share a life of poverty.”

“They will not have to be poor, I assure you,” Anna said. “I will make a settlement on them. It would please me to see them continue his work.”

Lydia hugged Anna. “I will say it once more. We are so very fortunate to have you for a sister.”

“Pooh,” Anna said.

“When do I meet this squire of yours?” Morgie asked.

“Come to Haverstock House tonight. We’re staying home. I would love you as my whist partner, since the squire—I mean, John—does not play,” Lydia said.

“What kind of man doesn’t play whist?” Morgie murmured crossly.

~   ~   ~

IN A SMALL FAMILY ceremony at St. George’s Hanover Square, a sobbing Kate became the wife of Mr. Reeves. Anna observed the ceremony from the front pew, her attention focused almost entirely on her very handsome husband standing beside the nervous bridegroom. Haverstock wore gray pantaloons with a rich black coat adorned with diamond buttons that matched his spurs. His very virility made Anna catch her breath.

She remembered their own wedding. How differently she had felt toward him then. As her thoughts wandered thus, he caught her eye, and she smiled at him.

But he turned his glance away quickly.

The Duke of Blassingame attended, balancing his thin frame on a silver-handled cane. There was no sign of Lady Jane, and no announcement of their forthcoming nuptials had yet appeared in the newspapers. But Anna knew that Kate knew.

Following the ceremony, a wedding breakfast was served at Haverstock House. By this time Kate had quit crying and graciously met with each guest, including the duke’s five middle-aged daughters—his progeny from his now-deceased wife.

But it was Lydia who drew the most praise on Kate’s wedding day. For this was the first time she had worn one of the dresses fashioned by Madam Devreaux. The gown was of the palest violet, its neckline plunging extremely low, the soft gathering of the slender dress making her appear statuesque, almost slender.

Colette had arranged her hair in the Grecian style, and a lavender ostrich plume swept from her black locks.

Morgie could not take his eyes off her.

Anna detected that he was intimidated by the woman with whom he had always enjoyed an easy intimacy. Under normal circumstances, he would be sitting beside Lydia at this moment, the two of them delivering tongue lashings over some of the pompous guests.

But today, he stood alone, swallowing hard as he watched Squire Ainsley devote himself to Lydia.

Anna walked up to Morgie. “Despite that he cannot play whist, how did you find Squire Ainsley?”

“Dull witted.”

“But you must admit he is very amiable, and quite devoted to Lydia.”

“He will bore her to death.”

“But he does enjoy riding, and I am told his stable is well equipped. That should make Lydia happy.”

“It’s not right, you know, asking her to come in as mother to six children who are not her own.”

“Lydia loves children.”

“Deserves her own.”

“The squire will most likely be happy to oblige in that.”

Morgie heaved an impatient sigh.

Anna changed the subject. “How does little Andy do?”

“Happy as a lark. My housekeeper bathed the lad and found some clean clothes that aren’t too big on his skinny little frame. We’ll have him fattened up in no time. Wonderfully good appetite he’s got.” He looked around. “Mary did not come?”

“Did you not know she is about to present the dowager with her first grandchild?”

“None of you ever tell me anything anymore,” he snapped.

“What do we never tell you?” Haverstock asked Morgie, walking up and slipping an arm around Anna’s waist, causing her knees to feel cottony.

“First, not a word about the squire fellow dancing attendance on Lyddie. Then, no one tells me Mary is increasing. And you always said I was like one of the family.”

“You must perceive that you are the only person here who is not related to the happy couple,” Haverstock said, clasping a firm hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Actually, I find you quite superior to most members of my family. Come, let us find the champagne.”

They left Anna alone. She wondered if she were one of the members of her husband’s family whom he found lacking. Of course she was. If only she were more like Lady Jane, Anna thought.

TWENTY-THREE

‘THESE LADIES bloody well need her,” Morgie said crossly, flicking his ribbons on the way to the East End. “Don’t know why Lyddie has to gallivant ’round with that squire fellow this afternoon. He sees her every blasted night.”

Anna laid a gentle hand on his arm. “It’s just for this one afternoon. The poor man has scarcely had a moment alone with his fiancé their betrothal. Besides, I am particularly desirous of speaking to you today on a very private matter.”

He lowered his eyes. “Your most obedient servant, my lady.”

Though she knew they were quite alone, save the tiger at the rear, Anna glanced around the darkened, narrow street they traveled to assure herself no one could hear. No other carriage was near. Not even Colette had come today, so Anna’s conversation would reach only Morgie’s ears.

“I know how close you are to Charles,” she began. “He shares with you what he shares with no one else. I am aware—though not from him—that you accompanied him to France. What I do not know is if Charles is working for or against England.”

“How could you doubt him?” Morgie snapped, cracking his whip against the horse and casting a suspicious glance at Anna.

“In my heart, I know he’s good. However, a man I fear may be working against Britain persuaded me that Charles was a traitor.”

Morgie nearly collided with a passing hay cart. “Tis insanity, I vow! There’s no finer man than Haverstock.”

“I very much want to believe that,” Anna assured. “I want you, too, to believe that I have absolutely no sympathies for the French. That’s part of what makes everything so terribly difficult for me. If I had to choose between my country or my husband, I don’t know which I’d choose. For I care for Charles very much.”

Morgie’s eyes softened and he lowered his voice. “You shouldn’t have to choose. Haverstock’s as English as the king.”

“Then I need you to help me prove it.”

“How do I do that?”

“I’m not quite sure.” Anna felt a refreshing burst of cool air off the Thames as Morgie’s curricle plunged on to the wider Strand. “I thought perhaps you could help me trap the man I suspect.”

“And, pray, who is this man?”

“Sir Henry Vinson.”

“Never cared for the worm.”

“Neither do I, if the truth be known.”

“Tell me about him,” Morgie commanded, rounding the next corner at a brisk pace.

Anna disclosed that Sir Henry had used her to spy against Haverstock by convincing her Haverstock was a French loyalist. “He has been scheming to learn the identity of Charles’s contact in France—the one you two visited.”

Morgie nodded but said nothing.

By the time they reached the old building that housed the sewing school, he turned to Anna, a stern look on his narrow face. “Leave it to me. I know how to smoke out varmint.”

~   ~   ~

“ALLOW ME to buy you a drink, Almshouse,” Morgie said, settling in a leather chair in a darkened corner of White’s and getting the attention of a passing waiter.

Theodore Almshouse, whose once-fine coat was now well worn, sat next to him. “Good of you, old chap, considering I still owe you that five-hundred quid. Regret to say it will be the next quarter before I can pay up. My luck’s been devilishly bad of late.”

Morgie leveled his gaze at his old school chum, displaying neither satisfaction nor scorn, but a controlled power. “You may not have to pay up,” Morgie announced cheerfully. “I have a proposal for you.”

Almshouse leaned closer, his ears perked.

The waiter brought a full bottle of port with two glasses. Morgie watched as Almshouse took his glass with shaking hand. “What with your rotten luck and all,” Morgie said, “it shouldn’t be too difficult for you to actually play to lose.”

“You are proposing to pay me to lose?”

Morgie nodded.

“To whom, pray tell?”

“To Sir Henry Vinson.”

~   ~   ~

AS SHE DEMONSTRATED a daisy stitch to a middle-aged woman who stunk of onions, Anna sensed someone standing over her shoulder and turned to face Mr. Hogart.

He wore an impish smile, which she affectionately returned.

“I suspected I would find you here,” he said, bowing.

Anna gave him her hand. “How did you know?”

“I happen to spend a good deal of time in this neighborhood myself. It took no great intellect to surmise the fine lady who had set up the sewing school was none other than the Marchioness of Haverstock. Tell me, does his lordship know about this?”

Anna nodded as she led him away from the students.

“And he has no objections?”

“His only objection is to our safety. I’m not even sure he fully trusts Mr. Morgan.”

“He should have no worries about you. You’re worshipped as a saint here. No hand will be ever be raised against you.”

“You know these people well.”

“I do, and I know I’m doing good. Not just spiritually.” His voice held hope, his eyes excitement. Then, he sighed and lowered his voice. “But Haverstock could not be expected to welcome the idea of his lovely sister spending her life toiling for the ignorant masses. She deserves a life of privilege and ease.”

Their feet struck the stone floors as they moved further away from the students. So this visit was not just a social call, Anna realized. The pulls of prospective matrimony must be tugging quite firmly at Mr. Hogart’s heart. “You underestimate both Charlotte and my husband. Charles has a very generous heart. And he’s not given to feeling superior to others. Take his choice of a wife. You know of my background?”

Mr. Hogart nodded, averting his gaze from her.

“Charlotte tells me the two of you wish to marry.”

“More than anything.”

“Then you must seek permission.”

“I cannot do that. I have no money. No home to offer.”

“I have set aside dowries for all of Charles’s sisters. Charlotte’s is a modest one, but you should be able to have a little home and an income of two-hundred a year. And it’s not as if you won’t come into money of your own one day.”

“I cannot accept your generosity.”

“Oh, but it’s not for you. The dowries were set up before I ever knew of your existence.”

His face cleared. His eyes shone. “I could kiss you, Lady Haverstock!”

“Save that for Lady Charlotte.”

~   ~   ~

THERE WAS NO PLEASURE in winning from Almshouse, Sir Henry thought. The man was no more skilled at hazard than at handling his liquor. And now Sir Henry would pocket another worthless IOU from the blasted man. Almshouse owed everyone in town.

“Just one more hand,” Almshouse said, his words slurred from brandy. “I feel my luck is changing.”

Sir Henry went to rise. “You’ve no more money.”

“Sit down, my good man,” Almshouse said, his eyes casting about the opulent room at Mrs. Chambers’ establishment. None of the other players in the large parlor were within hearing distance, but Almshouse still lowered his voice and leaned toward Sir Henry. “I have information which is worth a goodly sum.”

“I cannot imagine myself being interested in purchasing information.”

“Are you not associated with the Foreign Office?” Almshouse asked.

Sir Henry raised a brow and moved his chair somewhat closer to Almshouse.

“There is a certain high-ranking Frenchman who can be useful to you, I understand.” Almshouse lifted his glass and slowly took a drink, his eyes watching Sir Henry. “That is, if you knew his identity.”

Though his heart leapt at the prospect of learning who the Frenchman was, Sir Henry attempted to remain calm. He must not appear too interested. His only sign of eagerness was a slow swallow that accentuated his prominent Adam’s apple. “I may have heard something about the fellow,” Sir Henry said casually. “But how is it you know of the man?”

“My friend Ralph Morgan—when in his cups one night—was talking about meeting the chap in France.”

Morgie’s trip to France had been secret. Almshouse really knew what he was talking about. “Tell me, when did this meeting occur?” Sir Henry asked.

Almshouse shrugged. “Maybe three months ago. Maybe six. Around the time Haverstock married.”

Sir Henry nodded. It was all he could do not to burst out smiling. The wildest good fortune had finally smiled upon him. The ten-thousand pounds he received for dispatching Monsieur Chassay would be a paltry sum indeed compared to the fee for revealing France’s highest-ranking traitor. However, Sir Henry knew he must not seem too eager. He pulled out his timepiece and gave it a glance. “Suppose I could manage another game. What say you the stakes?”

“If I win, I get my markers back. If I lose, you receive the Frenchman’s name.”

Sir Henry handed the dice to Almshouse.

~   ~   ~

EXCEPT FOR SPEAKING of the morning nuptial announcement between the Duke of Blassingame and Lady Jane Wyeth, Morgie and Lydia were markedly quiet on the way to the East End. Anna found herself trying to keep up the entire conversation, remarking on how well Kate was taking the duke’s marriage announcement, asking Lydia about her outing with the squire the previous day, commenting on the day’s heat.

Once they arrived at the sewing school, Morgie asked Anna to stay back for a private word.

“I believe our plan has worked, my lady,” he said. “Your suspicions about Sir Henry appear to be completely accurate.”

Her eyes danced. “You can prove it?”

He nodded. “A near do well fr— er, acquaintance of mine played right into Sir Henry’s hand, it seems. In exchange for money, the acquaintance offered Sir Henry the name of the French official.”

“And he positively jumped at the chance to get it, did he not?”

“Quite correct. I knew it wouldn’t do to make up a name, so we furnished Sir Henry with the real name, then I hired Bow Street runners to watch Sir Henry round the clock. They were to indefinitely detain—without Sir Henry’s knowledge—anyone with whom he secretly met.” Morgie rather cockily said, “We now have in custody a certain Mr. Thomas Brouget, who was hastening to Dover after meeting with Sir Henry at St. Paul’s this morning.”

Sweet heaven! Charles was innocent! Anna felt as if she’d been released from a cage. Now she could be rid of the odious Sir Henry Vinson.

~   ~   ~

WHAT ANNA HOPED would be her final assignation with Sir Henry was brought about by a note from Anna requesting Sir Henry meet her at the British Museum.

Anna was quite alone among grim glass cases when Sir Henry entered.

He coolly appraised a mummy. “I have finally realized you can be of no service to me.”

“Then we are of like minds,” Anna said. “I do not trust you. And I believe you, and not my husband, betray England.”

His eyes turned cold. “You don’t know of what you speak.”

“Oh, but I do. I’m just sorry it has taken me so long to see the truth.”

“The truth is that your husband works for the French.”

“You’re a liar.”

“You know he was meeting Pierre Chassay.”

“Because Monsieur Chassay was working with the British, and you couldn’t allow that, could you, Sir Henry?”

He glared at her.

“I bitterly regret I was very stupid to have trusted you, but that will happen no more. If you value your skin, you’ll leave the country before I inform my husband of your activities.”

“How dare you threaten me!”

She shot him a frosty glance before turning on her heel. “I’ll give you two days.”

~   ~   ~

IT WAS DIFFICULT for Haverstock to concentrate on the codes. He kept thinking of Anna’s treachery. Of Pierre’s death. Of that disgusting Harry Churchdowne who was so obviously besotted over Anna. Of Sir Henry Vinson’s role in this business.

He took out the miniature of Anna and gazed at her likeness. Laughter licked at her rich brown eyes and a mischievous smile played at her lovely mouth. He could almost hear her sweet voice and smell her rose water. Even knowing all he knew of her, the sight of that flawless face grabbed at his heart. It was a sign of disgusting weakness. His foolishness over her had cost Pierre his life.

For the first time ever, Haverstock longed to be like his father—not to care for any woman. They only destroyed. He was testament to that.

A knock sounded at his door, and his secretary announced a Mr. Cook.

Haverstock’s heart quickened. Mr. Cook was one of the Bow Street runners he had hired to follow Anna since he had fired Jimmy.

Haverstock asked the man to sit down. Before Mr. Cook said anything, Haverstock knew Anna had met with Sir Henry.

“You have a report on my wife’s activities?” Haverstock asked.

Mr. Cook nodded grimly, and took a small ledger from his shabby coat. “Lady Haverstock met with a tall, thin bloke, I’d say about fifty years of age, this morning at the British Museum. They spoke for about ten minutes. Then the gent came to this very building—we’ve learned his name is—-”

“Sir Henry Vinson.”

“Just so.”

Now Haverstock knew with certainty Anna was indeed meeting the man who matched the description of Pierre’s killer.

Haverstock pounded his fist against his desk. He wondered if he had the stomach to see Anna’s slender neck with a noose around it.

TWENTY-FOUR

SIR HENRY WOULD BE damned before he would let that scheming female dictate to him! And just when things were going so very well. Thomas was on the way to France with the minister’s name. In all likelihood, Sir Henry would be considerably richer within a fortnight. He had a nice little niche here in London, especially now that he had capital to spare.

If only he had not encouraged Anna to marry the blasted Haverstock. That had been his undoing. He had not counted on their falling in love with one another. It simply wasn’t done. Haverstock had previously been content with any number of mistresses, but he had not taken one since Anna came to his bed. Sir Henry thought of her mother, Annette de Mouchet, and how satisfied Steffington had been with her. Any man could have luxuriated in her loveliness, Sir Henry thought with bittersweet remorse.

Perhaps he should have taken Anna for his own mistress. But he’d grown so bloody tired of demanding females. He had thought he could control Anna without relinquishing his autonomy. In the beginning she had seemed so fertile for his endeavors. Her hatred for the House of Haverstock had been Sir Henry’s leg up. But he had failed to recognize the attraction of a powerfully muscled body, of black eyes that held a woman as powerfully as chains and of a thick head of hair the color of freshly turned earth.

Damn the bloody bitch! Giving him two days! Just three months ago he would have been pleased to flee to Paris, to take up residence in the promised Palais Vendome. To become reacquainted with friends he had not seen in over a decade of war. To take his rightful place at the highest echelons of the world’s most brilliant society.

But now he was strangely reluctant to go. Paris most assuredly had changed since he was last there. The nobles were no more.

A vision of Anna gracefully presiding over a Parisian gaming table, dressed in lavish gowns, crowded into his mind. Ah! With Anna at his side, he would have Paris at his feet.

But how could he manage that? An idea suddenly occurred to him. He could play to her weakness.

Her weakness for the Marquess of Haverstock.

~   ~   ~

AFTER BREAKFAST Anna listened to the quiet voices coming from her husband’s dressing room. And when Manors left, she entered. It pained her that the only way she could be alone with her husband was to force her company on him.

She noted the flicker of anger that singed his face when he looked up and saw her. Did she repulse him so greatly? Was there no hope for a reconciliation?

He was fully dressed in rich grays and lifted his gloves while his eyes darted toward the door as if he were in a great hurry to be gone.

Her voice gentle, her step graceful despite the tumult within her breast, Anna walked toward Haverstock and spoke. “I thought I had best warn you yet another man shall beg the hand of yet another sister.”

His eyes traveled lazily over her. “The chap who wears black?”

She nodded.

“Correct me if I’m wrong. Is he not the one who has no money?”

“While he has no money at the present, Charlotte has a tidy little dowry coming from her sister-in-law.”

“That is very kind of you,” he said coolly. “When does the fellow seek my permission?”

“He dines here tonight.”

“You think it a good match?”

Her eyes glittered. “Very much so. They are both so very good. And I am so happy for them.” She walked toward the window. “I am sorry you were denied what Charlotte will receive.”

“Which is?”

She turned to face him, anguish on her face. “A chance to marry whom you choose. I thought I was doing the right thing at the time,” she whispered. “I never meant to harm you—or anyone.”

He swallowed hard. “I must go,” he said, turning away from her.

~   ~   ~

DRESSED IN A NEW COAT—though still a drab black—Mr. Hogart met privately with Haverstock before dinner to solicit Lady Charlotte’s hand in marriage. Since the discussion with his wife that morning, Haverstock had prepared his affirmative response.

Throughout the day he had been unable to do anything but remember every word that passed between him and Anna that morning. God, but it was difficult to hold a conversation with her when she stood before him, her voice soft and her sentiments always on the mark. It seemed impossible she could be the same woman who had schemed to marry him, to spy against the country that had provided her mother and her with refuge and prosperity.

Undeniably, Anna had many good qualities. It was a fine thing for her to dower his sisters, especially sweet Charlotte so she could marry Hogart. He was a good man. He would treat Charlotte well. From what Anna had told him, Charlotte would have happily given up everything to be Hogart’s lifelong helpmate. Haverstock smiled to himself over his little sister. She had always had a soft place in her heart for the downtrodden. To think of all the mangy dogs she had taken in and nursed to glowing good health. He was rather proud of her and her desire to devote herself to the less fortunate.

He had been proud, too, of Anna—before Pierre had been murdered.

At dinner, Charlotte’s wedding announcement was made. Kate and Mr. Reeves were there, their solemn faces looking nothing like happy newlyweds.

“My uncle weds next week,” Mr. Reeves announced gloomily.

“Never have I seen so many engagements in so short a time,” Charlotte mused happily. “First Kate, then Lydia, then Lady Jane—and now me! Isn’t it just too thrilling?”

Haverstock glanced at Cynthia, who looked quite wan. She neither touched her turtle soup nor spoke. Once again, Captain Smythe was absent. They had all been taken in by the captain. Haverstock wondered if he should speak to the man about Cynthia. Of course, Smythe had never made any promises. But an honorable man simply did not use a lady as Smythe used Cynthia.

“Soon, I’ll be all alone,” the dowager complained.

“No, Mama, I am sure I will never wed,” Cynthia declared, a distinct note of martyrdom in her voice.

“A lovely girl like you must have had countless offers,” Ainsley said.

“Not a single one this season,” Cynthia lamented. “I fear I am getting too old.”

“Nonsense!” the squire countered. “Look at Lydia. She’s thirty.”

Lydia colored.

“I don’t know what I’ll do without Lydia to run things for me,” the dowager said.

Haverstock glanced to the opposite end of the table where Anna sat, her face bathed in soft candlelight. “You’ll have Anna.”

The dowager ignored her son’s remark, babbling on as if to herself. “That is if I choose not to take up residence in the dowager house. I may very well want a place of my own.”

“And you, my love, do you enjoy presiding over your own establishment?” Haverstock asked Anna mockingly.

“It is not the place one grows attached to but the people in it, I have found,” Anna said. “I will be happy wherever I am as long as loved ones are near. And like Mother, I shall dreadfully miss Lydia.”

“Then you shall have to spend more time at Haymore,” the squire said.

Anna threw a challenging look at Haverstock. “Exactly what I have been telling my husband.”

Haverstock frowned. He would never be taking Anna to Haymore. He had no right to continue living with a spy. Nor could he turn her over to the authorities. He knew now what he would do with her.

And damned but it hurt to know he would never see her again. A silly, romantic verse came to mind. He’d never cared for such drivel, but these lines kept repeating in his brain. Better it would be to be a rock or tree and never feel the pangs of love for thee.

Such sentimental nonsense, he scolded himself. He was not in love with Anna. Love had never been part of their marriage.

~   ~   ~

SIR HENRY DID NOT trust Anna not to have him followed. Even his page could be followed. Therefore, he had to be particularly cautious and rely on the cunning that had held him in good steed for fifty years.

He rang for his secretary. “I say, Whitestone, I seem to have mistakenly received a message sent to Lord Haverstock. See to it that it gets delivered to him.”

As the drably dressed man left the room, Sir Henry casually said, “By the way, since it’s of a private nature, I’d prefer that Lord Haverstock not know his letter came across my desk, if you know what I mean.”

Within minutes, the office boy carried a letter to Haverstock’s secretary, who in turn put it on top a stack of papers on his master’s desk.

Haverstock put down his pen and crossed the room to open the window. Another beastly warm day. A coach passing below with outriders reminded him very much of Morgie’s. In fact, this was the very time of day Morgie escorted Anna, Lydia and Colette to the East End. Haverstock smiled to himself. Whatever would his father have said if he knew the Marchioness of Haverstock and his own daughter were willingly associating with the uncivilized who populated the East End? And the late marquess had thought the graceful, accomplished Anna de Mouchet beneath his family!

He turned back to his work, not really wanting to be indoors on so sunny a day. He longed to feel a horse beneath him as he galloped along a country road. He picked up the letter his secretary had placed on his desk.

It was addressed in an unfamiliar hand. A hurried masculine hand. It had been posted from Bordeaux. As he read it, Haverstock’s heart raced.

Your brother, Lieutenant James Upton, has been gravely injured by a sniper’s musket ball just a few scant miles from his company’s point of embarkation. He needs special care in getting back to England. Could you possibly cross the channel and make arrangements to care for him? As soon as possible. And do not breathe a word to anyone because the French are not to know of the change in our position.

The letter was signed by Colonel Jacob Cole.

Haverstock looked for a date on the letter, but there was none. It was impossible for him to guess how long ago James had been injured or when the letter had been posted. All he knew was that it was urgent he get to James as soon as possible.

He had no time to change into riding clothes. It was best not to go home where he might be questioned. This way he could scribble a note to Anna informing her he would be out of touch for some time. No explanation needed.

With that missive dispatched, Haverstock went to his bank where he withdrew a goodly sum as well as letters of credit. Then he mounted his horse and took the road for Dover, the sun hitting his back, and the sooty skies of London behind him.

TWENTY-FIVE

THE SEWING LESSONS were almost over when Mrs. McCollum, one of Lydia’s most promising pupils, showed up.

“Sorry I am to be late,” she said hurriedly, removing a squashed straw hat from her silver hair. “A right good ’anging there was today. Had me a prime seat on top of me brother-in-law’s ’earse. Ye shoulda seen the fine lady danglin’ there like a spider!”

Anna’s eyes widened and her chest tightened. She raised a hand to protest Mrs. McCollum’s morbid conversation.

“Lady Haverstock has no stomach for such talk,” Lydia said kindly to her student. “Here, I’ve selected a new piece for you, Mrs. McCollum.” She gave the woman a length of royal blue velvet.

Anna felt hot and flushed. She hastened across the stone floors to gasp fresh air from outdoors. She kept thinking about the gentlewoman dangling from a hangman’s rope. It could be me. Her hand grasped the smooth column of her throat.

Morgie, who had been keeping an eye on his horses, shot a concerned look at her and rushed to her side. “Are you all right, my lady?”

She nodded. “I just need a breath of fresh air.”

“You’ll not find it here,” he said, taking hold of her arm. “Perhaps a ride to Greenwich when we finish.”

Lydia, her new lilac gown billowing behind her, came rushing after Anna. “Is she all right, Morgie?” she asked.

“I believe she got overheated.”

“We had best get her home.” Lydia headed back into the building to gather their things.

They rode home in Morgie’s coach and four, with Colette and a pale Anna facing Morgie and Lydia.

“I say, Lyddie,” Morgie said cheerfully, “becoming new dress you’re wearing.”

She glanced down at the soft muslin and colored. “It’s a new one for my trousseau.”

He folded his mouth into a grim line and did not speak again until they reached Haverstock House.

While Colette and Lydia were making a great fuss over directing Anna to her chamber to rest, the butler presented Anna a letter from her husband.

Puzzled, she took it, dismissed her well meaning companions and mounted the stairs. In her room she broke the seal and read:

My dear Anna,

I have been called away on sudden business and shall not return for a number of days.

Yours,

Haverstock

When the dinner hour approached, Anna had no desire to dine without her husband. The house seemed strangely empty without him. And grim. She took a tray in her room and spent a restless night wondering and worrying about Charles.

~   ~   ~

BEFORE THE FASHIONABLE hour for morning callers, Davis announced Sir Henry Vinson begged an audience with her ladyship. Anna threw a glance of distress at her mother-in-law and Lydia. Her first instinct was to refuse the man’s request. Charles would be outraged if he knew Sir Henry visited her. Then, too, there was the certain knowledge Sir Henry was a vile turncoat against his country. If only she could simply turn him over to the officials. It was extremely distasteful to welcome him into her husband’s home, but what else could she do in front of the dowager? “Show him in,” Anna said in an unsteady voice.

Sir Henry came strolling into the drawing room, all smiles for Anna until he saw she was not alone. Then he regained his authoritative command and swept into a deep bow before the dowager. “How very agreeable it is to see you looking so well, my lady,” he told her. He moved next to Lydia, bent into a bow and felicitated her on her upcoming nuptials. With a sparkle in his eyes and a flicker of a nod toward Anna, Sir Henry came to sit by her.

For the next several minutes, he was all that was amiable. He congratulated the dowager on her good fortune to be getting her younger son home. He queried Lydia about her plans for life at Greenley Manor. And he completely avoided turning his attention toward Anna.

As the other sisters began to fill the drawing room and welcome morning callers—including the long-absent Captain Smythe—Sir Henry took his leave. But as he reached the door, he turned to Anna. “Lady Haverstock, your husband helped select my new gray. He said you would very much like her. Would you care to see her? She’s right outside.”

Anna shot a dubious glance at her mother-in-law, then slowly rose and followed Sir Henry.

The gray was hitched to a stylish phaeton. Sir Henry ignored the horse, stooping to let down the steps. “Get in, Anna,” he sneered. “We must take a little ride, you and I.”

The sound of his voice scared her. She glanced at her footmen.

“I promise I shall have you back inside an hour,” he said, loud enough for the footman to hear.

She could not possibly go off riding with Sir Henry. Charles had never been angrier than the night she had met Sir Henry alone in Lord Wentworth’s study. She did not have to get burned twice to learn when something was hot. “My husband has expressly forbidden me to be alone with you, Sir Henry.”

His eyes held menace. “My dear Anna, though my two days are up, you are in no position to dictate to me. Not when your husband’s life is in danger.”

Anna grabbed at her breast. All through the long night, she had known something was wrong with Charles. And now, Sir Henry’s expression confirmed her fears.

With resignation, she allowed Sir Henry to assist her into the carriage.

She took her place and angrily watched him take the reigns. “What have you done to my husband?” she demanded.

“The question is what have you done to your husband?” He flicked a sinister glance at her.

“What do you mean?” She could barely control the tremor in her voice.

“As we speak, Haverstock is being detained as a suspected enemy of the crown.”

“God in heaven, no! There is no truer patriot.”

He shrugged. “Alas, but there is the fact he is wed to a French spy—though I daresay he would likely substitute his own honorable neck to spare yours.”

“That is completely out of the question.”

“Just as I thought you would see it.”

“And what do you propose?”

“Don’t worry over your lovely neck, Anna. You will keep it intact if you do as I say. You have merely to write a confession that will effectively clear Haverstock, and you will then accompany me to Paris where you’ll be the toast of the town.”

“I despise you,” Anna said. “And I cannot possibly believe a word you say.”

“But you really have very little choice, my dear.”

~   ~   ~

HER ROOM WAS DARK when she rose the next morning. She had packed the night before. She had written the confession that would exonerate Charles.

I, Lady Haverstock, am writing this to admit my own unintentional role in the death of Pierre Chassay, whom I understand was working with my husband and the English government to thwart the French. My husband had no knowledge whatsoever that I was having his every move scrutinized. He is guilty of nothing save a deep devotion to his country.

Sir Henry insisted he would channel her letter to the proper authorities. She had fought back the urge to write a farewell letter to Charles. There was nothing she could say that could repair the irreversible damage to their marriage.

If it was a marriage, she thought sadly. So much harm she had caused Charles. At least he would be free of her now. Though she could never be free of him. Through her misguided hatred, she had found and destroyed her heart’s desire.

She dressed herself in a comfortable traveling garb of soft green with a darker green pelisse and tied on a green and gold bonnet. She had hoped never to have come this far. As soon as she had spoken with Sir Henry the day before, she had gone directly to Morgie, having finally learned not to blindly believe the words of the contemptible Sir Henry Vinson. She told Morgie of Haverstock’s absence.

“I will make inquiries,” Morgie promised her.

Late last night Morgie had come round to Haverstock House, begging to speak privately with Anna.

Shaking his head grimly, he informed her no one in London nor anyone at the Foreign Office knew Haverstock’s direction.

Still in the morning’s darkness, she walked to the settee that was placed before the cold fireplace. She gently fingered its raised silk pattern, remembering how many nights she and Charles had sat there nestled within its warmth, sharing confidences, taking pleasure in the intoxicating feel of one another. She could almost see his powerful shoulders outlined in flickering flames, a hungry look on his handsome face as he held his arms out to her and she had taken bliss beyond measure in his comforting embrace.

So many tender moments had passed between them in this very room. She swallowed over the huge lump in her throat. Never again would she feel his arms around her or run her hands through his dark hair.

With tears clouding her vision, she turned away from the settee—their settee—and wondered if another woman would ever share this room with him.

Though she could not write to Haverstock, she felt obliged to write to Colette. It pained her that Sir Henry forbid her to bring Colette on the journey. Or to tell anyone good-bye. But she could not just leave Colette. She would take the coward’s way out by writing to Colette instead of speaking to her.

She walked to her desk, sat down, picked up her quill and began to write, in French.

Dearest Colette,

By the time you read this I will be gone. I have gone to Paris with Sir Henry in order to spare my husband from the misdeeds I have orchestrated against him. I am leaving you enough money to get by until I send for you. I hope that shall be very soon, cheri.

She addressed it and propped it on the table beside her bed where Colette would find it when she brought Anna’s morning tea.

Lifting her valise, Anna quietly left the room. It was too early even for the servants, except those below in the kitchen beginning the day’s baking. She tiptoed down the broad staircase, along the marbled foyer and through the towering entry doors.

The quiet street was so dark and foggy she could barely see the nearest lamp pole, much less Sir Henry’s traveling chaise. Not that he would be there yet. She was quite sure she was early. Hugging herself against the chill, she walked to the end of the street and waited.

Within minutes his coach pulled up, and the coachman jumped down from the box, relieved Anna of her case and let down the carriage steps for her. Sir Henry had not moved a muscle. He sat in the middle of his comfortable seat, a rug thrown over his lap. “Let us hope you are as good a traveler as you are with the pasteboards,” he said.

She glared at him, climbed in and sat down opposite him.

“You have the confession?” he asked.

She nodded, took it from her reticule and handed it to him.

He put it inside his coat pocket, yawned and settled back into his soft leather squabs. “May I suggest you try to get some sleep. It’s a long journey ahead for us, my dear.”

TWENTY-SIX

HAVERSTOCK HAD GAINED no advantage in his journey by leaving in the afternoon. Darkness that made the roads untravelable forced him to put up at a posting inn along the way. It was late the following afternoon before he arrived in the busy port city of Dover. How war had changed the sleepy little seaside town from what it was when he had been a child! Now soldiers resplendent in red coats, colorfully plumed ladies of bordellos and legions of injured paraded through the streets.

The waning sun at his back, Haverstock went straight away to book passage on the first packet out, but his luck had failed him again. The last ship of the day had just sailed, and he would not be able to get another until morning.

Another deuced night in a noisy inn. After leaving his mount at the livery stable, he walked the short distance to the Plank and Plow, a three-storied gabled building noted for good food and clean rooms. There, he bespoke a bed for the night only to be told there was not a vacancy in the entire city.

“Damn near entire regiment of the Light landed in town this hour past,” the apologetic innkeeper said. “’Tis sorry I am to refuse you, your lordship.”

His spirits low, his worry over James mounting, Haverstock followed the sound of raucous voices and found himself in the inn’s public rooms that were filled with cheerful soldiers raising mugs of ale and saluting bonny England. He ordered ale from a buxom serving maid who promptly offered to share her bed with him that night. Taking no pleasure in lying with a woman still wet from another man, he kindly declined her generous offer and tossed her a coin.

He was impatient to get to James. He did not even know the extent of his brother’s injuries. The colonel had not said what kind of wounds James had sustained or when they had been incurred. Perhaps one of the soldiers in this very room knew something of the situation. Surely one of them would know of Lieutenant Upton. Haverstock ran his eyes over the mostly youthful faces when his attention was caught by a young blond officer moving into the room. The blond was the very color of James’ hair. Was his imagination playing tricks on him? The man looked remarkably like James. Of course, it had been five years since Haverstock had seen his brother. James’ appearance would be bound to be greatly altered. Especially if he had been wounded.

Haverstock could not remove his eyes from the man, who strode into the room with a commanding presence, a gathering of other young officers around him. Damned but it looked like James. Older, of course. His fair skin now bronzed by Iberian skies. The leanness of youth now banded with sturdy muscles, the hollow planes of his youthful face weighted heavy with command.

God, but it was James! And he was perfectly all right. Haverstock rushed toward his brother.

The blond officer was talking to a man next to him when he looked up and saw Haverstock. “Charles?” he said, his voice tentative.

It was James’ voice! Older, too. Haverstock stopped just short of taking his little brother in his embrace. His eyes traveled the length of James before he met his gaze once more, satisfaction on his face. “I perceive you are unharmed.”

A smile broke across James’ face as he clasped two strong arms around his older brother. “Blasted good it is to see you.”

“But what of the sniper? What of Colonel Cole’s letter?”

“I have not been under Cole’s command these six months past.” Turning back to his companions, James said, “May I present to you my brother, the Marquess of Haverstock.”

Haverstock bought rounds for all.

James took a long drink. “Now, about the sniper.”

Exactly what Haverstock had been wondering. He had obviously been duped. But by whom? And why? It was not a subject he cared to bridge in a public tap room. “I think we need to talk.”

“In my room.” James’ eyes lifted skyward.

“You have a room?”

“Apparently a lieutenant carries more rank around here than a marquess.”

A smile creased Haverstock’s scruffy face. “A hazard of war, I expect.”

It was already quite dark when they mounted the narrow staircase to James’ second-floor room. A chambermaid who led the way left a single taper on the wooden table beside the turned-down feather bed, curtsied and left the brothers alone.

Haverstock pulled from his pocket the letter from Colonel Cole and handed it to James.

Hunched down within the room’s dormer, James held the letter toward the candlelight and read. When he finished, he turned to his brother. “It appears someone badly wanted you away from London.”

Haverstock nodded grimly. He felt like a fool. Why had he never been suspicious when the letter had been delivered to the Foreign Office instead of to Haverstock House? His work at the Foreign Office was not widely known. All personal correspondence came to his home.

Of course, Sir Henry was the culprit. He easily had access to information about James’ troop movements and commanding officers. And getting the letter put on Haverstock’s desk at the Foreign Office would pose no problem for Sir Henry.

The man was clearly squirming. He must be feeling the noose tightening about his skinny neck.

“I say, are you still rather running the Foreign Office?” James asked.

“Nothing as important as that though I endeavor to assist where I’m needed.”

“That is not the story imparted to me by Wellesley. Treated me as if I were the king himself when he learned I was your brother. Said you’d done more than all the admirals and generals bundled together to win the war.”

“The man is given to exaggeration, I daresay.”

James looked back at the letter again. “You trust those who work with you?”

“Of course not.”

“Now you sound like Papa.”

“It has struck me that the apple does not fall far from the tree.”

“In your case, I’d say a veritable hurricane swept Papa’s seed quite far away.”

“A reassuring thought.”

“You have a very good idea who is behind this—-” James flung the letter on the table. “Do you not?”

Haverstock nodded. Thanks to Mr. Cook.

“Then I suggest you and I apprehend the swine.” James cradled his hand over the hilt of his gleaming sword. “It seems my fighting days are not behind me after all.”

“You know I am married.” Haverstock stated it simply. The thought brought pain.

James searched his brother’s face. “She is very beautiful, my sister-in-law, is she not?”

Haverstock swallowed. “Very.”

“And her name?”

“Anna.”

~   ~   ~

THE TWO BROTHERS left Dover before dawn and rode hard all day to make London by nightfall. During the ride, Haverstock revealed to James his suspicions about Sir Henry Vinson. He told him about Pierre’s death and the description of his killer. He disclosed that he had hired Bow Street runners who saw Sir Henry meeting with a French—a French sympathizer.

But he could not bring himself to tell James about Anna’s treachery.

“We will go to Sir Henry’s before you see Mama and the girls,” Haverstock said.

“One wonders why he so desperately wanted you from London,” James mused aloud.

When they arrived at Sir Henry’s house on Curzon Street, not a single light shone from any window. The brothers dismounted, climbed the steps and rapped at the darkened door. But there was no answer. They walked around to the stables and learned Sir Henry had gone away in his travelling coach at dawn for an undisclosed destination.

“He’ll be in France tomorrow,” James said.

“I believe you are right,” Haverstock said grimly.

At Haverstock House, the cool reception James received was somewhat puzzling to the marquess.

His sisters flew into James’ arms, exclaiming boisterously, but their faces were sad, their eyes red. Haverstock himself was the recipient of pitying glances.

With great ceremony, the dowager descended the staircase to welcome home her youngest son. She spread her arms around him and pulled him into her bosom. Their shoulders were of identical height. “It is good to have you home, son,” she said solemnly.

Then, she turned to her eldest son. “Anna is gone.” There was no triumph in her voice.

His mother was not merely mentioning that Anna was from home at present. Her expression conveyed far more than her simple words. Anna had left him.

All at once, Haverstock knew she had run off with Sir Henry Vinson.

TWENTY-SEVEN

ANNA THOUGHT NOTHING could be worse than the stifling carriage ride staring across into the face of the detestable Sir Henry. But the channel crossing in the dark, cramped quarters of the dipping schooner was undoubtedly the most discomfort she had ever endured in her life. She emptied the contents of her stomach many times over in a cracked chamber pot as rivulets of perspiration flowed down her face. She wrenched off her damp pelisse and used it as a pillow between her swimming head and the cabin’s hewn pine wall. If only she could get used to the steady sway beneath her, she kept thinking. Perhaps then her stomach could settle.

But her stomach did not settle, though she became resigned to the sheer physical misery. This she could endure. But what pleasure could life hold without Charles?

Her only consolation lay in the fact her letter would exonerate him. He would be free and could resume the activities which had restored honor to his family. She wondered who would receive her letter. She vividly pictured Sir Henry slipping it inside his coat. Until they got on the ship, Sir Henry had not left her side. He had not posted the letter nor sent it by a messenger. Her heart caught. Sir Henry had no intention of sending the letter.

Her body shaking in rage, she rose to unsteady feet, and gripping hold of the wall, hastened to the door of her cabin. She tried the knob.

The door was locked from the outside.

~   ~   ~

JAMES CAST A DISAPPROVING glance at his brother twenty feet away. Haverstock, his cravat loosened, his face showing signs of needing a shave, sat rather slumped at White’s highest-stakes table, a near-empty bottle of Madeira at his elbow.

“I fear my brother has vastly changed in five years,” James remarked to Morgie. “While I should be the one hell bent on excesses, it seems Charles cannot get too much liquor.”

“Not Haverstock!” Morgie protested. “Why, I’ve never known him to—well, not since Oxford, anyway.”

“Then these changes have not accrued over five years?”

“Two days, more likely,” Morgie said.

James lifted a brow. “This sudden disregard for life must be tied to the actions of his faithless wife.”

Morgie stiffened. “You obviously do not know the marchioness,” he said coolly, his eyes narrowed. “And what do you mean ‘disregard for life’?”

“He damned near got us killed this afternoon with his reckless riding. And he has not stopped drinking since we arrived in London last night, not to mention his losses at the tables!”

“What does his wife say to all this?”

James’ face reddened. “The vixen must be the very cause of it. She left him, you know.”

Morgie’s mouth dropped open. “Davis merely told me that Lady Haverstock was not in yesterday when I called. I had no idea she was gone.”

“Haverstock House is like a tomb. All those normally prattling females, and not a one of them will tell me anything.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Morgie said. “Her ladyship is thoroughly besotted over Haverstock.”

“A wife does not leave a man she is besotted over.”

“Unless…” Morgie spun away from James. “We cannot allow Haverstock to go home like that. He must stay at my place tonight.”

~   ~   ~

MORGIE BARELY LIFTED lifted his aching head from the pillow. “My good man, must you open the draperies? Devilishly bright outside. What hour is it?”

“It is one o’clock, sir, and a lady awaits you downstairs.”

“A lady?” Morgie sat straight up. “For me?”

“Yes, sir.” The valet walked to Morgie’s bedside and assisted his master from the bed.

Placing a hand to his head, Morgie asked, “Pray, who is she?”

“I couldn’t say, sir. She is quality.”

“Tell the lady I will be down presently.”

For a man given to meticulous appearances, presently translated to nearly an hour, after which Morgie—freshly shaven with a newly ironed shirt and a dapper morning ensemble, regally strode into his drawing room to find Lydia sitting stiffly in a French chair, looking quite fetching herself in a soft yellow summer dress.

A troubled look swept over his face. “I say, Lyddie, not at all the thing for you to be here unaccompanied. Where’s your maid?”

“I am thirty years old and engaged to be married. I hardly need worry about propriety.”

“You most certainly do. I will not have your reputation bandied about! You must leave at once.”

“Rubbish!” She got up from the damask chair and walked toward the window. “Everyone knows you’re rather an extension of our family. You don’t count at all as a man.” She saw the hurt look cross his face. Her voice softened and she moved to him. “What I mean is, of course you’re really quite a dashing man and all, but…” She turned away.

“But since your affections are engaged elsewhere, I simply don’t count.”

She gave him a puzzled look, then fingered her gloves, her eyes downcast. “I need your help, Morgie. We must find Anna. I just know something is dreadfully wrong.”

“What does Haverstock say?”

“He won’t discuss it. I’ve never seen him so distraught. He seems to believe Anna has run off with another man—which is preposterous.”

“I should say so! And who is the other man supposed to be?”

“The odious Sir Henry Vinson.”

“The hell you say!” Morgie’s hand flew to his mouth. “Beg your pardon.”

She turned large brown eyes on him and nodded sadly. “Anna would never willingly leave Charles. She positively adores him. And I don’t believe she cares for Sir Henry.”

“I know for a fact she detests the man,” Morgie grumbled.

“She’s confided in you?”

“Yes, she confided in me. I should have told Haverstock straight away.”

“Told him what, Morgie?”

He refused to meet her gaze. “Cannot tell you, Lyddie.”

“You offend me greatly.”

“I would if I could, really, but it’s a matter of national secrecy and all that, you know.”

A sparkle leaped to her eyes. “You mean you are contributing to the war effort in a clandestine nature, Morgie?”

“Wouldn’t exactly put it that way.”

“Then how would you put it? Pray, tell me what you know about Anna and Sir Henry.”

He shook his head emphatically. “Cannot do it.”

“Cannot do what?” Haverstock asked. He strolled into the sunny room and kissed his sister’s hand.

“Mother is excessively vexed with you, Charles,” Lydia snapped. “Not one night since Anna left have you slept in your own bed. She even went so far as to say you were better off with the daughter of the horrid French woman.”

Morgie cast a warning glance at his friend. “I need to have a word with you, Haverstock. Should have spoken with you two days ago. It’s quite important.”

“You can speak in front of Lydia.”

“Bloody well cannot. She ain’t to know about…about your duties.”

James now strolled into the drawing room. “You mean Charles’s work at the Foreign Office?”

Morgie looked from James to Haverstock to Lydia.

“Oh, I know Charles toils away with cloak and dagger activities all in the name of the crown,” Lydia said.

Morgie plopped into the nearest chair and sighed.

James took a seat near Morgie and poured himself a cup of tea from the tea table. “He’s quite good at it, I am told.”

Haverstock ran his hands through his disheveled hair. “Not so good that I didn’t marry a French spy.”

“That, my dear lord, you did not do,” Morgie snapped. “The wretched Vinson played upon Anna’s patriotism for England to make her think you were the French spy.”

Would that he could believe his old friend, Haverstock thought wistfully, his eyes fixed on Morgie hopefully.

“She came to me the other day,” Morgie continued. “It was—indeed always has been—obvious that she’s devoted to you. She had come to realize Vinson had been duping her, that you were the one on the right side, not him. That’s when we set a trap for him.”

Three pair of eyes immediately attached themselves to Morgie. Not a sound could be heard in the room.

Morgie told them about Almshouse’s play with Sir Henry and finished by telling about nabbing the French courier, who was even now in custody.

A gush of relief washed over Haverstock. Certainly what Morgie told him about the trap for Sir Henry vindicated Anna of wrong-doing. Or at least of intentional wrong-doing. “I must talk with the man,” he said.

“Yes, I should have told you day before yesterday.” Morgie grumbled. “Daresay Anna would still be here if I had. I can tell you she positively loathes Vinson. No way she would go off with him.”

“That’s not true,” Lydia said. “She would go off with him if she thought she were protecting Charles.”

Morgie steepled his hands in thought. “How could he make her think that?”

“It has to have something to do with Charles being called away from London,” James interjected.

“Why did you leave?” Lydia asked Haverstock.

He proceeded to tell them about the hoax he was sure had been perpetrated by Sir Henry.

“Oh course!” Lydia exclaimed. “If he had you out of the way, he could persuade Anna that you were being blamed for whatever activities he was responsible for, and the only way she could clear your name was to admit her guilt and flee with him. Now I understand her letter to Colette.” Lydia withdrew the letter from her reticule.

“She wrote to Colette?” Haverstock asked.

Lydia nodded and handed the letter to him.

He read it solemnly.

Damn! Once again he had done Anna an unpardonable injustice. With a vigilante madness, he’d blindly blamed her for outrageous deeds: seduction, treason, murder—even adultery. Even while his heart proclaimed her goodness, he sought fault with Anna.

A bitter self-anger raged within him. He had driven away the most precious person in his life. Never had he given consideration to her feelings. Was it possible that Morgie and Lydia were right about Anna’s feelings for him? Her affection was not something he had ever allowed himself the luxury of presuming.

Whether she loved him or not, Haverstock could not allow her to be whisked off to France by Sir Henry. By God, she was his wife. And he would kill the man who took her away. The thought of Sir Henry forcing himself on Anna made Haverstock want to skewer the man on his sword.

Haverstock stalked toward the door. “I’m going after my wife.” My wife. The words conveyed a heady rush of possession. His Anna. His love. If only he weren’t too late.

James leaped to his feet. “We’re going after her.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

ANNA’S STOMACH NO LONGER ROCKED. The ship was moored, its passengers long gone. The cabin’s heat had been replaced by a night chill. But still Sir Henry had not come for her. What game was he playing?

She had decided she would go along with whatever he wanted. Until she could free herself and rush back to London. For Charles’s life depended on her. She must clear him.

Even if it meant her own death.

She heard footsteps, then the turn of a key in the lock.

Sir Henry opened the narrow wood door. “Feeling better, my dear?”

A barely perceptible nod tilted her head. She swept her hair back from her face and squared her shoulders, lifting her wrinkled pelisse. Then, she soundlessly followed him up a wood ladder to the deck.

“You’ll find we’re quite alone,” he said. “I should not want to leave a warm trail for anyone desirous of following us.”

“And who, pray tell, would choose to chase us to French soil?”

He tightly took hold of her elbow. “One cannot be too careful.” He continued to grasp her arm as they walked down the gangway.

Anna saw the hired chaise waiting and knew her only chance of escape must be attempted before they reached the carriage. Off to the right the dim lights of a tavern shone. She would run there.

The instant she felt solid ground beneath her feet, Anna shoved Sir Henry and lunged forward.

“Stop her!” Sir Henry yelled.

She ran as hard as she could toward the tavern lights. From the corner of her eye she saw the coachman spring toward her. Sir Henry’s footsteps pounded behind her.

She sprinted, propelled by fear and determination.

The stout coachman was able to get an angle on her and use his body between Anna and her destination. As she slowed to go around him, Sir Henry caught her from behind. He grabbed her with both his hands, the pressure so strong he dug into her flesh.

She struggled to break free, but his long fingers encircled her wrists, digging into her very bones. She fell down, and before she could stand up, he began to drag her as if she were a sack of grain. Her dress tore, and she stung from the dock’s weathered wood scraping her raw flesh.

The coachman walked ahead and opened the carriage door. Sir Henry shoved Anna inside, keeping one hand banded tightly about her slender arm.

“To Paris?” the coachman asked.

“No,” Sir Henry replied. “My wife and I go to Chateau Montreaux.”

~   ~   ~

AT THE FOOT of the Haverstock House staircase, Morgie planted his booted feet on the marble floor and greeted the brothers. Then he cast a wary glance at Lydia, who sailed down the stairs in a dark green riding habit. “I say, bit late in the day for you to go riding, is it not, Lyddie?”

“Oh, I shall ride as far as Dover with you,” she said casually. “I shan’t be any trouble. I plan to visit an old friend there. I’ll not take any trunks to slow us down.”

Haverstock gave his sister a sideways glance. “She does ride as well as any man, Morgie.”

“But what will the squire chap say about his betrothed traipsing around the country like that?” Morgie asked, hands on his hips as his eyes raked over Lydia.

“The squire has been obliged to return to Greenley Manor,” Lydia informed him. “So he need never know how utterly unfeminine I am.”

“Now, I wouldn’t say that,” Morgie said apologetically.

“Just who is this friend you plan to visit in Dover?” Haverstock asked, fetching his hat from the footman.

Lydia twirled her brown bonnet, suddenly quite interested in it. “Oh, dear me, this will never do.” Running back up the stairs, she called, “I believe I’ll get my green. I’ll just be a minute.”

Haverstock cast a suspicious look at his sister, but his worry over Anna quickly pushed Lydia’s uncharacteristic coyness from his mind.

~   ~   ~

“NOW, MORGIE, I am quite concerned about you,” Lydia pronounced, mounting the gangplank to the schooner. “I remember well how dreadfully sick you were back at Haymore just fishing from the placid little rowboat on our lake.” She placed a booted foot on the deck, linked her arm through his and led the way onto the sailing vessel. “I have determined you need a place directly in the center of the boat. Less sway.”

She swept by the profusely male passengers, Morgie silent at her side. “You must keep up your strength if you are to be of help to Anna. After all, she is our chief concern.”

“Undoubtedly.” His eyes darted from James to Haverstock—who were standing at the rail deep in conversation—to the plank, which was being raised. “I say, Lyddie, you had best depart now. The ship’s about to sail.”

“Another thing I’ve been concerned about,” she said, ignoring his comment, “is your deplorable French. They’ll take you for an Englishman straight away if you open your mouth. And that will certainly not help us find Anna.”

“Us?”

“I think perhaps I should accompany you.” She did not meet his gaze. “I could pretend to be your wife. That way I could do the talking. My French, you know, is uncommonly good.”

“You can’t go into France with us! It’s far too dangerous.”

“Pooh, I’ll blend in with the natives.” She stopped and faced him.

“Now see here,” Morgie said, watching the ship inch away from the dock. “Haverstock!” he shouted.

The marquess, turning and seeing his sister still on the boat, rushed to her side. “What the deuce are you doing onboard?”

“I’ve decided to accompany you,” Lydia stated.

“This is no trip for a woman,” he said scathingly.

“Nothing will happen to me with my two brothers and dear Morgie to protect me.”

“Got to do something with her, Haverstock,” Morgie uttered.

Her brother watched the distance between the boat and dock widen. “What she needs is a good spanking.” His mouth tightened into a grim line, then he met James at the stern. He had to remove himself from Lydia’s presence lest he do something vulgar like shake her senseless.

“At least we’re on the right track,” James said hopefully. “Even if it is two days cold. We would have been mistakenly on our way to Bordeaux if you hadn’t found that fisherman who remembered Anna and the proper English gentleman on the Calais boat.”

The fisherman’s words still haunted Haverstock. “The lovely lady looked as if she were scared to death of something,” he had said.

Haverstock seethed with a rage toward Sir Henry. Any harm the man meted against Anna would visit him tenfold, Haverstock vowed.

He watched the waves lap against the sides of the ship and felt the spray of salt water in his face. Each knot forward seemed endless. If only he weren’t two full days behind! Not only were they at the disadvantage of two days’ start, but they had no idea which direction Sir Henry would have taken.

What could he do to gain on them, Haverstock wondered. Sir Henry was sure to be hiring a traveling coach, so riding horseback should make up some of the distance. Provided they could determine Sir Henry’s destination. Haverstock could make up additional time by not stopping for meals.

“Lydia’s not being her usual practical self at all, it seems,” James remarked.

“Lydia’s fortunate to still have her neck intact.”

“What do you plan to do with her?”

“Lydia has no part in my plans. Nothing will come between me and finding Anna. Lydia will have to take the first boat back to Dover.”

“You know that won’t be until tomorrow morning.”

Haverstock nodded. “And I’ll bloody well not wait. Morgie can take care of her.”

“But—-”

“But she will be compromised by being forced to spend a night in Calais with him.”

“Yes.”

“My dear brother, has it not occurred to you that is the very thing Lydia wants?”

~   ~   ~

BEFORE DOVER’S white cliffs were out of sight, Morgie’s face turned a decidedly raw shade of green, his brow grew moist and he looked as if he were about to expire. At Lydia’s insistence, he had plopped down on the wooden deck, dead in the center of the boat, putting his head between his drawn-up knees.

Pulling her skirts beneath her, she sat along side of him and stroked his sweaty brow. “Poor Morgie,” she soothed.

As wretched as he felt, the touch of Lydia’s hand brought him an almost settling feeling. That was the thing about Lyddie. She was settling. No wonder that squire fellow wanted her. What a fine home she would make for him and his brood. Perhaps it was because she was the first-born female. She had a way about her of completely taking charge. Of making things always run smoothly.

Quite surprising, actually, that she hadn’t been snatched up earlier by some lucky chap. But, then, she was not a beauty. His eyes traveled slowly over her. She had removed her hat, and her black hair glistened in the fading sun, the salt air whipping it away from her face. She was the same size as he was—a size he had never considered very feminine. But now, it seemed a very agreeable size. Like Lydia herself. Solid. Dependable. It wasn’t as if she were fat or anything. And her breasts really were quite spectacular. She had a very fine posture, too, and looked most becoming in her new dresses. Actually she had an elegance about her.

That squire was a lucky chap indeed.

Morgie shook his head and rued his own plight. He was going to be sick. Very sick.

Lydia sensed it. She got up, walked a short distance away and came back with a small wooden barrel. “Here.”

He gratefully accepted it and proceeded to heave the contents of his stomach into it.

At first he was too sick to be concerned over the embarrassment of his situation. Then, when it occurred to him Lydia was sharing a rather unpleasant intimacy with him, he seemed not at all to care. He rather fancied sharing intimacies with her.

~   ~   ~

“WE’LL USE THE LAST vestiges of daylight to try to learn their direction,” Haverstock told those gathered about him on the Calais dock. “Check the stage,” he told Morgie, who had made a remarkable recovery as soon as his feet touched the firm soil of Calais.

“I’ll see what I can find out at the livery stable,” James said.

Haverstock nodded. “I’ll go up to the tavern and see what I can learn.”

Hands on her hips, Lydia said, “I plan to make myself agreeable to all the ship’s hands I can. Maybe I’ll find one who remembers Anna.”

“Now see here, Lydia,” Morgie said. “You can’t be wandering about those ships unescorted.”

“Then you’ll just have to accompany me,” she challenged.

~   ~   ~

HAVERSTOCK SWALLOWED HARD. “It’s as if they were never here,” he said a half hour later as their discouraged group gathered in front of the now-empty schooner.

No one matching the description of Sir Henry and Anna had boarded a public stage, Lydia and Morgie learned.

No horses had been hired by an English gentleman two days earlier, James determined.

Not a soul at the tavern saw an English lady the day before yesterday.

Even Lydia’s queries of the deck hands yielded no information.

“You’ll just have to put yourself in Sir Henry’s position,” Lydia said. “What would he do?”

“He would take Anna to Paris,” Haverstock said bitterly. He put a firm hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Come, James. We’ll take the road to Paris.”

“What about us?” Morgie asked.

“My dear friend,” Haverstock said, “you are responsible for escorting my troublesome sister back to London.”

“But—-there’s no boat tonight,” Morgie said.

Striding toward the stables, Haverstock threw a glance over his shoulder to Morgie. “I have full confidence in your sound judgment.”

TWENTY-NINE

AA SOON AS the brothers left, Morgie engaged a private dining parlor for Lydia and himself. What he was going to do after dinner, he did not know. He watched her as he moved toward their table near the hearth where a low fire was laid. But someone else was watching, too. He turned and saw a woman standing in the doorway, outlined by the cloudless night sky. Dressed in peasant clothing, she was of an age near his own and carried a babe in her arms. She looked straight at him and mumbled something in French.

“What’s she saying?” he asked Lydia.

Lydia sprang to her feet, walked up to the woman and began a conversation in rapid French.

“She’s worried about her husband. He hired out his carriage two days ago for a short ride to the Chateau Montreaux and has not returned yet.” Lydia questioned the young mother some more. “She says an English gentleman hired her husband, but she doesn’t know if there was a woman with him. The man matches the description of Sir Henry.”

Morgie pressed a coin into the woman’s hand and instructed Lydia to get the directions to Chateau Montreaux. “Assure the woman we’ll do everything we can to restore her husband to her. And find out who in this town owns the fastest horses. I intend to make an offer that cannot be refused.”

~   ~   ~

THE HEMP WHICH BOUND her hands together cut into Anna’s wrists. This was the second day she sat in the shabby drawing room on a faded damask sofa looking at a torn Aubusson carpet. Once a sparkling testimony to French aristocracy, the chateau now served as headquarters for espionage activities, though only a handful of minor French officials remained. And each of them—thankfully not in this room now—held Anna in contempt.

“You know you can untie me,” Anna told Sir Henry, who stood beside the marble mantle dressed impeccably in pale blue silk. “I daresay it would be impossible for me to escape with your spies about.”

A devilish smile played at his lips. He moved across the fragile carpet, withdrew a knife from beneath his waistcoat and cut the rope.

“You’ll have no need to try to run away again, Anna.”

“Oh, but I have a need. I must clear my husband’s name since you have no intention of releasing my confession.”

“What a fool you are. You do not have to end your life to preserve his. The marquess is perfectly safe. He has not been arrested. It was only a lie I devised to get you to come with me.”

Swept up in a savage rage, Anna stormed across the worn carpet, raised back her arm and slapped him as hard as she could.

Sir Henry’s expression flitted from stun to controlled anger. “You will regret that,” he said, stroking his reddened cheek.

“Where is my husband?” Anna demanded.

“He is probably at Haverstock House thoroughly furious with you for running off with me.”

Her eyes flashed. “I hate you!”

“And if you’re wondering about your confession, I can assure you it is in a perfectly safe place. It will ensure I have your cooperation in whatever endeavors I choose. The letter clearly discloses your French sympathies. So it is to your advantage to live in France now. With me.”

She had been an utter fool. And of course Sir Henry was right. She could never go back to England and never again see Charles.

At least she had the consolation of knowing her misdeeds had not ensnared her husband.

Anna nodded reluctantly. She still wore the same tattered dress she had worn two nights ago when she had tried to run away. “Allow me to dress more presentably if we are to go to Paris.”

~   ~   ~

MONSIEUR LE FLEUR, who owned a most profitable vineyard, also possessed the fastest horses on the entire coast, but they were not for hire, Morgie was told. Fortunately, Monsieur Le Fleur’s winery was on the road to Paris, and fortunately for Morgie, Monsieur Le Fleur was most agreeable to accepting one-thousand gold sovereigns for his two best horses.

Morgie’s good fortune, however, did not include a moon-lit sky. His and Lydia’s ride was painfully slow at times while they slowed for curves and ruts and cursed the darkness that impeded their progress.

“My brothers face the same obstacles,” Lydia said reassuringly. “And do not forget they will be checking every posting inn along the way. We will easily make up their hour’s head start.”

As the road left the coast, it straightened, and they could ride much faster. Lydia’s prophecy was fulfilled within two hours when she and Morgie raced over a hill only to ride up on Haverstock and James.

Haverstock turned sharply when the riders came abreast. “What the deuce?”

Morgie reined in. “Wrong road,” he gasped.

Haverstock and James came to a complete stop.

“You know where Anna is?” Haverstock asked hopefully.

Morgie nodded. “A place called Chateau Montreaux.”

“Damned if I don’t know the place!” James said. “Not far from Calais.”

Lydia nodded.

“Bloody hard to get in, though,” James added.

“I’ve been thinking,” Lydia said.

Morgie slapped his forehead. “We’re in for it now.”

“Hear me out,” Lydia urged. “Whoever is manning the gatehouse at Chateau Montreaux would hardly be able to refuse admittance to a single female.”

“Meaning you?” Haverstock asked.

“Yes. I plan to tell him I have been retained as a companion to the English lady. The fellow who works the gate would hardly know that wasn’t the truth.”

“Capital idea,” Haverstock said sarcastically. “My very English sister just waltzes herself into a chateau teeming with Frenchmen and single-handedly rescues my wife while I preserve my hide on the safe side of the chateau walls.”

“He’s wise to dislike your plan, Lyddie,” Morgie said.

“I wasn’t finished,” Lydia snapped. “I thought you could sneak in while I distract the gatekeeper.”

“She’s right,” James said. “We could sneak in while she’s talking to the fellow. As dark as it is tonight, we’ll never be seen.”

Morgie stroked his chin. “Not bad.”

Haverstock nodded thoughtfully.

~   ~   ~

IT WAS MIDNIGHT when they tied their horses to a tree several hundred yards from the Chateau Montreaux gatehouse. “The less you know of our whereabouts, the better you will be,” Haverstock told Lydia. “Just concentrate on your part. We’ll get in.”

Lydia nodded, then rode her horse all the way to the gate where she called out, announcing herself in flawless French.

The door squeaked open and a gray haired man rubbing his eyes directed an impatient gaze at Lydia.

She gently stroked her horse’s mane and walked to where her face was illuminated from the glow of the lantern which hung beside the gate. “Pardon for waking you, sir. I daresay you looked for me hours ago,” Lydia said. “I was beset by highwaymen who took my bags as well as the very carriage I was riding in. But I’m finally here. By the way, I am the companion to the English lady.”

Shaking himself into a shirt, he ambled toward the gate. “You are alone?”

“Yes, quite.” She saw no sign of her brothers or Morgie and became alarmed. But she remembered Haverstock’s words. We’ll get in. She just had to do her part.

She decided to mount her horse to draw the gatekeeper’s eye to a higher level. He began to pull the gate open. She heard it scraping against the hard earth as he walked forward, his back to her.

Then she saw them. Three of them lying on the ground, shimmying through the opening. She kicked the horse and it spurted forward, coming abreast of the gray haired main. She must think of something to say to him to keep him from looking back.

“Are many people here now?”

“Besides the English couple, there’s just four others.”

“I do wish you’d do something about your bandits. I’m at a dreadful disadvantage without my personal belongings.” She trotted in, the gloomy chateau at the end of the lane now capturing her attention.

As prearranged, she dismounted half way up the drive and waited for her companions though she was so impatient, she retraced her last several yards.

She did not hear them until James greeted her. “Well done, Lyddie.”

She asked excitedly: “Did you hear how many—or should I say how few—are here?”

“Only four?” James said.

“That gives us even odds,” Lydia said.

“No, it doesn’t,” Haverstock said firmly. “You have no part from here on out, Lydia. In fact, I plan to walk in quite alone. James can be my backup.”

He strode off purposefully toward the big house. It was in darkness except for one lighted room on the first floor. Setting his feet carefully on the cracked ground, he followed the light spilling from a French window. As he got close, he heard muffled voices. One of them was Anna’s. He edged closer and peered through the panes. His heart caught at the sight of Anna. Dressed in a low-cut gown of ivory silk, she sat at a marquetry game table. Her hair was swept away from her face, accentuating the elegance of her slender neck. Sir Henry sat opposite her. No one else was in the room.

The sight of Anna unhurt and in possession of her faculties flooded him with relief. “My wife plays vingt-un,” Haverstock whispered to James as he placed his ear closer to the window.

Sir Henry dealt. “The man I had hoped to meet here, my dear, has not come. We will go to Paris in the morning. That fool coachman is driving me quite mad in his impatience to visit the capital.”

Haverstock tried the knob. It opened, and he strolled into the salon. “I’ve come for my wife, Vinson.”

Sir Henry flung down his cards and bolted to a standing position, feeling for a sword at his side that was not there. His jade eyes flashed with anger.

“Charles!” Anna gasped. A flicker of emotion—was it pleasure?—danced in her soulful eyes.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Haverstock asked as he walked to her.

He held her in his gaze as she slowly nodded. His eyes trailed over her. She appeared physically unharmed, but there was something in her demeanor, a moroseness, he had not seen there before.

The thought of Sir Henry forcing himself on Anna was almost as frightening to Haverstock as physical harm. “If you have violated my wife in any way, Vinson, I will kill you here and now.”

“Please tell your brute of a husband that I have not forced my attentions on you, Anna,” Sir Henry said.

She took a long look at her husband. “I am guilty of many wretched things, Charles, but not of adultery.”

It was all Haverstock could do not to cradle her in his arms that very minute. Sir Henry took a few cocky steps toward Haverstock. “That is not to say Anna did not choose to leave with me of her own free will.”

“I have no reason to believe you,” Haverstock said. “You are a traitor, a murderer—and now an abductor.”

“Tell him, my dear,” Sir Henry instructed.

Haverstock confidently watched Anna. Hadn’t she just assured him she was not an adultress?

There was raw pain in her face as she lowered her lashes and spoke softly. “I…I belong in Paris.”

Her words were a kick in his stomach and a knife in his heart at the same time. “But…you can’t mean it. The man’s a murderer. I know you loathe him.”

She nodded but refused to meet her husband’s gaze. “I can no longer live in England.”

Haverstock swallowed hard. “Even if I vow to accord you the love and honor you deserve?”

Now she met his gaze, her eyes brimming with tears and an unbearable sadness on her lovely face. “It would make no difference, Charles.”

Grief as acute as death numbed him. Drawing his lips into a tight line, Haverstock said, “It seems I’ve come here for nothing.” He swept into a bow. “Good evening, madam.”

THIRTY

‘ICAN’T BELIEVE IT, even if I did hear her with my very own ears.” Lydia strode through the overgrown grass. “I tell you, Charles, Anna’s madly in love with you.”

“And she loathes Vinson,” Morgie added.

“We did hear her, and she made her wishes quite clear,” Haverstock said bitterly.

He followed Lydia, his thoughts incoherent. Anna had been the stars in his heaven, and now there was only utter darkness.

For a second back at the chateau he had thought she loved him. Was it not a painful heart that bespoke her fidelity? But then her duplicity twisted her words into barbed dejection.

Lydia veered from the direction of the path which would have taken them back to the lane.

“Where are you going, Lyddie?” Morgie asked.

“To the mews.”

“And why might that be?”

“Because we have to see if the hired chaise is here. We did promise the coachman’s wife we would find out about her husband.”

“So we did,” Morgie said, trotting off after Lydia, with the brothers following him.

In the stables, they found a traveling chaise, then woke the coachman, who slept in a small room overhead.

He immediately set about a recitation of the indignities he had suffered at the hands of the arrogant Englishman. Why, he had not received a single franc from the man, yet. And while the Englishman kept saying they would be going to Paris, the coachman was losing many fares in the meantime. And he didn’t for one minute believe that woman was the Englishman’s wife. True, she did want to run away from the insufferable man. He felt ashamed of himself for watching idly as the poor woman’s hands were tied behind her. That was no way to treat a lady. Especially one as beautiful as the mademoiselle.

On hearing this, a raw, bitter anger boiled within Haverstock. He grabbed the man by his shirt and spoke through clenched teeth. “When did this happen?”

“Two nights ago. When they left the ship in Calais. The mademoiselle, she tried to run away, but the miserable Englishman caught her and dragged her to the coach. And when they arrived here at the chateau, her hands were bound.”

“I’ll kill him!” Haverstock vowed, shoving the coachman and stalking off toward the house.

As he approached the chateau, the drawing room now lay in darkness. His gaze swept to the second floor where light spilled onto an upper balcony. He could reach the balcony by climbing a huge oak. He took off his jacket and began to climb. He straddled a branch which extended to the balcony and feared it would not bear his weight. But it did. He leapt down to the balcony and looked through the window.

It was Anna’s room. She lay weeping on the bed. The sight tore at his heart.

He opened the window and stepped into her room.

She jerked into an upright position, clutching her lace handkerchief to her eyes. “Charles!”

He stopped short of the bed. “I’m taking you home, Anna.”

“But…” Her voice faltered. “But I’ll only hurt you. There…there is a letter.”

“There’s only one way to hurt me, Anna.” He stepped closer to her. “That’s by leaving me. I find I cannot seem to live without you.”

She hurled herself into his arms. “Oh, Charles, I do love you so!”

He gathered her into his chest. Her arms circled his waist, her face cradled in the hollow of his chest. He reveled in the exquisite feel of her. His wife. His love.

“When you went away,” she said, “he told me you had been arrested. I thought to clear you by writing a confession—which, of course, he is using against me now. It will ruin you.”

He laughed and pulled her even closer. “There you are wrong. If I have you, I have everything.” He lifted her face with a gentle finger. “Besides, your confession can hardly be terribly incriminating. You are guilty of nothing more than having my own groom follow me. Hardly the material for your death warrant.”

The chamber door snapped open, and Haverstock looked up to see Sir Henry standing there, leveling a pistol at them. “I thought I heard voices.”

Haverstock pushed Anna aside and stepped in front of her.

“I was afraid you’d come back for her,” Sir Henry said, kicking the door shut behind him. “But I must insist on keeping her. I need her more than you do, Haverstock. You derive a great deal of satisfaction from your work. My lifeline has always been the glitter of society. And I’m not a young man any more. I need Anna’s beauty and talent to assure my place at the best houses in Paris.”

“You will not be welcomed in Paris, Vinson,” Haverstock said ruthlessly. “Does the name Thomas Brouget mean anything to you?”

Sir Henry’s eyes widened. “So that’s why he’s never shown up here.”

“He never left London. You will get no reward from Boney. In fact, I daresay Monsieur Hebert has a hefty price on your head as we speak. Going to Paris is out of the question for you.”

“Why, you…” Sir Henry raised the pistol.

The French window burst open. James poised on the threshold, his drawn sword gleaming under the light of the torchieries. “Here, Vinson,” he called in an effort to detract Sir Henry’s attentions from his unarmed brother.

Sir Henry threw a panicked glance at James. In less than a heartbeat, Sir Henry aimed his pistol at James and fired.

The smell of gun powder, the hiss of his brother’s gasp, the patch of blood on James’ sleeve spurred Haverstock into motion. He dove at Sir Henry, but not before the older man flung the smoking pistol to the floor and grabbed a knife from his waistcoat. Haverstock lunged and pinned him against the cracked plaster wall, grasping his knife hand.

Haverstock’s huge hand covered Sir Henry’s bony wrist and repeatedly slammed it into the wall.

Though he cried out in pain, Sir Henry would not let go of the knife.

Haverstock next sent his fist crashing into Sir Henry’s face. But still Sir Henry held the knife firmly, even as the two men fell to the floor. They rolled like a lopsided windmill. Haverstock wound up on top his adversary. He watched as the blood pooled around Sir Henry’s head, and the life stilled from his ashen face. The knife, still in his hand, had sliced Sir Henry’s throat.

Haverstock sprang to his feet and turned sharply toward his brother. “James?”

James let the sword drop to the floor as his fingers spread across his wound. Blood oozed down his arm. “Nothing but a scratch.”

Lydia leaped onto the balcony, took one look at James, who had fallen back through the open French doors, and she swooned.

Morgie sprang to the balcony next, took one look at Lydia and fell to her side, taking her hand in his. “Oh, my poor Lyddie. I’ll never forgive myself if something’s happened to you.”

“Nothing’s happened to her,” Haverstock said, walking to the balcony where the rapid pounding of hooves below drew his attention. Four horsemen hurriedly rode off from the direction of the mews down the main road to the gatehouse. “Despite my sister’s propensity for controlling most situations, she seems not to be able to tolerate the sight of blood.” Still watching the lane, Haverstock added, “It seems the Frenchmen who were here have no desire for a fight.”

He turned to Anna. “My dearest, how do you tolerate the sight of blood? Will you be able to give me a hand with my brother?”

Anna, flinching from Sir Henry’s grim death scene, directed her gaze to James. “This is James?”

James made a half bow. “Your most obedient servant, my lady.”

“Oh, but you’re hurt. This is too terrible. Charles! Help me get his coat off,” Anna cried.

Haverstock removed his brother’s coat and determined James had not been far from the mark when he said he only sustained a scratch. The bullet singed his coat but entered only the fleshy part of his arm. They wrapped it in strips of lawn from Anna’s undergarments.

Turning her attention to Lydia, Anna fetched vinaigrette from her reticule and held it under Lydia’s nose until she stirred. Morgie helped lift her upper torso.

“Gave me the fright of my life, Lyddie,” he said. “Thought you’d been shot.”

She turned the most wistful smile on him. “You cared, then?”

“Of course I cared. You’re like a sister.”

“I already have two brothers, Morgie. I do not need another.”

“Well, you certainly don’t need a fiancé, either, since you’ve already got one of those, too.”

“A pity,” she said.

“Why is it a pity?”

“If you were…well, there is something so romantic about the idea of marrying in France.”

Her words rendered him speechless for a full minute. Then he said, “As you’ve pointed out, my French is very poor. I might not understand the clergyman.”

“Can you say yes?” she asked.

He squeezed her hand. “Oui.”

“It’s about time you two realized you belong together,” Haverstock said.

“If that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black,” Lydia said, looking affectionately at Haverstock.

He smiled at his sister, then walked to Anna and took both her hands in his and dropped to one knee. “If I had been in possession of half a brain those months ago I took you for my wife, I would have begged for your hand and told you there was no other woman on earth I would rather have.”

A troubled look crossed her face. “But I’ve done such terrible things.”

He stood and gently set his palms on her cheeks. “Like cheating at cards?”

“You knew?” she asked, her eyes widening.

“Of course. It was the luckiest night of my life.”

“You don’t think I’m awful?”

“You’re not awful, except when you leave me. You are actually quite wonderful, Lady Haverstock.”

She threw her arms around him, melting into him. “And to think, we both thought we were sacrificing ourselves for England.”

He held her tightly against him, dropping a soft kiss on top her head. “Ah, sweet sacrifice.”

THIRTY-ONE

HAYMORE, THREE MONTHS LATER

DIVESTING THEMSELVES of their pelisses and bonnets, Anna and Lydia entered Haymore through the French windows that faced the terrace.

Standing in the salon, Haverstock met his wife and took her pelisse, handing it to the butler. “I do not like you wandering about the countryside in your condition,” he told her, hooking an arm around her and gently patting her stomach. “We mustn’t endanger the little earl.”

She stood on her toes to brush her lips across his. “I keep telling you our baby could very well be a she.”

“A pity. I suppose I would have to force myself to continue trying for a son.”

Lydia swept past her brother and kissed Morgie on the cheek. “Did you two succeed in arranging Mother’s portraits to suit her at the dowager house?”

Morgie threw a questioning glance at Haverstock.

Haverstock closed the doors. “Morgie has yet to understand that Mother is never quite satisfied with anything,” Haverstock said.

Lydia smiled. “At least she won’t admit it when she is. Like with Anna. Morgie and I positively begged her to live with us, but she insisted on moving to the dowager house at Haymore, saying she had to assure the future marquess was brought up correctly. When, of course, we all know how much she has come to regard Anna.”

Haverstock looked at Anna with pride. “Mother can’t bring herself to admit how pleased she is to be here, nor how fine a wife Anna is.”

“How was your outing?” Morgie asked his bride as they strolled across the broad room.

“Oh, Morgie, the most wonderful thing! Mr. Archer has died and his heir has decided to sell the abbey.”

“What’s wonderful about the fellow dying?” he asked.

“You could buy the abbey, and we could be neighbors with Charles and Anna.”

He came to a halt, turned to his wife and scowled. “Won’t live so close to that damned squire.”

She lovingly stroked the thin planes of his face. “You goose. Haven’t we told you the squire plans to wed the vicar’s widow?”

His face brightened. “Don’t see how he could have gotten over you that quickly.”

“Because I am persuaded he realized how utterly unsuited we were.” She linked her arm through his. “With his deep sense of propriety, he must count himself fortunate to be rid of a woman who had no more sensibilities than to elope—and on foreign soil at that.”

“Then he’s the fool I’ve always said he was.”

“He’s a fine man, really, Morgie,” Haverstock interjected. “By the way, I received a letter today from Captain Smythe. From The Peninsula. He apologized for not coming up to scratch with Cynthia. Said he wanted nothing more than to make her his wife, but with his future so uncertain he had no desire to make her a widow.”

“How sad,” Anna said. “It sounds as if both of them are now miserable.”

“I respect him for it. It would hardly be fair to bring a child into the world, then not be there for him,” Haverstock said, giving Anna a mischievous sideways glance.

“Or her,” Anna countered with mock defiance.

“I believe Cynthia will wait for the captain,” Lydia said.

Anna frowned. “Would that Kate’s love were that constant.”

“Kate never loved Reeves,” Haverstock said, pausing at the doorway. “The news of her London affairs comes as no surprise.”

“A pity everyone cannot be as happy as the four of us,” Lydia said.

“Charlotte and Hogart appear to be,” Morgie added. He opened the door and led Lydia into the expansive marble hallway.

“As well they ought with your fortune behind the sewing school and their other ministries,” Lydia said.

Anna addressed Morgie. “Speaking of your fortune, I really do think you should buy the abbey for Lydia.”

“I can’t seem to refuse the vixen.”

Lydia winked at him. “Come, let me beat you at billiards. I sense my brother and Anna want to be alone.”

After they left, Anna closed the door and said, “I don’t for a moment believe they’re playing billiards.”

He lowered his face to hers. “I’ve trained you well.”

She wrapped her arms around him. “I’ve always credited you with being a gifted teacher.”

He cradled her face within his hands. “Not so adept as you, my dearest love. Because of you I have learned the infinite depths of my once-cold heart.” His face came so close to hers he could feel her warm breath. “Your love has fed me as sunshine and rain sustain a mighty tree.”

“And my life began the day I married you.”

He drew her into his chest and nestled his face in her scented hair. “The day you became my lady by chance.”

~ THE END ~

Continue reading for an excerpt from With His Ring.

BONUS PREVIEW

With His Ring

The following excerpt is from one of the marriage-of-convenience stories I love to write. My heroine is named Glee, and the hero’s name is Gregory Blankenship, who usually answers to Blanks. It's also set in Regency England.

DIANA WAS ALWAYS RIGHT. Glee’s merino pelisse would have offered little protection against the afternoon’s dank chill. Even the emerald cloak Diana had suggested barely warmed Glee as she trod through the sodden land surrounding Hornsby Manor. Then there was also Diana’s astute observation about Blanks. Her own subsequent admission liberated her from years of secret devotion. Glee’s insides roiled and shook and settled into sweet anticipation as she contemplated Gregory Blankenship and her ardor for him.

The feelings which currently swamped her had always filled to capacity the innermost chamber of her heart. It had just taken Diana’s sage observation to unleash them, drenching Glee in feelings she could not put a name to. Thoughts of Blanks aroused her in ways she had never before experienced. A bittersweet longing surged deep within her, a longing only Blanks could satisfy.

She lifted her skirts and crossed the brook over a submerged stone path, feeling feather light and not at all distressed over her wet slippers. She felt unaccountably womanly, ripe for the love shared by a man and a woman. A love that encompassed body and soul. Now she knew what had been missing from her life. Until she could capture Blanks’ prurient heart, she could never be complete.

But how did one go about snaring such illusive love?Blanks’s life had been little more than a series of playful pranks and illicit love. If only Blanks had admired a lady, then Glee might have some idea what type of woman appealed to him. She would have something to emulate. Instead, she had no clue. Never had he been attracted to a woman whom he could bring home to the stern man who had been his father.

Perhaps, she thought hopefully, his father’s death—and his own subsequent position as head of the house—would force him to mature, to want a wife and family. After all, he was four and twenty. The same as George. And look at how happily George had embraced matrimony and fatherhood.

Blanks’ father’s death also secured for him a fortune. Her heart hammered as she thought of how such blessed circumstances would attract lovely fortune hunters. As if his powerful good looks had not already made him one of the most desirable men in England. Drat. One more obstacle to her only happiness.

After leaving the thicket, she glimpsed a clear view of Hornsby Manor a half mile away. Its three stories of gray stone nearly blended with the murky skies of the same color. She heard the pounding of hooves from behind and turned to see a young man, great coat flapping behind him, galloping toward the manor. Had her thoughts conjured up Blanks? The man’s mahogany hair and the elegant ease with which he sat his horse most certainly looked like Blanks. As he came closer, she realized the rider was, indeed, her secret love.

And her heartbeat accelerated. She ran her fingers through her tussled hair and turned to face him, biting into her lips to render them rosier. Now she was sorry she had taken Diana’s advice and worn the ill-fitting voluminous cloak.

When he was within ten feet of her, a smile of recognition lighted his ruggedly handsome face. Unconsciously, she returned the smile as he dismounted and began to lead his bay behind him.

“Ah, Miss Pembroke, a pleasure to see you again,” he said.

Though conversation had always come easily between them, Glee found herself at a loss for words. She stood stone still facing him, her teeth chattering. “Was George expecting you?” she finally managed.

He shook his head, impish doubt on his beguiling face. “Is that a problem?”

“Of course not. George will be utterly delighted to have you here, and I confess I, too, am glad of the company.”

He fell into step beside her. “Devilishly cold, is it not?”

“Indeed it is.”

He began to remove his many-layered woolen coat and drape it across her shoulders. “Can’t have your lovely teeth chattering.”

She looked up at his darkly handsome face as he was looking down at her. The tip of her head barely came to his shoulders. She felt utterly feminine. “I cannot take your coat, Mr. Blankenship.”

There it was. His bone-melting grin. She could swoon.

“Mr. Blankenship?” he asked with mock indignation. “Since when did you decide to stop calling me Blanks?”

“You addressed me as Miss Pembroke, first, then there is the fact you are the head of your family now, and neither of us is a child any longer.” There! Let him think on that.

He took her hand, patted it and tucked it into the crook of his arm. Suddenly she was no longer cold, but as warm and content as a kitten in the sunshine.

“I must confess,” she said, “I do prefer calling you Blanks.”

“And I prefer to remember you as that charming little sister who sneaked away from the schoolroom to follow George and me about in the wood.” He let out a little chuckle. “Are you still afraid of frogs?”

Of course she was, but she was not about to admit it. “I’m not a silly child anymore,” she said haughtily.

“How could I forget? The ravishing Miss Pembroke, Belle of Bath.  I pray that your rejected suitors do not do in themselves.”

He had noticed her success! This was very good. She still reveled from his compliment on her teeth and his gesture of shedding his own coat for her comfort. “While I’m languishing on the shelf, another younger lady will be sure to supplant me.” This was good. Let him think of her as old enough to be on the shelf.

A hardy laugh broke from deep within his powerful chest. “I would hardly say you’re on the shelf.”

This was not at all what she wanted. “I suppose I’ll have to take a husband next season whether I love him or not. I wish to be a married lady with a home of my own.”

He stroked her arm. “Your prince will come. Give him time. After all you’re not yet twenty.”

So he remembered her age. This, too, was good. “I cannot tell you how wonderful it will be to have your company at Hornsby Manor. It’s been dreadfully dull here. As you know, George and Diana are so perfectly besotted over each other, they make for most tedious company. You must promise to be my partner for whist tonight.”

“You now play whist?”

She scowled again. “I will have you know I can beat George half the time.”

“Then I will be happy to be your partner.”

They walked along the gravel path that would place them at the front door of the manor house in less than a moment’s time, and Glee slowed her steps to keep Blanks with her longer. “What brings you to Hornsby Manor?” She looked up into his manly face, admiring his dark flashing eyes. For once, he was not smiling.

“I’ve had some rather bad news.”

Her brows plunged. “No!” First, his father’s death. Now… what?

“It seems my financial expectations are not to be fulfilled. I need advice from George on how to live within reduced circumstances.”

“Are you saying your father squandered away his fortune as our father did?”

“No, nothing like that. He apparently feared I would squander away his fortune.”

“Then he left it to your younger brother?” she asked, her voice incredulous.

He nodded solemnly. “He did, indeed. Or close to it. His will stipulated that if I was not wed by my twenty-fifth birthday, the money and lands would go to Jonathan.”

“Your twenty-fifth birthday is in June, is it not?”

“The sixteenth day of June.”

“Then you’ll simply have to marry by then.” Her heart somersaulted. He was here surely for a few days. No other woman could get her clutches into him. Oh, she had her work cut out for her!

~   ~   ~

KEEPING HER MIND on the card game proved difficult when Glee felt the solidness of Blanks’ knee briefly touching hers under the table. An overwhelming envy of his current mistress seized her. What would it be like to lie with him? To have his long brown body stretched out beside her? She could picture his muscled torso, firm and strong. She could imagine trailing her fingers through a mass of hair on his rippled chest, for she instinctively knew dark hair would mat there. She ached to feel his arms come around her, pulling her into him. She grew hot and throbbed low in her belly. She longed to feel his firm mouth settling over her own. When he looked up and met her gaze, her face flushed.

It was terribly difficult to concentrate on her cards. His solemn face proved far more enticing. When he studied his cards, she studied him. She couldn’t remember Blanks without that devastating smile of his revealing perfectly even, chalk white teeth. When he grinned, a dimple pinched his smooth tanned cheek on one side only. But now as she watched him, he seemed somber, his jaw tightening, his mouth firm. She watched the flickering candlelight play with his closely cropped, slightly curly mahogany brown hair. Brows in the identical shade of brown hooded eyes the color of deep amber. His dark lashes lifted, and he shot her his familiar heart-stopping smile. Like an image reflecting off the pond, she instantly returned the smile.

She forced herself to keep her mind on the game. After all, she had to convince him she was mature and intelligent, to purge his mind of memories of a childish Glee. She counted trumps diligently. She defended her hand cunningly. She bid intelligently.

And she and Blanks won the first rubber. With his comforting grin dimpling his bronzed skin, he met her gaze. “It seems our Glee has grown up to be an admirable whist player.”

Our Glee. Could she dare hope? She merely smiled demurely and concentrated on the next hand. At least she gave the appearance of concentrating. Men did not desire to share their lives with talkative misses. And the only person in the world she wanted to share her life with faced her across the table. She dare not appear to be a talkative miss.

“She’s a devilishly good whist player,” George snapped. “I wish I could be smarter than one of my sisters. Daresay they’re wise because they’ve always got their heads in a book.”

“You are very wise,” Diana assured her husband. “I doubt that Felicity or Glee could have turned the estate around as you have.” Diana gave Glee an embarrassed look. “I mean no offense, dear sister.”

“You only spoke the truth,” Glee said.

“A good thing Diana forbid me to wager on the game,” George said.

“Speaking of wagers, Blanks,” Glee said, “you owe me a sovereign.”

“Why?”

“Because I wagered that Jason Pope would marry before the year was out, and you insisted he would never be… shackled. I know it’s terribly difficult for you to admit you were wrong.”

His eyes hard and cold, Blanks tossed her a sovereign, still incapable of admitting he had been mistaken.

Glee turned back to her brother. “Shame on you for saying Diana forbid you to wager. “I daresay my sister is not so forceful as to forbid you anything.”

“She has fooled you,” George said. “My wife commands most sweetly.”

“And George jumps happily through her hoops,” Blanks declared.

George laughed. “You wait, my friend. Before the year is out I expect to find you shackled.”

Diana’s lovely face went solemn. “Shackled?”

Glee watched as George set his hand on his wife’s, stroking it tenderly. “For Blanks, it’s shackled. For me, it’s heaven.”

How Glee envied the love that bound her brother and Diana as eternally as the tide. She was almost embarrassed as Diana pursed her elegant lips and sent a kiss across the table at her beloved.

It was apparently more than Blanks could stand. “Who’s bid?” he asked.

“I think it’s yours, pet,” George said to Glee. He never called his wife pet. She was always my love.

They played in relative silence, with Glee and Blanks winning the next rubber before the foursome retired for the night.

~   ~   ~

SLEEP ELUDED GREGORY. The solution to his dilemma had seemed so obvious to everyone. To Willowby. To Glee. And to George. Only Gregory knew how useless it was for him to contemplate marriage. He had long ago vowed to never marry. All of his sexual intimacies had been conducted with experienced women who knew how to prevent pregnancy. He had no desire to impregnate a woman he valued and loved to lose her in childbed as he had lost his mother.

He had grown to hate his father for his mother’s death and for forcing an uncaring step-mother on him. Aurora had always despised Gregory for usurping her precious Jonathan from their father’s vast fortune.

And now she had won. The fortune would be Jonathan’s.

~   ~   ~

SLEEP WAS THE LAST thing Glee wanted. This all-encompassing love she felt for Blanks demanded contemplation. She could almost curse him for disrupting her heretofore placid existence, yet the sweet rapture of her love was intoxicating. It seemed her entire nineteen years had been but a prelude for this. This. This brink of fulfillment. This delicious arousal. This yearning to intertwine her life with his.

If only she knew more about him. Then she could commence on her plan to snag his heart. But he guarded his feelings as securely as a vault. That smile she had come to love so dearly was but a mask. Even his extravagant pranks and excessive living must conceal a man of deep feeling. If only she could penetrate the armor he had erected around his heart.

She bolted upright in her bed. How foolish she had been to expect to win his love! Never would that be freely given. No, she must not even try. He obviously feared such a commitment. What he needed now was a wife, not a love. For he was not ready for love. She must learn to take her happiness in feeble increments. First, she would have to convince him to marry her.

A marriage in name only.

Like a general with a battle plan, she would conquer his heart later.

One thing seemed clear. He had no desire to marry, even if it meant forfeiting his fortune. What was there about the state of marriage that could repulse him so?

With His Ring at Amazon

CHERYL BOLEN

SINCE THE NUN who was my third-grade teacher had us write original paragraphs, I knew writing was what I wanted to do in life. It was only natural that I got degrees in journalism and English. Careers as a reporter/editor as well an English teacher followed. I wrote my first complete novel in my early twenties, but it was another twenty years before I got The Call from a New York editor to buy my first historical romance. That book earned me the title of Notable New Author for 1998.

More than a dozen historical romances have followed. Many of them have been bestsellers and have won awards like the Holt Medallion for Best Historical 2005, the International Digital Award for Best Historical of 2011, and Best Novella of 2011. My books have been translated into 11 languages.

My favorite things to do are reading and writing about dead Englishmen and visiting England, the latter shared with my professor husband. He and I and one of our two grown sons also love to watch our alma mater, the University of Texas Longhorns, play football and basketball.

cherylbolen.com

Cheryl Bolen’s Regency Ramblings Blog

Facebook

Cover

Dedication

Beginning

Bonus Preview

About Lucinda Brant

— CHAPTER LINKS —

1     2     3     4     5     6     7     8     9     10     11     12     13     14     15     16     17     18

for

Andrea & Cathy

ONE

LONDON, ENGLAND, 1763

‘TOM, DO I HAVE A DOWRY?” Jane asked her stepbrother, turning away from a window being hit hard with rain.

Tom Allenby glanced uneasily at his mother, who was pouring him out a second dish of Bohea tea. “Dowry? Of course you have a dowry, Jane.”

Jane wasn’t so sure. When her father disowned her four years ago, he cut her off without a penny.

“What is the amount?”

Tom blinked. His discomfort increased. “Amount?”

“Ten thousand pounds,” Lady Despard stated, a sulky glance at her stepdaughter. Annoyance showed itself in the rough way she handled the slices of seedy cake onto small blue and white Worcester porcelain plates. “Though why Tom feels the need to provide you with a dowry when you’re marrying the richest man in Wiltshire, I’ll never fathom. To a moneybags nobleman, ten thousand is but a drop in the Bristol River.”

“Mamma,” Tom said in an under voice, close-shaven cheeks burning with color. “I believe I can spare Jane ten thousand when I am to inherit ten times that amount.” He regarded his stepsister with a hesitant smile. “It’s a fair dowry, isn’t it, Jane?”

But Lady Despard was right. Ten thousand pounds wasn’t much of a dowry to bring to a marriage with a nobleman who reportedly had an income of thirty thousand pounds a year. Yet Jane hated to see her stepbrother miserable. Poor Tom. The terms of Jacob Allenby’s will had disturbed his well-ordered world.

“Of course it’s a fair dowry, Tom. It is more than fair, it is very generous,” she answered kindly before retreating once more to the window with its view of London’s bleak winter skies and gray buildings. She wished for the sun to show itself, if but briefly, to melt the hard January frost. Tom could then take her riding about the Green Park. Somehow, she had to escape the confines of this unfamiliar townhouse crawling with nameless soft-footed servants.

But there was no escaping tomorrow. Tomorrow she was to be married. Tomorrow she would be made a countess. Tomorrow she became respectable.

Tom followed her across the drawing room to the window seat that overlooked busy Arlington Street and sat beside her. “Listen, Jane,” he said gruffly as he picked at a thread of a tapestry cushion. “You needn’t rush into this marriage just for my benefit. Attorneys for Uncle’s estate said there is still time…”

“It’s perfectly all right, Tom,” Jane assured him with a soft smile, thin white hand covering his. “The sooner I’m married the sooner you inherit what is rightfully yours and can get on with your life. You have factories to run and workers who are relying on you to pay them their long overdue wages. It was wrong of Mr. Allenby to leave his manufacturing concerns and his estate to you without any monies for their upkeep. You shouldn’t be forced to foreclose, or to sell your birthright. Those poor souls who make your blue glass need to be paid so they can feed their families. Should they be made destitute all because your uncle willed his capital to me? You are his only male relative and you have an obligation to those who now work for you. We know why your uncle made you assets rich but cash poor, why he left his capital to me, because he hoped to force a union between us.”

“Why not? Why not marry me, Jane?”

“Because despite being my brother in law, you’ve been my little brother since I can remember and that will never change,” Jane explained kindly. “I love you as a sister loves a brother, and that is why I cannot marry you.”

“But what of Uncle’s will?” Tom asked lamely, not forcing the argument because he knew she was right.

“We have been over this with Mr. Allenby’s attorneys,” Jane answered patiently. “The will does not specifically mention that I must marry you, Tom, and so we are not obligated to do so. That was an oversight on your uncle’s part. The attorneys say that I may marry any man and the one hundred thousand pounds will then be released in your favor.”

“Any man?” Tom gave a huff of embarrassed anger. “But you are not marrying just any man, Jane. You are marrying the Earl of Salt Hendon! I cannot allow you to make such a sacrifice. It is not right. It is not right that in marrying him you are left destitute. Surely, something can be worked out. We just need time.”

“Time? It has now been three months since Mr. Allenby died and you cannot keep putting off your creditors. How much do you owe, Tom? How long do you think you can go on before you must sell assets to meet your debts?” Jane forced herself to smile brightly. “Besides, is it such a sacrifice to be elevated from squire’s daughter to wife of the Earl of Salt Hendon? I shall be a countess!”

“Wife of a nobleman who is marrying you because he gave his word to your dying father and feels honor-bound to do so,” Tom grumbled. “Not because he wants or loves you… Oh, Jane! Forgive me,” he apologized just as quickly, realizing his offence. “You know I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t apologize for the truth, Tom. Yes, I am marrying a man who does not care two figs for me, but in doing so my conscience is clear.”

“Well, if you won’t marry me, then marriage to a titled Lothario is better than you remaining unmarried,” her stepbrother said in an abrupt about-face that widened Jane’s blue eyes. “Only a husband’s protection will fend off lecherous dogs. Living unmarried in a cottage on the estate was all well and good while Uncle Jacob was alive to protect you. But even he was powerless the one and only time you ventured beyond the park. You became fair game for every depraved scoundrel riding the Salt Hunt.” Tom squeezed her hand. “Uncle showed more restraint than I. I’d have shot those lascivious swine as let them take you for a harlot.”

That humiliating incident had occurred two years ago but the memory remained painfully raw for Jane. What Tom did not know was that the lascivious swine of which he spoke were in truth the Earl of Salt Hendon and his friends. On the edge of the copse, with her basket of field mushrooms over her arm and dangling her bonnet by its silk ribbons, she had not immediately recognized the Earl astride his favorite hunter with a full beard upon his face and his light chestnut hair tumbled about his shoulders.

He had brought his mount right up to her and stared down into her upturned face with something akin to mute stupefaction. Then, much to the delight of his boon companions, he exacted a landlord’s privilege for her trespass by dismounting, pulling her into a tight embrace and roughly kissing her full on the mouth. She had tried in vain to push him off but his arm about her waist was vise-like and he continued to crush her mouth under his, violating her with his tongue; he tasting of spirits and pepper. When he finally came up for air, his brown eyes searched her shocked face as if expecting some sort of revelation. It was only when she slapped his face hard that the spell was broken and he was brought to a sense of his surroundings. He released her with one vicious whispered word in her ear and a low mocking bow.

Even now, two years on, remembering how pitilessly he had whispered that hateful word, Jane shuddered and swallowed. He could very well have stabbed her in the heart; such was the hurt that came with that one word: harlot.

She smiled resignedly at her stepbrother, all of one and twenty years of age and with so much responsibility resting on his thin young shoulders.

“But what else were they to think, Tom? I, an unmarried girl cast out of her father’s house, living under the protection of an old widower, they could not take me for anything less than a harlot.”

“No! No, you’re not! Never say so!” he commanded, a glance across the room at his mother, who was pouring out more tea in her dish. “You made one tiny error of judgment, that’s all,” he continued. “For that you must suffer the consequences for the rest of your life? I say, a thousand times, no.”

“Dearest Tom. You’ve always been my stalwart defender, though I don’t deserve such devotion,” she said in a rallying tone. “You cannot dismiss what I did as a tiny error of judgment. After all, that error caused my father to disown me and brand me a whore.” When Tom made an impatient gesture and looked away, she smiled reassuringly and touched his flushed cheek. “I cannot—I do not—hide from that. If your uncle had not taken me in, I would have ended up in a Bristol poorhouse, or worse, dead in a ditch. I will always be grateful to Mr. Allenby for giving me shelter.”

“I’d have looked after you, Jane. Always.”

“Yes, Tom. Of course.”

But they both knew the unspoken truth of that lie. Jane’s father, Sir Felix Despard, would never have permitted Tom to interfere in a father’s justifiable punishment of a disobedient and disgraced daughter. The past four years had given Jane time to reflect on the folly of her impetuousness in allowing her heart to rule her head. The loss of her virtue and its tragic consequences had bestowed upon her father the right to cast her out of the family home, alone, friendless, and destitute. She had disgraced not only her good name but also her family’s honor. Jane did not blame her father for her disgrace, but she would never forgive him for what he had ordered done to her.

Regardless of what her father, Jacob Allenby and others thought of her, she still believed in upholding the moral principles of fairness, honesty and taking responsibility for her actions. The predicament she had found herself in had not been of her father’s making, it had been hers and hers alone. But Tom would never understand. Her father and his Uncle Jacob had spared her stepbrother the whole sordid story, for which she was grateful. Tom was an earnest young man who saw the good in everyone. Jane hoped he always would.

“You’re the best of brothers, Tom,” she said sincerely and swiftly kissed his cheek.

But Tom did not feel he had earned such praise. He should have protected her.

Sir Felix Despard of Despard Park, Wiltshire, had wanted an earl for a son-in-law at the very least, a duke if he could get it. But he had gone about it all the wrong way. Ignoring his daughter’s sheltered upbringing and ignorance of the ways of Polite Society, he pushed his only child out onto the marriage mart defenseless and left to her own devices. Tom never forgave his weak-minded and overly ambitious stepfather and he blamed him for the inevitable and very calculated seduction of his stepsister.

Tom grabbed Jane’s hand.

“If you had accepted any man but Lord Salt!” he said fiercely. “He always has this look on his face—hard to describe—as if someone has dared break wind under his noble nose. The way his nostrils quiver, I just want to burst out laughing. You may giggle, Jane, but God help me to keep a straight face if the rest of the Sinclair family have the same noble nostrils. His sister the Lady Caroline Sinclair is said to be worth in excess of forty thousand pounds and receives at least three marriage proposals a week. The Earl keeps her locked up in the country for fear of her eloping to Gretna with the first fortune hunter who makes up to her, because she is so naïve as to believe these fools have fallen in love with her and not her fortune.”

“Oh dear, Tom, you make me quite faint with anticipation at meeting my future sister-in-law,” Jane said with an indulgent smile. “But how do you know this about Caroline Sinclair?”

Tom pulled at the points of his silk waistcoat with a smile of smug satisfaction. “I have my sources, Jane. High placed sources at that.”

“La, Tom, will you stop spreading idle gossip like an old maiden aunt!” Lady Despard lectured disapprovingly, though she had finally opened her ears hearing mention of the noble Sinclair family. She stood before the ornate looking glass above the fireplace. A fading beauty on the other side of forty, she preened herself in the reflection, gently patting into place her blonde powdered and pomaded upswept coiffure, adjusting one of the tiny bows scattered strategically amongst this greased confection. “Lady Caroline Sinclair is Wiltshire’s premier beauty and not yet eighteen so I’m not surprised Lord Salt keeps her locked up. Look what happened to you the one and only time you was let off the leash, Jane!”

“Mamma.”

“What high placed sources, Tom?” Jane asked, ignoring her stepmother and hoping Tom would do the same.

“Why do you never defend yourself against her petty taunts?” Tom whispered fiercely.

“I cannot defend the indefensible,” Jane answered simply. When Tom continued to stare angrily at his mother, she touched the upturned close-fitting cuff of his velvet frock coat. “Please, Tom. What sources?”

“Do you remember Mr. Arthur Ellis who came to Despard Park just before your come out? It was a long time ago now but he was a very particular friend of mine up at Oxford. Thin, freckle-faced chap with big ears. No? You must remember Art! He spent the entire sennight gazing at you. Well, Art had the good fortune to obtain the post of secretary to Lord Salt. Who’d have thought it back then! Although, I wouldn’t call it good fortune to be appointed scribbler to a thin nosed iceberg. But in Art’s case, beggars can’t be choosers, as they say. His family are all terribly clever but odiously poor.”

“But surely Mr. Ellis didn’t abuse his post as secretary and confide in you about Lady Caroline?”

“Of course not,” Tom answered indignantly, feeling acute embarrassment for breaching his friend’s confidence. “I pressed Art to tell me about Lady Caroline because of Uncle’s startling bequest to her. Mamma and I do not understand in the least why a young lady my uncle never met in his entire life, who was the daughter of his estranged neighbor—”

“A spoiled beauty worth in excess of forty thousand pounds,” reiterated Lady Despard.

“—was bequeathed ten thousand pounds of Uncle’s money. It’s a mighty odd circumstance and one Uncle’s lawyers cannot fathom either. Can you blame me for being curious, Jane?”

Jane could not. She did not pretend to understand the hatred between neighbors, merchant and noble, or what had caused the age-old feud between the Earls of Salt Hendon and the Allenbys. As for the merchant’s startling bequest to the Lady Caroline, it created more questions in Jane’s mind than she cared to speculate on and was glad that the butler chose that moment to interrupt.

“What is it, Springer?” she asked politely, hearing the door open and turning to look at the butler over her bare shoulder.

“Lord Salt and Mr. Ellis, ma’am.”

Stepbrother and sister exchanged a wide-eyed stare, as if caught out by the very object of their gossiping.

“What? He is here now?” Lady Despard blurted out rudely and before the butler could confirm that indeed the Earl of Salt Hendon and his freckle-faced secretary waited downstairs, added with a trill of breathless anticipation, “What a high treat for us all! What a pity Sir Felix isn’t here to receive his lordship.” She looked at Jane; all resentment momentarily suspended in the excitement of the moment, and exclaimed, “Brother Jacob was used to say he’d take a shotgun to that hellborn rake if he came within a mile of an Allenby female. Shall I order up more tea?”

Jane informed the butler in a perfectly controlled voice that he was to show his lordship and Mr. Ellis up at once, and to bring a fresh pot of tea and clean dishes. But no sooner had the door closed on the servant’s back than she sank onto the window seat, as if her knees were unable to support her waif-like frame. She was deaf to her stepmother’s entreaties that she go at once to the looking glass and there tidy her hair and straighten the square neckline of her bodice, and blind to her stepbrother’s frown of concern, thinking that if she’d brought her needlework to the drawing room she could at least pretend occupation and never need look the nobleman in the eye.

Coming face to face with the Earl of Salt Hendon, Jane lost the facility of speech.

~   ~   ~

MAGNUS VERNON TEMPLESTOWE SINCLAIR, ninth Baron Trevelyan, eighth Viscount Lacey and fifth Earl of Salt Hendon, strode into the drawing room on the butler’s announcement and immediately filled the space with his presence. The papered walls and ornate plastered ceiling shrunk inwards, or so it seemed to Jane who had grown accustomed to the Allenbys, who were all short and narrow-shouldered. The Earl was neither. He was dressed in what Jane presumed to be the height of London elegance: A Venetian blue frock coat with elaborate chinoiserie embroidery on tight cuffs and short skirts; an oyster silk waistcoat that cut away to a pair of thigh-tight black silk breeches rolled over the knees and secured with diamond knee buckles; white clocked stockings encased muscular calves and enormous diamond encrusted buckles in the tongues of a pair of low heeled black leather shoes. Lace at wrists and throat completed this magnificent toilette. Yet, neither ruffled lace or expertly cut cloth could hide the well-exercised muscle in the strong legs or the depth of chest and width of shoulder. But he did not dominate by size alone. There was purpose in his stride, and when he took a quick commanding glance about the room the intensity in his brown eyes demanded that those who fell under his gaze pay attention or suffer the consequences of his displeasure.

Lady Despard, standing near the fireplace, brought him up short. She dropped into a low curtsey, giving his lordship a spectacular view of her deep cleavage. When the Earl tore his gaze from her overripe bosom, it was to turn and regard Jane with a disdainful glare. A look, hard to read, passed across the nobleman’s square face and then it was if he suddenly realized he was being less than polite. He bowed slightly as Lady Despard rose up and with her son crossed the carpet to greet him.

Formal introductions gave Jane time to find her composure. She stood frozen, awed by the sheer physicality of the man, unable to bend her stiff knees into the desired respectful curtsey. She appeared calm enough but inwardly she felt sick to her stomach and relieved at the same time. She was glad that he barely looked at her. When he did, it was with tacit disapproval and as if to make certain she was paying attention. This expression stayed with him when he spoke a few words with Tom. Jane saw it in the clench of his strong jaw and the way in which his lips pressed together in a thin line, giving his classical features a hard, uncompromising edge. Yet, no amount of cold disdain could diminish the fact he was a ruggedly handsome man.

Tom managed only a few words with the Earl before his mother interrupted. She looked up expectantly at the nobleman from under her darkened lashes and endeavored to engage his interest with a run of small talk; her inanities about the inclement weather, particularly the unusual severity of the frosts for the start to the new year, receiving polite but monosyllabic replies. Jane frowned and was embarrassed by her stepmother’s blatant flirting with this jaded nobleman, who was obviously accustomed and thoroughly bored by the wiles of women who constantly threw themselves at him.

When he turned his powdered head and stared straight at her, as if he was well aware she was taking full measure of his person, Jane was so startled to be caught out that she felt the heat rush up into her white throat. The fire burned more brightly in her cheeks when he had the bad manners to look her over, starting at her thick black braids caught up in a silver net at her shoulders, lingering on her breasts covered by a plain muslin bodice, before traveling down the length of her petticoats to her matching silk slippers. When he frowned, as if she did not meet his expectations, Jane dared to put up her chin and stare back at him before turning to the window in dismissal.

Her gaze remained steadfastly to the driving rain, despite being aware that her stepmother was now droning on at the freckle-faced secretary, Mr. Ellis, whom Jane had failed to notice standing a few steps behind his noble employer, and who was now doing his best to be polite and interested in Lady Despard’s London sightseeing forays. Then, close at her back, she heard Tom’s eager response to the Earl’s invitation to take part in a game of Royal Tennis being held at his lordship’s private court at his Grosvenor Square mansion the day after next. Tom said he would be honored to be included in his lordship’s tournament.

His lordship’s tournament indeed, thought Jane, when only ten minutes earlier Tom had been poking fun of his lordship’s noble nostrils!

The Earl drawled something banal about hoping this Arlington Street address, usually occupied by his lordship when Parliamentary sittings continued on through the night, was proving satisfactory accommodation for Tom and his mother. Tom thanked his lordship for the use of his townhouse, saying that as soon as it could be arranged he and his mother would let a suitable residence of their own for a month or two to enjoy what London had to offer before returning to Bristol. The Earl told him to take his time. There was no immediate rush for them to vacate. And then the room fell silent.

The silence went on for so long that curiosity made Jane turn away from the window. Had there been a chair close by she would have sat down upon it from shock. Tom had deserted her, settling with his mother and the secretary, his friend from Oxford days, in the far corner of the drawing room to take tea and talk over old times. They had left Jane to face Lord Salt alone.

His lordship stared over her head and out the window.

“Miss Despard, it is customary to permit me to bow over your hand,” he drawled with just that touch of insolence required to bring immediate obedience.

But Jane was too much affected by his closeness and his earlier unfavorable appraisal to be bothered with the niceties of a formal introduction, and her hands remained firmly clasped in front of her. She told herself she was being obstinately bad mannered, but for the first time in years she allowed emotion to rule her tongue and spoke her thoughts.

“I am fully sensible to the honor you do me, my lord,” she answered in a clear voice, gaze riveted to the engraved silver buttons of his waistcoat. “But I am not ignorant of the fact it was forced upon you in a most ungentlemanly manner. It is a circumstance I bitterly regret and wish I could alter.”

There was the smallest of pauses before Salt said in his insolent way, “You’ve had ample opportunity to release me from such a damnable circumstance. You merely had to refuse the honor. Still, there are some eighteen hours before the ceremony…”

This blunt speech did tilt Jane’s chin to his face, blue eyes wide with astonishment. He was offering her the opportunity to give him an eleventh hour reprieve; indeed his very manner suggested he expected her to do so there and then. That she wanted to release him from his forced obligation with all her heart was momentarily forgotten with the wound to her feminine pride. That he did not even have the good manners to disguise his abhorrence for a match that was of her father’s making, not hers, angered her into giving an impudent reply.

“You cannot imagine, my lord, that I leapt at your backhanded offer of marriage,” she stated with as much coldness in her voice as she could muster. “Doubtless there are dozens of females eager to take their place at your side as Countess of Salt Hendon. I wholeheartedly wish you’d offered for one of these ladies, then this horrid situation would never have presented itself.”

“I am not in the habit of making life-altering decisions merely to oblige others,” he replied coldly, gaze remaining fixed to the wet windowpane. “Yet… knowing you for a fickle female with no heart and even less brain, who has the barefaced cheek to accept a backhanded offer of marriage, I should indeed have married the next fresh-faced virgin who presented herself for mounting.”

Jane staggered back a pace, mind reeling and hand out to the heavy brocade curtains for support at such crude speech. “How… How dare you speak to me in such a repulsive manner!” she whispered indignantly, a fervent glance at her tea-drinking relatives at the far end of the room. “I am not one of your whores who you can—”

This brought his hard gaze down to her beautiful face. “Come now, Miss Despard,” he said with bored indifference. “Your show of offended sensibilities insults my intelligence. It is a bit late in the day to exhibit virginal outrage.” He watched her throat constrict and when she turned her fine nose to the window, giving him a view of her lovely profile, he smiled crookedly. How well she played the part of indignant female! As if she was the injured party. “By the way, I don’t waste conversation on whores.”

“If you hope to unsettle me with your-your—by that then you are vastly mistaken in my—in my—” She stopped herself and bit her full lower lip, for how could she say the word character when she had none?

He seemed to read her mind for he said so softly that she could only just hear him, “You were wise not to say it. You lost what little character you possessed when you thumbed your nose at constancy and decency to take up with a conscienceless old merchant. But as you are your father’s daughter I am inclined to believe Sir Felix never taught you the meaning of such words. Thus I will own that the fault lies with me for being taken in by your beautiful face.”

Jane bravely met his gaze, and seeing the loathing in his eyes, a painful knot formed in her chest, making it difficult for her to breathe. She did not understand what she had done to deserve such hatred. He spoke of her not being constant or decent and yet if there was one thing she had been in those days, weeks, and months after the night in the summerhouse, it was constant. Nor did she understand why he had such an intense dislike for Jacob Allenby, the only person to offer her sanctuary. She knew there was no point defending her own character with this male colossus of unreasonableness, but there was no reason for him to besmirch her protector. She forced herself to remain outwardly calm.

“Your vast experience of the type may give you some latitude to speak to me as you would any whore of your acquaintance,” she said in a steady voice, “but it does not give you leave to besmirch Mr. Allenby’s unblemished character. I have never heard an unkind word spoken about him. And despite the difficult circumstances in which I lived under his roof, I never had cause to—”

Salt goggled at her, appalled. “I won’t stand here and listen to you praise—”

“—slap his face!”

There was a moment’s heavy silence and then the Earl let out such a bark of genuine laughter that he startled those taking tea to momentary silence. “My dear Miss Despard, pride still smarting?”

“I have no idea to what you are referring, my lord.”

“Don’t you?” he asked curiously, the anger gone from his deep voice. “I’d wager my best Hunter you were sorely disappointed when your merchant protector intervened that day on the Hunt. Truth be told, you had no need to lash out as you did. I wasn’t about to offer you a second helping of my vast experience.”

“What a dull, hollow existence you must lead to hold to the memory of such a trifling incident. I assure you I had not recalled it until now.”

His smile was sardonic. “It was to your dull, hollow existence I was referring, Madam. Your hand hasn’t been the only one to have slapped this noble cheek.”

“What a comfort to know there are females who have spurned Wiltshire’s libertine lord!”

“No. I never said that. Every other slap invited pursuit; yours I’d no desire to satisfy. Easy game doesn’t interest me. No, don’t turn your face away,” he commanded in a low voice, pinching her small chin between thumb and forefinger and forcing her to look up at him. “Do we go before parson tomorrow or not?”

To her shame and embarrassment, Jane felt hot tears sting her eyelids and she swallowed hard, unable to give him an immediate response. He had exposed the raw nerve of her life under Jacob Allenby’s protection by stating the painfully obvious. The old Bristol merchant had kept her fed and clothed and in return whenever he visited the little thatched cottage that nestled in a grove between the Sinclair lands and the Allenby estate she was at his beck and call. If it hadn’t been for Tom’s supervised quarterly visits, her life would’ve been unbearable. And now this arrogant nobleman dared to sneer at her and expect release from an obligation he had given in good faith.

It humiliated her to think that on his deathbed her estranged father had forced Lord Salt to honor a promise made to her years earlier. Her father had fulfilled his life’s ambition in bringing about her marriage to this arrogant nobleman by means of blackmail, with no thought to her feelings in the matter or the mortification she would endure as wife of a reluctant husband. It humiliated her further that Jacob Allenby had written up a despicable will leaving her no choice but to accept the Earl’s offer of marriage or watch her stepbrother face financial ruin. And as much as she wanted to release Lord Salt from his forced obligation, as much as she wanted to tell him why she must accept his backhanded offer of marriage, she could not; it was with an aching heart and a halting voice that she gave the Earl the answer she knew he did not in the least want to hear.

“There are factors—circumstances—Yes, my lord, we will go before parson tomorrow.”

“You surprise me,” he said with an ugly pull to his mouth. “But what female could resist the lure of a coronet? Be good enough to hold out your left hand.”

Listlessly, Jane did as she was told and was rewarded by having an old gold filigreed band set with sapphires and diamonds slipped over her ring finger. She did not look at it nor was she aware the band was too large for her slender finger until the Earl mentioned he would have the ring resized once they were married. She thought her mortification complete until she was ordered to sit on a ribbon-back chair placed in the center of the Turkey rug by the fire. It was only then that she realized she was alone in the drawing room with the Earl and his unobtrusive secretary.

Tom and his mother had abandoned her.

TWO

‘YOU WILL SIT, Miss Despard.”

It was a command Jane ignored.

“Very well. Let that be your last act of defiance,” Salt replied coldly, taking a turn about the room, circling her as a lion does its prey. “Tomorrow, once you and I have been up before parson, spiritually and legally we become one. Make no mistake, Miss Despard, I am that one. As that one, you, as my wife, will act in accordance with what is in my best interests. Never forget: wherever you go, whomever you see, however you conduct yourself, it is me that society sees, not you.

“You will not do or say anything that I do not want you to do or say. You will not go anywhere that I do not want you to go. You will do precisely as you are bid. Do I make myself perfectly understandable?”

Jane understood. He was intent on making her realize how thoroughly undeserving she was of the social position to which he was reluctantly elevating her. And yet, what she was thinking was how much he had altered since they had danced at the Salt Hunt Ball four years ago. It had been her eighteenth birthday that day and her first proper social engagement, her coming out as a young lady.

During the hunting season and later the Salt Hunt Ball, indeed during the whole of that wonderful autumn month preceding her eighteenth birthday, he had been an entirely different being from the one standing before her now. She remembered that behind those thin uncompromising lips there were beautiful white teeth, and that he possessed an infectious, good-humored laugh that made his brown eyes crinkle at the corners. And then there was the summerhouse…

Instantly, she mentally pulled herself up.

It didn’t do to let her thoughts wander to the summerhouse by the lake and what had occurred there. The summerhouse made her acutely aware of the consequences of her impulsive actions and that only brought forth darker, more unspeakable memories, memories she tried desperately to suppress. Nurse had told her not to dwell, she must go forward, not look back. That was the last piece of advice Nurse had given her before her death. She missed her nurse terribly. She wished with all her heart she was with her today. She needed her strength and her no-nonsense approach to life. Go forward, don’t look back, child! Looking forward meant accepting the Earl of Salt Hendon as he was now, not as he had been during that fateful autumn.

“I will take your silence as assent and not stubborn disobedience,” he stated, circling her once more. “You are not unintelligent and thus you will see that if you play your part in public, if you adhere to the strict upbringing you had as the daughter of a county squire, society will, given time, come to accept you not only as my wife but as the new Countess of Salt Hendon. As Lady Salt, you will soon be invited everywhere. As for Polite Society’s private opinion of you, that is of supreme indifference to me.” He signaled impatiently for his secretary to step forward. “But how you conduct yourself as my wife is very important to me and to my family. To this end, I have had a document drawn up which sets out the rules that will govern how you will live as Lady Salt. Ellis will read it aloud and you, Miss Despard, will sign it as evidence of your understanding of how your life will be conducted from this day forward.”

“This document, my lord,” asked Jane with studious enquiry, but unable to hide a sardonic dimple in her left cheek, “does it state terms by which you will conduct yourself as my husband?”

The choking sound came from Mr. Arthur Ellis.

Salt’s lip curled. “Don’t take me for a fool, Miss Despard. You will listen to Ellis and when he’s done put your signature—”

“Oh, this is all very unnecessary!” Jane complained with an impatient sigh, annoyed beyond endurance by such insufferable arrogance. She sat upon the chair. “You said yourself, my lord, that once we are married we become one and that you are that one. Then what is the purpose of my signature to a document that you could very well sign in my stead? You have made it perfectly clear that I cannot do or say anything without your permission. Is there not some wording in the marriage vows about obeying? That should suffice, surely? Besides, if you’ve no thought for me, then spare one for your secretary, who, anyone with eyes can see, is as uncomfortable with this wretched business as I am!”

For the second time that morning, Salt goggled at her. Not only that but he could not speak.

Mr. Ellis, despite Jane’s accurate observation and wishes, thought it best to begin reading aloud before his lordship burst a blood vessel. He had seen his employer angry, he had seen him furious, but never had he seen him so angry that he was lost for words. In the three years he had been employed in the Earl’s household no one, not servant, retainer, friend or family member, had ever spoken so frankly to his lordship.

Looking at Jane over the parchment that shook in his trembling hands, it was as if it was only yesterday that he had first gazed upon his friend’s beautiful stepsister and fallen under the spell of her loveliness on the spot. And so it was with the hint of a smile that Arthur began to read, though the smile soon disappeared when his concentration returned to the written word.

He had not given much thought to the Earl’s strictures at the time of their dictation, except that they seemed just and necessary for the self-preservation of a great and wealthy nobleman about to marry a young woman who had lived unmarried with an old Bristol Blue Glass manufacturer. Yet, taking another glance over the sheaf of papers at the girl who sat ram-rod straight, hands clasped lightly in her lap, he felt acute discomfort to be reading out what was nothing less than a sentence of life imprisonment; albeit in a prison that was a magnificent sprawling Jacobean mansion in the heart of Wiltshire, but a prison nonetheless.

“…As to the dowry Miss Jane Katherine Despard brings to the marriage, a dowry bequeathed to her by Jacob Allenby of Allenby Park, Wiltshire and Bristol, Lord Salt refuses to accept a guinea of the ten thousand pounds,” Arthur Ellis continued after a short pause to clear his throat of nervousness. “Further, Lord Salt instructs Miss Despard to bring to the marriage only those possessions that were hers at the time she was denied the protection of the house of her father, Sir Felix Despard, Squire of Despard Park, Wiltshire. Thus, everything that was gifted to her by Jacob Allenby: clothes, jewelry, money, writing instruments, china, linen, furniture, servants, horses, equipage, in fact anything at all that was purchased with Jacob Allenby’s coin, will not form any part of her dower. The said articles are to be discarded and disposed of before marriage.

“Upon marriage, Lord Salt forbids Lady Salt to live in London, to visit Bath or its environs or to visit Bristol and its environs. Lord Salt directs Lady Salt to live year-round at his seat in Wiltshire: Salt Hall. Lady Salt will be confined to Salt Hall and may take exercise only in the immediate parkland surrounding the Hall’s main buildings. Lady Salt is not to venture beyond the lake or the gardens without the express written permission of her husband. Lady Salt is not to take it upon herself to visit any of Lord Salt’s tenants, the vicar and his good wife, or visit the local village of Salt Hendon.

“Lady Salt has her husband’s permission to do with her apartments at the Hall as she so pleases. Her apartments will consist of bedchamber and six adjoining rooms plus a room and closet for her personal maid, but the remainder of the one hundred and sixty-seven rooms are to be left as she finds them; so too the grounds; so too the summerhouse by the lake, a place within the parkland expressly forbidden her ladyship. Once a year, when his lordship opens his house for the Salt Hunt, Lady Salt will confine herself to her apartments and the small rose garden and courtyard thereto attached. From time to time, Lady Salt may have visitors to Salt Hall, but Lord Salt must approve them in writing before their intended stay. None by the name of Allenby may trespass on Lord Salt’s lands. Furthermore and finally—”

“No!” Jane interrupted, up off the chair. “I will endure much, my lord, but that I will not tolerate! You may strip me of every material possession given to me by Mr. Allenby, though that is no great loss, but you cannot strip me of my memories. You can lock me away in your hideous house and dictate my movements, but as I am quite used to my own company, that will be no great deprivation. But you will not take from me the only family I have.” She sniffed back tears; it was a prosaic action, yet it caused the secretary to drop his gaze from her lovely face. “Tom is my brother,” she continued in a calmer voice, turning her head to look at the Earl who had not moved from his position by the window. “You may argue that he is my brother in law only, but he is the only brother, the only close relative, who has cared anything for me since the death of my mother when I was not quite a year old. And he was the only relative to continue to own me after I left my father’s house. I love him dearly. I will not allow you to banish him. He may visit me whenever he chooses or-or-or—”

“—or what, Miss Despard?” Salt drawled to the rain-spattered window. “You will stamp your pretty foot and refuse to go through with the wedding? Please, say the word…”

Jane stared at the broad back for a good ten seconds and then sat down again, in defeat. She shut her eyes hard to stop the tears and dropped her head, hands clasped tightly in her lap.

The secretary felt his stomach turn over.

Finally, the Earl turned his wide back on the clearing sky and propped himself on the sill.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Despard,” he said quietly. “At the time the document was drawn up I was unaware that Mr. Thomas Wilson had been required to take the name of Allenby under the terms of his uncle’s will. Ellis will correct the document to read ‘no Allenby but Mr. Thomas Wilson Allenby, her ladyship’s brother etc and so forth’.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Jane replied, unconsciously twisting the unfamiliar oversized betrothal ring and audibly sighing with relief.

The Earl inclined his powdered head and turned again to the window, but not before his secretary saw the crooked smile that twisted his mouth. “Ellis? Have you lost the facility of speech? Pray continue. You’re forgetting I have a prior engagement that requires I be elsewhere within the half hour.”

“Yes, my lord, of course,” the secretary mumbled and coughed, for he had been glancing at the next and final paragraph to be read aloud and wished himself anywhere but in this drawing room standing before this lovely young woman. Jane’s impassioned interruption had broken his flow of words and as such would only highlight this next stipulation all the more. “Furthermore, when his lordship is in residence at Salt Hall, Lady Salt will not seek to question, interfere or acknowledge her husband’s domestic arrangements—”

“You mean to bring your lovers to Salt Hall.”

The secretary paused, but as the sentence was a statement and not a question he continued, though he couldn’t stop the flush to his freckled cheeks.

“—This in no way negates Lady Salt from her responsibilities as a dutiful and obedient wife. Should his lordship desire to avail himself of his—of his conjugal rights, his wife will oblige with mute servility. This document dated this day and so forth etc, etc.”

Mr. Ellis noisily reshuffled the pages to hide his embarrassment, not a glance at either party, and quickly crossed to the small walnut escritoire in the far corner of the room where it had been placed by the undraped window to catch the muted rays of sunlight of a cold January day. He picked up the inkpot but had not flicked open the silver lid when he was directly addressed by Jane. Such was his surprise that he jumped and would have spilled ink down the front of his fine linen waistcoat with its polished horn buttons but for the fact his thumb remained poised over the lip of the closed lid.

“Mr. Ellis?” Jane enquired with a frown of puzzlement as she slowly rose to her feet but did not move away from the chair. “This document makes no mention of any children of the marriage.”

“Children?” the secretary repeated thinly, voice breaking on the word, a swift telling glance at his employer who remained inert. Slowly, he replaced the inkpot on the desk and picked up the quill. “My lady, I-I—Ma’am—um—Miss Despard, there is—there is no-no such paragraph dealing with such an-an eventuality. No provision has been made for children of the marriage.”

Jane’s frown deepened, more so because of the note of nervous apology in the young man’s voice. “Mr. Ellis, that document is most frank and therefore so must I be when I tell you that it stands to reason that if a husband exercises his conjugal—”

“Ellis, be so good as to wait a moment in the passage,” Salt ordered, a rough jerk of his head at the door. He watched his secretary hastily rearrange the sheets of parchment and quill and ink before scurrying from the room with a short bow. “Poor Arthur. You have disconcerted him, Miss Despard.”

Jane was frowning at the closed door but she turned at this and regarded the Earl openly. “Yes, I must have. I am sorry, for he is a nice young man. But I don’t see why he should be so coy when one must assume that if a husband and wife share a bed—”

“Miss Despard, I am unable to father a child.”

This statement was greeted with such an expression of horrified disbelief that the Earl let out a deep laugh of genuine good humor, finally allowing Jane to see his lovely white smile.

“My dear Miss Despard! Priceless! The look on your lovely face is—priceless. Dear me! I must own I’m glad you’re not a virgin. Only a woman familiar with the carnal delights of the bedchamber could so misinterpret such a statement. Accept my apologies for disconcerting you.” He made her a bow, smile vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. “I am still very much a man, Miss Despard. What I should have said, to make myself perfectly plain, is while I am more than capable of the act, the physicians tell me I am unable to beget a woman with child.”

“How is that possible?”

Salt glanced up from drawing on his fine kid gloves and saw it was an earnest enquiry and not one designed to unsettle him. He had to grudgingly admit he preferred her direct approach to the timid dissimulation used by most females.

“Years ago I fell off a horse in full flight over a fence. I landed very hard and awkwardly on a particularly cherished part of my anatomy. It was excruciating. My—er—ballocks swelled to the size of apples, turned black and went hard. To say I was extremely worried for my manhood would be a gross understatement. I was advised by the learned physicians who attended on me that although the swelling and bruising would subside I had in all likelihood suffered some internal injury that would leave me barren. Since my recovery, I have had the hollow satisfaction of rutting with impunity. Not one of a string of mistresses has presented me with a bastard which would seem to confirm the physicians’ learned opinion.”

“Years ago? How many years ago?”

“Ten.”

“Ten years ago?” Jane blanched. She reached out for the ladder back of the chair to steady herself. If he believed himself infertile then… He did not know he had impregnated her that night in the summerhouse… Her note had never reached him… He had not chosen to ignore her… He remained ignorant after all these years… But surely… So many questions and possibilities swirled about her mind that she felt herself sway and thought it prudent to sink back onto the chair. She looked up at him. “My lord, what you say is not possible.”

Embarrassed by her acute disappointment to this news and annoyed that he should feel a stab of inadequacy at not being able to provide this heartless jezebel with a brood of brats, he snapped back impatiently, “Miss Despard, it is not only very possible, it is fact. Now you will excuse me. My carriage will collect you tomorrow at eleven and convey you to my house in Grosvenor Square where a private ceremony will be conducted without pomp and circumstance. And, God willing,” he muttered to himself as he crossed the Turkey rug, “with very few persons in attendance to witness my humiliation.”

A blank-faced footman opened the door for the Earl.

The sheaf of parchment on the little escritoire awaiting Jane’s signature fluttered but was ignored.

Jane forced herself up off the chair and scurried after him, determined to say something but her thoughts were such a jumble of mixed emotions that she had no idea where to begin or what to tell him. She certainly couldn’t bring herself to inform him there and then that the physicians who had advised him he was barren had got it wrong. He would not believe her without proof. Jacob Allenby’s constant sermons about the wanton wicked ways of the nobility had her convinced that the Earl was not the sort of nobleman to concern himself with the fruits of his couplings and she had been given no reason to disbelieve him. But here was the Earl telling her that he was infertile and had believed himself to be so for the past ten years! Why then had Jacob Allenby lied to her? How then was she to disabuse the Earl of his conviction? And when?

Jane did not know what to say, or how to tell the Earl that he was as fertile as the next man, without breaking down into a flood of tears for the loss she had suffered. So she kept her mouth shut. When the right time presented itself she would confess all to him, but that time was not now.

At the door, the Earl hesitated, turned on a low heel, and almost collided with Jane who was close at his back. She managed to pull herself up only inches from falling into his arms, which he had instinctively thrust out to stop her falling forward. They were so close that her hooped petticoats crumpled against his long muscular legs and she caught a hint of his masculine cologne. It was such an evocative scent that she was gripped with a sudden frisson of desire and was so shocked by it that she quickly stepped away and hung her head.

Salt gently tilted up her chin with one gloved finger, forcing her to look him in the eyes. Wordlessly, he searched her beautiful face, a knot between his brows. Her liquid blue eyes stared back at him with such frankness that he could almost deceive himself she was without guile. The pouty curve to her lovely lips was so rosebud red and made for kissing that he wanted to crush her mouth under his until they were bruised and numb.

Bruised and numb…

That’s how he felt, had been feeling for so many years now that he was drained of hope. He wanted to blame her and the false promises of love and devotion he had tasted in her kisses. Beauty such as she possessed was utterly beguiling and yet so wretchedly deceptive. He reviled everything about this young woman who was to become his wife and countess and yet there was no mistaking her inherent allure. She had captivated him four years ago, trapped him, made him lose his head, forget all that he had been taught about being a gentleman and what he owed his name, and made him cast caution to the four winds.

He had allowed his heart to rule his head.

In a single night of passion he had ruined a gently bred girl of good family, destroyed his honor and given Jacob Allenby the means by which to have his revenge on him. He hated himself for what he had done to Jane, but he reviled her for not having the strength of character to believe in him; to wait for him; to be constant and true. She had not waited. Worse, she had not kept secret their night of passion as she had promised and was rightly disowned by her humiliated father. Even more appalling, she had run to the protection of Jacob Allenby, a man he loathed and despised, a reprobate who masqueraded as a moralizing windbag.

The passage of time and countless lovers and he convinced himself he was cured of Miss Jane Despard. And then, two years ago while on the hunt, he had come across her gathering mushrooms in a field scattered with awakening wildflowers. With a sickening thud of realization he knew he had been fooling himself. He was not cured. He festered with guilt for ruining her and for still wanting her. He sunk lower still by giving his word to her dying father that he would indeed honor the pledge made to her in the summerhouse on her eighteenth birthday and marry her.

Marriage, if it did nothing else but expunge the burden of guilt and restore his sense of honor, was worth the humiliation of friends and family. He could at least get on with his life with a clear conscience of righting a serious wrong. That he still wanted her, desperately, he could easily cure. He would make her his wife, bed her, and then banish her to his estate, lust and honor both satisfied. Yet, the gentleman in him made one last futile attempt to force her to realize what sort of union she was entering into.

“Miss Despard, you are a young woman with many child-bearing years ahead of you. With your face and figure, you could easily ensnare yourself a wealthy husband capable of giving you children. Release this barren earl from his obligation.”

Jane curtsied but kept her gaze lowered because her eyes were brimming with hot tears of shame. Real regret sounded in her voice. “I am sorry to disoblige you, my lord, but I must marry you.”

There was the briefest of silences and then the Earl was gone, the door slammed so hard that Jane jumped and took an involuntary step back fearing it had come off its hinges. Alone, she crumpled to the floor in a billowing balloon of petticoats and gave in to her disordered emotions.

THREE

‘MUST?” Salt repeated at the end of the landing, still frowning.

“I beg your pardon, my lord?”

Startled to receive a response, the Earl brought his gaze down from the far wall of the stairwell void to find his secretary squashed up against the mahogany balustrade trying to be inconspicuous. Poor Arthur, reading that document aloud had taken it out of him. Still, Salt couldn’t help teasing his secretary.

“Well, Ellis, what do you make of the lovely Miss Despard?”

But Arthur Ellis had been long enough in the Earl’s employ not to be surprised by anything that was asked of him. “I have no thoughts about Miss Despard, my lord,” he said blandly as he followed his noble employer down the stairs to the entrance foyer.

Salt put out a hand to the butler for his sword and sash, gaze firmly fixed on his secretary. “Very good, Arthur. Now tell me what you think.”

“Miss Despard is little altered since last we met.”

“Meaning?”

“She presents to the world the same well-bred young lady now as four years ago, my lord.”

The Earl was shrugged into his heavy greatcoat by the butler.

“You ignore her intervening history perhaps?”

“No, my lord. But you asked for my thoughts.”

“What else?”

“My lord?” said the secretary, stepping out of the way as the Earl adjusted his ornately sheathed sword before buttoning his greatcoat.

“Don’t be obtuse. You have eyes. You’re still smitten by her beauty. Admit to it!”

The secretary’s mouth slackened and he felt the heat in his face, not only at the bald statement put to him but also because he happened to glance at Springer just then, who was standing at the Earl’s shoulder and thus out of his master’s line of sight, to find the butler smirking from ear to ear. Still, the secretary managed to bravely meet his noble employer’s unblinking stare. “To be completely truthful, my lord, Miss Despard remains the most beautiful young woman I have ever had the privilege to gaze upon.”

“Yes, isn’t she,” Salt snarled with such bitterness that Arthur Ellis audibly gulped and with the butler took an involuntarily step away. “A word of warning: Never permit sublime beauty to lull you into a false judgment of character.”

“Yes, my lord.”

There followed an awkward silence as the two men awaited their noble employer’s pleasure, but as his lordship was momentarily preoccupied with some frowning thought, the secretary took the brave step of moving time on. He coughed into his fist.

“If your lordship has no need of me this afternoon I will offer my services to Miss Despard, as you requested. The transfer of Miss Despard’s belongings to Grosvenor Square and arrangements for tomorrow’s ceremony…”

“Yes. Yes,” Salt murmured, coming out of his abstraction. “Go and play lapdog to your heart’s content.” And snapped his head around at the butler. “Offer Mr. Ellis whatever he requires and ensure Miss Despard’s maid is given every assistance.”

“I am at Mr. Ellis’s service, my lord,” Springer replied, adding with a note of apology, but with eyes agog in anticipation of the Earl’s explosive response, “but unfortunately I am unable to assist with the latter part of your request as Miss Despard has come up to London, I beg your lordship’s pardon to mention it, but Mrs. Springer is most insistent that such a remission be rectified, without a maid.” When the Earl continued to stare at him as if he was talking an unknown foreign tongue, the butler continued, a little less confident than before. “Mrs. Springer being told by Lady Despard’s maid, a haughty creature with an inflated sense of self-worth, that Miss Despard has never possessed a lady’s maid, other than a nurse who, most regrettably, died some years ago of a complaint of the lung. It is a mystery to the members of this household how Miss Despard copes without the services of a lady’s maid.”

The Earl closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, as if the domestic arrangements of his household were all too much for him, then looked to the plastered ceiling before saying very quietly to his secretary, “I regret I must add to the burden of your secretarial duties, Arthur. Be good enough to put your head together with the Springers to employ a suitable lady’s maid for Miss Despard, this female personage to be installed at Grosvenor Square by tomorrow morning at the latest. And Springer—”

“Yes, my lord?” the butler said cheerfully, thinking his sensible third daughter, Anne, who was very unhappy in her present situation in the house of Lady St. John, would do very nicely as lady-in-waiting to the future Countess of Salt Hendon. He couldn’t wait to tell the good news to his wife.

“—be discreet or you’ll find yourself mucking out my stables.”

With that withering statement, Salt stepped out into the hustle and bustle of Arlington street. Carriages, sedan chairs and horse and rider competed for space with pedestrians in heavy coats, muff and hats, and the more adventurous and needy cart sellers, although there were few of the latter and even fewer pedestrians because of the intense cold. Instead of turning right to walk the short distance to St. James’s Street to spend a few hours of quiet solitude at White’s (a club that was fast becoming the most popular male bastion for noblemen, and not least because the Earl of Salt Hendon deigned to patronize it), the Earl reluctantly went left and hailed a hackney chair to take him to Half Moon Street. Here he was set down at a particular townhouse where resided Elizabeth, Lady Outram. A voluptuous blonde widow on the other side of thirty, she had buried two elderly husbands in quick succession and was in search of a third. In the meantime, she catered to the Earl of Salt Hendon’s strong carnal appetites and in return enjoyed his benefaction.

In Salt’s pocket was a short, scrawled missive from Elizabeth Outram requesting his presence in her drawing room without delay. The matter was urgent and could not wait. The note had arrived just as he and his secretary had set out for his interview with Jane Despard and thus he had had no time to write her a reply. But he was not in the habit of going at the beck and call of his mistresses, and if he had not had a prior engagement he would have made Elizabeth Outram wait his pleasure.

Still, he could not put off the inevitable. She would be offended and sulky and stamp her foot at him for being a neglectful lover, but it wouldn’t take him many minutes to bring her to heel and they would end up in bed. Bedding Lizzie would be a welcome change from the long hours spent on parliamentary business and the bitter realization that tomorrow he was to be married to a young woman with the face of an angel and the heart of a conniving whore, who didn’t have the wit or will to employ a lady’s maid!

Why had she used the word must?

It was such an inoffensive little word and yet it burned itself into his brain the moment she’d uttered it. How dare she pretend it was she who was entering into this marriage under sufferance.

His lofty parents must be turning in their graves!

Salt barely had a large well-shod foot inside the drawing room of the Half Moon Street townhouse when Elizabeth, Lady Outram flew off the silk-striped chaise longue and into his embrace. She wrapped her arms about his strong neck and pressed her voluptuous curves to his tall, hard torso and looked up at him with such a doleful expression that the Earl mentally sighed and readied himself for the inevitable feline tantrum.

But Elizabeth surprised him. She let him go and stepped back and coolly offered him a glass of burgundy; her initial overexuberance replaced with a tightly controlled façade that had him puzzled. He took the glass and watched her pour out a burgundy for herself. She hesitated, mentally preparing herself. She had been forewarned by her good friend the Earl’s cousin, Diana, Lady St. John that the Earl intended to cast her aside.

It was Diana St. John who had first brought her to the attention of the Earl and it was Diana St. John who now informed her that her year was up and it was time for Elizabeth to find herself a new benefactor. If she had no one in mind she, Diana, could point her in the right direction. As if she needed pointing in any man’s direction! She had known from the first that the Earl of Salt Hendon never kept a mistress for more than twelve months and even then they never had his complete devotion. She had made plans for her future long ago, had several casual lovers who would drop to kiss her feet if she said the word, but it had not taken many days into her affair with the Earl to realize that none of her attentive suitors would ever measure up to the lusty nobleman now standing in the middle of her cozy drawing room.

She counted the Earl her most attractive and accomplished lover and she would sorely miss their lovemaking. It rankled that she had not managed to outlast the tenure of his previous mistresses. She had boasted to Diana and others that she would easily keep Salt’s interest for two perhaps three years at least. When Diana’s letter had arrived only last week she had suffered a great blow to her self-esteem. She couldn’t believe the Earl was finished with her and she aimed to prove it to Diana St. John, whatever her friend’s warning about not making a fuss.

But there was another, more disturbing piece of news that, if true, would signal the death knell to their affair: the Earl of Salt Hendon was about to marry a young beautiful girl from the counties. Elizabeth knew she could not compete with such a winning combination as youthful beauty. It would explain his neglect of her over the past couple of months and why, even when he did bed her, he was distracted and detached.

She followed him to the fireplace, where he stood warming his hands, and placed her wine glass on the mantel, allowing her dressing gown to slide off one shoulder to expose a quantity of rounded breast, as if it was the most natural accident in the world. She made no attempt to cover herself and smiled with practiced coyness when the Earl’s eyes strayed from her painted face.

She removed the half-empty glass from his hand and set it next to her own.

“You’ve neglected me these past few months, my lord,” she purred, a glance up at him under her darkened lashes as she pretended to adjust her dressing gown, but allowing it to slip further off her shoulders to the floor so that she stood before him in only corset and white stockings. “Do you not think I am owed an explanation for your blatant inattention?”

From habit he drew her to him.

“Neglect, Lizzie?” he murmured, unlacing her tight silk corset with practiced ease. “I should hate to think you’ve been neglected in my absence.”

She ignored the veiled reference to her casual lovers and made a halfhearted attempt to squirm out of his embrace. But more than anything she wanted him to make love to her. It would be a welcome change from the overeager lovemaking of Pascoe, Lord Church, and the inexpert fondling of Pascoe’s penniless cousin Billy Church, whose worth resided in the fact he was the boon companion of the Earl’s officious secretary. Billy was only too willing to share confidences about his friend’s employer when roused to the point of no return by Elizabeth’s expert tutelage.

When Salt pulled her corset free and dropped it to the floor leaving her in all her glory she gasped in a little breathless whisper, “Why, my lord, have a care! Do you forget we are in a drawing room? Someone might enter at any moment!”

“That someone being me. If you’ll stop your twittering, Lizzie, I’d be very pleased to enter you,” he quipped.

She tittered and melted against him at the thought of him deep inside her as he bent to kiss her throat, but wanting him to kiss her mouth knowing he never would. Of all the places he had kissed and pleasured her he had never kissed her mouth. Not that it disturbed her greatly. In all other respects his skill as a lover and the sheer size of him more than satisfied her. Yet, if he would just kiss her mouth she knew he was hers and hers alone. She went for the buttons of his breeches but he caught up her hands and put them behind her back as he stooped to kiss her breasts. She was taken aback by his ardency at this the beginning of their lovemaking. There was a hunger about him, as if he’d gone without a woman for sometime, his want as great as that of a thirsty man in need of water. It thrilled her to think she had aroused this urgent craving in him and she couldn’t wait to impart this newfound power to her friend Diana St. John.

But her triumph was short lived. Just as quickly as the spark was ignited it was extinguished. The Earl pulled himself free of her embrace and set her aside. And when he blinked down at her as if she was a stranger, flushed and short of breath, Elizabeth was shrewd enough to realize that it was not she who had brought out the carnal urgency in him but the creature who occupied his thoughts when aroused. How right she was.

The moment he’d closed his eyes on Elizabeth Outram into his mind’s eye appeared a pale, ethereal beauty with big, questioning blue eyes that looked up at him with disconcerting frankness, and whose rosebud mouth invited plunder. That he wanted desperately to make love to this ethereal being was not in question. That she was none other than his future wife, whose mere apparition possessed the ability to affect his manhood, made him seriously question his virility.

Disgusted with himself, he quickly turned away and adjusted his clothing.

Unsatisfied and her self-esteem in shreds, Elizabeth angrily scooped up her discarded dressing gown and made a drama of covering her nakedness, despite the Earl having his back to her.

“After a twelvemonth of my hospitality I believe I have earned the right to know something of your plans, my lord.”

“Have you?” he answered indifferently. “My plans I leave to my long-suffering secretary.”

“And your letters to discarded mistresses?” she asked bitterly. “Do they require a woman’s touch and so are left to be penned by Lady St. John?”

“Lady St. John? What are you blabbering on about, Lizzie?” Salt asked gruffly and turned to face her. “What letters?”

Elizabeth rummaged in a drawer of the mahogany bureau by the window, found the letter she was looking for and presented it to the Earl with a flourish and a questioning lift of her perfectly plucked eyebrows. “My twelvemonth notice. Like your previous interests, Sarah Walpole and Maria Leveson-Gower, just to name the two ladies known to me personally; Lady St. John has provided us all with our notice to vacate.”

Scowling, Salt opened out the single sheet of parchment with two fingers, stared at the familiar sloping handwriting, turned it over to inspect the broken seal then folded it. “May I have this?”

Elizabeth shrugged a shoulder. “By all means. Is it news to you?”

When he did not respond but finished off his glass of burgundy Elizabeth had her answer.

“Is selecting the Earl of Salt Hendon’s Countess also part of Lady St. John’s cousinly duties?”

He lowered the wine glass. “Such tedious details are of concern to no one but myself, my dear.”

The edge to his voice made her wary but she could not help herself. “So Diana doesn’t know. Good. If she did she’d not have been able to resist gloating the news to me. It’s a secret, is it?”

“A word of advice, Lizzie. You are far more beautiful when you’re not ruminating.”

But Elizabeth wasn’t listening. She was taking comfort in the fact that her friend had been kept in ignorance and that she would suffer certain devastation when the news finally reached her that the Earl, the great infatuation of Diana’s life, had secretly wed another. She hoped she was there to witness Diana’s downfall. The great Lady St. John needed pulling down a rung or two, such was her smugness at being the mother of the Earl’s heir and his closest female relative.

“I never thought you would marry,” she confessed truthfully.

“Nor did I,” he remarked as he shrugged on his frock coat.

She rushed over to him then and threw her arms around his neck. “If it’s a marriage of convenience,” she asked hopefully, “then surely we need not end our liaison?”

He removed her hands and turned to the looking glass to adjust the folds of his cravat. “I apologize for Lady St. John’s letter. It was not her place to bring our enjoyable connection to an end. But her letter coincidentally arrived at a most opportune moment.”

Elizabeth pouted. “So you’re going to let her get away with it?”

“I have enjoyed our times together, Lizzie,” he replied smoothly.

That he used the past tense was not lost on her and she tossed her blonde curls with a huff. “Your little country bride will bore you within a week of marriage!” When this had no effect on him, she sighed tragically, a finger outlining the pattern of an embroidered flower on his waistcoat as he continued to fiddle with his cravat. She tried to cajole him. “In gaining a wife surely you need not forfeit your visits here…”

She made one last attempt to rekindle his interest, going up on tiptoe to kiss his mouth, her naked body under the thin silk dressing gown pressed against him, hand cupping his sizeable manhood. But he quickly turned his head away before her mouth touched his, removed her hand and put her away from him.

“My dear, may I suggest you give the latch key to Pascoe; the only Church I’ve ever come across who actively promotes promiscuity and vice in all its forms.”

Elizabeth put up her nose and spoke as if she had no idea to what the Earl was alluding. “Lord Church? What is he to me? I have so many, many admirers.”

At the door Salt bowed to her with excessive politeness. “Ah. And I thought you had an eye to the main chance.”

~   ~   ~

“DAMN HER!” Salt muttered, thoughts still consumed with Jane’s declaration that she must marry him. As soon as he returned home he would have his secretary get his hands on a copy of Jacob Allenby’s will. He didn’t put it past that merchant hellhound to add some odd codicil to his will, all to inflict a final humiliating revenge with his last dying breath.

Absently, he pressed his gloves on a blank-faced footman standing in the vestibule of his club in St. James’s Street. He then presented his back to another to help him out of his heavy great coat, oblivious to the group of noblemen who had all turned to look at him on his muttered oath.

“You may damn as many females as you please, Salt,” drawled a smooth-tongued, perfumed and beribboned nobleman up to his ear. This confection of lace and velvet regarded the Earl with quizzing glass plastered up to one eye and a bejeweled white hand holding aloft an enamel and gold snuffbox, and added with a snicker, “but we’ll be damned if you’re going to get leg-shackled without the commiserations of friends by your side.”

Salt came out of his abstraction and eyed Pascoe, Lord Church with resentment, nodded to a group of bewigged nobles being divested of swords by attentive blank-faced footmen, and strode through a number of noisy card rooms to the sanctuary of the reading room. Here he took refuge in a comfortable wingback chair in the furthest corner and spread wide a copy of the London Gazette; indication enough he wished to be left alone. But Pascoe Church and Hilary Wraxton Esq. did not take the hint and soon Salt found himself being scrutinized over the top of his newssheet by their powdered heads. He sighed, kept his eyes on the newsprint and made no effort to offer the two gentlemen the vacant seats opposite.

“There’s a rumor that you’re getting married tomorrow,” said Pascoe Church and flicked a speck of snuff from his embroidered cuff, although his attention was firmly on the Earl’s profile. “It says a great deal about our friendship when your nearest and dearest know less than the hired help! One would think you wanted such a momentous day to pass unnoticed.”

“Yes, one would think that,” Salt stated and turned over a page.

“Now we know, got to invite us! Don’t he, Pascoe?” Hilary Wraxton assured the Earl with a confiding smile. “Got to be surrounded by friends and family. What!”

“Most certainly,” agreed Pascoe Church, nonchalantly dangling his quizzing glass by its black riband. “But perhaps our dear friend has his reasons for not wanting his friends in attendance?”

Hilary Wraxton blew out his cheeks. “Reason? What reason? Not every day a man takes the great plunge; except Pascoe with your sister. Said next Sinclair to walk the matrimonial plank would be Lady Caroline. But if Salt wants to tie the knot before his sister then so be it.”

At this revelation Salt glanced up at Pascoe Church, a faint rise to his eyebrows.

“The Lady Caroline walk the plank?” Lord Church said with a light laugh, clearly flustered and fighting hard to keep his cool façade under the Earl’s haughty gaze. He tossed off the quizzing glass so that it fell against his silken chest with a thud. “I have no idea where you get such notions, Hilary.”

“From you,” Hilary Wraxton replied simply. “Last week, when sitting down to whist with Walpole, you said you’d almost got up the courage to approach Salt about—”

“Courage?” Pascoe Church snorted. “My dear Hilary, when the time comes for me to approach our dear friend here—”

“You are destined for disappointment,” Salt interrupted softly, returning to peruse the newssheet.

Hilary Wraxton sighed deeply. “Guess that settles it, Pascoe. The Lady Caroline ain’t walking any planks, matrimonial or otherwise, with you. When Salt says you’ll be disappointed you’re bound to be.”

“It settles nothing,” Pascoe Church hissed in Hilary’s ear, and to return the sting of his disappointment at being rejected as a suitable husband for the Lady Caroline Sinclair, said petulantly to the Earl, “Just so you are aware, Salt, the rumor in drawing rooms—”

“I can hazard a guess which drawing room,” Salt interrupted dryly, with the flicker of a smile.

“Can you?” Hilary Wraxton asked in surprise and viewed Pascoe Church through his quizzing glass with one hideously magnified eye. “But you said Salt hadn’t the foggiest notion about your frolicking forays with Luscious Lizzie. You said—”

“Never mind that now!” Pascoe Church demanded and tried to regain his composure and the cool venom to his voice. “This rumor, Salt, says that you’re keen for a quiet wedding because the bride is either plain-faced and pudding shaped with a pedigree worth a gilt frame or, and this will amuse you greatly, the beautiful daughter of a drunkard merchant with upwards of a hundred thousand pounds to add to your coffers.”

“But Salt don’t need the blunt, Pascoe.”

“What say you to that, Salt?” persisted Pascoe Church, ignoring his friend. “I’ll hazard it’s the latter. What a pity her great beauty and wealth will never be adequate perfume for the foul odor of trade that must forever linger about her person.”

“And all the pudding shaped heiresses are taken,” added Hilary Wraxton with a firm nod.

“God help us when the divine Diana finds out,” Pascoe Church added with a sigh, for good spiteful measure. “What a social plummet for the House of Sinclair!”

“God help us indeed, Pas,” agreed Hilary Wraxton with a sad shake of his powdered wig.

“God help you both if you don’t scuttle off under the floorboards from whence you came!” Salt growled as he shot up out of his chair to tower over the two men, and with such a look of suppressed fury that it did not need his hand about Pascoe Church’s beautifully arranged cravat for that gentleman’s throat to constrict alarmingly. But no sooner was Salt on his feet than he regretted his action and was immediately angry with himself for allowing his sister’s rejected suitor and his moronic comrade to prod the raw nerve of his upcoming marriage.

For want of something to cover the awkward moment Hilary Wraxton made an elaborate display of checking the hour with his gold pocket watch before pronouncing that he was extremely late for an appointment with his wigmaker; Pascoe Church adding that he too was needed elsewhere, although he did not offer up a name or direction. Salt wasn’t sorry to see them depart and watched the two noblemen waddle off in their high heels, huddled together as if in need of mutual propping up. And he was under no illusions about the thin-shouldered nobleman’s ability to be vexatious. Pascoe, Lord Church might have turned frigid with fright and lost his breath at Salt’s angry outburst, but once recovered and at a safe distance he would use his waspish tongue to good effect to ensure Polite Society was fully appraised of the Earl of Salt Hendon’s upcoming marriage.

Cursing himself for such lack of restraint, Salt ordered a bottle of claret from a passing soft-footed waiter and resumed his seat only to be on his feet within five minutes to warmly clasp the hand of his closest friend, the younger brother of Lady St. John, Sir Antony Templestowe. A large handsome gentleman held in high regard by all who knew him, Sir Antony was considered by the Foreign Department, where he held a lucrative sinecure, to have a good head on his shoulders, and thus certain to rise to the rank of Ambassador one day. No two siblings could be more opposite in temperament than the diffident Sir Antony and his social butterfly sister, the beautiful and gregarious Diana, Lady St. John.

“It’s just as well Bedford could spare you from the Peace negotiations for a couple of weeks,” Salt commented, looking Sir Antony up and down. “Paris has added inches to your girth.”

“A couple of hours running about your tennis court should take care of M’sieur Chef’s fine cream sauces and delectable choux pastries,” Sir Antony replied good-naturedly as they both made themselves comfortable in wing chairs. He unbuttoned two silver buttons of his striped saffron silk waistcoat and accepted the glass of claret from a blank-faced waiter. “But I’m surprised the tournament is to go ahead. I thought it’d be left to Ellis to take your place on the court, what with you on your honeymoon—”

“There isn’t going to be a honeymoon,” stated Salt, taking out his gold snuffbox but not flicking open the enamel inlaid lid. “Parliament still sits, which means I’ve too much business to attend to here in London to go gallivanting about the countryside, this side of the Channel or that.”

Sir Antony pulled his chin into his lace cravat and studied his friend a moment. “To say your letter informing me of your immediate intention to enter the matrimonial state knocked me off my chair would be an understatement, dear fellow. But I’m a diplomatist, so understatement is my forte. That you want to keep the occasion hush hush is your affair, and I’ll ask you no questions, if that is your wish, but surely I’m not the only one going to attend the ceremony to, as it were, prop up your elbow?”

Salt took snuff, frowning into the middle-distance. “The least fuss the better.”

“What does Diana have to say about your sudden leap into the matrimonial fire?”

“I haven’t told her.

Sir Antony hid his astonishment behind a frown. “Haven’t told Diana?” he repeated mildly. “You’re not getting leg-shackled without her approval, surely? God! She’ll have a fit of the sullens that neither of us will manage very well. I wish I was still in Paris. You know what an interest she takes in you—”

“—and my earldom.”

Sir Antony pursed his lips and counted to five. “Yes, you can be cynical if you choose,” he commented. “But is it any wonder she takes an interest when she’s the mother of your heir? Little Ron will one day succeed you. Up until four years ago it was her husband who stood to inherit your earldom. St. John’s untimely death affected her greatly, as it did all of us.” Sir Antony shifted uncomfortably on the wingchair adding flatly, “And you know as well as I that she married St. John in a fit of pique because you wouldn’t ask her. And if you ask me, she still holds out a candle in hope that you might still get up the courage. Why do you suppose such a good-looking woman has remained a widow? It’s not from lack of offers, I can tell you!”

Salt shifted his gaze to the dark red liquid in his wine glass, a heightened color in his lean cheeks. “Diana was the wife of my best friend and closest cousin, Tony. I have and always will hold her in the highest regard. But that’s all I can—will ever—offer her.”

“Granted. But Diana will never look on you as a brother,” Sir Antony argued. “As long as you know that.” He gave a halfhearted laugh. “No wonder you don’t want me returning to Paris any day soon if Diana don’t know your news. You’ll need reinforcements when she’s presented with your marriage as a fait accompli. And as for Caroline’s reaction… If you haven’t told your little sister she’s about to gain a sister-in-law, I pray she isn’t coming up to London because we won’t be able to contend with two grief-stricken females—”

“It’s Jane Despard,” Salt interrupted quietly.

Sir Antony’s gaze never wavered from the Earl’s handsome angular face but his mouth hovered between an absurdly stupid grin and blank amazement so that he looked stunned, as if someone or something had smacked him across the back of the head. Mute stupefaction made him drink his wine in one gulp, realizing now why his elder sister and the Lady Caroline had been kept in ignorance of the Earl’s imminent marriage. The bride was so far off the social register, indeed being disowned by her father was as nothing when compared to her depraved lifestyle living unmarried under the roof of an old Bristol merchant, that if the truth was ever revealed to family and friends they would wonder at the Head of the Family’s mental stability, and if it ever got out to the world, well, the Sinclair family would be forever ridiculed and thus socially ruined.

Not one to shirk responsibilities and being genuinely fond of Salt, Sir Antony was glad he had been recalled home early from the finalization of the Paris peace negotiations to stand shoulder to shoulder with the Earl at this difficult time.

“I thought… given the circumstances surrounding the offer… That she broke off the previous engagement…”

“Miss Despard informs me she must marry me.”

Sir Antony’s jaw swung open. “What? After thumbing her nose at your previous offer? The barefaced cheek of the little cat!” and then suddenly realized he was describing his friend’s future wife. “I thought Miss Despard might have a shred of decency left and refuse you,” he added, much subdued.

Salt’s features were rigid and pale. It was an effort for him to speak. “God help me, Tony, so did I.”

FOUR

WHEN ARTHUR ELLIS returned upstairs to the drawing room he found Jane alone, seated by the fire, face turned to the flames as they crackled with new life amongst the blackened logs. For one heart stopping moment the secretary thought she had tossed into the fire the sheaf of papers he had labored over for hours, and his shoulders slumped at the thought of having to rewrite all four pages of closely written script. But it said much about his own gentle nature that when he realized the Earl’s betrothed had been crying, he was of the opinion that she really couldn’t be blamed for destroying a document that clearly set out to humiliate and imprison her.

He offered her his plain white handkerchief saying solemnly, “Should I call for Lady Despard?”

Jane shook her head and patted dry her cheeks before turning to the secretary with a bright smile. “No, Mr. Ellis. Thank you. I am quite all right. In fact I feel less apprehensive about tomorrow than I have in weeks. It was something he said… If he believes what the physicians advised, and that was ten years ago, then… It stands to reason that the locket never reached him. And if the locket never reached him… He can’t have known what happened to me… But forgive me, Mr. Ellis, you must think me cotton-headed. I am raving on at you about matters you cannot know the first thing about.”

“Less apprehensive? You are not troubled by the contents of Lord Salt’s document?” Uninvited, the secretary sat opposite Jane and unconsciously took back his handkerchief. “You feel better about tomorrow, Miss Despard?”

Jane smiled behind her hand at his look of total confusion.

“Mr. Ellis, I do believe your loyalty should be with his lordship and his sad predicament in being forced into a marriage he does not want in the least. Forgive me. I have disconcerted you, again. Have you been ordered to collect that document with my signature upon it or face dire consequences? Oh! Mr. Ellis,” she added when he glanced swiftly over at the little escritoire and a huge relief showed itself on his freckled face, “did you think I had burned it? For shame. When you have undoubtedly spent many hours deliberating over every word, and your handwriting so immaculate.”

“I am only sorry that it was I who had to read it out loud,” the secretary confessed, gaze riveted to her lovely face. “If there had been any other way, if it had not been necessary for me to be present, to save you the embarrassment, but unfortunately—”

Jane touched the young man’s hand. “—Lord Salt cannot read the printed page without the aid of his eyeglasses. If he reads unaided for any length of time, particularly the newsprint, he suffers from the most unbearable megrims. He should wear his rims, but refuses to do so in public because his pride and vanity prevent him. Obstinate man. But I have said too much and you are looking at me as if I have sprouted a second head!”

The secretary was so taken aback that the Earl’s betrothed knew about his employer’s debilitating eyesight that he nodded his agreement and stood up when she rose from the chair. Very few people knew that it was an exceptional retentive memory that enabled the Earl to hide his disability upon most occasions, particularly when delivering speeches in the Lords or serving on committees where papers had been distributed beforehand. As for seeing his lordship wearing his gold-rimmed spectacles across the bridge of his long, bony nose, Arthur Ellis was quite certain the number of persons granted this privilege amounted to less than half a dozen. It was only when he was shut away in his bookroom with only Arthur in attendance, would the Earl sit hunched over a document reading with the aid of his magnified lenses. It begged the question how Miss Despard could know such an intimate detail about her future husband, but instead of asking he said diffidently,

“His lordship has instructed me to offer you my assistance with the sorting of your belongings; those that are to remain with the Allenbys and those requiring removal to your new home in Grosvenor Square.”

“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Ellis,” Jane replied, picking up the document off the escritoire, “but I anticipated his lordship’s directive and have only brought with me one portmanteau and two hat boxes. My petticoats and shoes, such as I had, I left in Wiltshire to be distributed amongst the wives and daughters of the parish poor.” She handed the unsigned document to the secretary with an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid I have no intention of signing this hateful epistle, Mr. Ellis. I’m only sorry you must deliver the news to his lordship. Hopefully his misdirected wrath will be of a short duration and he can bottle the rest until he has the opportunity to vent it on me.”

Arthur Ellis gave an involuntary laugh and shook his head. He couldn’t blame her but he was surprised that this delicate beauty had the strength of character not to be frightened to stand her ground with his strong-willed employer. Arthur predicted interesting times ahead for the Earl once married to Miss Jane Despard. The anticipation of the upcoming nuptials put a decided spring in his step as he went about his usual business the next day, despite an anteroom full of petitioners and the day’s appointments already substantially delayed with the arrival of Lady St. John with her two children in tow.

The secretary did not approve of Lady St. John and her mischievous offspring but it was not his place or right to say so. Nor did it surprise him that she always chose to visit on the only day in the week when the Earl received petitioners, and thus his busiest at-home day.

Tuesdays were open house day at Lord Salt’s Grosvenor Square mansion, providing an opportunity to anyone who wished to put his case to the Earl of Salt Hendon, be it on a matter regarding a sinecure, patronage for a literary work or some such artistic endeavor, a hawker representing the wares of his manufacturer, or persons with some minor connection to the Sinclair family or the Earl’s estates seeking assistance in some way. Petitioners rarely managed to make it to interview on the first Tuesday of their petitioning and waited all day in the freezing and cavernous anteroom with its marble floor and no fire in the grate. There were never enough chairs to go round and people stood for hours only to be told to return the following Tuesday to wait all over again. The more persistent returned three or four Tuesdays in a row all for the privilege of stating their case in the fifteen minutes allotted to them for an audience with the Earl.

None of this meant anything to Lady St. John. She sailed into the Earl’s bookroom in a billow of exquisitely embroidered Italian olive velvet petticoats, her retinue behind her and without a single glance at the nameless silent and shivering crowd queued up either side of the double doors, guarded over by two footmen regaled in the Sinclair blue and gold livery.

Arthur tried to continue on with his work as if she was not there, but of course this was an impossible task when she immediately draped herself on a corner of the Earl’s massive mahogany desk, with no regard for the piles of important papers her petticoats swept to the floor in the process. As for her two children, the boy and girl clambered up onto Uncle Salt’s lap and demanded his attention. And of course Lady St. John’s visits invariably required the involvement of most of the household staff to provide for her and her children’s care and nourishment. The kitchen was sent into a whirlwind of activity to make and bake the little almond biscuits she liked so much and the particular Bohea tea at the strength her palate would approve; the butler was called upon to provide his undivided attention to her ladyship’s whims and at least four liveried footmen were dispatched to keep an eye on the children to ensure there was minimal disruption to carpets, leather bound volumes lining the walls, mahogany furniture and soft furnishings. All this despite Lady St. John arriving with her own lady-in-waiting, the children’s tutor, a governess and a Negro pageboy whose arduous task it was to go before her ladyship carrying a silk cushion which had upon it her ladyship’s fan.

Jane was set down at the door to the Earl’s Palladian mansion in Grosvenor Square in the midst of this midmorning disruption. The under-butler sized her up. From her simply dressed hair without powder, to her unseasonable silk gown of old gold with light lace petticoats that lacked the requisite fashionable hoop, over which was a wool cloak with frayed collar, and the fact she had arrived without her maid in tow, put this haughty little man in two minds whether to close the door in her face.

Never mind the indisputable fact that she was the most breathtakingly beautiful female he had ever set eyes on. He had a job to do. It was all very well to admit groveling petitioners on Tuesdays, but a beautiful female without her maid was another matter entirely. One, Rufus Willis, under-butler in this noble household, wasn’t too sure he wanted to tackle. Only the fact Jane had arrived in the Earl’s carriage decided him that it was best to let her come inside out of the intense cold. Perhaps she was the new maid, Mr. Jenkins the butler had told him to be on the lookout for? But he hadn’t expected the girl to use the front entrance. Without a bow and with a small wave of dismissal, Willis ordered Jane to follow a footman to the anteroom off the bookroom. She could wait with the rest of the needy masses vying for his lordship’s attention and deep pockets until he had spoken with Mr. Jenkins to sort out what they were to do with her. Expect a long wait.

In the cavernous anteroom, Jane was deserted by the footman without so much as a bow of acknowledgement, which surely indicated to the waiting crowd, along with her shabby wool cloak, that she was no one of importance, and in all probability a newly employed domestic. But in the midst of a crowd of half-frozen men, her beauty was a welcome distraction and she was immediately offered the rare commodity of a chair by several gentlemen who leapt to their heels, instantly captivated by such exquisite loveliness and effortless grace. A sprightly middle-aged gent with a Malacca cane won out and Jane sat down beside this gentleman’s wife.

It was not lost on Jane that as soon as she entered the anteroom every bewigged head turned to gaze directly at her. Bravely, she bestowed a kind smile on them all; as she had been advised to do by the soft-spoken stranger she and Tom had met while visiting the Tower Zoo. The stranger had in tow his nephew and niece and was showing them the lion enclosure, but every visitor was more interested in gazing on Jane and she had no idea why. Although, the sight of such majestic creatures so far from their homeland and kept in such a horrid space was quite depressingly sad, and perhaps this was why the tourists had turned their attention elsewhere? Yet this did not explain why every time she and Tom had ventured from Arlington Street in search of tourist spots, they had found themselves swamped by a veritable crowd of onlookers.

The soft-spoken stranger had enlightened them, saying that in this city it was perfectly acceptable for its citizens, gentlemen and ladies alike, to stare at a pretty young woman as a matter of course. No one thought it at all ill-mannered. In fact, it was considered an honor to be thus singled out and so the object of everyone’s admiration was expected to bestow a smile on all who admired her beauty.

How bored all these men are, Jane thought as she finally dropped her gaze to her cold hands, and how icy it was in this massive room of marble and wood without adequate light and warmth. She wished she owned a muff such as the one the lady beside her possessed. She enquired of the lady and her husband why there was no fire in the grate of the large fireplace, to which the middle-aged man with the Malacca cane laughed and shook his bewigged head.

“If a fire was kept in here his lordship would have twice the number of petitioners waiting to see him.”

“Yes, but as Lord Salt has only so many hours in the day, I doubt denying his petitioners some warmth is enough of a disincentive to keep people away, do you?” Jane replied mildly. “Providing a little comfort goes a long way in making people more agreeable, don’t you think?”

The gentleman was momentarily taken aback by such a forthright speech from a wisp of a female, but his wife embraced Jane’s maxim wholeheartedly.

“How right you are, my dear!” she agreed with a smile of approval. “This is our third and last Tuesday waiting to see his lordship and every one has been as cold as the last.” She glanced around the imposing room, with its high ornate ceiling, wood paneling and marble floor, and at the long, tired faces, adding loudly, “I know his lordship can’t make allowances for the frosts, and he labors long and hard on behalf of those who owe him their allegiance, but it wouldn’t hurt to put a fire in the grate, and perhaps offer one or two more seats, or a bench.”

“Hear, hear!” agreed an elderly man in an old-fashioned full bottom wig.

Several other gentlemen nodded their powdered heads and there was a general low rumble of assent. Even the attending liveried footmen, who were chilled to the bone, cast the woman a look of approval.

“Now, good wife, there ain’t reason for us to complain about his lordship,” the middle-aged gentleman reproved. “Not after all he’s done for our boy.”

The woman was immediately repentant and said confidentially to Jane, as if she was a friend of long-standing, “We have a great deal to be thankful for in his lordship’s good offices. What with everything that’s usually heaped on his lordship’s plate, it was such a good kind act for Lord Salt to take Billy under his wing.”

“Our son Billy is a very bright lad and was up at Oxford with his lordship’s secretary Mr. Ellis,” the husband added proudly. “He was determined to come to London to seek his fortune, little realizing the great hardship involved in securing gainful employment without the necessary good word of people of influence. We are well-connected people in our little corner of Wiltshire, make no mistake about that, miss, but the metropolis is cut from an altogether different cloth.”

“And with five more children to launch into the world, it’s not as if we could help Billy as much as we would’ve liked to,” apologized the wife, an understanding smile up at her husband, who leaned in towards them with the aid of his Malacca cane to take the weight off his gouty toe, and to affectionately squeeze his wife’s shoulder.

“But his lordship found a place for our Billy in the Foreign Department under the guidance of Sir Antony Templestowe,” continued the husband, adding proudly for Jane’s benefit, “Sir Antony is a most distinguished diplomatist, and Billy has every expectation of accompanying Sir Antony when next he embarks for foreign climes.”

“Your son could do no better than have Lord Salt as his mentor,” commented Jane, feeling that the couple was seeking her endorsement of their son’s success. “And under Sir Antony’s wing, I know Lord Salt’s faith in him will be justly proved.”

“Thank you, my dear,” said the wife, taking her warm hand from her muff and placing it on Jane’s cold fingers. “Goodness Gracious! Your hands are as cold as the blocks of ice floating in the Thames! Should you like to borrow my muff for a few moments, child?”

Jane shook her head and thanked the woman, more than ever self-conscious in her worn cloak, a gift from her father at Christmastime when she was seventeen that she hadn’t the heart to give up, not even when Mr. Allenby had presented her with a lovely new fur-lined velvet cloak with shiny silver buttons. She hid her cold hands in her lap under the cloak, the bitter cold from the marble floor seeping into her stockinged toes and up her thin ankles, and shivered, not from the cold but with apprehension of what was to come; the first time she had allowed herself to think about the consequences of going through with marriage to Lord Salt. The fact Tom was not with her increased her dread. He had gone to fetch his lawyer as witness, a stipulation of Jacob Allenby’s will, and promised to be at Grosvenor Square not an hour after she was set down at the Earl’s residence. The hour was almost up.

“What a pity his lordship can’t find himself a wife as easily as he found our Billy employment,” the husband announced good-naturedly, which brought Jane out of her abstraction to ask curiously,

“Why do you say so, sir?”

“What, miss? A nobleman with his wealth and looks and an ancient coronet to pass on to his descendants, why wouldn’t Lord Salt want to marry? Stands to reason he’s in need of a Countess by his side, wouldn’t you say so, wife?”

“Indeed he does, sir!” agreed the wife, a look about the room to ensure their conversation was being listened to by the rest of the frozen occupants. “Why, his lordship even favors children… Well, indeed he must, for the last two Tuesdays we’ve been here, he’s always found an hour or two amongst his appointments to spend with Lady St. John’s son and daughter.”

“The young lad’s his heir, wife,” confided the husband with a knowing point to his nose. “And between you and me and those of the local gentry in our little corner of the world who regularly join the Salt Hunt, there is every reason to believe he has his eye on making the Lady St. John his Countess. And a more suited couple I ask you to name!”

At least a dozen powdered heads around the anteroom nodded in approval of this statement. There was a general rumble of consensus that the stately creature who had swept passed them with her retinue, without a look or a glance, had the noble bearing and condescending demeanor required in a Countess of Salt Hendon. A small number of petitioners were in silent dissent, glaring at the firmly shut double doors to the bookroom, all because they were being kept from their allotted appointment by the lady in question.

One gentleman in an absurdly tall toupee, stockinged legs that showcased padded calves and an armful of rolled parchments, and who had arrived in the anteroom only minutes before, dared to voice this silent resentment, saying in a whining voice,

“I say! But if her ladyship becomes Countess none of us will ever see the inside of that bookroom. I for one won’t. She don’t like poetry. She don’t like poetry at all.”

Jane couldn’t help a smile at this pronouncement, which was light relief amongst the general run of conversation about Lord Salt’s need for a wife that had brought the heat into her pallid cheeks. The wife saw this and before her husband could launch into an attack against the young man in the absurdly tall toupee, said in a loud whisper,

“Husband, hush now about his lordship. We have put this young woman to the blush with all our talk about wives and children for Lord Salt and we’ve no right, not if she has come to join his lordship’s household. Oh, and look, the footmen are opening the doors!” She turned to Jane with a bright smile. “Mr. Ellis will soon be out with the list, so you won’t have to suffer the cold for much longer.”

“My good woman, pray don’t raise the beauty’s expectations,” pronounced the gentleman in the absurdly tall toupee, who Jane noticed wore clothes cut from cloth befitting a gentleman. “Until Lady St. John makes her grand exit, there is little hope of a winter thaw anytime before spring.”

He snorted so loud at his own wit that a fine dusting of powder from his wig settled on his upper lip, causing him to sneeze and his armful of parchments tubes to fly up in the air before descending to scatter and roll away under chairs and across the marble floor. In panic did the gentleman-poet get down on all fours to scurry across cold marble with little thought to his rich attire, to retrieve his precious collection of poems, much to the delight and amusement of the petitioners.

Jane felt sorry for the young man. She immediately went to retrieve one of his cylinders that had come to rest in her corner of the anteroom behind the gentleman with the Malacca cane. She had to stoop to pick it up, had it in her hand and was about to rise when a female voice, close, clear and authoritative spoke above a general commotion of leave taking. Accompanying this voice was a heady feminine scent that, as if by sorcery, made Jane instantly nauseous and she sank down on the cold marble. It was not that the perfume itself was offensive. It was sweet smelling with hints of lavender and rose, and had it been used in moderation no one could have called it offensive. But to Jane, it conjured up echoes of the past and she was forced to put a hand over her small nose and breathe deeply through her mouth, telling herself that the wave of nausea would pass, that there was no reason to panic.

She remained sitting on the floor, waiting for the sickness to subside, the poet’s rolled parchment in her lap, feeling foolish that a particular perfume had the power to create queasiness within her. It did not take above a minute to place where she had smelled such a distinctive perfume before and the feminine voice that owned it. Recognition rode the waves of nausea that washed over her. She had not smelled it before or since the night her baby had willfully been taken from her before its time. Her father had condemned her as the most sordid and immoral creature alive and wanted nothing more to do with her for having lost her virginity so cheaply, but giving birth to the rotten bastardized fruit of her immorality, as her father had brutally branded her unborn baby, was never a choice.

Jane peered through a break in the row of ribbon-back chairs, hoping to put a face to the owner of the offending perfume. The lady was standing so close that had Jane stretched out an arm between two chairs she could have laid a fingertip on the lady’s wide-hooped petticoats of rich velvet. Two liveried footmen and a black pageboy in a bright green silk turban stood to one side of this magnificently dressed creature, who had to be none other than the Earl’s majestic cousin, the Lady St. John.

Her ladyship fluttered a fan of delicate silk against her white bosom, upswept powdered hair draped with pearls, ribbons and feathers, and her beautiful face carefully made up with cosmetics, a mouche at the corner of hazel eyes, completing her toilette. She neither looked left or right at the crowd of petitioners but straight down at the gentleman-poet groveling at the toes of her silk covered mules.

Directly behind the dazzling Lady St. John was a tired-looking woman whose plain but well-made attire and small lace cap proclaimed the lady’s maid. And behind her, two children in rich silk costume, the girl dressed in a replica of her mother’s attire, the boy younger and sickly but quite the little gentleman in his matching silk breeches and waistcoat. Jane recognized them as the niece and nephew of the soft-spoken stranger she and Tom had met in front of the lion enclosure. Neither resembled the happy, laughing children at the Tower Zoo.

“My dear Mr. Wraxton! Why ever are you scuttling about on Lord Salt’s floor?” Lady St. John wondered with a mischievous smile. She waved her bejeweled hand out in front of her. “No! Do not get up on my account. You look very well indeed down there. In fact, I do believe I have never seen a gentleman more suited to playing the part of devoted beagle hound. But with that interesting hairstyle you could be mistaken for a flamingo! Or perhaps it is as a pig snuffling for truffles that you snort about the floor thus?” She turned her beautifully coiffured head left and right, as if it was a matter of course that the assembled company would find her wit diverting. “Yes, I do believe it is truffles you are after. Truffles of approval from Lord Salt for your little creative endeavors.” When the gentleman-poet in the absurd toupee managed to scamper to his feet, clasping to his chest the salvaged bundle of rolled parchments with one hand, while the other kept his tall toupee from slipping into his eyes, she poked tentatively at the parchments with a long fingernail. “Why! Are these more poems for Lord Salt’s amusement?”

“A final selection of poems, dear Lady St. John,” Hilary Wraxton announced proudly.

“If they’re as absurd as the last lot, then they are bound to provide his lordship with an amusing diversion, however fleeting.”

Hilary Wraxton beamed, Lady St. John’s sarcasm completely passing him by, despite several bewigged heads in the anteroom openly sniggering at his expense. “Thank you, my lady. I am in expectation of Lord Salt’s patronage with a view to their publication.”

Lady St. John lifted her arched brows and turned down her painted mouth in complete surprise. “So you think, Mr. Wraxton? Far be it for me to disillusion you, but if they are as ludicrously inane as your previous efforts then you have wasted Lord Salt’s time. I know just what view his lordship has in mind for them… up in flames in his fireplace.” And with this cruel pronouncement and the appreciative laughs of several bored gentlemen sitting about the anteroom, Lady St. John swept out of the Grosvenor Square mansion with her retinue, leaving Mr. Hilary Wraxton to nurse his wounded pride and rolled parchments to his bosom as if they were under imminent threat of being turned to cinders.

“I do believe Lady St. John was in jest, sir,” Jane told him kindly, handing the gentleman-poet the parchment she had retrieved. “But you need not take my word for it. Ask Mr. Ellis, who surely will confirm that your poems in Lord Salt’s possession are unharmed.”

“Miss Despard!” exclaimed the secretary, thick leather bound appointment book hugged to his chest as he scurried down the long anteroom to Jane’s side. He bowed to her. “Have you been kept waiting long? I had supposed Mr. Jenkins would’ve informed me of your arrival. I apologize for the delay. His lordship had some uninvited visitors…”

“Lady St. John and her two children?” asked Jane with an understanding smile at his look of exasperation.

“Indeed,” replied the secretary, unable to hide his displeasure. He quickly regained his smile and ushered Jane forward, “Please, come into the bookroom where there is a fire.”

“I say, Ellis! Wait up!” Hilary Wraxton interrupted anxiously, wedging himself between Jane and the secretary. “Are my parchments safe, man? Has Lord Salt seen ’em yet? What does he think of ’em? He hasn’t turned ’em to ash, has he?”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Wraxton?” Arthur Ellis replied in shocked accents. “I cannot tell you if his lordship has read any of your poetry, sir, but I can say irrevocably that Lord Salt has done no such thing as put your poems to the flame. Now, if you will excuse us. Miss Despard…?”

Jane hesitated, a glance at Billy’s parents who were smiling at her encouragingly, and touched the secretary’s sleeve. “Mr. Ellis, Tom has not yet arrived, so we must wait. Perhaps, in the meantime, Lord Salt could see these good people, who have come three Tuesdays in a row?”

The secretary glanced at the couple, sensed Jane’s nervousness and smiled reassuringly, “You would be more comfortable waiting for your brother in Lord Salt’s bookroom, Miss Despard. I will see what can be done for the Churches.”

With that he walked off, neither looking left or right at the crowd of petitioners whom he knew all eagerly tried to catch his eye for some sign that they would be granted an interview with the Earl sometime soon. He had learned to be blind to the pleading, sometimes hostile, always expectant, looks of the crowd who sought his noble employer’s benefaction. Yet, Jane could not help feeling, as she passed these silent bewigged gentlemen, that they must think she had jumped the queue, just as Lady St. John had done before her, all because she was a pretty female. Little could these sullen faces know she felt as if she was on her way to have a tooth pulled. No one could have the slightest idea she was about to be married to one of the wealthiest and most politically influential noblemen in the kingdom.

The feeling did not subside upon entering the Earl’s bookroom, despite the long room possessing a fireplace at either end with elaborate mahogany overmantles and blazing fires in each grate that radiated comforting warmth. This hallowed inner-sanctum was in such marked contrast to the sparseness of the freezing anteroom that Jane blinked and could not help gazing in wonderment. Everywhere candles burned brightly in elaborate sconces and two chandeliers filled the room with light. All was comfort and ease, and yet on such a lavish scale that the visitor felt anything but comfortable. Three walls were lined with floor to ceiling shelves crammed with leather-bound tomes, the higher shelves reached by climbing one of two mahogany ladders attached to a polished railing that ran the entire length of the bookshelves. The fourth wall had long sash windows framed by heavy curtains of gold and red velvet that were tied back with thick gold rope to allow a view of the goings on in the elegant square below. Oriental carpets scattered the polished wooden floor and central to the room was a massive two-sided mahogany desk with two wide chairs drawn up to it on either side, the only other furniture being an assortment of wingchairs and sofas arranged before both fireplaces.

At one fireplace three liveried footmen silently went about straightening furniture and cleaning up what appeared to be the remnants of a tea party. No doubt presided over by Lady St. John. The secretary ignored this activity and went to the desk and again Jane followed. Mr. Ellis carefully placed the opened appointment book amongst the neatly ordered piles of documents of differing heights, where also were a stack of scrolls, several books, and an elaborate Standish with quills and ink, seals and wafers. Jane noticed that nowhere to be seen amongst this well-ordered clutter were the Earl’s gold-rimmed spectacles.

In fact she did not see the Earl until it was too late. His voice made her jump and spin about to face the second fireplace, where he stood before the fire in the grate. He was dressed more splendidly than he had been the day before, if that was possible, except today he did not wear powder but his own shoulder-length light chestnut-colored hair, simply tied with a black silk ribbon at the nape of his neck. His waistcoat matched his breeches that were of a rich embroidered cream silk, which, on closer inspection, revealed an intricate pattern of vines, fruits and small intricately woven birds, all in the Chinese manner. An elaborately tied cravat of delicate lace, diamond knee-buckles, white silk stockings and a pair of flat-heeled polished black shoes with enormous silver buckles encrusted with diamonds finished off this magnificent toilette. If Jane was self-conscious in her old wool cloak in the anteroom, here in the warmth and magnificence of the bookroom, coming face to face with a thoroughly unapproachable bridegroom made her feel positively inadequate to the task ahead.

Still, when the secretary remained at the massive desk and she was beckoned forward to stand before the Earl alone, she managed to put up her chin and appear unruffled, even when Salt looked her over and ordered the butler, who had trod softly up the room behind her, to take her cloak and fetch her a glass of wine.

“I would prefer hot chocolate, my lord,” Jane requested, shrugging out of her cloak and immediately spreading her frozen hands to the warmth of the fire. “I am sorry, but your anteroom could grow icicles.” When no response was forthcoming she glanced up and was not surprised that he was frowning down at her with mute disapproval. She presumed she would have to grow accustomed to such a look where she was concerned, so resigned herself to the fact and added without apology, “I disposed of the clothes given me by Mr. Allenby which left only this gown and the wool cloak; all my father permitted me when he cast me from his house.”

The Earl gave a huff of embarrassment and looked away into the flames. Inexplicably, her choice of words made him acutely uncomfortable, as did the gown she was wearing. He had last seen it when he had helped her out of it in the summerhouse. “Sir Felix’s twisted sense of humor, no doubt. By the way, that gown became you better four years ago.”

Her surprise that he recognized her attire overshadowed his disparaging remark.

“I hardly think my father saw any humor in my humiliation, do you?” she said quietly, a lump forming in her throat as she studied his handsome profile, and wondered if within him there was a sliver of regret for what he’d done to her. It made her say spontaneously, “I never betrayed you to him.”

At that, his head snapped round and he stared hard at her.

“You never betrayed me?” He scoffed. “Your kind doesn’t know the meaning of the word!”

“What kind is that, my lord?” she asked curiously, shivering at the viciousness in his delivery.

He gritted his teeth. “Touché, Miss Despard. You and I know very well, so you needn’t regard me as if I’m speaking an incomprehensible foreign tongue.” He looked down at her and added with a sniff of disdain, as if reading her thoughts, “And you needn’t imagine I carry the slightest remorse for what happened to you.”

“Don’t you?” Jane replied bravely and shrugged, though his words stung more than she would ever let on. “No matter. I take responsibility for my actions, no one else.”

Her simple response put him off-balance. “Very noble, Miss Despard, but your ignoble actions show you up for what you are.”

She smiled sadly. “Sometimes actions mask what we truly feel. But I have never lied to give another false hope.”

At that, Salt couldn’t help himself. He was so angry he grabbed her about the upper arms and jerked her close, face thrust in hers. “How dare you feign to be the innocent party in this contemptible union!” he hissed. “How dare you pretend that you must marry me! Must? Ha! That’s just a ploy, to justify to yourself why you’re putting me through this—this hell. Have you no conscience that you’re taking up my offer of a coronet under despicable circumstances? I wish to God I could lay the damn thing at your feet and walk away!”

Jane stared into his handsome face, distorted with pent up rage, and willed herself to remain calm. How she wanted to fling his coronet at his sneering countenance and run away, never to see him again. But she knew this for a lie. She had thought about him so often in the past four years, that it was surely unhealthy. At first she had blamed him for her predicament, but she was not a hateful person by nature and so the loathing quickly evaporated leaving her with the sad dull ache of longing and in the tragic knowledge that she still loved him. Not this incarnation that sneered down at her, but the man he was four years ago who was kind and loving and honorable. This being she did not know at all and had no wish to marry, but she had to think of Tom and ruining his future should she not go through with the wedding. She wished her stepbrother was with her now. She wanted the ceremony over with as much as this stranger who held her so tightly she was sure both her arms were bruised.

“My lord… My arms…”

Instantly, he let her go. She was so frail and had such slender limbs that he was sure he had hurt her. Remorseful and annoyed with himself for allowing anger to get the better of him he turned back to the fire with a muttered apology.

“Forgive me, Miss Despard. It was not my intention to hurt you.”

“Hurt me? Do you imagine this situation is less hellish for me, my lord?”

With a hand outstretched to the mantle, he looked over his shoulder and saw the tears in her blue eyes. “Only you can end the misery for us both before it begins.”

Her full bottom lip trembled and she dropped her gaze to quickly dry her eyes on a scrap of lace she called a handkerchief before bravely looking up at him. “I’m not about to cry off, my lord. I can’t. I just hope you do not intend to do so again because I—”

“I beg your pardon?” he interrupted, turning to confront her. “What do you mean cry off?”

“—I truly must marry and without delay,” she concluded and watched in fascination as his face drained of all natural color. He looked ill. She took a step forward in alarm, only for him to back away, not wanting the nearness of her.

“Are you accusing me of breach of promise?” he asked in wonderment, feeling disorientated and slightly breathless, as if he had been struck between the shoulder blades with a heavy object.

“You may call it whatever name you choose, but it does not alter the truth, my lord.”

“Truth?” Salt could hardly say the word. “What truth is that?”

Jane could well understand why he looked so ill for she had bravely voiced aloud what was indisputable. He might be a nobleman, but like all men of the nobility, the Earl prided himself on being first and foremost a gentleman; his word was his bond. But he had committed what the gentlemanly fraternity considered the deadliest of sins. He had broken his word… to her. He had called off their engagement two months after they had made love in his summerhouse the night of the Salt Hunt Ball, and cast her adrift on the world.

FIVE

FOUR YEARS AGO, at the Salt Hunt Ball, after a month of secret courtship, the Earl had proposed marriage to Jane and she had accepted. A girl did not forget such a momentous occasion. She remembered everything about such a wonderful moment, down to the smallest detail. He had asked her in his summerhouse with its view out across the still blue lake to an ancient stone bridge. The Palladian exterior of cold marble columns and domed roof belied an opulent and exotic interior, replica of an Ottoman prince’s private apartments whose guest the Earl had been while on the Grand Tour. The rooms were decorated with beautifully colored mosaic tiles and Turkish artifacts, rugs, silk hangings and embroidered cushions that glowed under the soft, muted light cast by a hundred burning candles.

She had been wearing the gown she had on now, and he had given her a gold locket set with sapphires and diamonds; a family heirloom, he told her. The betrothal ring she now wore, with its sapphire and diamonds inlaid in a gold band that was too large for her finger, was fashioned in a similar style and Jane reasoned it must be part of a set to which the locket also belonged.

He had shown her the secret catch at the back of the locket that opened to reveal a small space between the precious stone and the gold backing where could be placed a memento, a lock of hair or a tiny note. He had made her promise that if ever she found herself in difficulty she was to send him a note in the secret compartment of the locket and he would come. He had made her promise this because he was leaving to return to London almost immediately and would be gone for at least a fortnight, perhaps a month, and when he returned their engagement would be officially announced and they would be married without delay.

She had sent him the locket with a note when she realized she was pregnant. He did not come. A month later she received his letter, breaking off their engagement.

The day he had asked her to marry him had been the happiest day of her life and was etched in her memory forever. The day his letter arrived breaking off their engagement she had considered the worst day of her life, that she could sink no lower in despair and wretchedness, and then their baby had been taken from her.

She had kept his letter. She had wanted to burn it, to turn his horrid words of regret and mistake to ash, but her nurse, who could not read or write and so held the written word in reverence, had taken the letter and put it in a safe place, saying that there might come a day when the letter could prove useful. Jane wondered where that letter was now as she turned and regarded the Earl standing by the library window, hands behind his back, staring out into the square below, the latest petitioners dismissed with a view of his strong profile. She wondered if amongst his papers he had kept a copy of that fateful letter, perhaps not. He would not want his secretary coming across such a damning epistle.

Poor Arthur Ellis. Such a conscientious, hard-working young man could never have dreamed that as part of his secretarial duties to a great nobleman he would be required to deal with the more sordid details of his lordship’s marriage. She wondered if he had had the courage to tell his employer that she refused to sign the edict of her imprisonment, and guessed that he had not, for surely the Earl would’ve shoved it under her nose as soon as she entered the bookroom?

Jane rose out of the wingchair as the secretary ushered in the next petitioners, the husband and wife she had spent a cold hour in conversation in the anteroom. Mr. Church raised his cane and his wife smiled kindly in acknowledgement of her presence as they approached the Earl’s desk. Jane waved back and watched Salt come away from the window and speak to the couple. She would have sat back down but a large gentleman in powdered wig and sky-blue silk frock coat, who slipped through the double doors unseen, caught her eye.

He escaped the attention of Mr. Ellis, who had been included in the Earl’s conversation with the couple, and made no attempt to approach the desk, but quietly tiptoed up the length of the library, keeping his back close to the bookshelves, as if not wanting to disturb the Earl.

Jane immediately recognized this large intruder as the very same soft-spoken gentleman whose acquaintance she and Tom had made at the Tower Zoo, and went to meet him. She was almost upon him before he saw her by one of the ladders and he was so surprised and pleased to see her that he completely forgot he had entered the bookroom by stealth.

“By Jove! What a pleasant surprise,” Sir Antony Templestowe announced, bowing over Jane’s outstretched hand. “Now I may repair my remiss at the Tower. I did not introduce myself, nor did I catch your name, or that of the excellent young man in your company who I presume is your brother? You were both so good as to come to this bachelor’s rescue and entertain my niece and nephew.”

“Oh, but you were doing such a splendid job keeping their interest without our intervention, sir,” Jane said encouragingly. “I gathered they were in high spirits because they had the freedom of their uncle’s company rather than under the stern tutelage of a somber-faced governess?”

“You figured all that out in what little time we spent in front of the lion enclosure? Splendid! By the way, my niece and nephew were just as taken with you as were the crowd of onlookers, and scolded me dreadfully for my lack of manners in not discovering your name and direction.” He added with a confidential smile, “I trust you’ve taken my advice about the appreciative stares of Londoners?”

Jane nodded shyly. “I am doing my best, sir. But I must admit I don’t think I will ever get used to such outrageous attention.”

“Given time, you’ll soon forget they are there,” he assured her and stuck out his hand to the Earl who had crossed the room to join them. “You really ought to put a fire in the grate out there, Salt,” he said good-naturedly. “Is it any wonder nine out of ten of your petitioners can’t cobble together two words in your presence when they must be thawing out before your eyes. Of course, the other reason they’re tongue-tied might have something to do with the fact you dazzle them with your magnificence. Have I seen that waistcoat before?”

He held the Earl’s gaze and directed a significant sidelong glance at Jane that Salt ignored. Sir Antony could have hit him for making him say it. “So won’t you introduce me to your fair petitioner, who, I might add, because she is too modest to tell you of it herself, is London’s newest beauty, and is mobbed wherever she goes.” He smiled down at Jane who was blushing to the roots of her raven hair. “If I was you, ma’am, I’d ask for his lordship’s protection under his sinecure as Keeper of Westminster Parks. I’m sure he can spare a dozen or so lieutenant-constables to protect you from an unruly mob of onlookers. What say you, Salt?”

Salt looked round from signaling for his secretary to approach with a gentleman in full-bottom wig.

“What would I say? That in less than an hour’s time, Miss Despard, as my wife, will have at her disposal all the strong-armed protection she could desire to fend off the admiring hordes. Miss Despard, let me make known to you Sir Antony Templestowe, who, I might add, will one day rise to be an ambassador. Though from his stupid grin you would be quite within your rights to think him fit for Bedlam.”

Sir Antony’s silly grin remained fixed and he had no idea where to direct his gaze, at the stern bridegroom or the blushing bride. He felt as foolish as he looked and his sigh of relief was audible when a commotion at the double doors deflected attention away from his acute case of foot in mouth.

Arthur Ellis disappeared out into the anteroom and returned almost at once with Tom Allenby and his attorney in tow, both grim-faced. Two footmen were quick to close over the doors to the bookroom, as if denying entry to whoever was making demands out in the anteroom to be admitted without invitation to the Earl of Salt Hendon’s inner sanctum.

“Apologies for the delay, my lord,” Tom said without preamble and made his attorney known to the Earl, adding brightly when he recognized Sir Antony, “Sir! What a pleasant reunion. Jane and I were lamenting only the other day not being forward enough to ask your name and direction. Weren’t we, Jane?”

“You may all sit down to tea and cakes later,” Salt bluntly interrupted. “Let’s just get on with it, shall we? I’m glad you’ve brought your attorney, Mr. Allenby. Perhaps you would be good enough to furnish me with a copy of Jacob Allenby’s will.”

“That’s hardly necessary, is it, my lord?” asked Jane, exchanging an anxious look with Tom.

Salt put up his brows. “But as you must marry me, Miss Despard, I think it very necessary, don’t you?”

“I would be happy for your lordship to have a copy of my uncle’s will,” Tom agreed, a reassuring smile at Jane. “But that won’t be possible until after my sister becomes Lady Salt, as my attorney did not bring a copy with him.”

The Earl smiled thinly. “Oh, have no fear, Mr. Allenby, I mean to marry your sister, regardless of what is contained in Jacob Allenby’s will. I merely wish to satisfy my curiosity. Now, shall we get this tiresome business over with? I have a full afternoon of appointments and am expected in the House after dinner.”

The secretary and Tom Allenby exchanged a frowning look that did not go unnoticed by Jane. “What is it, Tom? Everything is in order, isn’t it?” she asked fretfully, and looked to the attorney for an answer, but it was Tom who spoke, and to the Earl.

“My lord, I have asked her to wait in the anteroom until I’ve had a chance to explain matters to you, but my mother—”

“No, Mr. Allenby. Lady Despard is not welcome,” Salt stated with extreme politeness, saying to his secretary in an under voice, “Get her out. Be damned if I’ll have that woman in here.”

“Yes, my lord,” agreed Arthur Ellis but remained where he was. “I will have Lady Despard escorted from the house at once.”

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple, my lord,” the attorney apologized, clearing his throat, and bravely continued despite the Earl’s hard stare upon him. “Under the terms of Jacob Allenby’s will, Lady Despard is required to stand as witness to the marriage of Jane Katherine Despard or—”

“I won’t be dictated to by that merchant’s wishes, dead or alive! That’s an end to the matter. Parson, we’re wasting time,” Salt stated belligerently and strode back to his desk to find the special license, the little man in the full-bottom wig quick to flick open his leather-bound bible at the place that held his notes and then look round expectantly at the assembled company.

“Jane, she must be in attendance,” Tom whispered to Jane, a worried look directed at the scowling Earl, who was fossicking amongst the papers on his desk. “It’s the penultimate condition of Uncle Jacob’s will.”

“Pardon my inquisitiveness, Mr. Allenby,” enquired Sir Antony diffidently, “but if Lady Despard is not in attendance at your sister’s marriage…?”

“Tom’s inheritance will be delayed yet again. I cannot allow that to happen,” Jane said simply and pressed her stepbrother’s hand. “Don’t worry, Tom. I’ll speak to him.”

“Perhaps you should allow me, Miss Despard?” suggested Sir Antony with a smug smile of reassurance. “I have been known upon occasion to bring his lordship round to my way of thinking.”

“Thank you, my lord. But I will make him see reason,” Jane said firmly. “After all, he is just being stubborn for its own sake, and there is much more at stake here than any injury done to Lord Salt’s pride.”

Sir Antony bowed to her wishes and watched Jane approach the massive desk and its colossal owner, quizzing glass up to a magnified eye. “What an extraordinary young woman,” he said with approval. “Tiny but astonishingly tenacious.”

“I do not understand why you will not grant Lady Despard admittance when only yesterday you came face to face with her in your Arlington Street townhouse,” Jane reasoned calmly. “It’s for Tom’s benefit that I ask you to acquiesce to the request. And it is the last occasion you need ever see her. Though why such a silly vain creature should bother you is beyond my comprehension. Unless—”

“Miss Despard, you don’t know the first thing about—”

“—you don’t wish to own a connection with her because you took her to your bed and now wish to forget the liaison ever happened?”

Salt’s mouth dropped open and he could barely speak above a whisper.

“Is that what—is that what that overripe tart told you?”

“Everyone knows casual liaisons are quite commonplace amongst your kind, so it’s not as if you should be embarrassed in any way by her,” Jane added conversationally, ignoring the Earl’s angry blush. Jacob Allenby had made no secret of the Earl’s sinful connection with his family and as her stepmother was known to have had affairs with several of Wiltshire’s wealthy gentlemen, Jane had put two and two together. “She’s not likely to say anything about sharing your bed because she would not want to embarrass Tom. If you would tell me what you are searching for perhaps I could be of assistance?” she added in an abrupt change of subject. She watched him squint over the piles of documents he was moving and replacing in, what seemed to Jane, no particular order; knowing he was blind to the print, and that this would only increase his agitation and likely negative response to the attorney’s stipulation. When he glanced at her suspiciously, she added with a small, understanding smile, “Would it be such a burden for your noble nose to bear the weight of a pair of wire rimmed eyeglasses occasionally, my lord?”

“Special license,” he muttered self-consciously, ignoring her question and stepping aside to allow her greater access to the desk. “Thank you,” he murmured when she handed him a sheaf of parchment that had upon it the seal of the Archbishop of Canterbury. “Miss Despard, there are certain particulars concerning that woman that I will not discuss with you, or any other. It is a family matter and one I refuse to allow Jacob Allenby to wreak his revenge from beyond the grave.”

“Revenge?” Jane repeated, annoyed. “Is that all you can think about? I don’t pretend to know the first thing about the feud between the Earls of Salt Hendon and the Allenbys, although you have confirmed by your prejudice that my stepmother is somehow involved in that dispute. What I do know is that if you don’t permit her to stand as witness to my marriage, then my stepbrother, who is the innocent party in all of this, will have his future severely compromised, all because of some injury done your pride, and that I cannot allow.”

“And what do you intend to do about it, Miss Despard?” the Earl drawled. When Jane opened her mouth then shut it again on a lame argument he added, “I’m surprised Allenby didn’t take it upon himself to give you a one-sided explanation of the feud, as you like to call it, between the Allenbys and my family. Suffice for me to say that you have hit the proverbial nail on its head. Your stepmother played her part well in that little melodrama.” He held the special license under Jane’s chin. “As for my pride… Where that family is concerned I have none.”

“If Jacob Allenby’s will is not carried out to the letter, it is not only Tom’s future that will be compromised, but the people who rely on him for their very existences,” Jane argued. “Good, hard-working people who are employed in his factories. Surely you can relate to such a circumstance? There must be dozens of people who rely on you for their livelihoods, and if the numbers in your anteroom are anything to go by, there are dozens more waiting the opportunity to state their case in the hopes of gaining your patronage. I cannot believe that you, a gentleman, would willingly cause the ruin of a young man and those who depend upon him, and who has never done you a harm, all because of a feud you have with his mother’s family, but in which he played no part.”

The Earl stared down at her flushed face and at the intensity in her blue eyes and had to concede that her impassioned argument was sound and surprisingly selfless. That he should feel a twinge of envy that she exhibited such passion on behalf of her stepbrother astonished and annoyed him. It made him say flippantly,

“Very well put, Miss Despard. When it suits your purpose you expect me to adhere to gentlemanly principles, and yet you have accused me of conduct unbecoming in a gentleman.” He tickled her chin with the parchment. “Which is it to be?”

“I was not discussing your conduct towards me, my lord,” she replied with quiet dignity, twisting the betrothal ring between her fingers at her back.

He lifted a mobile eyebrow. “Miss Despard, you speak with such injured confidence that I beg you to provide proof of the accusation of which I stand accused.”

Jane’s blue eyes held his gaze. “Certainly. At the appropriate time and place. But this is not it. You have a room full of onlookers awaiting us. The sooner the ceremony is performed the sooner you can put this painful episode behind you and banish me to the backwater of your choosing. But you cannot do that, Tom cannot begin his life as an independent man of means, without Lady Despard’s presence at my marriage, regrettable as the circumstance is for us both.”

The Earl was laughingly skeptical. “So you are marrying me for Tom’s sake?”

Jane nodded, all contrition, gaze dropped to the diamond buckle in the tongue of his polished leather shoe. He had such large feet. “If there was any other way, I would gladly take it, my lord.”

He smiled, showing white teeth. “With that long face, I’m almost convinced,” he quipped. “Then for Tom’s sake you must do three things and I will do what is required of me: Sign that document poor Arthur returned to me without your signature; provide me with the evidence that proves me less than a gentleman, and tell me why you are marrying me for Tom’s sake.”

Jane sighed her defeat and turned to the desk as one about to mount the chopping block, but the Earl grabbed her wrist and spun her back to face him. “After the ceremony will suffice for the document and the explanation. But I will know now why you must marry me.”

Jane told him.

She wasn’t sure how he would respond to the news that she was marrying him for no other reason than to allow her stepbrother to inherit what was rightfully his and thus free him up to pay his workers their long overdue wages, but she certainly never expected him to react in the way he did.

“You could marry any man and immediately forfeit the hundred thousand pounds that by rights should have gone to your stepbrother?” he said in disbelief. “By not stipulating Tom by name that unscrupulous merchant was hoist by his own petard. How fitting!” He then burst into incredulous laughter, as if told a good joke.

If she had not been nonplussed by his reaction Jane would have delighted in his good humor because it stripped away his resentment, revealing the man she remembered and loved. She couldn’t help smiling.

The rest of the party assembled in the library breathed easier at this turn of events and the Earl remained in a surprisingly good humor throughout the ceremony, notwithstanding the presence of Lady Despard, who glowed with self-importance and had the satisfaction of knowing that the Earl had been forced to capitulate to her presence.

The ceremony concluded, the Earl bowed over his bride’s hand, and as he straightened he winked at Jane, though there was nothing playful in his demeanor, and his gaze held a menacing intent.

“Now Tom has his hundred thousand I want payment in kind,” he murmured near her ear. “I’ll be home late, but I expect my wife to be up waiting and ready to perform her wifely duty.”

~   ~   ~

THE NEW COUNTESS of Salt Hendon did not wait up for her husband. She was exhausted, emotionally and physically, from a day that seemed to go on forever. She had entered the bookroom thought by all in the anteroom to be just another petitioner, indeed a newly employed domestic in the Earl’s household, and left its warmth as the sixth Countess of Salt Hendon, feeling no different, yet immediately whisked off to a suite of rooms on the second floor that smelled of fresh paint, glue from newly hung wallpaper, and that teemed with industry. A dressmaker, a milliner, a corsetiere, a shoemaker, a number of seamstresses, and several assistants all toiled away at their various tasks, while workmen busied themselves with arranging beautifully carved mahogany furniture and hanging damask curtains around a new and enormous four-poster bed.

Jane had never seen a bed quite like it. She was told there was one other, its twin in fact, in the Earl’s bedchamber. The intricately carved mahogany posts stretched up to the ornately plastered ceiling and there was an elaborately carved headboard that incorporated the coat of arms of the House of Sinclair. Unlike the curtains about the Earl’s bed that were dark crimson velvet, Jane’s curtains were decidedly more feminine, being pale blue and yellow damask. A match for the curtains covering the sash windows and complementing the coverings on the chaise longue and the dressing table stool in the spacious closet.

The housekeeper apologized for the lack of a fire in the grates of the fireplaces in the closet and the bedchamber. A chimney sweep had been called to investigate what was blocking the flues, possibly old birds nests from the previous spring. Like most of the rooms and furniture on the second floor, this suite had never been used since the Earl’s purchase of the house some four years before. The only occupant on this floor was the Earl himself, but as he spent most of his time when Parliament was sitting at the Arlington Street townhouse he shared with Sir Antony Templestowe, this thoroughly modern and spacious mansion was sadly neglected.

Of course that would all change for the better now. The house was in desperate need of a mistress, opinioned the housekeeper with a kind smile at Jane, who blushed and quickly walked on into the next room, a pretty, light-filled sitting room fitted out in the Chinese manner, with peonies and stork wallpaper, matching silk curtains and a carved mahogany chinoiserie overmantle. The housekeeper hoped her ladyship would not object to being fitted for her gowns and necessaries in this room where there was a good fire in the grate. An ornate screen had been set up in a corner for just this purpose, and beside this screen, looking nervous and self-conscious, stood a young woman not much older, but considerably taller, than Jane. The young woman quickly bobbed a curtsey and was introduced by the housekeeper as her ladyship’s newly employed personal maid, Springer.

“Oh, that name will never do, Mrs. Jenkins,” said Jane, a smile at the nervous woman who again bobbed a curtsey. “I once owned a beagle who answered to Springer. You must have a Christian name?”

“Anne. It’s Anne, my lady,” the maid shyly volunteered.

“Relation of Springer the butler at Arlington Street?”

Anne smiled. “Yes, my lady. That would be my father. He and my mother look after his lordship when he cares to stay at that address,” and received such a scowling look from the housekeeper for prattling on that she bobbed another curtsey saying, “Shall I fetch in the dressmaker, my lady? And there’s a jeweler come to fix your wedding band, and the shoemaker needs one of your shoes, if your ladyship wouldn’t mind… But perhaps your ladyship would care for a dish of tea first, before we begin the fittings?”

“Yes. Tea, and the jeweler. Thank you, Anne,” said Jane.

“If you don’t need me, my lady, I must get back to the kitchen,” apologized the housekeeper. “Cook needs me to finish up the arrangements for tomorrow’s dinner after his lordship’s tennis tournament, and what with a house full of guests—”

“A houseful? Here? Tomorrow?”

“Yes, my lady. His lordship said not to bother you with the arrangements,” explained the housekeeper, “on account of your ladyship having enough to do today. But if you would like to see the menu?”

Jane shook her head. “No. That will be all, Mrs. Jenkins. And thank you for all you’ve done to make me feel welcome.” And gave herself up into the hands of the dozen or so people employed by the Earl to ensure she had a wardrobe befitting a Countess come the arrival of the first guests for the annual Royal Tennis tournament and dinner.

By the time she was well and truly ready for sleep she had lost count of the number of gowns she had been pinned in and out of, and the yards and yards of silks, velvets, damasks, Chinese and Indian cottons and various other fine materials that were too numerous to remember. These wondrous and expensive materials were wrapped around her slim frame and over panniers that encased her slender hips then expertly tacked and trimmed and taken away to be sewn up by industrious seamstresses.

From behind the ornate dressing screen, the corsetiere and her two assistants laced her into various low cut stays and bodices until she thought her ribs were cracked. Some were of buckram and whalebone covered in silk and linen, others were embroidered, and many matched the petticoats and were to be worn to be seen. The two French female émigrées then presented for her selection diaphanous chemises, nightgowns with tiny pearl buttons and low cut necklines trimmed with satin bows and lace, exquisitely embroidered silk dressing gowns of matching fabrics and a mountain of silk stockings and garters, all, they assured her with knowing smiles, guaranteed to please husbands and lovers alike.

Jane blushed rosily, pulling the coverlet up to her chin, recalling their sly smiles and confidential giggles, as she had blushed in their company, and drifted off to sleep on the chaise longue in the cold bedchamber. She was not in her enormous new four poster bed because it lacked its new mattress of duck and geese feathers which had failed to arrive that day; an oversight the housekeeper could not apologize for enough, until Jane assured her she would be just as comfortable and warm if a bed was made up for her on the chaise.

The Earl found her here an hour later, in the glow of a guttering candelabrum.

The hum of voices and industry came from behind the sitting room door, where various tradesmen and women were only too happy to work by candlelight in shifts through the night to accommodate his wishes. The covers had slid to the floor, leaving Jane cold and curled up in a ball trying to find warmth in the thin linen nightshift that was bunched up around her knees, giving him an appreciative view of her slim stockinged ankles and slender feet.

With her hair braided in one long thick rope down her back, and dressed in a nightshift that covered her from throat to wrists, she looked absurdly youthful and untouched. In fact, she did not look a day older than his sister Caroline, who was all of seventeen and a half years of age, a comparison that froze his ardor better than a hipbath of cold water. Not that it had been his intention to disturb her so late. But he was curious to see how she had got on in her new surroundings, and if she had indeed waited up for him as he had ordered.

He really hadn’t expected her to obey him and was glad to find her asleep. Though why she was on the chaise longue… No mattress on the bed… and no fire in the grate. He would have words with Jenkins in the morning. No wonder the room was as cold as the deserted square outside.

She would surely freeze if she slept in here all night.

Decided, he picked her up off the chaise longue, careful not to wake her and was surprised when, in her sleep, she wrapped a slim arm about his neck and pressed herself against him invitingly, finding warmth in his waistcoat. He was all too well aware that under her thin linen nightshift she was naked but for her stockinged legs. Yet, bedding his bride tonight was not his intent. He just wanted to get her warm and go to sleep himself after a tiring day. But as he carried her effortlessly through the opened door that connected her apartment to his, he could not ignore the alluring feel of her garters under his fingers, or the knowledge that from the knees up her lovely thighs were completely bare.

She was so light. He’d forgotten that about her, or perhaps he had made himself forget with the help of a string of casual lovers, all of whom, despite their skill in pleasuring him, were forgotten in the coolness of morning. It was in the coolness of morning that the memory of Miss Jane Katherine Despard was most acute. Kissing her, pleasuring her, the memory of her sweet-smelling skin and the adorable smile and laughing blue eyes that haunted him in his half-waking state. Not tomorrow morning, or any morning after that. He was going to make certain of that.

His bedchamber was warm and inviting, with plenty of light and a roaring fire in the grate. His valet was busying himself in the closet, where two footmen were filling a hipbath with hot water. Andrews was unaware of his master’s return until he came through to the bedchamber to turn down the sheets of the enormous four-poster bed and there discovered tucked up under the covers a sleeping beauty. He saw this vision of loveliness before he saw his master, who stood on the other side of the bed slowly unbuttoning his waistcoat, gaze very much fixed on his bride.

Without a word or a look, the valet turned on a heel and went back into the closet where he threw back in one mouthful the nightly drop of brandy he set out for the Earl.

“Andrews, is there the remotest possibility I own a nightshirt?”

“A nightshirt, my lord?” repeated the valet, pouring the Earl out a fresh glass of brandy, then taking from him his divested waistcoat. He knew full well the Earl had never worn that particular article of clothing a day (or more precisely, a night) in his adult life. Still, he managed to keep the surprise out of his voice. “I do believe I may be able to find a nightshirt, though as to its condition…”

“Just get it,” Salt said abruptly as he pulled his shirt up over his square set shoulders and dropped it into his valet’s willing hands. He went over to the hipbath and stared at his reflection in the warm still water, hands on narrow hips, wide flared bare back displayed for his valet’s admiration. “I must be mad,” he muttered at himself. “What man on his wedding night puts clothes on to go to bed with his bride? Mad!”

The valet thought so too.

SIX

THE POST BOY ringing his eleven o’clock bell signaled the last collection of mail for the day, and shattered the still and freezing night air. It was much too cold in this fashionable quarter surrounding Grosvenor Square for itinerate sellers, thieves, pickpockets, and drunken Merry-Andrews who usually roamed the streets at this late hour. Even the chairmen were scarce. But then a carriage pulled up outside a particular townhouse in South Audley Street and out stepped a lady in fur-lined hooded cape and wearing pattens to keep the muck off her satin slippers.

She had just come from Drury Lane Theatre, where she had enjoyed the attentions of her son’s circle of male friends and the admiration of one or two gentlemen nearer her own age, who left their cards and asked permission to call on her the following day. She had no idea what the play was about or the names of its actors, but she had spent the evening surrounded by titled and wealthy males so was more than satisfied with her foray to the theater.

Her buoyant mood dissolved, however, as soon as the nose-in-the-air porter of this fashionable establishment admitted her. She was not welcome; she saw it on the faces of the porter, the butler and the lady’s maid who were all lemon and lime faced. She was made to feel inferior and cheap and her clothes not quite the thing under their steely, disapproving gazes. But she had waited all day for this interview with the high and mighty Diana, Lady St. John, daughter of a Baron, cousin of an Earl, mother of his heir, and related to at least three ducal houses.

This doyenne of fashion and darling of Polite Society had graciously granted Lady Despard five minutes of her time, but only under cover of darkness. But Lady Despard didn’t care that she was unwelcome, nor would she have cared had she been shown in via the tradesmen’s entrance. She had a message to convey and important news to share with her ladyship and she couldn’t wait to see her reaction. She hoped for venomous tears, at the very least. She got much more.

She was shown up to her ladyship’s boudoir because there was a fire in the grate. Ordinarily, provincial visitors were granted an audience in the drawing room at the front of the house, if they were granted an interview at all. Her pattens she left in the hall, along with her cloak. No refreshment was offered her and the porter was instructed to tell the driver to wait; Lady St. John’s visitor would not be staying above a few minutes.

Lady Despard was standing by the fireplace warming her gloved hands when Diana St. John came quietly into the room. She was in dishabille, a brocade dressing gown thrown negligently over her nightgown, and her light auburn hair, full of curling papers, fell to her shoulders. Yet, her face, as always, was perfectly made up, even down to the carefully applied mouche at the corner of her painted lips.

Diana St. John took one look at the woman by the fireplace in her revealing, low cut bodice and outrageously upswept powdered hair and smiled thinly. Her exceptional memory had not failed her. She would not have been able to recall the woman’s name, but her butler had supplied that. Yet she knew who she was: the wife of a nobody squire and sister of a Bristol merchant—Allenby was his name, and she was stepmother of that creature. How gratifying that Lady Despard’s beauty had faded more rapidly than her own in the four years since their one and only meeting during the Salt Hunt.

“Been on the town, Madam?” Diana St. John enquired with a crooked smile as she came further into the room.

She did not sit, nor did she offer her visitor a chair, and was displeased when the woman did not show her rank the proper respect and curtsey.

“Drury Lane Theatre, where I saw a most marvelous play by a well-known playwright, but I can’t remember either,” Lady Despard replied, the inference to her loose morals lost on her. She openly looked Diana St. John up and down. “I was surprised not to see you, my lady. Everyone who was anyone was there tonight. Still, ladies of our age must have at least one night off a week to recover our looks. The London Season must be so fatiguing for you, whereas in Bristol—”

“I don’t give a damn about Bristol, nor do I have time for your inconsequential small talk. What is it you want?”

“Fie, my lady! There’s no need to be vulgar, to be sure,” Lady Despard commented with a pout and, spying her reflection in the looking glass by the fireplace, couldn’t resist an admiring glance. “Particularly when I have made the effort to come here at such a late hour with news of interest to you, and suffered a considerable loss to my social calendar—”

“If you’ve yet to scratch his itch your prospective lover will look you up tomorrow if you pay him enough. So why have you come?”

Lady Despard took a moment to adjust a small bow in a powdered curl. “Are you aware that my dear brother Jacob was buried a mere three months ago?”

Diana St. John lifted her brow. “And how would one know that, Madam, when you’ve already dispensed with your mourning? Or didn’t you even bother to put on your black?”

Lady Despard was put out. She puckered her painted lips. “Black does not become me. I wore gray to mourn Sir Felix, and that was quite enough. Poor Jacob,” she added with a sigh, as if her sad regret made up for her lack of mourning. “He survived the smallpox only to die from complications of the lung. Such a loss to me and my son…”

Diana St. John shrugged a shoulder in callous indifference. “Three months or three years. Allenby’s death is supremely unimportant. You don’t require my sympathy. No doubt he left you more than you deserve.”

Her visitor looked smug. “Twenty thousand, to do with as I please.”

Diana St. John dismissed the inheritance with a contemptuous sniff. “Pin money. So? The reason you are here?”

“Twenty thousand to do with as I please once I have delivered you a message from Jacob. A lawyer awaits in my carriage to ensure I have done as stipulated in my dear brother’s will.”

“Oh, please. Not a message from beyond the grave! What could that moralizing puff piece possibly have to say to me?”

Lady Despard smiled thinly. “I know what you had done to Jane. Jacob told me.”

Silence fell upon the room. The only sound, the ticking of the mantle clock.

Lady Despard waited and watched.

Finally, Diana St. John yawned, as if bored and said levelly, “So your brother felt a twinge of regret and was weak enough to confess his part in that tedious melodrama to you. My conscience is clear. I merely carried out Sir Felix’s wishes to have the rotten fruit of his daughter’s disgraceful behavior got rid of as expediently as possible.”

“It was exceedingly interesting to Jacob that you knew of Jane’s pregnancy before she had confessed her condition to Sir Felix.”

“What of it? Once she opened her legs to Salt it was no stretch of the imagination to suppose a pregnancy would ensue. After all,” she said with a small private smile, “his lordship is exceptionally virile.”

“You knew Jane’s seducer was Lord Salt when her father did not. Jane told no one. You have made it your life’s work to know all about his virility. Have you not, my lady?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Lord Salt’s habits, more precisely who he has bedded and when, if he got them with child and how often, and what you did for them and others who found themselves inconvenienced.”

Diana St. John crossed to the door and wrenched it open.

“I have not the slightest idea to what you allude. You are talking goose fat, Madam! If that is all you have to say, leave before I have you bodily removed.”

Lady Despard stayed where she was.

“Betwixt you and me, my lady, brother Jacob didn’t give two testers how many whores Lord Salt had impregnated, or what you did to help rid them of their unwanted pregnancies, his lordship none the wiser. But it bothered him greatly that you overstepped the mark with little Jane, who was a virgin.”

“The creature should have thought of the consequences of her behavior before she let Salt between her thighs.”

“What was the medicinal preparation you supplied to Sir Felix?” She peered into her reticule and took out a piece of paper; this she unfolded and smiled. “Ah! That’s it! Syrup of Artem—Artemisia.” She held out the paper. “There is an address here of your apothecary on the Strand.

Diana St. John gritted her teeth. “I know his address you insolent slut. Leave! Now.”

“But I haven’t delivered Jacob’s message yet,” Lady Despard replied with a pout, putting the folded paper back in her reticule, enjoying the woman’s growing anger. When Diana St. John opened the door wider, she added with a shrug, “I don’t see why it matters now. Not after today’s events, but Jacob wanted you to know that placed with his will is a document that names your clients, females who found themselves with child, and the services you rendered them as a terminating midwife; a hanging offence for client and supplier, so brother Jacob’s attorneys tell me.”

Diana St. John kept her features perfectly composed. It was as if Lady Despard had not spoken. She certainly wasn’t about to acknowledge the accusation or the implied threat. “I have a full round of engagements tomorrow. No doubt the heady social scene of Bristol beckons you. Good night, Madam.”

Lady Despard still remained by the fireplace. “It seems to me that you are in ignorance of what occurred today in Grosvenor Square.”

“Grosvenor Square?”

“You truly have no idea what happened to Lord Salt today, my lady?”

A little of Diana St. John’s cold façade cracked. She came back into the middle of the room. “Happened?”

“The Earl of Salt Hendon was married this afternoon.”

Diana St. John laughed as if told a good joke. “Impossible!”

Lady Despard blinked at her, unable to fathom what the woman found to be amused by in such news.

“You witless creature! As if his lordship would marry with his family none the wiser. As if I would not know such a momentous occasion was to take place. There is a proper order to such things in our circle. It may be common in the gutters of Bristol—

“What is there that you don’t understand, my lady? Lord Salt was married this afternoon. I was there to witness his—”

“You? Nonsense! Why would you of all people on God’s good earth be witness to his marriage? Now I know you are talking flummery. I was at Grosvenor Square only this morning. Tuesday he is at home to petitioners. There’s always a mob of beggars at his door. And in the afternoon he’s at Parliament. He is a stickler for doing his duty, tiresomely so. He wouldn’t have time to get married on a Tuesday. Perhaps on a Thursday or a Saturday. But never on a Tuesday. He doesn’t even have the time for me, but I make certain I stay an hour; just so he remembers what’s important in life, that he has a duty to Ron and to me. Just so he knows I’m there for him…always.”

“You haven’t asked about the bride…”

“He wouldn’t marry without consulting me,” Diana St. John continued stubbornly convincing herself, ignoring the leading remark. “He doesn’t visit his mistress without me knowing about it. I can tell you when he visits and how many times he mounts his whore in a night. I make it my business to know. And if he so much as looks sideways at an eligible young female I’m there to make certain the girl takes her interest elsewhere. Luckily, his rakish reputation usually precedes him, which scares the prudish ones away. And one can’t be too careful when selecting the right woman to be his mistress,” she boasted. “She must interest him enough to distract him, but not too much that he can’t be persuaded to move on to the next diversion. She has to be unable to bear children, or at the very least not want any brats and know to come to me to rid herself of unwanted offspring, should that tiresome circumstance eventuate. You see how considerate I am of his welfare?” She pressed her shaking hands together and tried to smile. “What with looking out for his political career, which is going ahead in leaps and bounds, sitting for dreary hour upon dreary hour in the Ladies Gallery of the Lords, playing hostess to party political dinners and the like when he requires that of me, not to mention taking Ron to see him as much as possible, and the onerous task of keeping track of his love life, I rarely have a moment to myself. So it is impossible for him to find the time least of all want to marry behind my back…”

Lady Despard thought Diana St. John raving like a mad woman, and that perhaps her mind had indeed snapped. She had no idea what to say in reply to a sermon on her good works on the Earl’s behalf that clearly, even to her lax moral code, overstepped the boundaries of decency at the nobleman’s right to privacy. But in the ensuing long silence she felt she had to say something.

“You are all consideration for his welfare to be sure, my lady, but perhaps you could have saved yourself a great deal of time and bother had you just married him yourself.”

“Married him?” Diana St. John repeated, as if the question was offensive in the extreme. “Of course I want to marry him, you bloody stupid cow! I’ve wanted to marry him since I was twelve years old. But a lady does not ask a gentleman to marry her. A lady waits to be asked…”

Lady Despard was taken aback but unsympathetic. “Then you’ve missed your chance and must take comfort in the fact that you weren’t the only female destined for disappointment.”

“I’ve known him all my life and not once has he ever seriously considered the married state,” Diana St. John continued, dumbfounded. “Though four years ago he came within a flea’s foot but, fortunately, I managed to put a stop to that whim before he did something utterly rash and socially unacceptable. Whoever heard of a Sinclair marrying the daughter of a nobody squire? Of course I attribute that episode to an infatuation for a pretty face. Is that creature still as beautiful as I remember her? She had the most perfect skin, and such gloriously dark thick hair. Too thin and small breasted, of course, but some men are attracted to the type. One could forgive Salt his momentary lustful lapse but as for marriage—”

“He married Jane Despard this afternoon, my lady. And yes, she is just as beautiful as your remembrance of her.”

Diana St. John stood as stone and stared disbelieving at Lady Despard for a long time. But as that woman merely stared back at her expressionless, fear seized her. “Salt… Married? Married? Married Jane Despard?” She shuffled to the fireplace, unsteady on her slippered feet and put out a hand to the headrest of the wingchair, the other to her constricted throat. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.”

“Strange how matters can take a turn,” Lady Despard said wistfully. “I should have realized that even when Sir Felix banished her, even when he forced the baby to be quickened before its time, he still loved his daughter. He always used to say Jane was the image of her mother. His first wife was granddaughter of an Irish duke, don’t you know? But she married well beneath her by eloping with Sir Felix. It was her death that started his drinking and gambling. Poor Sir Felix. Tragic. Still,” she added in a rallying tone, “he wanted nothing less than an earl for Jane and an earl was what he got with his last breath; your precious earl to be precise.”

She frowned. Diana St. John looked on the verge of a nervous collapse. “Shall I call for your maid, my lady?”

“Maid?” Diana St. John repeated, dazed.

“Such news has made you unwell, my lady. Perhaps a brandy…”

Diana St. John’s fingers gripping the back of the upholstered wingchair were white at the knuckles. This woman had been sent here to do her harm. She was lying. Yes, that was it! She was lying. This was Jacob Allenby’s way of taunting her from the grave. She glared at her visitor with menacing intent. “Did Allenby put you up to this? Did he hope to punish me with this lie?”

“It is no lie. Though, when you think about it, it is a fitting punishment for what you had done to Jane.” Lady Despard had a flash of insight. “A natural justice of sorts.”

“Justice? Ha!” Diana St. John’s mind was spinning with a mixture of denial and possibilities. “Let Salt satisfy his lust with that creature, as many times as he likes, much I care! Then watch me have the little trollop banished back to her sodden corner of Wiltshire quicker than you can spell Ranelagh.”

“But surely that defeats your purpose, my lady?” Lady Despard asked, confused. “A virile man of Salt’s age and abilities is more than capable of making love to his wife several times over on his wedding night. And we both know they can breed. In all likelihood, as you stand there mourning his marriage, he’s already impregnated her.” She smiled at her own cleverness. “Isn’t that what you wanted to avoid all those years ago? If Jane begets an heir where does that leave your son?” She tittered. “And you call me the stupid cow!”

Diana St. John was stunned, as if the reality of the wedding night had never occurred to her. She remained upright and composed until Lady Despard was unceremoniously dismissed from her sight. She then collapsed in the wingchair and put her head in her hands and gave herself up to tears of intense hatred and mounting frustration. Much later, when she was wasted of self-pity and drained of all natural emotion, she began plotting her revenge.

~   ~   ~

SALT HAD NO IDEA how many hours he remained awake in the big four-poster bed, lying on his side, staring at the little leaping flames amongst the glowing coals in the deep grate of the bedchamber fireplace. He just knew it was uncomfortable on his wide shoulders. But if he moved and lay flat on his back, or turned on to his other side, there was a very real possibility he would come in contact with his sleeping bride, and he wanted to avoid that at all costs.

The nightshirt definitely helped as a deterrent. What a ridiculous article of clothing! Wide, collarless and with billowing sleeves, it felt more like a sheet with a hole cut in it for his head. No wonder he’d given up wearing them as soon as he’d left Eton. He felt as if he’d been put into adult swaddling; the linen caught round his legs and there was no way of untangling himself without lifting his entire body off the bed several times. He really couldn’t bear wearing the ridiculous thing a moment longer. Surely the bed was wide enough that he could sleep naked and be comfortable without causing a disturbance to his bride?

Decided, he slid out of bed, wrenched the nightshirt up over his shoulders, and flung it in disgust into a darkened corner. Satisfied to be rid of one torment, he raked his shoulder-length hair out of his eyes and slid back under the covers to lie on his back. It was such a welcome relief to evenly distribute his weight that he only managed to stare at the pleated canopy for a handful of seconds before he finally drifted off into a welcome deep sleep.

Twenty minutes later he was wide-awake.

Blissfully asleep, Jane migrated to the middle of the bed in search of warmth. It was a big bed that allowed its equally large owner to sprawl out in comfort, but without the heavy curtains drawn about the four mahogany posts to keep out the still night air, nor the use of a bed warmer to take the chill off the linen sheets, there was little comfort for Jane’s slender frame, inadequately covered as it was by a thin nightshift. Even her white stockings were of little use in keeping her warm, stopping as they did just above the knees. But she found the perfect substitute for a hot brick in the form of her husband’s warm, naked body. Tall, wide and with plenty of well-exercised muscle, he radiated heat and comfort, and on such a cold winter’s night he was the ideal bed and body warmer. The sleeping Jane happily snuggled into him and instantly returned to a state of deep slumber.

The same could not be said for her husband, who kept as still as he possibly could, eyes on the canopy, and tried his best to ignore her soft, lithe female curves. She had her pink cheek nestled against his beefy shoulder and an arm across his torso, while one shapely stockinged leg straddled a brawny thigh. She clung to him like glued paper to a wall. And as if this wasn’t enough of a distraction, her raven hair, which had escaped the confines of its long braid, fell about the pillows in a wild mane and tickled his square, unshaven chin.

Ignoring his edict to remain still beside her because his arm and fingers were tingling from inertia, he shifted his weight amongst the pillows and covers, disturbing Jane enough for her to move with him then resettle with her head now resting against his chest and an arm about his neck. There was nothing for it but to drop his arm over her.

He closed his eyes, determined to ignore her soft curves and his stiffening erection, and set his mind to recalling the goings on at Parliament that afternoon, particularly Bute’s dreary speech about troop deployments, now the war with France was concluded and the Peace about to be signed in Paris; and there was that ridiculous debate over the Commons’ adjournment for the observance of St. George’s Day on the 31st because the 30th fell on a Sunday.

Ordinarily these musings were enough to put him to sleep faster than a dose of laudanum, but Jane’s light regular breathing and the delicious distraction of her body moving ever so gently against him did nothing to dampen his ardor. And when she turned and tried to straighten her bunched up nightshift to untangle her stockinged legs, but with little success, he did the gentlemanly thing and helped her out of the flimsy linen garment. He tossed it across the room to join his crumpled nightshirt.

Half-awake, she remained sitting up in bed facing him, completely oblivious to her nakedness but for her white stockings held fast above the knee with silk ribbons tied in neat bows, and her tumble of lustrous raven-black hair that fell about her shoulders to the small of her back in alluring disarray. With a heavy-lidded drowsy thank you and a sleepy smile she promptly snuggled down beside him again to enjoy the warmth of his body. He wasn’t sure how much more of this glorious torture he could endure.

He was about to draw up the coverlet when he couldn’t resist admiring his bride’s feminine loveliness under the glow of the fire. From stockinged toes to shapely bare thigh, from the rise of her hips to the dip in her waist and up to her small firm breasts, she was utterly arousing and completely captivating—and his. Bland speeches about peace treaties and frustrating debates about the observance of saints’ days burst like bubbles as he gently brushed a long strand of soft curl from across the pale pink of her nipple and off her throat.

The scent of soap, of freshly scrubbed skin and the natural essence of her, made him hover and drink her in. She smelled as delicious as she looked, lying on her side with her hands tucked under her cheek, long black tresses falling all about her. He could almost convince himself that the intervening years had never happened and this was in truth the wedding night he had planned for them to enjoy at his Wiltshire estate. Perhaps if he kissed her the deception would be complete…

He brushed his mouth along her soft warm cheek and when she blinked and tilted her chin up to him he did what he had so very much wanted to do for four years, he kissed her mouth.

“What a lovely dream,” she murmured through half-open lids.

“Yes, a dream.”

She put her arm up around his neck and drew him back down to kiss her again. “You smell nice. You always smell nice.”

He smiled. “Do I?”

She licked her top lip.

“Taste nice, too.”

He chuckled. “So do you.”

“No more talk. Kiss me.”

He obliged her, giving himself up to the luxury of a long, lingering and delightfully exploratory kiss as her mouth parted under the pressure of his. She had such soft plump lips. He wanted to go on kissing and caressing her for as long as he was able to resist entering her gloriously aroused flesh, the anticipation of what was to come almost as exciting as the act itself; for he had not kissed another woman the way he kissed Jane.

When he had forced a kiss on her that day on the Hunt two years ago, when she had trespassed onto his land, it was in the belief it would cure his want of her. That if he kissed her, held her in his arms, he would finally be done with her. But even a kiss forced upon her had merely increased his misery, for it merely reaffirmed his inadequacy in wanting her. Just as these kisses now with her permission made the wanting of her excruciatingly urgent. If he did not have her there and then he was certain he would go mad.

“Touch me, Jane. Hold me.”

She willingly complied and his entire body ignited. They tumbled on the bed, and when he had her at the precipice of no return she pressed against him, stockinged legs wrapped around his strong thighs, she whimpering for release. He had all the encouragement he needed. He could wait no longer. If he heard her gasp as he filled her completely it was in the deep recesses of his mind. Yet he was not so far beyond reach that her unguarded admission in the heat of the moment went unheard. It evoked for him the stark reality of their bittersweet union, and served to remind him why they now shared a bed, not because they were passionately in love but because they were legally bound together as man and wife. There was no romance here. But there was definitely lust…

“How could I marry another when you’ve utterly ruined me…”

Why had she chosen that moment, while they were in the throws of passionate lovemaking on their wedding night, to remind him of the past? Was she intent on emasculating him for defiling her? So be it. He would stop. He would leave her dissatisfied. He should… But he was beyond the point of caring. All that mattered was fulfillment. His fulfillment.

In the heat of the moment, in the heat that turned to anger mingled with a throbbing need for physical gratification, all he cared about was filling her, his wife, with his seed, seed barren and wasted, but his seed as her husband. And when release finally came, when they tumbled off the precipice into blissful oblivion, he had the hollow satisfaction of hearing her splinter the cold night air with his Christian name.

~   ~   ~

“YOU’RE DAMNED if you do and damned if you don’t,” was Jenkins the butler’s gloomy prediction. He yawned loudly. “What time is it? Three in the morning and not a minute less.”

The Earl’s valet eyed him with drowsy resentment and again addressed the messenger. “How urgent is urgent?”

The messenger from South Audley Street shrugged. “Urgent. With respect, sir, at this late ’our, none of us are in a position to argue the meaning of the word.”

The valet leaned his night-capped head back against the wall of the ill-lit servant passageway outside his master’s apartment and stared at the door opposite. Jenkins was right. He was damned either way. If he didn’t deliver Lady St. John’s message she would cause an almighty fuss and demand his immediate dismissal. If he did, and walked into his master’s bedchamber on this of all nights he was confident the Earl would dismiss him anyway. He was not a betting man but he was of the opinion that he would take his chances and incur Lady St. John’s wrath rather than disturb his master on his bridal night. Decided, he stepped away from the wall and snatched the sealed parchment from the messenger’s hand.

“Tell your mistress her letter was delivered. I’ll see his lordship gets it.”

The messenger shook his head. “Sorry, sir. I’m not to leave until I ’ave a reply.”

“Then find yourself a nice corner to curl up in because you’ll be spending the night!” the valet hissed. “There’s no power on this earth that will see me walk through that door on this of all nights. It’s his lordship’s wedding night, for God’s sake!”

The messenger grinned lewdly at the butler but Jenkins decided the lackey was becoming too familiar and needed putting in his place. “You heard Mr. Andrews. Find yourself a corner. His lordship can’t be disturbed.”

The messenger looked from one to the other and shrugged, unperturbed. “Thing is, sirs, if I don’t get a reply within the ’our, her ladyship ’as threatened to come round ’ere ’erself on account of the fact that she don’t trust you lot ’ere. She said so ’erself. Tell ’em, she said, if I don’t get a reply from ’is lordship I’ll come round there and disturb ’im m’self. And you know she will.”

Yes, Jenkins and Andrews knew very well of what Lady St. John was capable. As the widowed mother of the Earl’s heir, her ladyship frequently abused her position of influence. The valet wiped a hand across his dry mouth, and stared down at the sealed note.

“What is so urgent Lady St. John requires the Earl’s presence in the middle of the night?”

“Something about ’er boy vomitin’,” the messenger replied. “’is temperature is ’igh too and ’e’s delirious and wanting ’is Uncle Salt. Nothing or no one will calm the little master save ’is lordship’s presence.”

The valet swore viciously under his breath. He knew the Earl was devoted to Lady St. John’s children. When his first cousin and best friend Lord St. John had tragically died from the smallpox four years ago the Earl had willingly taken on the role of substitute father to the St. John children. The valet knew his master had on occasion left the warmth of his bed in the middle of the night to pacify Lady St. John’s sickly son. But this night was different from all others and Andrews didn’t relish the task, in fact he wished he could avoid it, but knew that for wishful thinking.

“Has a physician been called to the boy?” Andrews asked the messenger, feeling the noose of decision tightening about his neck. When the messenger nodded, he sighed, took from the butler his burning taper and went over to the closet door. “Give me a minute.”

“So you’re going in there?” Jenkins asked with a trill of anticipation. He frowned and shook his head. “Courageous, Andrews. Very courageous.”

The valet didn’t think so. He considered himself the greatest coward this side of the Thames. Heart beating against his chest he stood on the threshold of the cavernous bedchamber with burning taper in hand and listened for signs of life within. Thankfully the room was quiet now and still and all he could hear was the familiar sound of the crackling fire in the grate. It had been anything but quiet and still two hours ago.

He was not a betting man but he would confidently stake a year’s wages on his lordship having vigorously consummated his marriage, and to the mutual satisfaction of both parties to the union. He put the taper on the table by the doorway, took two steps and trod on cloth. Curious, he scooped up the bundle under his foot and, holding it at arm’s length, realized he had in his hand a man and a woman’s nightshifts. His face burned with embarrassment, but he did what any good valet worth his coin would do: He folded the articles of clothing neatly and put them over his arm before approaching the four-poster bed in the light of the fire.

Twelve years of service to the Earl had not prepared the valet for the novel experience of disturbing a newly married couple on their wedding night. Yet, to his great surprise and relief, the Countess was wide-awake sitting on the edge of the bed, back up against a mahogany post, wrapped in a coverlet, her mass of shiny black curls tumbled about her shoulders. She was admiring the Earl while he slept sprawled out in the big bed, a tangle of sheet scarcely covering his sizeable manhood.

Jane blushed rosily upon seeing the valet hovering in the shadows but made life easy for him by smiling and saying in a friendly whisper, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for her husband’s valet to disturb her on her wedding night, “Oh good, you found my shift. I did wonder where it had disappeared. I’ll put it on if you’ll just turn your back and then we’ll be comfortable.”

Andrews did as requested, even going so far as to tiptoe across to a ribbon-back chair to one side of the fireplace where he had laid out one of the Earl’s silk banyans. He offered this to Jane, still with his back to her, hand thrust out behind him. She was so quiet, all he heard was the swishing of silk and before he knew what was happening the Countess appeared before him, the silk banyan wrapped tightly over her nightshift. The garment was ludicrously large on her, making her appear smaller and absurdly youthful. Andrews had the urge to offer his assistance in rolling up the sleeves so she could find her fingers. Of course he curbed the instinct, and when she moved away from the bed to the fireplace so they could talk without disturbing the slumbering nobleman, he made her an officious bow.

“Please excuse this intrusion, my lady,” he stated, keeping his eyes lowered. “I would not have disturbed his lordship for the world except there is a matter of some delicacy that I am at a loss to know how to proceed without seeking his lordship’s opinion.”

“It must be important indeed… I’m sorry, but I don’t believe I know your name?”

“Andrews, my lady. It’s Aloysius Andrews, valet to his lordship. Your ladyship should address me as Andrews.”

“Well, Andrews, as I am wide-awake and willing to offer you my assistance, do we need to disturb his lordship?”

The valet glanced over at the bed where the Earl slept soundly, then back at Jane’s big blue eyes that regarded him with frankness. Although he was unconvinced that this young bride would be a match for the social wiles of Lady St. John, she was, when all was said and done, the Countess of Salt Hendon, and that counted for everything in his books. So he told her his dilemma.

Jane listened attentively and asked all the right questions, so that at the end of his diatribe, Andrews felt he had such a sympathetic ear that he let down his guard and confessed his real fear: That the Earl would dismiss him, and if his lordship didn’t Lady St. John would certainly have him tossed onto the streets.

“Do you truly believe his lordship a fickle nobleman capable of dismissing his most trusted servant after twelve years’ good service, all because you failed to inform him at four o’clock in the morning his godson was vomiting?” Jane asked with a smile.

“When you put it like that, my lady, no, he isn’t. He’s always been very fair,” Andrews replied and felt curiously relieved. “To point out fact, his lordship is the best and fairest master I’ve had the privilege to be employed as gentleman’s gentleman.”

“I thought as much,” Jane said with confidence. “So what do you suggest we do with Lady St. John’s letter?”

“I’d wait till morning,” Andrews replied without hesitation. “There’s not much his lordship can do for the boy tonight, save get in the physician’s way. And if he is delirious he wouldn’t know if his lordship was in attendance on him or not, is my opinion. Besides,” he began and stopped, but when Jane continued to smile at him encouragingly he added cautiously, “Lady St. John can sometimes be a bit of a-a panic merchant where her son is concerned, if your ladyship understands my meaning.”

Jane understood only too well. Her stepmother was the same with her stepbrother Tom, overprotective and frantic at the first sign of a sniffle, and not much good in a crisis. She suspected Lady St. John made a habit of calling on Salt for male support in her times of crisis, whatever the hour or the inconvenience.

“Then I suggest we leave the letter on his lordship’s dressing table for him to read in the morning,” was Jane’s advice. “If there is any change in the little boy’s condition, his mother will no doubt send another messenger with an even more urgent request, and then perhaps we will need to wake his lordship. But until then, let’s wait and see, shall we? Does that seem reasonable?”

“Very reasonable, my lady,” agreed the valet, standing taller, the cloud of doom and despair rising up off his shoulders.

“Now if you’d be good enough to show me which door leads back to my apartments, I would be most grateful,” Jane said conversationally, keeping matters light for the benefit of the valet, who had come into the bedchamber looking most embarrassed and uncomfortable. “In time I know I’ll be able to find my own way… This house is so vast, and I’ve not yet seen a third of the rooms… The fireplace in my bedchamber must be working by now…” And she prattled on in this conversational way until back in her apartment, where indeed there was now a good fire in the grate of her bedchamber fireplace.

The valet left the Countess with a spring in his step. She had managed to put him so much at ease that when he drew back the heavy velvet curtains in the Earl’s bedchamber to let in the muted light of a freezing cold January day he still felt curiously optimistic. The little drama over the delivery of a letter from Lady St. John seemed quite inconsequential as he went about hurriedly dressing his master for the Royal Tennis tournament. Several of the gentlemen players and their entourage of supporters had already arrived and were down at the covered court hitting up. But the night before came back to haunt Andrews when a footman trod quietly into the closet with the news that a very distressed Lady St. John was downstairs and requested an immediate audience with the Earl.

Andrews’ gulp was audible, and the telltale flush to his cheeks alarmingly obvious. He continued on with his duties, despite a sidelong suspicious glance from his master, and shrugged the Earl into a Venetian blue waistcoat without sleeves, worn over an open-necked white linen shirt and a pair of thigh-tight woven breeches that allowed for ease of movement when playing Royal Tennis. It only remained to slip the Earl into his soft kid leather tennis shoes. While on bended knee at this task, he was quietly asked to explain if the unopened letter from the Lady St. John on the dressing table was in any way connected to her ladyship’s present distress.

The valet did his best to recount his early morning conversation with the Countess without incriminating either of them in the decision not to wake the Earl. Salt remained silent throughout. But when he got up to leave, taking the now read letter with him, he swore under his breath and so viciously that Andrews felt as if he’d had his face slapped. He only hoped he had managed to save the Countess from the Earl’s wrath.

SEVEN

SALT WAS IN A FOUL MOOD. He’d woken to find Jane gone. That he had expected her to still be asleep in his arms, her luscious curves cuddled up to him, and she was not, put him out of sorts. It put him out of sorts that he should be out of sorts over such a banal circumstance. Eight out of ten married nobles of his acquaintance didn’t wake up with their mistresses, least of all with their wives. He certainly had never stayed the night with a lover, preferring his own bed to sleep in. One night with his wife, a woman who had rejected him and then married him because she must, and already he wanted to wake up with her in the morning.

God, what was wrong with him?

But he knew the answer to that. It was simple. He had enjoyed making love to Jane very much. In fact, so much so that he had woken with a throbbing need to make love to her again. He couldn’t wait to have the taste and feel of her under him again. He had expected that making love to her would cure him of wanting her. To his utter surprise and annoyance he found that he wanted her more now than ever.

Yet in wanting her he felt wretched.

An unsettled feeling had descended upon him since waking and he’d had time to reflect on the night before. He had been too rough with her. He should have shown more restraint. Taken things more slowly. Waited for her to be fully awake, not seduced her while she was half-asleep. She was not a virgin but she might as well have been; one night of making love four years ago did not an experienced lover make.

He prided himself on being considerate in the bedchamber, and here he was, on his wedding night no less, reduced to the most basic of primal urges with no thought to the inexperience of his bride. Such behavior was unforgivable. Then so had hers been, to have the audacity to throw her ruin in his face when he was beyond the point of no return. He remained physically and mentally unsatisfied and that was no way to start the day.

Such brooding thoughts consumed him as he traversed the length of his vast Grosvenor Square mansion, down to the Royal Tennis Court he’d had built at the back of the house. The enclosed tennis court afforded the Earl and his male companions exercise, relaxation and entertainment during the long winter months that Parliament sat, when it was too cold, too wet or just plain miserable weather for horse riding. By repute, the Salt Hendon Tennis Court was the only place in winter for the pursuit of serious sports by serious sportsmen.

A replica of the Tudor Tennis Court found at Hampton Court Palace, the court had a tiled floor, rich wood paneling, and an enormous void that reached up to an intricate wood-beamed roof. Along the length of one high wall windows were set at an angle to give adequate light, air and space. Along the opposite wall was the Gallery where spectators gathered in individual boxes, fitted out with velvet cushions and soft furnishings and assigned an attending footman with an endless supply of refreshment. Here wives, daughters, children and mistresses of sporting noblemen lounged at their ease, drinking champagne and wines. From behind the relative privacy of curtains made of soft netting to ensure rogue tennis balls did them no damage, these pampered females were free to ogle and discuss the merits of the sporting male physique, shown to full advantage in thigh tight woven breeches and shirts so wet with sweat that they clung to broad chest, wide back and beefy arm.

The Earl hailed his friends. Four were out on the court with their hickory rackets about to commence a practice hit up, the rest of the group milled about the first boxed gallery opposite the Tambour, in conversation with the gathering spectators, while footmen adjusted the lacings of their soft kid shoes, took away frock coats and offered refreshments on silver trays. But Salt did not join them. He acknowledged their hearty salutes with a wave and strode on, down the length of the boxed gallery in search of his cousin.

He was halfway along the Gallery when Diana St. John appeared through the doorway that gave access to the court from the Gallery. She saw him almost at once and came bustling along the tiles, careful to stay close to the spectator boxes because the four players had begun a game of doubles, serving across the net, the ball hit up onto the angled side wall so that it skittered along the sloped roof of the gallery making a loud series of thumps before dropping down on the opposite side of the net. She stopped in front of the third box along. When Salt joined her there, she threw her arms about his neck and clung to him, bursting into tears.

“How is he?” he said without preamble, and pulled her closer to the spectator box, shoulder brushing against the soft net curtain, back shielding her from any stray tennis balls.

Diana St. John remained mute. She looked as if she hadn’t slept all night.

“Diana, for God’s sake, tell me!” he demanded, ashen-faced, interpreting her forlorn expression to mean her son’s temperature had indeed taken an upward leap into feverishness. “Ron’s just got a slightly elevated temperature? He’ll be all right in a day or two?”

“Oh, Salt! It’s been such an ordeal,” Diana St. John announced loudly, as if to be heard over the shouts of the tennis players, and quickly dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, careful not to smudge her expertly applied cosmetics. “I can’t begin to tell you what a wretched night I’ve had. No sleep and the worry. I couldn’t stop thinking what would happen if I lost my boy, too. First dear St. John’s death, and he in the prime of his life, and now, to lose my son… Oh, I couldn’t bear it, Salt. I just couldn’t. It would surely kill me.”

“But he’s all right, isn’t he?” Salt asked her stridently. “Just a slightly elevated temperature, nothing more? Nothing to really worry about? Tell me! Diana!”

She nodded and covered her face with her hands before looking up at him with tears in her eyes. “But he was so hot, and I thought… I thought it might be smallpox. That’s how it started with St. John. Do you remember? The high temperature and then the sweats… I was so scared. So scared that my boy might have caught the smallpox, too. You can’t begin to imagine how dreadful that feeling is for a mother!”

“No. But St. John was my best friend,” he answered quietly. “I never want to relive those weeks. It was a nightmare.” When she clung to him again, he put his arms about her and hugged her briefly, saying gently, “But nothing is going to happen to Ron. He and Merry were inoculated remember? So it would need more than a high temperature to take the boy from us, now wouldn’t it?”

“Us. Yes. Us,” she answered, seizing on the word. “He means everything to us, doesn’t he, Salt? He’s your future, our future. If something were to happen to him—”

“But nothing will happen,” Salt assured her and put her away from him, just as one of the players bounded over their way, arm at full stretch to hit a ball that was coming straight at them. “I think we’d best get off this court before you are hurt.”

“I say, Tony, good shot!” came a shout from the court.

There was loud applause from the spectators, one female calling out encouragement and her companions giggling in response.

“Splendid tambour, sir! Well done,” offered another voice much closer to the Earl and his cousin.

But Diana St. John ignored the tennis game going on so close to her, and the fact there was a real possibility she could be struck with the ball, or a player run into her. Nor did she consider it was unfair of her to be in the way of the players. Her gaze did not shift from the Earl’s handsome profile, distracted by the game in progress, and her painted lips puckered in disapproval that she should not have his undivided attention.

“I don’t know why you couldn’t come last night,” she said pettishly, mood suddenly changing, and speaking as loudly as before, needing to be heard over the shouts of the players offering each other encouragement. She remained firmly in front of the third spectator box and was pleased when Salt’s attention returned to her. “Ron would’ve settled much quicker had you been there. And poor little Merry was crying and asking for you too; you know how attached she is to her brother. They only have each other… And us. They look on you as their papa. Well, why wouldn’t they, when their own dear papa is in Heaven? How do I tell two little children that are dependent on you it was too much to ask for their Uncle Salt to come when they are ill?”

“Diana, I…”

She dropped her powdered head then lifted it, tears on the end of her darkened lashes. “Of course I have no right to question you, to even wonder what could be more important that you could not even send a response to my note, nor should I assume that you care above the ordinary what happens to my children—”

“Now, Diana, you are being unreasonable,” Salt interrupted, annoyed, hands lightly on her bare shoulders. “You know very well I look upon Ron and Merry as my own. No one means more to me than St. John’s children, and nothing would’ve kept me from Ron’s sickbed had he been truly taken ill—”

“Nothing and no one?” Diana St. John asked hopefully, smiling up at him. “How Ron and Merry would dearly love to hear their Uncle Salt tell them so! They’re here today, y’know. I couldn’t keep Ron away from your Royal Tennis tournament. Dr. Barlow said it would be all right for him to attend, but we must keep him well rugged up. Are you certain: Nothing and no one?”

“Nothing and no one,” he repeated, the tension easing in his neck and limbs knowing Ron was not in any danger, and pleased Diana had brought the children along for the day. “Now, will you allow me to remove you from this Court before one or both of us are maimed or mutilated by your brother’s heroic displays with a tennis racket?”

A loud shout of Hurray! went up near Salt’s ear and he turned to see Sir Antony and Tom Allenby beaming from ear to ear and clapping each other on the back. After shaking hands with their dejected opponents, the winning twosome came across the court toward Salt and Diana St. John. But Tom bounded ahead of Sir Antony, and such was his excitement that he completely ignored the Earl and his cousin to throw back the netting of the third box and lean over the barrier, saying, excited as any ten year old schoolboy,

“Jane! Jane? Did you see my final shot? Didn’t Sir Antony play brilliantly? He’s a crack at placing the ball. None better. Just knows how to tip it over the net, or to up the ball over the service penthouse so it drops in such a way that the fellows on the other side can’t get a racket to it! If it wasn’t for him we wouldn’t have won!”

“Now, Tom Allenby, that’s a stretch of the truth, if ever I heard one,” Sir Antony responded with a good-natured laugh, a nod at his sister and cousin, and a hand on the barrier because he was still out of breath and feeling as if all his muscles had been pummeled at once. “You played some fine tactical shots yourself that I couldn’t have managed, and you served the winning point. I say we make a fine team, wouldn’t you, my lady?”

“Oh, none better,” Jane responded with a smile at the two victors, coming to stand at the barrier, not a glance at the couple less than a foot away. Yet the flush to her cheeks and the fact she did not acknowledge her husband or his cousin was indication enough to Salt that she had overheard every word. This was confirmed when she said with a cheeky smile at her stepbrother, “Although, I’m afraid my view was partially obstructed for those shots that were on the chase one yard line. That’s what it’s called, isn’t it, Sir Antony, the line closest the wall?”

“How good of you to remember my monologue on the King of games that is Royal Tennis, my lady. Most female eyes glaze over when I offer too much detail,” Sir Antony said with a smile of approval, and not able to help himself because he was annoyed with his sister’s theatrics in monopolizing the Earl’s time, added most undiplomatically, “Though I’m not surprised you were denied part of the action, what with m’sister and Salt’s large carcass blocking the view.”

“Perhaps I shall do what you suggested in the first place, Sir Antony, and watch the next game from the Dedans penthouse gallery?” Jane responded pleasantly, resisting a glance at her husband. “There is a clear view straight up the court from there.”

“That’s a splendid idea, Jane,” Tom agreed. “You’ll see it all from there. The next game should prove a real corker too,” he added, speaking without thinking through his thoughts, the only bad habit Jane was certain her stepbrother had inherited from his mother, “because Lord Church is up against his lordship, and Art assured me it’s the game to watch because they are evenly matched. Despite what Art overheard Lord Church boasting to the other fellows: That today he has the Earl at a distinct advantage because it wasn’t his wedding night last night!”

Sir Antony laughed with embarrassment at Pascoe Church’s smug belief that the bridal night had sapped his rival’s strength. But Diana St. John, who felt she had done all she could for the moment to make the Countess of Salt Hendon uncomfortably aware of her and her children’s cemented place in the Earl’s affections, kept her mouth firmly shut on the topic of her cousin’s marriage. In fact she kept her expression so tightly under control that no one would have guessed that inside her head she was screaming her anger.

No sooner had she arrived at the Grosvenor Square mansion than Sir Antony had pounced on his sister, informing her bluntly that Salt had been married the day before and that she wasn’t to make a fuss. She had replied with a smile of superiority that this was old news and to leave her to her misery. She had then flounced off to the Royal Tennis Court only for her brother to follow up his warning by forcing upon her an introduction to the new Countess of Salt Hendon in front of a dozen athletic noblemen, who, to a man, were paying homage to the Countess’s beauty as if Aphrodite incarnate had deigned to descend amongst them.

That the creature was just as beautiful and self-effacing as Diana St. John remembered was no real surprise, the Despard woman had forewarned her of that, but seeing this for herself threatened the return of her sick headache of the night before. But years of experience hiding her true feelings from the world enabled her to suffer the indignity of making her curtsey to her cousin’s new wife. Despite spending the previous night weeping buckets of bitter tears over the Earl’s marriage, today she was cunning enough to wear a mask of supreme indifference.

Her campaign to have the new Countess of Salt Hendon disgraced and disowned before the Earl had impregnated his bride had begun in earnest and she would be relentless in its execution.

So, as she had done when first introduced, Diana St. John silently curtseyed to rank and retreated to the spectator boxes. Once ensconced with her friends, she continued weaving her web of rumor and counter-rumor. The female crème de la crème of polite society were only too eager to soak up malicious whispers about an unknown girl from the country who’d had the effrontery to usurp them and marry one of their own. The Earl of Salt Hendon was not only the most eligible bachelor in the kingdom, but was a prime piece of unfettered male vigor the likes of which had not been seen since a French chit had captured the heart of that hardened libertine the Duke of Roxton in the ’40s.

Sir Antony smiled sweetly as his meddlesome sister flounced off, and said to the Earl, “Well, you’d best prove Pascoe wrong, Salt, because I have a ten pound wager saying you’ll trounce him within half an hour.”

“Half an hour? Why should I take that long?” Salt murmured in response, distracted by the sight of his bride dressed in one of the many new gowns he’d had ordered made for her, and that now crammed her closet to bursting.

He was thinking how ravishingly pretty she presented in a very feminine sacque back gown of pale green and pink silk, the tight sleeves showcasing her long, slim arms. And he approved of her elegant hairstyle. Gone were the coils of unfashionable braids. Her waist-length hair was piled softly atop her head and secured with pearl-headed pins and threaded with matching ribbons, the remainder allowed to cascade about her shoulders in long soft ringlets. But he was mystified as to why she had ruined the effect of the low square-cut neckline of the embroidered bodice that should have flattered her small round breasts, by the wearing of a gossamer fichu bunched awkwardly over her left breast. Surely she only had to ask and her maid would have arranged such a useless article of feminine clothing to better advantage? And then he noticed the square of white linen tucked into the neckline; it appeared to be some sort of makeshift bandage…

Slow to respond to Sir Antony’s assertion, he finally added with a frown, “So Pascoe Church is confident of trouncing me?”

“Not exactly trouncing, my lord,” Tom admitted, looking to Sir Antony.

“Beating you, certainly, dear fellow,” Sir Antony said cheerfully, one glance at Jane and another at his best friend confirming that he and Tom should make themselves scarce, to allow the couple a moment of privacy. “But I know you’ll prove Pascoe wrong. I don’t want to lose ten pounds. So, Tom, let’s get ourselves cleaned up and repair to the Gentleman’s Box to await our next match. And I could do with some refreshment. I’m parched.”

“What have you done to yourself?” Salt demanded of Jane in an under voice, Sir Antony and Tom barely out of earshot.

He put out a hand to lift the fichu to inspect the bandage but Jane backed away from the barrier and resumed her seat on a maroon velvet cushion. The barrier was no deterrent to Salt who simply vaulted over the low wall and sat down beside her on the bench. He tried again to lift the fichu but she pushed his hand away.

“I…I like it. It’s all the rage.”

“Nonsense. It’s hideous, and a crime to hide such beautiful breasts. Take it off.”

Jane blushed in spite of herself at his unguarded compliment, but she did not remove the fichu. “No, my lord. I will not.”

“My lord?” He put up his brows. “Well, my lady, I shall remove it for you.”

At that Jane did look up at him. “No. Please. I am more comfortable with it on.”

Salt frowned at her distress. “What is it?” he asked gently. “Why do you have a bandage hidden under that fichu?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing,” she whispered, not meeting his gaze and in a telltale sign of her distress, blotches of color stained her white throat strawberry. “Please. You’ve a tennis match on now and you’re wanted.”

“If you’ve hurt yourself I have a right to know,” he said gruffly. “What if someone enquires and I can’t answer them? Won’t I look the uncaring brute?”

“They already have asked,” she admitted, eyes lowered to her lap, on the re-sized sapphire and diamond wedding band that now fit her long finger perfectly. “I was clumsy with a tea dish and scalded myself. That will suffice.”

“What truly happened?” he asked, ignoring the loud bantering at his back to get a move on or Pascoe Church would win by default.

“It doesn’t matter. It couldn’t be helped. Please go.”

“They can wait. Now show me.”

She shook her head, a hand to the bunched up layers of gossamer silk to stop him removing it.

“It’s not a request,” he stated brusquely.

Slowly, with a sigh of defeat, she dropped her hand into her lap. This time when he went to touch her she did not flinch, but she wouldn’t look at him either. He unwound the layers of light silk and let the fichu slide to the floor, exposing the lovely rise of her white breasts in the low cut embroidered bodice and the makeshift bandage that was tucked in the neckline covering her left breast. He gently lifted the bandage and his intake of breath was audible.

What had been the unblemished pale pink wash of her nipple now glowed red like veal. A cursory glance suggested a nasty burn. If he’d had his eyeglasses to make a closer inspection he was sure he’d see that the wash of red across her breast was actually a series of tiny red bumps, resembling a painful grazing. In fact, it was a graze and he knew at once its origin and he felt his face grow hot. He silently replaced the bandage, scooped up the fichu and put the gossamer layers of silk back around Jane’s bare shoulders. He then went down on bended knee before her to better arrange its fall, so that it draped evenly. Crossing the two lengths of gossamer material over her breasts, he tied the ends at the small of her back, tucking the excess into the lacings of her bodice. Satisfied that this arrangement was more the fashion amongst ladies of his acquaintance, he remained on his haunches before her and took hold of her hands.

“Jane, look at me,” he coaxed, but when she continued to stare at her hands in his, he lifted her chin with the crook of a finger. Still she kept her eyes downcast. Her cheeks were apple red and she appeared every bit the blushing bride the morning after the night before. It increased his discomfort and concern enough for him to say abruptly, “I should’ve had the decency to shave. I’m sorry. It was unthinking of me—Do you have ointment? Good,” he said with relief at her quick nod. “Did I—Did I hurt you when I—Not the rash. When I—God, I’m blathering like an idiot!” he said brusquely and got up off his haunches, a hand to his thick chestnut hair as he turned to look out across the tennis court without seeing any of it. He sat down beside her. “I mean—I mean when I—when we—”

“I know what you mean,” she interrupted, quietly. “Yes, but only for the briefest of moments,” she confessed at his quick intake of breath, adding with a frankness he found inimitable to her, “It’s just that we have only made love the once—in truth it was twice in the summerhouse, but just the one time, if you understand my meaning. And it’s been four years, so even though making love is quite wonderful, I’d forgotten that the first few moments are-are awkward, and as you are a large man it is only natural—Oh dear! Now I’m the one blathering. Please forgive me…”

Jane was up off the bench, face burning with mortification for having the barefaced cheek to comment aloud on the laudable size of his equipage. What must he think of her? They should not be discussing what happened in the bedchamber between man and wife in the wide-open spaces of a tennis court inhabited by upwards of twenty guests. She felt foolish and gauche for confessing to a moment’s anxiety. What she should have said was that making love with him last night had been just as wondrous and fulfilling as in the summerhouse, but she could not. No doubt it was perfectly acceptable for his mistresses to point out his size, and to heap praises on his technique and stamina as a lover, but not something he would want to hear from a wife with all the cumulative experience of two nights!

The silence dragged and when she had the courage to look at him his intense frown told her that he had a disgust of such frankness. Her humiliation was complete when one of the footmen came up to the barrier to remind his lordship that Pascoe Church was waiting and the Earl abruptly changed the subject.

“Andrews went out of his way not to implicate you in Lady St. John’s late night note,” he said conversationally. “But I believe I have you to thank for allowing me an undisturbed sleep?”

This did make her smile. “So you aren’t angry at us for not waking you?”

“Angry? No, I’m grateful, particularly with this tournament today,” he admitted. “Diana is just an overprotective mother. Which isn’t a bad thing, but it can be tiresome at times. As you no doubt saw through the netting, she is apt to overdramatize the situation where her children are concerned. But she means well.”

Means well? Jane had to wonder, recalling the effect Diana St. John’s strong perfume had had on her the day before in the cold anteroom and if she was being foolish to suppose the woman had stage managed the scene outside the Gallery box where she sat. That she knew full well the new Countess of Salt Hendon sat behind the netting and thus had a front row seat to Diana St. John’s possessive ownership of the Earl.

She wished with all her heart that Salt was right and that there was no harm in his cousin, but there was something about Diana St. John that made her wary and fearful, and these feelings could not be shaken off so readily.

“There’s a dinner after the tournament,” Salt was saying. “It’s a bit of an ordeal, if you’re not used to sitting through thirty courses and political chit-chat. After that, there’s a recital. If you don’t feel up to it, if you’d prefer to retire early, I’ll make your excuses and Diana can step in and—”

“No,” she said firmly and smiled. “I’ll be fine. Truly.”

He lightly pressed her hand then turned to the court and put up a hand to Pascoe Church, who was swinging his hickory racket about in thin air, as if ready to conquer the entire fraternity of assembled tennis players. He looked back at Jane. “They’re calling me for the match. Will you be all right sitting here alone?”

“Yes. Perfectly. Now go,” she assured him and watched as he vaulted back over the barrier and jogged across the court.

From the start it was a fast-paced, go for the throat match, with both men equally talented tennis players. The small solid ball was hit hard and fast and was spun in all directions, with the peculiar hazard of the tambour and the angle of wall and floor offering exciting placement options that kept Jane on the edge of her velvet cushion, in anticipation of where the ball would land next. Salt was superior in anticipating the ball’s drop and being taller and longer-limbed than his opponent was able to stretch his racket and get to the ball more often. But Pascoe Church was lighter and faster on his feet and bounced about the court on his toes, reminding Jane of a rooster chased by a determined fox.

There was plenty of vocal support for both players coming from the Gallery and Jane soon found herself clapping and cheering along with the rest of the noble spectators. At interval, it was time for the players to change sides and take a few moments of rest before resuming the game. Footmen brought the players hot towels and refreshments and lackeys ran about with cloths tied to the ends of long poles to wipe the tiled floor dry of sweat.

Many of the Gallery boxes had pulled aside their netting to allow the spectators to lean across the barriers to exchange conversation with their fellow spectators in other boxes and to speak with the two players. This was a time of much loud conversation, toasting of glasses and footmen coming and going with bottles of claret and champagne. Then a huge cheer went up amongst the men. Such was the general uproar of cat-calling, giggling and female shrieking at the far end of the court where Salt and Pascoe Church stood catching their breath and chatting, that even Jane leaned out of her box with the rest of the spectators to see what all the fuss was about.

A number of articles of female clothing had been thrown in direction of the two players and had landed at their feet. At least three fans, a fichu, one mask, two reticules, a number of gloves and even a couple of stockings and garters littered the tiled court. Another glove sailed through the air and landed by the toe of Salt’s left shoe. But it was not this that he scooped up but a female stocking and garter. He draped these feminine articles over the stringed head of his racket then held the tennis racket out at arm’s length, not unlike holding a sword at the ready, and took a bow with an exaggerated flourish.

Another cheer went up when he proceeded to return the stocking and garter to its rightful owner, several giggling ladies, undoubtedly drunk, denying loudly that such intimate objects were theirs and lifting up their petticoats above the ankles as if it was necessary for them to provide proof of their boastful denials. Jane could not see the female to whom Salt offered his racket with another bow, but there was no doubts as to the significance of the offering when one of the ladies in the box next to Jane’s, who was leaning so far over the barrier, fluttering her fan, that her big breasts were in danger of falling out of her low cut bodice, made an announcement to her companions that Jane heard above the laughing and the cheering further along the Gallery.

“There you have it, Eliza! What did I tell you? Salt’s chosen Jenny Dalrymple and thus ends Elizabeth Outram’s reign as maîtresse en titre. They never last more than a year; never have.”

“They’re lucky to last that long given his sword is rarely sheathed.”

There was a series of unfeminine snorts and a burst of raucous female laughter.

“Oh, Eliza! You have such a quaint vulgar way of expressing yourself!”

“How ever does Diana bear with his infidelities?” enquired a third whining voice through the thin wall that divided Jane’s spectator box from the next.

“She bears it as we all do,” was the haughty reply. “Selective blindness. It’s not our place to question a lover’s, and certainly not a husband’s, straying. It’s not as if these lapses mean anything.”

“Mine certainly don’t.”

“Eliza! Eliza! Do stop or I’ll burst my stays! You teasing girl.”

“But what about his bride?” the whining voice asked. “Will she be as understanding as the rest of us? I mean, what do you know about her?”

“You tell me, Susannah. What do any of us know about the little upstart?”

“None of us know anything. Although, Diana did mention something about Salt marrying the little ninny to settle a gambling debt. God! What a waste of noble flesh. On a Bristol Blue Glass merchant’s daughter no less.”

“There isn’t enough meat on her bones to satisfy a man of Salt’s strong appetites. He’s always fancied ’em plump-breasted and big-thighed.”

“Is that such a surprise when he’s as solid as an ox and hung like one too?”

There were gasps of laughter and girlish giggles until the one with the whining voice said, “For a man of Salt’s physical prowess it must’ve been a most unsatisfactory coupling.”

“Most unsatisfactory.”

“Particularly when a groom has a right to expect his bride to be untouched on their wedding night.”

“Whatever can you mean?”

“Diana says that if ever the truth got out… You must promise not a word—”

“Not a word!” came the quick reply in unison.

“It’s not something a man wants his friends, and certainly not his political enemies, to discover about the bride. It’s all to do with male pride.”

“What? The pitcher was already cracked?”

There was a horrified gasp. “She wasn’t a virgin on her wedding night!”

“Oh, Eliza! Just when I begin to think your pretty little head is stuffed full of wool you surprise me. You clever cherub! Yes. Spoiled goods.”

“How utterly vulgar!”

“Yes. As vulgar as her lineage. What can one expect? Certainly this blue glass has imperfections.”

“Clever!”

“Salt’s gambling debt must’ve amounted to a pretty guinea indeed.”

“And she isn’t even one of us.”

“Definitely not one of us, my dear Eliza.”

“Poor Salt.”

“And poor Diana. Let’s not forget Diana. How she must be suffering. But such a brave face!”

“Oh, yes! Susannah, you are so right. She’s been in love with Salt since forever.”

“Yes, Eliza, we all know Salt is the great love of Diana’s life but we don’t say it out loud.”

“What a pity St. John came between them.”

“Not in all things, my dear Susannah. There is the rumor, which Diana has never denied, that her two brats—”

“—are Salt’s?”

There was a collective gasp.

“Good God! How Extraordinary!”

“But… Isn’t there also the rumor he’s barren?”

One of the women made a sound reminiscent of a startled pheasant. “Salt? Barren? Don’t be a dolt, Eliza! A divine specimen of maleness who can go on and on and on, barren? Ha!”

“Well, even if he isn’t barren, who’s to know? Diana’s friend Artemisia is always quick to put a stop to any unwanted breeding.”

“Indeed, Susannah? Interesting. Exceedingly interesting.”

“Yes, I thought you would find it so. She helped me in a most difficult predicament.”

“Arta who?” interrupted the whining voice.

The explanation was given as if speaking to a child, or one who did not know the English tongue. “Artemisia. Syrup of Artemisia. Surely you’ve heard of it? Rids one of unwanted brats before they are formed.”

“Oh! That Artemisia. I thought you were referring to Diana’s friend Artemisia.”

“Yes, well we were! She is Diana’s particular friend. Comes in a bottle.”

There was a collective giggle and then silence fell before one of the female voices returned to the question of the paternity of the St. John children.

“He does dote on Diana’s brats.”

“Yes, he does, Susannah. And quite rightly, too.”

“Just like a papa should.”

“But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“No. Not from you.”

“It makes perfect sense.”

“Perfect sense,” two females voices echoed in awed unison.

“The game’s afoot! I’ve thirty pounds on Pascoe Church to win!”

“Eliza! I was wrong,” her friend announced with disgust. “Your head is full of wool.”

EIGHT

AS SHE SIPPED tea from a delicate porcelain dish in the Yellow Saloon, Jane was still wishing she had pulled away from the wall of the Gallery box and not listened to the rumor and counter rumors about the Lady St. John and her husband. Watching through the netting it was clear Diana St. John was infatuated with Salt. But did he know it? And were they lovers? She had no idea.

Jacob Allenby had repeatedly lectured her about the hypocrisy rife within Polite Society. That the ruling class was riddled with vice in all its forms and that the Earl of Salt Hendon was just as guilty of the unspeakable sins of his class as the rest of the inhabitants of Gomorrah, as he continually referred to London, the environs of Westminster in particular. And his lordship had committed the most heinous crime of all amongst his wickedly depraved brethren: he had seduced a virgin and then abandoned her with child.

He had preached this sermon to her so often that Jane became immune to his hellfire and brimstone prophesies. Living in a house in the wilds of Wiltshire where no pictures livened the walls, fires in the grate were permitted only every second day, and such vanities as looking glasses and feminine fripperies were strictly forbidden, the Earl of Salt Hendon’s nefarious lifestyle was another world away. Yet, now that she was the Countess of Salt Hendon, it mattered to her a very great deal, and that bothered her. It bothered her because she was in love with her husband. And because she was in love with him, the sooner she signed the document banishing her to Salt Hall, the better for her peace of mind.

Loud laughter intruded into these musings and Jane remembered she was in the Yellow Saloon where the ladies had gathered to await the gentlemen who, having finished playing their games of Royal Tennis, were bathing and dressing in readiness to sit down to a good dinner. With their silk and brocade layered petticoats spread out around them, and painted and ivory fans fluttering on flushed upward thrusting bosoms, the ladies lounged about on the arrangement of sofas and wingchairs by the two fireplaces, chatting amongst themselves.

Diana St. John presided over the tea things with all the aplomb of one used to the task. Of course she had made an elaborate display of refusal when the butler and four liveried footmen had arrived with the trolleys stacked with the Sèvres porcelain tea service, plates of sweetmeats and a variety of cakes and pastries, and the teapot and coffee urn on their silver stands. But Jane, not knowing the first thing about playing hostess to a gaggle of sharp-eyed society matrons, was only too willing to allow Lady St. John the honor, even if it did highlight her lack of social skills. Her calm capitulation to Lady St. John’s expertise won her a few nods of approval from the older matrons, but the close friends of Diana St. John were all smug smiles at their friend, as if she had won a small victory against the young Countess.

Jane saw these looks of petty triumph but ignored them and unable to join in a conversation about politics and people she knew not the first thing about and, had she been inclined to be cynical, was deliberately kept steered in this direction by Diana St. John and her cohort for the specific purpose of excluding her, she drifted over to the window with its view of the square below. Here she sipped her tea and watched the traffic of sedan chairs, carriages, and a bullock team with its drivers and dogs, maneuver comfortably about the wide streets of Grosvenor Square.

She was studying the hive of activity that accompanied the arrival of a coach laden with luggage outside one of the townhouses, liveried footmen sent out into the cold to put down the steps and hand down the occupants as quickly as possible to enable them to dash indoors to the warmth of a good fire, when out from the corner of her eye she caught a flash of movement through the wide doors that opened into the dining room. More movement and laughter and Jane went and stood in the doorway in time to see two children, the son and daughter of Lady St. John, running up one side of a very long polished mahogany table that had been set with silver and crystal for upwards of thirty guests. They were being chased by a man in somber attire and behind him, walking at a brisk pace, a woman dressed in gray with a severe hairstyle.

Several liveried servants were going about the business of arranging epergnes filled with fruit and flowers equidistant down the center of the table under the blaze of three candlelit crystal chandeliers. Others were placing warmers and silver servers on two very long sideboards that were up against one wall either side of a massive marble fireplace, all under the watchful eye of the eagle-eyed under-butler. None of these servants took the slightest notice of the boy and girl playing around the table, nor did they seem to mind, except when the St. John children directly affected their particular task, then they merely stepped aside and got on with things. The man, whom Jane now decided must be the boy’s tutor, and the girl’s governess, were quick to come between the busy servants and the giggling children when necessary.

Yet when the boy pushed aside two ribbon-back chairs and dived under the table, quickly followed by his giggling sister, the tutor and the governess lost all patience and hollow threats to their life were made if they didn’t show themselves immediately. These threats were naturally ignored by the adventurous children, who made threats of their own to stay under the table unless given sweetmeats and punch immediately. It was only when the tutor pushed up his sleeves and volunteered to thrash the life out of both of them if they didn’t surface forthwith that Jane bravely stepped forward and made her presence known.

The tutor and governess took one look at Jane, recognized in her delicate beauty and embroidered petticoats that she was not a servant and dutifully, if reluctantly, stood aside from the table as requested. It took the under-butler whispering at their backs, that they were being addressed by the Countess of Salt Hendon, for the tutor to double over till his nose almost hit his knees and the governess to plunge into such a deep curtsey that she almost toppled over. But Jane saw none of this as she had carefully bobbed down, one hand holding the table edge to remain steady, to peek under the table.

“Hello. Do you remember me from the Tower Zoo?” she asked with a friendly smile, the St. John children huddled between the turned legs of a couple of chairs.

“Hello. You liked the lions best,” stated the boy, dark eyes wary, as if waiting for the inevitable lecture on bad behavior.

“And your favorites were the elephants,” Jane responded.

“I’d like to ride an elephant one day,” the boy announced.

“I hear that in India they use elephants much like we use draught horses here.”

The girl’s hazel eyes lit up. “Do they? Can I ride one too?” she asked Jane hopefully.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Merry!” her brother said with derision. “You’re a girl. Girls can’t ride elephants.”

The girl pouted. “If I go to India—”

“Girls can’t ride elephants and girls can’t go to India. Girls can’t do anything.”

Merry poked her tongue out at her brother and said sullenly, “I will! I will if I want to!” And looked to Jane for support and said more even-temperedly, “I can go to India if I want, can’t I?”

Jane smiled at the girl, saw the mulish look on her brother’s face, as if he expected her to agree with him, and said placidly, “It’s not a matter of can’t, is it? It all depends on what happens when you are a grown up young lady. Of course it goes without saying that you’ll be a lady of fashion and marry a very handsome and important man—”

“Just like Uncle Salt?” the girl said hopefully, and when her brother groaned showed him her tongue again.

“Yes, just like your Uncle Salt,” Jane said evenly, trying not to smile. “If you marry a gentleman who decides to travel to India one day, then of course you’ll go with him.”

“If he was important like Uncle Salt, Merry’s husband wouldn’t go to India,” the boy stated emphatically. “He’d be a nobleman and needed here to run the kingdom.”

The girl opened her mouth to speak but Jane spoke first saying lightly, “That is very true, but perhaps your sister’s future husband might be a diplomat, like your other uncle Sir Antony, and travel to India on important business for his King?”

The girl smiled triumphantly at her brother, who had to concede Jane had a point though he added haughtily, with nostrils aquiver that was alarmingly reminiscent of his Uncle Salt at his most scornful,

“Mamma says diplomatists are failed political men. Or sent away because they’re an embarrassment to their family.”

“But surely your uncle Sir Antony is neither?” Jane asked, startled.

“Mamma says Uncle Salt sent Uncle Tony away because he caught him making up to Cousin Caroline.” The boy rolled his eyes and crossed his thin legs adding, because this sort of talk made him uncomfortable and the beautiful lady was looking at him queerly, “Whatever making up to means. But that’s what I heard Mamma telling old Lady Porter, so it must be true.”

Jane hid her shock but she must have appeared stunned for the girl offered her comfort and an explanation.

“Oh, Uncle Tony doesn’t mind living abroad. He told me so. And Mamma says Cousin Caroline is much too young to be married.” The girl frowned in thought. “But she’s soon to turn eighteen. I should like to be married when I’m eighteen. Eighteen isn’t too young to be married, is it?”

Her brother added, because Jane was looking confused, “We’ve always called Uncle Salt uncle, even though he is our cousin. And we call Cousin Caroline cousin, even though she’s Uncle Salt’s sister, because she’s much too young to be called an aunt. It’s simple really.”

“But not too young to be married, is she, Ron?”

Her brother shrugged. “I don’t know anything about that, Merry. But if you want to get married at eighteen, I’ll not object.”

Merry beamed to receive such praise, and feeling generous asked Jane, “Would you like to join us?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “But you must be very quiet because we’re hiding from Uncle Salt. He always finds us but not today, whatever he says to the contrary. He’ll never suspect we’re under his dining table!”

“You’re such a slow top, Merry!” accused her brother, an embarrassing glance at Jane. “You can’t invite one of Uncle Salt’s guests to come under the table. What would Mamma say?”

“Oh, I’m not one of the guests,” Jane assured them with a smile. Dropping to her hands and knees, she crawled under the table.

She found it surprisingly spacious between the turned legs of the chairs, and tucking her stockinged legs up underneath her silk petticoats she was able to sit comfortably with the two children; being small and slender helped. She smiled at the boy, who was regarding her with wary fascination. No doubt he had never seen an adult under a table before. It was a new experience for Jane, too, but she was enjoying herself and felt far more comfortable in the company of these two children than she had with the tedious and incomprehensible conversations in the Yellow Saloon.

“I should’ve introduced myself. It may come as a bit of a shock to you both, but I’m your uncle’s wife. We were married yesterday.”

“You don’t look old enough to be anybody’s wife, least of all Uncle Salt’s wife,” Ron blurted out then immediately recanted. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Oh, I assure you I am older than I look,” Jane said encouragingly. “It’s just because I’m not very tall and have small bones and all the Sinclairs are tall and rather large by comparison.”

Merry nodded. “Except for Cousin Caroline. She’s short like you and has pretty red hair. But I think you’re very beautiful; like a fairy at the bottom of the garden. I like your shiny black hair particularly.”

Jane blushed. “Do you? Thank you. Then I suppose you won’t mind having me for an aunt? You may call me Aunt Salt, although that makes me sound very old, so Aunt Jane would be nicer. But only if you wish to. I won’t be offended if you don’t. After all, you don’t know me.” She stuck out her hand to the boy. “But I should like you both to get to know me better.”

Both children looked at one another before the boy willingly shook hands. “I’ll call you Lady Salt, if it’s all the same to you.”

“I’m going to call her Aunt Jane,” the girl said confidently, shaking hands with Jane as she glared at her brother, “because I like her and she’s too beautiful to be called Aunt Salt or Lady Salt which sounds stuffy, and because Uncle Salt would want us to. You know he would, Ron!”

“It’s perfectly all right for…Ron? For Ron to call me Lady Salt, and for you to call me Aunt Jane.”

“If you want the lot it’s the Honorable Aubrey Vernon Sinclair St. John,” the boy reluctantly volunteered. “Aubrey after my father and Vernon after Uncle Salt’s papa, the fourth Earl. Friends call me Ron. You can call me Ron.” He pushed his sister’s silken arm in a friendly fashion. “This is Merry. Actually it’s the Honorable Magna Diana Sinclair St. John. Named after Uncle Salt. Well, his Christian name is Magnus but I guess you’d know that being married to him. We all call her Merry. We’re eight and three-quarters and twins, if you hadn’t guessed.”

Jane had not guessed. Ron was smaller and much thinner and very pale, with dark circles under his eyes, and he didn’t appear very robust. He had a serious demeanor, which could be a consequence of his poor health. Yet, his brown eyes, sandy hair and long, thin straight nose gave him a great look of his Uncle Salt, which was even more interesting given the quivering nostrils and the conversation she had overheard in the Royal Tennis Court Gallery. Merry was very different. Merry glowed with vitality, had pink to her cheeks and a bright smile. In every way she was a contrast to her twin. Both were dressed in the height of adult fashion, Ron in lace cravat, richly embroidered waistcoat and black silk breeches. Merry wore a restrictive bodice of blonde silk and layers of petticoats embroidered with tiny rose buds. Her hair, thankfully, was not powdered or pomaded, so that her auburn ringlets bounced about her shoulders. Jane couldn’t help thinking that they would have been more comfortable in simpler, looser fitting garments that allowed for play and movement, as worn by the parish children near her home village, but supposed that their mother dressed them this way when they went out into company.

“Do you have any brothers and sisters?” Merry asked, gingerly touching Jane’s fingers.

Jane readily held her hand.

“I have one brother Tom. He’s here today. He was at the Tower Zoo with me that day. I’ll introduce you both at dinner if you wish.”

“We don’t eat dinner with the adults,” Merry confessed. “We eat in the nursery. Mamma says it shouldn’t be called a nursery because Uncle Salt isn’t in expectation of having any children to put there. It upsets her to hear it called a nursery. Doesn’t it, Ron?”

“Yes, but Lady Salt isn’t interested to know where we’ll be eating our dinner, or cares what Mamma thinks about the nursery,” Ron chastised his sister. He looked at Jane with a self-conscious frown. “Still, it’s too bad we have to eat up there alone when all the fun’s down here.”

“I agree. But perhaps your Mamma thinks it best because you’ve been unwell and you need to rest?” Jane suggested.

“Unwell? Rest?” Ron pulled a face of disgust. “I’m not ill!” Then revised this declaration by saying meekly, “Sometimes I get stomach cramp—”

“—but Mamma gives him medicine and when he throws up he feels better again.”

“Merry.”

“It’s true,” Merry assured Jane, snuggling closer and looking earnestly into Jane’s blue eyes. “Mamma says Ron’s unwell, even when we think he’s well, and makes him swallow a horrid tasting medicine to make him better. But you don’t like taking the medicine, do you, Ron? But if he refuses to do Mamma’s bidding, she has him strapped to the bed and forces the—”

“Merry.”

“—medicine down his throat. That only makes you worse, doesn’t it, Ron? Because you vomit and vomit. And then Uncle Salt has to come and give Ron a different medicine which makes him feel so much better, when he wasn’t really ill in the first place.”

“Merry! Stop it!” Ron demanded with angry embarrassment. “Lady Salt isn’t interested in Mamma’s medicine cabinet!”

“Oh, dear, what a very unpleasant ordeal for you, Ron,” Jane said with an understanding smile, hiding her alarm. “Do you know, my brother Tom used to suffer the same fate at the hands of his mother. Mothers worry at the slightest sniffle or sign that their child might be poorly. But you shouldn’t be too hard on your mother, either of you. She must love you very much to be so concerned. I’m sure she’ll grow out of it and leave you alone soon enough.”

“At least Ron can’t be blamed for the physician’s visit last night,” Merry volunteered.

“Oh?” Jane moved closer and tried to sound disinterested. “Were you the one with the high temperature?”

Merry giggled and shook her auburn ringlets. “Me? No! Uncle Salt says I have the con-constitution of an ox,” she announced proudly.

“It was Mamma with one of her sick headaches,” Ron explained reluctantly.

“She’s always suffering from sick headaches,” Merry interrupted cheerfully. “Clary and Taylor say we give Mamma headaches all the time. So we have to be quiet about our house and tiptoe in the passageways.”

“But last night’s headache was a terribly awful one,” Ron said in defense of his mother. “Mamma’s suffering woke the whole house and there was nothing any of the servants could do to help her, so the physician had to be called out in the middle of the night.”

“Clary said she was in a raging temper,” Merry confided in an awed whisper. “And when that happens no one can go near Mamma for days. But in this house we don’t have to tiptoe at all,” she added with a beaming smile. “Uncle Salt lets us run about as much as we want.”

“But not in the public rooms,” Ron added seriously, “where just anybody can come and see Uncle Salt. And most particularly not on Tuesdays, when there’s all sorts of beggars sitting about wanting Uncle Salt to do things for them. Then we must be on our best behavior because we are Sinclairs and it wouldn’t do for a Sinclair to be seen to be common. But as most of the rooms in this house are empty there’s plenty of places to run about and play hide and go seek. That’s the arrangement we shook hands on with Uncle Salt, isn’t it, Merry?”

“Yes.”

Ron sighed. “But it’s the nursery for us tonight because Mamma couldn’t bear the disturbance at dinner after her raging temper last night. As it is, she could hardly stand up to make it into the carriage to come here.”

“But there’s so many people here today making much more of a disturbance than we ever would, so it’s hardly fair,” Merry complained.

With thirty guests sitting down to a huge dinner and intent on having a good time, Jane didn’t think it fair either. And if their mother could survive the continual thud of the tennis ball hitting the roof of the Gallery without reviving her headache of the night before, then why couldn’t she tolerate her two children eating their dinner surrounded by feasting adults? But far be it for her to interfere in a mother’s edicts. Yet Jane knew she wouldn’t be able to sit through such a dinner, least of all eat anything, with the thought of these two children eating alone in a cavernous, ill-lit and possibly freezing room, if the nursery was anything like the rest of the rooms in this house. She had eaten so many dinners cold and alone that it didn’t bear thinking about.

“My lady, the gentlemen have now joined the ladies in the Yellow Saloon,” Willis the under-butler informed Jane, squatting to peer under the table. “Would you care for me to help you out of there?”

“No!” the children said in unison, a pleading look at Jane.

The tutor and the governess dared to peer under the table either side of the under-butler, glowering at the two children with every expectation that they follow Jane out from under the table. But Jane saw the little faces crumple and she didn’t have the heart to ruin their game of hide and go seek.

“Thank you, but I shall remain here until his lordship discovers us,” Jane replied evenly. She looked deliberately at the tutor and the governess to ensure they were included in her edict. “And I would be pleased if you would forget we are here, or you will give the game away, and that would give his lordship an unfair advantage.”

The under-butler bowed his head in complete acceptance of this order but the tutor and governess had jaws swinging that, had they been able, would’ve dropped to the floor when Jane added to the blanked-faced Willis, “If you can manage it, and it isn’t too much bother, would you find space at the table for two more covers, next to me, of course.” She smiled at Ron and Merry. “It’s only fair all the Sinclairs be present at my first dinner, don’t you agree?”

With the children nodding their delight, the under-butler went away to do his bidding with perfect composure and the governess and tutor departed to await the first opportunity to inform Lady St. John of surprising developments.

It was not many minutes later that amongst the usual toing and froing to the table of soft-footed servant activity, the three under the table heard the measured tread and voices of two gentlemen in conversation. The gentlemen came further into the room. In fact, they strolled right up to where the three under the table were huddled. Merry took the unnecessary step of putting a chubby finger to her smiling lips to ensure her co-conspirators remained silent and hunched her shoulders in delight. Even Ron’s eyes lit up and he hugged his knees and wiggled his toes in his black polished shoes.

The two gentlemen in conversation came to stand close by the table. It was the Earl of Salt Hendon and Sir Antony Templestowe. Ron and Merry were in such an ecstasy of expectation of being discovered by their much loved uncles that they swiftly and silently pushed themselves further back along the length of the polished floor to hide amongst the tangle of chair legs, leaving Jane behind, with the possibility of being the first to be discovered. Yet, she couldn’t help but get caught up in the children’s excitement. That is until she heard whom the two men were discussing and then she was glad the children had scampered out of earshot.

She wished herself a hundred miles away.

~   ~   ~

“HER BROTHER is a fine fellow,” Sir Antony was saying. “And not a bad tennis player for someone who professes to have played only the odd game at Oxford. Are you certain I’ve not met his mother?”

“Absolutely,” was Salt’s clipped response.

“Odd. When she came swanning into the library yesterday, I was convinced I’d met her before. There’s something… Are you sure she’s never been to Salt Hall?”

“Tony. If you’re going to bore on about the vulgar Lady Despard I’ll sit you beside Jenny Dalrymple, who has the brain the size of a pea and about as much conversation.”

“Is that so?” Sir Antony laughed. “But what about that stocking and garter business down on the court?”

Salt put his wine glass on the table, just a foot away from where Jane sat huddled. “No doubt Diana thinks Jenny’s ideal mistress material. Just like Elizabeth before her and Susannah before that. No brains and all breasts.”

“Diana? Yes, I’d heard she took an interest…”

“A diplomatic understatement, dear fellow. Your sister is under the misguided belief that she has control over my life, in and out of the bedroom. What she doesn’t realize and never will is that I permit her good-natured interference only in matters I deem of little consequence.”

Sir Antony laughed again. Jane heard the nervousness in his voice. “Well you’ve definitely got her fooled, not to mention half of society. Diana plays the part of Countess of Salt Hendon by proxy to the hilt. May I ask why you let her get away with it?”

“It gives her something to do. She was born to be a political hostess. In fact, had she been born a man she would’ve made an excellent politician. Much more successful at wielding the political dagger than you ever could be.”

“Thank you very much!” Sir Antony said, offended.

“I mean that in the nicest possible way, Tony. You have a conscience and I trust you implicitly. That doesn’t bode well if you hope to claw your way to the top of the political manure pile here at home. But I will help you rise to ambassador precisely because of your shortcomings. We need more men like you in positions of influence and I will continue to do what I can to see this is realized.”

“Your faith in my abilities overwhelms me,” Sir Antony commented dryly. “Though I’m not sure your speech was entirely complimentary.”

“My dear Tony, my ancient pedigree entitles me a seat atop the political poop where I am best able to put your abilities to good use,” Salt drawled with exaggerated emphasis. “To state the obvious: an earldom and more wealth than I know what to do with gives me unlimited influence. I was being complimentary. You under value yourself.”

“But what of Diana?”

“If she were a man…” Salt replied, an edge to his voice and with the slightest of pauses before he continued in a more conversational tone. “She’s very good at organizing my social calendar, something that, quite frankly, bores me beyond belief. But you know as well as I that social calendars are a necessary evil for a man in my position. I will be forever grateful to her for taking on the task, though I did not ask it of her. But I’m not blind to her motivation. That she has overstepped the mark by taking on the role of procuress, I will stop—Oh? So you knew? God! Is nothing sacred?”

“For Diana? About you? Afraid not,” Sir Antony apologized.

Jane heard Salt huff his annoyance and watched him take a step closer to the table so that the toe of his shoe tickled the hem of her petticoats. She quickly gathered the silk layers closer, and in the process knocked a chair leg. The two children drew in quick breaths and Jane held hers, but when the Earl and Sir Antony continued talking, those under the table silently breathed easier.

“I’ve tolerated your sister’s interference in my life since the death of St. John because it has given her widowhood occupation and meaning,” Salt said flatly. “I had hoped that in time she would remarry. The fact that she has, as you so bluntly informed me at White’s, held out in the expectation that I would ask her to marry me, has made me realize that allowing her to organize my social engagements and play hostess at my party political dinners was an error of judgment. To be blunt,” he added on a sigh of admission, “I permitted your sister such license because it stopped her interfering in matters that are far more important in my life.”

“Such as your marriage?” Sir Antony asked too quickly and could’ve bitten off his own tongue. Why was it that he could be the consummate diplomat with others but with Salt he just blathered like schoolboy? He tried to make a recover. “If it’s any consolation, Diana’s taken the news better than I expected. Of course she pretended she already knew you were married and practically spat in my face for daring to tell her to be on her best behavior. I dare say having guests here today has helped temper her mood. That was a good tactical move on your part.”

Salt let out a long breath. He sounded tired. “Putting off the inevitable is what it was. I don’t want your sister to suffer any undue embarrassment or distress from my marriage. That I am married is enough of a shock for her to bear right now. When she learns how far I’ve sunk into the mire, she’ll be mortified.”

“Mire?”

“That Jane married me for Tom’s sake.”

Sir Antony blustered. “So her brother could inherit what was rightfully his, and finally put food on the table of his loyal factory workers who had gone without wages for three months? Do you believe that pap?”

Jane held her breath in the silence until the Earl said simply, “Yes. Yes, I do. It’s just too pathetic a circumstance to be invented. I’ll have a copy of Jacob Allenby’s will tomorrow, so I’ll find out exactly what hoops that lunatic merchant made his nephew and my wife jump through.”

“Makes her less the mercenary bride, then,” Sir Antony commented lightly. “She certainly doesn’t come across as the type, far from it.”

“Tony, whatever way you flavor it, the dose is still hard to swallow. And now I have a wife Diana can no longer act as my hostess. I am counting on your support to make your sister see reason. She must be eased out of her social commitments on my behalf and it must be done as gently and as expeditiously as possible, so that she doesn’t make a fool of herself and me in front of our friends and family. As it is, she’s in there dishing out the tea as if it’s her place to do so, and it’s not, it’s my wife’s.”

“So you’ve no intention of sending Lady Salt into the country?” Sir Antony asked, looking hard at his cousin. “You’re going to make your wife your wife?” and could have stood on his own foot for again allowing words to flow out without due thought. “What I mean is—”

“I know what you mean,” Salt answered wryly and picked up his wine glass. “Lady Salt will remain here until such time as I can take her to Salt Hall,” he stated and added, as if needing to justify himself because Sir Antony was looking at him curiously, “Parliament doesn’t rise until Easter, so I have no choice but to stay in London until then. Particularly with rumblings that Bute may resign any day; though I don’t see that happening for some time to come. He’ll hold out as long as he can. His Majesty will convince him to stay on. And because Lady Salt remains in London, my dear Tony, I will expect her to do her wifely duty.”

Wifely duty in the bedchamber was what he was thinking. Up until last night as he lay beside her in that ridiculous nightshirt, he had had every intention of bedding and then banishing Jane to Salt Hall as soon as he could make arrangements to have her and her new wardrobe packed up and bundled into his traveling coach. Then they had made love and now he didn’t know what he wanted to do with her, apart from get her into his bed again at the earliest opportunity.

“Do you think her capable of carry it off, being Countess of Salt Hendon, playing hostess at your dinners, accompanying you to balls and routs and the like?” Sir Antony asked, peering intently at the Earl, who was sipping from his glass and seemingly miles away with his thoughts. “From what I gleaned from her brother, your wife hasn’t stepped outside the confines of her little garden in Wiltshire in nigh on four years.” He coughed into his hand, embarrassed. “Jacob Allenby was very possessive. Kept her locked up. Feared attracting stray dogs. Not an unreasonable assumption. You must admit, she does have an unworldly quality about her, and that coupled with her undeniable beauty and gentleness, well that’s—”

“—an irresistible combination for stray dogs! I appreciate the warning.”

“Listen, Salt. I didn’t mean anything by it. To tell you a truth, I find her and her brother delightfully frank and unpretentious, which is a refreshing change when you and I breathe air thick with cynicism and flattery. Just think you should keep a wary eye on her, that’s all. Though how you are to do so when you have all those Parliamentary obligations…”

“Or appoint a guard dog to do it for me. Perhaps I’ll appoint you. In fact, consider it done.”

“Salt, be reasonable! You can’t make me.”

“Yes, I can. As you say, I have far too much to do, and you’ve nothing better to do while you’re in London. Bedford won’t send for you until I say so.” He put a hand on Sir Antony’s shoulder. “Besides, you’re the only man I can entrust to help Jane through the emotional wasteland that is Polite Society. Ah! Here’s Willis now. Have you seen Lady Salt? Lady St. John mentioned that my wife had wandered in here some time ago?”

“Lady Salt was here, my lord,” the under-butler said truthfully. “And it was some time ago…”

“And Master Ron and Miss Magna? Have you seen them?”

Merry’s burst of the giggles and Ron’s furious whispered hush saved the under-butler from any further distress. Salt dismissed him with a jerk of his head and turned to Sir Antony with a finger to his lips before saying casually,

“Not only has Lady Salt vanished but so too have those wretched brats, Ron and Merry. I ask you, Tony, were there two more annoying children in all of London?”

“Oh surely not only London?” suggested Sir Antony, playing right along and nodding when the Earl signaled at the table. “I’d go so far as to say that they would put the French to shame. I’ve seen French children. Mere harmless gnats by comparison to our Ron and Merry.”

There was another stifled giggle and another hush and scrape of a chair as Merry pushed her brother sideways for pulling a face at her. Jane tried to calm them both and they settled again. But Salt had heard them and seen the chair move near where Jane sat hunched, so thought he knew the children’s exact location.

“Gnats, you say, Tony?” Salt answered, shifting to the left and ready to pounce. “If French children are gnats,” he announced loudly as he ducked, lowered a shoulder and thrust a hand under the table and made a grab for a child, “then Ron and Merry St. John must be rats for taking up residence under my table. And lousy rats at that for being so easily caught! Come on out and receive justifiable punishment, rats!”

This pronouncement was accompanied by loud squeals of delight and much thrashing about and movement of furniture. Ron and Merry watched with delight as Jane was caught about the ankle. They were well out of Salt’s reach but still they scampered away to the other side of the table with shouts that no rats by the names of Merry and Ron were to be had in this particular dining room.

Sir Antony joined in the fray, running around to the other side of the table to head off an escape, much to the fascination of the liveried servants and those curious guests who had spilled in from the Yellow Saloon at the sounds of chairs being knocked over, and much squealing and shouting.

“Two rats here, my lord!” Sir Antony shouted out, thrusting aside two chairs and going down on his haunches to peer under the table. “Egad! Two very big rats in residence indeed, and only a cat the size of a Tower Zoo lion would be able to catch ’em. Come out, rats! Come out before the lion of Grosvenor Square makes a meal of you both!”

There were more squeals of delight when Sir Antony made a lunge for Merry, who shrieked so loud Ron clapped his hands over his ears. Shielding his ears made him slow to escape and he managed to get himself caught by his Uncle Tony, who grabbed him by the sleeve of his velvet frock coat, only to have Merry pulling Ron by his right upturned cuff to try and break their uncle’s grip. But Sir Antony tugged harder and suddenly there was the ominous sound of ripping cloth as he tore a rent in the stitching at the shoulder of Ron’s frock coat. With nothing to hold on to, Sir Antony shot backwards and skidded on his backside across the polished wood floor. Ron was free and he and Merry laughed to see their uncle in such an undignified pose; stockinged legs in the air and sprawled out in the middle of the floor at the feet of the startled under-butler.

“Aha! Caught!” Salt announced with satisfaction and firmed his grip on his rat’s ankle, while looking over the top of the table between two elaborately decorated epergnes to see what all the fuss was about. More than a dozen guests and as many servants were gawking at the high jinks in his lordship’s dining room. “Tony? Tony, do you have the other rat?” he called out with a laugh as his rat kept wriggling and wasn’t about to give up the fight. “I hope so! Or my rat gets tickled to death until his fellow capitulates! Tony? Where are you? It may be a very long torture indeed,” he said with mock menace to his rat as he tightened his hold on a slim ankle, “if you, my dear rat, don’t let go of that chair leg and come quietly!”

He pulled his prisoner by the stockinged ankle swiftly toward him, caught up a bunch of her petticoats and hauled her out from under the table and up over his shoulder in a smooth and easy operation. Shoeless and kicking, her stockinged feet and slim ankles on display to the world, he demanded she stop struggling, and to keep her legs from kicking and her silk petticoats from billowing out, he placed an arm under her bottom and held her to his shoulder. This also stopped her from slipping completely over his shoulder and onto her head.

There wasn’t much fight in his rat now because she was laughing and protesting at one and the same time. She beat at his back with her fists and told him, while upside down and voice muffled into his velvet frock coat, that he was a brute and a fiend and she wouldn’t give in, whatever tortures he inflicted. Rats stuck together! All this did was make him laugh harder and he so far forgot himself that he smacked his rat’s bottom in mock anger and said he would go on meting out due punishment until she gave up the whereabouts of her fellow rats.

“Salt, put me down!” Jane pleaded, though she was enjoying herself hugely. “My head is spinning and I feel faint!”

There was more squealing and laughter from the other side of the table when two heads appeared and they saw the Earl with his Countess up over his shoulder giving her a mock thrashing. They jumped up and ran round the table, ignoring their governess, their tutor and even their mother, who broke from the crowd of stunned onlookers to go after her children, demanding that they stop all this nonsense at once and act the well-bred gentleman and young lady they had been brought up to be. But Merry and Ron were too caught up in the moment and were intent on freeing their fellow rat from the Earl’s imprisonment. Sir Antony, too, who was now on his feet and recovered his dignity, brushed down his silk breeches and adjusted his lace cravat, then came across to join his niece and nephew, his sister ignored.

By the time they reached the Earl, Salt had slid Jane to her stockinged feet and let her go, once he was certain she had regained her balance. As for her dignity, seeing the mute faces of their audience, she wasn’t at all certain that would make a recover any time soon, and she turned away to pin up her mussed hair. Her fichu needed adjusting again, her petticoats were crumpled, she had no idea where her satin slippers were, and she couldn’t hold her head up because her face was flushed with embarrassment.

What Jane was doing under the table, Salt could hazard a guess looking at his mischievous niece and nephew. He knew the moment he had a good grip on her ankle and pulled her towards him out from under the table that it was his wife in his arms, but he was too caught up in the moment to give two testers who saw them.

“You didn’t catch us at all, Uncle Salt!” Merry announced proudly, coming to stand before the Earl and staring up into his flushed face. “Ron and I were too quick for you and Uncle Tony, weren’t we?”

Salt smiled down into her upturned smiling face and pinched her small pointed chin. “Much too quick, Merry.”

“And it was a good hiding place wasn’t it?” Ron asked anxiously, a look over his shoulder at his mother and the two servants bearing down on them. “You’d no idea we were there under your feet all the time, did you, Uncle Salt?”

“No idea at all. One of the best hiding places you’ve found, without doubt,” Salt assured him. “And you were so very quiet.” He glanced at Jane. “All three of you.”

“We were as quiet as rats!” Merry announced and looked about for approval at her cleverness.

“Aubrey and Magna Sinclair St. John!” Diana St. John announced, sweeping up to her children. “I am very disappointed in you both,” she said sullenly. “Where have your manners flown? Did I not tell you about Mamma’s sick headache? And here you are running about your uncle’s dining room like a couple of street urchins. You will go with Clary and Taylor to that room upstairs where you usually eat and you will conduct yourself in a manner befitting a Sinclair. That is all. No. I don’t want to hear your excuses. Go.”

“Yes, Mamma. Of course, Mamma,” both children mumbled in unison, a fearful glance up at their mother. But just as the tutor and governess stepped forward, Merry broke from her brother’s side and ran to the Earl and caught his hand and pointed at Jane.

“She said we could have dinner here with you.”

“Merry,” her brother whispered, “it’s not she, it’s Lady Salt.”

“But I want to call her Aunt Jane,” Merry counted. “She said I could!”

“Magna! Aubrey! How dare you carry on like rabble! Give your uncle the proper respect and do as you are bid and say good-night!” Diana St. John ordered and signaled again to the governess and the tutor to take her children in hand. “You know very well you don’t eat in the dining room when we have guests, and that’s the end of it!”

Obediently, Merry curtseyed and Ron bowed to the Earl, their gaze cast to the floorboards. But Merry did not let go of the Earl’s hand and was somewhat comforted by the fact that he did not let go of her hand either. It was then that Jane stepped forward and calmly addressed their mother.

“I told Merry and Ron they could eat their dinner here with us.” She looked at the Earl and then at Diana St. John’s marble countenance. “It’s just that it must be very lonely eating alone in the nursery. And cold, too, if I know anything of this house.”

“What could you possibly know about this house? You’ve only been in it five minutes!” Diana St. John whispered viciously in Jane’s face, self-control lost for the briefest of moments, then masked instantly by cool-indifference. She added haughtily, and loud enough for the assembled guests to hear, “I do not appreciate interference in my children’s welfare, my lady. I am their mother. I know what is best for them.”

Yet the brief loss of control, and the fact her children feared her, provided Jane with a glimpse behind the woman’s mask. It made her inwardly shudder. That if Diana St. John put her mind to it, she was capable of wielding more than a political dagger to get what she wanted. Jane decided it was time to be brave for the two little eager faces that looked at her expectantly.

“I’m so pleased you no longer have the headache that called out a physician in the middle of last night,” Jane said pleasantly, looking Diana St. John in the eye. “Then again, watching the tennis match could not have helped…?”

Lady St. John’s hazel eyes opened wide then narrowed to slits and her painted mouth twisted up in a smile. “You may think yourself very clever—”

“Let it be, Di,” Sir Antony hissed under his breath. “Don’t make a fool of yourself.”

Diana St. John smiled sweetly at her brother and tapped his sleeve with the sticks of her ivory fan. “Foolish boy! Trust you to trip over your flat feet for a pretty face.”

Salt smiled encouragingly at his godchildren, who were staring up at him in anxious expectation, then turned wearily to their mother. “Diana, take Tony’s advice. I see no harm in the children being present. And as Lady Salt has kindly given Ron and Merry permission to sit at the table with the adults, they may do so. But they must be on their best behavior,” he added, a mock frown down at the two now suddenly happy children, who nodded up at him enthusiastically, “and do as Lady Salt bids them, or they will find themselves consigned to the nursery.”

“I won’t allow it!” Diana St. John blurted out before she could stop herself. “Clary! Taylor! Take—”

“But as this is my house and my table,” Salt said very quietly, “it is not your place to say otherwise.”

“But they are my children,” Diana St. John stated, and in a show of defiance, pulled her son and daughter from their uncle’s side and gathered them to her petticoats. “I will do with them as I see fit.”

Salt inclined his head to her with excessive politeness but there was ice in his voice. “I suggest we not mince words, my dear. St. John left his children in my sole custody.”

Lady St. John blanched and instantly let go of Merry and Ron, who, after a small hesitation, ran to the Earl and hugged him. She was on the verge of tears of rage as she watched her children go hand in hand with Salt to the foot of the table, but force of personality kept her temper in check. Before retreating to take her place at the table, just as the butler announced dinner was served, she said very quietly to Jane, “You are nothing but a hiccup in his life. Annoyingly present, but eventually hiccups disappear, by whatever means necessary, and then one can’t remember ever having had them.”

NINE

‘DON’T WORRY ABOUT DIANA” Sir Antony assured Jane over the pea soup. “Salt’s marriage has given her a severe shock, I won’t deny that. But she’ll adjust. She has to. She has no alternative.”

But Diana St. John believed she did have alternatives. As she sat through the long dinner seated just a few places away from the Earl at the head of the table, surrounded by the titled and politically powerful, she had the satisfaction of seeing the new Countess of Salt Hendon consigned to the furthest end of the table, where obedient wives sat and played hostess to the nobodies: the old, the young and the politically insignificant. Why her brother chose to play the chivalrous idiot by sitting himself on the Countess’s left amongst the worms, Diana knew not, but thought perhaps he hoped to gain the Earl’s favor by keeping the little wife company. But as Salt did not once look his wife’s way, and spent the evening talking politics with Diana and their mutual group of friends, she decided that her brother’s little ploy had gone awry.

And while she was chatting and laughing and fluttering her fan very prettily, and holding court amongst the politically influential, she learnt an interesting piece of information from Lady Porter, whose favorite pastime was being up on all the gossip involving Westminster’s upper-servants. Diana had recently lost a very good upstairs maid by the name of Anne Springer to Jenny Dalrymple, and it just so happened that the elder sister of this Anne Springer was Lady Porter’s dresser. But it was Lady Porter’s adamant belief that Diana’s very good upstairs maid had not gone to Jenny Dalrymple at all but was here in this very house, newly employed as the Countess of Salt Hendon’s personal maid, to be closer to her betrothed, one Rufus Willis, under-butler to Lord Salt. Lady Porter was insistent. After all, her source, Anne Springer’s sister Janet, was impeccable.

Come time for the ladies to retire to the Long Gallery to sip tea, leaving the gentlemen to their port, Diana St. John disappeared for half an hour. She found her way through the public rooms to the labyrinth of dimly lit passageways that led to the very private rooms occupied by the Earl and Countess one floor above. Here, in the freshly painted and prettily furnished rooms that were the Countess of Salt Hendon’s apartments, she discovered her very good upstairs maid Anne.

The young woman was in amongst a plethora of exquisitely embroidered petticoats in a variety of rich fabrics and colors; a dozen pairs of shoes in matching fabrics were lined up along the polished wood floor and on the sofa were neatly stacked piles of stockings, and all manner of female fripperies. She was humming to herself and busily hanging, folding and putting away her ladyship’s extensive new wardrobe. With her were two dressmakers and a milliner. They sat huddled together with needle and thread, under the light of a branch of candles by the warmth of the fireplace, putting the finishing touches to a couple of bonnets and bodices.

Diana St. John screwed up her mouth at such overindulgent spending on a creature who in her eyes wasn’t worth her housekeeper’s cast-offs, and summarily dismissed the dressmakers and milliner to a back closet with threats of their bills remaining unpaid if ever they opened their mouths to her presence. When her very good upstairs maid Anne dropped into a respectful curtsey, she was delighted to see real fear in the woman’s eyes.

“I don’t have time to waste on why you told my housekeeper a falsehood about your present employment,” Diana St. John stated coldly, circling the woman with a menacing swish of her wide hooped petticoats. “Suffice that if you render me a small service I will forget that you are a liar, and thus I won’t need to inform the Earl, and you won’t be thrown out on the streets where deceitful servants belong.”

“My lady, I—”

“Did I ask you to speak? I don’t have time, idiot! Listen. You can form your letters? Good. You will make a note of the Countess’s every move. And I mean every move. I want to know everything there is to know about her, from her favorite color to her preferred breakfast beverage; what time of the day she rests, goes riding; who gets her custom; in particular who visits her and why; but most importantly, when and how often his lordship avails himself of his marital rights.”

Anne blinked and wondered if she had heard correctly. “My lady?”

“You will also keep a detailed record of when Lady Salt has her monthly courses—”

Anne shook her head vigorously, but kept her eyes lowered to the floorboards. “Oh, no, my lady, I couldn’t! I—”

“—and, most importantly, when she stops menstruating. I need to know the exact day of the month.”

“My lady! Oh please don’t make me! Please,” Anne protested, blushing to the roots of her brown hair. “I can’t tell you—I can’t report on them doing-doing that; on her ladyship’s courses. I can’t—”

Diana St. John grabbed the woman’s upper arm hard and stuck her face in hers. “Yes, you can and you will or I will inform the Earl that the Countess’s new personal maid lifts her skirts for the under-butler.”

Anne was horrified. She burst into tears. “Never! Never! Mr. Willis is an honorable man, my lady. We have never—Not before marriage. We are betrothed.”

“Stop blubbering, girl! You won’t be betrothed for much longer if you’re both dismissed from service.”

“Oh, please, my lady, no. Mr. Willis has worked so hard to get to where he is as under-butler. One day he hopes to—”

“Stop whining!” Diana St. John demanded and let her go with a shove. “If you want this Willis to rise to the dizzying heights of butler you had best do as I say, or both of you will be out on the street without a reference and nowhere to go. No one will employ either of you, not if I have any say in the matter. The only vocation open to you both will be as whore and pimp.” She rested her chin on the closed sticks of her ivory fan and pondered a moment before glancing slyly at the quivering maid. “He availed himself of her last night, didn’t he? Do you know how many times he mounted—”

“No! No! Of course not, my lady!” Anne interrupted, shaking hands to her tear-stained face. “I do not listen at doors!”

“You will, if you want to keep your position,” Diana St. John stated unsympathetically. “Willis can then continue to dream of becoming a butler in some third-rate household, and both of you will be fed and warm the rest of the winter.”

Tears were streaming down Anne’s face and she sniffed loudly. She knew she had to submit to Lady St. John’s outrageous demands. She had worked long enough in the St. John household to know her ladyship meant what she threatened.

An uncompromising mistress who expected her servants to obey her without question, the St. John children fared no better than the servants; the little boy most of all. Most shocking was the fact her ladyship fed her son a strengthening medicinal that more often than not necessitated a visit from the physician to cure the boy of an ill he suffered needlessly at the hands of his overprotective parent.

As for Lady St. John’s temper tantrums, few of her servants had actually witnessed one at first hand, but those that had never forgot. Most sought other employment immediately. Anne had witnessed one such fit of temper and had pleaded with her father to find her another position. She could not stay in a house where the mistress tore up the bedclothes and pillows, scattering feather down everywhere, and slapped her personal maid’s face, all because she could not go to sleep without a sapphire and diamond locket that she kept under her pillow at night.

Three upstairs maids and Lady St. John’s personal maid, with a red welt across her cheek, had been ordered to tear up the bedchamber until they found the precious piece of jewelry. Anne had been lucky enough to find the locket. It had slipped down the back of the carved headboard, and was lodged between the mattress and the carved backing board. It was an intricate piece of jewelry, beautifully wrought and with a large gleaming sapphire set into a gold back and surrounded by diamonds. Anne had it snatched out of her hand without so much as a thank you. Her maids were then dismissed with the screaming threat that if ever the locket went missing again from under her pillow, Lady St. John would dismiss her entire household staff.

Anne had been miserable in that house and when her father found her the position of lady’s maid to the Earl’s new wife, who turned out to be a softly-spoken young woman with a sweet nature, Anne considered herself the luckiest girl alive. But there was no escaping the ruthless Lady St. John. Nor did she feel she could approach the Countess, who was young and inexperienced and unlikely to believe a new servant over the Earl’s particular cousin. And she certainly didn’t want trouble for her betrothed, Rufus Willis.

Yet, the thought of watching the Countess’s every move, of recording her intimate relations with the Earl, turned her stomach and made her say bravely,

“Please, my lady, don’t make me do this… Lady Salt has been so good and kind to me.”

Diana St. John swept to the door. “So good and kind in fact that she’ll never suspect her maid.” With a flick of her wrist she opened out her ivory fan. “Did you know these are the worst January frosts on record? People are literally freezing in the streets…”

~   ~   ~

SALT HAD THROWN on a red silk banyan and sat at his dressing table filing his manicured nails, glad the day was over. He had enjoyed the tennis immensely, particularly winning against that prosy dandy Pascoe Church. But the dinner was tedious and the talk of the political maneuverings of Rockingham and Newcastle, and speculation over whether the King’s favorite, Lord Bute, would or would not resign held no particular interest for him that night; this, despite Diana’s attempts to keep him in the political argument. He was too distracted to be bothered offering more than the barest of comments; distracted with wanting to know what was going on at the far end of the long table where his wife held court with Ron and Merry, Sir Antony, his secretary and Tom Allenby.

He had been unable to see past the tall silver epergnes, although he heard the odd occasional outburst of loud laughter from that end of the table. And twice the children came to visit him, which he thought charming; Merry sitting on his lap and Ron leaning against his shoulder, intent on telling him what a wonderful time they were having being with all the grown-ups. They assured him they were on their best behavior. He could ask Aunt Jane if he didn’t want to take their word for it. They told him simply that they liked Lady Salt very much and that her brother Tom was a capital fellow who knew a lot about ships and blue glass.

Later, when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the Long Gallery for the recital, he was the last to arrive and found Pascoe Church deep in conversation with his wife. Sir Antony, Arthur Ellis and Tom Allenby were all strategically nearby, not unlike mastiffs guarding the master’s bone. He had to smile to himself at the looks on their faces. None of them were pleased that the silver-tongued Pascoe was intent on monopolizing Jane’s time. Most of the ladies had gravitated to the opposite side of the room where Diana held court; Merry and Ron perched stiffly on the sofa beside their mother, and by their gloomy expressions, not happy to be there.

Salt felt obliged to rescue them from their enforced good behavior. He spent the hour before the recital playing at snakes and ladders with them, at the far end of the Long Gallery, sitting on the rug in front of the second fireplace, where he and the two children could make as much noise as they wanted without disturbing the adults.

By the time the last of the guests had left for the evening, Jane had retired and he sat over a brandy with Sir Antony in his bookroom. Finally, Sir Antony bid him a good night and went up to his rooms off the first landing. With Tom Allenby and his mother staying at the Earl’s Arlington Street townhouse, Sir Antony’s usual abode when in London, Salt had given him quarters at his Grosvenor Square mansion; a circumstance the congenial Sir Antony took in his stride.

It was Sir Antony’s throw away comment about Jane as he bid him good night that decided Salt to seek out his wife before he went to sleep. No wonder the Countess was a slight little thing, what with her sparrow’s appetite. She ate nothing more than a bowl of pea soup at dinner, saying the food was far too rich for her, as she was used to very plain meals, and only one course at each sitting.

“I ask you, Salt,” Sir Antony continued on a huff of disbelief as he set aside his empty brandy glass, the quantity of wine drunk before, during and after dinner loosening his tongue. “What rich merchant worth his moneybags eats plain meals? And one course only? Tom confided that his uncle permitted Jane a fire only every second day. Can you imagine such a frail butterfly eking out such a frugal existence? Not to mention Allenby leaving a will so bizarre it defies comprehension,” he added as he staggered to the door. “And it gets better, y’know. Wait till you read it! I mean, I would need to see it in ink before I believed your merchant neighbor left Caroline ten thousand pounds. Yes, I knew that would make you sit up and take notice! Yes, your sister Caroline, Salt. Young Tom confided in me that Caroline was bequeathed such a sum by his uncle, and for the life of us we don’t know why. If you ask me, two and two just don’t add up to four where Jacob Allenby was concerned. Good night.”

Salt was of the same opinion. He was completely astounded by Sir Antony’s confession and was inclined to think too much brandy had fuddled his brain. Still, Jacob Allenby’s resentment went deep where the Earls of Salt Hendon were concerned and mentioning Caroline in his will was just the sort of squalid revenge the merchant was likely to make from the grave. As for keeping Jane cold and fed plain meals…

He tossed aside the nail file on the cluttered dressing table, dismissed Andrews for the evening and padded through to his wife’s rooms, telling himself he hadn’t wished her a good night. Besides, he wanted to make sure she was putting liniment on his nasty handiwork of the night before. God he had been an unthinking ass… If the food was too rich for her, then why hadn’t she said so? He had a kitchen staff of twenty, not including the pastry chef, baker and scullery servants. Cook would’ve obliged her with a bowl of potatoes with lashings of butter, if that was to her fancy, silly girl!

Not finding her in the bedchamber, he went through to the dressing room and discovered her just out of her hipbath and drying herself behind the ornate dressing screen. Puddles of water had followed her the short distance from bath to screen and there was the distinct smell of scented soap in the air.

Salt propped himself by the fireplace to wait and was pleasantly surprised to discover that the long looking glass behind the screen was at such an angle that from where he stood it was possible to view the candlelight goings on in the shielded dressing area. He would definitely have the looking glass repositioned tomorrow, but not tonight.

He watched his wife drying herself by the light of a candelabrum, tackling an overlarge bath sheet that was clearly made for someone of his size and width. When she accidentally stepped on a trailing corner and it flew out of her hands to the floor and she scolded the towel as if it were animate, he smiled indulgently. He wondered why she had taken the prudish step of going behind a screen when it would have been much more comfortable and warm to dry herself before the warmth of the fire. But such thoughts evaporated when she bent at the waist to quickly pick up the bath sheet.

His intention of scolding her for not eating her dinner, and wishing her a good night before returning to his cold four poster bed, vanished as he felt himself stir. Mesmerized, he watched her toss aside the bath sheet then turn to the looking glass. Catching a glimpse of something about herself in the reflection she moved closer and put up her hands to carefully remove the array of pins that held up her waist-length hair. Salt’s discomfort increased, as she stood on glorious display, naked and unselfconscious before her reflection. And when she let down her hair, leaning forward before tossing her head back so the raven-black mane tumbled, untangled, to the small of her back, he was determined to share her bed.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood by the fireplace admiring her, dazed by the fact that this most beautiful and utterly captivating woman was finally his wife, but it was long enough for her personal maid to squeak a cough and then run behind the screen with head bowed. He quickly turned to the fireplace, face aglow with embarrassment to be caught out furtively admiring his wife, the maid’s intrusion just as effective as an icy dip in the Thames.

“His lordship? Here? Oh! Why didn’t you say you were here, my lord?” Jane called out, hurriedly wriggling into a thin cotton nightshift and throwing on a silk dressing gown without bothering to button it up.

She dismissed Anne with a smile, saying she should get some well-earned sleep, she looked quite tired. She hoped she hadn’t given her too many tasks in the one day? She then thanked Anne for staying up so late and said she would decide what she wanted to wear tomorrow, in the morning.

“You don’t have to thank your maid for carrying out her duties,” Salt told her with a laugh, as Anne hurriedly left the room with head bent and quietly closed over the door, leaving it ajar. “She stays awake until her tasks are complete. If that means her ladyship arriving home from a ball at three in the morning and must needs be undressed, then so be it.”

“I truly do feel for Andrews’ position,” Jane quipped, standing beside him and warming her hands at the fireplace. “No wonder he’s so efficient. It’s fear, not devotion, that drives him.”

Salt frowned, realized she was in jest and playfully tugged a long silky lock of her hair, saying with a smile, “And will fear make her ladyship eat her dinner? I’m told you ate only a bowl of soup. That’s not enough to sustain you.”

“I assure you, the portions your servants dish up could feed me for a week. Well, not a week, precisely, but a bowl of soup and a handful of bread was my usual dinner. So you needn’t glare at me in that way.”

“What sort of deprived household were you living in that a bowl of soup constitutes dinner?” he demanded incredulously. “Didn’t that man look after you properly? It’s just as well he was a chair-ridden cripple. His sort of ruthless economizing could not have sustained a wife, the expense of a mistress and the demands of any brats from both!”

Jane’s throat constricted and she looked away. “I’m sure Mr. Allenby could have learned a thing or two from you. Susannah, Elizabeth and Jenny don’t have any complaints, do they?”

He grabbed her arm and spun her to face him. “We weren’t talking about me, but that man—”

“I would prefer not to talk about him,” she answered quietly, meeting his brown eyes. “Ever.”

His brows snapped over the bridge of his long bony nose. “Did he mistreat you? Tell me.”

She swallowed and shook her head. No, she wouldn’t tell him. Not yet. She couldn’t. She didn’t want his pity. She didn’t want him to be kind to her out of a sense of sympathy for the life she had led under Jacob Allenby’s protection. How he had treated her as a whore in need of solid correction; how she had had to listen to his endless sermons on the Earl of Salt Hendon’s immoral ways: that she was much better off as she was than as the wife of an unfaithful husband. So she held back her tears and kept the tremble out of her voice to say cheekily,

“I’ll tell you if you tell me about Susannah and Elizabeth and Jen—”

“Don’t be absurd!” he said with a huff of embarrassment and let her go. “That’s another matter entirely.”

“Oh?” she said curiously. “I’m supposed to ignore the existence of these women whom you consort with and yet it bothers you that Jacob Allenby gave me a roof over my head when my father would not?”

“Of course it bothers me!”

“Why?” she asked simply. “I may have been tossed onto the streets by my father for one night of illicit passion, but in the intervening years you’ve cavorted with—how many women—ten, twenty, thirty, possibly more; not all at the same time… Though… given half the chance…”

“You’ve no idea what you’re talking about!”

Jane sighed. “No, I really don’t know anything about orgies.” She looked at him openly, as if considering the matter. “And I don’t ever want to know. So, please, if you must participate in such activities, I would prefer you do so here, in London, and not in Wiltshire.” When Salt goggled at her in disbelief, unable to respond, she giggled behind her hand saying, “I may be a complete novice in the marital bed but I am not ignorant.”

“Marriage is no laughing matter!” he snapped. “It is to be taken very seriously.”

Jane immediately lost her smile. He was mutinous, as if she was the guilty party. She wondered what he meant. His idea of marriage was surely quite different to hers. She may have had stars in her eyes as an eighteen-year-old but when he had broken off their engagement those stars were quickly extinguished. And just so she never forgot what it was like to fall in love with a nobleman, Jacob Allenby had painted for her a very clear and gloomy picture of what life would be like to be the wife of a wealthy vigorous nobleman who could have any woman he wanted. She thought she had prepared herself for this marriage, but she was wrong. She really could not bear the thought of sharing him.

She guessed he was naked under his red silk banyan. It gaped wide at the throat to reveal an expanse of bare chest, and where the banyan ended at the knees his strong legs were bare. With his light-chestnut hair tumbled about his shoulders and that intense, long-sighted gaze that made him dip his high forehead to look at her, he was devastatingly handsome. Such good looks coupled with his skill and stamina as a lover, of which she was now acutely reminded after their lovemaking of the night before, made it easy to understand why the Susannahs, Elizabeths, Jennys and most certainly the Dianas of Polite Society, were all ears over toes in lust with him.

She did not think fidelity and constancy were part of his marriage vocabulary, as she brought her gaze back up to his brown eyes. She might take their wedding vows seriously, even consider them romantic and heartfelt, but men of the Earl of Salt Hendon’s stamp would see the exchange of wedding vows much as they did any contract, legally binding and entirely to their advantage.

“I do not disagree with you, my lord,” she replied quietly. “Indeed, I would go further and say that wives take their marriage vows far more seriously than do their noble husbands.”

“Now you are showing your ignorance of the nobility,” he said and looked away into the fire, as if the topic was distasteful to talk about openly. “Noble wives are deceitful; husbands are uncomplicated about their sexual needs. Trust me. I know.”

She did not doubt his first hand experience. His mistresses must have a husband somewhere and at sometime. She mentally sighed and wished he would just pick her up and carry her to bed and make love to her. All she wanted at that moment was love, laughter and sharing the physical expression of that love with him. She did not want to think about his love life with other women. For this night at least he was exclusively hers.

She could not predict the future, whether he would remain hers for one week or two, perhaps a month, so she was prepared to jump right in and enjoy him and their time together without fear or favor. But she was no fool. She was not prepared to wait until he had had enough of her then play the cast-off passive wife when he returned to his usual way of life. Tom had told her at dinner that he and his mother had taken a house just around the corner in Upper Brook Street. Lady Despard intended to remain in London a further six weeks before Tom returned to take her back to Bristol. Jane had every intention of leaving London with them. She just hoped Salt didn’t tire of her before then. She didn’t want to be around when he cast her aside for his newest favorite; nor suffer Diana St. John’s gloating triumph when he did.

Love and laughter and making love, that’s what she needed tonight.

“Of course, I’m sure you have no regrets making love to all those women,” she said in a light conversational tone, knowing she was goading him terribly. “Not to mention the orgies, where you probably don’t remember how many women you cavorted with. But did it never occur to you that there was the possibility of you contracting some terrible social disease from such cavorts?”

“Of course it occurred to me!” he bristled, angry embarrassment overriding whatever shock he felt at her raising such a topic. “What do think me? Mad?”

Jane looked to the ornate plaster ceiling and tried hard not to smile. He was even more handsome when out of sorts and embarrassed. “Jacob Allenby told me once about a type of pox that often infects Lotharios and if left unchecked will send you mad. He says that’s what killed King Henry—

“We are not having this conversation!” he snapped.

“But if I can’t have this conversation with my husband, then who can I have it with?” Jane asked earnestly, looking up at him expectantly.

He cleared his throat, ill at ease yet knowing she had every right to a response.

“You have no need to be concerned,” he said haltingly, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ve never… That is, I have never consorted with a common prostitute. As for the others… I was—I am—extremely careful, and since October when I—we—I haven’t—as I said,” he added abruptly, seemingly unable to complete a sentence under her steady gaze, “you have no need for concern.”

“How very comforting,” she said, seemingly unimpressed. She picked up on the month of October, the month they had officially become engaged, but for the moment was content to push that to the back of her mind in her pursuit of teasing him mercilessly. “But what about the women you have consorted with? Did you ever stop to ask them if they were just as considerate?”

“I beg your pardon?” he said, horrified at the thought, his awkwardness increasing with every sentence she uttered. He had never been spoken to with such frankness, a habit that was all her own, and he certainly had never openly discussed his love life with anyone. And here his bride was questioning him about his sexual history, no less! He was too dumbstruck to be furious.

“Did it never occur to you that your mistresses and any of your casual lovers might have caught something from their other lovers?” she continued with all the casualness of one discussing the day’s menu with the housekeeper. “It’s all very well for you to tell me you’re disease free, but what about Elizabeth and Susannah and—”

“Enough! This conversation has gone far enough!” he growled. His brow furrowed. “How do you know their names?”

“Or were they expected to give you a full medical history before you bedded them?” she added, backing away from him to the bedchamber door. “Names?” She shrugged. “I was under the dining room table while you were talking to Sir Antony, remember? And the spectator boxes of your Royal Tennis court have very thin walls. You’d be surprised what I learnt from your gaggle of female admirers.”

He was appalled. “They are not my admirers and—”

“No? Well you certainly can’t blame them for ogling you in your tennis breeches, which, by the way, leave nothing to the imagination—”

“—I wouldn’t take as read the tittle-tattle of a bunch of frustrated hens. Nothing?” he added, face deepening to a nice shade of puce. “Nothing at all?”

“Nothing at all,” she stated, and was surprised he was self-effacing at being so openly admired. A dimple showed itself in her left cheek. “So I shouldn’t believe that little theatrical display, either? I’ve never seen so much female underclothing in full public view before. And on a tennis court no less!” She smiled sweetly, a hand to the doorjamb. “It was very chivalrous of you to return Jenny Dalrymple’s stocking and garter. No doubt she’ll be only too pleased to offer up a full medical history now that you’ve offered her the post of mistress.” She put up her little nose, not expecting an answer, and, turning on the balls of her bare feet, disappeared into the bedchamber, saying over her shoulder with a toss of her long hair, “Not very romantic, but quite sensible under the circumstances.”

He stared after her, speechless. He didn’t have an answer. What had been a piece of tomfoolery and gamesmanship on the sporting field of battle had been reduced by his wife to a tawdry boy’s prank. Pascoe Church had not only had his eye on Salt’s previous mistress he had also been pursuing Jenny Dalrymple. He knew returning Jenny’s stocking and garter with a flourish would put Church off his game. That was the sum total of his intent.

He had not told a living soul, he barely admitted to himself, but taking that kiss from Jane without her permission during the Hunt had had serious repercussions for his virility. To his troubled amazement, and growing fear that there was something wrong with him, he lost his hearty appetite in the bedchamber. That’s not to say he was a monk. But since the previous October, when the date had been set for the exchange of marital vows in the first week of January, he had eschewed his mistress. He blamed Jane just as he blamed her now for the healthy resurgence in his sexual appetite.

He was still frowning at the bedchamber door, when Jane peered back into the dressing room with a mischievous twinkle.

“I don’t know why you’re standing there waiting. I’m not about to ask you for a physician’s report, if that’s what’s stopping you from joining me in the marital bed.”

“You little witch!” he exclaimed, tension easing in his limbs. He came to life as she disappeared again and strode through to her bedchamber. “I should thrash you, madam wife!”

“As you did in the dining room?” She chuckled and skipped to the four-poster bed. “You see me all aquiver with terror, my lord!”

“Not only a witch but a strumpet and a shameless baggage to boot!”

She darted out of his way and scrambled up onto the mattress, using the damask curtains to pull herself up. He grabbed for her, caught at her dressing gown, which easily slipped off her shoulders, and was left with a handful of silken material, while she stumbled about on the mattress in her thin linen nightshift laughing at his inability to catch her. At that, he clambered up beside her, picked her up and dumped her amongst the pillows. She threw a feather-filled pillow at him and he caught it before it connected with his chin. Now they were both laughing and before she could scuttle away, he pinioned her wriggling body to the bed, straddled her thighs and held her wrists above her head.

She smiled up at him with an impish grin. “Shall I oblige your lordship by rolling over so you can smack my behind?”

“No, my lady,” he murmured, dipping to kiss her full mouth, the intensity in his brown eyes both exciting and frightening her. He let go of her wrists and slid down the length of her body to kiss the instep of her dainty foot, his kisses progressing along her shapely leg as his hands slid her thin nightshift up over her knees then gently parted her thighs. “I have a much slower and exquisite torment in mind.”

TEN

WHEN THEY FINALLY drifted off into a deep sleep, wrapped in each other’s arms among a tangle of bed sheets and pillows, it was the early morning, in those few hours of utter quiet when it was still dark and there were no carriage wheels, not even the clip clop of horses’ hooves, to be heard on the cobblestones in Grosvenor Square. Jane slept soundlessly, snuggled up in her husband’s warmth, but the Earl, who had fallen into a deep sleep only to stir a handful of hours later, lay wide-awake in the final glow of the dying fire in the grate, staring unseeing at the pleated canopy above his head. He was befuddled, bewitched and bewildered by his bride and it scared him half to death.

His heart thudded against his chest, just as it had when he spied the seventeen-year-old Jane amongst the gentry assembled to see the hunt on its way; she had literally taken his breath away. He was overjoyed to discover that her astonishing beauty was matched by her decency of character and a forthright yet gentle nature. Here was a girl who was as honest as she was beautiful, untouched by cynicism and flattery. He had pursued her, courted her, and ruined her on her birthday. To all outward appearances he had played the Lothario landlord to the hilt. But this time it was different. She was different. He was different. He had fallen immeasurably in love and wanted to marry her and make her his countess. He had asked her to marry him and then lost his head in the summerhouse, forgetting his upbringing as a gentleman, and made love to her.

Why had she not trusted him to return from London? Did she think so little of his character that she believed him capable of taking her virginity with false promises of love and then abandoning her? What manner of man was he to her? How was it she had accused him of breach of promise when he had not broken off their engagement? Why had she not waited for his return? She confessed her ruin to her father and been cast out of his house, and he had the locket returned as proof of her fickleness. He had been disbelieving and devastated when he learned she had accepted the protection of Jacob Allenby, a man he despised above all others. It did not make sense. It still did not make sense to him four years on.

He felt betrayed.

Reason yesterday he was intent on having her sign a document that laid down rules by which she would live as his wife and countess, rules to demoralize and humiliate and make her a virtual prisoner on his estate because he wanted to punish her for breaking off their engagement, for betraying his love, and yet, today he could not get enough of her.

But he would not allow her to get under his skin, to have his hopes and dreams shattered a second time. He would content himself with bedding her. In bed he knew exactly how she felt, what were her needs and desires, and could have his own strong carnal appetite satisfied into the bargain. And if the previous two nights were anything to go by, where lust was concerned, neither of them need look elsewhere ever again. Lust, pure and simple, he understood. Lust was uncomplicated. Lust could be satisfied. Lust would do them both just fine.

He slept past noon and woke completely rested. Sprawled out in Jane’s bed in the semi-gloom, a new fire in the grate but the curtains yet to be pulled back to reveal the wintry sky, he was content to think of nothing more arduous than what he would eat for breakfast. He was well aware that his long-suffering secretary would be waiting him in the library, appointment book open, and with a stack of correspondence requiring an answer, his signature or to frank, but for once in his life he was going to ignore pressing matters of state and eat a leisurely breakfast with his wife… Who was not beside him.

Where was she?

Frowning, he threw off the covers, found his banyan, covered his nakedness and scraped his hair out of his eyes. He poured cold water from a patterned jug into the porcelain bowl on the bedside table and splashed cold water over his face. Feeling reasonably awake, he went in search of her. He forgot that at this hour, not only was his secretary going about his duties his whole household had been up for half the day and were all busily engaged at their tasks.

Several of his household servants were assembled in the Countess’s pretty sitting room under direction of Willis, the under-butler, who had been assigned to offer her ladyship a gentle guiding hand with her new responsibilities and duties as Countess of Salt Hendon. Expert guidance in all matters servant-related would ensure his lordship’s house was disrupted as little as possible. The butler couldn’t agree more and was only too pleased that the Earl had given Willis the job of taking the young Countess in hand; leaving him to the more important task of seeing to the Earl’s needs. Naturally, Willis did not mention that attending on the Countess would give him the opportunity of coming into contact with his betrothed, Anne.

Two footmen, the housekeeper, her ladyship’s personal maid, and Rufus Willis were all standing on the edge of the Aubusson carpet by an arrangement of chaise longue, sofa, and wingchair near the fireplace. Willis and the housekeeper were sorting out the week’s menus with Arthur Ellis, who was seated on the edge of a pink-striped chaise longue, the Earl’s red leather-bound appointment book opened out across his knees. But his attention, like everyone else’s in the room, was focused on the Countess, who was curled up in front of the fireplace.

Dressed in a froth of embroidered shell-pink silk petticoats, she had kicked off her silk mules and had her stockinged toes to the warmth of the fire. Her hair was in “undress”, one thick rope-like braid down her back with the ends bound up and secured with a pink silk ribbon. She was dangling this silk ribbon just out of the reach of a fluffy white kitten with black-tipped ears. Every so often she would drop the ribbon within reach of the ball of fluff so he could paw at it, sink his little white teeth into it, and pretend to capture it. Jane would then disentangle the ribbon and pull it up out of the way again, laughing at the kitten’s antics as it jumped up on its hind legs only to flip over and land on all fours. She would then scoop it up, pet it, nuzzle it then set it down again to begin the game again.

Despite her preoccupation with her new and fascinating playmate, she was listening attentively to the views of Willis and the housekeeper on whether to serve the Lords of the Admiralty, the Chancellor of the Exchequer and the Privy Council their dinner before or after the Council meeting. It was the Earl’s turn to host the nuncheon, but given the Chancellor’s weak stomach, not to mention the propensity of several of the Lords to drink too much before the meeting had even commenced, there was debate as to whether it was a sensible idea to eat first. But eating first meant that there was the likelihood of several of the Privy Councilors suffering severe postprandial torpor. The meeting would then drag on far longer than desired by the Earl, who had an engagement to attend the theater that same evening.

“Why not serve nuncheon during the Councilors’ meeting?” Jane suggested, taking her attention from the kitten but still dangling the ribbon to keep it distracted. She glanced at the secretary, who had his elbows on the appointment book in his lap and his gaze on the feisty ball of fluff. “Of course it will be more difficult for you to keep minutes of the meeting, Mr. Ellis, what with footmen going to and fro with dishes and their lordships distracted by the food, but I see it as the only way of keeping the majority of the Councilors content. Naturally, I know nothing of such matters, and you will have to seek Lord Salt’s approval for the scheme, but it may just allow his lordship to wind up the meeting in time for him to change for the theater?”

The housekeeper and under-butler looked at one another as if the idea had not occurred to them but was just the answer they were looking for. What was Mr. Ellis’s opinion?

But Arthur Ellis hadn’t heard a word. He was too enthralled watching the Countess playing with the black and white kitten, a gift from a newfound admirer; one of many gifts, to have arrived that morning, but by far the best received. There were posies, cards of invitation, scented handkerchiefs, a fur muff, a gouache fan, and several parcels yet to be unwrapped. The kitten had been delivered in its own velvet-lined basket, with a porcelain dish and a pint of fresh cream. There was a note tied to the basket:

Pascoe, Lord Church sends his compliments to Jane, Countess of Salt Hendon. May she prove a good mother to Viscount Fourpaws.

The secretary wasn’t sure what was meant by the note, but he had a very good sense that contained within it was a message for the Earl, and that his employer would not be pleased, however much the Countess might delight in Lord Church’s gift. He had the uncomfortable satisfaction of being proved right when the Earl shocked the assembled company by appearing in the doorway unshaven, undressed and unimpressed.

“Mr. Ellis? What is your opinion of my scheme?” Jane repeated, and smiled when the secretary gave a start, nodded and dropped his gaze to the appointment book.

When Willis repeated the Countess’s idea for the Privy Council nuncheon Arthur Ellis quickly concurred, saying he was only too pleased to take the minutes of the meeting during nuncheon, the food being a welcome diversion for those Councilors who had a tendency to digress from the topic; a circumstance that particularly annoyed Lord Salt.

Dipping his quill in the ink pot of the Standish placed on the chaise longue beside him, he made a note in the margin of the appointment book. He was about to move on to the next matter on his agenda when every servant in the room suddenly registered mute astonishment, became as stone then dropped to a curtsy or doubled over in a bow, gaze on their shoes. When the Countess scrambled to her feet with a radiant smile, the secretary knew immediately who was at his back. He shot up off the chaise, open appointment book hugged to his chest, and with the sudden depressing realization that he had pressed wet ink to the front of his best brown wool waistcoat.

“Bloody Hell!” Salt exclaimed, bringing himself up short and retreating to stand in the doorway at the unexpected sight of half a dozen of his upper-servants occupying his wife’s sitting room. Despite his embarrassment at being in a state of undress, the kitten intrigued him. “Where did you find such a ferocious animal, my lady?”

“His name is Viscount Fourpaws,” Jane told him, brushing out the creases in her petticoats. She scooped up the mewing kitten and presented him to her husband. “I’m sure he thinks he is very ferocious, which is all that matters.”

Salt held the tiny bundle of white fluff in the palm of one large hand and unconsciously tickled its throat with a long finger. “I see her ladyship has received more than a kitten by this morning’s post,” he commented, not surprised by the array of gifts and flowers piled on the sofa and scattered over the carpet. He had a fair idea who they were from. At the tennis tournament every male present had complimented him on his wife’s beauty and grace. He smiled down at Jane. “And who sent you this brute?”

“Lord Church,” Jane told him simply and retrieved the note that had been tied to the kitten’s basket. “See… Oh! How silly of me, you don’t have your eyeglasses,” she apologized, Salt slipping the card into a pocket without reading it, looking even more uncomfortable, if that was possible given he was unshaven, his hair fell unbrushed about his shoulders and he was naked under a flimsy silk banyan. She took back the kitten when he held it out.

“Return it,” he ordered and addressed his secretary. “Ellis, I’ll see you in the bookroom in an hour.” Then turned on a bare heel and strode off through Jane’s apartments to his own.

Jane followed, kitten clasped to her silk bodice.

“You can’t be so mean spirited! Just because I made a slip of the tongue about your weak eyes—”

“I’m not that puerile, you silly girl!” he answered gruffly, marching onwards.

“If you want the truth, you are just being stubbornly unreasonable about wearing your eyeglasses in public. Poor eyesight is nothing of which to be ashamed. Not when you are perfect in every other way. Everyone has some physical flaw they do not like and cannot alter.”

“Ha! Thus spake perfection herself!”

Jane frowned. “Now who’s being childish? Just because I have a pleasing countenance does not mean I don’t have flaws. I wish I were taller and plumper, like most females. And my mouth—I don’t like it. I have a perpetual pout. It makes me look the spoiled child. Don’t laugh. It’s true.”

Salt stopped at the door to his rooms and faced her with a smile. “I like you just the way you are, Jane, particularly your lovely mouth. But the kitten must be sent back.”

She blushed at his simple compliment. “And you’re just as handsome wearing eyeglasses,” she said shyly, looking up at him. “The kitten stays.”

“How can you say that when you’ve only ever seen me wearing the damn bloody nuisances once, and that was years ago! The kitten goes.”

“I must be one of the few people to have ever seen you in your eyeglasses. So it’s not something to forget, is it? You’re just being stubborn. I won’t send the kitten back.”

He leaned his wide shoulders against the doorframe with a huff and pulled out Lord Church’s note and held it up to her. “What does it say?”

She read the note aloud.

“Dear Pascoe,” drawled the Earl with a twisted smile. “He is all consideration for your welfare, my lady. He makes my wife a mother when I cannot. The kitten most certainly will be returned.”

He wrenched open the door and kept walking until he reached his closet. To his surprise, Jane followed him through to this most private of male bastions. When Andrews saw the Countess he immediately downed shaving blade and leather sharpening strap, covered a bowl of soapy water with a hand towel. With a bow, he then retreated to the dressing room to occupy himself until such time as the Earl was ready to be shaved.

“You believe by sending me the kitten he is having a cruel joke at your expense?” Jane asked calmly, stroking Viscount Fourpaws because he was mewing and probably in need of another bowl of cream after all his exertions with the ribbon. “But if you make me return him, won’t Lord Church know he has gained his object?”

“It doesn’t mean I have to accept his substitute for a child!”

Jane tilted her head in thought. “How does Lord Church know about the physician’s diagnosis?”

“Who doesn’t know?” he retorted flippantly, flinging out an arm. Adding for her benefit when she continued to look up at him expectantly, “Amongst the nobility, news that an earl is incapable of producing an heir is gazetted.” He rubbed his cheek, grimaced at the feel of stubble under his fingers, then ran a hand through his uncombed hair, and was similarly disgusted at this want of grooming. “Now if you would allow me, I’d like to make myself presentable,” he added, much subdued. “I have a full afternoon of appointments and then I have a prior engagement at the theater.”

“Have you ever wondered if the physicians may have got it wrong?” she asked quietly, ignoring his request for her to leave him to dress. “Perhaps you may have fathered a child or-or children but because a physician says otherwise, you haven’t bothered to even think that these children could be yours?”

Salt smiled uncomfortably and casually flicked her flushed cheek. “God help me, Jane, but your disturbingly frank questions would unnerve a lesser man. First you lecture me on catching a social disease and now you raise the possibility that I may have unintentionally fathered a bastard or two. Is no topic sacred?”

“Not between husband and wife,” Jane answered with a bashful smile, but her smile faded thinking how best to explain the rest of her thoughts.

She was utterly convinced he had never received the locket with her note telling him of her pregnancy. But how to broach this topic without blurting out the truth and revealing the whole heartbreaking story and the very real possibility of not being believed? He might even think her demented! Perhaps it was best if she just plunged in at another point that might help convince him that he was every bit as fertile as the next man. It was only halfway through her disjointed speech that she realized she had taken the wrong approach altogether, but by then the damage was done.

“From the little I overheard yesterday at the tennis tournament, there is a great deal about the activities of the nobility I do not understand,” she said conversationally, taking a turn about her husband’s expansive closet, the kitten now asleep in the crook of her folded arms. “It seems that as long as a married woman is discreet she can have an affair with, say for argument’s sake, her husband’s best friend if she so wishes and no one bats an eyelid. Surely, if this is the case, and the woman becomes pregnant, how does she know who is the father of her baby; her husband or her lover?”

Salt loosely folded his arms across his chest, brown eyes fixed to Jane’s slightly flushed face. There was an edge to his voice. “I would know.”

“But that’s just it. If the physicians have got it wrong and you are fertile, then you wouldn’t know. You could very well be Ron and Merry’s father and how would you know? Only if their mother confessed the truth to you, and she’s unlikely to do that because her husband was your best friend.” She was rattling on now because Salt was staring at her, face devoid of natural color. “Ron does have a great look of you, and that could easily be explained because his father and you were first cousins. Of course I never met St. John so I don’t know if you and he were much alike and he may very well be their father, but I’m not the only one it seems who has asked the question. So you see, you could be able to father a child but because you believe the physicians you haven’t suspected that you are just as virile as the next man.”

“When you accused me of breach of promise I thought I could stoop no lower in your eyes. I see that I was wrong,” he enunciated very quietly, and in a voice that froze Jane’s marrow as he came towards her, “Now you accuse me of cuckolding my best friend and closest cousin. Not only that, but impregnating his wife with my offspring. If it was not so despicable it would be laughable.”

“But if you and Lady St. John were lovers and you can father a child—”

“It is immaterial to this argument whether I can father a child or not!” he spat out, grabbing her shoulders hard and jolting the sleeping kitten awake. “I may be blind but it’s you who needs spectacles of comprehension! What you fail to see, what has failed to penetrate beyond your beautiful façade to your brain, is that St. John was my best friend.”

“That does not stop Diana St. John being ears over toes in love with you!”

“Regardless of his wife’s infatuation for me, I would never cuckold St. John, even in death,” Salt stated flatly, backing her towards the door. “St. John knew this. To his bitter disappointment he also knew he could trust me better than he could his own wife! So, Madam, your argument about my fertility falls flat.”

Jane stared up into his brown eyes. “Ron and Merry are two lovely children and if not St. John’s then I wish they were yours.”

“They are not,” he stated emphatically. “That statement of fact should snuff any flame of hope you may have held that I could give you a child.” He let her go, a sudden dryness in his throat, and jerked opened the door that led back to her apartments. “You’ll have to content yourself with mothering that little brute in your arms. He’s mewing for milk. You’d best do your duty by him. Now, please, be good enough to leave me in peace with my deficiencies.”

Jane did not move. She did not take her gaze from her husband. Absently, she stroked the kitten, hoping to distract it from its hunger pains a little longer.

“Do you not sometimes harbor doubts about the physician’s opinion?” she persisted, adding in a halting voice, “That perhaps—if two people love one another deeply enough—their prayer for a child will be answered?”

At that Salt dropped his gaze from staring over her head to look directly into her eyes, big, blue eyes swimming with tears. She was utterly wretched and hopeful at one and the same time. He didn’t doubt her misery was genuine. It caused him to experience a stab of inadequacy so acute that it hurt his chest. How ironic that he’d had the same wishful thought as she’d just voiced after making love to her in the summerhouse. He had asked her to marry him, aware that he could not give her children and yet recklessly believing that perhaps, if they loved one another enough, their union would be blessed.

What romantic claptrap!

He was well aware of the ten year joke whispered amongst society that the lusty Earl of Salt Hendon couldn’t even get a whore with child. The odds entered in White’s betting book was a hundred to one that he would father a son; fifty to one he could get a mistress with child; two to one he would remain childless.

Yet, he couldn’t help a twinge of wanting the impossible. What he wouldn’t give to make Jane pregnant, to see her grow plump and round with their child. But that possibility didn’t bear thinking about because that meant growing plump and round with another man’s child. And that, for him, would be hell on earth.

He felt as wretched as she looked. With inadequacy came bitterness and anger.

“But you do not love me, Madam. You married me for Tom’s sake and I obliged your father’s dying wish and made you a countess. There is the sum total of our union. That we enjoy physical pleasure as husband and wife is mere serendipity. Content yourself with that. It’s a rare commodity amongst our kind and more than most husbands and wives of noble marriages have in common.”

Jane bowed her head to quickly wipe away tears then resolutely lifted her chin.

“You know that’s not enough—for either of us.”

“Don’t. Don’t goad me,” he said through his teeth. “I cannot father a child. I will never have a son. You will stay barren. Our marriage is destined to remain childless. How many ways do you want me to say it?” he added, gripping her upper arm, unintentionally twisting the silk of the tight sleeve under his long fingers and making her wince with pain. He jerked her closer. “Don’t ever play me for a fool. Understand? You belong to me, and only me. The males in my family have ever been uxorious, but I don’t believe in miracles. Find yourself pregnant and I won’t hesitate to kill the father of such ill-begotten offspring. Hold to that thought. It will keep you a faithful wife better than any chastity belt.” And with that he put her out into the connecting room and slammed the door.

~   ~   ~

JANE DIDN’T SEE her husband for the rest of the day. She hadn’t really expected to receive a visit from him that night, he had been so angry with her. But he came to her bedchamber in the early hours of the morning and slipped under the covers. When she drowsily asked after his day he apologized for waking her, said he had read Jacob Allenby’s will and that Tom was very fortunate to have her as a sister, then told her to go back to sleep. Of course neither of them could, and they lay awake in the dark, each acutely aware of the other, yet unsure if physical contact was wanted after their acrimonious parting earlier that day. Still, Jane was reassured by the fact he had chosen to seek her out and not gone to his own bed, or worse, to another’s.

She wasn’t sure who made the first move. All she remembered was that as she drifted off to sleep she was wrapped in the warmth of Salt’s body. And later, in the dawn light, she was woken by his caresses and soon they were making love. Both craved touch, as if pleasuring one another was the only way of communicating forgiveness for the harsh words spoken earlier. Yet, nothing was said and when they finally drifted back off to sleep in each other’s arms, satisfied and satiated, it was with a bittersweet contentment; despite forgiveness, matters remained unresolved between them.

And so they settled into a pattern of sorts in their first three months as husband and wife.

The Earl spent his days caught up in the political machinations of Whig and Tory factions and the negotiated Peace Settlement with France; carrying out parliamentary obligations to committees and to those who owed their sinecures to his patronage; and the endless round of social engagements that did not require the presence of his wife.

He confined himself to attending the male-only card parties and dinners of his friends, most of whom were unmarried or if married had been leg-shackled into arranged marriages where it was customary for husband and wife to lead separate lives, only coming together for a ball or a rout where social etiquette required that both parties of the union attend. Even Salt’s good friend the Earl Waldegrave, who was madly in love with his wife Maria, spent his social hours with his male friends at the Club, or at Strawberry Hill, the home of Waldegrave’s uncle-in-law Horace Walpole; he encouraged Salt to do likewise.

That the newly married Earl of Salt Hendon was seen about town without his wife was not thought the least odd, except by those romantically minded ladies who considered it a crying shame that such a handsome, virile nobleman had not made a love match; and by a select few male friends who dined occasionally at the Earl’s Grosvenor Square mansion and thus had met the new Countess of Salt Hendon and were of the opinion the Earl was keeping his beautiful bride from the country locked up in his London residence to have her all to himself.

It did not go unnoticed by close friends and political rivals alike that when the Countess of Salt Hendon did venture from her gilded cage she was mobbed by the admiring masses, eager to catch a glimpse of London’s latest beauty. And it was not the Earl by her side fending off the hordes but the Earl’s best friend. Be it a ride in the Green Park, attendance at a performance at Drury Lane Theatre, a shopping excursion up Oxford Street to purchase a half a dozen pairs of gloves and three new fans for her ladyship’s slender wrist, or even a visit to the tombs in Westminster Abbey, Sir Antony Templestowe was Lady Salt’s constant companion and champion.

Eyebrows were raised, tongues began to wag and the venom to drip about the young Countess and her husband’s cousin the diplomat. Sir Antony did not return to Paris to rejoin Bedford’s entourage, but remained in London paying court to his best friend’s wife. That the Earl was not in the least concerned with this state of affairs and was rarely seen in public with his wife set Polite Society wondering if there was substance to the rumor that the Countess’s outstanding beauty was overshadowed by her dim-wittedness, and thus Salt kept her locked away for fear of what she might say or do in public that could embarrass him.

Diana St. John fanned the flame of this rumor, commenting to all who enquired after the Countess that as there was nothing between her ears but wool, was it any wonder a nobleman of Salt’s intellect and political acumen considered his new wife dull in the extreme? That Jane was self-effacing, kind and always polite but not quite certain what to say when confronted with the verbose compliments of strangers, particularly the fawning attentions of gentlemen, only seemed to confirm Diana St. John’s spiteful précis.

It did not help the Countess’s cause that when she was not out and about taking sight-seeing forays with Sir Antony, now the January frosts and a bracing February had given way to a warmer if blustery March, she liked nothing better than to spend time in her apartments. With Viscount Fourpaws curled up asleep on her lap she embroidered, sketched or read. Sometimes she was content to curl up in the window seat and watch the traffic and pedestrians in the busy square below her sitting room window; the activities of this vast, noisy city a never-ending source of fascination for a girl brought up entirely in a quiet corner of Wiltshire.

Yet time alone was precious. Willis spent part of every day tutoring the new Countess in the ways of running a great household. He answered the all important questions of which upper servant held the keys to the wine cellar, to the precedence required at the dinner table: Did a Scottish Dowager Duchess outrank an English Baroness? A question easily answered by those brought up from the cradle knowing their place in society, but a complete mystery to the daughter of a country squire. Willis also proved a veritable font of information on important people and places he considered it necessary her ladyship should make it her business to know.

And if Sir Antony considered it his duty to keep his best friend’s wife entertained while the Earl was taken up with parliamentary matters, Jane’s stepbrother, who had returned to London from Bristol at the end of February, came to afternoon tea every second day, to tell her all about his latest adventures out and about in the metropolis, but in truth to keep a brotherly eye on her. While Arthur Ellis would only hint to his Oxford chum that all was not satisfactory between husband and wife in the Salt household, Billy Church bluntly told Tom that the Countess was neglected by the Earl; was being secretly courted by Billy’s superior in the Foreign Office, Sir Antony Templestowe; and that her beauty had attracted every dapper dog on the town.

Tom often brought Billy Church with him to afternoon tea and sometimes Arthur Ellis would join them. And when Hilary Wraxton and Pascoe Church made weekly visits on the pretext of enquiring how Viscount Fourpaws was getting along, Jane found herself in her sitting room surrounded by half a dozen young men. This was how Sir Antony discovered her when he poked his powdered head in to share a cup of tea, and quickly joined the group, a wary eye on Pascoe Church. But he was soon caught up in Tom and Billy’s retelling of their experiences in the riots at Covent Garden Theatre, and when Hilary Wraxton was invited to share one of his poems with the group, Sir Antony was laughing along with the rest of the assembled company.

Salt never visited his wife’s public rooms during the day but most evenings he dined at home. Yet he and Jane never dined alone. Sir Antony, despite residing at the Arlington Street Townhouse, had most of his dinners at Salt’s Grosvenor Square mansion. Some nights Arthur Ellis joined them, usually to go over Salt’s appointments of the next day, and once a week Diana St. John deigned to come to dinner with her two children. On other days, she made a point of arriving in company when Salt had open house dinners and at least ten of his colleagues and friends sat down at his table.

On these occasions, Lady St. John sat herself on Salt’s left hand and was content to leave Ron and Merry to the Countess. She would then spend the entire meal monopolizing the conversation with witty anecdotes about politics and people unknown to Jane. She was determined to outshine the new Countess, but Jane never rose to her bait, showed not the slightest annoyance that her husband’s cousin dominated the assembled company, or that the Earl, Sir Antony and Lady St. John frequently indulged in a politically charged argument for the sake of it.

Instead, Jane quietly listened to the conversations around the table, gave her opinion if asked, and spent most of the meal listening to Ron and Merry prattle on about their days. She took a keen interest in their activities and had become such a favorite of theirs since the hide ‘n’ seek incident under the dining room table that when they visited their uncle on Tuesdays, they would asked to be excused from the bookroom so that they might visit the Countess’s sitting room where, as they told the Earl, they were permitted to play with Viscount Fourpaws and listen to sickly poetry delivered by a fop in an iron wig.

Diana St. John was all for her children annoying the Countess. It meant she could monopolize the Earl’s time. It was on one such open Tuesday, with the cold anteroom full of hopeful men patiently waiting the Earl’s pleasure and Ron and Merry gone upstairs, that Diana half-reclined amongst the cushions on the chaise longue by the warmth from the fireplace closest to the Earl, who sat writing at his mahogany desk, his secretary standing silent at his left shoulder.

Her richly embroidered velvet petticoats of silver thread fell in a sweep to the floor and she had kicked off her matching mules, bare stockinged toes pointed to the flames. Her careful coiffure rested against a closed fist, a fat auburn ringlet falling across her low cut décolletage, while she languidly fluttered a filigreed ivory fan and prattled on about the latest on-dits swirling about drawing rooms concerning the Princess Augusta’s affair with Lord Bute.

This was how Sir Antony discovered the occupants of the bookroom when he put a diamond shoe buckle across the warm threshold. That his sister was holding court did not surprise him; that his cousin continued to indulge her did. He raised an eyebrow at the low cut to her bodice that revealed the dark pink tinge of her nipples, and the manner in which she reclined on the chaise was a clear invitation to seduce. That his friend continued to write without once looking up, and was providing monosyllabic replies to her questions, was evidence enough of his level of interest. It never ceased to amaze Sir Antony that for an intelligent woman his sister was a complete dunce when it came to the feelings of their cousin the Earl.

“Good God! It’s a Tuesday and you’re wearing your eyeglasses,” Sir Antony exclaimed in awe, making his presence known with an outburst that was far from the measured question he had had in mind to ask.

“Oh! So you are,” Diana commented with surprise, a glance at her brother who had sat uninvited opposite her.

Salt peered over his gold rims then returned to reading the final paragraph before putting his signature to the document. He then stood to allow his secretary to take his place to set the ink with a sprinkle of pounce powder, and came around to sit on a corner of his desk, eyeglasses still perched on the end of his long bony nose. “It appears that I was being stubbornly unreasonable about wearing my eyeglasses in public—”

“You were,” agreed Sir Antony.

“Thank you, Tony —and that, so I am informed, poor eyesight is nothing of which to be ashamed—”

“It isn’t. Sensible advice.”

The Earl’s lips twitched. “—when I am perfect in every other way.”

Sir Antony grinned. “Ah! Well, I’ll leave that subjective estimation to your fair and frank admirer.”

Salt gave a huff of embarrassed laughter. “Yes, she is bruisingly frank.”

Diana St. John glanced from one male face to the other with no idea they were referring to the Countess. She sat up with a frisson of expectation, completely misreading the mood. “How unfair of you not to tell me Salt’s latest interest!” she pouted at her brother then looked at the Earl. “So who is it? Jenny? Frances? Margaret?”

Salt removed his eyeglasses and pocketed them, a glance over his shoulder at Ellis. “Leave the rest. I believe you are wanted elsewhere. We can deal with the Rockingham papers later this afternoon.”

Sir Antony took the opportunity to glare at his sister and shake his powdered head, but Diana St. John was oblivious to the warning and leapt right in. “Oh, Salt, please don’t tell me you’ve made that Morton creature your latest interest! I couldn’t bear it. She’ll positively gloat when I next see her in the Mall.”

“I wasn’t about to tell you anything of the sort, my dear,” the Earl said flatly, all humor gone. He addressed Sir Antony. “I presume you are also wanted elsewhere?”

“Oh! So you hadn’t forgotten your engagement this afternoon?”

“Not at all. Were you sent to fetch me?”

“No.”

“You perhaps presumed I had forgotten? For shame, Tony!”

Sir Antony smiled. Inwardly he was jumping for joy. It was something the Countess had let slip on one of their many excursions beyond the Grosvenor Square mansion that alerted him to the favorable turn of events within the Earl’s household. He had become very fond of Jane and he genuinely enjoyed her company for its own sake. That she loved the Earl, he was in no doubts. Being a romantically minded young man he hoped that one day her feelings for his cousin would be reciprocated.

A sennight ago she had inadvertently revealed that she and the Earl had begun spending their evenings after dinner in the bookroom, where her husband was teaching her to play at chess. A small domestic detail in itself, but knowing the Earl as he did, Sir Antony saw this gesture as a huge hurdle for the matrimonial harmony within the Salt Hendon household. Which would mean he was a step closer to fulfilling his own matrimonial plans, his motives being not entirely altruistic. And just then he heard the name of the very object of his desire and dreams. Shaking his mind free of romantic ruminations, he heard his sister say in all seriousness, as she slipped on her mules,

“But surely you cannot have any objections to George Rutherford as a suitable match for your sister? He is worth fifteen thousand a year, not a penny less, and has an estate in Ireland that’s the size of Surrey! Caroline could do worse.”

“Much worse. But she can do better.”

“Got anyone in mind?” Sir Antony asked, and inwardly cursed himself for he heard the edge to his own voice.

Salt regarded him steadily. “No. But when I do, you will be the first to know, Tony.

Diana shut her fan with a snap. “At almost eighteen, Caroline is practically on the shelf—”

“—where she will remain until her twenty-first birthday and not a day before.”

Sir Antony made his cousin a small bow of understanding. “Three years is not such a stretch when she has the rest of her life to be married.” And abruptly changed the subject. “We had best not keep her ladyship waiting. I believe the entertainments are due to begin on the hour in the nursery.”

Diana St. John could barely say the word but curiosity got the better of her. “N-Nursery? What entertainments?”

“Surely Ron and Merry told you all about it, Di?”

She shrugged a bare shoulder at her brother. “Possibly. They are always prattling on about inconsequentialities that it gives one the headache. None of it bears remembering.”

Salt paused, a liveried footman holding wide the door, and regarded her steadily. “It is the anniversary of their father’s birth. Had he lived, St. John would have turned four and thirty today.”

ELEVEN

SUCH WAS THE CACOPHONY coming from behind the double doors that led into the rooms designated as the nursery, that it brought Salt up short, Sir Antony and Diana St. John at his back. But it was not the noise it was this section of the house that made him hesitate. He had not set foot on the third floor since inspecting the house just before purchase some four years ago. He could not even remember the configuration of the rooms, how many there were or how they had been furnished, if indeed they contained any furniture at all. He seemed to recall the selling agent telling him that with a coat of fresh paint, pretty wallpaper with matching curtains, and a good fire in the grates, the rooms would do very well indeed for a brood of growing noble children.

He had not given the rooms another thought, until now. He had even dismissed as farcical Diana’s refusal to mention the rooms by their designation as a theatrical means of protecting any feelings of inadequacy he had at being unable to father a child. Yet, now faced with crossing the threshold he had a twinge that Diana’s affected display of refusal was not so melodramatic after all, for it seemed laughable to be holding a birthday memoriam for a dead father in a nursery that would remain for him as silent as the grave.

Still, he could not disappoint Ron and Merry.

He had two fingers to the door handle when Diana pushed past him in a crush of petticoats to fling wide the doors. She misinterpreted his hesitation for embarrassment at being forced to enter a wasted nursery. Her own smoldering anger that the Countess had somehow deliberately set out to taunt her by using the very rooms she so despised was enough to make her drop her guard and speak without thought to her words or her audience.

The door banging hard against the wallpapered wall did not stop the chatter and movement. Those that heard Lady St. John’s outburst above the din dropped their jaws and a few little faces crumpled with fright at the sight of the angry lady. In one sweep, Diana took in the assembled company, adults taking tea and seedy cake while children played skittles or statues under the guidance of their nannies and tutors at one end of the long room. All were happy and content and enjoying themselves. The warmth and color, the freshly painted walls and upholstered furniture, the Turkey rugs covering the floorboards where small children took their first steps and chubby babies crawled, all made her seethe with resentment. Then she recognized the young woman standing beside Jane and her hazel eyes widened with new knowledge then narrowed to slits of mischief.

She saw the Countess before Jane saw her.

“Well! How like you to unsettle his lordship’s household with a pathetic display of domestic felicity!” and with a hand to her throat and a look of shocked disbelief that would have done any actress proud, she turned to the Earl with a swish of her petticoats to say in a loud whisper, “There’s Lady Elisabeth Bute that was. The silly creature has invited the Bute sisters!”

Sir Antony had seen the married daughters of the Earl’s political rival almost upon entering the room and though it raised his eyebrows in surprise he was not so dismissive or so accusatory. How was Jane to know the connection? Both young ladies were married women and thus used their husband’s moniker. Their presence in the house of their father’s political nemesis was indication enough that they looked upon Jane with great favor and were prepared to weather the displeasure of their statesmen father by visiting her home, than it did about the Countess of Salt Hendon’s lack of political acumen. Sir Antony was surprised his sister could be so blind to the gesture. Yet, he thought with a depressed sigh of resignation, where Salt was concerned it was his sister who was the simpleton.

Jane did not catch the content of Diana St. John’s outburst, only her derisory tone. She had been in conversation with Lady Elisabeth Bute Sedley, whose much-admired newborn son was cradled in her arms, and because Lady Elisabeth’s two-year-old daughter was intent on seeking her mother’s undivided attention with as much chattering as possible; a grubby fist clutched to Jane’s petticoats, while a nurse tried to untangle the chubby fingers free from the delicate silk. Thus when Jane swiveled on a silk-slippered foot, baby cradled in her arms, it was not in answer to Diana St. John’s spiteful remark but in expectation of seeing her husband.

Her blue eyes lit up and her smile widened, but fell away when Salt merely blinked at her as if she was a stranger. When she saw him sway, face blanched as white as the elaborately tied cravat about his throat, she carefully placed the sleeping infant into the waiting arms of its wet-nurse, scooped up the two-year-old who was taken away by her nurse, and scurried across the crowded room to his side.

Sir Antony had Salt by the elbow. “It’s all right, dear fellow. I have you.”

“It’s… I’ll be fine directly,” the Earl muttered, mortified to be so weak-minded as to be affected by such a trifle as the sight of Jane with a baby in her arms and another tugging at her skirts.

He swallowed and took a deep breath, and for want of something to mask his momentary feebleness, he glanced about the room, seeing people without seeing faces. But his heart would not quiet and continued to pound hard against his chest, and no wonder. He had suffered a shock. The recurring dream he had been experiencing every night for a fortnight had come to life before his very eyes. Not entirely accurate, for in his dream (or was it a nightmare?) Jane was heavily pregnant. But the infant in her arms and the child clinging to her skirts were just as he had conjured them up in his disturbed sleep. So vivid and repetitive was this dream that one night he had woken in a lather of perspiration and immediately escaped to his own rooms to douse his body with cold water.

The very next night he had stayed away from Jane’s rooms, and the night after that a late parliamentary sitting had given him a reason to dine with Sir Antony and spend the night at his Arlington Street townhouse. Alone in a cold bed, staring up through the darkness at the plastered ceiling, he had ruminated over the reasons for the recurring dream and come to the realization that it was guilt that haunted him; guilt at marrying Jane when he knew very well he could not give her children. He had denied her motherhood to serve his own selfish need. Guilt was eating away at him. He who had spent his life commanding and receiving at will felt utterly helpless for the first time in his life, and he had no idea what he could do about it and that made him utterly miserable.

“You are just in time for the puppet show, my lord,” Jane said brightly, as if nothing was amiss but a worried glance exchanged with Sir Antony, who had relinquished the Earl’s elbow to allow Jane to take his arm. “Mr. Wraxton was all for commencing the afternoon’s entertainments but Ron and Merry would not listen to his entreaties. They said we must wait for you, and so we have.”

The crowd parted to allow the Earl and Countess to pass to the far end of the room, and then closed ranks, swallowing them up in a sea of silk before Diana St. John could follow. That she was shown the backs of these perfumed and patched parents of precious brats did not greatly bother her, only that they had dared to side with the Countess against her. As it so happened, being left stranded at the back of the room gave her the perfect opportunity to slip away unseen to seek out the Countess’s maid.

Jane guided Salt to a corner of the room where the adults had seated themselves on an arrangement of ladder back chairs, in front of which were half a dozen children cross-legged on plump cushions. All before a raised platform that had upon it a marionette theater. Nurses, nannies, and tutors stood off to one side with their smaller charges and babes in arms, while servants in livery scurried about with food and drink on silver trays for members of the audience.

“Uncle Salt! Sit here next to Tom. Sit here! It’s about to start!” Merry demanded eagerly, grabbing for the Earl’s hand.

“Not the puppet show,” corrected Ron with a roll of his eyes. “We have to sit through a yawning poem first.”

“But you are just as eager as the rest of us to see Mr. Wraxton’s iron wig,” Merry countered. “Isn’t he, Aunt Jane?”

Salt cleared his throat as he took a swift look about the long room, with its fresh coat of powder blue paint, sprigleaf patterned wallpaper and soft matching curtains. He smiled down at his wife. “All your endeavor, my lady?”

“I cannot claim all the glory. Tony, Merry, Ron and Tom proffered their expert opinion on decoration. Although I suspect Ron and Tom will deny any involvement in such a womanly venture. Tony is made of sterner stuff.”

This made Salt laugh, a glance over her dark hair at her stepbrother who gave a shrug of defeat. “I do not doubt it. Not a very manly pursuit to own to poring over swatches of fabric.”

“Speak for yourself, Salt,” Sir Antony quipped, quizzing glass plastered to an eye and a wink at Tom. “You’d be surprised how many pretty girls occupy the counters of drapery shops.”

“Uncle Salt! Sit!” demanded Merry, pointing to an empty chair central to the row as she scrambled on to one of two tasseled cushions at the claw and ball foot of his chair. “Aunt Jane? Aunt Jane! Here! Here!”

Jane let go of the Earl’s arm and would have stepped away to take her place on the cushion placed between Merry and Ron, but he grabbed her hand.

“Are you abandoning me, my lady?”

Jane looked down at his possessive hold on her wrist. “I—The children have reserved a cushion and I promised…”

He let her go and sat where requested with an outward flick of his frock coat skirts. “Naturally they have placed you at my feet which is only right and proper.”

Jane glanced up, saw the wink and turned away to sink down on a cushion beside Merry. He leaned in to whisper at her ear before settling back to enjoy the performance.

“I would gladly trade places if it was in my power to do so.”

His words were still reverberating in her ear as Hilary Wraxton minced across to stand center stage dressed in a canary yellow frock coat with matching breeches, diamond paste buckles in the large leather tongues of his red-heeled shoes, and carrying a lace handkerchief. He unfurled a parchment and held it out at arm’s length then cleared his throat as if about to make an announcement as town crier. But it was at his head that all eyes were glued. He was wearing a full bottom wig, all tight brown curls and festooned above each ear with yellow ribbons.

A strident elderly female voice cut into the stunned silence.

“What’s that you say, dear boy? Iron? The fellow’s wearing an iron wig?”

“Can’t tell ’em from the real thing.”

“What? You must be mad! It’s bloody obvious the thing ain’t real!”

“Steady! Ladies and brats present.”

“Sorry.”

“Ha! Ha! Can’t tell horsehair from the real thing so why should iron be any different. Aye? Still. Ridiculous creation.”

“Hope the poetry is better than the finery.”

“It’s an Ode.”

“Ode-or. Ha! Ha!”

“Oh do be quiet and let the fellow get on with it!”

“Yes, do!”

“What’s it called, this Ode?”

“Ode to a Bloody Obvious Iron Wig. Ha! Ha!”

“Not amusing at all, George.”

“What’s that you say about a carriage, dear boy?” came the same strident elderly female voice. “I thought we were talking about wigs?”

“Do listen, Aunt! Hilary’s poem. It’s called an ode, and it’s about a carriage.”

“Good—Lord!”

“Shhhhhhh!”

The children were being better behaved than the assembled adults, who giggled behind fluttering fans and guffawed into lace handkerchiefs. Jane glanced over her shoulder at the Earl.

“You see the level to which poor Mr. Wraxton has had to condescend to garner your patronage, my lord.”

Salt playfully tugged one of her curls.

“Wearing an iron wig at a children’s tea party is certainly descending, my lady. But why does Hilary require my patronage?”

“Oh? You have neglected him! Poor Mr. Wraxton will be devastated if he discovers his poetry accumulating in your bookroom remains untouched and unread.”

Salt continued to play with her hair.

“I’ve been rather preoccupied of late… If poor Mr. Wraxton wishes to place blame, he had best place it at your elegant feet. No! You cannot argue with that. Now do stop distracting me,” he added loftily, eyes on the stage. “I must give my full attention to Hilary’s ode.” And in the manner of a sultan, waved a languid lace covered hand for Mr. Wraxton to begin his recitation: Ode to a Well-Sprung Carriage.

Oh, thy torment of a rut in the road

To the muck and manure, the slush and the slurry…

~   ~   ~

IT WAS USUALLY after dinner, when tea and coffee were taken in the Long Gallery and her children drew Salt and Sir Antony, and that creature with her big blue eyes and radiant complexion, and any of the guests who had a mind for childish pursuits, to play at charades, that Diana St. John quietly disappeared upstairs to the Countess’s private chamber.

She was never away for more than half an hour at a time. And when she returned without ever having been missed, it was in a brooding temper. Because as hard as she fought to remain a force in the Earl’s life since his marriage, with her disruptive Tuesday visits with her children in tow, being within his orbit at all the same parties, party-political dinners, routs and theater evenings, there was one area of the Earl’s life that remained off-limits and beyond her control to influence. She might continue to insinuate herself into his waking hours, but his nights belonged very much to his wife, and much to her angry disgust, only his wife.

That he had not strayed one night from the marital bed since his marriage gnawed away at her day and night. She tried to convince herself that to a man of Salt’s experience and strong appetites, physical gratification was as necessary and as mundane as satisfying hunger and thirst, no more and no less. But when the Countess’s personal maid reluctantly told her that the Earl had not only spent every night since his marriage with his wife but always stayed the entire night in her bed, Diana St. John began to realize with bitter disappointment that such long-held, cold-blooded beliefs could be applied to Salt’s lovers, but not, it seemed, to his wife.

Hiding her anger, frustration, and intense jealousy, behind a mask of indifference, she bided her time. She waited for the maid to tell her the inevitable news she dreaded to hear, and yet desperately wanted to know, so she could finally do something to put an end to her misery. The anticipation was almost worse than the news. After three months of being told there was no news to tell, Diana St. John was beginning to suspect the maid was holding out on her.

“Are you absolutely certain?” she demanded fiercely, backing the maid into the Countess’s closet and shutting over the door. “You’re not mistaken? She’s not keeping the news from you?”

Anne sniffed loudly, feeling wretched at abusing the young Countess’s trust for the umpteenth time, yet so afraid of this woman, who stood so menacingly close that her legs wobbled with fear, that she did her bidding without question. “Her ladyship hasn’t said a word to me.”

“That doesn’t mean she isn’t breeding, nitwit! You’re supposed to look for signs, anything that might give me a clue.”

“Yes, my lady,” Anne replied meekly and cast her gaze to the floorboards.

Diana St. John frowned and tapped the closed sticks of her fan in the palm of her hand as she took a thoughtful turn about Jane’s dimly lit closet. She came back to the maid, who was too scared to look her in the eye. “But from what you’ve been telling me he’s been mounting her every night,” she added silkily. “Sometimes twice in a night. So it stands to reason that such a healthy, vigorous male as his lordship would’ve planted enough seed to start a garden of brats by now… God, one wonders where he gets the stamina, what with parliamentary sittings and debates and those long late hours spent alone in his bookroom poring over sinecure paperwork…”

“Not alone, my lady,” Anne interrupted, latching on to mention of the bookroom and prepared to confide an interesting turn of events, if it meant diverting this woman from what was more momentous news. When Diana glared at her and waved her fan to and fro, for her to continue, she said with a swallow, “Her ladyship has taken to spending an hour before bed in the bookroom—”

“What?”

“—the bookroom with his lordship.”

“No.”

Anne recoiled at the ferocity of the denial and backed away as Diana St. John began to pace again.

“That’s my room, our room!” she growled, and such was her caged fury that she snapped the delicate latticed carved sticks of her fan with thumb and forefinger. “That’s where we spend our time. What’s she doing in there?”

“Mr. Willis tells me his lordship is teaching her ladyship to play at chess.”

Diana St. John blinked. “Chess? Why would he spend his time playing at chess with that simpleton?”

Anne bit back a retort about kindness not being an indication of idiocy.

“What else can you tell me?”

“Her ladyship sometimes takes her embroidery with her to the bookroom to—”

“Not that, you ridiculous creature! What else can you tell me about her besides the fact she opens her legs and is playing chess?”

Anne winced at such crudity and racked her mind for some other piece of news.

“They-they talk in bed…”

“Talk? Talk? In bed?”

“Yes, my lady. When his lordship first comes to the bedchamber they talk; sometimes they talk for well over an hour.”

Diana St. John was bewildered and she voiced her bemusement aloud. “But what could they possibly have to talk about? Why would he want to talk to her?”

“I am sorry, my lady, but I cannot hear what they talk about, I just hear them talking.”

Diana St. John’s brow was still furrowed, as if this piece of information was so incredible as to be disbelieved. So much so that Anne rattled on for fear the woman would turn on her with violence.

“One night last week his lordship didn’t come to her ladyship’s bed, my lady,” she said in a rush, hating herself for being such a telltale.

This pronouncement ended Diana St. John’s preoccupation and she stopped her pacing and looked the maid up and down with interest. “Did he not? Now that is a very interesting piece of news indeed,” she purred with satisfaction. “Do you remember the precise night?”

“It was two nights, my lady. Wednesday night and Thursday night.”

Diana St. John’s brow cleared and her eyes shone. She looked past the maid’s shoulder at some distant point. “Wednesday and Thursday night! Well! Well! Better still! Two nights left all alone. Two nights he was with someone else…”

“Oh, I don’t think so, my la—”

“What would you know to the contrary?”

Anne felt the sting before she realized she’d been struck. She crumpled against a dresser drawer, a hand to her smarting cheek. “Andrews—Andrews is his lordship’s valet and he said on one of those nights his lordship came home in the early hours of the morning and not wanting to disturb her ladyship, stayed in his own bed and—”

“And? And? That’s only one of the two nights accounted for! And? Speak up! Speak up! I haven’t got all night.”

“The-the second night, my father Mr. Springer, he’s the butler at the Arlington townhouse, said his lordship dined with Sir Antony Templestowe and then stayed the night in his old suite of rooms on account of the very late hour.”

Diana St. John clucked and cooed and smiled. “Well, little Anne. You have managed to engage two households in spying upon their lord and master; every servant with their beady little eyes to the keyholes! Well done!” Almost instantly her face darkened. “The servants know this, but I presume her ladyship has been too timid to enquire of her husband’s servants as to their master’s whereabouts on those nights?” When the maid nodded she sighed her satisfaction. “Good. Her reticence will serve me well.” She stuck the end of her broken fan under Anne’s chin. “You still have not told me what I want to know.”

“My lady?”

“Tell me what I want to know or I will return downstairs this instant and inform his lordship in front of his guests that I found the Countess’s personal maid on her knees for the under-butler!”

Anne curbed the desire to burst into tears to reply haltingly, “Her ladyship—her ladyship hasn’t had her womanly courses since-since marrying his lordship.” She prattled on because Diana St. John’s face had taken on a deathly hue, “And she is off her food, my lady. And this past week she’s been feeling queasy and faint, more so in the mornings. She’s more herself after she’s nibbled on a dry biscuit and taken a cup of weak black tea, though she hardly sips more than a mouthful at best…”

“His lordship doesn’t suspect does he?” she added anxiously, giving the maid’s arm a shake. “She hasn’t told him?”

“No, my lady.”

Diana St. John breathed an audible sigh, “That’s something to be thankful for in the creature’s reticence! No doubt waiting for just the right moment to give him the good news,” she said sarcastically and laughed. “Fool!” She stared at Anne, saying matter-of-factly, “Tomorrow morning I will send a lackey with a small package. Inside the package you will find a blue bottle of medicinal syrup. You are to put a teaspoon of this medicine in the dish of black tea you prepare for the Countess. Make certain you stir it thoroughly. You may have to give her another dose the following morning. All being well, the medicine will do its job to everyone’s satisfaction.” She looked the maid up and down with a haughty frown. “You don’t have any questions, do you?”

Anne shook her head and dropped her chin. “No, my lady,” she answered obediently and curtseyed. “I understand you perfectly.”

Diana St. John gave the girl’s reddened cheek a perfunctory pat and swept out of the Countess’s apartments and down the wide staircase to rejoin the dinner guests in the Long Gallery, wretched that her worst fears had been confirmed, that the Countess of Salt Hendon was with child, yet relieved that the wait was over and she was now able to do something about it.

No sooner had Anne closed over the door to the closet than she rushed across to the darkest corner of the room where out into the candlelight stepped Mr. Rufus Willis, grim-faced and determined. He had wedged himself in the space between two mahogany tall boys, out of sight, yet well able to hear the conversation between his betrothed and the Lady St. John. It was the first time he had ever eavesdropped on his betters, but he had put aside his principles, deciding that the seriousness of the allegations Anne had brought against the Earl’s cousin called for drastic measures.

He gathered the weeping Anne to him and after a few moments of holding her, stepped back and handed her his handkerchief.

“Wipe your tears, my dear,” he said calmly. “We don’t want her ladyship to suspect.”

“I can’t take much more of that horrid woman, Rufus.” Anne sniffed. “I know you have cautioned me not to talk about his lordship’s cousin in such a fashion but do you not now see what a horrid, nasty creature she truly is? I wish I could tell her to her face. I wish I wasn’t such a coward. She knows now about the babe and that’s what we wanted to avoid all along!” She gripped the under-butler’s sleeve convulsively. “Now do you believe me, Rufus? Now do you see that she means her ladyship harm.”

“Yes, my dear. I believe you,” confessed a grim-faced Willis. “And you are not a coward. It took great courage to tell me about Lady St. John. Now I must return to my duties before I am missed. On no account are you to administer the medicinal syrup to her ladyship. As soon as the opportunity arises bring the package to me.”

Anne followed her betrothed to the servant door. “You mean to give it to his lordship?”

“Yes, my dear. Have no fear, when the time is right, his lordship will be provided with all the evidence required to know his cousin is an extremely wicked and treacherous woman.” He lightly kissed Anne’s reddened cheek. “Be brave, dearest Anne. The Countess needs our support now more than ever.”

Anne smiled shyly but said fearfully, “Be careful, Rufus. Lady St. John is capable of harming whoever stands in her way; she is so blinded with love for his lordship.”

“Yes,” Willis agreed. “But Lady St. John is not in love with his lordship, my dear. She is obsessed with him. That makes the situation far more perilous for those he cares about, and even more dangerous for Lady Salt now she is with child.”

~   ~   ~

JANE WOULD HAVE been greatly surprised but oddly comforted to know Willis’ opinion of the Lady St. John because it so matched her own feelings of apprehension, for herself, her husband and most importantly for the new life she was now carrying. She dared not confide to a soul that she was with child. Not until she had told the Earl. She was so happy to think they were to have a child, but the fear of losing this baby as she had the first, and of her husband’s incredulous reaction to the news, made her wary and hesitant. First she had to break him of the stubborn belief that he was infertile.

She had considered confiding in Sir Antony to whom she had become close since he had been appointed to watch over her. She had teased him several times about his new role and he had insisted that he much preferred to be in her company than return to Paris. If the truth be told, shopping in Oxford Street and attending readings of Hilary Wraxton’s absurdly odd poetry, while sporting an iron wig, were vastly more entertaining than listening to the monologues of the parsimonious Duke of Bedford. Besides, the longer he remained in London the more likely the chance he would be invited to Salt Hall for the Easter break, and there see the Lady Caroline Sinclair. Of course, this hope he kept secret until he found himself confiding his muddled feelings for Salt’s sister to Jane.

“Salt doesn’t want Caroline to have her come out until next Season,” explained Sir Antony, stretched out on the chaise longue in Jane’s pretty sitting room. He was watching her seated in the window seat, head bent over her needlepoint. “That’s understandable given she don’t turn eighteen until the summer. He thinks her too young.”

“What do you think?”

Sir Antony gave an involuntary laugh. He still found Jane’s blunt questions disconcerting, though refreshing. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

Jane glanced up at that, needle and thread suspended. “But if you love Lady Caroline it matters a great deal, doesn’t it?”

“It’s not that simple, my dear,” said Sir Antony and sat up, dropping his stockinged legs to the floor and disrupting Viscount Fourpaws in the process, who had been curled up asleep on a cushion at his feet. When Jane smiled he confessed hesitantly, “I am in love with Caroline. But I don’t know if she is in love with me. She thinks she is but she is young and lived a sheltered life at Salt Hall. I cannot be certain that her feelings are fixed. Salt’s very protective; treats her like a daughter. Well, that’s to be expected given old Salt up and died when Caroline was still in swaddling. She was barely six years old when her mother passed away. So Salt’s the only parent she’s ever had.”

Sir Antony was suddenly bashful and scooped up Viscount Fourpaws, who had been brushing up against his stockinged leg, and absently scratched its ears. “Salt’s in the right, regardless of Caroline’s protests to the contrary. She should have her Season in London, go out in Society, meet gentlemen, dance at assemblies and balls and have young bucks falling at her feet. She needs to discover where her true heart lies.”

“And while she is having her Season, you will wait in the wings hoping she will grow up a little and, in the end, choose you?”

“Yes. Sounds simple, doesn’t it? I think I will go away. Take a posting to the Hague or St. Petersburg.”

“Will I like Caroline?”

Sir Antony smiled. “I hope so. In many ways she’s much like her peers. Loves a party, adores clothes, knows how to use her feminine charm to wrap a gentleman round her little finger; Salt in particular. But in other respects she different from other females, but that may be a consequence of her sheltered upbringing. She loves nothing better than to have her dogs to heel and go mucking about on the estate or galloping off around the countryside with her brother. Between you and me, I believe Salt encourages her boyish pursuits. Wants to keep her reined in for as long as possible before he unleashes her on the unsuspecting male populace.”

He smiled at a memory, adding “No two siblings could be so different and yet have greater affection for each other. Whereas Salt is serious and hard working, one would think on first meeting Caroline that she is feather-headed and indolent. But they do share a quick brain and she’s just as conscientious as Salt about the tenants’ welfare, and those who rely on the Sinclair largesse. And they both have kind hearts.”

He put Viscount Fourpaws back on the chaise longue and leaned forward, still rapt in his topic.

“She informed me only last summer that she wants to travel and that my chosen career as a diplomat will suit us both perfectly; the managing baggage!” he added lovingly and sat back with a huff of laughter. “Hasn’t stepped outside Wiltshire but already has our passage booked for the Bosphorus! Have you ever heard the like?”

Jane had not and if Sir Antony’s extolling of the Lady Caroline’s virtues were to the life then Jane couldn’t wait to meet this fascinating girl. She finished a stitch and wove her needle lightly into the fabric to hold it in place for another day.

“So Salt is prepared to allow Caroline to choose her husband?” she asked with practiced indifference. “I thought, perhaps, she being a great heiress, he might consider an arranged marriage. One of those political matches between two wealthy noble houses.”

“Ha! Now that’s the sort of cold-blooded union Diana encourages Salt to make for his sister. But not Salt. Deep beneath our Earl’s noble chest beats the heart of a hopeless romantic. Not that he lets on. Besides,” added Sir Antony, oblivious to the ready blush to Jane’s cheeks, “Caroline wouldn’t be party to such a union, even if Salt threatened to beat her into submission. Not that he ever would; but you get my meaning.”

“Does—does Salt know about Caroline’s plans to marry her diplomat?”

“Know? He has a fair notion of my feelings,” Sir Antony confessed. “But as to knowing Caroline’s wishes… I dread Caroline falling in love with someone else, but in many respects I dread the day I ask Salt for Caroline’s hand in marriage. He and Caroline are as close as father and daughter, and like the stern, protective father, he’ll be reluctant to give her hand to me, despite me being one of his closest friends.”

“Every father is apprehensive about giving his daughter into the care of another man. That’s to be expected. But he’ll recover.”

“I’m eight years her senior, my dear.”

Jane laid aside her needlepoint.

“Twelve years separate Salt and me, and never once did I contemplate age as a barrier to falling in love with him. Neither should it bother you, if you truly love Caroline, and she you.”

Sir Antony threw up a lace-ruffled wrist with a huff of disbelief. “That’s all very easy for you to say, but I vividly recall Salt citing the age difference between the two of you, and the fact you lived a sheltered existence at Despard Park and never had a London Season, as prime examples of why you baulked at marrying him all those years ago. That’s why he is determined Caroline must have a London Season. He will not permit her to marry until she is one and twenty, and thus is old enough to know her mind well and truly. I’m prepared to wait out those three years, if it means she has well and truly settled her affections on me.”

“For a gentleman who professes to being a diplomat, you are woefully tactless. By the by, even at eighteen years of age I well and truly knew Salt was the only man for me. So the argument about age does not wash.”

Sir Antony’s jaw swung wide and in two strides he was beside Jane on the window seat and holding her hands.

“God, I’m an unthinking ass. Forgive me. I should be stripped of my sinecures and made to walk the diplomatic plank for—”

“—speaking candidly? Not by me. But I suppose frank speech is not seen as part of the diplomatic armory, is it?”

“No, for upsetting you, my dear. The last thing I wish to do on this earth is distress you.” He kissed her hands and pressed them gently and would not let them go. “I should not have been so flippant with your feelings. We have been enough in each other’s company now that I feel we have become good friends.” He smiled into her blue eyes. “And I know that you truly do love my cousin. I see that love reflected in your face every time he walks into a room. If one day I receive but a thimbleful of such emotion from my wife I will be a contented man. No. Don’t hang your head. I want to offer you my help. Perhaps if you would allow me to understand what went wrong between you and Salt all those years ago we could put our heads together and clear the mire…”

Jane took a few moments to find her composure, Sir Antony’s kind words drying her throat, but she wasn’t given the opportunity to respond because the sitting room door opened and in walked her husband dressed magnificently in a dark blue velvet frock coat with silver lacings. His hair was powdered and tied with a black ribbon and across his chest was the blue riband of the Most Noble Order of the Garter; a number of lesser orders and decorations pinned to the breast of his silver embroidered waistcoat. He looked up from the flat rectangular box in his hand and frowned as Sir Antony and Jane sprang apart and were uncomfortable; Sir Antony on his feet and Jane to pick up her discarded needlepoint.

“You’re not wearing powder,” he stated, an eye on his wife’s simply dressed hair, swept up off her lovely neck and affixed with many pins and a couple of strategically placed diamond encrusted clasps, a weight of dark curls falling about her shoulders.

“No, it does not agree with me or my complexion,” she replied simply. She poked her small, silk clad foot out from under yards of soft blue watered silk. “But I am wearing shoes with a two inch heel so I can at least stand beside you and look the part. Although, I doubt I shall be noticed beside such a wall of decoration.”

“Blinding, ain’t they?” commented Sir Antony with seeming irreverence for his best friend’s noble orders. He brushed down the sleeves of his frock coat and stretched his white stockinged legs. He too was dressed in his best silks and wore hair powder to attend the Richmond ball, the quantity of lace at his wrists and throat compensation for his lack of noble orders. “Poor Andrews must’ve bloodied his thumbs pinning all that lot on. Or does he wear gloves to catch the drips before they splatter the noble chest?”

“That Florentine green frock coat becomes you better than you know, Tony,” Salt said with a crooked smile and handed Jane the velvet-covered box. “Those petticoats are very fetching,” he commented, an understatement given Jane could only be described as breathtakingly beautiful in a low, square cut bodice with tight sleeves and matching silk petticoats that accentuated her slim arms and back. He smiled down at her; a smile Sir Antony had come to notice the Earl kept exclusively for his wife. “Your choice will complement the locket very well.”

“Locket?” Jane heard herself say, heart thudding against her chest as she stared at the flat box now in her hand. “What locket is that, my lord?”

“The Sinclair locket.”

Returning this family heirloom surely signified he had traveled a long way down the path to putting their past behind them, and was now prepared to go forward with her into the future. It brought tears of happiness and memories of the last time he had given it to her, in the summerhouse, when he had proposed to her.

“Where… Where did it come from?” she asked, slightly dazed, and hesitated to pry open the lid.

“From the family vault. Where else?”

“No. Before it was put back in the vault. After—”

“Sir Felix returned it,” he interrupted quietly.

Jane was nonplussed. “My father? I do not understand.”

“Sir Felix returned it at my request.”

“At your request? You requested it be returned? Why?”

The Earl was uncomfortable. He glanced fleetingly at Sir Antony, who was pretending an inordinate interest in the manicured nails of his right hand, before meeting Jane’s open look. “I thought it right and proper after I received word from Jacob Allenby that you had ended our engagement and were living under his protection.”

Jane’s gaze never wavered from his handsome face. “I did not end our engagement, my lord, nor could Mr. Allenby tell you any such thing.”

Salt put up his brows, half-incredulous. “Why do you say so, my lady?”

“Because I told no one we were engaged. You asked that I keep our engagement to myself until your return. And so I told no one.”

“Then I wonder how Mr. Allenby came by such vital news?”

“I wonder at that too, my lord. He wrote to you?”

“No.”

“Then may I know by what method he communicated my supposed wishes?”

He inclined his powdered head, unperturbed by her bluntness. “Through a family intermediary.”

Jane swallowed. “Family intermediary?” she repeated softly, up on her heels, a shaking hand to her bare throat. But she knew whose name he would utter even before she asked. “May I know the name of this family intermediary?”

“Diana received the locket from your father—What is it? Are you unwell?” Salt asked, taking a step forward.

Jane blinked up at him, the enormity of what he had just told her making her skin crawl cold and hot at one and the same time. She glanced over at Sir Antony and saw that he was staring fixedly at her; her husband was doing likewise. What could she say? How was she to be believed over Diana St. John who was Sir Antony’s sister and who had known Salt all her life? Still, she could not let the matter rest when she knew the truth of the lie.

“My father knew nothing about the locket. He was kept in ignorance of our engagement. I-I waited as long as I could and then when you did not return I sent the locket with a note as you had instructed me to do as soon as I realized I was… When I knew about the… When I—” She faltered, too overcome to continue, and pushed the box back at Salt and scurried into her dressing room with a shaking hand covering her mouth to stop a sob.

Anne dropped the pile of linen she had scooped up into her arms and quickly helped Jane to her dressing stool. Without a word, she poured her out a glass of lemon water and held it to her mouth because the Countess’s hands were shaking. After a few sips and a couple of deep breaths Jane was more herself. Holding her hands tightly in her lap and with her back straight, she tried to compose herself and collect her thoughts.

She now knew Salt had not received the locket, sent to him when she was two months with child. She reasoned that Diana St. John must have taken delivery of the locket upon its arrival at the Arlington Street townhouse. And she was certain that Diana St. John would have known about the secret compartment just as she had made it her business to know everything there was to know about the Earl of Salt Hendon.

And the more she thought on it, the more convinced she was that it was Diana St. John who, knowing about the secret compartment, had read her note, and conveyed its message, not to its rightful recipient but to Sir Felix. She had always wondered how her father had discovered her pregnancy, now she was almost certain who had told him. How Lady St. John had managed to convey the news without divulging that Salt was the father of her child was something Jane was sure took all the woman’s cunning. For had Sir Felix ever suspected it was the Earl of Salt Hendon who had seduced and impregnated her he would have gone hot foot to London and demanded the nobleman marry her.

It was years later, when she was living under the protection of Jacob Allenby and her father was dying, that Sir Felix learned the appalling nature of what he had done. In what Jane thought a most cruel act, Jacob Allenby told her father: that the unborn child he had ordered destroyed was not of indeterminate lineage but in fact belonged to Lord Salt. He had murdered the Earl of Salt Hendon’s heir, and Jacob Allenby hoped Sir Felix burned in hell for his crime.

Jane did not doubt that Diana St. John would have removed and destroyed the little scrap of paper informing Salt of her pregnancy before returning the locket to its rightful owner. The evidence she needed to convince her husband he was capable of fathering a child, that she had been pregnant before, was lost forever.

TWELVE

‘JANE? Jane, are you perfectly well?” the Earl asked, coming through to the dressing room. He saw the maid hovering over his wife and laid the box aside on the cluttered dressing table. “If I’d known the family bauble would affect you so, I’d not have brought it out.” He took hold of her hand and found it cold, yet when he gently touched her forehead she was burning up, despite her face being deathly pale. He went down on his haunches before her. “Perhaps it would be for the best if you stayed home, what with the unseasonably cold weather—”

“No! I want to accompany you to the ball,” she answered and took a deep breath. She forced herself to look at him with a bright smile. “I’ll be fine. Truly. I’ll wear that lovely fur cloak you gave me just last week. That should keep me warm. It’s just…” She couldn’t finish the sentence and was glad when her maid jumped in with an excuse, which instantly alerted Jane that Anne knew about her pregnancy.

“Her corset, my lord!” Anne blurted out in explanation as she dropped into a curtsey and kept her eyes to the floorboards. “I’ve been lacing her ladyship’s corsets too tightly of late. That would account for her dizzy spells and-and paleness. It will only take a moment to set it to rights.”

“Yes, that must be it,” Jane agreed when Salt stood up but was unconvinced. She placed a hand on the lid of the box. “I’ll leave this until you can put it on for me.”

When she was left alone with her maid, Jane quickly pried open the lid of the box, and there, nestled on a bed of velvet was the Sinclair locket, a single large sapphire surrounded by diamonds and set into an oval of gold. The setting was suspended on a gold chain set with smaller diamonds and sapphires. It was a magnificent piece of craftsmanship and drew an awed gasp from Anne.

With shaking fingers, Jane turned over the sapphire, trying not to disturb the sit of the chain too much in the box, and searched for the tiny point of gold that was the catch that, when pressed, opened the secret compartment behind the sapphire. But as hard as she looked, as much as her fingers ran deftly around the gold lip of the claws that held the precious stones in place, she could not find the catch. It had to be there, it couldn’t just disappear. She knew how the catch worked, remembered exactly where it was, so how was it that it wasn’t there now? It didn’t make sense until Anne said conversationally,

“It’s so beautiful, my lady,” she cooed, “I never thought I’d see the like of such a locket again after leaving Lady St. John’s house—” She shut her mouth when Jane’s head snapped up. She bobbed a respectful curtsey. “I spoke out of turn. Please forgive me, my lady. Should you like another sip of lemon water?”

Jane shook her head. “Go on, Anne. Tell me about this other locket.”

“Yes, my lady,” Anne replied and obediently told Jane about Diana St. John’s dramatic reaction to misplacing her locket adding, “Her ladyship was in a state of the greatest agitation, as if her whole health and happiness was bound up in that locket. Her ladyship keeps it under her pillow and sleeps with it wrapped around her wrist every night, without fail. She never wears it out but she’s never without it. She even takes it with her when she goes to stay in the country.”

Jane turned the locket back to its face and studied it in silence. Sir Antony had told her once that the treasure trove of jewelry dripping from ears, and around the throats and wrists of the wives of nobles were mostly exacting copies of the originals, which were locked away for safe keeping; the copies made from paste so as to foil attempted theft by pickpockets, disgruntled servants and, above all, hold ups by highwaymen. So this, too, must also be a very good paste copy substituted by Diana St. John for the real locket. But why make the switch? And why hadn’t Salt noticed? Jane wondered if he had examined the locket closely since its return. If indeed he had even bothered to put on his eyeglasses to do so.

Absently, she fingered the false sapphire and diamond locket as she stared out of the carriage window at the passing traffic of carriages, sedan chairs and men on horseback. Rugged up in her new fur cloak, she wondering how she was going to recover the real locket from Lady St. John. She would have to visit the woman’s Audley Street House, but when, and what reason could she possibly give for visiting a woman who clearly disliked her? She would need to take Anne with her, who knew the house and the servants. Perhaps she could go on the excuse of taking Ron and Merry on some particular excursion about the city? She would ask Sir Antony to accompany them, but not tell him about recovering the locket, that would add validity to her visit…

“SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS, my lady?” Salt asked quietly.

He was sitting diagonally opposite Jane, Sir Antony beside him. He wasn’t surprised when she slowly turned her head to look at him blankly, her thoughts seemingly miles away.

He hadn’t taken his gaze off her since they had set off from Grosvenor Square for Richmond House by the Thames. He knew her mind to be anywhere but on the present. He wondered if he had left her alone too often during the day over the past three months. He had been a great deal caught up with parliamentary business and a host of committee meetings, but he had purposely kept his distance, so he told himself, to allow her to find her feet as the new Countess of Salt Hendon.

The real reason, however, was far more selfish and self-destructive.

By leaving her very much to herself during the daylight hours it was as if he was waiting for disaster to strike. What that disaster could be he had no idea. It somehow seemed he was not entitled to the happiness he felt when he was with her. He might not be at home much but he knew his wife had been crowned queen of the fairies by a group of young, artistically minded wealthy young gentlemen who had pretensions to artistic greatness, and with nothing better to do with their time but write poetry, act out plays and fawn over the Countess of Salt Hendon’s beauty. He was kept informed of their comings and goings and had even now read a number of Hilary Wraxton’s poems, all of which he knew were a source of great mirth at the Countess’s afternoon teas. Salt considered them harmless confections of fun, but he wasn’t particularly pleased that the iron-wig wearing Wraxton’s most recent string of poems all centered on his Countess, whom the aspiring poet had the absurdity to call his fair faerie queen.

Yet, from the reports regularly given him by Arthur Ellis, Willis the under-butler, and by Sir Antony, Jane never put herself forward, never flirted with these young men and never had her head turned by their constant compliments of her beauty. In fact, she treated such worship with the grain of sand it deserved, maintaining a cool, if kind-hearted, distance from her admirers. His own observations of his wife at dinner parties and the like confirmed this, and yet he still felt ill at ease, that if he allowed his defenses to drop completely his hopes and dreams would again be shattered.

He had no real basis for his apprehension, only the past experience of their broken engagement, which she emphatically denied she had instigated. It’s not that he disbelieved her, but it did not make sense: one and one did not make two. Yet the more time he spent in Jane’s company the less he cared about the details of the broken engagement and what had occurred in the past; who was in the wrong. He just knew that his future happiness, that if he was ever to feel contented with life, rested with his wife.

He repeated his question just as the horses slowed and the carriage turned into the forecourt of Richmond House.

“I was thinking about Ron,” Jane replied and turned from the window to look at him, “and how well he has been looking these past few weeks.”

Salt was surprised. “Ron?”

“Yes. He had color in his cheeks at the nursery party, and he played three games of skittles with the Spencer boys. And he ate two slices of pie.”

“And he was rolling around on the floor laughing along with the rest of us at Wraxton’s absurd poetry,” Sir Antony stuck in. “Ode to a Well-Sprung Carriage, indeed! God help us all when we have to listen to his next piece of piffle!” When the noble couple looked at him as if seeing him for the first time he grinned sheepishly. “You did offer me a seat in your carriage. Can I help it if I have eyes and ears?”

“He had no color whatsoever at three in the morning!” Salt said with asperity.

Sir Antony glanced at Jane before looking at the Earl. “Called out to his bedside again?”

“Yes.”

“How many times has he been ill these past few months?”

Salt shrugged at the question and was ashen-faced. “Too many times. Last night he had one of his worst attacks yet.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Sir Antony said grimly. “Poor little chap. Poor you, to be inconvenienced at such an hour,” he added with a huff of laughter, thinking the Earl had to be the unluckiest bridegroom in London, to be dragged from the arms of his beautiful bride at such an inauspicious hour, to attend on a sick little boy who had no consideration for his uncle’s newly married state. Yet, he was all admiration for Salt’s devotion to the boy, and for the Countess’s tolerance.

“Er—Apologies,” he muttered in response to the Earl’s embarrassed glare of disapproval, and turned his profile to the undraped window and the view of the congested line of horses and carriages with crests upon their doors, queuing up one behind the other to deposit their noble occupants at the wide steps of Richmond House, and where Jane was staring, a blush to her cheeks. Still, he could not help voicing a thought that had been niggling at him for some time now. He was surprised when Jane stared at him with wide blue eyes of shock, as if she, too, had had the same thought, yet had dared not voice it aloud for fear of it being true.

“Merry said an odd thing to me at the tea party… Made me think. Made me think damn hard,” he mused, turning over his closed snuffbox in his left hand. “Observation of a child, but acute nonetheless. Not that she would have had the foggiest notion of its importance…”

Salt sat forward on the upholstered bench and adjusted his cravat in anticipation of the carriage door opening and the steps being put in place for them to alight. “Out with it, Tony! This isn’t the time or place for a fireside chat.”

“Merry predicted Ron would be ill that very night.”

“Not surprised with three games of skittles and two slices of pie!”

The Earl’s flippant remark was ignored.

“What did she say to you, Tony?” Jane asked quietly.

Sir Antony glanced down at his snuffbox then across at Jane. “To be precise she said a couple of things. Told me matter-of-factly that Ron would be ill later that night all because Uncle Salt was so happy; that it was always like that. Whenever you are happy,” he said, addressing the Earl, “Ron is ill. Can you believe it? Words out of the mouth of a babe!”

“What did you say by way of reply?” asked Jane.

Sir Antony threw up a lace-covered wrist. “Don’t recall; some tripe to dismiss such a notion as absurd.”

“It is absurd!” Salt stated angrily. “Merry and Ron are children with childish thoughts. The idea that Ron becomes ill all because I am happy is in itself laughable, in the worst possible sense of the word!”

“Is it?” Sir Antony enquired levelly. “Is it truly that absurd? Think about it. I have; long and hard. I’ve put some twos together. You said yourself that Ron has been ill too many times.”

“Tony, what else did Merry tell you?”

Salt looked at Jane in some surprise. “You believe there is some truth to Merry’s prattle, my lady?”

Jane and Sir Antony exchanged a look before she said calmly, “Yes. Now that Tony has voiced his concerns, I will add mine to his. And I cannot dismiss out of hand a child’s remarks, not when that child is Merry, who is wise beyond her years and suffers to see her brother ill.”

It was the Earl’s turn to throw up a lace-covered wrist. He sat back against the upholstered headboard and ignored the rapping on the carriage door. “Well, Tony? What else did Merry say?”

Sir Antony took snuff and sniffed. Finally composed he met his best friend’s expectant, if slightly skeptical, look and did not baulk. “That her mother did not like to see you happy; it made her angry and gave her the megrim.” He glanced at Jane but addressed the Earl. “And that since marrying Jane you are always happy, which means her mother is always angry, and that because she is angry she makes Ron sick.”

The rapping on the carriage door became insistent but Salt ignored it, hard gaze fixed on Sir Antony. “You realize you are talking about your sister.”

“I am unlikely to forget the connection. And as her brother I do believe I am able to see her more clearly than, and you will pardon my bluntness, you do, who will always see her as St. John’s widow and mother of his children. I believe there is substance to Merry’s chatter.” He glanced at Jane, “And so does your Countess.”

“I do not want to discuss this any further here or now. It is my wife’s first public engagement and I want it to be a pleasant one.”

Sir Antony inclined his powdered head. “As you wish, but this state of affairs must be discussed at some time, and soon. As you rightly pointed out, we are talking about my sister and, let us not forget, the welfare of my niece and nephew.”

“Ron and Merry’s health and happiness are my prime concern.”

“Then on that we agree. Now do open that door before the poor fellow loses what’s left of the skin on his knuckles.”

The carriage door swung wide and the steps set in place by a liveried footman. Another footman handed the Countess out of the carriage, and Salt wrapped her arm around his and led her across the forecourt to join the queue of guests filing into Richmond House. Sir Antony took his leave of the noble couple, and spying two cronies from the Northern Department, sauntered away to talk politics.

Jane barely noticed his departure, such was her distraction with the noise and bustle of carriages arriving and departing, of linkboys with tapers lighting the way for the many guests, resplendent in silks, powdered wigs and elaborate hairstyles, all making their way inside the Duke of Richmond’s waterside mansion.

She was determined to enjoy this her first ball in London, but knew also she must be on her best behavior, that it would not do to wear her excitement on her sleeve. As this was her first official engagement as the Countess of Salt Hendon, she was acutely aware that all eyes would be upon her. Not all eyes would be friendly, particularly the friends of Diana St. John, who would be waiting for the young Lady Salt to commit some social faux pas so they could commiserate with Lady St. John on the Earl’s misfortune in marrying such a rustic miss.

Jane glanced up at her husband and seeing his frown realized he must still be ruminating over Merry’s confidences to her Uncle Tony, and was determined to divert him. After all, if she was to enjoy herself tonight at this fireworks ball in honor of the Peace of Paris, he must enjoy himself too.

“Do you know, my lord, I have just come to the sudden realization that I have no political conversation and know even less people than Viscount Fourpaws! Who, I might add, is the only Viscount of my acquaintance who literally purrs when I prattle. Will your friends think me dull company?”

“I am not entirely happy to discover my wife is being purred over,” he said with a laugh, brow clearing, and held her close as a couple of liveried footmen dashed across their path and disappeared between two carriages to assist new arrivals. “I do not think you dull company, and that’s all that matters.”

She gave a practiced sigh. “But unlike Viscount Fourpaws, you never seek my company during the daylight hours so you cannot know if I am a dull conversationalist or not.”

“That’s unfair, you little wretch!” Salt replied, ignoring the smiling nods of several noble powdered heads in the queue up ahead who were trying to catch his eye. He spoke close to her ear, so she could hear him over the din. “We talk every night in bed.”

“That is of no account,” Jane threw at him, pretending an interest in the long line of stony-faced liveried footmen standing shoulder to shoulder, like marble statues along the gravel path and up the wide steps, though she was very pleased he was put out by her accusation. She hoped he could not detect the blush to her cheeks in the dusky light. “Conversation is not the reason for your visits. Though I have no complaints about the order in which you conduct business.”

“Business? Good God, you think I view my nightly visits to your bed as-as business? Another item on the agenda to be marked off when completed?”

Wide-eyed, Jane blinked up at him, gouache fan brought out from under her cloak to flutter prettily and stir the wispy tendrils of silken black hair about her beautiful face. She pretended ignorance. “Don’t you, my lord?”

“Of course not!” he blustered.

“Oh? But I am reliably informed that making love to one’s wife is a husband’s tedious obligation.”

“You certainly know how to pick your moment for one of your frank conversations, my lady,” he stated in a clipped voice, finding it difficult to express himself in the middle of a public space surrounded by a hundred faces known to him. “It’s never been an obligation to make love to you, and it is anything but tedious,” he replied earnestly. “It is a pleasure and a privilege.” When she dropped her chin into her shoulder, he added gently, “Jane, I come to your bed because I want to—very much.”

Jane did not trust herself to speak and clung to his silken arm more tightly. She stared blindly out across the activity of footmen running here and there, of ladies adjusting the useless novelty of flimsy aprons tied loosely over petticoats, and of gentlemen giving a tug to the points of their elaborate waistcoats, and saw it all through a mist of happiness. Despite the excitement of her first public social engagement in her husband’s company, she wished they were at home before the fire in his bookroom, alone. There she could freely throw her arms about his neck and tell him how much she loved him… Had always and only loved him.

Salt, misinterpreting her silence because he had said more than he had intended, but nothing he did not hold as truth, self-consciously stretched his neck, wrapped in its tightly bound cravat of intricate Brussels lace, and swallowed.

“If I’m becoming a nuisance you need only say so.”

“Oh, I will,” she answered with her ready sense of the ridiculous, composure returned. This brought his head down with a snap to stare at her hard. She tried not to giggle at his look of self-conscious contrition. Impulsively, she went up on tiptoe and swiftly kissed his cheek, saying with a gurgle of laughter, “Absurd man! The day I consider you a nuisance, consign me to Bedlam.”

He grinned and pinched her chin.

But the smile died on Jane’s face the instant her heels were back on firm ground. By kissing her husband in public she had committed, what Mr. Willis had warned her, two of the cardinal sins of Polite Society: That of allowing emotion to rule good breeding, and of showing genuine affection for one’s spouse in public. She went to apologize, flustered and embarrassed, thinking Salt would not appreciate her spontaneous and very public display, acutely aware that more than a dozen powdered heads had caught the kiss and with raised eyebrows were staring at her with curious disapproval from behind fluttering fans and beribboned quizzing glasses.

Her one small impulsive kiss had the opposite effect on the Earl. Caught up in the moment, he saw only his wife and was completely oblivious to everyone and everything else. He bent to nuzzle and whisper near her ear. “If this wasn’t Lady Salt’s first ball,” he murmured, removing her cloak to hand to an attentive footman, for they had arrived indoors, “I’d take her to the carriage and have my way with her, here and now.”

Momentarily forgetting her embarrassment, Jane faced him, all wide-eyed fascination. “In the carriage? Here and-and now?”

He pretended a sudden interest in the sit of one of a dozen small silk bows sewn down the front of her low cut water-silk bodice. Deftly, he straightened the largest bow at the neckline of her bodice and allowed his pinky to lightly caress the swell of her bare breasts. His words were all for her.

“Unfortunately, my lady will have to wait that delight until the end of the ball. I have poor Andrews’ bloodied fingers to think about. I’d never get these orders pinned back in place.”

As he surreptitiously caressed her breasts, Jane was gripped with a sudden frisson of desire and she quickly moved back into line and picked up a handful of her silk petticoats to ascend the wide stairs into the ballroom of Richmond House, without ever remembering her feet touching the floorboards. To her shame and surprise she couldn’t wait for the ball to be over before it started. Nor could she resist an impudent remark to her husband while they waited in line to be announced by the sonorous, nose-in-the-air butler.

“Do you think we would be missed if we gave our excuses and departed early?”

Salt was unable to hide his grin as they stepped forward at the butler’s announcement to the assembled company of the arrival of the Earl and Countess of Salt Hendon. He kept his square chin perfectly level and stared out into the void of dazzling light from hundreds of candles and colorful movement that was the noble crowd, yet he managed to wink at Jane. “Behave yourself tonight, Madam wife, and I’ll make certain the ride home is worth every dip in the road.”

Jane would have been hard pressed to give an accurate account of her first ball of her first London Season because from the moment she moved into the blaze of candlelight of the ballroom, with its blur of color and light, noise and music, and endless chatter, she was swept up into an evening of introduction, conversation, and dance. Not since the Salt Hunt Ball on her eighteenth birthday had she enjoyed herself so much. The four years of somber solitude and austerity as the charitable ward of the crippled merchant manufacturer Jacob Allenby were finally laid to rest with her husband by her side and the crème de la crème of Polite Society welcoming the new Countess of Salt Hendon with open arms.

Everyone agreed that the handsome colossus that was the Earl of Salt Hendon and his exceptionally beautiful and very graceful bride made the perfect couple. That is, everyone except the Lady St. John.

~   ~   ~

DIANA ST. JOHN kept her distance from her noble cousin for most of the Richmond Ball while he remained by his wife’s side. She flitted from group to group seemingly oblivious to the Earl’s existence, which, friend and foe alike agreed, was most uncharacteristic. It was universally expected that at Society functions Lady St. John remained only one person removed from the Earl of Salt Hendon at all times. No one knew if he noticed her always in his orbit, or not. For the most part he seemed to treat her as if she was part of his shadow and got on with his life. Everyone wondered if she would remain part of his shadow now he had a bride, more beautiful and much younger than the handsome statuesque Lady St. John.

Resplendent in a Venetian red and gold sack back gown with three tiers of lace cascading from elbows to plump wrists, Diana St. John spent the entire time the Earl and Countess of Salt Hendon danced the minuet with her back to the dancers. She engaged the Florentine Ambassador in conversation, who kept his gaze leveled at her breasts; magnificently displayed in a low square cut bodice, a string of rubies and diamonds nestled in her cleavage. A confection of powdered curls, a gouache painted fan, and her distinct perfume were the finishing touches to her resplendent ensemble. She laughed, she chatted, and she was witty and full of life, so much so that more than a few guests commented on her high spirits. The only person to see through the façade was her brother.

Sir Antony was confronted by his sister in an anteroom off the main vestibule as soon as his well-shod foot touched the marble parquetry inside Richmond House. She demanded to know why she had not been invited to share the carriage ride with he and Lord Salt. Sir Antony suffered in silence her barrage of verbal abuse. She was furious to be informed that the Earl had brought his wife to the Richmond Ball. To argue that their noble cousin had every right to bring his wife was pointless, so Sir Antony kept his opinions and his arguments to himself.

He never won with Diana, and he had long given up trying. He wasn’t by nature a coward, nor was he lazy, but he had learned from an early age that his elder sister had the ability to take a point of view and twist it to suit her own ends. It didn’t matter if her opponent had right on his side, by the time Diana had finished arguing, her opponent came round to her way of thinking, even if it was through sheer exhaustion and a need to escape her constant onslaught. Ethical considerations of right and wrong never entered her mind. It only mattered that she got her way. The only time Sir Antony ever saw her back down from a stubborn belief, indeed concede defeat in an argument, was with the Earl; and that was only because she had been besotted with their cousin since the schoolroom and would do anything to win his approval.

Many of their friends and family wondered why such a strong willed, handsome creature had settled on marriage with the mild-mannered Aubrey St. John. Sir Antony knew. St. John was Salt’s closest paternal cousin and best friend, and the pair was as inseparable as close-knit brothers. When it became clear to Diana that Salt would never offer for her, she chose the next best thing, or so she thought, in marrying Aubrey St. John. Lord St. John was not Salt, but he had been very much in love with Diana. The marriage was a disaster from the beginning, not least because, for all her outwardly overt sexual playfulness Sir Antony suspected his sister was frigid.

The marriage quickly soured, even before the birth of the twins. Sir Antony was in no doubts that it was Diana who had pushed a wedge of mistrust between her husband and the Earl, and so firmly that it was not until St. John was dying that the two men were reconciled. St. John had not said much about the rift at the time but once, when in his cups, he had confided to Sir Antony that Salt had counseled him against marrying Diana but he would not listen; Salt had been right all along.

Sir Antony hoped that the Earl’s marriage would, at long last, throw the cold water of truth in his sister’s face, and awaken her to the indisputable fact that the Earl of Salt Hendon was forever beyond her reach. However, Diana’s response to the marriage not only surprised but also shocked Sir Antony to such a degree that he feared for her sanity. She conducted herself as if the Salt Hendon marriage was a small, not insurmountable, problem that could be overcome if she just put her mind to finding a solution. At her very worst, particularly in the company of their mutual friends, she put on a very public façade of careless indifference, acting as if Salt’s marriage had never taken place. She was acting that way tonight at the ball and he had to stop her before she made a fool of herself before three hundred people.

Just before the commencement of the country-dances, standing in the refreshment room by a Corinthian pillar and pretending an interest in the crowd through his quizzing glass, Sir Antony tried to reason with his sister. She was talking with Pascoe Church, amongst others, and Sir Antony deliberately bumped her elbow so that she swirled about to see whom it was. He nodded at Pascoe Church, smiled at his sister and took her firmly by the elbow, and led her to a quiet corner by a French window. Here he let her go and again took up his quizzing glass.

“How very sporting of you to allow Salt breathing room tonight,” he said chirpily.

Diana bristled. “Heard the expression give enough rope, brother dear?”

“Salt’s never danced at the end of any ropes.”

“Fool! Her. The moment he steps away she’s bound to hang herself.”

Sir Antony turned his quizzing glass from the glittering crowd to his sister. “It doesn’t look as if he wants to leave her side, does it?”

“He can’t afford to, more’s the pity. An organ grinder has more confidence in his monkey!”

Sir Antony couldn’t help a laugh of disbelief and he shook his powdered head. “You go on convincing yourself of that, Di. I suppose he isn’t by her side because that’s where he wants to be?”

“Don’t be a dullard, Tony. Wants to be? You never were quick on the uptake, were you? If Salt hadn’t got you that sinecure in the Foreign Department I despair of where you would’ve ended up.”

With a sigh, Sir Antony let the quizzing glass drop on its riband and picked up two glasses of champagne from a passing footman’s silver tray. He gave one to his sister, and raised his to her. “Comfortably ensconced at White’s behind the pages of a newssheet minding my own business, I suspect.”

Diana St. John’s painted mouth twisted with disdain. “You were such a disappointment to Papa.”

“We all can’t be Queen of the Amazons, my dear,” he replied mildly. “Oh, you could. No doubt about that, Di. But there’s one thing you’ll never be and that’s Countess of Salt Hendon. The post’s been filled—for life.”

“I so hate you, I’d like to throw this champagne in your inept face.”

“Go ahead,” he stated and indicated the crowd breaking up into groups for the country-dances beyond the pillars in the ballroom. “At least then this lot would see your soft center and know that underneath your sparkling display of indifference you have a heart. Di, please, before you douse me in French vinegar, listen,” he added, all pretense dropped. “You must leave Salt alone, for your own sake as much as his. You need to make something of your life. You could marry any grand nobleman in this room in need of a wife and be a great political hostess; what a formidable pair you’d make! But there’s one nobleman you will never have, under any circumstances.”

Diana St. John stared at her younger brother a full five seconds before she replied. Sir Antony thought he detected a whisper of emotion in her face, until she opened her mouth and then his shoulders slumped at the futility of trying to make her see reason.

“I settled for second best once before. Never again.”

“St. John loved you to distraction, Di, and you know it! Poor chap. He knew your heart belonged to Salt, that you foolishly married him hoping to make Salt jealous. Didn’t work, did it?”

“He deserves better than that skinny county chit who’s now on his arm,” Diana St. John ruminated, ignoring her brother’s pointed comments. “He was almost trapped by her four years ago, until I intervened to save his career and his name. And I won’t sit by and allow her to ruin his political ambitions now, not after all my hard work to see him rise to greatness.”

“Your hard work?” Sir Antony was laughingly incredulous. He threw back the last drops of champagne and deftly off-loaded his glass on a passing footman. “I suppose Salt had nothing to do with his own success?”

“He needs a female who can help him achieve even greater political success. Someone just as adept at playing the political game. A hostess who isn’t afraid to be ruthless and cunning if required to further his career.”

“Has it never occurred to you, Di, that what a nobleman of Salt’s position and abilities needs in a wife is someone who cares about him, not his political posts, or whether he’ll rise to be First Lord of the Treasury, or form government with a pack of petty corridor-whispering, backstabbing noble rabble. A wife who doesn’t meddle in politics, who, at the end of the day, makes him feel content and untroubled.” Sir Antony peered at his sister. “No? Not ringing any bells of St. Clemens in that pretty head of yours, sister of mine?”

“Salt may have married a wide-eyed stick insect, but he need not be distracted by her,” Diana stated as if her brother hadn’t spoken, depositing her glass of champagne on a silver tray that was being offered to her. “If he wants distraction, I can provide him with any number of females chaffing at the bit to fill the position of mistress.”

“Your services in that area have never been sought or required,” Sir Antony remarked dryly. “And as he hasn’t strayed from the marital bed since the day he was married, his carnal wants are being admirably fulfilled by his wife.”

“That just proves she’s ill-bred. Noble wives are not there to play harlot for their husbands. Husbands take their carnal appetites elsewhere. That’s what whores are for.”

Sir Antony rolled his eyes to the ornate ceiling on a sigh.

“Father lamented Mother had all the carnal cravings of a Scottish salmon.”

“He’ll soon tire of her,” Diana went on, ignoring her brother’s remark, “whether she plays the whore for him or not, he always tires of his whores.”

Finally, Sir Antony’s frayed temper snapped. He gritted his teeth and turned glittering blue eyes on his sister. “For God’s sake, Diana! Stop calling her that. She’s his wife.”

Diana teasingly tickled her brother under the chin with the pleats of her fan. “Ooh! Such emotion, Tony! Got you under her whore’s spell, too? That would explain the latest gossip circulating drawing rooms: While Lord Salt is hard at work making speeches in the House you are hard at work between Lady Salt’s thighs.”

Sir Antony snatched his sister’s fan and flung it to the floor in abhorrence.

“Never. Never repeat that piece of filth again,” he growled. “Lady Salt is deeply in love with her husband. I believe her to be honest and true. And even if in your blind jealousy you have convinced yourself that she could be disloyal to Salt, you should never have believed it of me, your own brother! I could never cuckold my best friend.”

“Sir Lancelot to Salt’s King Arthur to be sure, Tony!” Diana announced dismissively with a trill of laughter that had the few remaining guests lingering by the refreshment tables turning to stare with interest at brother and sister. “But it’s not what I believe that matters. It’s what Salt believes about his little whore-bride, isn’t it?”

“For the last time, Diana,” Sir Antony stated, beyond patience. “Leave them alone; for your own sake. Salt has tolerated your interference in the past because it has been harmless, if annoyingly persistent. This is an entirely different game you’re playing at, and one you are destined to lose. I give you fair warning: Overstep the mark with his wife and he’ll never forgive you…ever.”

Diana shrugged a bare shoulder and changed tack. “You think I give a groat about that insipid milkmaid being Countess of Salt Hendon? My dear Tony, what I do I do, and have always done, for Ron.”

Sir Antony was skeptical. “It’s what you do to Ron that bothers me.”

“I beg you pardon?” Diana St. John was uncharacteristically startled.

For the first time in their conversation, Sir Antony sensed that his sister was paying attention. “Here’s another warning you should heed, Di. If your son continues to be ill; if you continue to have Salt called out at all hours of the night, you may find your children removed from your care.”

“Are you drunk? I am their mother. Salt would never take them from me. Never.”

Sir Antony held her gaze. His mouth grim. “Fair warning, Di.”

She turned her chin and out of the corner of her eye spied the Earl at the edge of the dance floor in relaxed conversation with that old roué Lord March, the perverse wit George Selwyn, and his mentor and good friend Lord Waldegrave, the Countess nowhere to be seen. He was happier and more content than she had seen him in many years. In fact since that fateful Hunt Ball at Salt Hall when he had proposed to Jane Despard. It made Diana St. John sick to her stomach.

It was time she made her move on the Countess and stopped squandering it in vapid conversation with her brother. Still, she couldn’t resist a parting remark, to exert her superiority over him, as always, and calculated to send his mind into a spin of conjecture. She snatched her fan from an obliging footman, who had scooped it up off the polished floorboards, flicked it open and, with a bunch of her silk petticoats in one hand, said to Sir Antony, with a smug smile, before she swept off to the ballroom, “Salt’s whore-bride has a dirty little secret. She’s with child. But whose brat is it?”

SIR ANTONY’S JAW swung wide at this startling pronouncement and he watched his sister traverse the ballroom, stopping to say hello to an old Dowager Duchess with gout here, kissing the powdered and patched cheek of a dear friend in a towering toupée there, playfully rapping her fan across the knuckles of an old roué who bowed over her outstretched hand; then exchanging smiles and pleasantries with a Lord of the Admiralty before disappearing from view out on to the terrace. She was the most amiable and animated beauty in the vast sea of noble silks and powder, and an altogether different being from the one Sir Antony knew as his sister, and it bothered him greatly.

Her throw away news that the Countess of Salt Hendon was with child made him oblivious to the footman who stood waiting at his elbow. The servant had been standing there for sometime. Indeed, he had been the one to retrieve Lady St. John’s fan from the floorboards. The only sign that he had heard the whole of the heated discussion between brother and sister was the redness to his ears. In every other respect he remained blank-faced. Inside he was bursting with news and couldn’t wait for the ball to end to exchange these juicy tidbits with the staff below stairs. He now stepped forward and presented the still gaping Sir Antony with a sealed letter.

Sir Antony had the letter in his hand a full minute before he realized it was there and when he turned to enquire of the servant who had sent it, found himself alone by the French window. He broke the seal, mind still abuzz, but when he opened out the single sheet of paper and saw the familiar handwriting his mind cleared of all else. Reading the two sentences caused his heart to flutter, and he beamed from ear to ear. Quickly, he put the letter in an inner pocket of his frock coat.

Five minutes later he was making his apologies to his hosts, the Duke and Duchess of Richmond, and before a powdered head could turn to wonder why the diplomat was making a hasty retreat from the social event of the winter thaw, Sir Antony was out the front door and in a hackney headed for Grosvenor Square.

THIRTEEN

JANE LEFT the glittering ballroom for the fresh air of the expansive terrace with its breathtaking views of the Thames, mind bubbling over with so many new faces and names that she was sure she would forget them all by morning. She was in search of her stepbrother, whom she spied earlier in the ballroom in company with Billy Church. He had waved to her but she had been caught up in a round of endless introductions and small talk, everyone it seemed who was anyone eager to meet the Earl of Salt Hendon’s bride. She had lost sight of Tom in the press of the crowd and it was only later, after Pascoe, Lord Church had taken her out for a country-dance, and Salt was busily engaged in conversation with Lord Waldegrave, did she feel able to slip away.

Tom was said to be on the terrace but so it seemed was half the guest list. Couples had spilled out of the house to walk the gravel paths or just stand by the iron railings to admire the view, considered one of the finest in all London. Liveried footmen scurried about with trays of refreshment. Others stood to attention either side of the wide steps that took guests from one flat expanse of terrace to the next until they finally arrived at the jetty, where bobbed colorful barges and boats that had brought guests from lower down the Thames.

The enormous shoals of floating ice that had blocked the river in January were now melted so that all manner of water craft plied the congested breadth of the Thames, from small two man row boats, to ships under sail and covered barges festooned with colorful bunting. At the foreshore of the river to the horizon everywhere was brick and stone, the red roofs of buildings, and the church spires piercing the milky blue sky. Rising majestically above this conglomeration that was the city of London stood St. Paul’s, the cathedral’s glorious dome dwarfing everything that surrounded it, the magnificence of which never failed to draw a breath of amazement from this superlative vantage point, from residents and visitors to the metropolis alike.

Jane drew breath now as she took in the sprawling vista of river, city and darkening sky. She carefully descended the steps that led down to the next section of terrace closer to the water’s edge, a clutch of petticoats in her hand, and glad she had come outside before nightfall shrouded the view in a dark blanket, and the cold air finally penetrated her bones. But darkness, and to ward off the cold, had been accounted for with strategically placed tapers lining the terrace walks, ready to be lit the moment the signal was given. And out in the water bobbed a flotilla of barges, packed with fire rockets and Catherine wheels, all intended to light up the night sky, however briefly, and shower the guests in flecks of tiny lights: the much anticipated finale to the Richmond Ball.

Music drifted out from the ballroom. Laughter and conversation in the open air competed with the noise of water traffic and sounds of a city that never slept. Jane had at first thought she would never be able to sleep at night with the constant and varied noises around her, everything from carriage wheels rumbling along the cobbles, cattle being herded to market, sellers advertising their wares in their sing song voices, to the pitter pat of pattens that kept a lady’s silk shoes from town filth. But since her marriage, she had slept very well indeed, in no small part due to her husband’s warm embrace.

Instinctively, she lightly fingered the sapphire locket about her throat and wistfully thought about the baby she was carrying.

“You think that trinket holds any meaning for him?” a voice purred in her ear.

Jane spun about, saw a flash of red and gold silk and was suddenly nauseous. Dizzy and disorientated, she stuck out a hand to hard grip the iron railing that was the only barrier between her and the plunge to the embankment below. It was the overpowering scent of the woman’s perfume not the words hissed in her ear that had her flustered.

Diana St. John had cornered her where two iron railings met at right angles. She stood behind Jane, her wide petticoats penning her in and blocking her escape. To the casual observer it appeared as if the two women were admiring the view from opposite compass points while in conversation.

“That trinket has no more meaning for Salt than that garish wedding band he was forced to slip on your finger,” Diana St. John continued flatly, hazel-eyed gaze riveted to Jane’s face. “His mother wore the Sinclair locket on State occasions and to significant balls such as this because it was expected of her; another social trapping of her position in society. But she considered it an ugly heirloom. It suits you perfectly.”

“Is there anything I may do for you, my lady?” Jane asked quietly, blue eyes holding the woman’s gaze, while she stirred fresh air onto her face with her fan in an attempt to ward off the waves of nausea that came and went with Diana St. John’s strong scent carried on the river breeze. Perhaps if she let the woman say her piece she would then leave her alone?

Diana St. John’s painted mouth thinned and she cast a significant look over Jane’s shoulder at the flowing river. “Aside from drowning yourself? No.”

Jane swallowed. “If I have offended you in any way…”

“Offended me? Your existence offends me!”

“Why?”

“Why?” Diana St. John repeated, disconcerted. How dare this wisp of a woman, who had the bad manners to put up her chin, ask such a blunt question? Who did she think she was? “Surely you know the answer. Or are you as wafer-brained as you are scrawny? He deserves better than you. He deserves someone befitting his noble blood and rank, someone of whom he can be proud, who holds to the same convictions and ambitions. He deserves—”

“—you?” Jane interrupted simply. “I am sorry he did not marry you years ago, my lady. Then perhaps you would not hate him.”

“Hate him?” Diana St. John jabbed Jane’s beribboned stomacher with the closed sticks of her fan. “What do you mean, hate him? I love him. I’ve always loved him!”

“For a woman who professes love, you spend a great deal of your time needlessly interfering in his life—”

“How dare—”

“—and finding ways to punish him for not loving you in return.”

Diana St. John was rendered speechless. She itched to slap the Countess of Salt Hendon’s beautiful face. A terrace crowded with the crème de la crème of Polite Society forestalled her.

“Clever,” she finally managed to say in a low voice and held firm her fan to Jane’s belly. “Got a dirty little secret to tell me, my lady?” she taunted, again jabbing the fan into her. When Jane opened wide her eyes and instinctively tried to move away but was trapped by the iron railing in the small of her back, Diana St. John’s smug smile reappeared. “I’ll lay good odds he’s blissfully ignorant of the brat you’re carrying, just as he was four years ago.”

“Yes, I am pregnant with Lord Salt’s child, my lady,” Jane replied with a calmness that belied her anxiety. “You can be the first to congratulate us.”

“Congratulate you? Dear God, I’ll see you and the bastard burn in hell first!”

“How is that you know I conceived Salt’s child four years ago?” Jane asked in her blunt way, though it took all her self-control to remain calm, stunned as she was by the ferocity of the woman’s vitriol. “I told no one Magnus was the father of my child.”

“That was a dim-wit’s mistake, but one I applaud wholeheartedly. Had you sense you would’ve confessed all to Sir Felix, and your father would have run hot foot to London, and Salt been forced to marry you. By protecting Magnus you caused the death of his child. Good Lord! You didn’t even possess the guile to keep your legs closed to him until he had you up before parson. More fool you.”

“Perhaps I was a fool. Perhaps I am in some way to blame for my baby’s death but… I was naïve and so desperately in love, and believed myself loved in return…” When Diana St. John gave a snort of disbelief, Jane added quietly, hoping to see a spark of humanity in the beautiful painted face, “What about the birth of your twins, when you first held Ron and Merry in your arms? Did you not love your babies so much it hurt?”

“What sentimental tripe!” Diana St. John said dismissively then smiled knowingly, prodding Jane again with her fan. “My children are worth a great deal to me, a very great deal because Salt loves them as if they were his own. My son is Salt’s heir. He would do anything for my son; leave his bride in the middle of the night to comfort me by Ron’s sickbed. Don’t think he won’t continue to do so for as along as I want him there, out of your bed and beside me. In that there is no contest. You will never win.”

Jane regarded Diana St. John with horrified fascination to think she saw her children as merely a means to an end, that end being Lord Salt’s time and attentions; that it was a contest worth winning just to have the Earl attending on her sick son in the middle of the night.

Jane voiced a disturbing notion that had been forming in the back of her mind since that day in the freezing anteroom when she was overcome with nausea at the scent of Lady St. John’s perfume. “You were there the night I miscarried. Your voice—your perfume; I remember both distinctly.”

“Drink it in, my lady,” Diana St. John purred, enjoying intimidating the Countess, whose face had lost its healthy glow. Perhaps if she tormented her a little while longer the woman might collapse from nervous exhaustion that would bring on a miscarriage. “It’s a very distinctive scent, is it not? Most men adore it. It’s blended for me by a little apothecary on the Strand; very talented German; perfumer, apothecary and supplier of all manner of substances to rid oneself of unwanted ills. Does it make you feel very, very green? For shame! Let me give you something to expel your nausea. I assure you it works every time. Sir Felix was very grateful for my guidance, and of course he couldn’t have been more pleased with the medicinal I provided.”

Jane was dismayed. “You supplied the medicinal that quickened my baby?”

“You should be obliged to me that the matter was taken care of so expeditiously.”

“Matter? Expeditiously?” Jane fought back tears hearing her dead unborn baby referred to in such a cold-hearted way. “Have you no conscience? I lost my baby that night.”

“Aren’t you listening, you stupid creature?” Diana St. John sneered. “You didn’t lose it. The bastard was quite rightly disposed of on the orders of Sir Felix.”

“Did it mean nothing to you that Magnus was the father?”

“It meant everything to me. Are you bird-witted? It was precisely because it was his child that it had to be removed.”

“And you profess to love him?”

“Yes, him, not his ill-gotten offspring. The loss of one barely formed child is nothing in the grand scheme of things. Women miscarry every day. Babies die. It’s a fact.”

Jane shivered with a mixture of fear and revulsion. The sooner she escaped this woman’s evil aura the better. Years of being eaten up with jealousy and bitterness had turned Diana St. John’s heart to stone. It was clear the woman had lost all sense of right from wrong, and any means, interfering in the Earl’s life, in Jane’s life, taking the life of the innocent, their baby’s life, was acceptable, if it achieved her ends.

“Remove your fan, my lady,” Jane ordered.

Instead of doing as requested Diana St. John jabbed a little harder at Jane’s stomach. “There’s no guarantee this one will be delivered full-term. No guarantee at all. Just because it was conceived in wedlock does not give it protection. Many hazards can befall mother and child before birth—”

“How dare you threaten me!”

Diana St. John prodded again, but this time had the fan knocked out of her grasp as Jane pushed past her. Instantly, Diana St. John thrust out a velvet arm to the iron railing and blocked Jane’s exit.

“I haven’t finished with you yet!” she hissed.

“But I have finished with you, Madam,” Jane replied firmly. She looked significantly at Diana St. John’s obstructing arm and then up at the woman’s painted face. “Have you forgotten where we are?”

Surprisingly, Diana St. John had done just that, but she was so intent on putting this little upstart in her place, to show her that she was worth less than nothing and that the Earl of Salt Hendon did not care a tester for his country bride, that she was beyond caring who was peering down at them from the terraces.

“You smug little slut! You think you are the object of a singular devotion? Ha! He has finally tired of you. It is a fact of life, and one you had best get used to. Noblemen of Salt’s ilk possess strong carnal appetites and thus are incapable of remaining faithful. And why should they when they can have the pick of any litter? Cast your mind back a sennight—Wednesday and Thursday nights to be exact.” When Jane gave a start and half-turned, she smiled thinly. “Ah, so you are not so stupid as I first supposed. Then you will appreciate that I have made it my business to know where Salt spends each and every night of the year, and with whom. So when I tell you what I know I am merely stating facts.” When Jane stared at her mutely, she smiled her satisfaction. “Good. We understand one another. Then know this: on Wednesday and Thursday night last week, when he did not return to Grosvenor Square and to your bed, and you spent the entire night alone, possibly and stupidly waiting up for him, he was with his latest mistress. She has been very patient and he has shown great forbearance over the past three months. You should count yourself fortunate to have received that much of his undivided attention. But now the honeymoon period is over and he has done his duty by you as a bride. Now he will return to his usual way of life, the way of life Society expects of a nobleman in his position.”

“Jane? Jane! There you are!”

“Tom?”

Jane saw her stepbrother coming lightly down the wide terrace steps through a blindness of tears. She was so eager to get to him and away from this evil woman that she pushed with two hands on Diana St. John’s arm, as if it was a gate that could be swung wide on its hinges. But before she could go to him, before she had taken more than two steps in his direction, Diana St. John had caught the lace flounce at her elbow.

“You’re being sent to rot in the country. It’s just as well, isn’t it? Because he’ll never believe the brat you’re carrying is his,” she announced gleefully in Jane’s ear. “Not in a thousand nights, not after all the barren lovers he’s had over the years. It’s so much easier to farm out a bastard in the wilds of Wiltshire. You’ll never see it again and he’ll never want you back in London after—”

“What are you doing down here in the shadows?” Tom scolded his stepsister good-naturedly, reaching her just as Lady St. John let go of Jane’s arm. She brushed passed him in a billow of red and gold silk, a lovely smile directed his way. He nodded to her ladyship and took Jane’s hand, and turned to lead her back up the terrace steps. “You’re half-frozen! Salt’s been looking for you everywhere. The fireworks are about to commence and the best views are to be had from up there on the top terrace. And we’d best fetch your cloak. We’ll miss the rockets if you don’t hurry—Jane?”

He turned when Jane stopped at the foot of the steps. He peered at her more closely. It was only then that he saw that she was deathly white and that her cheeks were stained with tears.

“Jane? What’s wrong? What did that woman say to upset you?” he asked, a swift look up at Lady St. John who was sweeping up the stairs just as the Earl of Salt Hendon was descending them.

She waylaid him, a hand possessively on his upturned velvet cuff, her petticoats pressed against his silken leg. She was talking to him in a rush and he looked over her carefully constructed coiffure, to Tom and Jane huddled together on the lower terrace. Tom frowned. Tomorrow could not come soon enough. He turned back to his stepsister, to confide in her he had just told the Earl a few home truths but not to worry, his lordship seemed to take it in his stride.

Although, being rather foxed, Tom was not absolutely sure the Earl’s silence was thunderous fury or dignified acceptance. Whatever, tomorrow he would set matters straight. He had documents to wave under his lordship’s fine nose. His uncle’s lawyers had presented them to him with the understanding that Jacob Allenby intended them for the Earl, but only if Tom thought it in the best interests of his stepsister to do so. Tom had every intention of presenting them to the Earl in his bookroom tomorrow and that would settle the matter and it need never be discussed again. His lips, and everyone else’s would be sealed. Jane’s happiness depended upon it.

Jane did not understand a word of Tom’s garbled speech, not least because her encounter with Diana St. John had left her nauseous and emotionally drained. What she did understand was that her stepbrother had accosted Salt on a public terrace and had left that impromptu interview with no idea if the Earl was angry or not, which told Jane her husband was very angry indeed with Tom. She wished she felt better able to quiz Tom but the relief of being out from under Diana St. John’s sinister orbit was enough to make her light-headed. Tom’s voice became very far away as she tried to stay upright. She was certain if he fetched a glass of lemon water she would feel much better. But before she could ask him her eyelids fluttered, her knees buckled and she crumpled into Tom’s arms in a dead faint.

~   ~   ~

AN ACRID SMELL opened Jane’s eyes. She screwed up her mouth and pushed away the hand that held the burnt feather under her nose and tried to focus and get her bearings. The last thing she remembered was Tom telling her he had approached Salt on the terrace to tell him a thing or two and then everything went black. Now there were voices and light, and what seemed to be a hundred faces peering down at her from way up in the stars of a night sky. She was lying on the small patch of lawn to the side of the terrace steps, cradled in Tom’s lap. Several liveried servants were peering down at her, under the light cast by a flambeau held by a footman, as were every man and woman leaning over the iron railings of the terrace to better view the theatrics of the Countess of Salt Hendon’s faint at her first public engagement.

“Help me up, Tom,” Jane murmured, cheeks now aglow with embarrassment at being the main attraction at the Richmond Ball.

“You fainted,” said Tom, stating the obvious as he eased her into a sitting position. He handed her a tumbler of punch. “Drink. You’ll feel better.”

Jane took the tumbler, suddenly very thirsty. She thrust the empty tumbler back at a footman. “Please, Tom. Help me up before Salt finds out I’ve made a spectacle of myself.”

Tom smiled apologetically. “Too late.”

The nobleman in question, a head taller than the crowd of onlookers surrounding them, pushed through the contingent of liveried footmen, Jane’s fur-lined cloak draped over an arm, and went down on bended knee to throw the cloak over her bare shoulders.

“Jane? Are you all right?” Salt asked anxiously, concern overriding formality. He deftly buttoned the cloak before lifting her chin to look in her eyes. “What happened?”

“I fainted. Silly me. I’m feeling much better now.”

“Fainted? How? I mean, what happened to make you faint?”

“One minute Jane was talking with Lady St. John by the railings and the next she fainted dead away,” Tom said with a shrug, trying to make light of it for Jane’s sake. “She don’t eat much, y’know, and what with all the excitement tonight, she had a dizzy spell.”

“Diana mentioned you and she had an unpleasant conversation. What did you say to upset her?”

“Upset her?” Jane could hardly believe her ears.

“Not everyone appreciates your frank approach,” he scolded gently as he helped her to stand. “Best to stay out of her way.”

Jane pulled the fur-lined cloak tightly about her. “I am only too happy to do so. If she would only stay out mine!”

Salt scowled, Jane’s retort confirming what he had first thought when from the top terrace he had spied his wife and his cousin having a very public tête-à-tête on the lower terrace: Diana had sought her out. He was momentarily embarrassed. “My marriage was a huge shock… She hasn’t yet come to terms with my changed circumstances… Given time, she will accept you as my wife. She has no choice.”

“Lady St. John’s feelings toward me are unimportant,” Jane confessed. “My only concern is how you feel…” She couldn’t bring herself to continue when Salt swallowed, dropped his gaze and turned his head ever so slightly away from her. Her frankness would not be rewarded this time. She would have to content herself with the return of the Sinclair locket for now. She glanced at Tom, who still hovered in the background, and said with deep mortification, “I’m sorry. I had no right to embarrass you and in such a public place. I really must learn to curb my tongue. Perhaps I should’ve stayed home as you suggested.”

“Yes, perhaps you should have,” Salt responded gruffly, taking hold of her hands, which were as cold as blocks of ice. “I warned you about the unseasonable weather and still you came out of doors without the proper covering. You’re half-frozen. Idiotic not to have had your cloak fetched.”

“Yes. Idiotic,” Jane repeated forlornly.

“And Tom’s right. You don’t eat enough. No wonder you fainted. Half-starved and under-dressed. It was as well Tom was keeping an eye on you,” Salt continued and pulled her closer to put an arm about her slumped shoulders. “I turn my back for five minutes’ conversation with Waldegrave and Selwyn and you wander off to disappear out of doors without a thought for the night air, and without telling me where you were going.”

“How unthinking of me,” Jane responded bleakly.

Salt saw Tom about to rush to his stepsister’s defense but with a wink and a smile over his wife’s bowed head the young man shut his mouth. He walked her to the steps that led up to the main terrace where the guests had assembled awaiting the start of the fireworks, and said with a feigned mocking sigh, “Not only do you wander off but you have the temerity to faint in full view of the world. How I am going to keep my noble head up for the rest of the evening, I know not, madam wife. And you ask me whether you should’ve stayed home tonight? You tell me!”

By now Tom was smiling along with the Earl, but when he caught the look of shame on his stepsister’s face he knew with a shake of his head that Jane had not fallen in with her husband’s gruff cajolery and thought him in earnest. This soon became evident to Salt when Jane turned in the circle of his arm and buried her face in his silver threaded waistcoat, ignoring the numerous orders and decorations pinned to his chest that chaffed her delicate skin.

“Oh, Jane! No. I didn’t mean it,” Salt quickly reassured her. “I was funning with you, you silly girl! I wouldn’t have let you miss this ball for anything,” he added soothingly, cradling her in his arms.

He looked about and saw a vacant bench in a shadowy spot beside the base of the broad stairs. “You go on up,” he said to Tom. “We’ll watch the fireworks from down here. And Tom, I look forward to a continuance of your views tomorrow evening. Good night.”

Noise and light made Jane jump and turn her head in her husband’s embrace to the wondrous view of skyrockets and Catherine wheels lit from barges anchored on the river. They lit up the black sky like a thousand of the brightest chandeliers. She watched the display snuggled in her warm cloak beside her husband. His strong arms about her were the greatest source of comfort and warmth, and her embarrassment at having fainted in full view of Polite Society completely forgotten as she ooed and aahed with the rest of the crowd at such a wondrous display of brilliant lights. It was so entertaining that for a few moments at least she was able to put to the back of her mind her confrontation with Diana St. John.

Yet her mind would not be quiet. She could not put off for much longer telling Salt about the baby. With her light frame she would soon begin to show. What she did not know, could not predict, and what made her ill with anxiousness, was what would be his response. As to her husband’s whereabouts the two nights he had spent apart from her, her heart told her not to believe a woman who was intent on destroying any vestige of happiness in the Earl’s life; but her head reasoned that as the Earl had made her no promises of eternal devotion and his past was littered with mistresses, what made her believe that she was the object of a singular devotion as Diana St. John rightly pointed out. He may have professed to loving her four years ago, but not once had he uttered those magic words since their marriage.

“Do you know, I have never sat still and silent at a ball before,” Salt announced with something akin to awe. “It is rather enlivening.” He beamed down at his wife, as if given a new toy. “I will lay the responsibility for this novel diversion at your feet, my lady.”

His handsome smile stopped Jane’s breath; it was so genuine and heartfelt that she impulsively touched his cheek.

“Magnus, kiss me.”

He brought his mouth down to hers, saying on a murmur, “It would be my very great pleasure, Lady Salt.”

BEFORE THE SPARKS from the last skyrocket had showered the night sky and fallen extinguished into the icy Thames, the Earl and Countess of Salt Hendon had slipped away to their waiting carriage, where Jane surprised her husband by putting her arms about his neck and saying,

“Tell John to take the long way back.”

“Are you sure?”

Jane gently kissed his mouth. “Quite sure.”

“But— your fainting spell… It might be wiser if we just returned home as quickly as possible.”

Home. Jane mentally smiled at the word but pretended to be disconsolate. She removed her arms from around his neck and sat back on the velvet-upholstered bench with her hands in her lap to gaze at her fingers. “I understand,” she said with a practiced sigh. “You’re tired. It’s been a long evening. For a man of your age I suppose tiredness is to be expected.”

“I—beg—your—pardon? Man of my age? I’m only four and thirty!”

Jane kept her chin down because she was on the verge of a fit of the giggles. He was aghast, as she knew he would be. She never failed to unbalance him. Served him to rights for playing the same trick on her on the terrace and pretending to be angry.

“You needn’t concern yourself I’m-I’m disappointed,” she continued, barely able to contain her mirth. “We-we can always take the long way home some-some other time, when you’re feeling more up to it.”

“Disappointed?” Salt growled. “Up to it? You little wretch!” he added in an altogether different voice and grabbed her to him. “Don’t ever think I’ll be taken in by your tricks again! Two can play at your game! On the terrace, I did a splendid job of bamboozling you, if I do say so myself. Admit it, you thought I was truly angry with you.”

Jane snuggled into his embrace. “I admit to nothing, my lord.”

“What? Must needs I spank an admittance out of you?”

Jane kissed his cheek. “If that is your whim, my lord.”

Salt shook his head with mock displeasure then took her breath away by crushing her mouth under his.

With the steps gone and the carriage door finally closed it only remained for the Earl to give his driver the appropriate signal. Still kissing his wife, he lifted his arm to rap twice on the wall behind his head which separated the occupants from the driver up on his box, then made two more raps in rapid succession.

The horses were given their heads and the carriage lurched forward.

Jane came up for air and asked curiously, “What signal was that?”

“Too tired indeed,” Salt murmured and kissed her again, fingers tugging at the lacings of her silk corset, his other hand outstretched to draw the heavy curtain on the window and the world.

FOURTEEN

WHEN THE EARL’S carriage finally pulled up outside his Grosvenor Square mansion, it was mud spattered, the horses were spent and his driver John was in need of a well-earned jug of ale beside the kitchen fire. The under-butler, the porter and two drowsy footmen came out of the house to welcome the Earl and Countess home. Willis waited under the portico with the porter, who held up a flambeau, while the footmen stepped forward, one to set the steps in place while the other went to open the carriage door.

A short, sharp sentence and a solemn shake of the head from the driver and the two footmen stepped away to stand beside the porter to await the Earl’s pleasure. Willis took one look at the driver, who dared to wink and grin lewdly at him, and he frowningly turned on a heel and disappeared back indoors out of the cold to have words with the butler.

In Willis’ opinion, it was beyond everything decent that the Earl should bring a whore he had pleasured in his carriage to the front door of the house he now shared with his young Countess. It stretched Willis’ patience and moral fiber to breaking. If it wasn’t for his deep regard and respect for Lady Salt, so he told Mr. Jenkins, who stood sleepy-eyed but listening in the marble-floored entrance vestibule, he would give notice forthwith.

And what, pray tell was Mr. Jenkins’ opinion, given his lordship’s younger sister the Lady Caroline Sinclair had arrived from Wiltshire not five hours ago and was now resident in this house? And if the unexpected arrival of the Earl’s sister wasn’t enough to try the patience of a martyr how did Mr. Jenkins intend to handle the delicate matter of Lady St. John’s urgent missive that her son was on his death bed, and that the Earl present himself in South Audley Street at once.

The butler shrugged his narrow shoulders and kept his thoughts to himself.

When the porter opened wide the front door and in stepped the Earl, Rufus Willis had to swallow his words.

OUTSIDE IN THE CARRIAGE, the carnage of various articles of clothing strewn about the padded velvet interior, from discarded panniers to a gentleman’s silver waistcoat pinned with decorations of the highest order flung in a corner, suggested a frenzied urgency to the occupants’ lovemaking. Nothing was further from the truth. Everything had occurred with a deliberate slowness, as if the cogs of a clock moved at half-speed. From undressing each other in the darkness, to making love, each action and reaction was savored. Every exquisite sensation—sight, touch, smell and taste—was enjoyed for its own sake, while the carriage bumped and rattled across the uneven cobblestones of the deserted city then out along the muddied roads of the newer squares and streets of the wealthier occupants of the parish of Westminster.

Stripped of his finery, gloriously naked and deep inside her, there was so much tenderness in his hands and in his mouth as he caressed and pleasured her, and in his words when he confessed his overwhelming need of her, that Jane was able to delude herself that he would be forever hers and hers alone. And when she finally tumbled off into oblivion with him, somewhere in the fog of satiated desire she heard her name, and the one tiny, but oh so precious, sentence he had not uttered to her since he had asked her to marry him all those years ago.

His declaration, which should have made her supremely happy, only served to stir her doubts because he had declared himself not in the coolness of daylight but in the darkness of a moving carriage in the heat of passionate climax, his mind and body in turmoil. Although she had no experience of other men, she instinctively knew that what was said in the intense heat of lust could not be believed until repeated in the stillness of a clear head and restful body.

Staring unseeing at the ceiling as the carriage turned into Grosvenor Square, Jane was oblivious to the fact that while she mentally ruminated in the darkness, Salt was propped on an elbow watching her intently. He wondered for the umpteenth time why he could make this utterly beautiful and thoroughly beguiling creature respond to his every intimate caress, yet she continued to keep him locked out of her thoughts. It was no surprise then that when the carriage finally came to a halt under the portico and he lightly touched the locket about her throat, she gave a start and brought her blue-eyed gaze down from the carriage’s padded ceiling to his face, her smile enigmatic.

“Home,” he said with a smile, pulling on his drawers.

He buttoned up his breeches and helped Jane to sit up, before struggling into his crumpled shirt. But he did not bother with his stockings or his shoes, and ignored his waistcoat and frock coat. He found Jane’s chemise flung over a cushion and helped her wriggle into it, but when she put out a hand for her bodice he tossed it aside and instead placed the fur-lined cloak about her shoulders.

She gave a start, appalled.

“You are in jest! I cannot leave here in nothing more than my chemise and stockings!”

“That’s why I gave you the cloak,” he responded cheerfully and opened the carriage door, letting in a great rush of chilled early morning air. “Besides, what’s important is around your neck. The rest can be replaced.”

Jane remained seated, hugging the cloak tightly about her slender frame, despite Salt having descended the steps to stand barefoot on the cobbles. She put up her brows.

“And what of your most noble order of the garter, my lord? Shouldn’t his lordship throw that around his neck? After all, it’s just as important and can’t be replaced.”

“No,” he stated simply and grabbed her wrist. “I have what’s important here.”

He yanked her through the doorway. The cloak slipped off one shoulder and Jane squealed and grabbed at the fur as if her life depended upon it. But Salt would not be deterred and in one swift and easy movement her threw her, startled and protesting, over his shoulder, an arm across the back of her bare thighs to keep her squirming legs still, a hand pressed to the cloak to ensure it slipped no further.

“If you keep wiggling about,” he said with a laugh as he turned and strode past the two gaping footmen and a red-faced porter who silently opened the door, “I give no guarantees that we will make it upstairs with our dignity intact.”

“Dignity?” Jane tried to rise up to stop the blood rushing into her ears, only to flop forward in defeat. “Magnus! Stop this at once!” she demanded in a strident whisper, thumping his lower back with her balled fists. “Be reasonable! Think of the example to the servants! What will they think of us? Magnus?”

“I do so like to hear you call me by my Christian name,” he said conversationally, ignoring Jane’s ineffectual thumps.

He stood in the wide expanse of the marbled entrance hall as if it was the most natural thing in the world for the 5th Earl of Salt Hendon to arrive home at three o’clock in the morning in nothing more than a crumpled white shirt hanging out of his breeches, bare legged and barefoot, with his protesting Countess slung over one shoulder, her shapely stockinged ankles and feet on display.

The dumbstruck butler, under-butler, and porter all exchanged a swift, eyebrow-raising glance that confirmed what they all privately thought: Not only was the Earl in his cups, but his Countess was tantalizing naked under her cloak. It made them stay back, the butler holding Lady St. John’s unsealed note at his side and waiting the appropriate moment to interrupt the couple.

“No one calls me Magnus,” the Earl was saying, finally sliding Jane off his shoulder and down the length of his hard frame to allow her to stand on her own two feet.

Her arms remained up around his neck and her barely covered breasts were deliciously pressed to his chest. He continued to hold her tightly against him, a hand in the small of her back so the cloak, which had now slid to her waist, exposing her narrow back through the thin linen chemise, did not reveal more tantalizingly bare flesh.

“Not even my mother called me Magnus, not when I was in short skirts and leading strings, not ever. I was Lacey while my father was alive, Viscount Lacey. Always Lord Lacey.”

“How very sad. A child deserves to be called by his Christian name, especially by his parents,” Jane responded, looking up into his brown eyes. “That’s what makes him him. Not some cold and distant title that has belonged to his forebears for generations.”

He bent to kiss her gently. “Somehow I knew you’d say that,” and in a more rallying tone, “Not a very manly name Lacey. Magnus has more presence and is much more manly, don’t you think?”

“Oh, much more manly!” she mocked. “Just as manly as Salt. Though I prefer Magnus.”

“Do you know,” he added with a huff of laughter, surprising himself, “I do believe my family have quite forgotten I have a Christian name.”

“You are being absurd again!” Jane announced with a giggle. “Of course they know your Christian name, it’s just that they choose not to use it because they prefer you to remain atop your noble pedestal; it adds to their self-consequence.”

“Pedestal?”

“The pedestal you inhabit as the most noble Earl of Salt Hendon; where you and your noble nostrils live most of the day.”

“Noble nostrils? Good God, do I have noble nostrils?”

“Only when you’re being pompous and when you’re angry. Then they quiver.”

He laughed out loud at that, as if told a good joke, displaying a perfect white smile. “Thank you. I must remember that when next I show my displeasure.” He dipped his head and brushed the tip of his nose against hers and said seriously, “And when I’m not living atop my pedestal, where am I?”

Jane blushed and lowered her lashes. “In bed with me.” And just as quickly added with a smile, because she felt she had gone too far with her candid observations, “Besides, your family must approve of the name Magnus because you have a beautiful little goddaughter by the name of Magna.”

“Poor Merry! To be saddled with such a name.” He effortlessly lifted her into his arms. “I hope you will go on calling me Magnus—in and out of the bedchamber,” he murmured.

She leaned her cheek against his shoulder and snuggled up to his neck, where traces of his spicy masculine fragrance remained, her disheveled hair a mass of tumbled curls and loose pins, and closed her eyes. “Only if it’s mine to own,” she responded, feeling very sleepy cradled in his arms. “No one else… to have it.”

“No one else,” he muttered and kissed her tangle of hair.

He had a large bare foot on the first step of the curved stair when, from the first landing, there came a squeal of undisguised delight that had Jane instantly wide-awake and struggling out of Salt’s arms to stand half-concealed behind him. The owner of the squeal came sailing down the stairs, one hand to the polished balustrade, an elaborately embroidered pink silk dressing gown over her night shift and a lace night cap over her bright copper curls that was tied lopsidedly under her pointed chin.

Jane blinked and wondered if she was witness to an apparition. The girl was not that much younger than her and although she possessed the Sinclair coloring her pretty features had more in common with an Allenby than a Sinclair.

“What the devil are you doing in London?” Salt growled and suffered the girl to throw her arms around his neck. “I hope you dragged the long-suffering Dawson with you and half my laborers as outriders?”

“Of course!” she announced cheerfully and released him. “Dawson refused at first to accompany me but I told her I’d come up to town without her anyway and now she’s quaking in my rooms convinced you mean to dismiss her. Of course I told her that’s rot.” She stepped back and ran her wide-eyed gaze over the Earl, from bare feet to dressed hair and cocked her head in mock disapproval. “You went to the Richmond Ball with your hair powdered but without your stockings and shoes?”

“Don’t be vile, Caroline!” Salt snapped in embarrassment.

Jane muffled a giggle into the Earl’s shoulder, instantly warming her to the girl, and clutched the fur-lined cloak more tightly about her naked body.

“He calls me Caro-line in that pompous way when he’s uncomfortable,” Lady Caroline confided with a smile, then had the temerity to wrinkle up her little nose with its dusting of freckles to brazenly appraise the half-concealed Jane from tumble of dark hair to small bare feet. “You’re much shorter than I remember, possibly because I’ve grown, but you’re still utterly lovely,” she remarked, as if they were known to one another. “You’re quite the loveliest garden sprite to have lived at the bottom of our garden, isn’t she, Salt? When I say our garden of course I mean Salt’s vast seat in Wiltshire; but you know that. Did you ever see us, on the hill overlooking your quaint little cottage? We were on horseback under the stand of old oaks. We’d rest our mounts there. But that was just an excuse so Salt could catch a glimpse of his garden fairy—that’s you, by the way—tending your garden—”

“Caroline! For pity’s sake!”

Lady Caroline rolled her eyes, not at all abashed at making the Earl’s ears go very red. She made her curtsey to Jane and said matter-of-factly, “I’m Caroline Sinclair. Salt’s long-suffering sister. You can call me Caro. Even Salt calls me that when he’s being pleasant. Which isn’t often enough, let me tell you!”

“Call you impossible, insufferable, and intolerable!” he retorted, face ablaze with color at the public revelation of details he’d rather leave unsaid. He quickly introduced Jane, adding wearily, “Caro, you really have chosen the most awkward time to land on my doorstep, not to mention the fact you disobeyed me in coming to London.”

“I’m truly sorry, Salt, but my news couldn’t wait,” she said, not at all apologetic. “Besides, now you’re married it makes all the more sense—By the by,” she said, changing tack, “how did you manage to pry the Sinclair locket from Cousin Diana’s talons?”

Jane put a hand to her throat. “This is paste.”

Salt’s head snapped round at Jane and then almost at once looked back at his sister when she said coolly,

“I didn’t think she’d give it up without a fight.”

“I beg your pardon? Will someone tell me what you are talking about?”

Both women exchanged a look. It was enough to make them firm friends.

“I believe your sister knows more about the Sinclair locket than we do, my lord.”

Salt frowned and waited for Caroline to explain.

“Diana keeps the Sinclair locket under her pillow. She has done so for years. I know because once I stole it from its hiding place; if you can call taking back what is rightfully yours stealing, and got whipped for my troubles.”

“She hit you?”

Caroline shook her head at her brother. “No. She had her lady’s maid do that for her.”

Salt was aghast. He looked at Jane and seemed to read her mind. He lifted the sapphire with one finger. “No secret compartment in this one…”

Jane swallowed and shook her head.

“But in the other one, the real one, you placed a note in the secret compartment for me.”

She did not trust herself to speak. Her blue eyes filled with tears and he had his answer.

Gently, he brushed a strand of hair from her flushed cheek. “I want to ask you… but perhaps in the morning, when we’ve both had a good night’s sleep, we will be better able to discuss the past…”

Jane nodded.

Intuitively, Lady Caroline knew this quiet exchange between her brother and his wife was a momentous one. Yet, she was still young and selfish enough to believe her news was so important that it could not wait. After all, she had come all the way from Wiltshire to tell her brother, and she wasn’t about to go off to bed again having been woken at three in the morning, so she just blurted out what he needed to know sooner rather than later.

“Salt! Do you want to know why I came up to London?”

“Do I?” the Earl responded with a tired sigh, turning to look down at her. “Could it not wait until morning?”

Lady Caroline beamed mischievously. “I came to tell you that Captain Beresford has asked for my hand in marriage and I have accepted him.”

Salt stared at her in utter disbelief. And if Jane hadn’t been stunned by Lady Caroline’s smile of absolute confidence, that the Earl must accept this news as a fait accompli, she would have enjoyed her husband’s hot-headed response.

“Captain Barefaced-Cheek can ask for the whole of your damned spoiled carcass, for all I bloody well care, but he won’t get a hair on your head!” Salt exploded angrily. “And for this you disobeyed me and came up to London? I have a mind to whip some sense into you!”

“It won’t do you any good. I’m no longer a child!” Lady Caroline pouted with her chin high in the air; adding for dramatic effect, “I am a woman.”

“Ha! You’re a child until I say otherwise.”

Lady Caroline rolled her eyes and crossed her arms not at all intimidated, nor did she seem to think he meant what he said. Jane had to admire her pluck.

“You’re as beastly and as prejudiced as Tony,” Lady Caroline said without heat, which surprised and alerted Jane, who expected a tearful tantrum at the very least. “Just because Beresford is a penniless war hero, you dismiss him out of hand. And it’s not as if you know him. He only moved into the neighborhood two years ago.”

“Whether I know the Captain or not is inconsequential; more important is that I know you,” Salt countered and would have said more except for Jane’s fingers on his crumpled shirt sleeve.

“Perhaps it would be best to continue this engaging discussion over breakfast?” she suggested quietly at his shoulder and couldn’t suppress a shy smile. “You will never win an argument, however sound your case, in your present state of undress.”

Her calm reasoning instantly soothed Salt and he smiled down at her before turning back to Lady Caroline with a weary sigh. “Her ladyship is quite right, Caro. This discussion can wait. I’m very pleased to see you here safe. But go to bed and, for God’s sake, wake up in the morning with some commonsense.”

Lady Caroline took the Earl’s stern directive in her stride and gave his stubbled cheek a perfunctory kiss. “I’ve missed you too, glum chops.”

“Glum chops? How dare you knock me off my pedestal in front of my wife with that old nursery nick-name,” he responded with a huff of embarrassed laughter. “You haven’t called me that in years.”

“Pedestal?” Lady Caroline frowned in puzzlement at Jane, who couldn’t meet her gaze, then said to the Earl with guilty pleasure and a wide, impish grin, “Well, not to your face.”

“You little viper!” Salt retorted and pinched her cheek a little too hard, goading her with, “Glum always wins, remember?” before bounding bare foot up the stairs ahead of her.

Lady Caroline took the bait and with a squeal of delight turned tail and fled up the staircase after him, pink dressing gown trailing behind like a cloak, nightcap outrageously askew. Salt stopped on the first landing and lay in wait. Jane watched him grab his sister about the waist and effortlessly lift her up and spin her about, she squealing and he laughing, before putting her down, whereupon there was a friendly exchange of words before he kissed her goodnight. Caroline gave Jane a friendly wave over the balustrade before disappearing from view.

Jane came up the wide stairs at a more leisurely pace, clutching the fur lined cloak tightly about her slim form, mind whirling with possibilities as to how it came to be that the Lady Caroline Sinclair resembled the females of the Allenby family. It certainly made her wonder anew, as she drifted off into a deep sleep snuggled in her husband’s arms, at the feud between neighbors merchant and noble, and at the bequest left to Caroline in Jacob Allenby’s will. And when she woke next morning there was only one question about the Lady Caroline Sinclair she wanted answered, but she woke very late and to the novel experience of being alone in her bed. Usually she was up and dressed and ready for the day well before her husband stirred, a consequence of Jacob Allenby’s edicts on how she must live while under his protection: Early to bed and early to rise, plain food, few creature comforts and plenty of industry to keep mind and body occupied. A thriving herb and vegetable garden, a storeroom full of jars of pickling and preserves, and enough hard-wearing stockings sewn to warm the legs of an army of poorhouse women were testament to her benefactor.

As she sipped her dish of black tea and nibbled on the dry biscuit Anne customarily left on a silver tray on the bedside table she had a vague memory of her husband’s warmth curled around her in the big four poster bed only for him to be up and gone in the next instance, or so it seemed to Jane in her half-waking state: Loud whispered conversation and being told to go back to sleep, and something about a note from Diana St. John and Salt off to South Audley Street to Ron’s bedside yet again.

Finishing her tea, and with her nausea more settled, Jane felt better able to face the day and after washing her face and hands with the tepid water in the porcelain bowl beside her bed, she went through to the dressing room in search of her maid to help her bathe and dress for the day. What she found was the startling sight of Sir Antony sprawled out on the chaise longue by the French windows, a silken arm across his face to shield his eyes from the light, and with Viscount Fourpaws curled up asleep on his stomach. He was dressed in the rich clothes and powdered wig he had worn the night before to the Richmond Ball. Given the crumpled state of his cravat, the deep creases to his black silk breeches, and the fact he was unshaven, Jane knew he had not been to bed since leaving the ball.

Taking his presence in the second most intimate of her rooms in her stride, she threw an embroidered silk dressing gown over her thin nightshift and sat before her dressing table looking glass to brush her waist length hair free of tangles. She wondered if Sir Antony was asleep and guessed he was not. That he was spread-eagled across the chaise longue and avoiding daylight simply meant that he had drunk too much the night before and this, coupled with lack of sleep, had given him an excruciating headache. She knew this to be so when the silver backed hairbrush caught on a knot in her hair and fell with a clatter amongst the clutter on the dressing table. Sir Antony’s body convulsed, sending the kitten fleeing to the safety of Jane’s lap.

He groaned loudly and shifted amongst the cushions to sit up, wig outrageously askew. It was an effort and when he was upright he leaned his elbows on his knees and put his unshaven face in his hands, feeling bilious. Finally, he managed to lift his head and smile weakly.

“You see me at my most damnable, my lady. I can sink no lower,” he announced. “Forgive me, but I had nowhere to go. Well, nowhere else I preferred to lay my weary and battle-scarred carcass.”

“You could do with a dish of black tea,” Jane said cheerfully and rang the little handbell on her dressing table that summoned her maid. “It helps me better able to face the day when I am feeling green.”

“I doubt it will help me. I am not green. I am purple, yellow and puce, a sort of slime. But I am willing to try anything, particularly if it has the power to restore my dignity.”

Anne came and went, and if Jane had not been attending to Sir Antony she would have detained Anne because the woman was miserable. Her face was blotchy and she kept her eyes lowered to the floorboards. That her maid’s misery was compounded by the fact her mistress was entertaining a man other than her husband in her rooms never occurred to Jane.

“The tea has helped, thank you,” Sir Antony said gratefully, balancing the delicate porcelain dish and saucer on his silken knee.

Feeling more himself, he noticed Jane for the first time. His unshaven cheeks burned hot and his mouth went dry finding her sitting before the looking glass in a flimsy silk dressing gown with her thick, raven-black hair tumbled to her waist; a delectably arousing sight normally reserved for a husband’s eyes only. He put his thudding head in his hand and felt an even greater fool. He would never be offered another diplomatic posting, least of all rise to ambassadorial rank, if he didn’t pull himself together, mentally, as well as physically.

But he wouldn’t even get a Channel crossing if he didn’t make it through the day without Salt discovering him in the Countess’s dressing room. He shouldn’t have invited himself in, but he felt he had to see her. Hers was the voice of calm reason and he needed calmness and reason in his life at that very moment. He certainly couldn’t speak to Salt about his sister Caroline’s shock announcement that she was engaged to be married. He knew Jane would understand. Yet, when Jane made a light remark about the Lady Caroline he forgot he was on the brink of being called out by the Earl for matrimonial trespass and ground his teeth.

“I was introduced to Lady Caroline earlier this morning,” Jane announced casually, brushing her hair forward over one shoulder in preparation for braiding. “You were quite right. I liked her on sight. She’s full of life and, it would seem, surprises.”

“Surprises be damned!” Sir Antony growled. “She has the nerve to send round a note to the Richmond turnout telling me she’s in London and to come at once, which I did. Throws herself in my arms telling me how much she’s missed me, then announces in the next breath that Captain Bossy Boots Beresford has asked her to marry him!”

“And you took the news badly?”

“Of course I took the news badly!”

“And you permitted Caroline to see that you took the news badly?”

“I told her precisely what I thought of such an intemperate match—”

“She would have enjoyed that,” Jane murmured.

“—and what I thought of her so-called suitor.”

“Even better.”

“I ask you: The man has a limp, a war injury from the Hanover campaign, and struts about the county, if one can limp and strut at the same time, six years after he was pensioned off, still playing the war hero!” Sir Antony retorted, frustrated rage making him oblivious to Jane’s pointed remarks. “He has less than two thousand a year to live on, with only limited prospects of inheriting a very healthy aunt’s modest estate in Somerset, if and when she drops off the mortal coil, which won’t be any decade soon. Caroline is worth in excess of fifty thousand pounds, and lives in a Jacobean palace a Continental prince wouldn’t turn his nose up at. Whatever she asks for Salt provides. Her idea of economy is to buy only two-dozen pair of new silk stockings on any given day instead of three! Does that sound like a match made in heaven?”

Jane hid her smile and said calmly in mid-brushstroke, “But, as you said yourself, she does love dogs and horses and mucking about the farm. That would seem to suit Captain Beresford?”

“Of course it suits Beresford, but what he fails to understand is that once Caroline turns eighteen and is launched into her first Season, dogs, and horses and farm muck don’t stand a chance!”

“But if they are in love…”

Sir Antony was instantly on his feet. The empty dish and its saucer balanced precariously on his silken knee crashed to the floorboards and smashed unnoticed. Viscount Fourpaws sprang from the comfort and warmth of Jane’s lap and beat a retreat into the next room to take refuge amongst the bank of feather pillows on the big four poster bed; his usual resting place.

“In love? She isn’t in love with him!”

“No, she isn’t in love with him,” Jane agreed.

Sir Antony’s anger burst like a soap bubble. Totally deflated, he sat down, blinking. “She isn’t?”

Jane wondered at the workings of the male mind. She did not have to wonder about Caroline’s thought processes. She reasoned the girl was young after all, and if anything like Jane’s stepmother, the only other female Allenby of Jane’s acquaintance, then she would have woken up this morning very proud of herself for the damage she had wrought the night before. She had gained her objectives. She had discovered the true nature of Sir Antony’s feelings for her and the Earl had flatly refused her engagement to Captain Beresford. Jane did not doubt the existence of the good Captain, or the fact that he might have designs on marrying an heiress, he may even have feelings for Caroline, but she doubted very much if he had asked her to marry him. And if he had, then he truly was a fortune hunter and Salt would deal with him very swiftly.

“How do you know she isn’t in love with Beresford?” Sir Antony asked in wonderment. “You only met for the first time last night.” When Jane smiled and continued brushing her hair, he perched forward on the chaise longue and said hopefully, “She confided in you. She’s had second thoughts about the Captain.”

“No. As you said, I only met her for the first time last evening. Naturally, Salt was furious and told her in no uncertain terms that he would not countenance a union with the Captain. Caroline took this in her stride and wasn’t to be dissuaded.”

“As only she would! But if she isn’t in love with Beresford, why is she putting me through this-this torture?”

So much for Sir Antony calmly telling her he would wait until Caroline had had her Season before declaring himself. Jane smiled to herself. Poor Tony, he had best take himself off to St. Petersburg, or ask Caroline to marry him immediately, or develop an armor-plated sensibility to see him through Caroline’s flirtatious Season amongst the young bloods and fortune hunters who would court her. She would surely flaunt each and every one of her suitors in his face, all to get his reaction. And if he did react then woe betide him ever gaining the upper hand in that union.

“She is trying to force your hand, Tony,” Jane said simply. “And by informing Salt of the Captain’s intentions, she is ensuring that when you do get up the courage to ask Salt he will be heartily relieved that his sister is to have a husband that is acceptable to him, and not a social pariah. Of course, if Caroline was truly in love with the Captain I don’t think Salt would be too concerned about the man’s measly two thousand a year. Being generous and devoted to Caroline, he would provide them with a house and sundry other comforts that Caroline cannot live without, if she was to marry a war hero of modest income.”

Sir Antony wasn’t so certain but he lost his mulish look. “You think?”

“I think,” Jane said brightly. She turned away from the looking glass to face him. “Unfortunately, your angry reaction to her news means you’ve played into her hands.”

“Scheming baggage!” Sir Antony grumbled good-naturedly. “I should’ve had my eyes open! But I was so happy to see her after all these months that it never occurred to me she would ill-use me in that way.” He grinned and shook his head. “Thinking about it, she’s had months to plan her campaign, hasn’t she? I suppose I ought to be flattered.”

Jane laughed behind her hand. “Very flattered. And the situation is not unsalvageable. To my mind, you can do one of two things: If you are set on marrying Caroline, immediately declare yourself and hope that Salt will acquiesce, given Caroline hasn’t had her Season; or, if you are still uncertain about making a commitment until she’s had her Season, to satisfy yourself that she knows in her own mind that it is with you she wishes to spend the rest of her life, then you must coolly accept her plans to marry the Captain.”

Sir Antony pouted. “Must I?”

“Why, of course! On no account must you allow her to see that the Captain bothers you. My guess is, she will keep up the pretense of being in love with the Captain for as long as it takes for you to declare yourself, and if you do not break to her will, she’ll give some excuse why the Captain proved unsuitable and move on to another wholly unacceptable marriage proposal. All to wear you thin.”

Sir Antony rubbed his unshaven chin and smiled ruefully. “I’m feeling rather thin now…”

“You may have to accept a posting to Stockholm to distance yourself from her teasing,” Jane ended with an encouraging smile, Sir Antony looking as ill as she felt when she’d woken up. “Of course, if you do decide to run off to the Continent, you will have Salt on your conscience. The poor man will be left alone to deal with Caroline’s hordes of admirers.”

“Oh, I shan’t feel guilty. Why should I when he has you? You’ll provide him with all the support he needs to get him through the whole unpleasant business of launching Caroline on an unsuspecting society.”

Jane turned away, a blush to her cheeks, and searched for a silk ribbon amongst the clutter on her dressing table. Unable to find one, she fiddled unnecessarily with several jars, saying hesitantly, “He… He may have to cope without me… I-I may be indisposed…”

“Egad! I’m an unthinking ass,” Sir Antony responded and dropped to his silken knees beside the dressing table at her feet. “Of course! The baby! Your confinement will be around the time the Season begins, won’t it? Diana told me,” he confessed when Jane’s blue eyes widened in surprise. “I have no idea how she found out, but she knows, and now so do I.” He smiled ruefully. “It’s not my place to ask, and you don’t have to answer me, but why, my dear, haven’t you shared this momentous news with Salt? He’ll be beside himself with joy to know he is to be a father.”

Jane gazed at her hands clasped in her lap. “He doesn’t believe in miracles.”

“Miracles?”

“You may recall that ten years ago Salt had a rather nasty riding accident that left him bedridden and in a great deal of pain. The bruises and severe swelling to his—to a particular part of his—”

“I remember,” Sir Antony cut in to save her any further embarrassment. “In fact, my eyes are watering in sympathy. Any man’s would.”

Jane nodded, grateful for his interruption and continued.

“You may also recall that the physicians who attended on him at that time advised that as a consequence of the-the injuries sustained, it was unlikely he would father a child.”

“Did they? Bunch of charlatans! What would they know?” Sir Antony replied with an encouraging smile. “Well, obviously not much because they’ve been proved wrong. If I was Salt I’d have the wholly jolly lot of ’em struck off the medical register for being quacks and frauds. He could do it too, y’know.”

This did force a laugh from her. “You make it sound so simple.”

Impulsively, Sir Antony caught at one of her hands. “It is simple,” he said gently. “When two people are deeply in love, miracles can and do happen. And if he doesn’t believe that,” he added in a rallying tone, and at Jane’s watery smile kissed her hand, “then he doesn’t deserve you! He must have gruel for brains!”

“Or no brain at all,” drawled the Earl.

Jane snatched back her hand and shot up off the dressing stool, mortified. It was the way her husband was regarding her with a steady, unblinking gaze, a gaze that shifted momentarily to Sir Antony, who had overbalanced with shock and fallen back against the chaise longue, an arm stuck out to grope the silk cushions to keep himself upright.

Jane wondered how long Salt had been leaning in the doorway and guessed he had just walked in on Sir Antony’s final undiplomatic pronouncement by his readily given quip. He had come from his apartments, having bathed, shaved and changed into a chinoiserie frock coat that matched the magnificence of his Richmond Ball dress. For all his outward appearance of the noble courtier, there was a dullness to his brown eyes as they continued to regard Jane steadily, and his gaunt, tired expression suggested that what he needed was not another day of political machinations but a good night’s unbroken sleep.

Jane finally stepped forward, worry about Ron outweighing any feelings of embarrassment she had at being caught in dishabille in her dressing room with her husband’s best friend. “How is Ron? Were you able to settle him?”

“Salt!” Sir Antony suddenly blurted out in the silence.

“Do get up, Tony,” the Earl responded flatly, coming further into the room as Sir Antony scrambled to his feet and set his wig to rights then stood to attention like a naughty schoolboy. He addressed his wife. “Ron was sleeping peacefully when I left him tucked up in bed just a little after sunrise. I promised that if he is very much better this afternoon, he and Merry can stay the night in the nursery. They are both looking forward to seeing Caro.”

“What? Ron was ill again?” Sir Antony blurted out. “Egad! That’s two nights in a row! No wonder you look fagged to death.” He glanced from Salt to Jane and back again, all embarrassment at being caught trespassing in the most private of the Countess’s rooms extinguished with his concern for his nephew. “Salt, you really must put a stop to Diana’s nonsense, or I will. If you don’t believe what I told you in the carriage about your happiness and—”

“I believe you.”

“—Diana’s petty jealous anger and Ron’s illness—Oh! You do?”

“Yes. I merely had to have the blindfold removed to see what’s been going on, for which I thank you—and my wife.”

Jane touched the Earl’s embroidered upturned cuff. “You have taken the matter in hand?”

“Yes,” he responded but said no more because he was not to be diverted from his displeasure at Sir Antony’s trespass. His gaze flickered from his wife’s state of undress to the broken dish and saucer by the chaise longue and then fixed on his best friend. That he chose to deliver Sir Antony a short, sharp dressing down in the French tongue signaled to Jane that he was not only furious but had no wish to sully her ears with his derogatory vitriol. The contrition on Sir Antony’s face confirmed her suspicions.

“You have the damned idiocy, no, ill-mannered selfishness, to invade these private rooms unshaven and still in your ball costume and I am no longer left wondering why the latest filth circulating drawing rooms has it that you are tupping my wife?”

“Salt, I—”

The Earl raised an imperious hand. “Je ne veux pas t’écouter.”

“But—Parbleu! You must listen to what I have to say! It isn’t what you think! I was only—”

“You are not privy to my thoughts. Va-t-en!”

Sir Antony bravely drew himself up and looked the Earl between the eyes. It was an unnerving and unpleasant experience for a young man who worshipped his mentor. He openly eyeballed him nonetheless. “The reason I came uninvited and unwanted here is because I needed—”

“Your needs are supremely unimportant to me at this moment,” Salt interrupted, and continued in English, a glance at Jane to see if she was attending. “If you think I don’t know you got yourself pickled last night all because of Caro’s absurd announcement and, feeling sorry for yourself, came here seeking my wife’s sympathy for your pathetic behavior, then it is you who have gruel for brains. You will go to Arlington Street, get yourself together, change into something befitting a man who has aspirations to strut the diplomatic stage in St. Petersburg, and be back here in my bookroom within the hour to meet with Count Vorontsov. His Excellency has condescendingly permitted you an hour of his precious time. Now get out and allow me a moment’s peace with her ladyship.”

“He really was in a dreadful state of anxiety,” Jane said in defense of Sir Antony when left alone with the Earl.

“That’s no excuse for his ungentlemanly conduct,” he said, a pointed stare at her free-flowing hair, brown-eyed gaze dipping to her breasts and fixing on her bare toes. His eyes came back up to her flushed face. “When I am not here, her ladyship’s maid should be with her at all times. I had presumed Willis had given the Countess the lecture on what rooms of her apartments are public and those that are strictly private, off-limits to everyone except her husband. I won’t have my wife the subject of servant gossip.”

“And what about me, my lord?” Jane asked, chin up.

Salt frowned. “I am talking about you.”

“No. You are talking at me, as if I am someone quite removed from this poor creature that is gossiped about by servants. Although… I don’t know what the servants could possibly find to gossip about the Countess of Salt Hendon that would outshine the Earl’s performance last night. He makes love to his wife in his carriage, carries her indoors, both of them practically naked, and in full view of his lordship’s butler, under-butler and a handful of footmen. Not to mention being caught out in this morally depraved state of undress by a young lady yet to make her come out. No, I fail to see what the servants could possibly find to gossip about her, when his lordship has provided a surfeit of servant gossip about them both.”

This forced a tired laugh from him and he drew her into his embrace and kissed her forehead.

“Touché, my lady. I can always rely on you to bring the planets back into alignment. But I’m still annoyed at Tony,” he added seriously. “I may consider him family, but only I am permitted the arousing sight of you in undress with your hair down your back.”

Jane blushed and dropped her chin. “Is that what you said to him in French?” she asked shyly. “Poor Tony was in such a state over Caroline’s teasing pronouncement that she is engaged to Captain Beresford.”

He sighed his annoyance and took Sir Antony’s place on the chaise longue, avoiding the broken tea dish and saucer, and drew Jane to sit beside him. “I really do wonder at Tony’s ability to withstand the rigors of diplomatic life abroad if he can’t put two coherent sentences together in my company when I’m displeased with him. I’m told he’s a very competent and astute politician, and I do trust his judgment, but…”

“It’s that pedestal,” she replied, snuggling up to him. “You need to let him see that you can climb down off it from time to time. When you’re displeased you could intimidate the Sun King. And your nostrils quivered.”

“Did they?” Salt laughed with genuine good humor. “Poor Tony. But if he thinks, after all these years, I don’t know he is wig over toes in love with Caro, then he truly does have gruel between his ears!”

“What are you going to do about it?”

Salt smiled slyly and stifled a yawn. “What any good parent worth his coin would do. Let him sweat it out for as long as it takes him to get up the courage to approach me. Besides, I want Caro to have a Season and receive at least a dozen inappropriate marriage proposals before she settles on Tony.”

“How cruel, but how utterly fatherly of you!”

He looked down at her hand in his and played with her fingers, saying quietly, “You have a hundred questions for me about Caro, don’t you?”

A hundred questions Jane certainly had. But there was only one question concerning the Lady Caroline Sinclair that was uppermost in her mind. As always she took the direct approach.

“Whose child is she, Magnus?”

FIFTEEN

JANE’S QUESTION elicited an embarrassed laugh, but the Earl was not smiling.

“As always, Lady Salt, you are woefully frank.”

“There is no other way of asking, is there?”

“God help me when Caro has her come out,” he responded, continuing to avoid the question. “I’m dreading that day’s arrival. She’ll have ten suitors on her hook by the end of the first week.”

“Your apprehension is only natural. Any parent of a girl of marriageable age must feel the same way,” she answered matter-of-factly, ignoring his equivocation for the time being. “Parents want their daughters to travel down the right path to matrimony, to find an eligible gentleman of the same social standing. But such eligibility does not necessarily mean a happy marriage, does it? Those parents who truly care for their daughter’s happiness give equal weight to the suitability of the husband, as well as to his eligibility, don’t they?”

“Yes. I want Caro to make a suitable match, but equally I want her to be happy,” he answered quietly, still playing with her fingers. He looked into her eyes. “Not an aspiration your father had for you, was it?”

Jane smiled ruefully, face hot with embarrassment for a father for whom she had been a sad disappointment.

“True. My personal happiness was never a consideration for Sir Felix. But in those few moments I spent in your sister’s company, it is evident your relationship with Caroline is very different from the one I had with my father,” she continued, determined not to be diverted from her original question. “I would never have dared call my father glum chops in that playful way, in any way. Nor would he have responded by chasing me up the stairs in an equally playful manner.” Her brow furrowed. “I don’t understand why I see the resemblance between Caroline and the Allenbys when others do not, but perhaps it is because I have lived amongst them for most of my life. Caroline and my stepmother could be mistaken for mother and daughter.”

Salt let go of her hand. “Caro is nothing like Rachel!”

Jane smiled.

“Now who needs spectacles of comprehension, my lord? I was not referring to my stepmother’s lax morals or her need to have her beauty constantly praised. You may think me quite depraved for thinking so, but it is my belief that had my father not been a-a drunk and been more attentive to his wife’s needs… For all her vanity and silliness, my stepmother did love my father…” She paused and swallowed and bravely went on under his unblinking gaze. “If he’d paid more attention to her in the bedchamber I doubt she’d have gone elsewhere.”

“My dear Lady Salt,” the Earl said with mock indignation. “You shock me. When did you reach this most startling conclusion?”

Jane lowered her gaze. “Since our wedding night,” she confessed. “I enjoy making love with you because you have made it enjoyable for me.” She smiled up at him from under her long lashes, saying demurely, “You know full well you have thoroughly ruined me, my lord.”

Salt’s eyebrows drew sharply over the bridge of his long thin nose, Jane’s compliment evoking an echo of her words that first night together as man and wife. Words he now realized he in his guilt had totally misconstrued. His face grew hot. “Ruined? Spoiled. Indulged. That’s what you mean,” he said gruffly, shame making him sound harsh.

“Yes. Yes, of course,” she replied with a start, wondering why he was suddenly ill at ease by her honest confession about his prowess as a lover. She impulsively kissed his cheek. “It was a compliment, silly. Now tell me about Caroline—”

“Jane, I—”

“—and her connection to the Allenbys.”

“No one sees what you see because it is too fantastical to be believed. The Allenbys and the Sinclairs have not spoken or socialized these past eighteen years, despite living on neighboring estates. Yet, Caro’s resemblance to the Allenbys is strong enough that Tony, who met your stepmother on only one occasion, asked me if he had met her before. Who could have foreseen at her birth that she would take after the Allenbys in form and the Sinclairs in coloring?”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“No. It doesn’t. Do you want to hazard a guess?”

Jane shook her mane of hair. “No, because the answer I give might be the right one and I don’t want it to be true. And because it is a sordid tale, and not one either family is proud to own, is it? Caroline’s true birth has been concealed to protect her, perhaps her parents, too, and thus she has been presented to the world as your sister.”

The Earl smiled crookedly and pulled a lock of his wife’s hair. “Not too wide of the mark, my clever girl.”

“Jacob Allenby had two female relatives,” she said, mind ticking over with possibilities and arithmetical equations. “There was Rachel, my stepmother, Jacob Allenby’s sister, but given Caroline is almost eighteen and eighteen years ago Rachel was already married to my father, there would be no need for her to give up a child had she been unfaithful because she could have easily passed it off as belonging to her husband. And then there was Jacob Allenby’s only daughter Abby—Abigail—but she died of consumption when just fifteen years old…” Jane frowned and softly bit her lower lip in thought. “Unless your father was a complete reprobate, I cannot imagine he seduced Abigail…”

“My father was a proud, cold man but a reprobate he was not. He married late in life to a young wife, which was not exceptional amongst his peers, but he was devoted to my mother, which was unusual. Ah, here is your morning chocolate, my lady.”

Jane’s maid came through from the dressing room carrying a tray which had upon it a brandy for his lordship and a mug of hot chocolate and a couple of dry biscuits on a plate for her ladyship. She silently placed the tray on the table by the sofa, bobbed a curtsey, quickly scooped up the smashed pieces of tea dish and saucer and scurried away.

Salt gratefully savored his brandy, a questioning eyebrow lifted at Jane as she nibbled on a dry biscuit.

“If this is how you sustain yourself, you will fade away. If you’re hungry, what you need is a good wedge of venison pie or big bowl of pea soup. Not a few crumbs on a plate.”

“Oh, please, no! Just the thought of pea soup makes me green,” Jane pleaded. She warmed her hands about the mug of hot chocolate, unsure if the beverage would make her ill or not. She didn’t much feel like drinking milk. Another dish of black tea with a slice of lemon was what she craved. But the biscuits were welcome. Suddenly she was struck with the most awful thought. Looking at the Earl, she could barely speak. “Not-not Jacob Allenby and-and your mother…”

Again he laughed out loud. “You have the most refreshingly wicked thoughts, my darling!” He shook his head. “Most definitely not my mother.” He put aside the brandy, took the mug of chocolate from her hands and set it aside too, then possessed himself of both her hands. His gaze never left her blue eyes.

“Abigail Allenby was Caro’s mother. Abby, St. John and I were all just fifteen when Caro was conceived. Just children ourselves… Before the rift, before Caro’s conception, when St. John and I came home from Eton for the holidays, we would roam the countryside: St. John and myself, Abby and a couple of the younger village girls and boys, much like Robin Hood’s merry band. Tony was too young and Diana too Lady High-and-Mighty, even at that young age, to lower herself to muck about in haylofts and up trees. She teased St. John and me mercilessly about our preference for the company of tenant farmers’ brats and children from the local village. She was forever finding excuses to rat on us to my father. The Sinclairs and the Allenbys would not have mixed in the same social circles in London or Bath, or Bristol for that matter, but in the country, as you know, it is quite usual for county families high and low to socialize at local events, the hunt, fairs and the like.”

“Is-is that where Caroline was conceived—in a hayloft?”

His smile was grim. “And here was I wondering how best to tell you! I guess that’s where it happened. I don’t rightly know. The last time St. John and I saw Abby was just before we returned to Eton at Michaelmas. She must have been at least three perhaps four months pregnant then, but she didn’t say a word to us. At Christmastime, Father came up to London without my mother with the startling news I had a baby sister. St. John and I didn’t think anything of it, boys don’t, but then… My father thrashed me within an inch of my life for bringing the family name into disrepute. He never laid a hand on St. John. He never did.

“St. John was not the most robust of fellows. So I took the whipping for both of us. I didn’t mind. It was possibly worse for St. John because my father made him watch while I was flayed. I suppose Father expected a confession. Neither of us said a word because we didn’t know what we had done to enrage him. Well, I certainly had no idea then. Father left St. John to deal with my bruised and bloodied carcass and with the crude pronouncement that I could sow as many wild oats as I pleased with any whore that took my fancy, but be damned if he was going to shelter any more ill-begotten bastards.”

“And Abby? What of her? Did she die of consumption?”

Salt smiled crookedly and looked down at Jane’s soft hands in his.

“Abby turned to your stepmother, her aunt, for help when she realized she was pregnant. Jacob Allenby ordered Abby to say nothing about the child until a date had been set for the wedding.” Salt gave a huff of angry embarrassment. “Rachel and Jacob Allenby used Abby’s pregnancy and the threat of exposure to force my father to agree to a hasty marriage between us. They had no idea who they were dealing with. Father didn’t take kindly to threats. He threw Allenby out of his house and off his lands.”

“And Abby? What happened to Abby?”

“What do you think a toad like Jacob Allenby did with an unmarried daughter who was with child? Conscienceless prig disowned her! What use was she to him when the Earl of Salt Hendon refused to make an honorable woman of her by marrying her into his family? He cast her out of the family home to fend for herself. She, a gently bred young girl of fifteen with nowhere to turn! She went to her aunt, hoping she would take her in. Not your stepmother! Lady Despard also turned her back on the poor girl. Abby ended up on our doorstep. Against my father’s orders, my mother took her in and cared for her. Abby died three days after Caro’s birth. Needless to say it was my mother’s idea to make Caro my sister. I don’t know how she won over my father to her scheme, but she did.”

Jane dropped her gaze to their hands, to his long, tapered fingers with their perfectly manicured nails, and she knew she was crying. She could not stop. She was crying for Abby, and for Caroline because she had never known her real mother, and for herself, because she wished she had had someone as kind and as understanding as Salt’s mother to take her in and protect her and her unborn child when she had found herself pregnant four years ago. Never in her wildest imaginings did she think her father would have her unborn child destroyed.

Before she realized what was happening, she was in Salt’s arms and he was tenderly wiping her face dry of tears with his white handkerchief. But she didn’t want him to hold her at that moment. She wasn’t sure how she felt about his affair with Abby Allenby and the part he had played in keeping from Caroline her true parentage. So she pulled out of his embrace and took the handkerchief to wipe her flushed face dry before staring at him resolutely.

“Did you never think that the child growing up as your sister might not be your sister at all? Didn’t you think to do the sums? Did you never wonder why Caroline had the coloring of a Sinclair but the looks of an Allenby?”

“No,” he answered simply. “Why would it occur to me?”

“I should hazard a guess that the possibility of impregnating your lovers has never occurred to you!”

“Jane, I do not understand why you are upsetting yourself over this. I grant the tale is a sordid one and Abby’s death a tragedy, but Caro has never suffered for being my sister, ever. My mother loved her as her own. I love her as any brother would love his sister. She wants for nothing. God, even Jacob Allenby showed he had a conscience in the end when he had the audacity to leave his only grandchild ten thousand pounds in his will; the dowry he had stripped from Abby when he disowned her.

“Believe me or not, but I was five and twenty before I figured out for myself that Caro was not my sister. I’d come down to Salt Hall for Caro’s ninth birthday. She was running up the drive to greet me, as she always did, with her arms outstretched playing at being a swallow or robin red breast or some such bird that had taken her fancy at the time. Her copper curls were bouncing about her thin shoulders and she was so happy to see me. And then it hit me, literally in the chest. The breath was knocked out of me. She was the likeness of Abigail Allenby. And then I knew: My parents were not Caroline’s parents. Abby was Caro’s mother.” He gently touched Jane’s hair. “I just want you to understand—”

She shifted out of his reach, along the chaise longue, not wanting the touch of him, white handkerchief twisted up in her hands. “What? That you learned your lesson with Abby Allenby’s ruin? That you took the advice your father beat into you and henceforth confined your whoring to women of your own class and paid courtesans who knew how to keep themselves from falling with your bastards?” She gave a little sob that broke in the middle. “How ironic that the one and only other time you allowed lust to rule good sense you again impregnated a gently bred girl from the counties! Though you quickly came to your noble senses. You weren’t fifteen anymore and you were the Earl, and once returned to London and your life here, Wiltshire could well have been the Americas for all you cared, so it would have been easy to forget me—”

He came to life at that. He had been staring hard at her, trying to make sense of her emotionally charged denunciation, knowing she was overreacting but not knowing why. She was so pale and shivered in the thin chemise and dressing gown that he wondered if she had caught a chill the night before from the breeze blowing off the icy waters of the Thames. He heard her accuse him of not only impregnating Abigail Allenby but also impregnating her, and it was such an astonishing accusation that he was incapable of absorbing it there and then. So he seized on the one fact he could deal with and his anger extinguished all thoughts and consideration for her welfare.

“For God’s sake, Jane!” he growled in frustration. “Abby wasn’t the Allenby I was rutting in that hayloft. It was your bloody stepmother Rachel!” He gave a huff of embarrassment as he took a turn about the room, stopped at the fireplace and set another log atop the burning embers for want of something to cover his mortification at blurting out such a confession. “Truth told, Abby wasn’t the only one to lose her innocence in that hayloft…”

There was a long awkward silence between them; the only sound, the spit and hiss of coals as the fire leapt into new life. Jane stood beside him and lifted her palms to the radiant warmth. She stated what he had not.

“St. John is Caroline’s father.”

“Yes.” He looked down at her then. His smile was sad. “As a boy, St. John had a mop of red curls. Caroline has such a mop… She has his eyes.”

“Did he know he had a daughter?”

“Like me, he figured it out for himself much later. We made a promise never to tell anyone, never to tell Caroline. Now I have told you.”

Jane nodded, as if it did not need to be said that she too would never divulge Caroline’s paternity.

“So my stepmother knew you were not Caroline’s father, and yet she colluded with Jacob Allenby to try and force your father to have you marry Abby?”

“Yes.”

“And when that scheme did not work out, she and Allenby disowned Abby?”

“Yes.”

“I do not wonder why you detest her. Poor Abby.”

She saw Salt give a start and turn his shoulder and realized they were not alone, that her maid stood in the doorway, eyes cast to the floorboards.

“What is it, Anne?”

“Lady Sedley’s carriage will be here on the hour, my lady.”

“Oh!” Jane turned to the Earl. “I must bathe and dress or I will be late for our excursion to the Strand. Lady Elisabeth is taking me to view the Society’s picture exhibition. She tells me I must see the Death of General Wolfe, a piece by a new painter George… George Rom-Romney, as she thinks him such a prodigiously fine master of the brush and that I should sit to him.” When her husband frowned she added with a frown of her own, “Surely you cannot object to your wife being seen in the company of a married daughter of your political rival? After all, wives and daughters are above petty politics, surely?”

Salt inclined his head. “As to that, my wife is certainly above anything petty.”

Jane blushed at the compliment, adding with a smile as she sat before her looking glass and began to brush her hair, “I am told in confidence that Lord Bute is tired unto death of the slights against him when all he wants is what is best for the King—” She paused at Salt’s huff of disbelief “—and what is best for the country. Elisabeth believes it to be so and who am I to disabuse her? She is loyal to her father, which is as it should be. Caroline would defend you to her dying breath, would she not?”

“Just so, my lady.”

“Elisabeth also confided that her father is done with politics. Lord Bute means to resign all his commissions come April.”

Salt lifted his brows in surprise. “Is that so, my lady? Then you have managed to discover what I and others on both sides of the political fence have been trying to do for months.”

Jane stopped in mid-brushstroke and smiled sweetly at his reflection. “Perhaps his lordship should spend more time in the nursery.”

He pulled aside the weight of hair from her neck and stooped to kiss her nape, murmuring, “Believe me, Jane, I would like nothing better in this world than to spend my time with you in the nursery.”

Jane decided the moment had come to tell him about their baby and was about to do so when she caught sight of her maid’s reflection in the looking glass. Anne was still standing behind them, nervously wringing her hands and looking miserable. She was staring at the Earl and although her mouth was moving as if in speech, no words were audible. Jane realized she was rehearsing a monologue, so turned on her dressing stool, a warning glance up at her husband.

Salt beckoned the woman forward, wondering what his wife’s maid could possibly have to say to him that could not be discussed with his butler or his housekeeper, or with her mistress the Countess.

“My lord, I must speak with you,” Anne announced nervously and bobbed a curtsey before launching headlong into her speech for fear that if she drew breath, or looked up into the Earl’s face again, she would lose her way and not be able to deliver her very important message. The fear that Lady St. John was, at any moment, on her way to Grosvenor Square to find out if she had carried out her orders made her resolute. She could not take another interrogation by that evil woman, and as she had not administered the contents of the small bottle to the Countess’s dish of tea as ordered, but given it unopened to Mr. Willis, Anne knew the time to act was now.

“My lord, Mr. Willis craved an audience with you today and was told by Mr. Ellis that there was no possibility of Mr. Willis being admitted to your lordship’s bookroom, because your lordship had a prior engagement with the Russian ambassador and then her ladyship’s brother, Mr. Allenby, is to come to play at tennis and to stay to dinner. And what with the Lady Caroline come to stay so unexpectedly, and putting the servants in a minor commotion on account of finding places for the Wiltshire servants, Mr. Ellis advised Mr. Willis to take the matter to Mr. Jenkins, who as butler is the right and proper person to be admitted to your lordship’s bookroom to discuss servant matters. But as Mr. Willis explained to Mr. Ellis, the matter was not only urgent but was most certainly not for the ears of Mr. Jenkins or, for that matter, any servants’ ears, but only for your lordship’s ears.

“Whereupon Mr. Ellis ordered Mr. Willis to tell him his business. Mr. Willis resolutely refused to do such a thing because, with all due respect to Mr. Ellis’s position as your lordship’s secretary, to divulge the matter to Mr. Ellis or any other person save your lordship, would not be right and proper on account of the matter being of such a particularly delicate nature. So you see, my lord, it is very, very important that Mr. Willis speaks with you today.”

Anne loudly drew breath and bobbed another curtsey and dared to bravely look up into the handsome impassive face above her before dropping her gaze again, wringing her hands and with her heart beating so hard against her ribs that the blood drummed in her ears. She wondered if it was a flicker of a smile the Earl displayed, or the beginnings of a frown; either way, she had managed to get his attention, which was all that mattered.

“Well—Anne,” Salt replied, a quick glance over at Jane to see if he had correctly remembered the woman’s name, “if Willis is of the opinion that the matter is of such a particularly delicate nature that it cannot be dealt with by Jenkins or Mr. Ellis but is for my ears only, and that the matter is of some urgency, then see Willis I must. Be good enough to tell Willis to present himself at my bookroom at once, before the Russian Ambassador arrives, and he will find me alone and at leisure to speak with him.”

Anne bobbed another curtsey but she was far from happy with this outcome. She glanced anxiously at the Countess and then raised her eyes to the Earl. Her throat was dry from extreme nervousness making her voice rasping and halting. “With the utmost respect, my lord, what you suggest is not possible. For you see, my lord, Mr. Willis always accompanies her ladyship everywhere whenever her ladyship ventures from the house unattended. That is to say that whenever your lordship is not with her ladyship, or Sir Antony is not with her ladyship, then Mr. Willis is-is duty bound to attend on her ladyship.”

“Willis’ loyalty is to be commended. However, I am confident upon this occasion that her ladyship will spare Willis—”

“No! Please, my lord, no. You cannot make Mr. Willis choose. He must do his duty by her ladyship and especially at this most particular time…” She dared not look at the Countess and kept her gaze on the Earl. “By doing his duty to her ladyship he does his duty to you, my lord.”

Salt was stunned by such abruptness in a servant that he almost reeled back in shock. However, he managed to reply very quietly, “Have Willis present himself at my bookroom before dinner. He will find me there alone. Now off you go,” he added uncomfortably and when the maid had scurried away into the closet to gather together her mistress’s clothes for the outing, turned on Jane. “Good Lord! I’ve never heard such a tumble of words, and said with such sternness, from a maidservant. I don’t see why you should have a giggle at my expense at the recalcitrance of your maid!”

“Climbing down off your pedestal wasn’t that difficult, was it?”

“Difficult?” he replied, nostrils aquiver, trying his best to look offended. Yet, he couldn’t stop a lopsided grin. “Not if you are there to catch me should I have the misfortune to take a tumble from such a lofty height.”

She smiled at his reflection. “Always.”

“Then you had best come to the tennis court when you return from viewing pictures. Tom is sure to beat me at my own game, given I have had less than three hours sleep in the past twenty-four.”

But it wasn’t Tom who next knocked the Earl from the dizzying heights of his noble plinth; it was his discarded mistress, Elizabeth, Lady Outram, come to call on the young Countess of Salt Hendon to open her eyes to the veracity of life as the wife of a lothario nobleman.

~   ~   ~

“MR WRAXTON? Mr. Wraxton? Are you awake, sir?”

It was Arthur Ellis and he was gently nudging Hilary Wraxton’s Malacca cane with the toe of his shoe, hoping to wake the poet. Hilary’s Wraxton’s snoring was so loud that his sonorous nasal blasts reverberated in the cavernous vestibule off the downstairs withdrawing room and out into the expanse of the main entrance hall. Lined with marble statues of Greek Gods and Roman emperors, and portraits of long dead noble Sinclairs, the vestibule was not a room in the cozy sense of the word that one would want to curl up in and fall asleep, but more a museum where one sauntered about to view the impressive life-size busts of the Emperor Augustus, Marcus Aurelius and Caesar or gazed at the Elizabethan and Stuart full-length pictures of previous Earls of Salt Hendon.

The secretary had just come from his employer’s bookroom where the Russian Ambassador and two of his equerries, Lord Salt and Sir Antony had been ensconced speaking in the French tongue for three hours. Mr. Ellis prided himself on his fluency in the French language, after all he had a first in languages from Oxford, but the flow of conversation had tested his linguistic powers and given him the headache. His Excellency the Count had stayed to nuncheon and enjoyed himself so much that he invited his noble host and Sir Antony to dine with him the following week. And to bring the oh so vivacious Lady Caroline Sinclair with them, and of course Lady Salt, whose company he had not had the pleasure, although he had the pleasure of an introduction at the Richmond House ball—such astonishing beauty was forever remembered.

Salt had graciously accepted His Excellency’s invitation, though privately he was not so certain Caroline would be alive to see the light of another day, he so wanted to strangle the life out of her for coming into the bookroom uninvited. His annoyance was tempered by Sir Antony’s acute observation that Caroline’s behavior was no less reprehensible than that of his own dear sister Diana, who made it her business to interrupt the Earl’s at home days every Tuesday; and Diana didn’t have the excuse of the overconfidence of youth and naivety. And as Count Vorontsov seemed very taken with Caroline’s enthusiasm for all things Russian, and the fact she was attentive and laughed very prettily at all His Excellency’s long-winded stories, Sir Antony told Salt he really had nothing to complain about. To which the Earl wanted to retort that love was blind and the sooner Sir Antony ordered Caroline to stop encouraging the attentions of Captain Big-Boots Beresford, married her and swept her off to St. Petersburg the better for his peace of mind.

Peace of mind.

That’s what he craved most these days. The thought of the Easter break and taking Jane and the children to Wiltshire to muck about on the estate occupied his thoughts as the butler and two footmen helped the Count with his sword and sash and into his mink-lined great coat; Sir Antony having a last word with one of the Russian equerries. Salt nodded distractedly when Sir Antony mentioned he was taking Caroline for a turn about the park for some fresh air before dinner but came out of his abstraction when he saw his secretary disappear into the vestibule where emanated the discordant sounds of what could only be described as a muffled bugle but was in fact heavy snoring.

“Salt! Good! Wanted a word,” Hilary Wraxton announced, wide-awake and staring beyond the secretary at the Earl who strode into the vestibule with a quick look around. “Here! You! Be useful. Hold this,” he ordered the secretary and pushed his Malacca cane onto Arthur Ellis. From an inner pocket of his blue watered silk waistcoat he produced a thick sheaf of small parchment squares tied up with a pink ribbon. “Poems for her ladyship. One a week for a year,” he announced proudly and held them out to the Earl. “Would have penned more; no time. Pascoe says I can write more from Paris and Venice and Constantinople, if we get that far.”

“Thank you, Hilary,” the Earl said placidly, accepting the wad of poetical writings and instantly handing them off to his secretary. “Why must her ladyship have one a week?”

“She looks forward to my recitals. Told me so. I admit reading ’em herself ain’t the same as me reading ’em to her, but she’ll just have to bear up under the disappointment.”

Salt suppressed a grin. “Yes. She will be disappointed. Paris. Venice. Constantinople?”

“Pascoe is taking me, well us. Actually, come to think on it,” he mused with a frown, as if the idea had just popped into his head, “I invited myself. Lizzie don’t mind. Says I’ll be company for Pascoe when she’s sleeping. Sleeps a lot, Lizzie. Dare say that’s the price of fading beauty: Beauty sleep at two in the afternoon. You know the type, Salt. Pascoe’s turn to put up with her.” He gave a sudden snort of laughter that startled the secretary into dropping the Malacca cane, and it clattered loudly on the marble floor. “Sporting of you to let Pascoe have her all to himself. Between us, he’s always been ears over toes for Lizzie; wouldn’t let on to you. Not while you and she were—you know…”

The Earl wondered if Hilary Wraxton was being more obtuse than usual or whether it was just overtiredness on his part that made the poet’s conversation even more unfathomable. But mention of Lizzie and Pascoe in the same breath and Salt realized the poet was talking about Elizabeth, Lady Outram, whom he had not thought about since he left her drawing room in Half Moon Street the day before his marriage to Jane three months ago; it could well have been another lifetime.

“When do you leave for the Continent, Hilary?”

The poet jerked his powdered head at the closed double doors leading into the blue withdrawing room, where stood two liveried footmen. “Any moment I shouldn’t wonder. Coach loaded up with portmanteaux; horses hitched for Dover. No sooner had I made my bow to Lady Salt than Pascoe shoves me out here to kick me heels with the cold marble so she can have a private word with her ladyship. What about is anybody’s guess. Females!”

“My lord,” Arthur Ellis interrupted, “there is the tennis match… Mr. Allenby arrived some thirty minutes ago. Jenkins sent him directly to the tennis court…”

“Thank you, Arthur. Who is having a private word with Lady Salt?”

The poet seemed not to hear the question because he had suddenly noticed that Arthur Ellis was holding tight to his Malacca cane and grabbed it from him with a scowl, as if the secretary had meant to keep it. “Gift from Pascoe. Can’t have it. He’ll have my guts for garters.”

“Wraxton! Who is with Lady Salt?” the Earl demanded, though he had a fair idea who it was, he just didn’t want to believe the woman had the audacity to come to the house he shared with his wife, and that Pascoe had allowed it. Worse, that she had come with the specific intention of speaking to his bride.

The poet stared at the Earl as if he was the village idiot.

“Lizzie. Lizzie Outram. You knew her before Pascoe. Remember? Salt?”

But the Earl was not attending him. In five strides he was at the double doors. In three more he was inside the room unannounced. Standing by the fireplace was Pascoe, Lord Church and a few feet away, by the arrangement of chairs, the under-butler Willis, grim-faced and with his hands behind his back. And there, standing by the striped sofa was his forsaken mistress Elizabeth, Lady Outram in tête-à-tête with his wife. Both women looked about at the sudden intrusion; Elizabeth Outram to drop into a respectful curtsey, Jane to regard her husband with a tremulous smile and a deep blush to her throat and cheeks that sent his heart racing and his mind reeling.

SIXTEEN

AN HOUR EARLIER, while the Earl was ensconced in his bookroom discussing the terms of the Peace and Continental politics, the Countess had returned from the Strand to the news that Pascoe, Lord Church and his shadow Hilary Wraxton had come to call on her and were waiting patiently in the downstairs blue withdrawing room. It had been suggested by Jenkins that the guests return on a more suitable day, but as the butler pointed out to Willis, who had come in off the square behind the Countess and her maid, the gentlemen were adamant that no other day would do; they were departing for foreign climes almost at once.

Willis would have excused himself to prepare for his meeting with his lordship, but when Jenkins added that there was a third occupant in the withdrawing room, and she a female unknown to any of the servants of his lordship’s household, but on sight looked an interesting individual Willis was alerted. Interesting in the butler’s vocabulary meant highly unsuitable company for the young Countess, and so exchanging a worried glance with Anne, Willis decided that it was in the best interests of the House of Sinclair to follow the Countess into the room. He made a lame excuse about having left the Countess’s appointment diary, of which he was keeper, in that very room and perhaps when the visitors had departed her ladyship would do him the kindness of going over one or two matters that required her urgent attention. Before the Countess could object, her maid piped up with the suggestion that she would bring her ladyship a dish of Bohea tea with a slice of lemon.

Jane had had such an enjoyable afternoon strolling the picture exhibition with Elisabeth Sedley that she was determined the rest of the day would continue the same way. Even the inquisitive Society patrons, who jostled with one another to catch a glimpse of the beautiful Countess of Salt Hendon in the flesh, and whose closeness of perfume and pomade caused her morning sickness to be more acute, could not dampen her spirits. She had been grateful for the presence of Willis and Anne, for though they were distracted with one another (being on an outing together was truly a novelty) Willis always had one eye on the Countess and her comfort. So it was not in Jane’s nature to deflate the man’s concern by fobbing him off. She graciously accepted him at his word, though she found his excuse flimsy in the extreme, because she had a deep suspicion Anne had confided her pregnancy to Rufus Willis and that her condition had brought out the man’s protective instincts; he had become her self-appointed guardian angel.

It was in this capacity the under-butler entered the room, took a swift look about, and seeing a couple by the French window with its view of the expansive square, took up a position by the clavichord which was left of center to the room. As the Countess came across the parquetry the couple moved towards her and they all met on the deep Aubusson rug under the chandelier. Pascoe, Lord Church, in jockey boots and a traveling frock coat of brown velvet, bowed over Jane’s outstretched hand and then introduced Lady Outram, who curtseyed to rank.

Jane smiled at them both, only briefly allowing her gaze to linger on Pascoe Church’s companion and her striped petticoats and bodice of Florentine apple green and cherry red silk that showed her ample breasts to best advantage. Carefully applied cosmetics made it difficult to determine her age, though she was not in the first flush of youth. That said she was still a very beautiful woman who knew her own worth and expected others to know it too.

“May I offer you tea?” Jane asked, indicating the arrangement of sofas by the fireplace. She sat and the couple did likewise, side by side on the sofa opposite her. “I have been standing all morning looking at the most wonderful pictures and now my feet demand I rest. If you do not want tea I can send for coffee?”

“Thank you, my lady,” replied Elizabeth Outram. “A dish of Bohea would be most welcome before our journey.”

“We are on our way to Dover,” Pascoe Church offered, “and then on to Paris. Hilary and I could not quit London without taking our leave of you, and I insisted Lizzie make your acquaintance. As to when we will return to England…” He shrugged and looked at his female companion. “We may settle in Florence for a time.”

“Church has a cousin at the Embassy there,” Lady Outram offered. “But we mean to marry in Paris.”

“Oh! How delightful!” Jane said with genuine pleasure. “I do wish you both health and happiness. But I fear I do not have your talent for gift giving, Lord Church, so you will have to settle for a Sèvres tea service or a piece of silverware.”

Pascoe Church was suitably contrite. “As to that, my lady, I fear my jest was in very poor taste, and had I known you better then, I would never have sent—”

“I will not allow you to take back your gift. Viscount Fourpaws is very much part of the family. Ron and Merry St. John look forward to their visits with his fluffy lordship and spoil him with all manner of morsels from the kitchen. Why, even Salt has grown accustomed to Fourpaws, for he tolerates him to curl up at the foot of our bed in the morning—”

“Tea, my lady!”

It was Willis and he had rudely cut off the Countess mid-sentence, judging the run of conversation too personal for present company, but in so doing, drawing attention to the comfortable intimacy between the Countess and her noble husband. If she realized her social faux pas, Jane kept it to herself and while doing the honors with the silver teapot and chinoiserie porcelain tea dishes, made polite conversation about the couple’s travel plans. She was, however, acutely aware of the intense scrutiny of her female guest.

The woman said very little, allowing Pascoe Church to talk freely while she sipped at her tea and appraised the young Countess over the rim of her delicate dish. Always abreast of the latest fashions, be it in fabric, style or cut of the cloth, Elizabeth Outram judged Jane’s pretty silk petticoats with delicate fruits of the vine embroidery to be not overtly ostentatious of wealth, position or power, yet the richness of the embroidery and the way the day-gown was molded to the Countess’s lithe frame spoke volumes about the expertise of her dressmakers. She wore no jewelry about her throat or from her small ears, yet none was necessary for such unblemished skin. Her only adornments were a bejeweled wedding band and a pale yellow silk riband threaded through her upswept glossy black hair.

For the wife of one of the richest noblemen in the country and thus with access to all manner of extravagant fabrics, gowns and jewelry, the Countess was self-restraint personified. But it was not only her choice of attire that intrigued Elizabeth Outram but the young woman herself.

She observed that Jane sat with back straight and hands lightly in her lap; that her head tilted ever so slightly to the left when listening; that her blue eyes were kind and her smile genuine; that despite her youth, she was self-possessed; that she exhibited genuine interest and truly enjoyed their company. Indeed, there was no artifice in her manner whatsoever. Yet, what surprised Elizabeth most was that the young Countess was precisely as Pascoe had described: Beautiful inside and out.

If she was to find fault, it was with Lady Salt’s mouth. Despite being full and ruby red, her top lip was too short and her bottom lip too full so that when she wasn’t smiling she appeared to be always pouting. But to men, one man in particular, such a mouth would be intoxicatingly inviting. Elizabeth Outram well understood why the Earl demanded nothing less than this mouth to kiss.

Tea savored and drained, Pascoe Church’s female companion placed the delicate dish on its little saucer and put both on the low walnut side table to unfurl her fan and flutter air across her breasts. She had come to a decision, and turned to Pascoe to make a request when a barely visible servant door cut into the wallpaper beside the fireplace squeaked opened and a powdered head appeared, diverting the tea drinkers in the direction of the fireplace.

“Pssst. Pascoe! I found one!”

It was Hilary Wraxton and he climbed out of the servant corridor, leaving wide the door so that the dark narrow passage and the stairs beyond were on public view. He tottered across to the sofas in his heels, brushing down the sleeves of his silk frock coat, and with his powdered head bent forward to check that the four horn buttons of the fall of his breeches were done up. Willis immediately crossed behind the poet to close the servant door and received a scold for his tractable efficiency.

“Oi! Not so fast! Not so fast! Lord Church may want use of the pot! It’s a long way to Dover, my man. A long way indeed.”

Pascoe Church rolled his eyes and by a lift of his brows let it to be known to Willis that he was to close over the servant door.

“I don’t know why you would not wait, Hilary,” Pascoe complained. “It’s not as if we won’t stop at an inn along the way.”

“An inn?” Hilary Wraxton was horrified. “I can’t pee at an inn.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Perfectly good pot de chambre in there. Clean. Just how I like ’em.”

“Wraxton! Must you?” It was Lady Outram whose face had fired red under her rouge.

“Well, yes, Lizzie, I must. Perfectly reasonable. Perfectly natural, a call of nature.” Hilary Wraxton made a low bow to Jane, the lace at his wrists sweeping the rug. “Don’t you agree, my lady?”

But Jane was giggling behind her fingertips and could not speak, but not because of the poet’s blunt pronouncements but at the look of horrified embarrassment on the faces of her under-butler and Lord Church.

“How will you travel across the Continent if you cannot make a call of nature when we stop at an inn?” Lady Outram enquired.

The poet, who had perched uninvited on the padded arm of a wingchair, jabbed at his temple. “Up here for thinking, Lizzie. I am not just a man of letters, but of ideas.” He beamed at the Countess and said confidentially, “Had my man pack the family pot de chambre. Heirloom. Passed down from father to son since Scottish James sat upon the English throne. Painted with the family crest. On the inside.”

“How-how sensible of you, Mr. Wraxton,” Jane managed to reply, finding her breath and dabbing at her damp eyes. “A definite must for a trip to the Continent. Who knows what amenities are to be found, or not, at a foreign inn.”

“Attend, Lizzie! Pascoe! Her ladyship understands. Knew you would, my lady.”

“Please, my lady, I beg you not to encourage him,” Pascoe Church complained good-naturedly.

“Oh dear. Mr. Willis’ frown tells me that I am in his bad book for finding humor in Mr. Wraxton’s candid conversation,” Jane confided. “Forgive me, Lady Outram. I am still quite new to my role and Mr. Willis is helping me to behave as I ought. But to own to a truth, if I am not myself I find I make an even bigger muddle of my elevation.”

“What did I tell you, Lizzie; breath of fresh air,” the poet stated as if Elizabeth Outram had ever doubted his word. “And what did Pascoe tell you? What!” He put his closed fist to his left breast and with his eyes to the ornate plastered ceiling sighed dramatically. “Her ladyship’s sweet nature makes her beautiful inside and out.”

Again Jane giggled, but this time she managed to say with a grave face, “How will I survive my days without your devotion and your poetry, Mr. Wraxton?”

The poet’s gaze came down from the ceiling and he plunged a hand into the pocket of his frock coat and struggled to remove a wad of parchment tied up with ribbon. “See, Pascoe! I told you she would not be able to—

“Enough, Hilary,” Lord Church said stridently and pushed the wad of parchments back into his friend’s pocket; Willis a step behind him should he require assistance. He took his friend by the elbow. “Time to make your farewell bow to Lady Salt.”

Elaborate leaving-taking exchanged, the two gentlemen visitors disappeared out into the marble gallery, the poet heard loudly to complain that he had left the best bit ’til last and it was all Pascoe’s fault he was not able to execute his grand finale. Lady Outram remained, suggesting to the young Countess that they take a turn about the long rectangular room so that she could stretch her legs before the long carriage journey to Dover. They set off arm in arm, leaving Willis to stoke the fire to new life, a troubled eye on her ladyship.

“I am so pleased to have made your acquaintance, my lady,” Elizabeth Outram confessed. “When Church first proposed that he bring me to call on you I was most reluctant for reasons that will become apparent when you know who I am, or more precisely who I was. Church is the dearest of gentlemen and I am very fortunate he wishes to marry me despite my interesting past. He has always maintained he loved me, but I dismissed such talk as a lover’s throw away compliment. But since Lord Salt gave me my liberty, I’ve had these past three months to devote myself singularly to Church and we both came to the realization that we suit each other very well, very well indeed. Oh dear, I have shocked you.”

“No. Well, yes,” Jane admitted with a shy smile as they paused by a floor-to-ceiling mirrored wall opposite the French windows. “But, please, do not think I have taken offence. It’s just that I lived a sheltered life in the countryside before coming to London to marry his lordship; though not so sheltered that I am unaware that there are ladies who take lovers; just as gentlemen take mistresses.” She was puzzled. “But I own to being a little simple because I do not understand when you say Lord Salt gave you your-your liberty?”

“I was your husband’s mistress.”

It was a straightforward response but totally unexpected and it stopped Jane’s breathing. In fact, for the briefest of moments, she forgot where she was. She just knew she had to remain calm; she must not react. She gazed over Lady Outram’s left shoulder, across the room to the undraped French windows, having no wish to look at the woman beside her. She did not realize that only a few feet away Willis was hovering by the clavichord. He had followed them up the room and had pretended an interest in tidying the sheets of music on the padded clavichord stool.

Willis saw the Countess take a deep breath, and place a hand lightly to the base of her throat. That small movement brought him closer, close enough to notice signs of her acute embarrassment; across her décolletage and halfway up her throat the porcelain skin was stained with smudges of strawberry. Two sentences into Lady Outram’s continued conversation and he knew the reason behind the Countess’s silent distress.

“I was wretched when Salt ended our agreeable connection. What mistress wouldn’t be when her most talented lover announces he is to marry? Not that he showed me a singular devotion. Jenny, Susannah and Eliza were just as devastated to learn of his plans. But we never thought he would marry.” Lady Outram mistook Jane’s silence as a sign for her to continue, she took Jane’s arm and resumed their leisurely stroll of the perimeter of the decorative room. “I had every expectation of keeping his interest for at least another Season, so naturally I was the one to be most offended when he came to take his leave. Of course, I had not seen you then, or knew the first thing about you to make me believe Salt’s marriage was anything but a contractual arrangement to beget an heir. It seemed perfectly sensible that we should be able to continue our-our understanding. Many a nobleman has married with no thought of giving up his mistress. Why should they? Wives are for breeding. A mistress knows how to pleasure a lover.”

Elizabeth Outram glanced at her silent walking companion who stared straight ahead, saw the stain of deep color across her décolletage and reasoned it was only natural for a young bride to be uncomfortable by such candid conversation. Yet, it did not stop her forging ahead, her voice a little softer than before, but still loud enough for Willis to overhear, who was just one stride behind, ears burning brightly.

“But Church cured me of my petulance and misguided belief. Darling man. He said it was perfectly reasonable for a woman to be both wife and mistress if her husband loved her. That’s when I decided to marry him. It was only when Church told me your Christian name that I was able to make sense of Salt’s particular behavior. And that’s when I knew I had to see you before our travels.”

Jane finally found her voice.

“My—name?”

“Most certainly. Knowing your name answered everything.”

“Did-did it?”

Lady Outram patted Jane’s silken arm. “I fear I am about to truly test your fortitude, my lady, but you must believe me when I tell you that my confidences are for the greater good. They will help ease your mind so that you need never have a single doubt about your noble husband.” She glanced slyly at Jane. “You may have come from the depths of Wiltshire, but even there I am confident Lord Salt’s reputation with the fairer sex was well-known…” This was met with silence but when the red stain rushed up into the Countess’s cheeks, Elizabeth Outram smiled to herself and continued. “Of course, you must not breathe a word of what I am about to confide in you to anyone, particularly not his lordship. Church remains ignorant, which is how it should be, so it is very important that it stays between us.”

Jane slowly nodded her assent with a mixture of stomach-churning aversion and ghoulish anticipation as to what this woman could possibly add to her revelations that would be more outrageous than what she had already confided.

“When I reflect upon it,” Elizabeth Outram ruminated matter-of-factly, fluttering fan coming to rest momentarily across her ample bosom, “it is quite humiliating to my self-worth to realize that while I was entertaining Salt his mind was elsewhere. To be precise, his mind was on someone else. As a young bride, I have no doubts that Salt has been a most attentive husband in the bedchamber so that you are now aware of his considerable abilities between the sheets. His stamina and consideration for a lady’s pleasure—”

“My lady, please.” Jane’s voice was barely above a whisper.

How this woman, this former mistress of the Earl, thought her revelations were for the greater good, Jane could not fathom. It was one thing to know that Salt kept a mistress, indeed had women flocking to take on such a role, and to tease him about the consequences of such philandering, and quite something altogether abhorrent to come face to face with a past mistress in her own home intent on sharing confidences about the Earl’s prowess as a lover.

Her immediate thought was that Diana St. John had somehow convinced this woman to seek her out in the malicious hope of making mischief. Yet as soon as Jane had this thought she dismissed it because she genuinely liked Lord Church and she could not imagine he would be involved in any scheme to upset her. And as he was to marry her husband’s former mistress Jane decided that whatever confidences Elizabeth Outram wished to share with her were meant, despite their shocking nature, with the best of intentions. So despite her desire to run from the room with her fingers in her ears, Jane remained outwardly perfectly composed and inwardly trembling with trepidation.

“His stamina and consideration for a lady’s pleasure has rightly bestowed upon him the reputation of a consummate lover,” Lady Outram continued smoothly as if Jane had not uttered a syllable. “And as a married woman you cannot be ignorant of a particular moment while making love when a man is at his most vulnerable. If he utters anything intelligible it affords a rare glimpse of his innermost feelings. And at the crucial moment, Salt was never with me he was with Jane. He was with you. It’s always been you…”

Jane did not trust herself to speak. She was in equal measure utterly appalled and strangely reassured. Such was her distress that in her distraction she was unaware they had traversed the entire room and returned to the fireplace, where Pascoe Church had been warming his hands for ten minutes and pretending an interest in the little leaping flames.

Lady Outram signaled playfully with her fan to her betrothed, who raised his quizzing glass in acknowledgement, and disentangled her arm from Jane’s so she could stand before her.

“You do love him, don’t you?” she asked rhetorically.

Jane finally looked the woman full in the face. “With all my heart.”

Elizabeth Outram smiled. “Church said you did. He said he knew it the first time he saw you in Salt’s company.” She rested her fan lightly against her pointed chin and regarded Jane pensively. “The first and only time I saw you in each other’s company was at the Richmond Ball. It was obvious to all; indeed it was the topic of conversation for the evening that the Salt marriage was not a marriage of convenience as was first supposed. And then we saw you from the terrace while we were watching the skyrockets. You could’ve been anywhere; sitting on the moon, much you both cared for anything or anyone but each other! He was kissing you on the mouth and in full view of the world. That’s when we all knew.”

“Knew?”

“That he loves you so very much.”

“MY LADY?”

It was the Earl and he stood just inside the blue withdrawing room, the liveried footmen holding wide the double doors to reveal Hilary Wraxton conversing with Mr. Ellis in the marble gallery beyond.

“My lord! You are just in time,” Jane responded, coming to life on a quick breath. With a welcoming smile she swept up to her husband. “I’m so glad you’ve come.”

Salt’s concern deepened into a frown seeing the deep blush to his wife’s cheeks and throat. “Is—Are you—Is everything—”

“I have been wishing Lord and Lady Church a safe journey,” Jane interrupted conversationally, eager to relieve him of any anxiety he felt on her part. “Well, they soon will be lord and lady,” she confided in an under voice in response to his startled glance, and continued in a neutral tone loud enough for all to hear, “They are off to the Continent with Mr. Wraxton. Paris is their first destination, to be married by a priest and then on to Florence for their honeymoon where Lord Church has a cousin at the consulate.”

The tension in the Earl’s wide shoulders eased. He bowed civilly to Lady Outram as one does to an acquaintance but was able to smile at Lord Church with a raise of one mobile eyebrow. “A papist ceremony, Pascoe?”

Lord Church shrugged and was sheepish. “Churches have remained loyal to Rome since Bonnie Prince Charlie crossed o’the water. Don’t tell me you didn’t know?”

“I did. And it doesn’t alter our unique friendship,” said Salt, another glance at Lady Outram. “Nothing will. I wish you both very happy.”

Lord Church bowed with a flourish of his lace-covered wrist as the Countess and Lady Outram swept out of the room before them. He came to stand beside the Earl, who was looking at the Countess as she conversed with Hilary Wraxton, who was bowing over her outstretched hand. He plastered his quizzing glass to one eye, as if to better view his friend’s wife, and could not resist a parting shot at her noble husband.

“You don’t deserve her, Salt, but she is very deserving of you. Au revior, mon ami.”

~   ~   ~

TOM AND THE EARL were seated in their shirtsleeves and tennis breeches, damp backs against the wall, recovering breath and strength, and drinking a well-earned ale after an enjoyable and hard fought contest on the Royal Tennis Court. Tom decided there was no better time to broach the subject of his stepsister’s present and future happiness. The large nobleman was tired but relaxed and not at all annoyed with him for his drunken outburst at the Richmond Ball. Still, he decided to ease into voicing his concerns by first announcing that he had finally decided on the perfect wedding gift for the couple.

“It came to me the other week,” Tom told Salt. “I’d been wracking my brains to think of a suitable gift for someone who has everything he’ll ever want or need, and that would also appeal to Jane. And then I had it—”

“There really is no need…”

“—the cottage. The cottage Jane lived in while under my uncle’s protection. Jane had a miserable time there and you must loathe the very sight of the place too. So I’m having it torn down and moved brick by brick further up the valley, closer to Allanvale. Once it’s remodeled and added upon it will make a dower house for my mother. If ever she gets to live in it.” Tom rolled his eyes and gave an embarrassed half-smile. “I have a suspicion she won’t be long Lady Despard. She’ll be remarried by Christmastime, and to some aging fop who has gout but is generous with leaving the purse strings untied. I’ve no objection. I just want her to be happy. As I want Jane to be happy. I told the workmen to have it leveled before you take Jane to Salt Hall at Easter time.”

“Thank you. That truly is the best wedding present you could give us. You’re the best of brothers, Tom Allenby,” the Earl said simply and stuck out his hand, adding with a smile as they warmly shook hands, “You must have been a comfort to your sister while she lived under your uncle’s protection.”

“Me? Egad! I wish! If that’s what you think, then my suspicions are well and truly confirmed. Jane hasn’t told you about her life, if you can call it that, in that house, has she?” Tom asked rhetorically. “Just like Jane to keep it to herself, for fear of distressing you…”

“Go on. Don’t spare my feelings.”

“The first year Jane spent under Uncle Jacob’s roof, he wouldn’t allow me—anyone—to visit the cottage. And then when he did grant me permission, my visits were supervised and only allowed four times a year. Seeing her in those plain gowns with her head covered, eating sop and with no pictures on the wall, and my uncle preaching his sermons about sins of the flesh and vanity and greed and eternal damnation and the like, it burned me up, never mind going to Hell. To my mind that was Hell on earth for a young beautiful girl who had the world at her feet one minute and no expectation of a happy life the next. Don’t think me anything but God-fearing, but my uncle was a zealot of the fire and brimstone school of paying one’s dues to the Almighty, and he was hell-bent on making Jane pay for her sins.”

He stopped to down the last of the ale in his tumbler, an eye on the Earl, who had pulled his damp shoulder-length hair out of his eyes and was frowning quizzically at him; as if he had not the slightest idea what Tom was talking about. It made Tom blurt out belligerently,

“I may have needed a goodly quantity of claret to confront you last night, my lord, but I don’t this afternoon. So I’ll just say my piece, before Jane gets here because I don’t want her distressed or to feel the slightest embarrassment, because what I have to say ain’t pleasant. But I’m thinkin’ you’ve been enough in her company, have formed a high regard for the sweet-natured loving creature she is, that what I tell you won’t matter a jot now. Do I make myself plain, my lord?”

“I understand you don’t want to upset her so I suggest you just come out and say it.”

“All right. I will!” Tom announced and swallowed because the Earl’s quiet voice was much more menacing than if he had shouted at him. He took a deep breath and launched into his speech.

“It may come as a complete surprise to you, living as you do surrounded by sycophants and toadies and painted females, who have the appearance of beauty but scratch the surface and they’re rotten, rotten to the core, but Jane is as good-hearted as she is beautiful and nothing my uncle or her father or you can make me see her differently!”

“I agree, and if you would allow me to tell you how much she—”

“And if she’s forgiven you for breaking off the engagement—”

“Stop there, Tom Allenby!” the Earl growled and sat up. “I am utterly sick of being accused of breach of promise. I will say to you what I have said to your sister many times over: I did not break off our engagement, nor did I write a letter to that effect. A letter that now mysteriously no longer exists because it did not exist in the first place!”

Tom stuck out his chin. “Yes it does, my lord!”

“It’s Salt, Tom. Call me Salt. You are Jane’s brother and thus my brother-in-law.”

This somewhat deflated Tom’s belligerency yet he managed to put enough firmness in his voice to say flatly, “It does exist because I have it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“With your seal upon it too!”

Salt was incredulous. “In my fist?”

“I don’t know what your fist looks like, but Uncle Jacob assured me the letter was genuine. He gave it into my safekeeping on his deathbed.”

Salt was skeptical. “And you have this infamous letter here?”

“Not on me,” Tom said defensively. “But I can have it fetched from Upper Brooke Street.”

“If you would.”

“Consider it fetched! In fact, I’ve been wondering what to do with it ever since Uncle Jacob left it to me. You’re welcome to it!” Tom threw at him, unsure what made his blood boil more, the Earl’s raised eyebrows of incredulity, or the fact the nobleman’s noble nostrils quivered with distaste that Tom had had the bad manners to contradict him. It gave him the impetus he needed to vent his feelings on the subject of his stepsister’s happiness.

“I’d prefer the wretched piece of paper be turned to ash, for all the grief it’s caused Jane. I’m certain she would like nothing better than to forget the existence of that letter and its consequences. In fact, I’ll lay you odds she forgave you years ago, because that’s the sort of girl she is. But it stands to reason you should be just as fair and not hold one tiny mistake against her. Mistakes happen and no one can foresee at the time that an error of judgment will have such far-reaching consequences. She certainly didn’t. How could she?

“It was her eighteenth birthday and she was an innocent. God knows why it’s up to the weaker sex to protect their virtue and fend off the unwanted attentions of a pack of lecherous dogs. Jane never asked or sought out such attention! She wasn’t old enough or wise enough to know any better. Her father sent her off to your Hunt Ball without a chaperone and without any cautionary warnings about the roués on the prowl for a bit of vulgar velvet at such functions. And I wasn’t there to protect her. I should have been there to protect her!”

“It’s all right, Tom,” Salt said, a gentle squeeze of the young man’s shoulder when he bowed his head and turned away to dash a sleeve across his flushed face. “No one can blame you for what occurred. You’re absolutely right. Errors of judgment do happen. I asked your sister to marry me at that Hunt Ball and she accepted and that should’ve been enough. But I lost my head in the moment and…” He frowned self-consciously, murmuring, “Well, it seems the rest you know…”

Tom gave a huff of impatience.

“Jane doesn’t know that I know and she’d be mortified if she ever found out I did. She likes to think of me as her little brother, and that’s fine with me if it gives her peace of mind. My mother told me what happened to Jane. I guess she felt I was owed the true explanation for why Jane ended up under my uncle’s protection after Sir Felix disowned her. But she only discovered the extent of Jane’s fall from grace after Uncle Jacob’s death. Under the terms of his will he charged my mother with a commission to Lady St. John—”

Salt was incredulous. “Diana St. John? What possible commission could your mother have for Lady St. John from Jacob Allenby?”

“I don’t rightly know. All I do know is that it has everything to do with Jane…”

The Earl’s look of utter confusion and frowning silence convinced Tom that his noble brother-in-law was not being duplicitous and so he continued.

“After my mother discharged her commission to Lady St. John she gave into my safe keeping a document that Jacob Allenby instructed I pass on to you, if and when the need arose.”

“And has that need arisen, Tom?”

Tom eyed the Earl with mild hostility. “Yes, my lo—er— Salt, I believe it has. I mean to have that document fetched along with the breach of promise letter. You can do with them as you see fit. My only concern is for Jane. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like your word the conversation we are about to have remains between us. Will you give me your hand on it, Salt?”

“Willingly.”

The two men shook hands.

Tom’s face reddened and he said in a rush to hide his unease, “There was never any likelihood of Jane’s fall from grace being linked back to your Hunt Ball. Sir Felix was just as determined as you to keep a lid on any potential scandal. So it was—it was—cowardly of you to send Lady St. John along to be satisfied on your behalf that the Sinclair name remained unsullied. That woman should never have been involved in Jane’s misery and shame!”

The nobleman baulked at the accusation of cowardice, and was instantly furious that this young man had the impudence to level such a serious charge at him. No one had ever spoken to him with such disrespect. But just as quickly, he quelled his temper remembering the pedestal Jane told him he inhabited. With great self-control he climbed down from his nobility and ignored the sneering insolence in Tom’s voice to say evenly,

“I wholeheartedly agree with you. I am at a loss to understand Lady St. John’s involvement in my engagement to your sister. As to being a coward… I would never send another on my behalf; and certainly never entrust Lady St. John with any task that involved your sister’s welfare. No. Just hear me out and then you can go for my throat if need be.

“The morning after I proposed to your sister I was urgently called away to London. Lord St. John had contracted the smallpox and, after a short illness, died. I had a widow and two small fatherless children thrust upon me, not to mention his affairs to get in order. I’m sure you’d appreciate that what was happening back in Wiltshire was a thousand miles from my thoughts at the time. That’s not to say I’d forgotten my obligation to your sister. I had to temper my happiness and put my future plans on hold until I’d sorted through the grief caused by St. John’s death.

“I wrote to Jane explaining my situation but never received a reply to my correspondence. The next I knew your sister was living under Allenby’s roof because her father had disowned her. It still puzzles me to this day why your sister chose Allenby’s protection to mine.”

“Does it?” Tom gave a dismissive snort. “Does it truly puzzle you? Do you honestly believe Jane had a choice? Your letter breaking off the engagement left her with none.”

“Don’t you see that whoever wrote that despicable breach of promise letter did so to make certain Jane did not seek me out?” Salt replied with great patience. “Believe me, Tom, had I been made aware of her predicament I would have done everything in my power to save her from such ignominy.”

Tom eyed him with resentment. His voice was very flat. “You should have thought about the potential for a-a predicament before you-you deflowered her, my lord.” When the nobleman blushed scarlet, Tom had his answer. “No one told me. I worked it out for myself. It wasn’t difficult, because I know Jane. And Jane being Jane, she would never have surrendered her virtue to just any man, only to the man she loved above all others.”

“Listen, Tom… What happened in the summerhouse—It may present to you, to-to others, to most people, as a lascivious nobleman’s calculated seduction of an innocent girl; a quick tawdry rut by the lake. But it wasn’t like that… Nothing could be further from the truth. When—when two people are in love—when they are caught up in the moment, it’s as if… They forget everything else; they forget there may be consequences to their actions… They… They—God, this is difficult to explain!”

He scowled self-consciously and covered his face with his hands before drawing his fingers up through his damp tussled hair. Despite the searing burn of shame to his ears, the dry throat and the abject chagrin of trying to explain himself to a skeptical audience of one, he met Tom’s steady gaze openly and continued,

“You sitting there looking like a stunned trout, worse, like a son being delivered a lecture on the birds and the bees, when you know full well how honey is made, doesn’t help one’s heartfelt confession. I have nothing to say in my defense that won’t make you think me the veriest cad. But I ask you, no, I implore you to believe me when I say that I have castigated myself a thousand times over for not having the willpower to wait until we had been up before a parson. All I can offer in my defense is that I was so in love with your sister that I did not think; I allowed my heart to rule my head. I do not ask your forgiveness, just your understanding… Tom? Tom, what is it?”

Tom did not doubt the Earl’s sincerity; that he was speaking from the heart. What astounded him and drained the color from his face was the fact that the nobleman had no idea, indeed remained blissfully ignorant of Jane’s appalling predicament and the paramount reason why her father had disowned her. He was so surprised he just blurted it out with no thought to the effect such brutal honesty would have on his noble brother-in-law.

“You didn’t know Jane was pregnant with your child?”

SEVENTEEN

‘PREGNANT? Jane?”

Tom nodded dumbly in response to the Earl’s disbelieving and explosive exclamation.

“My Jane, pregnant? Jane. Pregnant.”

Bewildered and disorientated and still muttering to himself, Salt glanced around: from high-racked ceiling to polished tiled floor, to the netting shielding the gallery boxes and out across the expanse of court to the sloping tabor wall. It was as if he had no idea where he was. He stood up; Tom did likewise. He blinked, motionless, as Jane’s accusatory words earlier that day screamed in his head… you allowed lust to rule good sense… you impregnated a gently bred girl from the counties… He now understood what she meant and the reason for her tearful distress. Such was the enormity of this new and powerful knowledge that he was seized with an overwhelming panic. He forgot how to breathe.

Tom was transfixed by the intensity in the nobleman’s handsome face. It was evident he was experiencing a range of emotions while trying to make sense of such a profound revelation. Yet, Tom was determined, he owed it to his stepsister; no matter how disordered the Earl’s state of mind, he would hear the whole sordid story of Jane’s fall from grace.

“You ruined her virtue, but to Sir Felix’s way of thinking the far greater crime was his daughter had been impregnated by an unnamed seducer. Jane would not name you. She kept quiet—has kept quiet all these years. Because of her refusal, Sir Felix said he had no use for her. He treated Jane as if she was a used, worthless thing: a-a whore. But he treated her unborn babe far, far worse.”

Tom’s voice broke on the last word and he took a deep breath before continuing, following close on the Earl’s heels. The nobleman lurched forward, as if drunk, and staggered up the court, breathing short and quick, shoulder pressed to the wall to prop himself up. It was as if he was trying to escape from Tom’s revelations, but Tom would not let him go. He was far from finished with his lordship.

“Sir Felix said no daughter of his was going to give birth to a bastard. I asked my mother how Sir Felix discovered Jane was pregnant.” Tom gave a bark of incredulous laughter. “An unsigned letter! Can you believe it? I hardly credit it possible that some fiend could betray Jane in that cowardly way. It’s wicked! Sir Felix waved the letter under Jane’s nose. She did not lie to her father. Poor Jane had struggled to keep her condition a secret for as long as possible. She was waiting for you, you to come and fetch her away and you never did. Your letter breaking off the engagement had sealed her fate and the fate of her unborn child.”

“T-tom, for pity’s sake.”

But Tom was so overwrought he did not hear the Earl’s plea nor did it register that the words were rasped out between shallow breaths. He was blind to the sheen of cold sweat on the nobleman’s forehead. He watched without seeing as the nobleman slid down the wall, legs buckling under him, as if they were no longer able support him. All Tom cared about was making the Earl aware of what Jane had suffered, and that he blamed him just as much as he blamed Sir Felix and Jacob Allenby for the loss of her baby.

“She was given a herbal concocted by a squalid apothecary, tricked into believing it was a medicinal that would help her morning sickness,” he continued, squatting beside the Earl, who was slumped against the wall. “Poor Jane! She was so trusting of her nurse that she drank it without complaint, unaware that the foul tasting brew would quicken her babe before its time. She was four months pregnant with your child and the next day that child was dead. She could’ve died too. God knows what agony and anguish she endured and all because you abandoned her! You promised her everything and gave her nothing. You… you…”

Tom surrendered to his emotions. Anger spent, and with nothing left to say, he dropped to the tiles beside the traumatized nobleman and hung his head in his hands, oblivious to the Earl’s distressed and deteriorated state.

Salt had a fist clenched to his chest where sharp pain would not abate. His breathing was shallow and ragged; as if air had been punched from his lungs, leaving him gasping, making it impossible for him to take in air without great effort. Hot and dizzy of mind, heart pounding in his ears, and with his body shivering uncontrollably, day suddenly became night and he lost consciousness.

“My lord? Mr. Allenby?”

The shout came from the other end of the tennis court.

It was Arthur Ellis. He and a liveried footman had entered the Royal Tennis Court at the far end where abandoned on a bench were a couple of empty ale glasses, two tennis rackets, numerous leather balls and the gentlemen’s discarded frock coats. The secretary and servant strode towards the curious sight of Tom Allenby and the Earl slumped against the wall under the high set windows that allowed sunlight to stream across the court. Their stride broke into a trot when it became apparent their master was having difficulty breathing, and then into a run when he passed out.

“Tom? My God, what’s happened to his lordship? Tom?”

The secretary fell to his stockinged knees beside the Earl and frantically tugged at his master’s cravat, unraveling the intricate folds of linen, before moving on to undoing the horned buttons of the damp linen shirtfront.

“Sweet Jesus, Tom, what did you do to him?”

Tom lifted his head, red-faced and glassy-eyed. With a blink slowly regarded his friend as he ministered to his noble brother-in-law who was out cold next to him. He made no comment and dropped his head.

“Fetch a bottle of brandy and send for a physician!” Arthur Ellis barked out over his shoulder at the hovering footman, who was off running down the court before the secretary had turned to continue his assessment of the Earl’s condition.

He reasoned that his master had suffered some sort of paralysis of the heart and if something wasn’t done immediately to wake him up there was every chance he would not make a recover. Arthur knew his employer had had very little sleep the two preceding nights, called out to the bedside of his godson, had spent hours in conference in the French tongue with the Russian Ambassador before a grueling session of Royal Tennis with a young man thirteen years his junior. In Arthur’s opinion, a recipe for a heart attack if ever there was one.

The secretary glanced at Tom as he took the nobleman’s pulse. “His heart is still working, thank God,” he said with an audible sigh. “He may well have just passed out from exhaustion. Tom, what happened, damn it!”

“He suffered a shock,” Tom muttered, “and fainted.”

“I can bloody well see that! But how—”

“Magnus? Magnus?”

The two men turned.

It was the Countess.

She rushed across the tennis court as fast as she could manage in a confection of embroidered petticoats and satin slippers, dropping to the tiles in a billow of layered silk beside her unconscious husband. Ignoring her brother and the secretary, who began to offer garbled explanations, she gathered the Earl up in her embrace, his head in her lap, a hand to his hot damp forehead, then to his flushed cheek, and finally to his cold wrist to feel his pulse, all the time speaking soothing words she hoped would see him open his eyes and look at her.

“Breathe, Magnus. Please breathe,” she whispered, smoothing the damp hair off his face and dropping a kiss on his mouth. “Slow, deep breaths. One breath at a time.” When his eyelids flickered she glanced up and stuck out a hand for the tumbler of brandy the footman was nervously pouring out under the secretary’s direction. “I have some brandy for you. Just open your eyes and look at me. Good. Keep breathing, slowly. No. Don’t try and move; a sip of brandy first. That’s good. Slowly. Sip it.” She smiled down at him and kissed him again when he smiled up at her. She was not smiling when she looked up at her brother and Arthur Ellis and thrust the tumbler back at them. “Tom? Mr. Ellis? What did you do to him? Couldn’t you see he is exhausted? He’s been up all night. Mr. Ellis! You should have sent the Ambassador away early,” she threw at Arthur, and then glared at Tom and then back at the secretary before addressing them both. “He needs rest. He needs sleep. You should not have played him at tennis, Tom! You’re not blind! You could see how he was. You should have declined the invitation. Why are you both standing there gaping at me? Mr. Ellis! Where is his lordship’s physician? Tom! Be useful and find Willis and Mr. Jenkins. You,” she said, addressing the footman, “find Andrews and have him prepare his lordship’s bath. We must get Salt to his rooms where he can be comfortable.”

The footman turned and fled. Arthur Ellis stared at Tom. Both men flushed up with guilt, opened their mouths to protest, threw each other a meaningful glance, before staring dumbly down at the engaging sight of the small ferocious kitten-like Countess with the bear-sized Earl in her silken lap. They could find nothing to say in their defense, nor was Tom prepared to elaborate on his discussion with the nobleman. He was about to follow the footman’s example and turn tail and flee to do his stepsister’s bidding when the Earl spoke.

“Jane?” he said wonderingly, as if seeing her for the first time. “Jane.” He lifted a hand to her cheek. “My Jane… Tom isn’t to blame. The fault lies with—”

“Oh, hush!” Jane pouted. Seeing a natural even color return to his clean-shaven cheeks she vented her relief as she and Tom helped him to sit up, propping him against the wall. “No, it is not Tom’s fault, and it is not the fault of Mr. Ellis. It is your fault, bloody obstinate man! You knew you were worn-out when you came home this morning after being with Ron all night, but you foolishly insisted on seeing the Russian Ambassador. Tony and His Excellency would have understood and come another day if they knew of your exhaustion. Better they have the hope of seeing you again than for you to-to drop—to drop dead on me! You should have gone back to bed. Instead, your stubborn idiotic pride to do your duty—No!” she said with a sniff and quickly forced the tears to the back of her eyes. “I am not crying! I am angry. So—so very, very angry with you, Magnus, I could—”

“I love you, Jane.”

It was a simple sentence, said simply. She wasn’t at all sure he was in his right mind, or that he was restful of body but it was all she had ever wanted to hear him say in the cold light of day since her eighteenth birthday. She smiled into his tired brown eyes and unconsciously sighed her contentment. Tears ran down her flushed face and she kissed his hand and pressed it to her cheek.

“I love you so very much I hate you for frightening me in this way!”

Salt pulled her onto his lap and kissed her, then could not resist rubbing the tip of his long nose against hers. It was a natural, intimate gesture he used when they were alone together and it never failed to make her heart swell with joy. Yet, Jane saw that he was still not entirely himself and his grave expression gave her pause for thought. Her smile faded.

“Are you perfectly well? Would you care for another drop of brandy?”

He shook his head, distracted, a frown between his brows as he traced her full lower lip with his thumb. “What manner of man must you think me? I’ve been so manifestly self-absorbed, and you… When I think what you…”

He swallowed hard, closed his eyes and looked away, unable to complete the sentence.

Jane realized that whatever he might say to the contrary what he needed was rest. She glanced up at her stepbrother whose gaze had shot to the ceiling rafters the moment the noble couple embraced, while the secretary had turned to the sound of hurried footfall coming across the tennis court. It seemed as if a regiment had been summonsed, but in fact it was his lordship’s valet Andrews, followed by the butler, followed by the under-butler, and behind Willis, the Earl’s physician, and breathing down Dr. Barlow’s back, three burly footmen. All were brought up short by the sight of the Earl seated on the floor with the Countess on his lap. When the physician began rummaging in his doctor’s bag, Salt put up a hand to forestall him, and the portly gentleman stepped back in line to wait.

“Ron and Merry will be here on the hour,” Salt was saying to Jane, tucking a loose strand of black hair behind her ear. “I want you to keep them with you while I speak to—to their mother. On no account are Ron and Merry to leave this house.”

“You are taking the children from her?”

“Yes. It is necessary.”

Despite the decision being the right one, Jane was distressed at the thought of Ron and Merry being separated from their mother. “Will they—will they be permitted to see her again?”

“If and when I deem the time is right. And then only under close supervision.” When Jane frowned, he added reassuringly, “It is for the best. Ron won’t pull through another episode like last night if he remains in her care.”

“Her obsession with you has unhinged her I think.”

Salt swallowed, Tom’s revelations still painfully raw. “Yes,” he said quietly. “More than I could ever possibly have imagined.” He kissed her hand and rallied himself sufficiently to force a smile. “I have so much to say to you, but I must put my affairs in order first. They will be resolved today, that I promise you.” He flicked her cheek. “Now you must leave me and see to the children.”

She nodded, though she was reluctant to leave him. He appeared recovered from his faint, but there was a hardness to his face which still lacked color, and a look in his eye, something akin to sadness, that she could not fathom. He was certainly preoccupied with something or someone. Perhaps it was with Lady St. John and the task of separating her from Ron and Merry. She so wanted to tell him about their baby but again sensed this was not the moment. She would wait until the evening. Such momentous news deserved to be announced when all other considerations had been dealt with, and it would surely give the children and the family a happier focus.

“What is it, Jane?”

“Nothing that won’t keep until this evening.”

He helped her to stand.

“Keep? A secret, Jane?”

She shook out her petticoats and smoothed down the sit of her bodice. “Not a secret, a surprise.”

He frowned. “I do not like surprises.”

She went up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Then you had best be sitting down with a good cup of tea when I tell you.”

“Tea, Jane? If I need to be seated, perhaps cognac would better suit the occasion?”

“Yes. Cognac or Champagne. Either would be perfect. Now I will go and make ready for Ron and Merry.” She glanced over at the huddle of men who were pretending an interest in their shoe buckles, then looked back at her husband. “You must allow Dr. Barlow to examine you. Play nice. Promise.”

At that he laughed and pinched her chin. “Promise.”

At the Gallery door she blew him a kiss.

The Countess was barely gone from the tennis court when the Earl turned on Tom.

“I need those documents at once. Don’t send a servant. Fetch them yourself. Show no one. Tell no one. Arthur! After you have dealt with the correspondence left on my desk, make yourself useful to her ladyship. On no account is Lady St. John to be admitted to the Countess’s sitting room.” He waved a finger at the three burly footmen. “Take those three with you. Andrews! Why are you here and not readying my bath? No! Don’t speak. Go. Jenkins! Show Dr. Barlow the street.

“My lord! I protest! I must examine you!”

“Don’t be absurd. Jenkins?”

The butler had the physician by the elbow.

“But her ladyship entreated that you play ni—”

The Earl took his shoulders off the wall to stand tall. His nostrils quivered. “This is playing nice, Barlow. Good day. Why are you smiling?” he demanded of the under-butler whose gaze immediately dropped to his shoe leather. Salt glanced over the servant’s bowed head. Satisfied the dismissed servants were out of hearing range he returned his attention to Willis. “I have a commission for you. It must be carried out at once and in the utmost secrecy.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The Earl held the younger man’s gaze. Although Willis showed a perfectly neutral expression, his clasped hands would not be still. Salt’s lips twitched. “I have not forgotten you are itching to speak with me in confidence. It will have to wait until I have had my bath and you have returned from your errand. Don’t go to the bookroom. Come up to my private apartments. Andrews will admit you.” He had a sudden thought and climbed down off his pedestal. “It can wait, what it is you want to discuss with me, can it, Rufus?”

Willis was so astounded that the Earl knew his Christian name that he nodded dumbly, never mind that what he needed to tell the Earl was a matter of life and death. He reasoned that he had the blue bottle securely locked away in a cabinet and three burly footmen had been sent to guard the Countess’s sitting room, and as she would be surrounded by family, her ladyship and her unborn child were safe from any immediate malevolence from the Lady St. John.

“Yes, my lord. Yes, it can wait.”

Salt squeezed the under-butler’s shoulder. “Good. This is what I want you to do…”

~   ~   ~

TOM HAD NOT needed a second prompting to do the Earl’s bidding. He was off across the tennis court at a run and disappeared through the door at the far end of the Royal Tennis Court into the corridor that connected up the Gallery boxes. Here he collided with Diana St. John.

She gave a little start and pulled her petticoats to her to allow Tom to pass. But she did not move aside and blocked his exit. Flustered, she dropped her fan, which Tom retrieved, then made a show of brushing down her petticoats before asking if Tom knew the whereabouts of Lord Salt. She had a most urgent need to see him. It was about her son Ron, and so it was very important his lordship be told at once. Did Mr. Allenby know his direction? None of the servants seemed to have any idea, and as the butler and the under-butler were both missing from their posts, there was not one servant who could oblige her; such a disorderly household. No doubt the young Countess would, in time, fathom the simple intricacies of household management, but it must be such a disruption for Lord Salt, not to mention a nuisance, when his lordship had so much more important matters to occupy his time, running the country for one.

Tom was about to protest and defend his stepsister but decided he did not have the time to waste on this woman and so his response was blunt and he did not linger.

On his return to Grosvenor Square with the documents safely sequestered in a deep pocket of his frock coat, Tom came to the uneasy realization that Diana St. John had been heading away from the Gallery, not going to the Royal Tennis Court as she had intimated. She must have been secreted in one of the Gallery boxes eavesdropping on the Earl’s conversation. Waylaying Tom was a ploy to fluster him from knowing the truth and to gain her time. Once he put the documents safely in the Earl’s hands, he resolved to go immediately to Jane’s apartments.

Diana St. John got to the Countess first.

~   ~   ~

WHEN WILLIS was silently ushered into the warmth and opulent splendor of his master’s private apartments the Earl had discarded his tennis shirt and breeches for clothes more befitting his rank and surroundings. If this noble colossus dressed in velvet and silver lacings magnificence didn’t put the tremble into Willis’ knees, then the rigidity in the Earl’s handsome features certainly had the ability to turn the under-butler’s limbs to frumenty. He also had the distinct impression that whatever the physical malaise his master had suffered on the tennis court, it was now well and truly vanquished. The Earl was again totally in command of his physical and mental faculties. This only increased the under-butler’s discomfort. Face-to-face alone with his lordship was a world away from waiting on the young Countess, who not only made him feel at his ease and was open to taking his advice but also valued his opinion. He felt anything but easy and inclined to confidences with an implacable human edifice that had five hundred years of blue blood pumping through its veins.

His master was preoccupied with reading a document by the light streaming in through an undraped window. So he patiently waited at the edge of the deep carpet and took an interest beyond the cavernous sitting room to the dressing room where the valet was fossicking about an enormous hipbath. Andrews stopped and stared the under-butler up and down with a you’re-not-wanted-here, nose-in-the-air, raise of his eyebrows that only increased Willis’ discomfort. Downstairs, Aloysius Andrews was a force to be reckoned with, and the only servant permitted to do and come and go as he pleased. Still, he had no place overhearing what Willis had to say, and his frowning disapproval was noted by the Earl who let it be known by a look over his gold-rimmed spectacles that Andrews was to take himself off.

Finally beckoned forward, Willis wondered if his legs would carry him across the room, particularly when at that moment the nobleman tossed the folded document onto a walnut side table with a sharp expletive that made the under-butler wince. His hands were shaking when he placed a leather pouch and a small, fine-necked blue glass bottle on the walnut side table. And when the Earl slipped the pouch into his frock coat pocket without checking its contents, then stared at the blue glass bottle with a significant questioning raise of his eyebrows, Willis audibly gulped.

An hour later, the under-butler emerged from his lordship’s private apartments on the brink of nervous collapse. Jenkins, with Andrews at his back, set upon him in the servant passageway, demanding to know by what right Willis had gone behind his back in seeking an audience with their noble employer without his permission. Willis stared at the butler expressionless, white-faced, and thin-lipped. He wiped the beading of sweat from his upper lip but said nothing. When he proceeded to walk off, Jenkins demanded he remain where he was or face instant dismissal for insubordination. Rufus Willis turned and with a slight bow quietly informed the astonished Mr. Jenkins and the jaw-slackened Andrews that it was quite unnecessary for him to go to so much trouble. He, Willis, no longer held the position of under-butler in this Grosvenor Square mansion; he would be gone by the end of the week. He then turned on a low heel and walked away with as much dignity as he could muster.

~   ~   ~

ARTHUR ELLIS found the Countess of Salt Hendon in her pretty sitting room curled up with her needlework amongst the cushions in the window seat. The St. John children were playing with Viscount Fourpaws in front of the marble fireplace where radiated the warmth of a roaring fire. The children were laughing and happy, teasing the kitten with a length of ribbon, and the Countess was utterly captivating in a froth of sky-blue satin petticoats that flowed onto the floor, her shiny black hair piled atop her head and threaded with matching sky-blue satin ribbons that were the same color as her lovely eyes.

It was a thoroughly delightful and calm domestic scene, and a welcome change for the secretary after the earlier drama down on the tennis court with his noble master suffering a seizure of some kind followed by his friend Tom Allenby charging into the bookroom unannounced brandishing parchment. When told the Earl was in his private apartments taking a bath and could not be disturbed, Tom winked at him and said his noble brother-in-law would certainly see him, in his bath or no, and dashed off, the secretary’s protests falling on deaf ears. And on the way to the Countess’s rooms via the servant passage, because it was quicker than taking the main stair and meant there was no likelihood of coming face to face with a lingering petitioner or unwanted afternoon guest, he had come upon Rufus Willis being harassed by Mr. Jenkins and Aloysius Andrews. He looked as if he had just been delivered news of his own execution.

What Arthur wanted more than anything was a cup of Bohea tea, a slice of seedy cake and the Countess to smile upon him reassuringly. She seemed to read his mind because she was regarding him with an understanding smile as he straightened from a weary bow. She offered him a seat on the striped sofa.

“Mr. Ellis! You’ve come to join us for tea,” Jane said with a bright smile, setting aside her needlework but remaining in the window seat. “But I’m afraid you are a little early, or are we late?”

“Ellis is early,” Ron announced, flinging the ribbon at his sister because he didn’t want to be seen playing with a kitten by one of his uncle’s male functionaries, after all he was almost nine years of age, and because it was Merry’s turn to amuse Viscount Fourpaws. “Besides, we’re waiting for Tom Allenby.”

“He’s promised to tell us all about the manufacture of blue glass,” Merry volunteered, scooping the kitten into her arms, “so we’ll know all about it when he takes us on a visit of his factories. Have you been to Tom Allenby’s factories, Aunt Jane?”

“No, but I should like to. Perhaps we can all go together?” Jane suggested. “Shall you come with us, Mr. Ellis? Or has Tom already taken you to his Bristol manufactories?”

Arthur was slow to respond. In fact, he had not heard a word Jane said. He was staring openly at her. There was something about her today, something he could not quite put his finger on. She was radiant. Yes, that was it. Radiant. She’d had that same radiance four autumns ago when he had visited Tom at Despard Park, around the time of the Salt Hunt Ball.

“It’s bad mannered to stare, Ellis,” Ron stated flatly, leaning against the window seat close to Jane.

“Everyone stares at Aunt Jane, Ron,” Merry responded matter-of-factly. “She doesn’t mind. Do you, Aunt Jane?”

“A-apologies, my lady,” Arthur stammered. “Tea-tea and c-cake would be most welcome, thank you.”

“It’s perfectly all right for the unwashed to stare, because they know no better,” Ron lectured his sister. “And they aren’t ever likely to come across a fairy because they don’t own gardens. But it’s wrong for servants to stare. Uncle Salt would not like that at all.”

“Mr. Ellis is not a servant. He’s a secretary,” Merry corrected her brother.

“Fairy?” Arthur Ellis enquired diffidently, an eye on the Countess. “Whoever said such a thing, Master Ron?”

Ron shrugged a thin shoulder. “Caroline said—”

“—Uncle Salt found Aunt Jane at the bottom of his garden,” Merry interrupted, “amongst the flowers. Cousin Caroline said that’s where fairies take their tea, made from crushed dandelions, and that Uncle Salt picked Aunt Jane because she was by far the prettiest and nicest fairy he—”

“Don’t be a widgeon, Merry! Fairies don’t drink tea. They drink…”

Arthur Ellis took the opportunity in the ensuing argument between the twins about tea and fairies, real or imagined, to seek the Countess’s attention. “My lady, a word in private, if I may,” he asked, a pointed glance at Ron and Merry.

The twins were not so wrapped up in their argument as Arthur Ellis had hoped. The loud chorus of disapproval that greeted his suggestion had Jane up off the window seat and brushing down her petticoats.

“Dear me! What a great noise about very little. No. Stay where you are. The tea things will be here shortly, and so will your Cousin Caroline. Mr. Ellis and I will go through to the dressing room. Besides,” she added, picking up a handful of her petticoats and bustling through to her dressing room, “I must find out if Anne has returned. She went on an errand and was away so long I did my own hair. Perhaps she—”

Jane was brought up short in the doorway by the startling sight of her personal maid being stood over by Lady St. John, who had the girl by the upper arm and was giving her a good shake.

“My lady? Why are you in my private rooms?” Jane demanded. “And by what right are you abusing my maid?”

“Your maid, madam, is a thief and a liar,” Diana St. John announced. “She stole something from me of great sentimental value and I want it returned or she’ll hang!”

“My lady, I did not steal—”

“Liar!”

“Unhand her, my lady,” Jane ordered. “It is not your business to seek out my servants and mistreat them, whatever you think they may have done. You come to me with your concerns first.”

“Good Lord! Two minutes a countess and you are an authority on how to treat miscreant servants? You really should leave such matters to those who have the experience to deal with the likes of this insolent creature.”

“Thank you, but I don’t need your advice.” Jane led her maid a little way off. “Do you have Lady St. John’s property?” she asked gently. “Please, don’t cry. I will believe what you tell me, Anne.”

That brought Anne’s head up and she sniffed. “I did not steal what does not belong to Lady St. John, my lady,” she whispered and stared at the Countess meaningfully, a quick glance at Diana St. John. “Mr. Willis returned the article to his lordship as he was requested to do.”

Jane held the maid’s gaze. “Returned?” When the maid nodded and lightly placed a hand at the base of her throat, Jane understood. “Thank you, Anne.”

“And the blue bottle?” Diana St. John enquired boldly of the maid. “What did you do with the blue bottle?”

Standing behind the Countess, Anne felt brave enough to look Lady St. John in the face. “Mr. Willis has that too, my lady.”

Diana St. John took a step forward, teeth and hands clenched. “That was a singularly stupid thing to do, you little fool!”

“Regardless of your opinion of my maid’s actions, you see that she does not have what it is you want,” Jane answered calmly. “I believe you are required in his lordship’s bookroom…”

“I was sent to fetch you, my lady,” Arthur Ellis said and nervously stepped forward, saying to the Countess with a significant look, “His lordship was particularly desirous of Lady St. John’s company and has been patiently waiting for her in his bookroom.”

Diana St. John’s smile was superior. “To think he spent the entire night at my house and now demands to see me again not so many hours after he left,” she cooed with delight. “You poor wretch, just three months a bride and already he has lost interest. I predicted as much. Those two nights this past sennight that he strayed from your bed—”

“He was with me at Arlington Street,” Sir Antony explained, strolling further into the now crowded dressing room, twirling his quizzing glass on its riband. “Two late sittings of Parliament and dinner both nights with yours truly. He was worn thin, so thin that I was able to persuade him to spend the night in his old rooms. Apologies for keeping him from you, my lady,” he said to Jane with a bow and sidled up to his sister, saying under his breath, “Your mischief–making is as stale as yesterday’s loaf, Di. Give it up before you embarrass yourself further.”

“Milk sop,” Diana St. John hissed and with a swish of her petticoats turned and swept out of the room, saying cryptically on a sigh, “If you want something done, best to do it yourself.”

Unperturbed, Sir Antony shrugged and looked at the secretary. “Three brutes are guarding her ladyship’s sitting room door. Can you enlighten us, Ellis?”

“Please do not be alarmed, my lady,” said the secretary. “The men have been posted on his lordship’s request should Lady St. John attempt to re-enter these rooms at the conclusion of her interview with his lordship. They have been instructed to keep all comers from your door.”

“Fat lot of good they proved to be!” Sir Antony rightly pointed out. “Dratted fellows tried to keep me from joining the tea party, and me dressed in fresh powder and frock coat. The tea party, I might add, is in full swing out there. Looks like you could use a strong dish of Bohea, Ellis,” he added good-naturedly with a slap to the secretary’s thin back, a wink at Jane as he led Arthur back into the sitting room.

So much for the effectiveness of three burly footmen keeping all and sundry away! Arthur knew when to bow to force majeure. He also knew what was expected of him and quietly perched on a corner of a sofa and gratefully accepted a dish of tea, a beady eye on the Lady St. John, who, far from dashing off to the Earl’s bookroom as requested, had taken it upon herself to sit by the teapot. With the help of her daughter, she distributed the dishes of tea and the assortment of almond and ratafia biscuits, seedy and lemon cakes amongst the assembled company.

Jane made no attempt to dislodge Diana St. John to take her rightful place in front of her own tea things, despite her great annoyance that the woman had the barefaced audacity to remain in her sitting room and assume control of proceedings. Instead, she quietly returned to the window seat and picked up her needlework, deeming it best for all concerned, particularly the twins, to humor Diana St. John; let her believe she was in control if it kept her calm until the Earl had the children away from her. The woman’s openly hostile behavior towards Anne was indication enough that she was more unstable than Jane had at first thought.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she failed to notice the Lady Caroline had taken up residence on the chaise longue, where she sat with Ron, giving Viscount Fourpaws a good scratch behind both ears, until she began verbally sparring with Diana St. John; not the most conducive activity to maintaining a calm environment.

“Does anyone know why Salt’s been in his apartments since forever?” Lady Caroline asked, gathering up her froth of silk petticoats in expectation of Sir Antony sitting beside her. When he chose to warm his hands in front of the fireplace she pouted but pretended not to notice, adding, “Perhaps he’s taking a well-earned nap?” a sickly-sweet smile directed at Diana St. John. “Who can blame him when he was awake most of the night playing at nursemaid.”

Lady St. John selected a sugared plum from a bowl amongst the clutter on the tea trolley. “Caroline, you have no right questioning Salt’s devotion to my son.”

“Oh, it’s not his devotion to Ron that concerns me, Cousin,” Lady Caroline responded, a genuine smile at Ron.

She gave him the kitten and eyed Diana St. John resentfully. She had never cared for Diana, who had made a habit of monopolizing her brother’s time and attention since she could remember, and she remembered a great deal. It was only four years since the death of her favorite uncle St. John. He had always taken the time to talk with her as if her thoughts and opinions were important to him, which is how Salt had always treated her, as a person, not as an object to be owned or ignored as if she was part of the furniture, which is how Diana saw her and thus dismissed her existence as unimportant. Thus, it did not matter to Diana that Caroline saw and heard how she mistreated St. John, their heated arguments, the overt flirting with every male visitor to Salt Hall, but most particularly of all how she monopolized Salt’s time and attention, which made Caroline loathe her all the more.

She glanced at the Countess, who was curled up in the window seat with her needlepoint, and saw an opportunity to aggravate Diana where it hurt most.

“I love what you have done with the nursery, my lady. And I can’t tell you how happy I am that my brother has finally married because I was despairing of ever becoming an aunt.” She glanced at Sir Antony with a sweet smile that did not deceive him. “Salt will make a wonderfully devoted father to his own brood, don’t you agree, Tony?”

“I am sure he will oblige you, Caro, by filling the nursery to overflowing,” agreed Sir Antony, ignoring the Countess, who blushed up with embarrassment, but not his sister who gave a huff of dismissal. “My dear Diana, swallow a stone?”

“Good! I do so want lots of nephews and nieces,” Lady Caroline responded then changed the subject before Diana, who was glaring at her with slit-eyed hostility, had time to go in for the attack. “Tony, what was it you were saying about Willis? Surely Jenkins has it wrong?”

“Had it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”

“Rufus Willis has been with us since forever,” Lady Caroline argued, puzzled. “He was born at Salt Hall. His father and his grandfather were our stewards. He gave me my first pony ride. And Mamma sent him off to Rugby because he was so bookish. He was meant to go on to Cambridge but then Mamma died and his papa got ill. I said he should talk to Salt. His brain is wasted as an under-butler—”

“Oh, don’t be utterly beetle-brained, Caroline!” Diana St. John said dismissively. “Waste money on a servant’s education? The man should be glad he has a roof over his head.” She gave Merry a plate of almond biscuits to offer Jane. “Care for a little biscuit, my lady?” When Jane instinctively pulled back from the strong smell of almond paste but still managed to smile and say thank you to the little girl for the offer, Diana smiled crookedly. “Perhaps a lemon tart would better suit your palate? Merry! Take this lemon tart to her ladyship.”

“Rufus Willis is one of the most well-read men of my acquaintance,” Jane stated, taking a nibble of the lemon tart then putting it aside because she had lost her appetite for sweet pastries. She picked up her needlepoint again. “I hope Salt will do something for him, Caroline.”

“Lord, yes, of your acquaintance, to be sure. You’re as buffle-headed as Caroline!” Diana replied, annoyed Jane had discarded the tart. “Next you’ll be telling us Salt married you for your sweet nature and not because he had a momentary lapse of reason.” She sipped at her tea thoughtfully. “In my experience, unquenchable lust for a beautiful object has often been the downfall of many a great and powerful man. I never thought to see Salt sink so low…”

Lady Caroline was up on her heels. “How dare you speak about my brother and his wife in such a-a crude and-and undignified manner! Salt married Jane because he loves her; much you would know about that.”

“Caroline, you are an overindulged, spoiled child who—”

“Enough,” stated Sir Antony very quietly, glancing up from the carpet where he was helping Ron detach a thread from the ribbon that had caught in the kitten’s claw. “Caro is in the right, Di. You owe Lady Salt an apology.”

“Please, we all must remember where we are,” Jane said quietly, a significant glance at Ron and Merry who had been riveted to the conversation. “Tony, what was it Jenkins told you about Willis? He has not taken ill I trust?”

“Worse. Dismissed from his post. Willis is no longer under-butler in this household.”

Just as Sir Antony said this, Anne, who had come through from the dressing room with a fresh reel of cotton for her mistress, burst into tears and fled the room on a strangled sob.

“Thank God such a maudlin creature no longer lingers in my household,” Lady St. John announced with satisfaction as she busied herself pouring out milk into various tea dishes. “The woman’s a dripping spout of woes.”

Lady Caroline stared in disbelief from the Countess to Diana St. John and then went up to Jane, mindful of the twins’ presence. “You can’t let her get away with making such horrid remarks about you and my brother,” she whispered. “She owes you an apology and if you don’t stand up to her she will think you weak and be forever managing you.”

Jane put aside her needlepoint and drew Caroline to sit beside her in the window seat. “If I thought it would be of any use I would do as you suggest, but…” She glanced over at Diana St. John who was absorbed with corking a small blue bottle that she then slipped into her reticule. “She is not well. Anything I say will only inflame her. I do not expect you to fully understand but please we must wait for your brother, who is the only person capable of controlling her.” She looked over at Sir Antony and asked about the under-butler.

“Kitchen gossip,” Sir Antony apologized. “Willis left the house without telling Jenkins his direction and when he returned he was summonsed to Salt’s private apartments where he spent over an hour locked up in close conversation. When he emerged his face was so white it looked as if it had been dipped in flour and he was shaking like a Jelly Surprise and he couldn’t put two words together. Whereupon he again left the house and has not been seen since. I might add, that whatever Willis said in that interview left Salt in a blind rage. Andrews confided to Jenkins he had never heard such a vulgar tongue expressed with such eloquence.”

Lady Caroline smiled at Jane and glanced slyly at Sir Antony, saying with feigned thoughtfulness, “Perhaps I will ask dear Captain Beresford to employ Willis…?”

Sir Antony did not rise to the bait. He put his dish back on its saucer, saying charmingly, “You do that, sweetheart. Perhaps, given the circumstances of this love affair, your Captain might even take on her ladyship’s personal maid so Willis and she can be together again. Now wouldn’t that make for a romantic foursome?”

“Yes, how romantic indeed!” Lady Caroline threw at Sir Antony as if he had made the best suggestion in the world. “I must write to the dear Captain at once about poor Willis. He is so understanding about such matters. No doubt when I inform him of the circumstances behind Willis’ dismissal he will jump at the chance to be of service to me.”

“I believe a note to the dear Captain is just what you should do, Caroline.” Jane dimpled, entering into the girl’s teasing of Sir Antony. “And be certain to inform him that the romantic notion of keeping Anne and Rufus together was the idea of Sir Antony Templestowe.”

Sir Antony bowed. “I aim to please you both, dear ladies.”

“When did the feelings of servants ever amount to anything?” Diana St. John said dismissively and smiled at Jane. “You have not touched your tart, my lady. Perhaps the dish of tea my daughter graciously gave you will help you feel more the thing. Merry! Don’t hover! Offer the cakes to your uncle then you may stand here beside my chair. No, Ron! Merry!” she snapped when her daughter offered cake to her brother. “No cake. Your brother is still too weak to digest any food. Remember what the physician advised.”

Jane picked up the dish of tea Merry had placed on the window seat beside her, ignoring Diana St. John’s intense gaze.

“You truly do not look at all well, my lady,” Diana St. John said silkily when Jane hesitated to drink the contents of her tea dish. “Tea is most beneficial when one is out of sorts. Don’t you agree, Antony?”

“Merry, if you would be so kind as to return this dish to your mamma.” Jane smiled at the little girl. “I do not take milk.”

“My dear Lady Salt, I assure you that with milk, the tea will do you a great deal of good,” Diana St. John insisted. “Merry! Lady Salt will drink the tea with milk.”

“No. I will not,” Jane stated firmly, holding Diana St. John’s gaze, and the tea dish on its saucer at arm’s length for Merry to return to the tea trolley. “Thank you, Merry.”

“Merry! Do not take that dish!” her mother ordered. “My lady, I insist that you at least try my tea. After all the trouble I took to make it on your behalf.”

“I am mindful of the effort, my lady, but I am unable to drink the tea.”

“And why are you unable to drink tea with milk, my lady?”

“Di, it is of no importance why Lady Salt cannot drink tea with milk,” Sir Antony said on sigh of exasperation. “That her ladyship does not wish it should suffice. Merry, take the tea dish back to the trolley forthwith.”

“No, Merry, do not touch that dish,” her mother enunciated. “Lady Salt will do me the courtesy of drinking the tea.”

The little girl hesitated, halfway between her mother and the Countess, not knowing which way to turn. Wanting to take the tea dish from the Countess yet afraid of her mother’s wrath if she did. Ron saw his sister’s distress and went toward her, but Sir Antony, exchanging a look of exasperation with Lady Caroline, stayed his nephew with a hand on his shoulder and came to his niece’s rescue.

“What a lot of bother over a trifle! Let Merry take the dish and be done with it.”

“Don’t interfere! This is none of your concern! Lady Salt will drink the tea Merry so graciously gave her. It would be the height of bad manners not to do so. Would it not, my lady?”

Jane suppressed her own exasperation and reasoned that if one sip of milky tea would put an end to all the fuss and make Merry comfortable again, then she would do her best to oblige Diana St. John. Surely she could conquer her nausea for a matter of mere moments. But just the thought of milk made her queasy. Perhaps if she held her breath…

Arthur Ellis, who was silently perched on a corner of the sofa, his presence forgotten, now rose up, intent on rescuing the Countess from the misery of being forced to drink a substance that clearly even the thought of which was making her wilt. Merry still stood in the middle of the room her distress evident though she felt a huge relief when the Countess lifted the dish from its saucer.

Jane tried her best to bring the dish up to her mouth but the curl of steam that rose from the milky liquid and assailed her nose made her pull back, return the dish to its saucer and close her eyes. It was too much for Arthur Ellis, and for Sir Antony, who both stepped forward as one and almost collided, the secretary stepping back to allow Sir Antony to play knight-errant.

Such was his annoyance with his sister’s pigheadedness that Sir Antony inadvertently snatched the tea dish and saucer from Jane’s hand. In so doing, the tea dish toppled and its hot milky contents splashed across the front of his exquisite silver-threaded velvet waistcoat before he had a hand to the dish to set it to rights on the saucer. What was not soaked up by the plush velvet dripped onto his highly polished shoes with their enormous silver buckles and into his left shoe, soaking his stockinged foot.

Diana St. John was on her feet in furious disbelief. She stared at the tea-soaked front of her brother’s ruined waistcoat and then down at his shoes. “You idiot! You fool,” she seethed. “I could kill you! All that effort. It was the perfect opportunity! You have no idea, no idea at all, what you’ve just done!”

“But I do,” the Earl announced from the doorway and strolled further into his wife’s pretty sitting room crowded with his relatives, and immediately dominated the space.

EIGHTEEN

‘WELL, ARTHUR, what part of escort Lady St. John to my bookroom at once did you not understand? It doesn’t matter now,” Salt said dismissively to his secretary’s red-faced and incomprehensible garbled apology. “Take a breath and sit down before you lose consciousness.” He placed two folded parchments, one with a freshly broken seal, upon the mantle shelf between several propped up cards of invitation then turned to stare Sir Antony up and down. “Dear me, Tony. A waistcoat ruined. But for the greater good, I assure you.” Over his shoulder he sensed Diana St. John had taken a step toward him. “Sit down,” he snarled. “At once.” Then turned a bright smile on his godchildren. “Merry. Ron. Be so good as to follow me.”

Jane watched her husband move away from the fireplace to stand by the narrow door hidden in the patterned chinoiserie wallpaper of peonies that provided access to the servant passageway and stairs that led to the nursery above. She found it difficult to believe that he had ever suffered a collapse in his life, and just hours ago on the tennis court. If not for the clench to his square jaw, he appeared at ease, and as strong and as healthy as ever. His brown eyes were alert and there was a healthy color in his clean-shaven cheeks, which made her breathe a sigh of relief. But that clench bothered her. It was a sign she had come to read very well indeed. He might appear to the world to be untroubled, but in truth he was doing his best to keep his emotions well and truly under control. She did not envy him the task that lay ahead. And she was just as anxious for him, and the children.

That Tom had followed Salt into the sitting room, gave her some comfort. Yet Tom looked as worried as the Earl appeared unruffled. Her stepbrother was not good at hiding his feelings. As soon he saw Jane he ignored the room full of people and went straight over to bow over her hand. It was only when he was seated beside her in the window seat that he nodded to the assembled company before looking to the Earl for direction.

Salt told Ron and Merry to bring with them the Countess’s furry four-legged fiend and waited while they scooped up Viscount Fourpaws, who did not want to be unsettled from the warmth to be had curled up on Lady Caroline’s lap. When Diana St. John half rose out of the wingchair in expectation of following her children across the room, one word from the Earl reluctantly sat her down again. Sir Antony, Lady Caroline and Arthur Ellis, who was red faced and still on his feet, remained silent. A quiet word from Jane and the secretary slowly sank back down onto the corner of the sofa. Like everyone else in the room, his gaze remained fixed on the Earl.

Salt went down on his haunches before his godchildren.

“I need you both to do me a great favor,” he said very quietly so only the twins could hear him. He looked from Ron to Merry and back to the pale-faced boy with his sunken wary eyes. “I know you were promised afternoon tea with her ladyship and me. But a matter of great importance has arisen that requires my immediate attention. So I need you to do me this favor: To spend a few hours in the nursery. I know that is not what you wanted and your disappointment is understandable, but it will help me enormously. I hate to break my promise at any time but most particularly to you both. I don’t do so lightly. Can you understand that?”

Merry was the first to nod and say with a smile, “If it is important to you, Uncle Salt, then we understand. Don’t we, Ron?”

Salt gently cupped her cheek. “Thank you, Merry. Ron?”

Ron nodded, though his disappointment was evident. “Of course.”

“Good man. I’ve sent for your clothes and favorite things from South Audley Street because I have decided you will be staying here. So you will be able to take supper tonight in the Yellow Saloon and we may even have time for a round of charades before bedtime. Is that fair compensation for spending a few hours cooped up in the nursery, do you think?

“Very fair! Are we truly to stay with you here?” Merry asked breathlessly and when the Earl nodded couldn’t suppress her excitement by jumping up and down on the spot. But she had a sudden awful thought. “Clary and Taylor aren’t coming here too?”

Salt smiled at Merry’s look of wide-eyed dread. The dour governess and the cold-fish tutor were repellent beings that had no place caring for children; his stables of horses received better care.

“No. You need never see those two again.”

“No Clary and Taylor, Ron! Did you hear that?”

Ron wasn’t so demonstrative and when he glanced fearfully across at his mother the Earl gently squeezed his thin arm, an encouraging smile at Merry, who was beaming with happiness and holding tightly to the kitten.

“I gave your father my word that I would take good care of you, Ron, and I promise you that I mean to take better care of you from this day forward. You and Merry both.”

“But you do take very good care of us, Uncle Salt,” Merry assured him and gently nudged her brother. “Doesn’t he, Ron?”

“Yes. Always! I don’t need you to tell him for me,” Ron complained, acknowledging his sister’s prompting by nudging her in return. He frowned at the Earl, another quick, furtive glance at his mother, and said hesitantly, “You do mean it, don’t you, Uncle Salt, about staying here with you?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You won’t—You won’t send me—send us—back? Last night you promised I’d never have to take Mamma’s medicine ever again. You did mean it? I don’t want to be ill. I don’t like being ill. I won’t have to take it again, will I?”

Salt held the boy’s haunted gaze, so reminiscent of his father St. John that he felt a tightening in his throat and chest. He wanted to hug the boy and reassure him that he would never allow harm to come to him again, yet he refrained from doing so because he knew Ron would be embarrassed by such demonstrative behavior in public. Instead, he held out his hand.

“Last night we shook hands on it, Ron,” he said quietly. “But I will gladly shake hands with you again if it will convince you that I mean it.”

Again, Ron looked warily over at his mother before turning his gaze on the Countess. She was smiling at him. He liked her smile. It was sweet and understanding and so full of comfort. He would never tell his sister this, but secretly the Countess was just as he imagined a fairy to be if fairies really did live at the bottom of gardens. Unconsciously, his thin shoulders sagged with relief and he let out a small sigh. Finally, he thrust out his hand to the Earl and when it was taken allowed himself to be drawn into his godfather’s embrace. Overcome, he buried his face in the soft velvet of the Earl’s frock coat. Merry put a comforting hand to her brother’s shaking back, saying in a confidential whisper to her uncle,

“He’s tired or he wouldn’t be like this.”

“You are quite right, Merry,” Salt agreed when he had mastered his emotions, the boy still clinging tightly to him. He lightly brushed her cheek with one finger. “Tomorrow he will be more himself. We all will.”

Sensing a presence loomed over them, he swiveled on a flat heel with Ron still in his arms and found petticoats of gold watered silk brushing up against his leg. It was Diana. Before Salt could disentangle himself and stand up, she lunged for Merry, frightening Viscount Fourpaws, who hissed and swiped his paw and scratched the back of her hand. She shrieked and let out an expletive and tried to pull the kitten by the scruff of the neck up out of her daughter’s arms, but Merry would not let go. She held on tightly to Viscount Fourpaws, who meowed his protests at such rough treatment, and pulled away from her mother, the frightened kitten trying to scramble out of her arms to safety.

“Give me that disgusting little ferret, Magna!” Diana St. John hissed, making another lunge for the kitten. “It should’ve been drowned at birth! It will be drowned.”

“No! No, Mamma! You can’t!” Merry implored, big brown eyes staring up at her mother. Her bottom lip quivered and tears pricked her eyelids. “You frightened him. You can’t drown him! Uncle Salt won’t let you! He belongs to Aunt Jane. He’s just a baby cat!”

“Babies are offensive, vile creations!” Diana St. John spat out before she could stop herself. “No one deserves to have his babies. She doesn’t deserve to have his babies. She mustn’t. She won’t. She isn’t worthy. I won’t allow it! Mamma will be miserable. You don’t want Mamma to be miserable, do you, Magna? Now give me that odious creature!”

Salt caught her wrist before she could grab again for the kitten and her daughter. He had sprung to his feet, as had everyone in the room, and quickly put Ron behind him. Merry darted to join her brother, the kitten meowing in protest as he was hugged tightly to her silk bodice. Both children huddled against the Earl’s broad back, little fingers grabbing on tightly to the silver trimmed short skirts of his frock coat, their faces hidden in the soft cloth, eyes tightly shut, not daring to peer at their seething mother.

Diana St. John swirled about, wild-eyed and panting, to stare up at the Earl, who was ashen faced and thin-lipped, before looking about her uncomprehendingly at the still silent faces gathered around the tea trolley. When she wondered aloud why the Earl had her by the wrist, it was evident she was oblivious to the fact her rage had driven her to reveal her innermost thoughts, thoughts that appalled everyone in the room. Nor could she comprehend their horror or the effect her words had had on the Earl and Countess.

“Let that be your last defiant act, Madam. Had you come to my bookroom as requested your brother would have been spared the humiliation of having his sister’s contemptible and reprehensible behavior aired in public. Apologies, Antony, but now I don’t care. Sit,” he ordered and let go of her wrist with a little push and an opening of his hand, as if he did not want the touch of her. “Caroline, be so good as to come here. The rest of you, sit down. You too, my lady,” he added gently when Jane took a step towards him.

He dared to allow his gaze to focus on his wife for the first time since coming into her sitting room and he wished he had had the will power to refrain from doing so. Jane had been halfway across the room, brow furrowed in concern for the twins, who still clung to either side of his short skirts, and it was only when he addressed her that she brought herself up short and her blue-eyed gaze flickered up to his brown eyes. A mix of emotions crossed her beautiful face and it took all his self-control to turn away and pray that she did as she was told, because his overwhelming desire was to scoop her up in his arms and twirl her round and round and cover her face with kisses for making him the happiest man alive. Instead, he opened the servant door and went into the narrow passage where he gently disentangled Ron and Merry from his frock coat and then spoke to someone out of view. Soothing words and hugs of reassurance and he let the twins go and returned to the sitting room to stand in the open doorway. He beckoned Lady Caroline to him and kissed her hand.

“I want you to go up to the nursery and keep an eye on them. They shouldn’t be left with servants as their only company at this time. I’ll explain later. I can’t do that now. You will have to trust me, Caro. Please. Do this for me.”

Lady Caroline pouted and opened her mouth to protest about being treated as a child and sent away when anything of interest occurred, but something in the Earl’s brown eyes, in the set of his mouth and the tiredness in his face forestalled her. She nodded, obedient and remarkably composed for her seventeen and a half years of age.

“Yes, of course. Will you—will you be all right? Will everything be all right?”

He kissed her forehead and smiled down at her. “Yes. Before the day is out everything will be set to rights. That I promise you.”

Lady Caroline nodded, curtseyed to the room, and was gone.

Salt closed the door on her back and joined the rest of the silent group, all eyes upon him in mute expectation.

Recovered from her extraordinary outburst, Diana St. John had resumed her place in front of the tea trolley and was languidly fanning herself and looking for the world as if nothing was amiss. To everyone’s amazement, she even went so far as to order Arthur Ellis to fetch the Countess’s dolt of a maid to go in search of the butler. The teapot needed replenishing and she couldn’t understand why Jenkins wasn’t in attendance on them for afternoon tea. Completely oblivious to the heavy air of tension in the light-filled sitting room, she began rearranging the tea dishes in anticipation of pouring out more tea when it arrived.

Still in shock, no one bothered to reply, not even Jane. She was preoccupied with watching her husband, whose inscrutable gaze remained fixed on Diana St. John. It was only when Tom squeezed her fingers that Jane reluctantly tore her gaze from the Earl. When Tom winked conspiratorially and smiled warmly she wondered why and what he knew, though his seeming buoyancy helped ease her mind, but it did not dissipate the crescendo of anticipation that something of significance was about to occur here in her sitting room.

The silence was broken by Sir Antony taking snuff.

It was the spur Arthur Ellis needed to come to life and he shot to his feet, unable to take another moment of the suspense and silent forced restraint. Diana St. John thought he had done so at her command, to fetch the Countess’s maid and looked up at the Earl expectantly.

“Shall you take a dish of tea when it comes, Salt?” she asked pleasantly. “Or would you prefer claret? You look tired unto death. Hardly surprising, is it, when we spent another all night vigil at Ron’s bedside. Did you manage to get a few hours sleep? Ellis, when you find that insipid creature have her get Jenkins to fetch up a bottle of claret for his lordship.”

The secretary, instead of doing her bidding, looked to his employer and then at the Countess, seeking direction, completely at a loss to know what he should do, or what he should say.

The Earl came to his rescue.

He was staring at Diana St. John but thinking about the day he had met Jane Despard. He thought about the hollowness of his existence these past four years without her. With his hopes of marrying her so cruelly dashed and caught up in the political machinations of Westminster, the social events of Polite Society and the running of his estates, he had convinced himself that domesticity was unimportant to him, all because of his malaise of the heart. Yet, since marrying Jane he had come to regard his domestic arrangements as vital to his health and happiness. Tom’s astonishing revelations had provided him with proof of his ability to father a child with Jane, but such welcome news had come at a heart-breaking cost; the loss of a much wanted child, maliciously destroyed, and that brought him back to Diana St. John and her interference in his life. The more he had ruminated the more he realized St. John’s wife had meddled in his life more years then he cared to contemplate. That she had interfered where it mattered most to him, with Jane and her happiness and wellbeing, made him livid.

“I had hoped to make this as painless as possible, and without an audience,” he said with great forbearance, standing by the fireplace. “Never mind. Perhaps this way is for the best. If one is to humbly atone then it is appropriate that those who matter most should bear witness. But I’m afraid, Arthur, that you must leave us. It is not that I do not trust you. I do, implicitly. It is for the sake of her ladyship and my need to have you run a number of important errands without delay that you cannot remain. I have left instructions on my desk for what I need from you. There are also letters that require immediate delivery: One to Rockingham, one to Bute. A third is addressed to His Majesty. Deliver them yourself and do so at once. There are copies of my correspondence, which you are welcome to read and digest. If you then decide to reconsider your present employment, and what ambitious man would not, I will understand and recommend you with a glowing reference.”

Arthur Ellis gave a start, looked swiftly at his friend Tom, who smiled at him, before composing himself and bowing to his lordship. “Yes, of course, my lord. I will see to matters at once,” he replied obediently and deposited his dish and saucer on the silver tray. He hesitated, then crossed to Jane to make her a deep bow. “I am, my lady, your humble and most obedient servant, always.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ellis. Your loyalty means a great deal to me and,” Jane added with a smile at the Earl, “to my husband.”

What her husband said next truly surprised her.

“Oh, and Arthur,” added the Earl, “send her ladyship’s maid to the nursery. Mr. Willis will join her there shortly. I presume Miss Anne Springer is lurking in some nether room?”

“Listening at the keyhole if the truth be told,” Diana St. John grumbled.

As the secretary departed, he left the door ajar, allowing Jane a glimpse into the passageway. To her astonishment and consternation there lingered just outside her sitting room what appeared to be a battalion of liveried footmen kicking their heels in wait, and with them was Mr. Jenkins and Rufus Willis. The butler closing over the door and Lady St. John’s exuberance brought her gaze back into the room, where the woman was holding court.

“So! It’s finally come. You are to be First Lord of the Treasury at last! When do you kiss hands?” Diana St. John asked excitedly, gazing adoringly up at the Earl. “All our hard work has paid off. I knew it would! How could it not? You will make a brilliant first minister. When does Bute resign? Tomorrow? Today? Is it not exciting, Antony? Perhaps Salt will find you a place in his cabinet? What think you, Salt? Is my little brother to have the Foreign Department? Have you decided on the rest of your ministry? Naturally, Rockingham must be given something, Newcastle too. If only those two would cooperate more with one another. No matter. You will keep them both in line. Now, let me see, who else is deserving of your notice—”

“I have declined His Majesty’s offer to form government,” Salt answered matter-of-factly, taking one of the sheets of parchment from the mantle where he had placed them. From his waistcoat pocket he produced his gold-rimmed spectacles. “In fact,” he continued calmly, deftly sitting his eyeglasses on the end of his nose with the paper still in his hand, “I have informed His Majesty that I have decided to rusticate for the foreseeable future. I have also vacated my chair on the Privy Council, effective immediately.”

“Wh-what?” Lady St. John demanded, up out of the wingchair. She was so incredulous that it subdued her enough to ask quietly, “How can you throw away the opportunity of a lifetime? We have spent years working towards this goal. You cannot resign your posts! You cannot vacate the Privy Council. You certainly can’t waste your talents rusticating in a Wiltshire backwater! His Majesty won’t allow it. I won’t allow it! I don’t understand.”

“You have never understood and you never will,” Salt replied evenly. “My own house must be in good order before I can possibly contemplate running the kingdom. To do that I must be true to myself; a gentleman and a family man, the Earl of Salt Hendon a paltry third.”

Sir Antony smiled, completely attune to the Earl’s feelings. “Bravo for you, Salt,” he said quietly, all admiration for his friend’s decision. “Bravo.”

“Don’t be an ass, Antony!” Diana St. John said dismissively and peered keenly at the Earl. “You’re not well. It’s the strain of the past few months. The corridor machinations over Bute’s possible resignation and the Peace negotiations have taken their toll. You’re wearing your eyeglasses. You must be suffering megrims. A few days at Strawberry Hill with Walpole to lift your spirits and you will see that you cannot possibly rusticate. You are needed to lead your country.”

Salt opened out the letter and turned to Lady St. John to stare at her over the rims of his spectacles. “I have made my decision. Sit down, Diana.”

But Lady St. John remained standing. She was too disbelieving to do as commanded. She shut her fan with a snap and put up her chin. “You are in jest. This is a cruel joke. You know very well that a few years, one year, playing sheep farmer on your estate is a-a lifetime in the political wilderness. You may never again have the opportunity to form government. You truly can’t be serious!”

“I have never been more so.” Salt held up the parchment. “This letter bears my seal, but I did not write it. It is a forgery, and not very good copy of my fist. It is a letter you wrote in my name, Diana,” he drawled, an ugly pull to his mouth. “No doubt you were confident that the recipient would presume I had written it in haste and with some emotion, and that this would explain the lack of consistency in the forming of my letters. Or perhaps you rightly predicted that my betrothed would be in such a state of emotional duress upon reading this breach of promise note that she would be unlikely to think beyond the letter’s deplorable content?”

Jane let out an involuntarily gasp, a shaking hand to her mouth, and looked from her husband to Lady St. John and then to her stepbrother. “How did Salt recover—”

“From me, Jane. Uncle Jacob left the letter to me in his will,” Tom explained gently. He smiled and kissed the back of her hand. “I thought the time had come to hand it over.”

“My betrothed would hardly worry about the authenticity of the fist given her deeply distressed state,” the Earl said, gaze remaining on Lady St. John. “Well, Madam. Do you have anything to add?”

Diana St. John’s response was unemotional, but her confidence had slipped to be so coldly addressed by the Earl. She sensed an impenetrable wall of ice was forming between them and yet years of self-delusion convinced her that she was in the right and that he must see that she was in the right. After all, everything she had done, no matter how unpleasant or demeaning, had been done for his benefit and his alone. She loved him unconditionally but with that love came sacrifices, sacrifices he had to be willing to make if she was to help him become First Lord of the Treasury. She would make him understand. She met the Earl’s brown eyes with an air of confidence.

“I am not about to deny it. Why should I? What I did, my actions in all things, have always been governed by my ambition for you. You are destined for political greatness. Everyone says so, from Holland to Rockingham to Bute. All sides of the political pen agree on that, even if they cannot agree on anything else. You have done so much for your country already, and will do more in the future. Sinclairs have been serving king and country since the Plantagenets. I could not allow you to throw away your future and your happiness on some lust-driven whim taken in the summerhouse. I was merely protecting you from yourself.”

“Future? Happiness?” The Earl’s self-control unraveled. He ripped off his eyeglasses. “What the bloody hell would you know about my-my feelings?” He thrust out his velvet arm in Jane’s direction. “She—Jane is my future. Jane is my happiness. Even in her despair, when under the power of a religious lunatic, Jane never gave up hope in me. Jane loves me—me, not because one day I will be First Lord of the Treasury or of this or of that or of any-bloody-thing else! Does that penetrate your skull, Madam? Jane loves me.”

Diana St. John’s laugh was one of outraged skepticism.

“Good God, Salt! I do despair of you at times,” she said with a sad shake of her perfectly coiffured head as she took a turn from the wingchair by the fireplace to the sofa and back again to stand before the Earl with her chin up. She patted the silver threaded narrow lapel of his frock coat. “You are a brilliant political strategist, to be sure, but the instant you allow the blood to pool between your tree-trunk thighs your mind is reduced to that of a jellyfish! Ah, such are the minds of warm-blooded vigorous men of intellect when they allow lust to override sense. But that’s what I am here for. To ensure you don’t completely come unstuck.” She turned with a swish of her layered gown to address the Countess. “Lord! You didn’t even have the wit or skill to keep your legs closed until you were up before a parson,” she taunted with a menacing wave of her fan. “You’re so pathetically naïve you even allowed him to impreg—”

The Earl dropped his spectacles and had her by the throat.

“Murderess,” he hissed in her face, fingers under her jaw to keep her mouth shut. It took all his self-control not to squeeze the life out of her. “If not for you, my wife would not have suffered the shame of being banished from her own home; of being shunned by her own father who wrongly accused her of being a whore. If not for you, she would not have been forced to accept Jacob Allenby’s protection, and whose obsession with redemption made her life a misery. If not for you, I would not have considered her beneath my contempt for tossing me over so lightly. If not for you, I would not have spent four years wondering what my life could have been.

“You had it within your power to set matters to rights with Sir Felix. You knew the truth and you concealed it. Worse. You willfully fabricated the truth to suit your own selfish ends. I put it to you that you read and destroyed the note concealed in the secret compartment of the Sinclair locket. A note, if it had reached me would have saved Jane and our and our—” He swallowed and dug deep in a frock coat pocket and drew out a leather pouch. This he held out to Jane. “Take it. Open it. Anne and Rufus found it under her pillow.”

But Jane could not move. She did not trust her legs to carry her across the room. Tom retrieved the pouch for her and at her request spilled the contents into his hand. He held up a diamond encrusted gold chain that had at its center a large sapphire. It was the genuine Sinclair locket, and for Jane its recovery was bittersweet. She did not open the secret compartment; she knew she would find only emptiness. She laid the locket on the window seat cushion and blinked away tears.

“Jane. Tell me what you wrote,” Salt commanded gently.

She shook her head, hand to her mouth to stop a sob. Tom put a comforting arm around her and she leaned into his shoulder. Sir Antony and Salt waited. Jane finally straightened and looked at her husband and said just three words. They were devastatingly heartbreaking.

“Enceinte. Please come.”

The Earl bowed his head, but just for a moment, before lifting his chin to stare hard at Lady St. John, whose jaw he still held closed, fingers cupped menacingly about her throat.

“By destroying that note and forging my fist on a breach of promise document, you made my darling girl believe me to be a licentious monster capable of cruelly using and abusing her for my own wanton satisfaction. Those who sought to cover up what you had turned into a scandal, who conspired to assist Sir Felix to avert the shame of his daughter giving birth to a bastard of indeterminate lineage, were ignorant of the truth, and you kept them in ignorance. They had no idea I was the-the—father of her child.

“You could have averted tragedy and yet you promoted it,” he added, rummaging again in his frock coat pocket to pull free a small blue bottle. This he held up between thumb and forefinger before Diana St. John’s unblinking gaze. “Worse. You procured a medicinal from an unscrupulous apothecary, Syrup of Artemisia—poison—and gave it to Sir Felix to administer to his daughter to kill the child growing in her womb.”

“What? No! No! No! Not that! I can’t—I don’t believe it!” The anguished outburst came from Sir Antony, who could no longer listen in silence to the litany of horrendous crimes perpetrated by his sister. “My God, Salt, not that. Not the murder of your child…”

He glanced at Jane, saw the anguish in her face, and then at Tom, whose eyes were full of sadness, and he had his answer. He went numb. When the Earl directed him to take down off the mantelshelf and read the second parchment, he did so, at first without seeing what he was reading. It was a list, a long list of names, names of women known to him and there was an address in the Strand of an apothecary’s place of business. He looked at the Earl and then at his sister and he knew he was crying.

“Consign it to the flames, Tony,” Salt told him gently and turned back to expend his rage on his cousin, fingers tightening about her throat when she dared to move her head. “I gave your brother permission to turn that document to ash because it is a damning piece of evidence that would see you hang. I cannot have your foul deeds made public, your children branded the offspring of a murderess and your brother’s diplomatic career ruined. That document was evidence that you are a terminating midwife and a procuress of murderous substances. Over the course of many years, you have supplied Syrup of Artemisia to noblewomen with unwanted pregnancies; many of these women were my lovers at one time or another. I do not judge them. They have to reconcile their actions with their consciences and with their Maker, but to dispense your evil concoction on the innocent and unsuspecting, to menace and coerce my wife’s maid to administer a known abortifacient in her ladyship’s tea… To then try and do so yourself, just now…

“How will you ever reconcile with your conscience what you have done? Ruining our happiness, debasing the woman I love… At every turn, you have done your utmost to cause us heartache and misery. Your wickedness knows no bounds… Stooping so low as to risk the health and wellbeing of your son. Forcing that little boy to suffer—Merry to suffer to see her brother in pain. Putting them through hell… Making us live a nightmare of your devising… And to think while I was comforting your children for the tragic loss of their father whom I loved as a brother, you were aiding and abetting the torment of the woman I love and the murder of our child… What shape of-of—monster are you?”

“Magnus. Please. Don’t do this,” Jane said gently but firmly, standing at her husband’s elbow, a hand on his velvet sleeve. She glanced anxiously at Sir Antony, whose desolate face was as white as chalk, and then at Tom, who was wearing a brave face of understanding, and added firmly, looking up at the Earl’s strong profile, “Choking the life out of her will give you temporary satisfaction but I do not want any more unhappiness. Think of Ron and Merry. Think of our future. I love you. Please. She’s ill. Her mind, it isn’t well. She needs help.”

“When I think of the wanton suffering she inflicted on her small son all to gain my singular attention, it makes me ill,” Salt uttered, throat dry and raw with despair. “What you have endured… I can never—ever—make amends.”

“Yes. Yes you can,” Jane argued calmly. “When all is said and done, four years is not such a long time to be apart. A seaman’s wife can wait many years for word that her husband is safe. Sons go off wandering the Continent on the Grand Tour for just as many years while their families wait uneasy at home for their return. We have each other and a long future together. Ron and Merry are now out of harm’s way and they will learn to be happy, carefree children again. Please, Magnus. I do not want to dwell in the past. I want to go forward with you and the children into the future, together as a family.”

Slowly, Salt’s grip about Diana St. John’s throat slackened and with her release came unbridled relief. He tossed the small blue bottle amongst the clutter on the tea trolley and turned to gather Jane into his embrace. He buried his face in the abundance of her shiny black hair and when she put her arms up about his neck and went on tiptoe to murmur soothing words of comfort, a deep breath escaped him and he shuddered with a mixture of a dozen emotions.

And as the couple found relief and tenderness in their embraces, Sir Antony stepped forward and caught his sister as she staggered back, coughing, and spluttering, a hand to her burning throat that wore the imprints of the Earl’s fingers. But for all her distress, she would not have the touch of her brother and kept her gaze firmly fixed on the Earl and Countess. Her mouth twisted up with loathing to see him so happy and his life full of promise when all she had ever done, all she had ever strived for was to make the Sinclair name synonymous with power and this handsome nobleman the most influential politician in the kingdom. She would show him. She would make them both pay. He would live to regret this day for the rest of his life.

She snatched up the blue bottle he had tossed amongst the tea things, uncorked it and in one last defiant act threw the contents down her dry throat and swallowed. It was done. She had poisoned herself and when she was dead, he would realize just how much she had meant to him.

“No! Di! Don’t!” Sir Antony shouted and grabbed for the blue bottle. But he was too late and all he managed to do was wrest the empty vessel from her fingers and fling it away from him.

“My little apothecary on the Strand tells me that if too much is administered, death will follow quite quickly. That’s good to know. But it will be painful, agonizing in fact. You will appreciate that,” she said with a sneering smile at Jane. “And you,” she added, blinking up at the Earl, who frowned down at her, his arm about his wife’s waist and holding her close, “you shall have my death on your conscience for the rest of your long illustrious life. You’ll regret the loss of me once I’m gone. Only then will you realize my true worth.”

“Leave her to me,” Sir Antony demanded, a hand on the back of the wingchair where his sister sat in state. Tearfully, he stared at Tom and then at the Earl and Countess, who bravely met his gaze with a sad smile. “I’ll take care of her. She’s still my sister whatever mad demons possess her. It’s the least I can do for Ron and Merry, and for you, Salt. Now go. This isn’t the place for your wife, or you. Take her up to the nursery. Caroline and the children are waiting.”

“Your loyalty is to be admired, Tony, and one day it will be duly rewarded,” the Earl responded calmly, a nod to Tom to open the door that led out onto the passageway. Four burly footmen, the butler and Willis, followed by two dour faced gentlemen in plain frock coats silently filled the room. “Your sister doesn’t deserve you, nor does she deserve to have a melodramatic exit.”

Jane looked from Sir Antony to her stepbrother and then up at her husband. They were all unbelievably calm given Diana St. John had just downed a vial of poison.

“Please. Magnus, call a physician. She must be given something to bring up the poison.” She glanced at the two men in plain frock coats who now stepped forward. “Are these men physicians? Are they here to help her?”

“Yes. They are here to help, but not in the way you think,” Salt answered and kissed Jane’s forehead. “My darling, do you honestly believe I’d have left poison in that bottle? It was flushed out long ago. Nothing more harmful than a lemon cordial went down her throat.”

“What?” Diana St. John demanded, half out of the wingchair. Sir Antony held her in check, a firm hand to her shoulder. “How dare you! How dare you deprive me!” she snarled, defeated. “Why is that sniveling servant here? Who are these men? Unhand me at once, Antony! Do they have any idea who I am?”

“They know precisely who you are and what you have done and they will be amply compensated for taking on the care of you,” the Earl advised, a nod to the two plainly dressed gentlemen who stepped forward either side of Diana St. John’s chair and bowed to him. “I suggest you do as you are told. If you do not… These gentlemen are well versed in the care of lunatics. Tony, you may wish to accompany her to the courtyard to say your farewells. The coach is leaving at once.”

When the sitting room was again tranquil and deserted of attending physicians and the Lady St. John, who did not go quietly but screaming and kicking and heaping curses upon all and sundry as the butler closed over the door, Tom asked what Jane wanted to know. “Where are you sending the Lady St. John, my lord?”

“Where she can do no harm. And yes, she will be well cared for and all her needs accommodated,” he assured Jane with a smile and a chuff under the chin. “But she will be pressed for company. I won’t tell you the precise location in the Welsh mountains, but the views from the castle keep, so I am told, are spectacular.” He saw Jane’s glance of concern at Willis, who was issuing last minute instructions to the four burly footmen accompanying the coach as outriders. “Rufus is coming to live with us in Wiltshire. He is the new steward of Salt Hall. He will marry Anne and settle in the gatehouse lodge where they will no doubt produce half a dozen brats, some of whom will make up the Salt Hall cricket team.” He grinned. “The rest of the team I have promised to supply.”

Jane gasped and took her gaze from the under-butler, blushing furiously. “Magnus! You made no such promise to Willis!”

“Didn’t I? I gave the man my word. Now come along, wife,” he added, effortlessly scooping Jane up into his arms and striding out of the pretty sitting room without looking back. “You too, Tom. I’m really rather ravenous.”

“I’m not surprised,” Tom added in the servant passage. “It’s not every day the Earl of Salt Hendon is beaten at his own game.”

Jane struggled to sit up in her husband’s arms, blue eyes wide with disbelief. “Tom beat you at tennis! Magnus?”

The Earl refused to look at either of them. He stretched his neck in its intricately tied cravat. “I’m not entirely infallible.”

“Thus spoke the noble nostrils,” Tom muttered disrespectfully.

“I beg your pardon, Tom Allenby?”

Jane sighed and pretended to be exasperated. “It’s that dreaded pedestal, again. It comes with the nostrils, I’m afraid.”

Salt stopped at the base of the stairs that led up to the nursery and let Jane stand on her own feet.

“The pedestal has been consigned to the fire,” he murmured, brushing the tip of his nose against hers, then looking over her head at Tom, who was grinning like a sentimental idiot. He raised his eyebrows in mock hauteur. “But, if you don’t mind, I shall keep my noble nostrils. They are useful for quelling recalcitrant servants and very small children, and self-satisfied brothers-in-law.”

Jane giggled and then was suddenly shy. She glanced at Tom, who understood at once that he should make himself scarce and with a smile excused himself. Salt watched him go up to the nursery two steps at a time. Not a minute later a door banged against a wall above their heads and Tom’s voice could be heard booming out a boisterous welcome to which there was a crescendo of footfall followed by squeals of delight before the door closed on the playful cacophony.

“I like your brother. He’s a good man.”

“Yes. Will you confide in him about Caroline? They are first cousins after all.”

“I suspect he may already know…”

“That bothers you?”

Salt shook his head and smiled down at her. “What bothered me was Caroline marrying Tony and seeing them with a brood of brats with no prospect of my good self becoming a father.” He grinned. “Mind you, not from want of trying.”

Jane laughed. “Magnus! You voice most shocking thoughts.”

“I’ve had a surfeit of Magnuses today. Dear me, my lady. Stop or I shall come to expect to hear my Christian name on your beautiful lips out from under the bedsheets.”

“Well, you can banish thoughts of the wrong order of things,” she said quietly, smoothing down an imaginary crease in the lapel of his velvet frock coat. “You’ve no need to fear Antony becoming a father before you.”

Salt tried to keep his features perfectly composed, despite the boyish excitement welling up within him. In exposing Diana St. John’s unforgiveable wickedness, Rufus Willis had been forced to confide what his betrothed Anne had revealed to him: That the Countess was three months with child. It was such badly wanted news; confirmation of what Jane had always believed, that they were capable of having a family. He dared not accept the happy reality until he heard it from his wife. Thus he found it hard to contain his enthusiasm and joy, despite his best efforts to look suitably grave.

“Why need I not fear Tony beating me to fatherhood, Lady Salt?” he asked gently and made her look up at him.

“Tell me first that you truly do want to rusticate. What of your ambitions and dreams to make this little kingdom an empire to be reckoned with; your promise to the nation that the mistakes of the war will not be repeated? You cannot make me believe you will be wholly satisfied farming sheep in Wiltshire.”

He pinched her chin. “So you have been following my Parliamentary proclamations from the newssheets.”

“I may not know the first thing about politics, nor what constitutes good government, but I do know you,” Jane stated with quiet dignity. “I cannot imagine you could walk away from your duty to your country nor from those people who rely on your patronage for their livelihoods, anymore than Tom could abandon his factory workers for a life of leisure as a country squire.”

“My dear Lady Salt, your husband is looking forward to farming sheep, albeit from the comfort of the grand pile of Jacobean stone, and within the bosom of his family, for the foreseeable future. But who knows what the next couple of years will bring? Ministries come and go. But while I rusticate in style, no one will go hungry; no one will lose his post. I will still maintain an interest and influence in what goes on in the capital, but from a distance. I will just have to develop very long arms of influence, that’s all.”

“Well, at least you won’t have any trouble focusing at a distance,” Jane quipped.

He gave a shout of laughter. “If it will make you happy, I shall abandon my ridiculous vanity and wear those wretched eyeglasses at the breakfast table. But be warned: A bespectacled Lord Salt perusing the newssheets is a sight almost as quelling as a flare of the noble nostrils.”

Jane smiled cheekily. “What an irresistible combination. My knees are trembling with anticipation already!”

“Baggage!” He brushed a stray wisp of hair from her flushed cheek and smiled down at her lovingly. “You have yet to quell my fears…”

She placed the palm of his large hand on the delicately embroidered hem of her satin bodice where it covered her belly and smiled up at him. “My dear Lord Salt, you are to become a father. Our baby is due with the fall of the first autumn leaves.” When he visibly gulped all her shyness evaporated and she laughed and touched his cheek. “I did warn you I had a surprise for you and that you should have it sitting down. But, somehow, telling you about our baby on the nursery stairs is more fitting, isn’t it?”

He stared down into her radiantly beautiful face. “Yes, much more fitting… Have I told you how much I love you, Lady Salt?”

Jane dimpled. “You did admit to it on the tennis court. And you told me you loved me when we were naked in the carriage coming home from the Richmond Ball. But I would dearly love to hear you say it, here, in the mundane surroundings of a narrow stairwell.”

“I love you, Jane,” he stated. “I have loved you since you were seventeen years old. There was a time, those few glorious hours we spent alone in the summerhouse, when I, too, believed anything was possible, even miracles. The past four years without you have felt like fifty. Events, people, both conspired to keep us apart, but never again… Never, Jane.” He grinned. “Later, when we are out of these wretched clothes, I will show you just how much I love you.”

Jane peered through her dark lashes as she went up on tiptoe to put her arms about his strong neck to the riband that secured his hair. “Oh, if you are going to show me how much, then I will need a great deal of convincing.”

He bent to kiss her mouth. “Oh, yes,” he murmured huskily, “a very great deal of convincing.”

~ TO BE CONTINUED ~

…Salt Bride at Pinterest

Continue reading to preview Salt Redux, sequel to Salt Bride. How does a brother cope knowing his sister is a murderess? How can a nobleman have the life he has always wanted when a lurking evil consumes his thoughts and haunts his dreams? What will it take for good to triumph over evil?

BONUS PREVIEW

Salt Redux

SEQUEL TO SALT BRIDE

EVERY MONTH the guardian of the unnamed person of interest detained at Castle Harlech in remote north Wales sent a report to the Earl of Salt Hendon. A messenger delivered the report, always at night, into the hands of Mr. Rufus Willis, steward of the Earl’s estate in Wiltshire. Mr. Willis then gave the report to his lordship when his employer was alone in the vastness of his library, and when there was no expectation of the Countess being present.

Mr. Willis caught the anguish on his lordship’s face every time he handed over these reports. Upon one occasion, Mr. Willis offered to read the report to spare the Earl, but his noble employer declined saying it was his duty, however distasteful and difficult the task. Mr. Willis knew the Earl was punishing himself. The Earl believed the punishment justified. The monthly reports were a painful reminder that the unnamed person of interest had brought untold suffering on her own children and was a murderer of innocents. She had also caused the death of the Earl and Countess of Salt Hendon’s first child while still in the womb. However, some comfort came from the reports. While his prisoner remained locked up, her children were safe, and so, too, were his. Although he did not need reminding of his good fortune, the Earl knew he was the luckiest of men and that nothing and no one was more important to him than his wife and family.

The guardian of the unnamed person of interest wrote much the same report every month. His “guest” was the model prisoner, afforded every comfort such a remote location could provide. The prisoner had maids to help her into velvet and satin petticoats and bodices, who dressed her waist-length auburn hair in the latest styles as remembered from her life in London, and who helped her choose what pieces of her jewelry went best with each outfit. As befitting her exalted rank, she insisted on changing her gown three times a day. Servants waited on her at table as if she were queen of her own dominion and came swiftly in answer to the constant tinkling of her little hand bell. Her guardian accompanied her on walks about the parapets and courtyards of the castle, dined with her when invited, and over coffee and cake listened to her witty recollections about politicians and the esteemed persons of Polite Society, all known to her personally.

The unnamed person of interest spent most days reading the latest issues of The Gentleman’s Magazine, particularly the reports of Parliamentary sittings, and wrote at her escritoire in her prettily furnished drawing room, with its view of the sea. Her letters were sent but never delivered and thus she never received a reply. These letters were sometimes ten pages in length and most were addressed to the Earl of Salt Hendon. Her guardian read these letters as part of his duties and found them full of advice for his lordship on all manner of topics political and domestic. The letters were then burned. While the guardian informed the Earl in general terms about these letters, he did not report what was most vital, though such information surely confirmed that the woman was indeed insane. Every letter was signed Diana, Countess of Salt Hendon.

She had one correspondent who wrote regularly and who did receive her letters of reply. There was a brother, a diplomat, who lived abroad. He wrote from St. Petersburg, long, detailed letters about the growing Russian capital and its environs, its people, and how he occupied his days as an assistant to the Ambassador. He often enclosed small gifts; a fan, a lace-bordered handkerchief, a pair of silk stockings, and for one of her birthdays he sent an embroidered silk shawl. His letters were also full of the latest Court gossip and palace intrigues, and sometimes he included clippings from months old English newssheets dispatched to him in Russia. The guardian knew this because his prisoner took great delight in reading these letters aloud. He soon realized that this brother was an astute gentleman because he never mentioned the Earl of Salt Hendon or any member of his family. What the brother knew from his sister’s correspondence that the Earl and his family did not, and he, too, kept to himself, was that his sister signed her letters to him as if she was indeed the wife of the Earl of Salt Hendon.

After three years of incarceration, the unnamed person of interest no longer answered to her own name. Nor did she recognize the person she had once been when this person was described to her. She was the Countess of Salt Hendon and Magnus Sinclair, the Earl of Salt Hendon was her dear husband. There was no persuading her otherwise. The guardian saw no harm in humoring her. After all, she was never to be released.

And so by her fourth year of imprisonment the unnamed person of interest was in every way treated as if she was indeed the Countess of Salt Hendon. Her guardian, her apothecary, her personal maid, and her servants all addressed her by that title. So, too, did the local townspeople.

For her good behavior, and under strict supervision, she was eventually permitted visitors. Prominent members of the local town came to pay their respects and to see with their own eyes the beautiful noblewoman rumor said had been locked up by a brutish husband. The unnamed person of interest proved to be a gracious hostess, full of charm and grace, and possessing a noble bearing. It was an easy thing for the outsiders to believe they were indeed in the presence of English nobility. She was majestic in velvet and silks, with rubies about her throat and wrists. Her witty conversation was peppered with anecdotes of prominent politicians, exalted noblemen and their relatives, faraway marble palaces, and sleepless cities the local townspeople could only dream about. Soon, her ladyship was holding court once a week to a room full of eager listeners.

This, too, the guardian withheld from his reports to his noble employer, reasoning again that there was little harm in his prisoner receiving a bunch of ignorant yokels to afternoon tea, who knew no one and were going nowhere. It kept her ladyship pacified, entertained and occupied, her thoughts on trivialities, a far cry from her disposition when first brought to the castle; a venomous abhorrent monster whose every hate-filled word dripped vengeance and who vowed escape.

What the guardian failed to appreciate, what he could not know and never discovered, was that he was in the presence of a far superior and utterly malevolent intellect. In his confident conceit, that in four years he had tamed a monster and beaten down a beast, he remained ignorant, almost until the last breath left his body. He failed to grasp that just under the surface of her beautiful façade, the perfumed silks, the witty conversation, and the charming manners, the monster still lurked, biding its time, awaiting the perfect opportunity to escape and unleash its vengeance.

The horror of realization came the day the guardian was racked with stomach cramp and fell into a fever. The local apothecary thought it food poisoning and prescribed an emetic. A great favorite with her ladyship, who he had treated for megrim for some months, the apothecary left the guardian in her capable hands. He advised he would return the following day. By nightfall, the guardian was dead. In his last conscious moments, he was blind and incapable of speech but he could still hear. Her ladyship whispered at his ear as she gently tucked up his coverlet. The servants thought it a touching scene, an indication of her ladyship’s high regard for her guardian.

In truth, she gleefully whispered she had poisoned him. Every speck of megrim powder the apothecary had prescribed she had carefully stored up until she had harvested enough to administer a lethal dose. She loathed him and she hoped he was in agony. Her greatest hatred she kept stored for the woman she believed falsely paraded about society as the wife and Countess of the Earl of Salt Hendon. She had spent four years devising her scheme for retribution and now, with freedom, she would put her plan into effect.

Upon the guardian’s death, the unknown person of interest did not immediately flee. She mourned his passing, wearing dove gray petticoats and inviting the local townspeople to a dinner in his honor. Then, after the guardian’s burial, a courier arrived in the dead of night. It was so late the horse’s hooves on the cobblestones did not wake the servants. However, a restless maid heard voices echoing in the courtyard and was up, pressing her nose to the windowpane in time to see her ladyship in her nightgown and slippers, taper in hand, scurry under the arch and enter by the big oak door. She held a sealed packet.

The late-night letter was from the Earl begging her to return to him. He had been bewitched by a whore of a mistress and with her death so died her influence over him. To his shame, he now recognized his great wrongdoing in sending his devoted wife into exile. Could she forgive him? Would she come back to him? He could not wait to be reconciled and would ride to meet her at the Welsh border. She was to hurry with all speed.

The servants, the apothecary and, indeed, those prominent townspeople who counted themselves friends of the Countess of Salt Hendon, all knew word for word the contents of the Earl’s letter, for she joyfully announced the news to them and showed them the letter. The apothecary did not doubt the seal and fist belonged to the illustrious Earl of Salt Hendon. There was much rejoicing and the townspeople held a celebratory dinner to honor Lady Salt and wish her well, to which she wore her most magnificent gown and jewelry.

Holland covers draped furniture, and trunks and portmanteaux were packed to bursting. A splendid carriage pulled by four high-spirited gray horses took up Lady Salt and her personal maid, and her ladyship was farewelled with much fanfare. She was never seen again.

Two days following her departure a letter arrived. It was from Sir Antony Templestowe, and it had traveled all the way from St. Petersburg.

The apothecary, who had stayed on at the castle to settle her ladyship’s small pile of accounts with money the dead guardian had for that purpose, did not know what was to be done with the letter. It was addressed to a Diana, Lady St. John, a person unknown to the apothecary and yet the direction was correct.

Perhaps the correspondent did not personally know Lady Salt.

He had correctly identified her Christian name but then become confused when writing her title. It was a mystery to the apothecary. Still, he would do his duty by her ladyship, and so he redirected the unopened letter to the Earl of Salt Hendon’s estate, Salt Hall in Wiltshire, which he had heard Lady Salt talk of so many times he felt he had visited the grand Jacobean mansion and its spacious parkland.

As Sir Antony had provided his direction in St. Petersburg, the apothecary wrote him a civil letter. He explained what he had done with his letter and, presuming he knew Lady Salt because he had used her Christian name, he took the liberty of giving Sir Antony the good news: Her ladyship had departed Harlech Castle and was on her way to be reunited with her noble lord the Earl of Salt Hendon.

A month later Sir Antony received the apothecary’s letter. Upon reading it, he promptly threw up.

Salt Redux at Amazon

ABOUT LUCINDA BRANT

“Quizzing glass and quill, into my sedan chair and away. The 1700s rock!”

WHEN NOT BUMPING about Georgian London in my sedan chair or exchanging gossip with perfumed and patched courtiers in the gilded drawing rooms of Versailles, I write bestselling Georgian historical romances and crimances (crime with lashings of romance). All are set in the 18th Century spanning 1740 to early 1780s Georgian England, with occasional crossings to the France of Louis XV. I pull up the reins at the French Revolution where I lost a previous life at the guillotine for my unpardonably hedonistic lifestyle as a layabout aristo!

If you enjoyed this ebook, please spread the word by rating or reviewing it online—your opinions are very important to the reading community. I love to hear from readers so please drop me a line at:

Facebook

Twitter

lucindabrant@gmail.com

visit lucindabrant.com

See more of my books at Amazon

or explore my Georgian world at Pinterest

Cover

Dedication

Note To Reader

Beginning

Bonus Preview

About Brenda Hiatt

— CHAPTER LINKS —

1     2     3     4     5     6     7     8     9     10     11     12     13     14     15     16     17     18     19     20     21     22    Epilogue

For The Circle—Anne, Barbara,

Connie, Joy, Mel, Monique and Russ—

with gratitude for your unwavering support.

You all know just how special you are!

NOTE TO READER

SCANDALOUS VIRTUE was my first single title historical novel, after several traditional Regency romances. It is set in the same “world” as my traditional Regencies, with one or two of the same (fictional) peripheral characters, but otherwise stands entirely alone, as do all of my Regencies and historicals. While writing this book, I thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity to stretch my wings beyond the rather strict boundaries of the traditional Regency, while still preserving the feel and accuracy of the time period. For this reissue, I have taken the opportunity to clean up a few small errors of fact and proofing, and am delighted to again share Jack and Nessa's story with you in this new format. Enjoy!

ONE

LONDON—LATE SEPTEMBER, 1814

RAIN BEAT UPON expensively paned windows while in the flickering candlelight within, the boisterous clamor hovered in volume between battlefield and bordello. John Jefferson Ashecroft, equally at home in either setting, relished the wild abandon of this latest celebration of his recent, unexpected elevation to the lofty title of Marquis of Foxhaven.

Lord Peter Northrup, fourth son of the Duke of Marland and his oldest friend, clearly did not share his enthusiasm. “Three near-orgies in three nights is a bit much, don't you think, Jack?” he whispered. “Thought you valued your grandfather's memory. This would having him rolling in his grave!”

“Mausoleum, dear boy. Nothing so crude as earth for a Foxhaven resting place! But the old fellow's gone now, so there's no one to care what I do with my good fortune—or no one whose opinion matters.” Jack turned from the card table and his advisor.

“Here, Polly, lass! Bring me another pint and another kiss!” he called out to a passing maidservant.

Giggling, the girl complied, and Jack slid a hand up her skirts to sweeten his kiss. “Milor' you are a handful!” Polly informed him, wrinkling her freckled nose and winking.

Jack chuckled. “Nay, you're the handful, and a pretty one at that! What say you and I escape upstairs for half an hour? My guests will never miss me.” He swept a glance about the sumptuous drawing room at the dicing, dallying throng there assembled. The marked absence of ladies—of the Quality, at any rate—gave evidence that this particular gathering lacked Society's blessing.

Then he caught Lord Peter's eye. “What? Surely you don't begrudge me a bit of revelry after the past few years of privation?”

Lord Peter snorted. “Privation? I don't recall that a light purse ever kept you from revelry in the past. Now you simply have the means to speed yourself to perdition on greased wheels.”

“Ah, you have no idea how I suffered during the war,” Jack informed his friend with a melodramatic sigh. “Wine, women and song were hard to come by. The sleep I lost in the search…! Ask Harry over there. He has no fault to find with my present lifestyle.”

“No surprise there.” Lord Peter turned a judicious eye on Jack's second-oldest friend, who was enthusiastically tossing dice with his one remaining arm. The wars had left his other sleeve empty. “Harry always lived for the moment, even before his injury turned him bitter. Now he just wants company on his journey to hell.”

Jack shrugged. “And perhaps I'll oblige him. He saved my life in Spain, after all.”

“And you his—twice,” Lord Peter reminded him. “I'd say the score's more than even.”

“Polly, go ahead and take Ferny another bottle,” suggested Jack, nodding toward the gesturing Lord Fernworth across the noisy room. “Perhaps by the time you return, Peter will be done with his moralizing. You're quite the spoilsport tonight, you know,” he informed his friend when the wench had gone. “I can't think you accepted my invitation merely to cluck over my shortcomings like some brightly colored mother hen.”

Lord Peter smoothed his gold and scarlet waistcoat. “I suppose I am acting the prig tonight. Sorry, Jack. It's just—”

A forceful throat-clearing at his elbow interrupted him. The thin, nondescript butler Jack had hired earlier that week announced, “A Mr. Havershaw, milord.” The throat-clearer, just as thin as the butler but much taller, hovered behind, scowling.

He'd really have to see about a new butler, thought Jack resignedly. This Carp, or Crump, or whatever his name was, didn't seem to have a grasp of the proper procedures at all.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Havershaw,” said Jack with forced cordiality while looking daggers at his oblivious butler. “I do apologize for not keeping our appointment last Wednesday. The press of business, you see—”

“Yes, I certainly do see, my lord.” Mr. Havershaw scoured the room with a sour glance. “I would not have presumed to come to you, but some of these papers are quite pressing. If I could have half an hour of your time in the library?”

Jack stared at the man in disbelief. “Now?” He knew that Havershaw had enjoyed an unusually privileged position as both his grandfather's steward and lifelong friend, but this was absurd.

“If you'd be so kind, my lord. I'll not keep you long from your… guests.”

Aware that Lord Peter, along with a growing number of the revelers, were regarding him with interest, Jack finally shrugged. “I may as well get it over, I suppose. Peter, see that no one's glass goes empty, will you? My staff leaves a bit to be desired. All right, Havershaw, the library's this way.”

Havershaw headed for the hallway. “I know, my lord.”

How did the man manage to make those two words sound like an insult? He was the marquis now, by God, however unprepared for the role he might be.

Once in the library, he turned to face his nemesis. “I trust you'll make this quick, Mr. Havershaw. It's most irregular for a host to abandon his guests in this manner.”

He'd meant to say something far more cutting, but various childhood memories of Havershaw had crowded back. With them came an ingrained respect he was amazed could still constrain him. Other than his grandfather and, more recently, the Duke of Wellington, Jack had never cared about pleasing anyone but himself.

Lord Geoffrey, his spendthrift, gamester father and Lord Foxhaven's second son, had died when Jack was but eight. Two years later, his mother married Sir Findlay Branch, a wealthy, stuffy baronet whose apparent mission in life was to eradicate Lord Geoffrey's influences from his son.

Jack had responded with rebellion, at first subtle, then open, and finally flagrant. Before he reached eleven he was shipped off to boarding school and forbidden to return until he reformed. As a result, he spent all holidays at Fox Manor, where old Lord Foxhaven had become the only stabilizing influence in his early life. There, Mr. Havershaw had been an imposing, authoritative presence, second only to his grandfather in the boy's eyes.

“As I said, my lord, this should take but half an hour, perhaps less,” said that former object of awe. Opening the satchel he carried, he pulled out a thick sheaf of papers. “There will be much more for you to go over when you finally see your way clear to visit Fox Manor, of course, but these documents are the most pressing.”

Jack eyed the stack doubtfully. “I thought I'd signed all the necessary papers after Uncle Luther's funeral.”

“Those to ensure your succession to the title and estates, yes. But Foxhaven encompasses a great many enterprises, some of which have been too long neglected due to your uncle's ill health.”

Uncle Luther's ill health. If Jack had known when his grandfather died last spring that his uncle's health was so poorly, he might have been more prepared for the responsibilities which had descended upon him three weeks since. But no one had seen fit to tell him.

Not that he'd ever inquired.

Jack had sold out of the Army a scant six weeks after his grandfather's death—as soon as the public's enthusiasm for the war heroes began to wane, in fact—and left for Paris, where a warm welcome still awaited. He'd nearly exhausted both his funds and the goodwill of those willing to supplement them by the time he returned to England in late August. Though he wouldn't have wished poor old Luther underground, his timing had been Jack's financial salvation.

“Very well, let's get it over with. I imagine I'll feel even less like dealing with all of this in the morning.” He hadn't drunk much yet, by his standards, but since his succession not a morning had come that hadn't found him cripplingly hung over. There was no particular reason to believe tomorrow would be any different.

Havershaw managed a chilly smile. “Excellent, my lord. If you would turn your attention to this? It deals with certain investments in Portugal…”

Forty minutes later, Jack was heartily regretting his compliance. Not that the various business matters put before him were particularly incomprehensible, or even quite as boring as he'd expected. But being dumped headfirst into Foxhaven business made him far too cognizant of the responsibilities now facing him—responsibilities he had neither the ability nor inclination to take on. Why, the very thought of Jack Ashecroft, family outcast, attempting to play the respectable nobleman was thoroughly laughable. Not that he was laughing at the moment.

He yawned.

Mr. Havershaw regarded him through narrowed eyes. “I believe that will do for this evening, my lord. There is one last thing, however, that you may wish to have now.” He pulled a sealed envelope from the satchel. “A personal letter from your grandfather, to be delivered to you in the event of your uncle's death without issue.”

Jack took the envelope gingerly, turning it over in his fingers several times before breaking the seal—the seal that was now his. Odd feeling, that.

The letter was but a single sheet, its brief contents scrawled in his grandfather's strong but careless hand.

My dear Jack,

If you are reading this, you have succeeded to my title and, knowing your attention to family matters, most likely unexpectedly. Rest assured that to me this event was neither unexpected, nor at all undesirable. Luther, while an estimable man, has the strength of neither character nor constitution to effectively carry Foxhaven into the future. You have. In fact, you have it in you to become the finest lord Foxhaven has known in six generations—if you can find it in you to put aside your ongoing pursuit of pleasure to tap into that inner strength I have long observed and, at whiles, attempted to nurture. It is up to you, Jack, to bring Foxhaven into its own by coming into your own. Consider it my dying request.

Ever your faithful and loving grandfather,

Julius Ashecroft, Marquis of Foxhaven

Jack sat back in his chair and read it through again, hearing his grandfather's dry, sardonically affectionate voice as he did so. He'd known Jack couldn't refuse this call to action, a call from beyond the grave from the only person he'd ever truly cared for—or who had cared for him.

Clenching the letter in one fist, Jack felt his spine stiffen with resolve. He gave a single nod. “I'll do it,” he said aloud. John Jefferson Ashecroft, black sheep of the family, was going to become respectable.

“Very good, my lord,” said Havershaw, just as though he knew what Jack was talking about. “He also penned an adendum.” He held out a folded slip of paper.

Frowning, Jack took and opened it.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions, as your own father proved repeatedly. To assist you in your effort to reform, I have made certain financial arrangements to act as an incentive. Havershaw will acqaint you with the terms. – F.

“Terms?” Jack looked up suspiciously.

Havershaw pushed a packet of papers across to him. “The specifics are spelled out there. In brief, all monies not attached to the estates are to be held in trust until such time as the trustee determines that you have made the required transformation of character.”

“The devil they are!” Jack exploded. “What utter nonsense! And just who is this trustee who will pass judgment upon me?”

“I am,” replied Havershaw with a thin smile.

~   ~   ~

NESSA QUIETLY CLOSED the kitchen door and pulled her cloak and hood tightly about her face. Glancing up at the still-lighted windows of the narrow but imposing town house, she hoped her sister would not feel so concerned about her fictitious headache as to come to her room to check on her. If all went as planned, she'd be back inside of two hours. With luck, Prudence would never know she'd been away. Hurrying around the corner to the street, she hailed a passing hackney.

For the hundredth time she told herself she was mad to be doing this, and for the hundredth time she hushed her conscience. “King Street, St. James,” she told the driver, climbing into the conveyance.

This evening was a present to herself. From the moment she'd first seen the notice in the papers about this masquerade ball, she'd been determined to attend. In London for the first real visit in her life, Nessa felt she deserved some enjoyment.

As the hackney lurched forward, she took the red and black feathered mask she'd bought earlier that day from the pocket of her cloak and fastened it over her eyes. No one would ever know, and she'd have a delicious memory to look back on—the first such memory in her whole sheltered lifetime. It was only fair she have this reward for leading such a virtuous existence, she reasoned.

The one thing that did cause Nessa a pang of guilt was the fact that her year of mourning still lacked nearly three weeks till completion. Not for a moment did she believe her husband would have understood, sharing, as he had, her late father's puritanical outlook on life. But she'd spent all of her four and twenty years conforming to the strictures of first the one and then the other. Now, for the first time in her life, she was free of them both—and ready to enjoy that freedom.

“This be King Street, miss,” the hackney driver called back to her just then.

“Thank you,” she called back. “Take me to the Upper Assembly Rooms, please. And if you could return in one hour, I'd be most grateful.”

The driver assented and pulled the carriage to a halt a moment later. Nessa paid him generously, hoping thereby to ensure his return. Then, lifting her chin, she strode regally up the stairs to those same hallowed rooms that housed Almack's during the Season. Handing her cloak to one waiting lackey and her ticket to another, she swept into the ballroom.

A mere step inside the room she paused, surveying with bewildered delight this, her first masquerade. Gaily costumed revelers moved and shimmered in the candlelight of the chandeliers, dancing to the strains of a country tune or gathering in small groups to converse. Multihued dominoes vied with replicas of every historic personage imaginable.

Nessa glanced down at her own low-cut scarlet gown with black trim, smiling to think she had feared her costume too flamboyant. What pains she had taken to slip away from her sister and sharp-eyed abigail yesterday in order to purchase this cyprian's costume! Prudence would doubtless have a spasm if she found it hidden in the back of Nessa's wardrobe, but it was nothing compared to the plumage she saw here displayed.

“Eh there, me beauty! Might ye care to dance?” inquired a poor imitation of Henry the Eighth at her elbow.

Abruptly, she remembered her sister's objections when Nessa had first mentioned this masquerade to her, about cits and other vulgar sorts attending. In her excitement and determination to attend she'd shrugged it off, but now the evidence was before her.

“Ah, not just yet, thank you,” she replied nervously, taking a step away from the man, who reeked of spirits. Somehow, she hadn't really thought about what she'd do at the masquerade. She'd focused all her energies on simply getting here.

The man stepped closer. “'Ere now, you're not refusing to dance with yer monarch, are ye?” he prodded with a leer. “Royal privilege and all that.”

Nessa swallowed. “No, it's not that. It's only—”

“She has a prior obligation, to confess her sins,” interrupted a tall, brown-robed monk. “Even Your Majesty must admit to the superior claims of the Church in such matters.” The monk's accent was cultured, reassuring Nessa that this, at least, was a man of her own class.

The drunkard appeared disposed to argue, but a tilt of the monk's head and an ominous glitter of brilliant blue eyes from behind his mask dissuaded him. Muttering something about more wine, King Henry moved away.

“Thank you, sir,” said Nessa, relieved. “He really was becoming most persistent.”

“One can hardly blame him.” The monk looked her over with a most unclerical gleam in his eye. “What do you here alone? Or is your protector busy procuring you a glass of iced champagne?”

“My—?” Nessa glanced down at her costume again and flushed. Perhaps it was a trifle too realistic. “No, I assure you I am here alone—but I do not intend to stay long. No more than an hour.”

The monk smiled, and Nessa realized how very handsome he was, even with a mask obscuring much of his face. “Then pray, allow me to act as your escort for the brief time you mean to grace this gathering with your presence.”

Nessa frowned, wondering if perhaps she had tumbled from the frying pan into the fire. “I, ah—”

“Surely you cannot feel less than safe with a man of the cloth?” he prompted. “Besides, our costumes complement each other so well.”

That forced a chuckle from Nessa, making her instantly more comfortable. Surely a man with a sense of humor could not be too evil. Though why she should think that, she did not know. Neither her father nor her husband had ever shown the slightest hint of whimsy, and both had been regarded by the world as the most upright and estimable of men.

“Very well, Friar, I place myself under the protection of the Church for the present.”

The tall, handsome monk took Nessa on a tour of the rooms, pointing out their shortcomings. “Makes one wonder what everyone sees in the place, doesn't it?” he asked. “But during the Season, ladies have been known to pine away or even leave Town in disgrace for being denied admittance to Almack's of a Wednesday night.”

“I take it, then, that you are a regular attendee yourself, Friar?” asked Nessa, hoping to discover a bit more about him.

“Me? Hardly!” His laugh was almost a snort. “Not that I've attempted it, of course, especially since— Ah, here comes a tray of champagne! Would you care for some, milady?”

Nessa wondered what he'd been about to say. “No, thank you. Is there lemonade, perhaps?” She suspected her judgment was impaired enough this evening without adding spirits to the mix.

The monk spoke to the servant, who returned in a moment with the required beverage. With a flourish, he presented it to her. “In my present guise, I suppose I dare not request a kiss in return for such gallantry. But allow me to tell you your eyes are most haunting, even through that remarkable mask.”

“You flatter me, sir.” More than ever, Nessa suspected her escort's costume was decidedly at odds with the man underneath. He might be the greatest rake in all London, for aught she knew. She cast about for some way to discover his name—not that it was likely to mean anything to her, as unfamiliar as she was with London Society.

Apparently she was not alone in her curiosity. “Since you do not intend to remain for the unmasking at midnight, might I know the name of the lady I have taken under my protection?”

Though he was but mimicking her earlier words, his phrasing still caused Nessa a thrill of alarm. Surely he did not truly believe her to be as she dressed tonight, a woman of easy virtue? Considering what her life had been until now, the idea was both outrageous and highly amusing. More than ever, she knew she must guard her identity at all costs.

“You may call me Monique,” she informed him. It was a name she'd always liked, and sufficiently French to fit her present role.

His well-shaped lips curved into a smile. For a fleeting moment, she wondered what it would be like to kiss those lips—then cut off such thoughts, shocked at herself. Clearly, she was taking her masquerade role far too seriously!

“Might I request this dance, Monique?” A waltz was just beginning.

“First might I know your name, Friar?” she asked boldly.

“In return for the dance, you may call me Brother Eligius,” he said loftily, taking her hand to lead her to the floor.

Nessa hung back. “One might ask what it is you are worthy of, Brother Eligius.”

“Ah, a lady who knows her Latin! Worthy of this dance, of course—and anything else you might see fit to bestow upon me,” he added with a lascivious wink. She might have been alarmed were it not clear he was teasing—and if his words didn't send her thoughts down most improper channels.

She stood her ground. “I see. Perhaps I shall bestow the next dance upon you, then. This one is nearly over.” That was not quite true, but she could not bring herself to admit that she had never learned to waltz. Given her parents', and later her husband's, views on the dance, she had never even dared to ask.

To her relief, the monk did not press the issue, but stood trading quips with her about both of their pseudonyms until the orchestra struck up a country dance. The dance was lively, allowing little opportunity for conversation, and by its conclusion Nessa's hour was nearly up.

The two of them had drawn many curious stares, and as they left the dance floor a lanky man dressed as a harlequin approached them.

“What a sight this is!” he exclaimed. “Have you persuaded your partner to join you in a life of virtue, J— er, Friar?” A quick motion by the monk had prevented him from uttering the monk's name, to Nessa's frustration.

“Indeed, for her I believe it won't be so much of a stretch, despite appearances,” he replied, making her wonder how on earth he had guessed that. “Am I not right, milady Monique?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” she replied, stung that her attempt to throw off propriety had been such a failure. With sudden recklessness, she swooped up onto her tiptoes to plant a swift kiss square on the monk's mouth. Then, more shocked at her own boldness than he could possibly be, she turned quickly away.

“I really must be going, now,” she said breathlessly, not meeting his eye. “I wish you success in your conversions, Brother Eligius.” Before he could respond or even react, Nessa fled the scene of the most daring thing she'd ever done in her whole sheltered life.

The hackney was waiting when she stepped outdoors, and as she rode home, Nessa's brief elation ebbed. She should be pleased, she knew, that there was virtually no chance that she would ever again encounter the mysterious monk, as he'd likely identify her if she did. But somehow that reflection brought less than complete satisfaction.

Arriving back at her sister's, she again paid the driver and reentered the house as quietly as she'd left it. Her brief taste of freedom was over, with none the wiser.

TWO

JACK WATCHED the enigmatic woman in red as she hurried from the ballroom, his lips still tingling pleasurably from that surprising kiss. Surely there'd been no hidden meaning in her parting words. She couldn't know about the real conversion he was attempting—his own.

“So much for that costume reminding you of your new mission, Jack,” commented Lord Peter, the bells on his harlequin headpiece jingling as he nodded sagely. “Still running after the demimonde, I see.”

Jack shot his friend a sardonic glance. “I shouldn't make remarks about appropriate costumes if I were you, Peter. But that lady… I'm not certain—”

“What possessed you to let that pretty piece escape, Jack?” Harry Thatcher, clad in a simple black domino that effectively hid his injury, came up to join them just then. “If you didn't want her, with your newfound virtue, you should have sent her my way. I can still appreciate a toothsome wench—and pleasure one, too. Loss of an arm hasn't slowed me down in that department. God preserve me from a title, though!”

Jack regarded his wartime crony with a mixture of sympathy and envy. “As your uncle has three sons already, I shouldn't think there's much chance of your being saddled with such a curse.” Harry's father, like Jack's, was second son to a peer, in this case the Earl of Balfour. “Had I known Uncle Luther was both sickly and childless, I might have stayed on the Continent. But now I'm stuck with it.”

Both of his friends laughed, though they doubtless knew there was more than a grain of truth in Jack's words. He was finding this “conversion” to respectability damnably tedious—and difficult. Much as he hated to admit it, if it weren't for the money his grandfather held over his head, he'd have abandoned the idea already.

“This—” He waved his arm about to indicate the glittering throng— “was to be my final fling, as it were. As of tomorrow, I don the sober mantle of Marquis of Foxhaven, and all that goes with it. God help me.” With mock piety, he made the sign of the cross, causing his companions to chuckle anew.

Peter sobered quickly, however. “It won't be easy setting yourself up as a paragon after the reputation you've built over the years, Jack. Too many people know the real you.”

“Precisely what I've come to realize. That is why I need your help, both of you.”

Harry snorted. “That's well enough for Pete here. Always eager to be the voice of conscience anyway. But you can count me out. I think the whole idea is daft. You've got position, you've got money—more than you ever dreamed. Here you are, with everything you need to have the best time of your life, and you get morality or some such rot.” He shook his head. “Never thought I'd live to see it. Makes a man wonder what the point is.”

Jack glared at his friend, who only voiced what he himself had thought more than once since reading his grandfather's letter two nights since. “The point is living up to my potential,” he said tersely, willing himself to believe it. “Now that I'm Foxhaven, I have a family name to uphold. Besides, as I told you, I don't have the money. At least, not enough to continue as I've done and maintain the estates both. Not unless I follow through on this thing.”

Before Harry could repeat his thanks for escaping such a fate, Peter spoke up. “Well I think it's an admirable attitude, Jack, money or no, and I'll support you however I can. As I said, though, it won't be easy. What you need is some sort of shortcut to respectability.” He furrowed his brow, pondering.

“My thoughts exactly,” agreed Jack. “Would an irreproachable wife turn the trick, do you think?”

Both of his friends gaped at him, clearly dumbstruck.

“Someone whose reputation is lily-white, beyond question,” he continued. “Surely some of that should rub off, in the eyes of Society.”

Peter was the first to find his voice. “By George, Jack, I didn't think you were serious, but… yes. I think that just might be the ticket.”

“And where are you going to find such a paragon of virtue?” asked Harry cynically, belatedly recovering from his own shock. “Never tell me you're acquainted with a woman fitting that description!”

Jack shook his head ruefully. “Any woman willing to admit to an acquaintance with me wouldn't qualify, on that ground alone. But if the three of us do a bit of research, surely we can discover a woman of that caliber somewhere—perhaps even here in London. I hereby commission you both to help me to find her—the perfect wife. One who can polish up my tarnished reputation and thereby secure the balance of my fortune.”

~   ~   ~

“YOU LOOK A BIT hagged this morning, Nessa. Did your headache keep you from sleeping?” asked Lady Creamcroft as her sister entered the brightly sunlit breakfast parlor. The torrential downpours earlier in the week had given way to unseasonably lovely weather for a London autumn.

“Yes, I'm afraid so.” Nessa manufactured a yawn. “I'm feeling much better today, however.” Lying to her sister was completely out of character and made her feel far guiltier than she'd expected. Still, last night had been worth it. She was almost certain of it.

“I did come up and knock an hour or so after you'd retired, and assumed you were sleeping when you failed to answer”

Nessa paused in the act of filling her plate from the sideboard. “I, ah, may well have been asleep at that time. 'Twas later in the night that I awoke and had trouble nodding off again. I came down to the kitchen for some warm milk, and that helped.” That was the excuse she'd given to the scullery maid who'd discovered her sneaking through the lower levels upon her return from the masquerade. Luckily, her cloak and her wrapper were the same color—black—and there'd been too little light for her attire to give her away.

“Nessa! It is not at all the thing for you to be wandering about the house on your own after we were all abed. Why did you not ring for a servant?”

“I didn't wish to wake anyone.”

Prudence, like their parents, was an absolute stickler for propriety. If the idea of her venturing to the kitchens alone upset her, Nessa didn't like to think what she'd do if she discovered where her sister had really gone last night. Doubtless she'd have Prudence's prostration from apoplexy on her conscience as well.

“That's what servants are for, my dear,” her sister assured her. “Things are more lax in the country, I know, but you are in Town now, and must learn to abide by Town customs.”

Nessa laughed. “Lax? Not in Lord Haughton's house, I assure you, Prudence. His standards were every bit as high as any you'll find in London—probably higher.”

“I was thinking more of how you went on after his passing.” Prudence frowned. “I wish I could have had you with me sooner, but with Lord Creamcroft traveling back and forth from Herefordshire to Town all the summer…”

“You did invite me to accompany you, if you recall,” Nessa reminded her sister. “I preferred to wait till my period of mourning was up, or nearly so, so as not to interfere with your engagements.”

She'd also needed time to adjust to the idea of being her own mistress for the first time in her life. Married at eighteen to a man of her father's generation, temperament, and choosing, she'd never known anything but rigid adherence to The Rules as laid out by the men in authority over her.

Suddenly finding herself without their firm guidance, she'd been at somewhat of a loss. Had her parents still been alive, she might have returned home to Worcestershire during the early months of her widowhood, simply to have her decisions made for her, as they'd always been. Living under the thumb of her Cousin Filmore held no appeal, however, so she had remained at Haughton until her late husband's nephew and heir was due to arrive.

Gradually, tentatively, she had taken up the reins of the house and estate, showing an unexpected flair for both business and domestic organization. By the time she'd left a fortnight ago, on the arrival of the new Lord Haughton, even the dour, efficient housekeeper, Mrs. Cobb, frequently sought her direction.

Nessa settled herself across from her sister with a plate of eggs and creamed sole and thoughtfully sipped her coffee. She had mourned her husband's passing, of course, just as she had her father's two years earlier. But, like her father, her husband had been so distant that she had been unable to develop more than the mildest affection for him—an affection tainted by more than a hint of bitterness. It would not be true to say she'd felt relief at finding herself on her own, but it would be equally untrue to say she was prostrated by grief.

Now that she'd finally made the adjustment, she felt ready and more than ready to taste her newfound freedom. Last night had been a promising start.

“Oh!” Prudence broke into her musings. “Mention of your mourning period reminds me that I have received an invitation which includes you.”

Nessa blinked in surprise. “An invitation? Will it be proper for me to go anywhere just yet?” she asked innocently. “I'll not be out of my weeds for more than two weeks, you know.”

“Yes, I know, and I consulted Lord Creamcroft on that very point. He seems to think me over-scrupulous in this—as in a few other matters.” She primmed her lips. “But in this particular case, I believe he may be right. Lady Mountheath is hostessing a musicale three days hence, and 'tis she who issued the invitation. She knows of your circumstances and surely would not have invited you had she thought your attendance ineligible.”

“A musicale. So there will be no dancing?”

Prudence looked stricken. “Heavens no! There could be no question of your attending then, of course. But a quiet evening in company, listening to a few noted performers, seems a very proper way to ease you back into Society.”

Not that she'd ever been in Society to begin with, thought Nessa sourly. A three day visit to London for her presentation at Court a few weeks after her wedding scarcely counted. Idly, she wondered whether any of those who'd attended last night's masquerade were likely to be present—especially one in particular. Given what she'd heard of Lady Mountheath, it seemed unlikely.

Still, she found herself looking forward to the musicale. It would be the next step, albeit a small one, toward her new life of freedom.

~   ~   ~

A SOMBER TRIO gathered before the library fire at Foxhaven House the following night. At least, Jack felt weighed down by doom and depression at the idea of marriage, whatever his companions might feel. If their spirits were higher than his own, they were discreet enough not to show it.

“We may as well compare notes,” he suggested heavily as he passed the brandy decanter around for the second time. The thought of walking willfully into parson's mousetrap set his teeth on edge, but he really had no choice. Just that afternoon he'd received a note from Havershaw informing him that the roof of the west wing at Fox Manor required repairs that would eat up the remainder of this quarter's allowance.

Lord Peter pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket with a flourish. “Have my list right here, old boy,” he said, waving away the spirits.

Harry took the bottle and poured himself a generous measure to compensate for Peter's forbearance. “You actually wrote 'em down? Egad, but you're taking this project seriously. Must have been an amusing sight, you quizzing all the biddies and taking notes the while.”

“I didn't jot down the names until later, when I was back at my lodgings,” Peter assured him. “Wouldn't have been at all the thing to let on what I was about. That would queer the whole deal.”

Harry laughed heartily. “Jack might thank you for that, judging by his face. You look like you've downed a quart of spoilt milk, old boy,” he advised his friend.

Jack only scowled more fiercely. “If you're not going to help, you may as well remain silent, Harry—or take your leave.”

“While the bottle's still half full? Heaven forfend! But I have had my ear to the ground, as it happens, though I may not be as organized in my approach as Pete here.” He chuckled again. “Two or three names cropped up in Boodle's betting book as those least likely to disgrace themselves this winter. Starched up, butter-wouldn't-melt-in-their-mouths misses, just as you're wanting.”

Wanting? Hardly that, Jack thought. “Let's have them.”

“There were two chits listed there—can't say as I've ever met either of them, not that that's surprising. Lucinda Melks, Lord Jeller's daughter, and Lady Beatrice Bagford, daughter to the Earl of Sherbourne.”

Jack nodded gloomily. “I've been introduced, briefly, to both of them. Just out of the schoolroom, I believe.”

Harry shrugged. “Easier to train that way, I should think.” He studied Jack's morose expression. “Antidotes, are they?”

“No, no, not really. Miss Melks' nose is a bit long, but otherwise she's quite handsome. And Lady Beatrice is tall, blonde and nobly formed, as I recall.” And brainless, as well. Jack had not the least desire to wed either, even if one of them would have him. “What of your list, Peter?”

His friend peered down at the sheet in his hand. “Lady Beatrice is on mine as well, but I left off Miss Melks because of a rumor that her maternal grandfather had dabbled in trade. Other contenders include Miss Varens, though she's been out nearly two years, and Lady Constance Throckwaite, Claridge's daughter. Both fairly attractive and eminently respectable.”

Peter paused, then said, “I hear Mrs. Dempsey has called here twice in the last week, and you were seen in Covent Garden with Selena Riverton. If you're at all serious about this, Jack, you'll have to give up your paramours, at least until you've been safely wed for awhile.”

“Your sources are appallingly thorough, Peter! Miranda Dempsey has just returned from Paris, but I've carefully been 'not at home' to her, if you must know, and Selena accosted me by chance as I was passing the theater where she performs. Can I help it that women find me irresistible?” He grinned, his mood momentarily lightening. “Have you anyone else on your list?”

“There were a few others, but—of the debutantes—those I have already named were mentioned most often.”

“Of the debutantes?” echoed Jack. “What else is there?”

“Widows,” said Harry succinctly. Peter nodded.

Jack looked from one to the other with a frown. “A widow? I'll admit that idea has more appeal than a virgin child.” His tastes had always tended to run to more experienced women—which had resulted in more than one near miss with an irate husband. “But would that serve my purpose as well? After all—”

“One would,” Peter declared. “Except that I can't vouch for her appearance, as no one seems to have seen her. Lady Haughton should just be coming out of her weeds this month.”

“Old Haughton was married?” asked Jack incredulously. “Hard to imagine, somehow.”

“Yes, scary old fellow, wasn't he? Can't say I'd have envied his wife. Kept her immured in the country.”

Jack frowned again. “But she'd be far older than I, wouldn't she? I don't know that I need rebel quite that thoroughly against the young chits.”

“Not at all,” Peter assured him. “Haughton married late. She's no more than four- or five-and-twenty.”

Harry spoke up. “Now that you mention it, Pete, I heard something about her as well. Lady Creamcroft's sister, isn't she?”

“That's right. The late Lord Cherryhurst's daughter. Between them, he and old Haughton pretty well cornered the market on straitlaced respectability.”

Jack had met Lord Cherryhurst at his stepfather's house when he was a lad, and retained an impression of a nose and chin jutting skyward. Any daughters would no doubt reflect their father's starched-up formality. Truth to tell, a young woman who was the product of Cherryhurst's upbringing and several years' marriage to Haughton sounded terrifying—but perfect for his purposes.

“What's her first name?”

Peter checked his notes. “Agnes.”

Harry snorted. “And her sister is Prudence, I seem to recall. No doubt both were well trained to live up to their names.”

Jack winced. Agnes. Purity. “I suppose I could at least meet her,” he said at last, remembering Fox Manor's leaking roof. “I'll also seek a reintroduction to Lady Beatrice. Perhaps she's matured a bit since the summer.”

“Excellent!” Peter rose to slap him on the back. “We just need to arrange invitations to some of the same dos. Lady Beatrice is certain to be at the Mountheath's musicale, and there's an outside chance Lady Haughton may attend as well, for all she's still in blacks.”

Jack snorted. “Lady Mountheath? She won't have me under her roof. She's the biggest gossipmonger in London—probably knows more about my reputation than I do.”

“Just show up,” Harry suggested with a grin. Over Peter's indignant exclamation, he continued, “No one's more terrified of a scandal than Lady Mountheath—too many people would jump at the chance to spread it, after all the dirt she's dished over the years. And wouldn't it create just that if she attempted to have the Marquis of Foxhaven ejected from her house? She'd never do it! Mark my word, she may look daggers at you, but she'll never let on you weren't invited if you appear at her door.”

Both Jack and Peter had to chuckle at the truth of Harry's words. No one had a greater fear of exposure than someone who'd thrived for years on exposing others.

“I'll try it,” said Jack with sudden decision. “And I'll be everything that's proper while I'm there, which in itself should go a long way toward repairing my reputation. Lady Mountheath's rumor mill is legendary.”

“I'll accompany you,” offered Peter. “I happen to have an invitation, which may mitigate your lack of one.”

Harry poured himself yet another measure of brandy. “I won't wish you a good time, as I see little chance of that. I'll bide my time more pleasantly at the club, and you can meet me there afterward to tell me how the first foray went.”

~   ~   ~

NESSA REGARDED HER REFLECTION in the dressing mirror with vague dissatisfaction. Her rich chestnut brown hair looked well enough piled high on her head, if a little severe. Simmons, her abigail, was weaving a spray of tiny silver silk flowers through the crown as an accent, though a few curls about her face would have made for a softer effect. Her complexion was well enough, but black had never been particularly flattering on her. And after nearly a full year wearing nothing but that hue, she was heartily tired of it.

No doubt the world—and her sister—would see it as vastly disrespectful when she discarded every black gown she owned (which numbered in the dozens) in two week's time, but that was precisely what she intended to do. Perhaps giving them all to some charitable organization would mute criticism a bit. But whether it did or not, she never intended to wear black again come mid-October.

“Thank you, Simmons, that looks lovely,” she said, though privately she thought the silver flowers gave the impression that her hair was beginning to gray. But anything more colorful would have been frowned upon—particularly by her sister.

At least the lines of her black satin gown—as with all of her gowns—were elegant, if a bit high in the neckline for fashion. That would change too, she vowed, no matter what Prudence had to say to the matter. Taking up her black lace fan, she left her chamber.

“Nessa, you look lovely this evening,” her sister greeted her as they met at the head of the stairs. “Those silver flowers are a nice touch.”

Lord Creamcroft, at her side, murmured agreement with his wife's words, but Nessa noticed that his eyes were all for Prudence. Did her sister have any idea of how her husband worshipped her? Nessa wondered. Probably not—she wouldn't consider it proper for a husband to care so much for his wife. It was sad, in a way, for both of them. What might her own marriage have been like, had Lord Haughton loved her?

She forced a smile. “Thank you, Prudence. They were Simmons' idea. Shall we go?”

Once inside the carriage, she resumed her musings. Most likely, had Lord Haughton cared more deeply for her he would simply have demanded sexual intimacy more frequently than those few incidents early in their marriage. Nessa shuddered.

“Are you cold, sister?” asked Lord Creamcroft kindly. He was an attractive man, with light brown hair and eyes, only a few years older than her sister. Nessa felt a brief, unexpected surge of envy.

“Thank you, no,” she replied. “Just a passing chill.” No, she would not envy any married woman! She knew, all too well, what the marriage state entailed: obedience, subordination and occasional subjection to distasteful physical contact. Even with a man closer to her own age than her father's, or one reasonably attractive, it was nothing to be desired.

To be fair, since her arrival in London ten days ago she had seen no sign of Lord Creamcroft bullying her sister. Of course, he held her in affection, which might make a difference, she supposed. Unaccountably, her thoughts strayed back to the masked monk at the masquerade.

“Here we are,” Prudence announced just then, interrupting her errant thoughts—which was probably just as well. “Is not the Mountheath house lovely?”

Nessa peered out of the carriage window as they slowly approached the entrance, waiting their turn behind a few other carriages. Lovely was not quite the word she'd have chosen. Imposing, certainly, with its enormous columns and frowning gray façade. She murmured something noncommittal.

A few minutes later, they stepped down from the carriage and entered the impressive edifice. The interior of the Mountheath Town house was as formally elegant as the exterior, Nessa noted. Both her father and husband would have approved of this place. She found it rather oppressive.

“Prudence, my dear,” a large, turbaned woman greeted them at the head of the stairs. “And Lord Creamcroft. Such a handsome couple, as I always tell everyone. And this must be the mysterious Lady Haughton!” Her eyes gleamed with avid curiosity.

Nessa dropped a half-curtsey. Her rank was equal to Lady Mountheath's, but the latter's age and role as hostess demanded the tribute. “Guilty as charged,” she assented daringly, and was not surprised to hear a soft gasp from her sister. Prudence had warned her that Lady Mountheath thrived on scandal, and she could not resist teasing a bit.

Their hostess, however, merely nodded, raking Nessa with her eyes. “Everyone has been wondering what you were like, my dear. I believe you will throw out the suppositions of the majority. But come, you must meet my daughters. New to London as you are, you'll wish to make friends as soon as may be, I doubt not.”

Nessa very shortly decided that she'd as soon not number Miss Lucy and Miss Fanny among her close friends, even though both girls—she kindly refrained from calling them spinsters even in her thoughts—were near her in age. They both possessed their mother's penchant for malicious gossip, as well as her tiny, sharp eyes and double chins.

“I can't think why Mamma invited Miss Islington,” Lucy was confiding in a loud whisper as the three of them stood not far from the top of the stairs, where they had a good view of those entering. “Her cousin married well beneath him, you know. It must sink the whole family's social standing to be associated with trade, even two generations removed.”

Nessa wished she had stayed with her sister and brother-in-law. She was searching for a reply that would neither condemn Miss Islington for her cousin's connections nor offend her hostess' daughters when Fanny gasped.

“Look! Look there, Lucy!” she hissed. “Is that not Jack Ashecroft? Or Lord Foxhaven, I suppose we must say, now. I am positively certain Mamma did not invite him!”

Her sister turned. “You're right, Fanny! It is he! Do you suppose Mamma will have him removed?”

Nessa was forgotten as both sisters avidly watched the tableau unfolding at the entrance to the large room. She herself found the situation interesting, the more so when she got a good look at the man in question. Lord Foxhaven was without a doubt the handsomest man she'd ever seen, with thick, jet black hair, noble profile and breathtakingly athletic physique.

As she watched, Lady Mountheath greeted the gentleman accompanying him, then turned to face the supposedly uninvited guest. Her color rose precipitously as she apparently realized who he was. Nessa had thought her hostess' smiles insincere before, but they were nothing to the strained expression she now wore. The corners of her lips looked as though a puppeteer's strings pulled them upwards against her will. Nessa edged closer in hopes of hearing the exchange.

“Why my lord, such a, er, delightful surprise,” Lady Mountheath was saying stiffly. “Had I but known you were in town…”

“Yes, I thought as much, my lady. Knowing your unfailing hospitality, I presumed on your kindness to accompany Lord Peter, praying that you'd not turn me away.”

Nessa swallowed, hard. She was almost certain she'd heard that voice before. But no, she must be mistaken. This appeared to be a man of some consequence, as did his companion.

Lady Mountheath managed to force a trill of laughter. “Turn you away! La, my lord, how droll you are. Come, both of you, and join the assemblage. You've met my daughters, I believe?” Behind her back, out of sight of the gentlemen, she beckoned Fanny and Lucy with one actively twitching hand.

“Charmed to see you again,” said Lord Peter, bending over the hand of first one, then the other suddenly simpering miss. He introduced Lord Foxhaven, who had apparently not made their acquaintance for all they'd recognized him on sight.

Nessa tried to move unobtrusively away as her suspicions sharpened. Unfortunately, Lady Mountheath recollected her manners before she could escape.

“Here is someone you'll not have met,” she said, appearing oddly eager to call the interloper's attention away from her daughters. “Lady Haughton is but newly come to Town, staying with her sister, Lady Creamcroft. Lady Haughton, may I present Lord Peter Northrup, son of the Duke of Marland, and his lordship the Marquis of Foxhaven.”

Both gentlemen regarded Nessa with sudden interest, which was unsettling enough. But far more unsettling were the brilliant blue eyes of the marquis—eyes she had seen once before, through the slits of a brown mask!

Nessa had just presence of mind enough to modulate her voice into a softer, lower tone than she normally used, praying that Lord Foxhaven would not recognize her, as she made her answer. “I'm happy to make your acquaintance, gentlemen.” She dropped a perfectly proper half-curtsey.

“Lady Haughton, what a sur—that is, how nice to meet you here tonight.” Lord Peter winced visibly from the surreptitious kick the marquis had given him.

Nessa realized with a jolt that this had been the harlequin at the masquerade. She fought down her panic as Lord Foxhaven spoke.

“This is indeed a pleasure,” he agreed so smoothly that she wondered whether she'd imagined that kick. “You are highly spoken of in all the best circles, my lady. It is my honor to make your acquaintance.” The bow accompanying this speech was the very picture of polished elegance.

“You are too kind, my lord,” she murmured, beginning to breathe somewhat easier, though she kept her eyes lowered. He hadn't recognized her. At least, she cautioned herself, not yet.

THREE

JACK GLANCED QUICKLY at Lord Peter, then back to Lady Haughton. For a moment, he'd been almost certain he'd met her before, but now he began to doubt. Clearly Peter was showing no signs of recognition—not that he was the most perceptive of fellows. Besides, it seemed so unlikely, after all he'd been able to learn of Lady Haughton.

He'd done a bit of research since Peter had brought her name to his notice. As his friends had said, no one had seen her since her arrival in London two weeks ago, so he had not really expected her to attend tonight. Not only had she been in virtual seclusion since her husband's death, but both she and Lady Creamcroft were complete sticklers for propriety—so much so that she avoided appearing in public at all before her year of mourning was up.

Which made the possibility of her being the same woman he'd met at last week's masquerade impossibly remote. “Monique,” whoever she'd been, had certainly not been a grief-stricken widow! Even if she had possessed melting brown eyes remarkably similar to Lady Haughton's.

Still, he decided to attempt a small test. “Might I procure a glass of lemonade for you, my lady, before the entertainment begins?”

Though she kept her eyes demurely lowered, the long, mink-brown lashes fluttered at his words. “No, thank you, my lord,” she said after just the slightest hesitation. “I do not particularly care for lemonade.”

Jack watched her closely. Could it possibly be…? But he decided not to press the matter—not just now, at any rate. If this really were the woman from the masquerade, he would find out soon enough. That could be very useful information. Very useful indeed.

“Ratafia, then, perhaps?”

She nodded then, not deigning—or daring?—to meet his eyes again. “Thank you, my lord. That would be pleasant.”

Peter accompanied Jack to the buffet table. “Not quite the antidote you predicted, eh, Jack?” he commented as they obtained beverages for themselves along with Lady Haughton's ratafia. “Rather prim, of course, but I'd say she shows potential.”

Jack smiled, remembering the luscious Monique. “Potential indeed, I suspect. Still, I don't want to limit my options just yet. Did you notice whether Lady Beatrice is here tonight?”

“Over there, with her father.” Peter nodded toward the archway of the music room.

Following his glance, Jack saw Lady Beatrice, surrounded by half a dozen gallants, looking just as cool and lovely as he remembered. After meeting Lady Haughton, however, he found his enthusiasm for the blonde debutante at a lower ebb than ever.

“Let's see whether my new position will garner me more than the stiff nod plain Jack Ashecroft received when I first met her, shall we?”

Lady Haughton's ratafia in hand, he detoured past the music room. “Good evening Lady Beatrice, Sherbourne.” He nodded to the lady in question and her father, in turn. “How nice to see you again.”

Lord Sherbourne frowned at him suspiciously. “Evening, Foxhaven,” he said with a stiff nod. “Didn't expect to see you here.”

Jack allowed himself a half-smile. “Ah, sometimes I surprise even myself.” He turned to face Lady Beatrice.

She smiled limpidly, darted a quick, curious glance at her father's sour expression, then regarded Jack again, more warily. “Good evening, my lord. I had not realized you had returned to London.”

Jack wasn't surprised. His exploits since his return to the metropolis had hardly been of the sort to reach such a sheltered miss's ears.

It seemed her father was thinking along similar lines. “Come Beatrice,” he said before Jack could respond. “Your mother will be expecting us to join her within for the performance.” With a warning glance over his shoulder, he led his daughter away from Jack's dangerous influence.

Chuckling, Jack continued back to where Lady Haughton had now been joined by Lord and Lady Creamcroft. “The reputation is still ascendant, it would seem,” he said in an undertone to Peter as they approached the trio. “Is Lady Creamcroft such a dragon in the defense of her sister, do you suppose?”

“I'd imagine Lady Haughton can defend herself, after a lifetime of the sort of tutelage she's had.” Peter motioned off to the left with his head. “There's Miss Varens. Perhaps you'll need to lower your standards just a hair.”

Jack glanced at his friend in surprise. “You wound me, Peter! At any rate, I must bring Lady Haughton the refreshment I promised her before pursuing other game.” This last was said a shade too loudly, Jack realized belatedly. Lady Haughton appeared not to have heard, but her sister was frowning—whether at his words or at him in general, he couldn't tell.

“Your ratafia, Lady Haughton.” He presented the drink with a flourish. “I believe the entertainment will be beginning in a moment.”

“Thank you, my lord.” The expression in her brown eyes, when she lifted them briefly, was wary but not censorious. “Have you met my sister and her husband, Lord and Lady Creamcroft?” She seemed anxious to turn his attention away from herself.

“Creamcroft, we've met at Boodle's, have we not?” The young baron nodded his assent. He seemed a pleasant enough fellow, at least. “Lady Creamcroft, I don't believe I've had the pleasure. Charmed.”

Lady Creamcroft responded most properly, but her expression told him she'd heard all the worst tales about him—most of them true, unfortunately. She edged herself almost imperceptibly in front of her sister. A dragon indeed, albeit a young and pretty one—nearly as pretty as Lady Haughton, in fact, her brown hair touched with golden highlights instead of red ones. Amazing that poker-faced old Cherryhurst could have produced these two beauties.

“My lord,” she said formally. “If you'll excuse us, we'd best take our seats.”

As the trio retreated, Jack just caught the curious glance Lady Haughton sent her sister. Doubtless by the end of the evening she'd have heard everything her sister knew of him.

He frowned. He'd just faced almost the identical situation with Lady Beatrice and her father, and it had afforded him only amusement. So why should the thought of Lady Haughton learning of his reputation cost him a pang? He didn't know, but couldn't deny that it did.

“Cross off another one,” said Peter in his ear. “Looks like this won't be so easy as you thought.

“I never said it would be easy.” Jack couldn't quite hide his irritation. “There's your Miss Varens. Care to introduce me?”

Peter performed the office, but though they said all that was proper, Jack was greeted by cold stares, not only from Sir Arnold and Lady Varens, but from the young lady herself. He'd intended asking her to go driving with him tomorrow, for she was a pretty little thing, but suddenly opted against it.

Cursing himself for a craven, but feeling decidedly out of his element, Jack went to find a chair for the performance which was just beginning.

~   ~   ~

“WHAT WAS THAT ABOUT, Prudence?” asked Nessa in an undertone as their party moved toward their seats. “That was the nearest thing to rudeness I've ever seen in you!”

Her sister glanced over her shoulder before answering in an even lower tone. “Lord Foxhaven is not the sort of man with whom you should be encouraging an acquaintance,” she whispered repressively. “I can't conceive why Lady Mountheath should have invited him here tonight. I had thought her more discriminating.”

Nessa decided against revealing what she'd learned from that lady's sharp-tongued daughters or the scene she'd witnessed earlier. “Why? What is wrong with Lord Foxhaven?”

“Pray lower your voice!” Prudence admonished her. “He is but very lately come into his title and seems—how shall I put it?—ill prepared for the role. His life has been one of unremitting license, if all I hear is to be believed. 'Twill take more than a marquisate to establish him in Society, I assure you.”

Settling into the chair beside her sister, Nessa commented, “I never knew you to put such stock in gossip, Prudence. Are any specific evils laid at his door, or merely the general ones that jealousy might account for?” At her sister's questioning look, she clarified. “A young, handsome man coming so suddenly into a high position is bound to excite envy.”

But Prudence shook her head. “Jack Ashecroft's scandalous reputation had been bruited about London long before he inherited. For all that he was feted as a hero last May, after our Army's victory over Napoleon, he has never had the entrée to the better circles.”

“He was a soldier, then?”

“A major, I believe—or perhaps he was promoted to colonel. His military career was distinguished, I'll grant you that. One of Wellington's finest 'tis said. But he is at least as well known for his paramours—” Even in the dim light, Nessa could see her sister's flush at this bold reference to the man's improprieties— “and his association with all manner of low types. 'Twas even rumored that he occasionally acted as a spy while on the Continent, and you must know what is said of spies.”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“Hush,” said Prudence, clearly desirous of dropping such a distressing topic. “The music is beginning.”

Though she tried, Nessa found it difficult to concentrate on the flutist's performance. Instead of the music—though adequate in execution—she found her thoughts straying again to Lord Foxhaven, whom she'd noticed slipping into a seat only two rows back.

Had he recognized her? She thought not, but when he made the offer of lemonade, she had wondered. One thing was certain, however: if he were not going to betray their earlier meeting, she most assuredly would not!

The very thought of Prudence's reaction if she learned the truth made her quail. Nessa didn't want to be responsible for her sister's almost certain collapse, especially after Prudence had been so kind to her.

Momentarily diverted, she wondered why she and her sister had never been particularly close, considering that they had no other siblings. Of course, any sort of affectionate display had been frowned upon by their parents—perhaps because it would have made that particular lack in their marriage all the more apparent.

Nessa sighed. As a young girl, a love match had been a cherished dream of hers, one she'd never dared divulge to anyone, as she'd known no one who would have understood. Even though she'd long come to recognize that dream as pure fantasy, she had never entirely given it up as an ideal—if not for her, then perhaps for her sister.

She glanced at Prudence, who appeared riveted by the music, surprising a surreptitiously longing look from her brother-in-law, directed at the same object. How could her sister be so blind to the potential happiness that awaited her, if she would only allow herself to return her husband's obvious affection? The more she saw of their marriage, the more Nessa came to realize that it was quite unlike her own had been—and could be even more unlike, if only Prudence would unbend a little. Again she felt that tiny pang of envy.

A slight movement to her right recalled her attention to Lord Foxhaven. Even behind a mask, he'd been remarkably handsome. Without it… She thought again over what Prudence had said about his unsavory reputation.

Nessa had no reason to doubt her sister's words. At their first meeting she'd been sure he was anything but monk-like despite his costume. But the knowledge that she'd been right excited more than repelled her. She'd never known a rake before. Not that Prudence would countenance such an acquaintance, of course. And her father—and late husband—would likely spin in their graves should she at all encourage a man of his stamp.

With such conflicting thoughts Nessa was occupied for the remainder of the performance, her visceral attraction to the scandalous Lord Foxhaven warring with the propriety ingrained in her since birth, as well as a certain sense of responsibility toward her sister.

When Lady Mountheath announced the end of the formal performance, advising her guests to partake of the buffet while sundry other musicians added to the ambiance, the assemblage rose en masse to comply with her instructions. As they left the music room, Nessa's party was again accosted by Lord Foxhaven, giving her the opportunity to choose between her battling inclinations.

“Lady Haughton, I realize it would be improper of me to ask you to go out driving—” this with a glance at Prudence— “but would you perhaps allow me to call upon you at your sister's home tomorrow?”

Nessa cursed her blacks yet again, for the thought of a drive sent her spirits soaring. She saw Prudence frown and open her mouth, no doubt to deny him even the visit.

“That would be quite acceptable, Lord Foxhaven,” Nessa said quickly, refusing to meet her sister's eye. “I shall look forward to it.”

He bowed over her hand, also avoiding Prudence's glance, she noticed. “Until tomorrow, then.” He turned and walked away before Lady Creamcroft could rescind her sister's invitation.

Prudence, however, was for the moment too flabbergasted to speak. “Well!” she exclaimed when she finally found her tongue several seconds later. “That is the outside of enough, I must say. Nessa, did I not tell you Lord Foxhaven has a less than savory reputation? What can you be thinking, to invite him under my roof?”

Nessa rather wondered the same thing, but answered her sister readily enough. “Why, it would have been most impolite, would it not, to have refused him? Besides, what evil can he possibly commit in your drawing room, with people all about? Perhaps he has turned over a new leaf, in which case he should be encouraged, don't you agree?” This last seemed most unlikely when she recalled his behavior at the masquerade, but it gave Prudence pause.

“I suppose that is possible,” she conceded, “though Lady Mountheath told me a tale about his exploits since inheriting his title that shocked me exceedingly. Not for the world would I repeat it! Still, if he acts the gentleman, I'll not turn him out. If we reward proper behavior in him, perhaps he'll be encouraged to turn away from debauchery.”

Nessa tried not to smile at the idea of her sister's acceptance being more rewarding to a dashing young man like Lord Foxhaven than debauchery could be. For a taste of debauchery, she herself might be willing to forego Prudence's approval! Not that she had the least idea how to go about finding any such taste, of course.

“That's right, Prudence, we'll win him to respectability in spite of himself,” she agreed, her expression solemn. She hoped that might prove impossible, however. A respectable Lord Foxhaven would not be nearly so intriguing as the rake her sister had described.

“Until tomorrow,” he'd said. She could scarcely wait.

FOUR

HARRY WAS WELL INTO his second bottle of port when Jack and Lord Peter joined him at their accustomed table at The Guards Club on St. James Street. “How went the first volley?” he inquired almost cheerily, as two more glasses were placed.

Peter shook his head sorrowfully. “Even worse than you predicted, Harry.”

“What, Lady M. turned you away from her door? I could have told you she would.”

The other two stared at him in disbelief. “You do need to cut back on the spirits, old boy,” Peter exclaimed. “But no, you were right the first time—she wasn't willing to risk a scene by turning Jack away. It was once we were inside the trouble began.”

“Oh come now, Peter, it wasn't so bad as all that,” Jack protested, irrationally nettled by his friend's gloomy prospect. “No one gave me the cut direct, which I more than half expected.”

“Old Sherbourne came close, and Claridge managed to keep you from getting close enough to Lady Constance for an introduction,” Peter pointed out. “We'll have to come up with another plan to whitewash your reputation. That's all there is to it.”

Harry raised his glass. “I'll certainly drink to that! Damned idiotic thing to contemplate in the first place, marriage. Don't know what you were thinking, Jack.”

Jack regarded his two longtime friends with mingled amusement and irritation. “Ready to turn tail after the first skirmish? I'm disappointed in you both. I'll not give up so easily, I assure you, especially after the brilliant flanking maneuver I executed toward the evening's close.”

Two pairs of eyes turned to him expectantly. “Eh? What?” Peter blinked owlishly, giving the appearance of having imbibed more than Harry had.

“I'll have you know that I am engaged to call upon Lady Haughton at her sister's house tomorrow morning.” He twirled his wine glass with a flourish, awaiting their reactions.

Harry gave a sour guffaw, but Peter gaped carpishly. Several seconds passed before he found his voice. “Never say Lady Creamcroft agreed to that? I saw how quickly she pulled her sister away from you when she found out who you were.”

“Lady Creamcroft is nothing if not proper. It would have been most unseemly for her to refuse my request after her sister had already acquiesced.” He saw no point in adding that he had not given Lady Creamcroft a chance to do so.

“So Lady Haughton is hanging out for another husband already?” Harry asked with a twisted grin. “How bitter a pill will she be to swallow? Must be pretty desperate to encourage you her first evening back in Society.”

Jack glared but it was Peter who answered. “You have it all wrong, Harry, I assure you. Lady Haughton is quite a taking little thing, even in her blacks. Chestnut hair, big brown eyes, creamy complexion. When she's back in colors, I daresay she'll turn out a diamond of the first water. I can't believe—” He broke off as Jack's malevolent eye shifted to him. “That is to say, I'm delighted you'll have a chance to speak with her again, Jack. Still…”

“Yes?” Though Jack's tone was dangerous, it didn't deter his friend.

“Try not to get your hopes too high, eh? I mean, I wish you the best of luck and all that, but it's likely Lady Haughton is allowing the visit merely because she's lived too secluded to hear the gossip. Could be that once she does, she'll turn as cool as all the others. And even your best drawing room manners are likely to shock her, with Cherryhurst and Haughton as her standard.”

He looked so worried that Jack had to laugh.

“Egad, Peter, it's not as though I've developed a tendre for the woman! You of all people know I've never believed all that poets' rot about love and such. My heart's in no danger, I assure you. I merely see this as a promising opening for my campaign. If nothing else, being received at Creamcroft's house is sure to nudge my respectability up a notch—and put me that much closer to those funds I need.”

In fact, he hoped far more might come of tomorrow's visit, but he had no intention of revealing the real reason for his optimism to his friends. Not until he was sure. Maybe not even then.

“Besides,” he continued, “this will be good practice for me. The worst that can happen is that I'll have to go to an alternate strategy—in which case Harry and I can share a toast to my escape. But for the sake of both my grandfather and that money, I'm determined to give my initial battle plan a fair shot.”

~   ~   ~

NESSA SAT IN HER sister's tasteful drawing room attempting to concentrate on her needlework while wishing for the twentieth time that she could wear something other than black today, of all days. A sidelong glance showed Prudence the model sober matron in her high-necked gray silk, industriously netting a purse. Prudence would benefit from colors as much as herself, in Nessa's opinion.

Though she didn't actually fidget—her father and husband had trained that out of her years ago—Nessa felt inwardly jumpy. Would Lord Foxhaven really come to call? Had he recognized her from the masquerade? More importantly, would he say anything in front of Prudence if he had? Refocusing her attention on the fabric she held, Nessa realized she'd been working the wrong row. With an impatient click of her tongue, which for her was tantamount to cursing, she began undoing the work of the past ten minutes.

The front knocker sounded as she pulled out the last errant stitch, and she found herself holding her breath until Clarendon entered to announce Lord Foxhaven. She dared a quick glance as he followed the butler into the room, his beaver under his arm.

Against the prim formality of Prudence's drawing room, he appeared more outrageously handsome than ever—and perhaps the slightest bit ill at ease. Prudence's expression, as she rose gracefully to greet their guest, showed more acute discomfort.

“How nice to see you again, my lord,” she said stiffly.

Lord Foxhaven bowed over her hand with perfect propriety. “Lady Creamcroft.” Then, with another bow in Nessa's direction, “Lady Haughton. I'm honored to have this chance to pay my respects to you both.”

Nessa bobbed her head in return. “Good morning, my lord.” She kept her voice low, as she had last night, and watched him closely for any sign of flirtation, or of a secret shared.

It did not come.

“Pray take a seat, my lord, while I ring for a tray,” suggested Prudence, motioning to a gold and white striped armchair.

He complied, then made an innocuous comment about the unseasonably fair weather. “So much more pleasant than our usual autumn rains, don't you agree?”

Prudence assented with a further comment on the weather as the tea tray was brought in and Nessa nodded again, feeling oddly disappointed. This was the scandalous rake her sister had warned her against?

“You are abroad early, my lord,” she observed after a few moments. “You must not have kept particularly late hours last night.”

Prudence cast her a startled glance, and Nessa herself was nearly as shocked at her own boldness. But her eagerness for even a tiny glimpse into a rake's night life had overset her well-learned reticence. What must it be like, to—?

“No, I retired shortly after returning from Lady Mountheath's entertainment. I am finding that late nights do not agree with me so well as they once did.”

Nessa regarded him suspiciously, but he appeared perfectly serious. Only for the briefest instant did she imagine that she caught a hint of amusement deep in his blue eyes—but whether directed at himself or at her she had no idea.

“That's very commendable, Lord Foxhaven,” Prudence said approvingly. “Rationality and restraint generally develop with maturity, I have observed.”

“Indeed, Lady Creamcroft,” he agreed. “I've also found that dissipation, while passingly enjoyable, leaves no lasting reward.”

Though Prudence's eyebrows arched ceilingward at even this oblique reference to his purported wildness, Nessa stifled a sigh. Was all his debauchery behind him, then? No doubt she should be pleased, for his sake, but… how very dreary.

Indeed, he and Prudence seemed to be trying to outmatch each other in moral platitudes. “So I have always been taught, my lord. One need look no further than the book of Proverbs for numerous examples.”

With difficulty, Nessa refrained from rolling her eyes at her sister's words—and wondered at herself. Whence had come this new impatience with propriety? Or… was it so new? Hadn't she always secretly—so secretly—chafed at the strictures laid upon her? Her chafing was becoming more overt after a year of relative freedom, that was all.

Lord Foxhaven nodded as sententiously as any octogenarian at Prudence's moralizing, making Nessa wonder if he could possibly be the same man she had met at the masquerade. Where was the humor that had attracted her?

As though aware of her thoughts, he turned toward her. “I'm more familiar with the Song of Solomon than with Proverbs, I must confess, but I am willing to be instructed.” The slightest of winks accompanied his words, making Nessa's pulse flutter unexpectedly. For a moment she found herself drowning in his deep blue gaze.

A faint gasp from Prudence recalled her abruptly, reminding her that she should be equally shocked at his reference to the one book of the Bible their father had forbidden them to read.

“Very commendable, my lord.” Nessa managed to keep her voice from quivering with the laughter that threatened. “Don't you agree, Prudence?”

“Certainly,” Prudence replied stiffly, with a pointed glance at the clock on the mantelpiece.

Lord Foxhaven took the hint at once. “I see I have exceeded my quarter hour,” he said, rising. “The fascinating company must be my excuse.”

Seeing him about to depart, Prudence unbent to the extent of a genuine smile. “You are too kind, my lord.”

“I will bid you both good day, ladies,” he said. “I leave tomorrow for Kent, to deal with various estate matters, but I hope to see you again upon my return in a fortnight.” Then, to Nessa, “Perhaps then you will permit me to take you for that drive.”

With a start, Nessa realized—as Lord Foxhaven must—that in a fortnight her year of mourning would be over. Her spirit seemed to expand within her at the thought. Conscious of Prudence stiffening again at her side, however, she only said, “That might be pleasant, my lord.”

“Until then.” Lord Foxhaven bent over Prudence's hand and then her own, his gloved fingertips lingering on hers for just a fraction longer than was strictly proper.

And then he was gone.

~   ~   ~

THE NEXT TWO WEEKS seemed an eternity to Nessa. No further invitations included her, beyond an art viewing followed by tea one afternoon. Prudence's circle of friends seemed more staid and, yes, boring, than ever, after Nessa's too-brief acquaintance with another mindset.

“You were unusually quiet today,” observed her sister as they rode back to Upper Brook Street. “Mrs. Heatherton twice asked you about Warwickshire, but you gave her only the briefest of answers.”

“I am sorry, Prudence. I must have been wool-gathering. I hope Mrs. Heatherton was not offended.”

“No, I think not. She mentioned something privately to me about your grief still preoccupying you.”

Nessa nodded absently. “May we go shopping tomorrow?”

Prudence blinked. “Why… I suppose so. Is there something in particular that you need? A new bonnet, perhaps? The milliner at the corner of—”

“Oh, let's make a day of it,” said Nessa, as though on impulse. “I haven't been shopping for an age.” And I plan to make up for it over the next few days, she vowed.

Though clearly puzzled, Prudence did not hesitate to agree. Half-guiltily, Nessa hoped her sister wouldn't overly regret her compliance.

The next morning they left early, at Nessa's urging. “Let's start with Madame Fanchot's,” she suggested as they stepped into the carriage.

Prudence gaped, for Madame Fanchot was the most au courant modiste in Town, dressing those at the very pinnacle of fashion. She offered no objection, however, to Nessa's relief. If her sister had balked at this early stage, there was no knowing how she might react once she had a hint of what Nessa was really about.

She soon found out.

“Look at this pearl gray, Nessa,” said Prudence only minutes after they were ushered into the display room by Madame Fanchot herself. “This would be the very thing to ease you out of your blacks when you are ready.”

Nessa looked, then winced. Her sister had unerringly chosen the only drab swath of fabric in sight, and still looked as though she thought even that might be too daring. It was now or never.

“Oh, I am quite ready, Prudence,” she said, steeling herself against the shock on her sister's face. “My proscribed year ends two days hence, and I wish to be ready. Madame, might I see that jonquil silk over there?”

“But that is so… bright,” Prudence hissed as the modiste went to fetch the bolt of yellow fabric. “It scarcely seems proper. I had thought you might go to half-mourning soon—grays, browns, perhaps a subdued lilac—”

“No.”

Prudence's eyes widened further.

“Many widows, I've observed, go to half-mourning after the first six months of their bereavement. I feel I've done my duty and over by wearing nothing but unrelieved black for the full twelve.”

“But… but Father—” Prudence sputtered, her pretty head shaking helplessly from side to side.

“Hasn't it occurred to you yet that Father's standards were hardly those of the world in which we now live?”

“He was very proud of that,” Prudence reminded her severely.

Nessa sighed. “Yes, I know. Lord Haughton was the same. Admirable men, both of them. Most admirable. But now I am ready to experience life on my own terms, and wearing color—more color than I was allowed even as a daughter or wife—is a way to begin. Can you not understand that?”

Prudence still looked doubtful. She, of course, had never rebelled against their father's tutelage, even though her husband was of a different stamp entirely—more was the pity. Still, she looked a fraction less shocked than she had a moment ago. “Perhaps,” she finally said. “Though I am still not certain—”

“Here we are, Lady Haughton!” Madame Fanchot spread the jonquil silk upon a low table for her inspection. “Will you want this made up before or after presenting it?”

“Presenting it?” Now Nessa was puzzled.

“It is to be a gift, is it not?”

This was becoming more difficult than she'd anticipated, but she refused to waver. “No indeed, Madame. It is for me. However, that rose muslin would complement my sister's coloring nicely. May we see it? Pray bring us a few pattern books as well. I expect we shall be here for a while.”

Two and a half hours later, a well-satisfied Nessa and a dazed Prudence left the shop laden with various accessories to round out the six gowns Nessa had ordered for herself and the two she had ordered for Prudence, after wearing down her protests. The jonquil silk was to be delivered Friday, the day after her year would be up, and the others would follow over the next week.

“Come, Prudence, let us stop for coffee and ices at Gunter's so that you can rally a bit before we go on.”

Prudence paused in the act of handing her parcels to the coachman. “Go on?”

“Certainly. I said we would make a day of this, did I not?” Nessa resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder. She had the oddest feeling that her father and husband were watching her with disapproval. Defiantly, she raised her chin. “I've only just begun,” she declared, as much to those dour shades as to Prudence.

~   ~   ~

“IS THAT THE LAST ONE, Havershaw?” Jack stretched his arms high over his head to relieve the tension in his shoulders, produced by several hours bent over a desk.

“Yes, my lord. I must say, you have kept at it. You've made it through this backlog of paperwork in record time.” The respect in the steward's voice made Jack glance up in surprise.

“Really? I can't imagine that I've been as efficient as my grandfather in dealing with the estate business. I'm still learning as I go, after all.”

Havershaw smiled his thin smile, but Jack was further startled to see a trace of genuine warmth in it. “Indeed, my lord, you're doing far better as a novice than your Uncle Luther ever managed, and though you have not yet his experience, you are in a fair way to match your grandfather in cutting to the heart of most business matters. I believe you may have a natural bent for this sort of thing.”

Jack grimaced. Three weeks ago, he'd have sworn on everything sacred that he'd be a terrible landowner and that the details of running a large estate would drive him to distraction or drink—or worse. Reluctant as he was to admit it, however, he'd almost enjoyed these past two weeks immersed in tenancies, harvests, land improvements and foreign investments. Jack Ashecroft, responsible landowner? It seemed so unlikely.

“Have I passed the test then?” he asked with a grin. “Do you deem me respectable? With that trust money, I could have the roof leaded and drain the lower acreage before the winter rains set in.”

“No doubt you could,” said Havershaw drily, “but this quarter's rents will just cover those items, I believe. True reformation takes time.”

Jack bit back a curse. If the rents all went for repairs, he'd have precious little spending money when he got back to Town. “Can you perhaps give me a clue as to what your standards are to be, Havershaw? I've no mind to spend years at this endeavor while Foxhaven falls into ruin for lack of funds.”

“I rather doubt that is a serious risk, my lord.”

And of course it wasn't. It was Jack's lifestyle that was at risk. “A wife, then. If I marry a woman of unimpeachable reputation, will you count me reformed?”

He held his breath while Havershaw hesitated. If he said no, Jack realized, he wouldn't have to get leg-shackled after all.

But the steward finally nodded. “If you can get such a woman to marry you—willingly—I suppose that would be as objective a measure as any.”

Jack let out his breath, his brief hope gone. Pushing the mound of finished paperwork aside, he stood. “In that case, I shall make it my first priority. On the morrow I'll head back to Town for what remains of the Little Season.”

“Will you be returning for Yuletide, my lord?” Havershaw, imperturbable as ever, began gathering up the papers.

“That will depend on how my wooing goes, won't it?” replied Jack sourly. “I'll send word.”

When he reached his chamber, Jack rang for Parker, his valet. A few years older than he, though slighter in build, Parker had been with him throughout his military career and held a position of trust with his employer enjoyed by vanishingly few servants.

“Yes, my lord?”

“We leave in the morning, Parker. Be good enough to get everything ready for our departure.”

“I've done so already, my lord.” The valet proceeded to remove his master's boots.

Jack shook his head. “Don't know why I trouble myself to tell you anything. You've been reading my mind with ease for years now. Know me better than I know myself.”

Parker only smiled.

“Being that's the case,” Jack continued, “perhaps you can enlighten me as to my conflicting inclinations on matrimony. Think you it's too high a price to pay for mere money?”

Parker turned to regard him, pale hair falling across his high forehead. “I think the right woman could be the making of you, my lord, if not of your reputation.”

“Blast it, Parker, the making of my reputation is the whole point of the thing! What do you mean by that?”

But Parker merely shrugged and seized his other boot. Explaining his cryptic pronouncements had never been his way, though they almost invariably proved true in time.

They left for London before the morning was far advanced. Jack reflected that the habit of retiring and rising early, which he had adopted almost without thought while in the country, appeared to agree with his constitution. Very odd, that—and not a little disturbing.

As he neared Town a few hours later, Jack could almost feel the calm of the country seeping from him, to be replaced by the excitement of the city. Yes, surely this was where he truly belonged, amid the bustle of humanity. Here, he could live by his wits and the cards, as he'd done before, and to hell with that damned trust. If it weren't for his grandfather, that's just what he'd do. Perhaps respectability wasn't meant for the likes of him after all.

But even as he said this to himself, he found his thoughts turning to what he had hoped might be the means to that respectability—Lady Haughton. Her period of mourning should have ended three days since, by his calculations. With her Puritanical upbringing, of course, she might well intend to observe half-mourning for another twelvemonth. It would not surprise him, in fact, if Lady Creamcroft demanded it of her. If that were the case, pursuing a courtship could be problematic.

Pondering his options, Jack disembarked from his traveling coach and climbed the stairs to Foxhaven House—one of the finer establishments on Berkley Square. The effect was somewhat marred by the disheveled appearance of his butler, who'd clearly hurried into his coat to answer the door.

Jack handed his hat and cloak to the man with some degree of misgiving. “I'll be going out after I've had a wash and a change,” he advised Carp, or whatever his name was. “Tell Cook I will most likely dine at my club.”

Once in his bedchamber, Jack returned to the matter of Lady Haughton. Ought he to call upon her this afternoon? He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Were she in the whirl of Society, he might find her in Hyde Park in a couple of hours, but that seemed unlikely. No, he would wait and call upon her in the morning, as was proper, and invite her out for a drive the next afternoon.

“My blue coat, I believe, Parker.”

His valet, with customary prescience, already had the requested garment in his capable hands. Jack stripped off his travel clothes and splashed his face with cold water from the ewer, all the while working out his strategy.

Surely, he thought as Parker helped him to shrug into the blue superfine, he would be able to cajole the fair Lady Haughton out of her blacks in fairly short order. If she had masqueraded as the lovely “Monique,” she could not be nearly so trammeled by propriety as her sister. The occasional sparkle he had glimpsed in her eyes suggested a sense of humor, as well. Still, a lifetime under the thumbs of Lords Cherryhurst and Haughton would have left its mark.

He would go slowly, he decided, tying his cravat with a flourish. He did not wish to shock his quarry—particularly this early in the campaign. If on the morrow he found her in half-mourning rather than unrelieved black, he would take it as a hopeful sign and proceed from there. He had no particular desire to rush matters—as long as the roof at Fox Manor didn't spring another leak, anyway.

Well satisfied with this remarkably prudent decision, Jack set out for his club, hoping that Harry or Peter might be there to catch him up on the news of the past two weeks.

FIVE

NEITHER OF HIS CLOSEST friends were at The Guards when Jack arrived, so he ordered a bottle of port and settled in to wait. He was refilling his glass for the first time an hour later, when Harry turned up.

“Jack! Good to see you back in Town,” he exclaimed, signaling for another glass. “I see you've only just arrived.” He nodded at the nearly full bottle.

Jack didn't bother to correct him. “Hello, Harry. Is it my imagination, or is London already a bit thin of company?”

Harry's glass arrived then, and he filled it before answering. “Perhaps a bit. Hadn't really noticed. Fair number of house parties, I believe—that might account for it.” He tossed off half of his port at a single swallow, making Jack wince slightly.

What was the matter with him? Normally he'd be matching Harry glass for glass, not deploring his habits. Still, it was borne in upon him for the first time that Harry had begun to drift toward the outer fringes of Society over the past few months—and not unintentionally. He wasn't likely to get the sort of news he'd hoped for here.

At that moment, however, a better source manifested itself, in the form of Lord Peter. “Jack!” he called out as he strode toward them. “Fernworth said you were back in Town.”

“Ferny? Don't recall seeing him since arriving.”

“Said he saw your coach at Foxhaven House,” explained Peter, taking a chair. “Wondered when your next… entertainment might be. I tried to put the damper on such expectations.” He regarded Jack questioningly, as did Harry.

“I'm back in Town but two hours and already you're playing the mother hen.” But Jack's jibe lacked rancor. The truth was, he had no burning desire to return to the excessive lifestyle he'd enjoyed last month, even if he could have afforded it. Unsettling, that.

Harry clearly did not share his change of heart. “Really, Pete, what a damned interfering nodcock you are. High time Jack threw another party, in my opinion. What say you, Jack?”

Jack shook his head. “Much as it pains me to admit it, Peter is right. I've made great strides toward respectability in recent weeks, and would hate to see such heroic effort go for naught.”

With a sound of disgust, Harry refilled his glass. “I'd hoped two weeks sequestered in the country would bring you to your senses. You're on your way to becoming as dashedly dull as Pete here, I hope you realize.”

“Why thank you, Harry!” Jack shared an amused glance with Peter. Harry merely snorted again and turned his attention to his wine. “So, Peter, what news? Has Society managed to carry on without me for a fortnight?”

Some of the amusement left Peter's face. “There is one tidbit you may find of interest, actually,” he said. “It concerns Lady Haughton, who, I believe, was your prime candidate when you left, was she not?”

“What is it?” Jack asked, more sharply than he intended. “Has she left Town? Or—surely she hasn't already accepted another offer?” He wasn't sure why either of those possibilities should weigh him down so.

“No, no, nothing so bad as that,” Peter assured him. “It's just that I saw her Saturday night at Mrs. Westercott's soiree. She's well and truly reentered Society now, it appears.”

Jack felt a surge of relief. “But that's all to the good,” he exclaimed. “I'd been wondering whether I'd have to persuade her out of her weeds, even though her year is up. Feared it might be difficult.”

“Not difficult at all, I'd say,” said Peter wryly, “considering that she was dancing at Mrs. Westercott's—and wearing bright yellow.”

Jack blinked. “Yellow? When only days ago she was in heavy blacks? Hmmm…” He lapsed into thought.

“Yellow,” Peter repeated. “Not quite the thing, if you ask me, and certainly not what I'd have expected of Cherryhurst's daughter and Haughton's widow. Lady Creamcroft was with her, and looked more than a little embarrassed.”

“So your supremely respectable widow has decided to cut a dash, has she?” Harry clearly found the situation highly entertaining. “Mayhap she's a better match for you than we suspected, Jack!”

Even Peter chuckled, though he still looked somewhat worried. “She may not be the best choice for your plan after all,” he suggested. “More than a few eyebrows were raised Saturday night. Perhaps you should give one of the debutantes another look.” His lips twitched slightly in response to Harry's continued laughter.

But Jack was not amused. Upon Havershaw's promise that marriage would turn the trick, his intention to wed Lady Haughton had firmed to the point of resolve, though he had not fully realized it until now. He had no particular desire to look elsewhere.

“I'll simply have to move more quickly than I'd intended. Any idea, Peter, where she's likely to be tonight? Anything of importance going on?”

Lord Peter thought for a moment. “There's the Plumfield ball, and Lady Trumball's card party. Various smaller dos—supper parties and the like. Perhaps the theater. What have you invitations for? Or do you plan to use the same tactic as at the Mountheath do?”

“Actually, I've no idea what invitations I might have. I left the house before checking my letters. I'll go do that now. Care to join me, gentlemen?”

Peter tossed off the remainder of his glass and stood. “Wouldn't miss it, I assure you. Harry?”

“I'll be along in a bit,” he replied, refilling his glass from the now nearly empty bottle. “Sounds like we might have an amusing evening ahead.”

“A productive one, as well,” Jack promised them both. “Mark my words, I'll have Lady Haughton betrothed to me before the month is out.”

Lord Peter regarded him with surprise, but Harry grimaced. “Hope for your sake you're wrong, Jack.”

Leaving with Peter, Jack wondered whether he didn't hope the same thing—and if not, why not.

~   ~   ~

“NESSA, WE SIMPLY must go!” Prudence insisted in a whisper, fluttering anxiously at her sister's elbow. “Lord Plumfield is a good friend of Lord Creamcroft's, and I have more than a passing acquaintance with Lady Plumfield. It simply won't do for us to be any later to their ball.”

Nessa looked up from the cards in her hand. “But I'm having a marvelous run of luck, Prudence,” she whispered back. “Why don't you and Lord Creamcroft go on and I'll join you there later.”

Prudence fanned herself vigorously. “Leave you here alone?“ Her hiss nearly became a squeak. She glanced apprehensively around the table lest the others were attending to their words, but the two gentlemen and other lady appeared intent on their own cards. “You know we cannot do that.”

Instead of responding, Nessa played her next card. She'd had only a very few chances to play whist since learning, as Lord Haughton had disapproved of cards except with the vicar and his wife. She was pleased to discover she had a flair for the game.

“I'm not a schoolgirl, you know,” she murmured to her sister. “At four-and-twenty, I scarcely need a chaperone.”

Prudence's fan waved more frantically. “Nessa, you know as well as I what would be said, were you to stay here without us. Do you wish to be thought fast?“

Secretly Nessa confessed that she did, but realized that it was unfair to distress her sister so, after all of her kindness. “Very well. Let me finish this hand, and then we will go.”

For a moment, she thought Prudence might faint from relief. “Thank you, Nessa. I'll go inform Lord Creamcroft.”

Nessa knew she should feel guilty, but decided to defer that until later. Just now, she preferred to savor the brief remainder of her game.

“That gives us the rubber, Mr. Galloway,” she said five minutes later, laying down her last card. “I have enjoyed this immensely. Thank you all for allowing me to make your foursome.”

Miss Cheevers smiled a bit sourly, either at having lost or because Nessa had claimed more attention than herself from the two gentlemen present. “We must do this again sometime, Lady Haughton.”

The gentlemen echoed the sentiment with more sincerity, and Nessa favored them all with a bright smile, just as Prudence returned to her elbow, Lord Creamcroft in tow. Saying her farewells, she accompanied them to the door.

“I'm glad to see you making friends, Sister,” commented Lord Creamcroft amiably as they waited for their carriage.

“I thank you and Prudence for the opportunity, Philip,” she replied, conscious of her sister's faint gasp. Prudence had only once or twice used her husband's Christian name in Nessa's hearing. Nessa rather hoped, by example, to change that.

Her brother-in-law did not appear scandalized in the least. In fact, Nessa caught a twinkle in his eyes that indicated he suspected what she was about—and approved. More and more, Nessa was certain that Philip would prefer a much less formal relationship with his wife. If only Prudence could be persuaded to unbend a little…

“I pray you two will not allow concern for me to interfere with your own enjoyments,” Nessa continued, with a meaning glance at her sister. “I find myself quite able to take care of myself. In fact, I hope that I'll not have to impose upon your hospitality for much longer. I believe it is high time I set up my own Town establishment.”

Prudence's strangled protest was cut short by the arrival of the carriage. Once they were all ensconced inside, however, she turned horrified eyes upon her sister.

“You cannot be serious about living alone in Town, can you, Nessa? Only think of the talk that would ensue. Propriety demands—”

“Oh, you needn't worry, Prudence. I will engage a suitable companion when the time comes. And it is not as though I intend to move out in the morning.”

In fact, the idea of setting up her own household in London had only just occurred to her—but it suddenly seemed an excellent one.

“Move out!” Prudence was plying her fan again, leaning weakly back against the squabs. “But you have nowhere to go! Promise me you will not even think of such a thing, Nessa.”

“I can scarcely impose upon your hospitality for the rest of my life, Prudence. Surely you must see that.”

But Prudence shook her head. “I see no such thing. You may stay with us until you decide to return to the dower house at Haughton—or remarry. There will no doubt be several eligible and respectable gentlemen at the Plumfields'—far more respectable than that cardplayer, Mr. Galloway. I will endeavor to introduce you.”

Nessa smiled at her sister, but said firmly, “I have no plans to return to the country in the near future. That dower house is positively grim, I assure you. And I do not intend to remarry, in even the distant future. I simply wish to settle in Town for the present.” And live on my own terms, she added silently.

“While I understand your feelings, Sister, remember that your cousin would have to authorize the release of your funds for such a move,” Lord Creamcroft reminded her. “In any event, I hope you will let no thought of inconveniencing us cause you to hasten such a decision. We are more than happy to have you with us for as long as you will stay.”

“Thank you, Philip,” Nessa replied warmly, though she cringed at the thought of what Cousin Filmore's response to such a request would likely be. She'd quite forgotten that her small fortune was under his control, as he'd been generous with her allowance. “I'm sure I can convince my cousin—” She broke off, noticing that her sister appeared to be on the verge of a faint. “I, er, believe Prudence requires your attention.”

Turning, Lord Creamcroft perceived his wife's distress and took both her hands most tenderly in his own. “There, there, my dear. It'll all work out for the best, you'll see.” As she was unresisting, he dared a quick kiss on her cheek.

That brought Prudence to her senses immediately. “Philip! I mean, my lord! I mean—”

Nessa began to chuckle, earning a reproachful glance from her sister. “Oh, never mind me. I'll just watch Mayfair go by.” She directed her gaze resolutely to the carriage window and was gratified to hear her sister's indignant exclamation suddenly muffled by what could only be a kiss. Yes, there was hope for true happiness there yet.

But what of her own?

~   ~   ~

“WHERE TO NEXT, Jack?”

Lord Peter still sounded remarkably chipper, but Jack favored him with a sour look. They'd gone first to the Plumfield ball, but the Creamcroft party had not arrived, though they were generally expected—a fact that took some forty-five minutes to ascertain. Then they'd gone to the Trumball card party, only to discover that Lady Haughton, her sister, and brother-in-law had left twenty minutes earlier.

Next they'd stopped in at a ridotto at the Peckerings, which Peter had suddenly recalled, but with no luck. The Creamcrofts had neither been nor were they particularly expected, though they had been invited.

Miranda Dempsey, the vivacious, redheaded widow with whom Jack had dallied in Paris, had been there, however. She was clearly more than eager to rekindle their brief, torrid romance, and he had only extricated himself with some difficulty.

“Let's go back to Plumfields',” suggested Jack, now that he and Peter had made their escape. At the moment, he was far more inclined to head back to the club, or even home, but it was not in him to give up—not yet.

“Just what I was going to suggest myself,” agreed Peter cheerily. “Off we go, then!”

Jack settled back into the carriage for the fourth time that evening, reflecting, as they clattered along the streets of Mayfair, that his friend was enjoying this mad search far too much. Blast it, did Peter want him leg-shackled for life? His own enthusiasm for the plan was waning rapidly.

Lord and Lady Plumfield had abandoned their posts at the head of the stairs by the time Jack and Peter returned, so at least they were spared immediate comment upon their odd schedule for the evening. Harry, however, had arrived in their absence, and spotted them at once.

He accosted them reproachfully when they were but a few steps inside the ballroom. “Devil take it, Jack, I thought you meant to come here first. I've been cooling my heels here for half an hour, at least.”

“It appears you've been well rewarded for your time.” Jack nodded toward the glass of fine champagne in Harry's hand. “Do you never purchase your own spirits?” The cut was beneath him, he knew, but the evening's fruitless hunt had set his temper on edge.

Harry appeared positively cheered by his remark, however. “Not if I can avoid it, old boy!” He drained the glass that had been recalled to his notice and signaled a passing waiter for another. “Oh, your quarry is in the dance at the moment, I believe.”

Jack experienced an inexplicable lightening of his mood. “Lady Haughton is finally here, then?”

“Oh, so you were here before? Wench leading you a merry chase, is she? Quite an active social life for a widow just out of her weeds.”

Jack's mood became just a shade less light.

Harry now turned to his companion. “You were right, by the bye, Pete. She is a taking little thing. Begin to understand Jack's determination, though given her current course, I'm not sure he need go so far as parson's mousetrap. Offer her a slip on the shoulder first, Jack,” he advised his friend kindly.

Though he glared at Harry, Jack couldn't keep his lips from twitching slightly. “You forget the point, Harry. The idea is for Lady Haughton to repair my reputation, not for me to ruin hers.” He couldn't deny, however, that the notion held more than a modicum of appeal.

“You'd best hurry, then.” Harry indicated the near lefthand side of the ballroom with a motion of his head.

Jack followed his glance and then stiffened, an odd mixture of vexation and elation welling up inside him. There stood the object of his quest, resplendent in deep rose silk. Flowers of the same shade adorned her chestnut curls, which she wore loose to her bare shoulders. Though her gown was cut no lower than most of the others here, its contrast to the high-necked black dress he'd last seen her wearing made it seem outrageously seductive.

Momentarily rendered speechless by the vision before him, Jack merely observed—only to realize abruptly that Lady Haughton was surrounded by no fewer than six gentlemen, with all of whom she seemed to be conducting a flirtation! Excusing himself from his companions, he strode toward her.

~   ~   ~

NESSA WAS CERTAIN she had never enjoyed an evening so much in her life. The Westercotts' soiree on Saturday had been but a trial run. In fact, she had dared only two dances there, so severe was Prudence's disapproval—and so rusty were her skills. Though her parents had permitted their daughters to learn all of the approved dances, they'd been afforded very few opportunities to practice in public—and after her marriage, Nessa had danced only thrice, at small country gatherings.

Tonight, she had a mind to throw caution to the winds. Winning at whist while tentatively flirting with Mr. Galloway had been a highly entertaining novelty, and now she had just concluded her third dance, with the promise of several more to come.

And such attentive young men! She turned a blind eye to Prudence's reproachful looks from across the room, just as she had earlier turned a deaf ear to her sister's strictures on which gentlemen were respectable enough to be worthy of her notice. Respectability was the very last thing she was seeking tonight!

“Why, what a charming thing to say, Sir Lawrence,” she responded to a particularly outrageous compliment, flitting her fan experimentally. The fan was something else she needed proper instruction on, she realized. Else she might send signals she did not intend. But so what if she did? she asked herself with sudden recklessness.

“No more than the truth, I assure you, Lady Haughton,” said her young cavalier. “You outshine every other woman present.”

“Indisputably,” agreed Mr. Pottinger, a handsome man of more mature years but with a decided lisp. “You have given new life to the Little Season, my lady.”

It was nice, Nessa reflected, to know that not everyone disapproved of her as Prudence did. Resolutely, she squelched the twinge of conscience that threatened to assail her.

“You are all very kind,” she assured the small cluster of gentlemen surrounding her. “As new to the social scene as I am, it is most pleasant to have made so many friends already.”

A clamor arose as they all attempted to convey how very honored they were to be counted among her friends, and Nessa positively basked in the attention. Surely, enjoying such harmless flattery could not be so evil as she'd always been led to believe.

The orchestra struck up the opening strains of the next dance—a waltz. At least three of her gallants stepped forward to lead her out, but before she could formulate a suitable excuse, another voice spoke from behind her.

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but I believe the lady has promised this particular dance to me.”

Whirling, she found herself transfixed by the piercing blue eyes of Lord Foxhaven. Why her heart should leap so at his appearance she had no idea, unless it were sudden fear that now she was wearing colors he might recognize her as the masked Monique. Bemused, she allowed him to take her hand in his. As he led her toward the assembling dancers, however, sanity abruptly returned.

“I… I fear I cannot oblige you, my lord,” she stammered.

He gazed down at her, his expression unreadable. “Engaged to someone else, are you?”

“Yes. That is, no. That is…” Nessa gave it up, realizing that glib excuses would not work on this man—not that she was precisely managing glibness. “I'm afraid I do not waltz, my lord,” she finally said in a small voice.

To her surprise, Lord Foxhaven broke into a wide smile. “Do you not indeed? Then, my lady, it is high time you began.” Ignoring her inarticulate protests, he whirled her out onto the floor, then placed one hand lightly on her waist.

Nessa quickly moved from under his hand. “My lord, you do not understand,” she whispered frantically. “I do not know how to waltz! I never learned.”

For the barest moment the marquis looked surprised, but then he gave her a reassuring smile. “'Tis really a very simple dance: three steps repeated, in time to the music. Just follow my lead. I promise not to attempt any of the fancier movements—not until you've learned the basics.”

A half-wink gave his words a deeper meaning, and Nessa felt herself flushing. The sensation was not unpleasant, however. “Very well, my lord. I shall hold you to your word.” She let added meaning color her own words as well, and saw his eyes light in response.

He again placed his hand at her waist, its warmth seeming to spread in all directions. Though the dance was not quite so easy as he had implied, Nessa found that with some concentration she was able to overcome the distracting effect of his touch enough to follow his steps. Occasional, surreptitious glances at the other dancers assisted her as well.

Still, she could not deny that this particular dance was a disturbingly intimate experience. No wonder her father had so strongly disapproved of the waltz! Though Lord Foxhaven took no liberties, she was acutely aware of the placement of each long finger against her body, pressing and releasing as they moved to the music. By the time the music ended, she believed she could cautiously claim to be able to waltz—a gratifying accomplishment—but she would never look upon the dance in the same way again.

“I thank you for the lesson, Lord Foxhaven,” she said breathlessly as they twirled to a stop.

He shook his head. “The lady does not thank the gentleman for the dance, Lady Haughton. I see you are more unschooled in the ways of polite Society than you pretend. The honor, by the dictates of custom, must be mine.”

Placing her hand on his arm to accompany him from the floor, she regarded him uncertainly. “By the dictates of custom?” She tried to keep the disappointment from her voice.

But then his eyes smiled into hers, warming her again. “Not only by custom,” he said, his voice silken. “I enjoyed the experience of instructing you exceedingly. It is an experience I look forward to repeating, perhaps in other areas.”

Nessa's face flamed as she read a meaning into his words that was doubtless far more lascivious than he had intended. Why did her mind always seem to run along such paths when she was near this man?

“Thank you, my lord,” she managed to murmur as they reached the crowd surrounding the dance floor. Prudence was waiting for her, looking thoroughly shocked.

“Lady Creamcroft.” Lord Foxhaven executed a respectful bow. “Might I procure refreshment for you both? Ratafia, perhaps?”

“Thank you, no, my lord,” replied Prudence stiffly. Nessa stopped herself on the verge of requesting a lemonade, and instead shook her head, but accompanied her refusal with a smile.

Lord Foxhaven bowed again and left them.

“Nessa, what can you have been thinking?” Prudence demanded the moment he was out of earshot. “And where on earth did you learn to waltz? Not in Lord Haughton's household, I'll take my oath.”

Nessa suddenly found her sister's overbearing propriety almost amusing, where a month ago she'd considered it the norm. “Actually, Prudence, you just witnessed my first lesson. Was it not kind of Lord Foxhaven to offer to instruct me?”

“Kind?” Prudence was obliged to fan herself vigorously before she could continue. “I'll have you know that I myself have never waltzed—not even with my husband! You know what Father always—”

“Father said a great many things,” interrupted Nessa. “But we are adults now, Prudence, and must make our own decisions. Truly, you should try the waltz. It is really quite easy. I'm sure Philip would be more than happy to teach you.”

For a moment Prudence appeared to waver, but then she frowned. “I should never be able to bring myself to ask such a thing of Phil—that is, Lord Creamcroft. What might he think of me?”

“He might think his wife was becoming a living, breathing woman, instead of the stone statue her father raised,” Nessa suggested.

“Nessa, really!” Prudence's eyes reproached her. “I begin to think you must always have harbored these… irregular propensities. Did Lord Haughton never suspect?”

Nessa shook her head. “If I have always harbored them—and I don't believe they're in the least irregular or unnatural—then I managed to hide them almost as well from myself as from the rest of the world. I begin to see that it was the strictures laid upon us by our father—and upon me by Lord Haughton—that were unnatural. I wish that you could see it too, Prudence.”

But Prudence merely clicked her tongue and hurried away to her husband's side, to put an end to what was clearly becoming a most disturbing conversation.

Nessa watched her sister's retreat with mingled pity and amusement. So much happiness awaited poor Prudence, if she would only reach out her hand to grasp it! If she herself were married to a man of her own generation, one who actually loved her…

No. Marriage was a trap, a cage. Five years' experience had made that abundantly clear. Her own happiness must lie along a different path from her sister's. But when she saw it offered, she was determined that she would not hesitate to seize it.

SIX

NESSA CAME DOWNSTAIRS rather later than usual the next day, to find her sister awaiting her in the drawing room.

“So there you are, Nessa! I'd begun to fear you meant to sleep the day away,” Prudence greeted her. “I wished to have a word with you before your first caller arrives.”

Nessa's heart sank at the prospect of another lecture. But— “My first caller? Am I expecting callers?”

“After your tremendous success last night, I would be most surprised if you did not have several. Three bouquets of flowers have already arrived, as you can see.”

Nessa regarded the elaborate arrangements her sister indicated with wide eyes.

Prudence continued. “You are still very innocent of the ways of Society, I see. Therefore, I wished to, ah, advise you with respect to some of the gentlemen you met last night, and who might possibly come to call.”

“Advise me?” Nessa asked suspiciously. “Why did you not do so during the drive home?”

“With Lord Creamcroft in the carriage?” Prudence was aghast. “'Twould have been most unseemly. However, now that we have a moment alone, I consider it my duty, as your sister and as one more acquainted with those who make up London Society, to put you on your guard. It is quite possible that some of the gentlemen with whom you danced last night do not intend marriage.”

Despite her sister's serious expression, Nessa laughed. “Marriage? Prudence, did I not tell you last night that I have no desire to marry again? Perhaps you can warn me about the ones who do intend marriage, so that I can avoid them in the future.”

“But… but, surely you weren't serious? You've made it amply clear—” she indicated the cerulean blue round dress Nessa wore— “that you are not pining for Lord Haughton's memory. A widow as young as yourself… What respectable alternative is there?”

Nessa hesitated a moment before speaking. “I wish to explore my options, Prudence,” she finally said in as reasonable a tone as she could manage, “and not be rushed into anything I could regret for the rest of my life. I had no choice in the matter of my marriage to Lord Haughton, but now I have. If I choose not to marry, that is my concern.”

Prudence tried once more. “Please, Nessa, listen to me. There are some gentlemen you simply must not encourage—most particularly if you do not intend to marry right away. Some are mere fortune hunters, but a few of them would be only too eager to ruin you. That Mr. Galloway, with whom you played whist, may be one. But by far the most dangerous must be—”

The butler entered just then, as though to complete Prudence's sentence by announcing the very name she'd been about to utter. “Lord Foxhaven,” he intoned.

~   ~   ~

JACK WAS IN EXCEPTIONALLY fine spirits today. Though Lady Creamcroft had rebuffed him at every turn last night, her sister had not. In fact, she had rather obviously enjoyed his attentiveness, granting him one more dance (though not a waltz) near the end of the evening. He felt certain that he would have her securely betrothed to him well within the month he had set as his goal. Perhaps even within the week.

In this optimistic frame of mind, he presented himself at the Creamcroft Town house promptly at eleven o'clock, the earliest acceptable hour for callers. After Lady Haughton's success last night, he did not deceive himself into believing he would be her only suitor, but he intended to be the first.

“I bid you good day, ladies,” he said jovially as soon as he was announced. Advancing into Lady Creamcroft's pristine drawing room, he bowed first over his hostess' hand, ignoring her chilly response, and then over Lady Haughton's.

Deliberately, he brushed one gloved finger across her wrist, where it lay bare between glove and sleeve, as he lifted her hand to his lips. While he did not—quite—kiss her hand, he brought it a full inch closer to his lips than the prescribed custom. A slight widening of her eyes showed him that she noticed—and did not necessarily disapprove.

Lady Creamcroft's throat-clearing indicated that she also had noticed, and quite definitely disapproved. “How nice to see you again so soon, my lord,” she said, her tone conveying exactly the opposite.

“I could not bear to stay away.” Some devil of mischief prompted Jack to accompany his broad smile with a wink. He was rewarded by seeing Lady Creamcroft stiffen until he could almost see her quills. He wouldn't have believed such a young, pretty thing could be so starched up.

“We are most flattered, are we not, Prudence?” responded Lady Haughton, as her sister was clearly incapable of speech at the moment. Lady Creamcroft gave a single, frigid nod.

“Pray do not reduce to flattery words that are the simple truth, my lady.” Seating himself near his object, Jack turned the full force of his charm—which numerous ladies had led him to believe was considerable—upon her. “Lovely as you were last night, I find you even more so in the light of day, and free of distracting adornments.”

“My adornments were excessive then, my lord?” she asked with a smile. Yes, she was definitely learning to flirt.

“I said no such thing, of course. Did I not already pay tribute to the effect you achieved? Such loveliness as yours, however, shines the brighter with less to conceal it.”

She pinkened slightly, clearly taking his meaning. “I… I see, my lord.” Her confusion told him that while she might enjoy pretending to sophistication, she had not yet achieved it—which was all to the good.

Lady Creamcroft now found her tongue again, just as her sister appeared to have momentarily lost hers. “Lord Foxhaven,” she said severely, “I must ask you not to trifle with my sister. She is unused to the ways of Society—particularly the more… unrestrained ones.”

“Trifle?” Jack placed one hand melodramatically upon his chest. “You wound me, Madam! I would not dream of trifling with Lady Haughton, I assure you. I give you my word that my intentions toward your sister are entirely honorable.”

“Oh.” Lady Creamcroft blinked, clearly surprised, but only slightly mollified. “I… I am very glad to hear that, of course, my lord.”

He inclined his head in a half-bow he hoped did not imply any mockery. After all, he could not claim that Lady Creamcroft's suspicions were unjustified, given what his life had been up to this point.

Turning back to Lady Haughton, he found her watching him with an expression he could not decipher. A trace of alarm, certainly, but also something else—disappointment? But no, that made no sense.

“I trust the thought of me as a serious suitor is not distasteful, my lady?”

Her small smile did seem somewhat forced. “I am honored, of course, my lord, if a bit surprised. I had not thought you the serious sort, I must confess.”

Yes, his campaign was progressing nicely, no doubt about it. “Then I must endeavor to alter your perception of me.”

~   ~   ~

NESSA, HOWEVER, did not wish her perception altered. Honorable intentions? Lord Foxhaven had honorable intentions toward her? That could only mean he intended to make her an offer of marriage—not at all what she wanted from him! She had hoped he might help her to enjoy her new freedom, but now it appeared he wished to curtail it instead, just as Prudence did.

The butler reentered the drawing room just then, to announce the arrival of Sir Hadley Leverton and his sister.

Lord Foxhaven rose. “Before I take my leave, might I persuade you to come driving with me in the Park this afternoon, Lady Haughton?”

Perhaps, Nessa thought hopefully, he had only said that “honorable” bit to appease Prudence. Her spirits recovering, she nodded. “Why, thank you, my lord. I should enjoy that.”

Bowing first to her, then to the clearly suspicious Prudence, he took his leave, greeting the newcomers on his way out.

Though she smiled and said all that was proper, Nessa scarcely attended to Sir Hadley's greeting, or to the introduction of his sister, Miss Amanda Leverton. She had danced twice with Sir Hadley last night, after Prudence had arranged an introduction. Nessa found him handsome enough, and he was not so many years older than herself, but his conversation was decidedly dull.

“How very kind of you, Sir Hadley, to acquaint your sister with mine. She has so few friends in London, as yet, that every suitable acquaintance must be welcome.” Prudence gave Nessa a meaningful glance as she spoke, to reinforce that Sir Hadley and his sister met her exacting standards for approval.

Sir Hadley bowed formally. “I assure you, Lady Creamcroft, that Amanda was most eager to make Lady Haughton's acquaintance after hearing all that I said in her praise. I myself come prepared again to admire, and to make myself agreeable.”

Prudence smiled benignly.

Nessa, however, felt as if she were being driven toward the altar like a hapless beast to the slaughter. But she would not go tamely. Not this time!

“Sir Hadley tells me you are but recently come to Town, Lady Haughton.” Miss Leverton, an angular young woman with an unfortunately long nose, seated herself on Nessa's left. Her brother took the spot so recently vacated by Lord Foxhaven, on her other side. “I know how overwhelming it must be to one who has spent so little time in Society. I should like to offer my assistance in helping you to fit in. I'm really quite good at that, am I not, Sir Hadley?”

“She is indeed,” agreed her brother. “I daresay Amanda was almost singlehandedly responsible for Miss Henderson's rise to popularity, and subsequent betrothal to Lord Durkle.”

Miss Leverton nodded. “Mrs. Henderson was ever so grateful to me, for it was a far better match than she had expected for her daughter. Not that Miss Henderson is so very plain, you understand. She simply needed polish.”

So this was why Prudence was encouraging this acquaintance! She must be hoping that the talented Miss Leverton might smooth away Nessa's own rough edges.

“And you were able to provide that polish, I presume.” Nessa shot an accusatory glare at Prudence, who had the grace to look vaguely embarrassed.

“She was indeed.” Sir Hadley was quick to praise his sister's accomplishment. “Nor is Miss Henderson—soon to be Lady Durkle—the only young lady Amanda has so benefited.”

A shame the young lady could not similarly benefit herself, thought Nessa sourly. “Quite the philanthropist, I perceive.” She did not take great pains to disguise the sarcasm in her voice, but the Levertons appeared not to notice. That Prudence did was evidenced by a quick, cautionary shake of her head.

Luckily for them all, other callers were announced at that juncture, allowing for a natural turn in the conversation.

~   ~   ~

JACK RETURNED TO Foxhaven House well satisfied with the progress of his campaign to acquire Lady Haughton for the benefit of his reputation. She was by no means immune to his charm, of that he was certain. Perhaps a leisurely courtship would be possible after all. If a stick-in-the-mud like Sir Hadley Leverton was willing to introduce his sister to Lady Haughton, her respectability must still be intact, colorful wardrobe or no.

“A gentleman awaits you in the library,” his butler informed him as Jack cheerfully divested himself of hat and cloak.

“Lord Peter Northrup?” He'd heard some new on dit, no doubt, that he felt Jack should know about.

“No, milord, a Mr. Woolsey. He arrived a quarter of an hour ago and insisted on staying. He says his business is urgent.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, intrigued. The name tickled at his memory, but he could not place it. “Thank you, Crump, er, Culp.”

When he entered the library, a tall, thin man rose to greet him. Jack thought he looked vaguely familiar, but did not fully recognize him until he spoke.

“I give you good day, Lord Foxhaven,” he said, bowing. “I have been sent with a message from the War Office.”

“Good to see you again, Woolsey,” Jack greeted the senior clerk, one known for his self-importance. “How goes the peace process?”

Mr. Woolsey produced a grimace that might possibly have been a smile, along with a sealed letter. “It progresses on various fronts. This message will no doubt tell you whatever it is you have need to know.”

Jack glanced at the envelope and his eyebrows rose at the sight of the Duke of Wellington's seal. “No doubt it will. I presume I may send any response to Whitehall?”

Mr. Woolsey sniffed. “You'll not wish to keep his Grace waiting. I am willing to remain while you compose it, my lord.”

“This instant?” Jack was incredulous. “Surely it can't be as urgent as all that, now we're at peace. I'm a busy man now, you know, with estates to consider.” He no longer had to jump at Wellington's command—or anyone else's. The knowledge gave him a perverse delight.

Unwilling respect colored Mr. Woolsey's response, pleasing him further. “Of… of course, my lord. You may send your response to Whitehall.”

“Thank you, Mr. Woolsey. I'll be in touch.”

Jack waited until the man was gone to break the seal on the Duke's letter. Its contents were brief and to the point.

Recently appointed to the post of ambassador to Louis XVIII's court, Wellington had reason to believe certain factions intended his removal, not only from Paris but from life. Given that climate, he wished to surround himself with a few people he could trust. In particular, he felt that Major Ashecroft's experience as an unorthodox but clever strategist, combined with his other distinctive abilities, would be of great benefit in exposing any plots before they came to fruition. He was therefore “invited” to join his former commander at the royal court in Paris.

Jack perused the letter again, thoughtfully. He had no doubt that there were many in France who would count it quite a coup to dispose of the great Duke of Wellington who had so embarrassed Napoleon's forces. He was surely in far greater danger than he implied in writing, for Wellington was no coward.

Jack had made quite a name for himself over the course of his military career, he knew, for his ability to extract information, supplies, and other, more personal favors, from sources of all ranks and nationalities. Wellington plainly thought those particular abilities could be put to good use in Paris just now. Just as plainly, the Iron Duke had not yet heard of Jack's succession to his title.

A post in Paris, working again under Wellington—the only man other than his grandfather whose respect had ever mattered to him. The idea appealed to Jack, on various levels. But it would be the death of any chance of fulfilling his grandfather's dying wish. Once back amid the licentious atmosphere there, he had no doubt that he would give way to temptation in short order, making his previous excesses seem tame by comparison. His character—and reputation—would be fixed, as the most debauched Lord Foxhaven England had ever known.

Unless…

Unless he married first, and brought his bride along. Surely Lady Haughton would be proof against the temptations of Paris. With a respectable wife, he might strike a blow for England and still keep his resolution to honor his grandfather's wishes. It was the only way.

So a leisurely courtship was out after all. This very afternoon he would attempt to obtain Lady Haughton's promise. And the moment he had her secure—by this evening, no doubt—he would send his response to the Iron Duke.

~   ~   ~

LADY HAUGHTON did not keep him waiting above two minutes, which Jack took as an excellent sign. That she apologized for such a brief delay augured even better.

“I left my muff upstairs,” she explained as she joined him and Lady Creamcroft downstairs, “and Prudence reminded me that I'd be chilly without it—at least in an open carriage. Is yours?”

“It is indeed.” Endeavoring to hide his amusement, he indicated his high perch phaeton through the drawing room window. For a moment he thought Lady Haughton would clap her hands, but she merely clasped them tightly together instead.

“How famous! I've never ridden in such a conveyance in my life. Shall we go?”

A chuckle escaped him despite his efforts, so childlike was her delight. “Very well, my lady. Lady Creamcroft, your servant.” He bowed to the wooden-faced Prudence and escorted her lively young sister from the house.

Jack assisted Lady Haughton up the short ladder into the phaeton. “I fear your sister does not entirely approve of me,” he commented, once they were out of earshot.

“Oh, pray do not mind Prudence.” She settled herself into the seat, then looked over the edge as if to judge the distance to the ground. “She truly believes she is looking out for my best interests.” The face she turned back to him showed no trace of alarm at the height of the carriage.

Jack smiled his approval. More worldly ladies than she had exhibited substantial nervousness at being suspended nearly six feet above the street. “You are fortunate to have someone to watch over you so carefully.” He whipped up the horses.

“Yes, I suppose so,” she replied with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. Her face brightened again as the pair of bays broke into a brisk trot. “Are these carriages as dangerous as Prudence says?”

“Only in the hands of an inept driver,” Jack assured her, though she seemed to need no such reassurance. The smile she sent his way in response nearly took his breath away. He realized again how very lovely she was. “A diamond of the first water,” Peter had said. By Jove, the man was right.

It was no more than three blocks from Upper Brook Street to the Grosvenor gate of Hyde Park. Only moments later they turned in to join the throng already assembled along the paths to enjoy the fine October day. Jack had already decided that this would be the proper moment to launch the next stage of his campaign—achieving a first-name acquaintanceship.

“That deep shade of green particularly becomes you, Lady Haughton… or may I call you Agnes?”

To his surprise, she laughed at him. “Not if you wish me to answer, my lord.” Her eyes danced merrily, so she could not be offended. “I've always detested that name. Family and friends call me Nessa,” she explained. “You may do so as well.”

Only as the feeling subsided did Jack realize how dismayed he'd been for a moment, thinking she had rebuffed him. Now he grinned in relief. “And you may call me Jack. I, too, prefer a nickname to my given one.”

She inclined her head playfully. “Very well then, Jack. The name suits you, I think.”

“And Nessa, you. I confess I'd had difficulty thinking of you as an 'Agnes.'“

“I'm relieved to hear it!” she replied, and they laughed together, drawing stares from two nearby carriages and a few pedestrians.

As he had with so many of the gambles he'd taken throughout his career, Jack decided to hazard everything upon a single throw.

“Lady Haughton—Nessa. I enjoy your company as much as that of any woman I've ever known. In fact, I believe we deal remarkably well together. It is my wish that we might always do so.”

Her eyes widened to astonished pools of liquid brown, but she did not pretend to misunderstand him. “I had hoped, when you implied such an intention this morning, that 'twas merely to mollify Prudence, but I see now it was not so. I must apologize, Jack, if I have in any way led you to believe I expected such a declaration.”

Jack felt the first stirrings of misgiving, though he took her continued use of his name as a hopeful sign. “This is entirely my own inclination, I assure you, Nessa.” He transferred the reins to one hand so that he could take hers with the other. “I wish you to become my wife. Will you?”

Gently but firmly, she extricated her hand from his clasp. “I'm most honored, of course, but I fear my answer must be no. I have no intention of marrying again, ever, no matter how much I might like a man.”

As stunned as though she had dumped cold water upon his head, Jack nearly let the reins go slack, before the sidling of his spirited horses recalled him. Bringing them quickly under control, he turned back to this most startling woman. “You are certain?”

She nodded. “I am absolutely resolved, and have been so for some time. I'm sorry, Jack.”

SEVEN

NESSA WATCHED the rapid play of emotions across Jack's face with some concern. Was it possible that he actually cared enough for her to be wounded by her refusal? It seemed highly unlikely. More reasonable was the theory that he needed her wealth, though Prudence had implied he was quite well set-up financially.

“Jack?” she prompted softly, when he made no response to her final words.

He blinked, her voice apparently jarring him out of his thoughts. “I beg your pardon, Lady Haughton, and hope I have not offended you by my precipitousness.” His tone was distracted, as though his mind were not on his words.

“I gave you leave to call me Nessa, remember? I'm not at all offended, and do hope we can remain friends.”

The smile he gave her was rather twisted. “Friends. Of course.” He studied her for a moment, consideringly, then leaned toward her. “Very good friends, perhaps?” His voice was now low and suggestive.

Nessa felt a shiver of mingled alarm and excitement. But surely, this was what she'd been hoping for? “That… that might be pleasant.” Though she tried for a seductive tone, the words came out rather high and breathless.

Jack drove on for a few moments, and Nessa realized that he was guiding the phaeton down one of the less-traveled side paths of the Park. Again, that curious mixture of fear and anticipation coursed through her. What might he be intending?

A minute or two later, he pulled the horses to a halt. They'd rounded a bend and trees now screened them from any onlookers. Transferring the reins to one hand, he turned toward her.

“I'd like to be your very good friend, Nessa.” With his free hand, he reached out to gently—so gently—stroke her cheek. A wild jumble of feelings assailed her at his touch, so unlike any touch she'd experienced before.

Unconsciously, she leaned into his hand. “I… I should like that, Jack.” Again her voice trembled, defying her control.

Stroking again from temple to jawline, he then curled his fingers at the nape of her neck and drew her, again so gently, toward him. For just the barest second Nessa resisted, then became pliable under his touch, swaying forward until their lips were only inches apart.

“I should like that, too,” he said softly. Tilting his head slightly, he brought their lips together.

His kiss was not precisely demanding, but it was very thorough. He began by gliding his lips along the outer edges of hers, then delicately explored her lips with the very tip of his tongue. Finally he pressed his mouth firmly upon hers, and she felt her own soft and yielding beneath his. And then it was over.

Nessa realized she was breathing very quickly. Lord Haughton had never kissed her like that! His infrequent kisses had been either dry, fatherly pecks or wet and unpleasant—the latter during their occasional couplings. Lord Foxhaven's kiss was something else entirely.

And most pleasant.

She smiled up at him and thought he looked startled for a moment. “Is that how a rake kisses?” she asked. “I suppose there is something to be said for experience.”

He was undeniably startled now. “Lady Haughton—Nessa—you are a woman of continual surprises.” His hand, still on the nape of her neck, tightened there for an instant, as though to pull her to him again—but then he released her.

“I should take you back to your sister's. The fashionable driving hour is nearly over.”

Nessa tried to hide her disappointment. “Certainly, if you think it best, my lord.”

He gave her another lingering look that set her pulse, only beginning to slow, into another gallop. But then he turned his attention resolutely to the horses, taking the reins again in both hands. “There should be a place to turn around just ahead,” he said, flicking the pair to a trot.

They drove back to Upper Brook Street in silence but Nessa scarcely noticed, her mind was so busy. Had this been but a prelude to a future seduction, or had her kiss disappointed him into abandoning the idea? She wished she had the courage to ask but could think of no remotely delicate way to do so.

Certainly she had not been put off by that kiss, so much more enjoyable than the quick one she'd stolen at the masquerade. If that was a sample of what a notorious rake could do, perhaps she should peruse the entire catalogue of his skills. She shivered naughtily at the thought—one no gently bred lady should have allowed to cross her mind. But it appeared she might never have the chance to do more than think about it.

“Here we are, my lady,” said Jack, pulling the phaeton smartly to a halt in front of the Creamcroft house. Jumping down, he came around to help her from the carriage, then escorted her to the door. Frantically, she tried to think of some way to appease her curiosity.

“Will I see you again, my lord?” she finally asked in a rush, just as he plied the knocker. The door was opened immediately by the vigilant butler.

“Most assuredly, my lady,” he replied, to her vast relief. “I've never been one to surrender after a single setback.”

Leaving both Nessa and the butler to wonder what on earth he meant by that remark, he bowed, then walked briskly back to his phaeton.

~   ~   ~

“I TELL YOU, PETER, the easiest course by far would be to compromise her so that she has no choice in the matter. I would never have believed a widow with five years of marriage behind her could be such an innocent.”

Lord Peter, stretched at his ease before the fire in the Foxhaven House library, sat up to eye him with alarm. “Jack, you haven't already—that is—surely not in the Park?”

Jack laughed at him. “Of course not. 'Sdeath, Peter, I didn't think you believed all of those stories about me! It was damned tempting, however, I must admit. She seems surprisingly willing to enter into an affaire.”

Peter regarded him with interest. “So what stopped you?”

Jack frowned and flicked an invisible speck from his well-fitted tobacco-brown pantaloons. “Do you know, Peter, I'm not quite sure. I nearly crossed the line, thinking to force her to wed me in that way, but I've a profound dislike for changing my battle strategy without proper planning. Didn't expect her to refuse an honorable offer, you see.”

Peter blinked. “You mean to say you made her an offer in form? So soon? And she actually refused you?”

“Things were going exceptionally well,” Jack explained with a sigh. “She had let down her guard—she's really quite animated when away from Lady Creamcroft's influence, you know. We'd agreed to use each other's Christian names. The moment seemed propitious.” He stared moodily into the fire.

“Did she give a reason for her refusal? Has she formed an attachment for someone else?”

Jack's head snapped up. “No, of course not! In fact, she said that she was resolved against marriage, period. To me, or to anyone.”

For some reason, Peter seemed almost pleased. “She is but a week out of her weeds,” he reminded Jack. “Perhaps, given more time…”

But Jack shook his head. “Time is something I don't have. Wellington has requested my presence in Paris—and I've more than half a mind to go. But if I cannot secure Lady Haughton first—”

“You'll never have a prayer of becoming respectable,” Peter finished, “or of securing the balance of your inheritance.” He frowned. “You needn't go, surely? You've sold your commission, and as Foxhaven you certainly have no need to jump to Old Nosey's bidding.”

“True enough,” Jack agreed. “But to know Wellington thinks highly enough of my abilities to ask… I find myself reluctant to disappoint him.”

Peter thought for a moment. “Perhaps you could go to Creamcroft directly in the matter of his sister-in-law? Is he in a position to give consent to a match?”

Jack snorted. “Of course not. She is of age, and quite well placed, as I understand it. And even if he were, it seems an underhanded way to do things. Wouldn't augur well for future happiness, I shouldn't think.”

“I suppose that's true,” Peter agreed with a grin. “But compromising her ain't the answer either, Jack. The whole point, as you recall, was to elevate your respectability—not to lower hers.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Why do you think I stopped short of seduction this afternoon?” Jack had been asking himself that question ever since.

“You'll just have to persuade her, then. Woo her more conventionally—flowers, drives, poetry, that sort of thing.”

“Poetry?” Jack laughed. “Not my style, I assure you. Besides, as I said, there's no time. No, it'll have to be blackmail. I see no other way.”

Peter's jaw dropped. “Blackmail? What on earth can Lady Haughton have done to warrant that? Going so abruptly from blacks to colors ain't quite enough, in my opinion. Besides, everyone knows of it already. Surely old Haughton didn't do anything that you could hold over her head?”

Jack merely smiled and shook his head. “To be effective, I'm afraid it must remain my secret, Peter—and I still have some research to do on the matter. You'll know soon enough whether it works. Either there will be a betrothal announcement within the week, or I shall be on my way to Paris.”

“And perdition,” Peter muttered. “Whatever your scheme is, I hoped for your sake it will be successful.”

“Oh, I think it will.” For now Jack had a weapon—one that should give him just the leverage he needed.

~   ~   ~

IMMEDIATELY AFTER entering the main ballroom of Hightower House that evening, Nessa resumed her campaign to convince her sister to waltz. Not only was she convinced it would do Prudence a world of good, it was also a way to distract her own mind from the disturbing events in the Park that afternoon.

“Philip, have you never tried to induce Prudence to learn the waltz?” she asked her brother-in-law. “Surely you can convince her that it is not nearly so difficult or risqué as she seems to believe.”

Lord Creamcroft gazed fondly down at his wife. “Nothing would please me more than to waltz with her, but I have no wish to tease her into doing anything she finds objectionable.”

Prudence smiled her thanks at her husband, but Nessa chose to focus on the first part of his response.

“There, you see, Prudence? Nothing would please him more. Haven't you a duty to please your husband?” She knew that particular responsibility had been drilled as forcibly into her sister as herself.

“Oh!” Clearly Prudence had not considered the matter in that light before—nor, likely, had Philip ever spoken so plainly, without Nessa's prompting. “Is it true, Philip? Do you wish me to waltz?”

Lord Creamcroft placed an arm around his lady's shoulders and gave her a very discreet squeeze which nevertheless made her squeak. “Not if you don't want to, my dear. But should you ever wish to try it, I'd be more than agreeable.”

Prudence looked charmingly confused, but Nessa was distracted from this promising scene by the arrival of Sir Hadley and Amanda Leverton.

“Lady Haughton! How delightful to see you again so soon.” Miss Leverton accosted her. “I do hope you haven't had time to fill your dance card, as Sir Hadley most particularly wished to have a spot on it.”

Her brother stepped forward to agree, and to claim as many dances as she would grant him. Though Nessa had not yet been claimed for a single dance, having only just arrived, she allowed him but one—for now.

Other gentlemen were hurrying toward her by then, to renew acquaintances from the evening before or to seek introductions, rather to Nessa's relief. She wasn't sure whether it was Sir Hadley himself or Prudence's too-obvious approval of him which put her off, but she knew for certain she did not wish him to dominate her evening.

“Good evening, Mr. Galloway,” she said, half turning from the Levertons. “I see no card tables here, alas, so I fear we shall not have the opportunity of another victory.” She regarded the dashing young redhead with added interest, now that Prudence had indicated him as someone to avoid. Perhaps he would show her the wilder side of London life, if Lord Foxhaven—

She cut off that line of thought abruptly.

“Indeed, Lady Haughton, I had hopes of discovering whether you dance as well as you play at whist,” responded Mr. Galloway with a deep bow. A throat-clearing at his elbow made him glance over his shoulder. “Ah, yes. And I promised an introduction to my cousin, Mr. Gregory Orrin. Gregory, Lady Haughton. My claim for a dance comes before yours, however.”

In ten minutes, Nessa found herself committed for more than half the sets—though she kept the two waltzes free. She told herself it was because she hadn't yet enough experience with that dance to risk exposing herself or embarrassing her partner with a misstep.

Despite her inattention, the Levertons refused to leave her side, though Prudence and Lord Creamcroft were now chatting with other friends a few feet away. Perhaps Prudence felt the Levertons offered sufficient protection for the moment. Nessa might almost have suspected she'd arranged it with them.

“My dear, you must strive to appear less eager,” Amanda Leverton advised Nessa in an undertone during a lull in the conversation. “Try to cultivate an air of aloofness toward the gentlemen. 'Twill enhance your popularity, I assure you.”

“I thank you for your counsel to one so inexperienced as I.” Nessa glanced away before Miss Leverton could see the twinkle in her eye. Amanda, she had noticed, was engaged for but two dances thus far—one with her own brother.

The orchestra struck up the first dance then, and Sir Hadley stepped forward to lead Nessa onto the floor. Happily, it was a country dance, offering little opportunity for conversation. As they went down the dance, however, Nessa could not help noticing one or two details about her partner.

Though undeniably attractive and dressed both impeccably and respectably, Sir Hadley's coat showed faint signs of wear at the elbows and hem. The fit, while passable, did not speak of Weston or any of the other premier tailors in Town. Certainly, it was not up to Lord Foxhaven's standards…

Almost unconsciously, Nessa scanned the room. No, he was not here. Would she see him again, as he had promised, or had either her refusal or her subsequent behavior given him a disgust of her? Not that it mattered of course!

She favored poor Sir Hadley with a brilliant smile, causing him to miss his next step and earning him a glare from the young lady whose hand he had been supposed to grasp just then. Sir Hadley did not appear to notice.

Her next dance was with Mr. Galloway, and it was quite clear from Prudence's raised eyebrows that she did not approve. Nessa merely gave her sister a slight shrug, telling herself as she had last night that she would set aside time for guilt later on.

Mr. Galloway proved a bit of a disappointment as a dancer, however, his conversation far more practiced than his steps. Still, he flattered her at every opportunity, lightening her mood considerably.

“Having discovered you have two such talents makes me eager to uncover any others,” he said as he led her from the floor.

Nessa knew she should blush at such a statement, but somehow Mr. Galloway did not cause the same delightful confusion she felt when Lord Foxhaven used similar words. Still, she brought her fan into play, fluttering it between them in mock rebuff.

“La, sir,” she said, trying for a flirtatious tone, “Were I to fathom your meaning, I'm certain I should be quite shocked.”

“Shall I speak plainer?” Mr. Galloway asked, his eyes beginning to smolder.

A deep voice from behind Nessa said, “I'd advise against it. Shocking a lady is a far worse offense than confusing her.”

Nessa whipped around toward the speaker to find Lord Foxhaven regarding her with apparent amusement. Now her color did rise, as those shared moments in the Park that afternoon came flooding back.

He continued, speaking to Mr. Galloway rather than to her. “I know whereof I speak, believe me. Unexpected pronouncements may lead to equally unexpected results.”

Rather to Nessa's irritation, Mr. Galloway appeared intimidated by this new arrival. Dropping his arm from under her hand as though it had suddenly become hot as a poker, he bowed.

“Foxhaven. I must acknowledge you the authority in such matters. My lady.” Bowing again, he hastily decamped, leaving Nessa to stare after him in surprise.

“Is this how you intend to handle all rivals?” she demanded of Lord Foxhaven. “I presume you must be a crack shot, to have frightened poor Mr. Galloway so.” She could not help being nettled by that young man's abrupt defection, after all the flattery he had heaped upon her during their dance.

Jack chuckled, exasperating her further, even while something within her thrilled at the sound. “I probably have that reputation, yes. And once a reputation is established, I have found, little action is necessary to maintain it.”

Nessa regarded him uncertainly. Was he trying to tell her he was not a rake after all? Or, at least, not anymore? “I should imagine that depends on how thoroughly one's reputation was established to begin with, and through what means, my lord.”

“My lord? I thought we were Jack and Nessa now—or have you reconsidered?” The look in his eyes, even more than his words, recalled to her again the events in his phaeton that afternoon—and the feelings that had accompanied them.

“Er, yes, of course. I mean, no, I haven't reconsidered,” she amended hastily, wondering if he alluded to his offer, as well their use of Christian names. As her disjointed response elicited further amusement rather than disappointment, she decided not.

His smile was knowing now, as though he divined the nature of her conflict, but he only said, “Good. I should hate to have to re-take the ground I had already gained.”

She had no idea how to respond to that, so turned slightly from him as though to observe the room, in an attempt to display that aloofness Miss Leverton had advised. What an abysmal failure as a flirt she was turning out to be!

“Are you looking for someone?” he asked, and she wondered if she imagined the slight edge to his voice.

“My sister,” she replied, only belatedly realizing she'd have done better to name another gentleman. She didn't want Lord Foxhaven feeling too secure of her, particularly if he intended a renewal of his “honorable” courtship. “I've been trying to convince her to waltz,” she added by way of explanation, as the orchestra struck up the opening strains of that very dance.

“Then allow me to do the same with you. 'Tis time for your next lesson, I believe.” Jack held out his hand with a smile and Nessa responded by placing hers into it after only the slightest hesitation.

As they took their places, she finally spotted Prudence and Lord Creamcroft, moving toward one of the curtained arches leading into the hallway, rather than the dance floor. As she watched, the pair disappeared through the arch.

“Are you so proficient at the waltz now that you can dance it with your head turned backwards?” Jack's question brought her belatedly back to her own situation.

“Oh! I beg your pardon.”

With that encouragement, he led her into the steps of the dance. It really was as simple as she'd told Prudence, if more unsettling. Taking his hand from her waist, Jack twirled her for the first time, quite successfully. Her confidence rose.

“I meant what I said about refusing to surrender,” he commented then, as though it stemmed from their current conversation.

Though they were attempting no fancy steps at the moment, Nessa nearly stumbled. “I beg your pardon?”

Instead of repeating his statement, Jack asked a question of his own. “You like me, do you not, Nessa? You implied as much this afternoon.”

Nessa blinked. “Why… yes, of course, Jack. I find you quite, er, amiable.” Interesting or exciting would have been nearer the truth, but she settled on a safer word.

“Then perhaps you'd care to share your reasons for refusing my offer? If you find me amiable—” his emphasis on the word gave her the uncomfortable feeling that he was reading her thoughts— “then surely you must agree that we would deal well together.”

She focused on her steps for a moment before answering. “As well as could be expected in marriage, I suppose.”

“It sounds as though you have a poor opinion of the wedded state. While I have frequently encountered that attitude among those of my own sex, it is surely an unusual one for yours.”

Nessa met his quizzical gaze directly. “I can't imagine why. In my experience, the institution of marriage is tailored to serve the needs and desires of your sex rather than mine. For most women, wedlock is little more than indentured servitude, often to a capricious and exacting master.”

It was his turn to blink, rather to her satisfaction. She was also proud to note that she had not missed a step during the exchange. He twirled her again, and again she completed the turn successfully.

“Are you not basing your opinion on a somewhat limited sample, my lady?” he asked then. “What marriages have you been in a position to observe, other than your own and that of your parents and sister?”

She had no answer to that. Her life had been so sheltered up until three weeks ago that she had no more than a passing knowledge of any others—as he seemed well aware.

“Are not those enough?” she finally responded. “Surely you are familiar with the Scottish saying, 'Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me'? I should like to think I have learned from my experience, limited as it may have been.”

Looking up at him, she saw he was smiling. It provoked her into adding, “And as limited as my experience of marriage might be, my lord, I'll warrant it is greater than your own—or are you hiding a wife somewhere?”

He laughed aloud, drawing a few curious stares from other couples in the dance. “If I were, I would scarcely have made you an offer! But I acknowledge your hit, Nessa. I have no firsthand experience of the married state. Will you not consider tutoring me, in exchange for the dancing lessons?”

She grinned at his absurdity in spite of herself. “Hardly a fair bargain, Jack. A dance can be taught in a few hours.”

Forcing herself to greater sobriety, she continued. “I can't think why you should be so eager to wed, in any event. Surely the need to produce an heir cannot be terribly urgent to a man of your age and health.” Though faintly shocked at her own plain speaking, she awaited his response with interest—though why it should matter so vitally, she was uncertain.

“Is it so impossible to believe that I am smitten by your charms?” He twirled her yet again. They were really getting quite good at it. “I must marry eventually,” he continued before she could answer, “and I prefer to have the matter settled sooner rather than later. You seem an ideal choice, for a variety of reasons.”

Nessa still felt sure he was not telling her all. His response was too glib to bespeak a true attachment to her. “Might I know a few of those reasons?” she prompted, realizing belatedly that she might seem to be fishing for compliments.

“You are lovely, of course, and intelligent,” he replied quite seriously. “I quite enjoy your company, in fact. And, as I intimated to your sister, I am endeavoring to reform my ways. I believe you might help me to do so.”

To Nessa's relief, the dance ended just then. She was not certain she could have continued it, so chaotic were her thoughts. He wanted her for her respectability? She didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or slap him across the face. If she had repented of her earlier refusal for even an instant, it was now clear she'd made the right decision. Such a marriage would be far worse than the worst she had imagined.

“I'm sorry, my lord,” she began in a cold voice, but he had not finished.

“I had hoped to secure your consent in the conventional manner,” he continued, “but make no mistake that I shall obtain it nonetheless.”

She gaped at him. “You seem remarkably sure of yourself for a man who has been unequivocally refused.”

The smile he slanted down at her held a steely determination she had never marked in him before. “Yes, I suppose I am… Monique.”

EIGHT

NESSA FELT EVERY vestige of color drain from her face. She must have paled visibly, for Jack tightened his grip on her arm.

“’Sdeath! You're not going to faint on me, are you?”

Though more than a bit disoriented by the sudden shock, Nessa found herself oddly touched by his obvious concern. Shaking her head slightly, she pulled herself together. “No, of course not. Unhand me, if you please.”

He did so, and she continued. “How long have you known? I presume you have been planning this… this bit of extortion all along.” Fully recovered now, her tone was as quelling as she could make it.

Lord Foxhaven appeared far from quelled, however. “Actually, though I had my suspicions earlier, I was not until this afternoon that I was certain. Though I may occasionally forget a face or a name, I never forget a kiss.”

Nessa felt her face flame. Fighting down her panic and embarrassment, she said, “You have no proof, my lord. Do you honestly think anyone will believe your story, should you choose to tell it?”

Infuriatingly, he continued to smile. “A week ago, perhaps not. But given your more recent behavior, I suspect the truth would spread like wildfire. Such a delicious bit of gossip, don't you think?”

Nessa's heart sank, but she forced herself to speak bravely. “Do what you will, then. I will not be forced.”

She had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes harden, though his smile never wavered. “Indeed? Have you so little regard for your own reputation—and your sister's—as that?”

Doubt crept in. “Prudence? What has she to do with it? I attended that masquerade entirely without her knowledge.” Belatedly, Nessa glanced around to ascertain that no one had heard her indiscreet words.

“Oh, come now, Nessa. You can't be so ignorant of Society and its ways as all that. Surely you are aware that whatever you do, particularly while residing in your sister's household, must reflect upon Lord and Lady Creamcroft.”

“I shall move out then,” she retorted, her head held high. “I'd planned to do so anyway.”

Jack nodded sagely. “Of course you will. Your cousin, the present Lord Cherryhurst, will no doubt be quite willing to arrange it once he knows how you have comported yourself in London.” Nessa stared. “I've done my research, you see,” he explained.

She knew she was trapped. Tears threatened, but anger overcame them. “I will not be dictated to—not by Cousin Filmore, not by Prudence, and most particularly not by you!”

He arched one brow. “Wherever did you get the idea that I intended to dictate to you?”

“You are doing so right now!” she flared. Then, deliberately calming herself, “You wish me to marry you, do you not?” She enunciated her words clearly, as though speaking to a slow child. “Husbands dictate to their wives. It is the way of the world.” Even as she spoke, however, it occurred to her that she had never heard Philip “dictate” anything to Prudence.

“The way of your world to date, perhaps,” replied Jack softly, as they were now near the crowd at the edge of the floor. Glancing up, she was surprised to see that his expression had softened considerably as well. “Tyranny has no part in my plans for you, Nessa. In fact, you will almost certainly have more freedom as my wife than ever you'd have unmarried.”

Nessa frowned. “But you said you wished to marry me for my respectability. Surely you intend to ensure that I remain respectable after marriage?”

He opened his mouth and then closed it, clearly taken aback by her phrasing. “I did not precisely say that I wanted to marry you for your respectability—” he began.

“Not in those words, perhaps, but I well understood your meaning. I have played the paragon of virtue my entire life—first as daughter and then as wife. I had hoped to try my hand at other roles now.”

Before he could respond, Sir Lawrence hurried forward to remind her that the next dance was his. With great relief, she relinquished Lord Foxhaven's arm and returned to the floor for the contradanse just forming.

She tried to concentrate on the intricate steps of the dance, to keep her mind from her dilemma. Unfortunately, Sir Lawrence's conversation required little in the way of attention, consisting almost entirely of banalities.

Even had she not been burningly conscious of Lord Foxhaven's eyes following her about the room, Nessa would scarcely have been able to keep her thoughts from the remarkable conversation which had just taken place. Marrying him was out of the question, of course. Surely his threats against her reputation, and Prudence's, must be hollow, for he did not seem a vindictive man…

Her eyes strayed to his position at the edge of the ballroom. To her dismay, she saw that he was talking to her sister and brother-in-law. Surely he would not—

“You dance like a feather on the wind, Lady Haughton.” Sir Lawrence took her hand briefly as the figures brought them back together. “You must have kept in practice while living secluded in the country.”

She merely smiled. In fact, she'd done very little dancing during her marriage, though it was an exercise she had always enjoyed. No doubt if Lord Foxhaven had his way, she'd be forced to give it up again. Though he had been the one to insist she learn to waltz…

Again she looked in his direction, but now saw only Prudence standing there. Jack was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps the Creamcrofts had sent him packing. She knew the thought should relieve her, but somehow it did not. Or—a horrifying thought occurred to her—suppose Philip had called him out for insulting her? She didn't think her brother-in-law was the sort to react so, but suppose she was wrong?

The rest of the dance seemed to last an eternity, so impatient was she to discover what had passed between the others. It ended at last, and she wasted no time in hurrying to her sister's side.

“Why are you not dancing, Prudence?” she began, uncertain how to broach the subject that obsessed her.

Lady Creamcroft looked at her in surprise. “I have danced twice already, Nessa. You know that I am not in the habit of romping at a ball.”

“No, no, of course not, Prudence. I, er, had not realized you had—that is, I've been so occupied myself—”

“Yes, I had noticed.” Rather to Nessa's surprise, Prudence did not sound quite so disapproving as she had expected. “Really, Nessa, I cannot fathom why you wish to encourage that Mr. Galloway. He is not at all the thing. And as for Lord Foxhaven—”

Nessa held her breath when she paused.

“Well, I must admit that he has behaved unexceptionably in my presence, or almost so,” Prudence continued. “Had the stories about him not come from unimpeachable sources, I would doubt their veracity. But still, I pray you will be cautious.”

So he had apparently said nothing of consequence to her sister after all. Nessa let out her breath. “Thank you, Prudence. I will endeavor to follow your advice.”

Mr. Pottinger approached then to claim the next dance and Nessa accompanied him willingly enough, her mind somewhat calmer. They had taken only a step or two, however, when Lady Mountheath swept up to Prudence, just behind them.

“My dear Lady Creamcroft,” she said in carrying tones, “I am most grieved by what I hear—and by what I have observed with my own eyes, as well.”

Nessa slowed her pace somewhat, though her escort gave no sign that he had heard. Prudence's reply was inaudible, spoken as it was at a more seemly volume, but from Lady Mountheath's response it appeared she had claimed ignorance.

“Oh, come, my dear. The whole room, nay, the whole of Society is discussing your sister's scandalous behavior, and this very evening she has danced with more than one gentleman whom I'd have expected you to warn away from her. You know that you have always been dear to me, but of course I have my daughters' reputations to consider. Therefore, I am confident that you will not take it amiss when I say that I will not be the least offended should you find you have another engagement on the night of my next dinner party.”

Nessa froze, and would have turned back, but Mr. Pottinger urged her forward. “Ignore her,” he whispered. “'Tis the only thing you can do. Otherwise you lend credence to her words.”

Mechanically, she began moving again. Rage, pain, and shame battled for mastery of her feelings. That horrible, horrible woman! Somehow, she managed to go through the opening movements of the dance, but surreptitiously peeped at Prudence as soon as she could. Lady Mountheath had gone, and Philip was back at her side, much to her relief. Still, even from this distance, she could see that her sister was greatly distressed. What else had that hateful woman said? Had Jack already begun spreading the story of the masquerade?

By the time the dance ended, Nessa had forced herself to face the full consequences of flouting Society's rigid code. She had been deluding herself to think that she could live her life as she chose without serious repercussions. And now, she realized, her choices were even more limited than before.

If she retired to the country, she would have to live under the watchful eye of either her Cousin Filmore or the current Lord Haughton. She shuddered. At any rate, leaving Town now might only serve to fuel the gossip further. Try as she might, she could think of only one thing that would save Prudence further embarrassment and, just perhaps, give her the freedom she craved.

Marriage.

~   ~   ~

JACK TOOK A FINAL puff from one of the fine cigars provided by Lord Hightower for his gentlemen guests in the library. He very much feared that Nessa would call his bluff—for bluff, he now realized, it was. He respected Nessa's feelings too much to force her into marriage if the notion was truly repugnant to her. A most inconvenient scruple, in light of his situation, but there it was.

He tossed the butt of the cigar into an ashtray, nodded to the two gentlemen conversing on the other side of the room, and headed back to the ballroom. His first order of business must be to gauge her feelings, now that she'd had some time to think things over.

Lord Creamcroft, who had accompanied him to the library, had already returned to his wife's side, but Nessa was not with them. Jack's attention was caught, however, by the unusual pallor of Lady Creamcroft's complexion, combined with her husband's thunderous expression.

Jack's heart sank. Had Nessa already told her sister of his ultimatum? That would certainly complicate things. For all he knew, Creamcroft might even call him out—which would be awkward in the extreme. Odd that such a scenario had not occurred to him before, during the course of all his careful planning.

Taking a deep breath, Jack headed toward the Creamcrofts, prepared to undo whatever damage he had caused. Restoring his respectability, or even procuring the balance of his inheritance, he realized belatedly, was not important enough to justify ruining anyone else's life—most particularly Nessa's. No, not even important enough for him to be easy about upsetting the prudish Lady Creamcroft or her more pleasant husband.

He would simply go to Paris alone, if need be, and endeavor to exert some self control for the first time in his life. It could not be so hard as he imagined. Others managed it all the time.

When he was but a few strides away from Lord and Lady Creamcroft, he saw Nessa returning from the dance on the arm of some aging roué—Pottingly or something like that. She looked up just then and caught sight of Jack. Whispering something to her companion, she disengaged herself from his arm and hurried forward, intercepting Jack before he reached his destination.

“I'm happy to see you are still here, my lord,” she began breathlessly. “I feared… But that is neither here nor there. I have been thinking on what you said earlier.” She spoke quickly, as though to say something before she could change her mind, but Jack interrupted her anyway.

“So have I, Nessa.” He kept his voice low, but urgent. “I handled things poorly. If you would allow me to—”

“No, Jack, let me finish.” Her face set, she focused on a spot somewhere over his right shoulder. “I have decided I will marry you after all,” she said in a strained monotone. “You have only to name the date.”

Jack felt as if the earth had shifted on its axis beneath his very feet. A bolt of elation lanced through him, staggering in its intensity. “You… you have?”

She nodded, her pretty face still rigid and unsmiling.

Hard on the heels of his startling jubilation, doubt assailed him. Clearly she did not make this decision willingly. “Might I ask the reason for your volte-face?” he asked gently.

She did not quite meet his eyes. “Prudence. Lady Mountheath was quite abominable to her, because of me. I—I have realized that I cannot allow her to be dragged down in disgrace on my account, after all of her kindness to me.”

Inwardly, Jack cursed himself for being such a bungler. He had successfully wooed dozens of women. Why had he botched it the one time it mattered? He should let the matter drop—allow her to live her life as she wished. It was the only fair thing to do.

As he opened his mouth to do just that, he suddenly recalled the letter he'd received only that afternoon from Havershaw. Fire had destroyed one of his tenants' cottages. Until it could be rebuilt, a family of five would be homeless. Without that trust money…

“Do you not wish to marry me after all, my lord?” Nessa prompted as he hesitated.

“Yes. Yes, of course! I was simply… surprised by your sudden change of heart.” But he was all too aware that it was not truly a change of heart. Her expression was determined, resigned, but certainly not happy.

Sir Hadley came up behind her just then, no doubt to claim another dance, but Jack waved him away. “Lady Haughton is feeling overcome by the heat,” he said. “Be a good fellow and fetch her some lemonade. I shall escort her out onto the terrace, where it is cooler.” Sir Hadley bowed in some confusion and hurried off.

Jack led her through the French doors a short distance away, then paused. It certainly was cooler out here. In fact, it was downright frigid—not surprisingly, as it was late October. What had he been thinking? What the devil had happened to his vaunted ability to plan for every contingency? Nessa shivered.

“My apologies. Let's go into the parlor instead.” Leading her back inside, he indicated an archway. A few moments later they were seated on a divan, alone in the room but with the door discreetly half open. Taking both her hands in his, he said, “I will marry you, Nessa, but only upon two conditions.”

Despite her obvious distress, a spurt of laughter escaped her. “My, how the tables have turned! An hour ago you were bargaining for my hand. Now it appears I am to bargain for yours. What are your conditions?”

Jack reached out to stroke her cheek, pleased to see she was still in possession of her sense of humor. “Brave girl. Only these: first, that we schedule our wedding to take place before Christmas.” He paused and she nodded, accepting that. “Secondly,” he continued, “that you come with me to Paris.”

“Paris?” she breathed, her eyes wide.

He nodded. “I've been invited to a post at Louis' court. We would leave just after the first of the year. Consider it a honeymoon,” he added with a grin.

Though she frowned at that, Nessa nodded slowly. “Very well, Jack. I will go with you to Paris. And now,” she finally met his eyes, “I have a few conditions of my own.”

“Indeed? Let's have them, then.”

She ignored his teasing tone. “First, as I said before, I will not be dictated to. Or bullied. Or abandoned in the country while you pursue your pleasures in Town.”

He nodded solemnly. “You have my word.”

Though she looked startled, a smile flitted across her face. “And—I want the rest of those waltzing lessons you promised me.”

Jack laughed aloud at this conclusion, but quickly sobered. “We shall consider it settled, then.” He regarded her quizzically. “Surely a kiss would be appropriate, to seal our troth?”

She looked wary, but did not shy away when he leaned toward her. He covered her mouth with his, savoring the light, slightly floral scent of her skin and hair. She truly was exquisite—an excellent choice. As he deepened the kiss, she seemed to melt beneath him—much as she had that afternoon in the park. Her breath quickened and mingled with his, and again it took all of his self control to pull away.

“Is this how you mean to bend me to your will, my lord, now you have agreed not to dictate?” she asked as soon as she could speak.

Her quick recovery surprised him, but he answered readily enough. “Do you not find me persuasive? That is but one of many weapons in my arsenal, I assure you.”

She eyed him speculatively. “Indeed. I asked you this afternoon whether that was how a rake kisses. I don't recall that you ever answered me.”

He tried to choke back a laugh, but failed utterly. “No, I suppose I didn't. How should I answer? That is how I kiss. If I am to be categorized as a rake, then I suppose the answer must be yes.”

The sparkle did not leave her eyes. “Ah, but you aren't truly a rake anymore, are you? Perhaps I shall never know for certain how a real rake behaves toward a lady.”

Nessa would never bore him, of that Jack was absolutely certain. “You little minx! How on earth did you ever attain such a spotless reputation in the first place?”

“By being relentlessly respectable, of course,” she replied. “Did I not tell you I was heartily tired of it?”

“You did. And sometime you must tell me what it was like and just why you developed such an aversion… but not now. I perceive Sir Hadley and your lemonade have found us.”

Practiced in such matters, Jack expertly and surreptitiously straightened a ruffle of Nessa's rose gown and one of his lapels before turning to face the interloper. “My apologies, Leverton. It was too cold on the terrace for Lady Haughton's comfort, so we changed our venue for her recovery. She seems much more the thing now.”

Sir Hadley glanced suspiciously from one to the other, but Jack regarded him serenely—as did Nessa, he noted with approval.

“Is that my lemonade, Sir Hadley? You are a dear, thank you. I'm quite parched.” She took the glass from her erstwhile suitor with a breathtaking smile, earning a grudging one in return.

“My honor to be of service, my lady,” he said, bowing. “My very great honor. Perhaps I might persuade you to accompany me back to the ballroom?” He sent a darkling glance at Jack.

“An excellent idea. I'll come with you.” Jack rose and extended a hand to help Nessa to her feet, forestalling Sir Hadley, who had perforce to precede them from the room. Jack took the opportunity to whisper, “Shall I approach the Creamcrofts, or do you wish to speak with them first?”

The look she flashed him held a hint of alarm. “Let me do it, please! I'm not certain how—” But Sir Hadley had turned back, so she broke off. “Thank you, my lord,” she concluded, more audibly.

Her face giving no hint of the turmoil she doubtless felt, Nessa proceeded regally to the ballroom to dance the next set with Sir Hadley. Jack wasn't certain he could have performed any better himself, under the circumstances. Yes, she'd do quite nicely.

~   ~   ~

THE REMAINDER OF THE EVENING passed far too quickly for Nessa, dreading as she was the announcement she must make to Prudence during the drive home. She danced one more waltz with Jack, and honored her other, previous commitments on the floor, but sat out the remainder of the dances to give herself time to think.

Her newfound popularity was an impediment to this goal, however. Between Miss Leverton and various interested gentlemen, she was given little time to herself.

“Are you certain you do not wish for another glass of ratafia?” Mr. Galloway asked, seating himself rather too close to her on the bench where she'd sought refuge behind a potted palm.

“Quite certain, thank you,” she replied, scooting an inch or two away from him. “I am merely a bit tired. Pray go and enjoy the dance.”

No sooner had he left her than Miss Leverton appeared with a fresh volley of advice for Lady Haughton's improvement. Nessa smiled and nodded at what she hoped were appropriate intervals while her mind traveled other paths.

Was she doing the right thing? If not, what alternative did she have? She imagined life in the country, at Haughton Abbey's dower house—an intolerable prospect. Or at Cherry Oaks, where her Cousin Filmore, a man after her father's heart, now held sway. Even worse.

No, marriage to Lord Foxhaven must be superior to either of those alternatives. Mustn't it? He had promised much, but of course she had no way to enforce those promises. She hoped she could trust him. And Paris…!

“You understand what I mean, do you not, Lady Haughton?”

“Oh, certainly, Miss Leverton. Thank you for advising me.”

Whatever instructions she had just imparted, her self-appointed mentor was not finished. She launched into yet another monologue.

What would it be like to live with Jack in Paris? Nessa was unable to suppress an anticipatory shiver. And that “persuasion” he'd alluded to—he'd implied he meant to do more than kiss her, but did she really want him to? Certainly, his kisses were completely different from Lord Haughton's, but kissing had always been the least unpleasant part of marital intimacy. Would… that be different, too? Her thoughts shied away from the subject.

“I'm sorry, Lady Haughton, I did not mean to embarrass you with my plain speaking.”

Nessa had no idea what Miss Leverton had been saying, but it was clear her own musings had brought a blush to her cheeks. Happily, it served to deter her advisor from further counsel. As Amanda Leverton stood, Prudence approached.

“Will you be ready to leave soon, my dear? Supper is not to be served until after midnight, and I confess myself quite tired.”

Though not surprised, as the Creamcrofts frequently left such functions early, Nessa wondered whether Lady Mountheath's hatefulness had contributed to her sister's fatigue. She felt a moment of panic on realizing that the moment she'd been dreading was almost upon her. Best to get it over, though. “Certainly, Prudence. I am rather fagged myself.”

When they were all ensconced in the carriage a short time later, Prudence commented, “I could not help overhearing just a bit of what Miss Leverton was saying to you as I walked over, Nessa. Perhaps you should not rely too heavily on her advice after all. It seems most improper to me for a lady to hint that she might like to be kissed in order to prompt a gentleman to a declaration.”

Nessa coughed. Was that what Amanda had thought put her to the blush? It was too funny, after the occurrences of this day. Though a mere month ago, such advice probably would have shocked her, she realized. What a change Lord Foxhaven had wrought in her! Perhaps he really was a bad influence, she thought with a secret grin.

“Prudence, I have something to tell you,” she said while her courage was still high. Her sister and brother-in-law regarded her expectantly. Philip still wore grim lines about his mouth, she noticed. He, at least, should be pleased that Prudence would be spared further embarrassment on her behalf.

Taking a deep breath, she plunged ahead. “Lord Foxhaven has made me an offer of marriage, and I have accepted him,” she said in a rush, then braced herself for her sister's reaction.

For a full minute, it did not come. Then Prudence said, faintly, “Oh, Nessa, are you certain? He is so… That is, you have been accustomed to such… I am very happy for you, of course, but…”

Her husband broke in, firmly. “Our heartiest congratulations, sister. Though Lady Creamcroft may doubt it, I believe you and Foxhaven will deal very well together. Had a few words with him earlier this evening and he seems a fine chap.”

Prudence regarded her husband uncertainly. “But the stories—”

“Overblown, or at least ancient history. I'm certain of it.” Prudence appeared to need further reassurance, so he put his arm about her shoulders. “I'm sure your sister can tame whatever wild tendencies might remain in him, my dear. A good wife always can. We'll send an announcement to the papers in the morning.”

Nessa knew Philip's eagerness stemmed from his wish to protect his wife, but she felt the tiniest bit hurt nonetheless. Did he want her out of their house so badly as all that? But then she considered the rest of what he'd said.

Tame Jack's remaining wild tendencies? If he truly had any left, her preference would be to coax them back to full vigor. This promised to be a most interesting engagement, whatever befell.

NINE

JACK HUMMED to himself as he mounted the stairs to his bedchamber. The evening had gone remarkably well, all things considered. For a while there, it seemed he'd ruined everything, but in the end it had turned out far better than he'd anticipated.

“Congratulate me, Parker,” he greeted his waiting valet. “I am betrothed.”

Though betraying no real surprise, Parker regarded him closely for a moment. Then, breaking into a wide smile, he heartily congratulated his employer. “I am truly happy for you, my lord.”

It was Jack's turn to attempt deciphering Parker's visage, but with as little success as usual. “So you think I've done the right thing, do you?”

“I do, my lord. I feared for a moment that you had been too precipitate, but I see now it is not the case.”

“How the devil can you know that?” Jack demanded. “I met the woman less than a month ago, after all.”

Parker merely smiled and proceeded to help him out of his coat, but Jack felt oddly reassured. He could not recall a time in their long acquaintance when Parker's judgment had been faulty.

Lord Peter and Harry presented themselves at Foxhaven House at the unheard-of hour of ten o'clock the next morning, eager for news.

“'Sdeath, Harry, did Peter have to drag you from your bed to have you here so early? Get yourself some coffee from the sideboard.”

Harry, decidedly groggy, complied. “Don't know why Pete couldn't have told me whatever news after he had it. Rising early ain't good for my constitution, I'm sure of it. So what is it? Do you leave for Paris in the morning?”

Helping himself to a cup of coffee as well, Lord Peter turned toward Jack with interest. “I scarcely slept for the anticipation, Jack. Out with it!”

Jack leaned back in his chair, extending his legs toward the library hearth. “Both of you clearly need more to occupy your time—and minds. To think that my small doings should hold such fascination for two such purportedly worldly gentlemen…”

The worldly gentlemen advanced menacingly toward him, and he threw up a hand. “Very well, very well. No need to douse me with hot liquids. Lady Haughton and I are betrothed, with the wedding to take place before Yuletide. Satisfied?”

The two faces before him were a study in contrasts, Harry's evincing distaste and pity, Lord Peter's disbelieving joy. The latter spoke first.

“Congratulations, old fellow! I knew you had it in you. Well done!” He clasped Jack's hand and pumped it heartily.

But Harry shook his head gloomily and dropped into a chair. “I was afraid it would come to this. Really going to go through with it, are you? Set up a nursery, the whole bit?”

That thought hadn't occurred to Jack before, and sobered him abruptly. A nursery? Children? Him, a father? It seemed terribly unlikely, somehow—not to mention more responsibility than he'd bargained for, far outstripping the others that went with his title.

“I, er, yes. I suppose so,” he said lamely. “The announcement may not appear in the papers for a day or two, so I'd prefer you keep the news to yourselves until then, by the way.”

“So, Jack, tell us how you pulled it off,” prompted Lord Peter, pulling a chair close. “I take it your blackmail, whatever it was, was effective?”

Harry raised an eyebrow at that, his interest reviving. “Blackmail, say you? There's a new courtship technique.”

But Jack shook his head, cursing himself for ever using the word aloud. “Merely a figure of speech, Peter. Oddly enough, Lady Mountheath made herself useful in my cause.”

“What? She never—” began Lord Peter.

“Not intentionally, I assure you. She was apparently rude to Lady Creamcroft on account of her sister's choice of dancing partners. I managed to parlay Lady Haughton's anxiety for her sister's social standing into an agreement to marry me, that is all.” Jack hoped they would be satisfied with that, but he was not to be so fortunate.

“Just like that?” Peter was openly suspicious. “She insisted upon no conditions? No unusual promises?”

Jack grinned, remembering. “Actually, she did.” The moment the words were out, he regretted them, but now he was forced to elaborate. “She, ah, wants me to teach her to waltz.”

“What else?” his friends said together.

“There are times it is damned inconvenient to have close friends,” Jack observed. “There are things a man prefers to keep private, you know.”

“Oh, come, Jack!” Peter protested. “We've been with you on this campaign from the outset. Surely we deserve the details of the final coup.”

Now Jack felt distinctly embarrassed, but had to agree he owed that much to his compatriots. “All right, then. I promised not to dictate to her, or leave her alone in the country. It would seem old Haughton was quite the bully, judging by her disinclination to remarry. I've no doubt if I were to begin ordering her about she would cry off at once.”

Harry brightened at once. “By Jove, a loophole! Well done, old boy! You can get your inheritance before the wedding, then play the tyrant, eh? I should have known that if anyone could devise a way to have his cake and eat it too, it'd be Jack Ashecroft!” He rose to bow in tribute, spilling the last drops of his coffee on the thick Turkish carpet in the process.

Lord Peter frowned. “That's not your intent, is it? To have her cry off before the wedding? Paris—”

“What would he want with a wife in Paris?” demanded Harry with a laugh. “If Old Nosey had asked me, I'd have gone like a shot. I hear there's a grand time to be had. Don't have the blunt handy to go on my own, or I'd be there now.”

“I don't doubt it,” said Lord Peter in obvious disgust. “You'd happily drink and wench yourself to death, and be found in some gutter within a sixmonth.”

Harry grinned. “Wouldn't I, though? And what a way to go! I'd thought to do it here in London, only Jack stopped giving his parties too soon. You'll need to celebrate your betrothal, though, eh?” He turned hopefully to his host.

But Jack was lost in thought. Did he want to go through with the wedding? Harry was right that he might possibly achieve his original aim without doing so. Surely he should snatch at the chance? His freedom had always been very precious to him. All he'd have to do was give Nessa a disgust of him. Merely tossing a few orders her way would no doubt do the trick. After all, it appeared she valued her own freedom as much as he did his. So why should he find Harry's plan so distasteful?

“Jack?” Harry prompted.

Prodded out of his reverie, Jack shook his head. “The whole plan hinges upon my behaving myself 'til Christmas, remember? A betrothal orgy hardly qualifies. If I give a party, it'll be of a more respectable sort—though you'll still have ample access to my cellars, Harry, so not to worry.”

Harry looked only partially mollified. Lord Peter did not appear pleased at all, however.

“Is that the way of it then, Jack? You don't mean to go through with the actual wedding?”

Jack met his friend's eyes and saw the concern in them. “I had planned to carry it out. In fact, I rather doubt old Havershaw will release the trust if I don't. If he could be convinced, though…”

“Then don't let Harry's blather dissuade you,” said Peter firmly—more firmly than Jack had heard him speak since selling out his commission. “If your inclination is to marry Lady Haughton, then you should do it. Have to marry sometime anyway, for the succession. Do you honestly think you can do better?”

He was certain he couldn't. But could Nessa?

~   ~   ~

“YOU’LL WISH TO WRITE to the present Lord Haughton and to our Cousin Filmore before sending an announcement to the papers, will you not?”

Nessa looked up from her breakfast to regard her sister with raised brows. “Whatever for? I scarcely need the permission of either to wed. I've only met Lord Haughton's nephew once, at the funeral, and Cousin Filmore has shown little interest in how I go on, for all he holds my purse strings.”

Though her husband had left a tidy sum to Nessa, rather to her surprise, he had left it under Lord Cherryhurst's control—a circumstance that had no doubt irritated Lord Haughton's heir as much as it had Nessa. Once she married, however, Lord Cherryhurst's—and Lord Haughton's—last vestige of control over her would vanish. Regaining control of her fortune was possibly the best argument for her decision—not that Jack needed to know that, of course.

“It simply seems the proper way to go about things,” Prudence urged her. “Surely there is no great hurry to make an announcement, so you and Lord Foxhaven will hardly be inconvenienced by observing such a protocol.”

“That's very thoughtful of you, Prudence, considering that our announcement will likely deflect the gossips' attention.” Nessa hoped that consideration might moderate Prudence's resistance to the match. “However, as Lord Foxhaven and I are agreed on a December wedding, I'd really prefer not to wait. I can send notice to both gentlemen in the same post which carries the announcement to the papers.”

But Prudence fixed on only one portion of her reply. “December! This very December that is but a few weeks distant? Oh, Nessa, surely not!”

“Lord Foxhaven wishes me to spend the Christmas season at Fox Manor,” Nessa explained reasonably, but without regard to her betrothed's true plans, whatever they might be. “We saw no reason to delay the match, once we had agreed it should take place.”

Prudence was clearly aghast, however. “But… but Nessa, only think! You'll have no time to shop properly for a trousseau, or to arrange for an engagement party without conflicting with other entertainments. And I'm certain you do not wish Society to think that you are rushing into marriage.”

This last, Nessa knew, was the real concern. “'Twill be six weeks at least between the announcement and the wedding, Prudence. No one will suspect it to be… necessary, with a delay of that length.”

Her sister flushed scarlet and groped for her fan at such plain speaking, even if it was what she'd been hinting at.

Nessa gave her a moment to compose herself, then continued. “The primary reason for haste—surely one which Society will approve—is that Jack, I mean Lord Foxhaven, has been asked to join the court of King Louis XVIII in Paris as soon as possible. He wishes us to marry first, that I may accompany him. Given that, I cannot think anyone will find our haste unseemly. 'Tis a great honor, after all!” she finished grandly, striving to convince herself as much as her sister.

Prudence appeared suitably impressed by this final argument. “I suppose… Has he really been bidden to the Royal Court?”

“By the Duke of Wellington himself,” Nessa affirmed.

“Oh, my.” Prudence was visibly awed. “I knew that Lord Foxhaven was a war hero, but I hadn't realized—that is—but of course he mustn't refuse. Are you certain you wish to go to Paris, however, Nessa? 'Tis said the Society there is most indecorous.”

“Is it?” she asked with interest.

Prudence nodded, but with obvious reluctance. “I'll not repeat most of what I have heard, of course, but shocking tales have been drifting back from Paris since the summer. Lord Foxhaven will be right at home, I should think.” She primmed her lips. “But you, Nessa, must be very much on your guard. Truly, I cannot imagine what Papa would have said.”

To forestall another homily, Nessa changed the subject. “I meant to ask you last night, Prudence. Where did you and Philip go when you disappeared during the Hightower's ball?”

Her sister flushed scarlet and began to stammer something about fresh air. Nessa grinned, but by the time Prudence concluded her disjointed explanation, her mind was busy with other possibilities. If the stories of Paris were true, a stay there could be the very thing to introduce her to a wider—and wilder—world. Perhaps this marriage would not be so unpleasant after all.

~   ~   ~

ONLY HALF AN HOUR after Prudence had read the announcement aloud to Nessa over their breakfast the next morning, Jack presented himself at the door.

“I've come to take my bride-to-be driving,” he explained, smiling past Prudence to Nessa in the way that quickened her pulse. “I thought perhaps she might wish to have a hand in the selection of her engagement ring.”

That sobered Nessa at once, bringing as it did a sense of finality and… bondage. Prudence, however, was most agreeable.

“How kind of you, my lord. I take it there is no family piece you wish her to wear?”

He shook his head with a rueful smile. “'Tis still in my mother's possession, and I fear she'd not take kindly to my reclaiming it. I suppose I should write her, on the off chance that she'll offer, but 'tis an antique-looking thing anyway. At the very least, it would have to be reset, and I wish Nessa to have a bauble to display at once.”

No doubt he meant it as a compliment, but to Nessa both his words and the meaning look he sent her smacked of possessiveness. Again, she felt the walls of a prison closing in on her, and it was all she could do to smile back.

“You have not written your mother of your betrothal?” Prudence exclaimed, missing the interchange. “Oh, my lord, you must do so without delay! Whatever will she think, that we were so forward as to publish an announcement without her knowledge!”

Jack merely shrugged. “I doubt she'll know, as she never reads the papers when she's in the country. And even if she did… well, I cannot imagine that it would concern her unduly.”

Nessa regarded him curiously. Clearly he and his mother were not on good terms but just as clearly—to her, at least—the estrangement was painful to him, though he hid it well. She really knew very little about this man she was pledged to marry.

“Pray get a note off to her today, my lord,” Prudence urged, still distressed. “Women care more about such matters than men realize, I assure you.”

“Very well, I promise to do so. And now, my betrothed, if you will fetch your wrap, we can be on our way.”

Despite her earlier misgivings, Nessa could not but be flattered by his apparently affectionate attention. Of course, it could all be a ruse, for Prudence's sake… She hurried to get her cloak.

Jack had brought a closed carriage today, as the weather had turned damp and chilly with the approach of November. “I thought we'd begin at New Bond Street, progress to Old, then finish up in Piccadilly,” he explained as they settled themselves inside.

“Goodness! All of that shopping for a single ring?”

The intimacy of the smile he sent her made Nessa catch her breath. “I had a few other things in mind, as well. You'll want to be well outfitted for Paris, I doubt not. Besides, this will give me a chance to show you off to the fashionable world.”

Nessa bristled at once. “I am not a possession to be displayed for the envy of others, and then tucked safely away in a box,” she warned him.

“Who said anything about possessions or boxes?” He seemed genuinely startled by her response.

Realizing that she had overreacted, she tried, somewhat haltingly, to explain. “Forgive me. But it has been my experience that many husbands treat their wives so—as pretty baubles to wear on their arms in public, and to lock away when not in use. Not an enjoyable existence for the bauble, I assure you.”

Jack frowned. “I had never thought of it in that way, but you are right. Many men do behave so. I begin to perceive your reluctance to remarry.” His eyes searched her face, and she felt it grow warm under his examination. “Will it help if I promise never to regard you as a possession? For I do not, Nessa, truly.”

She met his eyes. “As what do you regard me?” She held her breath, waiting for his answer.

“A person in your own right,” he replied, “with a mind and will of your own. Rather a strong will, I might add.” His eyes were twinkling now, and she felt her own expression soften in response.

She had hoped he would say he regarded her as an equal, but of course that was absurd. No man ever considered his wife so, not even those who, like Philip, clearly loved their mates. And from what Nessa had seen of fashionable ladies, she could scarcely say they were in the wrong. She inclined her head. “Very well, my lord, that will do—for now.”

A few moments later the carriage pulled to a stop before one of the premier jewelers in London. The experience of selecting her own jewelry was a novel one for Nessa, and she enjoyed it thoroughly. As she tried on the third ring, a large rectangular diamond surrounded by tiny sapphires, she realized that she was the only woman in the shop. Jack was according her an honor—and freedom—very few enjoyed. Gratitude colored the smile she gave him.

“Is that the one, then?” He returned her look warmly.

“Oh!” She looked down again at the ring she wore. “No, 'tis still a bit flashy for my taste, I believe. Perhaps that one, there, with the smaller stone?”

“But my lady,” the jeweler protested, “a man of Lord Foxhaven's consequence will surely wish—”

“That smaller one,” said Jack decisively, cutting him off. “She is the one who will wear it, not I. What have my wishes to do with it?”

Trying on the smaller diamond, Nessa felt an unexpected lightness of heart. Jack had passed his first test with flying colors.

Soon after, Nessa left the jeweler's with a lovely but tasteful diamond solitaire on her finger. They progressed down Bond Street on foot, the coachman having been given instructions to pace them. A few shops down, Jack purchased a silk scarf for Nessa, again of her own choosing. She was finding him a far more pleasant shopping companion than her sister.

Upon leaving the drapers, they nearly walked into Lady Mountheath and her daughters. Jack bowed and tipped his hat, and Nessa greeted them as cordially as she could manage. The woman's words to Prudence two nights since still rankled.

Lady Mountheath favored them both with a sour smile. “I understand that felicitations are in order. No doubt you will be very happy,” she said in a tone that implied just the opposite.

Miss Lucy tittered, while Miss Fanny's small eyes raked over Nessa from head to toe, lingering meaningfully on her midsection. With a stern look, their mother called them to order, and they dutifully echoed her insincere well-wishes.

“I have observed,” continued Lady Mountheath, “that marriage often has a… stabilizing influence upon young people. I hope that it will be so for your sake, Lady Haughton. An unreformed rake can cause his wife both embarrassment and heartache.”

With a parting glare at Jack, she turned to go, but Nessa's precarious hold on her temper snapped.

“No doubt your ladyship speaks from experience,” she said smoothly. From what Mr. Pottinger had told her, Lord Mountheath was not known for his discretion. “I shall endeavor to learn from your example and thereby avoid making the same mistakes.”

Taking Jack's arm, she turned her back on the open-mouthed trio and walked briskly away from them. Her face was flaming, she knew, but from anger rather than embarrassment. Suddenly realizing that Jack had said not a word, she glanced up in some trepidation only to see his face contorting comically.

Catching her eye, he relinquished the struggle and began to chortle. “Oh, my dear,” he gasped after a moment, “you were magnificent! You can't imagine how many women—and men too, for that matter—have dreamed of dealing that gorgon such a set down!”

Nessa's own lips began to twitch, her anger subsiding in the face of his merriment. “No doubt she will find a way to repay me, but I cannot help but feel 'twas worth it. Did you see the look on her face?”

He nodded, and they were both obliged to lean on one another for support as they dissolved into laughter. After a moment, becoming aware of curious stares from passersby, Nessa straightened. “Come, my lord, I believe we have a bit more shopping to do.”

Over the next hour, as they passed in and out of the shops, Nessa found herself enjoying his company more than ever. The incident with Lady Mountheath had somehow bound them more closely together, inspiring a camaraderie she found most pleasant.

Along the way they encountered several acquaintances, all of whom stopped to offer congratulations on their betrothal with varying degrees of sincerity. Mrs. Heatherton, one of Prudence's close friends, seemed genuinely delighted, but her companion, a Mrs. Renfrew, regarded her with undisguised pity. Nessa found that more unsettling than spite or curiosity, but decided to credit it to ignorance

~   ~   ~

JACK, MEANWHILE, congratulated himself on the progress he was making in winning Nessa's trust, if not her affection. He could not recall ever having enjoyed a woman's company and conversation the way he did hers. The prospect of spending a lifetime tied to just one woman was appearing less and less onerous with each passing moment. Really, he had made a most fortunate choice.

They had just agreed to return to the Creamcrofts' for nuncheon when they were accosted by a stunningly beautiful flame-haired woman, dressed in the absolute pinnacle of fashion. Jack stifled an oath, realizing that his luck had just run out.

“Why Jack,” the woman cooed, with a smile that failed to soften the glitter in her emerald eyes, “I understand congratulations are in order. Do introduce me to your sweet little bride-to-be.”

Beside him, Nessa pulled herself to her full height—which still lacked several inches to that of the redhead. Jack felt her grip on his arm tighten slightly.

Resisting the urge to pat her hand, he bowed formally to the newcomer. “Nessa, my dear, this is Mrs. Dempsey. Mrs. Dempsey, my fiancée, Lady Haughton.”

His erstwhile paramour's eyes narrowed, raking over every detail of Nessa's appearance, though the smile never left her lips. “Ah, so it's to be Mrs. Dempsey now, is it? But of course, we don't want to offend the delicacy of the little wife.”

If anything, Nessa stood even taller. Despite his deucedly awkward situation, Jack could not help being proud of her. Then she spoke.

“Charmed to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Dempsey, and my thanks for your felicitations. I perceive that you are an old friend of Jack's?” Though Miranda Dempsey could be no more than a year or two Nessa's senior, she slightly emphasized the adjective.

Miranda's smile slipped for a moment, but she quickly recovered. “I suppose 'friend' is the most diplomatic way to describe it,” she retorted, then turned the full power of her smile upon Jack. “Should you find your proper little wife tedious, darling, you'll still know where to find me.”

She extended her expensively gloved hand to him in farewell, but Jack accorded her only the merest bow and the slightest touch of his fingertips to hers. Her eyes blazed at the perfunctory nature of his farewell, but he turned quickly away before she could direct any more barbs his—or Nessa's—way.

One glance showed him that Nessa had in no way mistaken Miranda's meaning. Jack mentally cursed the woman. Though in honesty he knew such encounters were inevitable, he'd hoped to have Nessa secure before one occurred. Anger and panic warring within him, he propelled his unresisting fiancée away from the site of his worst setback yet.

TEN

NESSA PAID LITTLE attention to the direction Jack was leading her, mechanically putting one foot in front of the other. There was room in her mind for only one thought. Though she'd done her best to evade it, the truth had struck with blinding clarity.

That woman was Jack's mistress.

She couldn't understand why she was so hurt by the knowledge. Evidence that Jack was still a rake should be just what she wanted. But the hurt was as undeniable as it was baffling.

“I know what you must be thinking,” he said, the moment they were out of earshot.

Nessa glanced up at his handsome profile, then quickly away. “I'm not an idiot, my lord. Mrs. Dempsey's meaning was quite clear.”

“So it's to be 'my lord' every time my past rears its unattractive head?” His tone was teasing, but she thought she detected a hint of anxiety as well.

They had reached the waiting carriage but she paused to regard him searchingly. “Your past, Jack? Mrs. Dempsey implied otherwise. And one would be blind to consider her unattractive.”

Jack grasped her shoulder, gently but firmly. “Nessa, I've never once denied that my past is somewhat unsavory. There are those, like Mrs. Dempsey, who will be unwilling to believe that I've put it behind me, and so encounters similar to the one you just witnessed may occur—for a while. But I have renounced my old, debauched lifestyle, and eventually everyone will realize that. I will do my utmost to spare you any future embarrassment connected with my past in the meantime.”

His deep blue eyes fairly glowed with sincerity, and Nessa found herself almost desperate to believe him—a far cry from the disappointment she'd felt previously, at the idea of his wild ways being behind him.

Though her hurt eased only slightly, she nodded. “Very well, Jack. I suppose it would be hypocritical of me to condemn you for having enjoyed the very lifestyle I have envied.” She managed a semblance of a smile.

Undisguised relief spread over Jack's features, mingled with something else—something that warmed her to her toes, despite the light drizzle which had begun to fall and the lingering chill in her heart. “Thank you, Nessa. I'm determined you won't regret your faith in me.”

Nessa met his eyes squarely. “So am I,” she said.

~   ~   ~

“ARE YOU CERTAIN you do not wish to accompany us to the theater tonight, Prudence?” Nessa asked a few days later, as a maid removed the tea tray. “I know you have not been in the habit of going, but it is a perfectly acceptable amusement.”

Her sister shook her head. “No, we are promised to Lady Trumbull this evening, but Lord Creamcroft has suggested the theater once or twice of late, so I doubt not we will attend sometime. Though Papa never approved of it, I did not find the theater so very depraved the one time I went last Season.”

Nessa allowed herself a small hope that Prudence might finally be beginning to think for herself. “I am glad to hear that, though I should rather have liked you along for my first visit.”

Prudence regarded her for a long moment, her pretty brow furrowed. “Do you find it… difficult… being alone with Lord Foxhaven, then? There is still time to cry off, you know.”

“Difficult? No, not at all.” Nessa had never mentioned the encounter with Mrs. Dempsey to her sister. “He and I deal very well together, as I have told you. 'Tis simply that Simmons will feel obliged to play the chaperone, I know, and I've no desire to listen to her sermonizing.”

Simmons had been Nessa's abigail from the time of her marriage to Lord Haughton and, if anything, was more of a stickler for the proprieties than her late master had been. She seemed to have a genuine fondness for her mistress, but her moralizing could be tedious—and Nessa had heard a fair share of it lately, on the subjects of her wardrobe and fiancé.

Yet more was forthcoming as she dressed for the theater a few hours later.

“Milady, are you certain you would not prefer to wear the peach? Its neckline is more becoming than that of the lilac.” Simmons held up the more modestly cut peach gown hopefully.

Nessa sighed. There was simply no pleasing the woman. “I thought you might consider lilac a more seemly color, Simmons. 'Tis approved for half-mourning, after all.”

The rail-thin abigail twitched her long nose. “Not when it is so vivid a shade—nor when cut so revealingly. Milady would not wish to be mistaken for one of the vulgar young women who perform on the stage, I am sure.”

Secretly, Nessa thought she might like that very much, but Simmons was speaking again.

“Though Lord Foxhaven's exploits with such women are well known, you must strive to rise above any vulgar competition and set him a virtuous example—if you are really set upon this marriage.”

“Of course I am,” said Nessa automatically, as she had a dozen times since the betrothal was announced. But now her attention was caught by Simmons' earlier words. Though she knew it was not at all the thing to encourage servants' gossip, she could not resist a bit of probing. “Exploits?”

The abigail nodded her mousy brown head sententiously. “Indeed, milady. Lord Foxhaven is known to visit the theaters frequently, and not for the performances. At least, not those upon the stage.”

Her pale blue eyes gleamed, though whether with outrage or avid curiosity, Nessa was not completely certain. Though she knew she should remonstrate, she remained silent in hopes of hearing more. Simmons did not disappoint her.

“One of the downstairs maids told me that he's been known to carry on with two actresses at the same time, on alternate days of the week. And each trying to outdo the other with her wicked, seductive ways in an attempt to have him to herself!”

Reluctantly, Nessa stopped this fascinating but disturbing flow of information. “That will be enough, Simmons. Pray remember that you are speaking of my fiancé. And pray put the peach away. I have already decided upon the lilac for tonight.”

Simmons pursed her lips disapprovingly. “As you wish, milady.” She finished Nessa's toilette in silence, but Nessa scarcely noticed, so tumultous were her thoughts.

Here was yet more evidence that Jack really had been—and perhaps still was?—a rake, not that she'd doubted it after that encounter with Mrs. Dempsey a few days since. Again she felt that oddly painful squeezing of her heart at the thought of Jack with other women. At the same time, however, she felt avid curiosity. Just what sorts of things had Jack been in the habit of doing with all of these women? Surely, if anyone should know, it was his betrothed.

By the time she descended for dinner, Nessa had decided to devote the evening to finding out. Even if Jack really had put his debauchery behind him, as he said, there must be enough of the rake left in him to satisfy her curiosity.

“What a, er, striking gown that is,” Prudence commented as Nessa entered the drawing room. While her pretty young face could not pucker in the way Simmons' did, her disapproval was quite as pronounced as the abigail's. “Perhaps a shawl…?”

With a sigh, Nessa allowed the maid to fetch one from her room. Jack was to join them for dinner, but her brother-in-law would be present as well. And Nessa wanted Philip to notice his wife, after all, not herself. Lord Creamcroft arrived before the shawl did, but Nessa needn't have worried. He had eyes only for Prudence.

“You look lovely tonight, my dear. That shade of blue particularly becomes you. It matches your eyes.”

“Why thank you, my lord. Nessa convinced me to buy it, saying that very thing.”

Philip shot a grateful smile Nessa's way before returning his full focus to his lady. “Perhaps you should take her shopping with you more often,” he suggested.

Prudence pinkened, but with pleasure, Nessa thought. At this interesting moment, Lord Foxhaven was announced. The maid bearing the shawl slipped into the room just ahead of the butler, but Nessa delayed putting it on. Jack's greeting rewarded her procrastination.

“Good evening, my dear.” He bowed over her hand, his eyes frankly admiring. “I hope you'll not be barred from the theater, for fear you'll eclipse the performance with your beauty.”

Remembering Simmons' words earlier, Nessa was unable to suppress a chuckle. “Is not much of the point of attending the theater to see and be seen, my lord?” she responded playfully. “I'd not wish anyone to cast aspersions on your vaunted taste in women on my account.”

He raised an eyebrow at that, while Prudence emitted an audible gasp from the other side of the room. “No chance of that, I assure you, my lady,” he said in the same tone, though his expression was wary. He then turned to bow to his hosts. “Lady Creamcroft, it is a delight, as always. Creamcroft, your servant.”

They returned his greeting cordially, though Prudence shot a cautionary glance Nessa's way. She responded by pointedly draping the exquisite lace shawl across her bare shoulders, while smiling innocently at her sister. It would have been impossible to carry on the sort of flirtation with Jack she intended tonight with her sister along, she realized. Just as well she was not coming to the theater after all. Could she safely leave Simmons behind as well?

Dinner was an intimate affair with only the four of them at table. Even so, Prudence directed the conversation so efficiently along acceptable channels that Nessa was unable to do more than send the occasional suggestive glance Jack's way. At the close of the meal, she and Prudence left the men to their cigars and brandy, retiring to the drawing room.

“Simmons did not sound particularly well this evening,” Nessa commented as they seated themselves to await the men. “'Twould be unkind to drag her out on such a chilly evening. I believe I can do without her this once.” She spoke with studied casualness, picking up a periodical and leafing through it without glancing at her sister.

Prudence, however, responded just as she'd feared she might. “I'll have one of the other maids accompany you, in that case.”

“I don't see that it's necessary. There will be people all about us at the theater, after all.” She still avoided Prudence's eye.

“Nessa! You can't mean you intend to go entirely alone with Lord Foxhaven?”

Finally she met her sister's shocked gaze. “I'm not a schoolroom miss, Prudence, but a woman who was married five years. Lord Foxhaven and I are betrothed, to be wed in a month's time. Surely sharing a carriage alone, with a coachman just outside on the box, cannot be so very scandalous.”

Prudence frowned—an expression Nessa had come to find more than a little bit irritating. “Perhaps not for just anyone, I admit, but in our family things have always been done with an eye to the proprieties. You know that.”

Nessa stifled an urge to say, “Proprieties be damned,” and instead pressed her slight advantage. “Then… it is not unknown for a woman—a respectable woman—in my situation to attend an evening entertainment with her betrothed unchaperoned?”

Prudence hesitated a long moment, then reluctantly shook her head. A wave of exultation and burgeoning freedom swept through Nessa. What other fictitious restrictions had Prudence led her to assume were de rigeur, she wondered? Of course, as a widow, she must have far more freedom than a young girl making her comeout. Why had she not realized it before? And now, betrothed, she should have yet more liberty. It was high time she took advantage of it.

Impulsively, she rose to give her sister a hug. “Pray do not fret, Prudence. With my upbringing, I doubt I am capable of shaming you in any way. But I must learn more about Lord Foxhaven before I marry him, and having a servant present makes that difficult—particularly when the servant is Simmons.”

The gentlemen joined them at that juncture, sparing Prudence a reply, but Nessa feared from her expression that she still had reservations. Given her own intentions for the evening, she could not in conscience claim they were unfounded. To reassure her sister further, however, she refrained from any open flirtation with Jack until they all departed—the Creamcrofts for Lady Trumball's musicale and she and Jack for the theater.

~   ~   ~

JACK HAD BEEN observing Nessa with mingled admiration and amusement all evening. No other woman he knew could have looked so alluring and flirted so subtly while staying strictly within the bounds of propriety. Now that they were alone in the carriage—a circumstance he had scarcely dared hope for—she surprised him yet again.

Shifting to sit next to him rather than across, she smiled up at him. “Pray tell me what I may expect at the theater. Your experience is far greater than mine.”

Jack raised an eyebrow at the apparent double entendre. “The performances vary greatly, of course,” he responded, casually draping one arm across her shoulders. She made no protest. “Leda Varens' Titania is generally held to be excellent, and John Kemble always does a creditable job. I'm sure his Oberon will be no exception.”

Nessa nodded, though a bit impatiently. That wasn't the sort of thing she'd meant, as he well knew. “I've no doubt I'll enjoy the play immensely. I've read it, and 'tis one of my favorites. But what of the theater itself? I've never been, you know.”

He blinked. “Never? Ah yes, I keep forgetting how very sheltered a life you've led. You have a gift, my dear, for appearing more worldly than you truly are.” It was something he needed to keep in mind. For all her seductive flirtation, Nessa would be extremely easy to shock—and perhaps frighten.

“Why thank you, my lord.” She smiled at him, taking his words as a compliment. “I'm pleased to know I don't always give the impression of a country bumpkin, even if it is how I've primarily lived.”

Jack gave her shoulder a squeeze, feeling suddenly protective of her—a feeling alien to his experience. “Never that, my dear, I assure you.” He proceeded to tell her more about the Covent Garden theater: the deep stage, allowing for elaborate scenery, the tier upon tier of box seats along the sides.

“And the actresses?” she prompted when he paused. “I'm certain you can tell me whether they are as beautiful and talented as I've heard?”

He hesitated, wondering just what she had heard. This was the second time tonight she'd referred obliquely to women with whom he'd dallied. No doubt the high-sticklers surrounding her were only too eager to spread tales about him—mostly true, unfortunately. It was only natural she would be curious.

“Of course a woman must be extremely attractive, as well as talented, to tread the boards at one of the premier theaters in London,” he said carefully. “As I said before, Mrs. Varens is thought to be quite good.”

Nessa leaned toward him. Her clean, fresh scent filled his senses, headier than any exotic perfume. “And what is your opinion of her, Jack? Do you have any particular favorites among the actresses?”

He'd have liked to think she was jealous, but she sounded simply curious to learn about something outside her experience. “I have had, from time to time,” he admitted, grinning down at her. “Recently, however, I fear I haven't given any of them much thought. I've been rather taken up with other pursuits.” He pulled her against him, and she snuggled under his arm in a most satisfying manner.

“I can't help but wonder just how one goes about becoming such a favorite,” she said then, tilting her face up to him in an obvious invitation—one he was quite incapable of refusing.

“This is one way,” he responded, lowering his lips to hers.

As before, he found her surprisingly inexperienced for a woman with five years of marriage behind her, but her very innocence inflamed him. She seemed as eager to learn as he was to teach. He teased her lips apart with his tongue, probing the sweet depths of her mouth. Her momentary stiffening told him this was a new experience for her. Then, tentatively—almost experimentally—she touched his tongue with her own. A faint moan escaped him.

With extreme reluctance, and drawing on considerable self control, he ended the kiss. “We'd best stop while we still can, my dear.” He tried to speak lightly, but his voice actually held a slight tremor. Where was his practiced sophistication with the ladies now? This particular one seemed to cut right through it.

“Of course, Jack, if you think it best.” Her words were prim, but her voice was slightly breathless with what just might be desire. He'd find out later, he promised himself. Just now, however, the carriage was pulling to a stop in front of the theater.

A few moments later, they mounted the imposing staircase of the Covent Garden theater, greeting various acquaintances on the way to their box. Nessa's rapt expression and occasional exclamations forced Jack to see the glittering chandeliers and sumptuous decor through her eyes, as though for the first time. It was rather grand, he supposed. Until now, he hadn't realized just how jaded he'd become with Town life.

“Look!” She clutched his arm just then. “Is that one of the actresses?”

Following her gaze, he had to stifle a laugh. “No, that is the Countess Lieven, wife of the Russian Ambassador and one of the patronesses of Almack's. She is rather exotic looking, I'll grant you.”

Nessa blinked, glanced down at her own attire, then back at the countess. “And to think Simmons and Prudence thought my gown too immodest!”

Jack was forced to resort to a fit of coughing, which drew a few stares but was preferable to the attention a roar of laughter would have attracted.

“Are you all right?” Nessa asked in some concern.

“Perfectly,” he said as soon as he could safely do so. “I simply find your candor refreshing.”

She looked rather confused. “I hope not to choke you with it. Is this our box?”

It was. Harry and Lord Peter were already within. Jack had forgotten until that moment that he'd invited them. Still aroused by that kiss in the carriage, he felt a surge of irritation, then realized it was for the best. Alone in the box with Nessa, he'd have run a grave risk of bringing her reputation down to the level of his own. Tempting as that seemed right now, it was the last thing either of them needed.

“Here you are at last,” Peter greeted them. “The curtain's due to rise in five minutes. Lady Haughton, I bid you good evening. You look lovely tonight.” He bowed.

Nessa smiled prettily. “I thank you, Lord Peter. 'Tis nice to see you and Mr. Thatcher again.” She extended her smile to Harry, who stepped forward with alacrity.

“The pleasure is entirely ours, I assure you, my lady.” He lifted her gloved hand to his lips to plant a lingering kiss on the back of it.

Jack's irritation returned abruptly. “If the play is about to start, we'd best take our seats.” He all but snatched Nessa's hand away from Harry, and was rewarded by a stare from the lady and a knowing smirk from his friend. What the devil was the matter with him?

The possible answers to that question plagued him throughout the first act. He distracted himself by pointing out various aspects of the set, performance and actors to Nessa in an undertone.

“And who is the young lady playing Cobweb?” she whispered near the close of the act. “She's lovely, and displays great energy!”

“That is Selena Riverton,” replied Jack in an even lower tone. “A relative newcomer to the London stage.”

Nessa turned to give him a long look. “You know her, do you not?”

Now how the devil had she deduced that? He'd have sworn his voice gave no hint. “I, er, we've met, yes,” he responded lamely.

Her half-smile was enigmatic. “Then your taste has not been overrated, it would seem.” She turned her attention back to the stage, leaving him in greater turmoil than before.

ELEVEN

NESSA TRIED TO FOLLOW the familiar play, but her own story seemed far more dramatic at the moment. The only object upon the stage that truly claimed her attention was Selena Riverton. She wasn't sure what had prompted her to make that guess, but Jack's reaction had proved her intuition correct. That sprightly beauty was one of the actresses he'd dallied with.

No, she certainly couldn't fault his taste. The willowy blonde was enchanting, with just enough of a lisp to suggest an innocence she surely did not possess. Nessa had not yet determined her own feelings on the matter, however.

Jealousy, she told herself, was far beneath her, particularly with a cyprian as its object. Still, she could not deny a surge of something—envy, perhaps?—as she watched Jack's erstwhile paramour cavort upon the stage. What freedom such a woman enjoyed! How could a prim and proper widow like Nessa compete with such unbridled joie de vivre? And did she want to?

Yes, she admitted, she did. She wanted to turn men's heads—particularly Jack's—to tempt him to indiscretions, throwing propriety and judgment to the winds. A mere fantasy, of course, but… that kiss in the carriage tonight had shown that Jack desired her. Was it just possible her fantasy had a chance of fulfillment?

Sneaking a glance at Jack, she found him regarding her thoughtfully—almost confusedly. She smiled mysteriously before turning back to the stage, her thoughts an exciting, alarming jumble.

Their group ventured out of the box between acts, exchanging greetings with others doing the same. Between an array of bobbing turbans and feathers, Nessa saw Mrs. Dempsey a short distance away, clad in a gown that made the Countess Lieven's look positively modest. The other woman was clearly trying to catch Jack's eye, but caught Nessa's instead. Tilting up her chin, Nessa smiled brightly to show she knew what she was about before turning back to Jack. With the tail of her eye, she caught the affronted surprise on Mrs. Dempsey's face.

“How long before we should return to our box?” she whispered to Jack—not so much because she wanted to know, but because she wanted Mrs. Dempsey to wonder what she was telling him.

He smiled down at her. “Anxious to see more of the play, my dear? I'm pleased that you're enjoying your first foray to the theater. We have another five minutes, I should think.”

Nessa wasn't sure she could call the tangle of emotions in her breast enjoyment, but she was certainly finding the evening educational. Still, she was far more eager for the close of the play than its continuance. She longed for the carriage ride home, where she could again practice her fledgling art of seduction.

~   ~   ~

NESSA WAS JUST as glad the dim interior of the carriage concealed the tint of her cheeks, for she was certain they were flaming. How was she to play the seductress when she was blushing like a schoolgirl at the mere memory of her last kiss in these confines?

Lord Haughton had never kissed her with such intimacy, even when in her bed. Indeed, his kisses had always inspired distaste and dread rather than pleasure. Were the feelings aroused by that mingling of tongues normal? Whether they were or not, she wanted to experience them again, to decipher them. She slid closer to Jack.

“Thank you for bringing me to the theater tonight,” she said, wishing she could come up with something more interesting. No doubt the women to whom he was accustomed were scintillating conversationalists.

“The pleasure was mine, I assure you.” He again draped his arm across her shoulders. “Did you find it to be what you expected?”

She tilted her head to one side. “Yes and no. The performance was very good, very much as I'd imagined A Midsummer Night's Dream would appear on the stage. But the audience was rather a surprise. Few of them seemed to be there to watch the play.”

“Very true,” he agreed with a chuckle. “You must realize, of course, that most of them have seen it several times previously. They attend for the social aspects, not considering that their activities are distracting to newer theater attendees.”

“Oh, I found it all fascinating,” she assured him. The drive was short, so she moved even closer so as not to waste this opportunity. “I begin to realize just how much I still have to learn of Town life.”

“And of life in general?” he asked softly.

She looked up to find him gazing intently at her. “Yes,” she whispered. “Fortunately, I have an excellent tutor.”

She had thought she was ready for his kiss, but when his lips touched hers she felt, as before, that she might fly into a million pieces. It was an exquisite sensation, starting in her chest and licking outward toward her extremities. This time she parted her lips at the first touch of his tongue, allowing him inside, sliding her own tongue along his.

Both of his arms were around her now, pulling her even closer. With one hand, he stroked her back. In return, she threaded her fingers through his hair, exploring the sides of his face, his ears, his throat with her touch. His right hand slid from her back to her side, then up to cup her breast through layers of fabric. Now she was the one to moan, her senses demanding more and more of these strange new stimuli.

But as before, he pulled away, though lingeringly. His breathing was fast and loud in the darkness. “My love, you spur me to heights for which this is hardly the time or place.” His voice was unsteady, but she scarcely noticed, focusing instead on his first two words. But then he continued.

“Given my lack of self control when with you, I believe it might be best if I were to retire to Fox Manor until our wedding. It will be safer so.”

“Safer?” Nessa was not certain she completely understood.

He nodded. “Pray forgive my bluntness. Though I know neither of us are, ah, untouched, I am determined to wait until we are wed to consummate our union.”

Nessa caught her breath at such plain speaking. Of course he must see that as the inevitable end of such activity as they were just now sharing. Any man would. Absurdly, stupidly, she had not thought it through in that way, never having before felt anything akin to desire for a man.

“I am sorry, Jack. I did not mean…”

“No, I didn't really think you did.” His voice was gentle, not at all accusing. “You cannot help being irresistible.” Now his tone was teasing, and again she was thankful he could not see her blush. “There are various preparations I wish to oversee at Fox Manor, in any event. I should have been there already.”

Nessa nodded, not trusting her voice as a cold finger of apprehension touched the back of her neck. She'd deliberately avoided thinking about the marriage bed, but now it loomed large—that most unpleasant aspect of marriage. The one she'd tried hardest to forget. Kisses were one thing, and with Jack, quite pleasurable. The marriage act was something else entirely. Though she knew it was the price she would have to pay for the freedom Jack offered her, she was in no hurry to pay it.

“Yes, that makes sense,” she finally managed to say. “You'll let me know when the Creamcrofts and I are to join you there?”

“Of course.” The carriage pulled to a halt before the house. “I'll call tomorrow so that we may work out the details.”

~   ~   ~

“’TIS SETTLED, then.” Jack rose to take his leave of Nessa and her sister. “I'll look to see you the afternoon of December seventh.”

“With the wedding to take place on the tenth,” agreed Prudence. “It still seems very rushed, but Nessa has convinced me that your obligation to the Duke of Wellington makes it necessary.”

Again Nessa felt a thrill of excitement at the thought of Paris. “We shall put the intervening time to good use,” she assured Jack. “I've my wedding clothes and trousseau to purchase, among other things.” She deliberately kept her tone playful to disguise her conflicting feelings about his departure. London would seem quite dull without Jack in it, she feared.

He took her hand. “I eagerly look forward to the results.” Pressing a lingering kiss to her wrist, just above her glove, he lifted his eyes to hers. The promise she saw there snatched her breath. Fortunately, Prudence saved her from the necessity of speaking.

“Pray have a safe journey, my lord. I confess, I am nearly as eager to see Fox Manor as Nessa is. We shall join you there in a month's time.”

Nessa murmured her agreement, hoping that her eyes spoke more eloquently than her words. And then he was gone, for four long weeks. She stifled a small sigh.

Prudence, showing herself more perceptive than expected, suggested that they begin shopping that very afternoon. Nessa agreed, eager for any employment to take her mind off of Jack's absence—and what would follow their reunion. She still had not shaken off the trepidation which had seized her last night at the thought of her approaching wedding night. Her last one had been such a nightmare…

Lord Haughton had given her an hour to prepare, though she'd had no idea how to do so. Her mother's advice had consisted only of: “Try to think pleasant thoughts, and don't move too much.” Not precisely helpful. So she'd changed quickly into her night rail and climbed beneath the covers of the big, strange bed to await him.

She'd had a vague idea of the mechanics of coupling from her visits to tenant farms during breeding season, though of course she was not expected to notice such things. But applying such limited knowledge to her own body was no easy thing, despite her rather vivid imagination.

Her husband had not made it any easier. Joining her after precisely one hour, he had expressed approval that she was ready—though she felt anything but. Dropping his dressing gown a brief second before crawling under the covers, he'd afforded Nessa her first glimpse of male nudity—and an unappetizing glimpse it was. In his prime, Lord Haughton could not have been called a fine figure of a man, with his spindly legs and thin chest. At nearly fifty, with the addition of a decided paunch, he was less so.

What he did next made Nessa forget his appearance, however. Rolling on top of her, he pinned her to the bed. For an instant she tried to struggle, before remembering her mother's words. Clenching her teeth, she forced herself to remain motionless while her new husband pulled up her nightgown and inserted something foreign and surprisingly hard between her legs.

The rest was a blur in her memory, a blur of panic and pain, and of chanting her mother's brief advice over and over in her head while her husband moved above her, his face contorting strangely. After perhaps ten minutes of this—though it seemed like hours—Lord Haughton ceased his movements. Kissing her lightly on the cheek, he thanked her formally, resumed his dressing gown and left.

Over the months that followed, the same scenario was repeated, every week or two at first, then less and less frequently. Nessa's panic had abated once she knew what to expect, but the pain had grown only a little less. Certainly, she'd never learned to anticipate her husband's nocturnal visits with anything other than dread.

Surely, though, surely, Jack would be different? His kisses were enjoyable where Lord Haughton's had not been, so perhaps his lovemaking would be—if not pleasant, then not entirely distasteful. She could only hope so.

“Nessa, did you hear me?” Prudence sounded mildly exasperated.

Blinking, Nessa realized she'd forgotten her sister's presence during her musings. “I'm sorry. What did you say?”

“I was merely asking whether you wished to take a light luncheon before we begin our shopping.” She smiled. “You truly must hold Lord Foxhaven in affection to be daydreaming about him only moments after he has gone.”

Nessa only wished her thoughts had been so agreeably employed.

~   ~   ~

SHOPPING DISTRACTED Nessa from her fears to a great extent, and for the next few weeks she was able to immerse herself in fabrics, lace, ribbons, stockings and buttons. Prudence appeared to enjoy the process nearly as much as she did, and Nessa made certain her sister added more touches of color to her own wardrobe with her occasional purchases.

Oddly, Nessa felt less inclined toward flamboyance than she had during her first, post-mourning shopping spree, though she still tended toward cheerful shades. The gowns she bought now were respectable, but definitely not dull. In fact, more than one modiste complimented her on her keen fashion sense.

Leaving a milliner's shop about a week after Jack's departure, she and Prudence encountered Amanda Leverton, who eagerly accepted an invitation to accompany them home for tea.

“I wish to thank you for your kind note of congratulations,” Nessa told her as they arrived back at the Creamcrofts'. Other than that formal little message, she'd heard nothing from Miss Leverton since her betrothal, and had wondered how she and her brother had taken the news.

Amanda's smile did not quite reach her eyes. “I did not wish you to believe Sir Hadley or I might think the less of you, though you did raise his hopes briefly. We realize now, of course, that you and he would not have suited.”

“Of course,” Nessa murmured, hoping her amusement did not show. “I'm pleased that I was not an instrument of pain to Sir Hadley.” She had suspected from the start that his affection was more for her inheritance than her person.

Prudence, meanwhile, had rung for the tea tray and now bade them be seated in the drawing room. Nessa thought her sister looked a bit wary of Miss Leverton, but she was determined that their guest would cause Prudence no distress. That this was Miss Leverton's object soon became apparent.

“Lady Haughton, as your erstwhile advisor, I feel obligated to give you my thoughts on your impending nuptials,” she announced as she took her chair.

Nessa shot a reassuring smile Prudence's way before replying. “I am all eagerness to hear them, of course.”

“You will both forgive me, I know, for speaking frankly,” she informed them. “Word of Lord Foxhaven's deplorable reputation must surely have come to your ears by now, so that will be no news. I hope to advise you on how to achieve the maximum happiness that can reasonably be expected in marriage to such a one as he.”

Nessa considered telling the presumptuous wretch to leave, but knew that would embarrass Prudence more than anything this woman might have to say. So she smiled instead, with dangerous sweetness. “How very generous of you to concern yourself so with my happiness.”

“Just so.” Oblivious as ever, Amanda's smile held more than a hint of self-satisfaction. “My dear Lady Haughton, however great the temptation, you must never attempt to compete with your husband's various paramours. No, nor even acknowledge that you are aware of their existence. Determined ignorance can be a wife's best friend in such circumstances.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Nessa saw Prudence's fan fluttering at a great pace, but she faced her adversary without flinching. “I can certainly see how such advice would benefit yourself, were you in my situation, and therefore I thank you kindly for it. I have noted, however, that many wives who follow your recommended course of action seem far from content in their marriages. You will forgive me then, I know, if I choose my own path in this matter. I have, after all, been married before.”

Miss Leverton appeared momentarily speechless at this startling evidence that Nessa had a mind of her own. Prudence, much to Nessa's surprise, filled the silence.

“Of course my sister must do as she thinks best. I cannot help but find your counsel on such a matter ill advised, Miss Leverton, as well as impertinent. Whether you are motivated by jealousy or disappointment on your brother's behalf, I'm afraid I cannot allow you to speak so beneath my roof.”

Amanda rose hastily, her face flaming. “I beg your pardon, indeed, Lady Creamcroft. I have just remembered an engagement elsewhere.”

“You'd best hurry, then,” replied Prudence, her tone as bland as her expression. Amanda Leverton hastened from the room.

When the front door was heard to close behind her, Nessa began to chuckle. “Oh, well done, Prudence! And to think I restrained myself from throwing her out to spare your sensibilities.”

A small smile hovered at the corners of Prudence's lips, quickly suppressed. “'Twas not your place to do so, as this is my home. Her behavior was inexcusable, however, so I had no such compunction. Impudent upstart! I hope you will not allow her words to carry any weight with you, Nessa, and I apologize for ever suggesting that her advice might be of help to you.”

Inordinately pleased to discover that her sister had such backbone, at least when her sense of propriety was offended, Nessa gave her a quick hug. “I know you meant it for the best, Prudence. Let us say no more about it. And now, what say you to a few hands of piquet before we dress for dinner?”

TWELVE

IT WAS A BLUSTERY day in early December. Cloud-shadows scudded across gently rolling fields as the carriage carried Nessa southeastward—to the next stage of her life. Kent's reputation as “the garden of England” was scarcely apparent at this season, though it did seem a kinder landscape than Worcestershire, where she'd grown up.

“We must be nearly there,” commented Prudence, sitting across from her. “How fortunate for Lord Foxhaven to have his estates such a comfortable distance from London.”

Nessa had to agree. Even if Jack did leave her here alone, contrary to his promise, she'd feel far less isolated than she had in Warwickshire, knowing that London was but a few hours away.

The carriage slowed, then turned down a smooth drive between two imposing stone gateposts. Peering ahead, Nessa caught her breath. A single shaft of sunlight escaped from the hurrying clouds to illuminate the loveliest edifice she had ever seen. Situated on a slight rise, lovingly sculpted of mellow, rose-hued stone, Fox Manor dominated the surrounding landscape like a benign matriarch smiling upon her extended family.

A little village nestled cozily in a dell half a mile away, stone walls and thatched roofs gleaming cleanly in the brief sunshine. Even the cows in a nearby byre yard looked happy and wholesome. What a contrast to Haughton Abbey or Cherry Oaks, with walls and villages both grimed by the continual smoke from nearby chimney stacks.

Clouds covered the sun again, but that first impression kept Nessa's spirits from reflecting the comparative bleakness of the now-dull December day. Surely that sunbeam on her first glimpse of her new home was a hopeful omen?

“Why, what a lovely house and park!” Prudence exclaimed.

“I perceive Inigo Jones' influence in the design,” agreed Philip, pointing out the subdued classical touches ornamenting the three storied house with its square towers at each corner.

Nessa scarcely heard this brief lesson in architectural history, however, besieged as she was with a sudden attack of shyness at seeing Jack again after a month apart. In another few moments the carriage swept to a stop before the columned portico. Fortifying herself with a deep breath, Nessa allowed her brother-in-law to help her to the graveled drive.

The house was even more imposing at close quarters, though still lovely. Somehow, she'd received the impression from Jack that Fox Manor was a modest country house—which it certainly was not! The double front doors opened, and the owner's approach cut short her musings on his house.

“Welcome to Fox Manor,” Jack greeted them with a bow and a flourish. “You've made good time, I see. Come inside and get warm.” He sent Nessa a meaning glance, though clearly his words were intended for the whole party. She felt that tingling flutter beginning to stir again.

The Creamcrofts thanked him and moved toward the house, but Nessa said, “Even in December I can scarcely call Kent cold, my lord.” She smiled, meaning it as a compliment, but he frowned slightly.

“I hope that will remain true,” he said, softly enough that the others could not hear. “My mother arrived last night and awaits us in the parlor.”

Nessa's eyes widened at this news, remembering how Jack had spoken of his mother's indifference previously. Had Lady Branch come to pass judgment on her son's choice of a bride? Jack had turned back toward the house so that she could not read his expression, but he had not seemed pleased.

She quickened her pace to walk by his side, just behind Prudence and Philip, wondering what to expect but unable to think of a discreet way to inquire. Her month-long separation from Jack made her awkward in his presence.

They passed into the marble floored, two story foyer, and then through a wide, arched doorway on the right. At once a stylish middle-aged woman with improbably black hair rose to greet them.

“This must be Lady Haughton, and Lord and Lady Creamcroft. Welcome to Fox Manor. I am Lord Foxhaven's mother, Lady Branch,” she said without waiting for Jack to make introductions. “Pray do sit down. I have already rung for tea.”

My, we've made ourselves right at home, haven't we? But Nessa quickly scolded herself for such an uncharitable thought. Surely she should be pleased if Jack's mother wished to heal the rift between them upon the occasion of his marriage.

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Branch,” she responded with what she hoped was a natural smile.

Prudence, of course, said everything that was proper before taking her seat, as did Philip. Jack, however, appeared decidedly ill at ease, though he said nothing beyond a suggestion that they move their chairs closer to the fire to take away the chill of winter travel.

“Oh, yes, I despise traveling in winter myself,” declared Lady Branch, pouring out the tea which had just arrived. “But for an occasion such as this, I felt obliged to exert myself. Lord Foxhaven is my only son, you know.”

“Was your husband, Sir Findlay, unable to come?” Nessa asked politely, wondering whether the woman ever referred to her son by his Christian name. “I should like to meet him as well.”

Lady Branch fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve. “He was busy with estate business,” she explained after the tiniest hesitation. “Otherwise I'm sure—that is, he very much wished to be here.” She kept her gaze averted from Jack's as she spoke, but turned a shrewd eye upon Nessa.

“Tell me, Lady Haughton, were you but recently come to London when you met my son?”

“Indeed, yes,” Nessa replied. “I'd been there no more than a fortnight when we were introduced.”

“Time to hear of his ascendance to his new position, I presume.”

Nessa took a fortifying sip of her tea before responding, fairly certain now that she understood the direction of Lady Branch's thoughts. “I confess that, immured in the country as I had been for most of my life, Lord Foxhaven's very existence had escaped my notice until the evening we met at Lady Mountheath's musicale.”

“Which fact was very much to my advantage,” Jack put in, moving to sit next to her. “Had she known anything of me prior to our meeting, I doubt not that my suit would have held little hope.” He turned slightly away from his mother. “Would you care for a tour of the house, my dear?”

But Lady Branch would not be put off so easily. “I understand that you were living as a dependent in your sister's household while in Town, having been very recently widowed.”

Carefully keeping her expression bland, Nessa set down her cup. “I was a guest in my sister's home, yes, but scarcely dependent. Your sources must have neglected to inform you that my late husband provided quite amply for me upon his passing—which was nigh on fourteen months ago.”

She knew she should not allow Lady Branch's questions to nettle her, as the woman was doubtless merely concerned for her son, but she could not help feeling a bit defensive.

That Jack was at least equally nettled now became apparent. “Your sudden interest in my affairs is touching, madam, but I'm afraid I cannot allow you to badger my bride-to-be before she has progressed beyond the parlor. I'd much prefer her first impressions of Fox Manor were favorable.”

Standing, he suggested that his guests might like to freshen up in their chambers before going over the house. “The ladies, perhaps, would prefer to wait for a sunnier day to walk outdoors, but if you'd care to see the grounds and fishpond, Creamcroft, you'll be more than welcome.”

Prudence looked even more relieved than Nessa felt to have the barbed exchange cut short. Rising with alacrity, she expressed eagerness to see the house, taking flawlessly proper leave of Lady Branch, as did Nessa. She preferred to be on good terms with her future mother-in-law, but refused to be intimidated.

Lady Branch's smile, however did not reach her eyes. With a silent sigh, Nessa turned away. This battle, apparently, was far from over.

~   ~   ~

JACK LED THE WAY up the broad oaken staircase, seething with barely concealed anger. What the devil was his mother up to, anyway? After ignoring his existence for nearly twenty of his twenty-eight years, she had no business attempting to insert herself back into his life now. Certainly, he would not allow her to make Nessa uncomfortable in any way.

“What a charming prospect,” Lady Creamcroft commented, turning at the top of the stairs to look back toward the great hall below. “Had you a hand in the decorating, Lord Foxhaven?”

He shook his head. “I've spent little time here since inheriting, so most of the house is just as my grandfather left it. Fortunately, my grandmother had impeccable taste, and he was wise enough to give her her head in such matters.”

“So what have you been doing for the past month, if not redecorating Fox Manor?” Nessa looked up at him with a glimmer of amusement in her eyes, and Jack found himself inordinately relieved that she showed no sign of unease after his mother's questioning.

“Trying to get ahead on the estate business, mostly, so I wouldn't have it hanging over my head for the next few weeks,” he replied candidly. “Also hiring additional servants and ordering extra food to accommodate those we've invited for the festivities, that sort of thing—though Havershaw, my steward, has handled most of the details, I confess.

“I have done one bit of decorating, however.” He opened the door to the chamber that was to be Nessa's, then stood back. “I hope you'll approve.”

He found himself holding his breath as she took a hesitant step into the room and looked around at the fresh peach and green decor he had selected. He'd noticed those colors in her wardrobe repeatedly, so he had operated on the assumption that they were among her favorites. Not for the first time, he asked himself why it should matter so much.

Jack had provided more than one lady friend with lodgings decorated to her tastes, so he had no particular reason to doubt his skill in this area. It was an essential part of the game of courtship men and women played—a game he'd been adept at for years. This was just another round in the same game, though with slightly higher stakes.

Wasn't it?

“It's perfect, Jack.” Nessa turned to him, her liquid brown eyes beautifully expressing her pleasure, her lips softly parted in a smile. “You couldn't have done better if I'd told you precisely how I wanted it. Thank you.”

Slowly, he released his breath. While away from her, he'd managed to convince himself that he'd merely imagined her overwhelming effect upon him. Now he knew he'd only been fooling himself.

“I'm pleased you like it,” he said, holding her gaze—a gaze which seemed to offer him tangible proof of her gratitude. An offer he was far too ready to accept, after only half an hour in her presence.

She took a deep breath, her breasts rising and falling provocatively, even under the layers of her winter traveling gown, her expression altering subtly as she interpreted his own. Her color deepened and she dropped her eyes.

Jack hastily cleared his throat. “Lord and Lady Creamcroft, your chambers are just across the way, here.” He indicated their adjoining rooms, wondering if he'd have been wiser to have Nessa stay away until the eve of their wedding.

The next three days promised to be exquisite torture.

A short time later, changed and refreshed, his guests emerged from their chambers for the promised tour. Lady Branch insisted upon being one of the party, to Jack's vexation.

“I haven't been in this house in twenty years,” she explained. “I'm interested to see if everything is as I remember it.”

As they moved from room to room, floor to floor, however, it became clear—to Jack, at least—that her real motive was to continue digging into Nessa's background and motivation for marrying him.

“I made Lord Haughton's acquaintance some years ago,” she commented as they all traversed the length of the ballroom. “It would have been before your marriage, of course, but I recall him as eminently solid and respectable. He must have been a most satisfactory husband— much like my Sir Findlay.”

Nessa murmured something noncommittal, then gestured toward the Rococo plasterwork of the ballroom ceiling. “What a lovely effect that has!” she exclaimed. “Like a light and airy fairyland. I can just imagine how this room must look with all of the candles lit for a ball.”

“Takes a small army of servants to keep it dusted, though.” Jack spoke teasingly, but then looked around, seeing the ballroom afresh. She was right—it was a beautiful room. But his imagination ran to visualizing Nessa as his hostess here, graciously welcoming the neighboring gentry to their home. It was an oddly appealing image.

His mother snorted delicately. “That's what servants are for, of course. But Lady Haughton, I cannot help but wonder… That is… Do you not worry that after growing accustomed to a husband such as the late Lord Haughton, you may find yourself, well, disappointed by one who may not measure up to his standard?”

Nessa turned to her in evident surprise. “My dear Lady Branch! Surely you are not suggesting that your own son could possibly fall into that category?”

Jack silently ground his teeth. This was far, far worse than he'd imagined—nor could he think of a way to intervene, as he himself was now the topic of conversation. He glanced frantically toward the Creamcrofts, who were studying the giltwork with an interest all out of proportion to the workmanship.

His mother lowered her voice now, but Jack had no trouble hearing her next words, much as he'd have preferred not to. “It must seem terribly unmaternal of me, I know, but ten years of marriage to Lord Foxhaven's father showed me just how unsettling it can be to find oneself dependent upon a rake and a gamester. Of course, it is entirely possible that Lord Geoffrey's son may by now have got the better of those propensities he inherited. For your sake, I do hope so.”

Jack groaned inwardly, though he could at least hope that the Creamcrofts were now out of earshot of his mother's words. He'd barely managed to convince Nessa that his rakish ways were behind him. But now, with his own mother bringing evidence against him…

“Lady Branch, I assure you that I am fully aware of your son's previous reputation,” Nessa responded firmly. “I go into this union with my eyes open, and feel that he and I shall suit very well indeed. I hope that in time you will discover those sterling qualities in your son that I have already come to appreciate.”

His mother stared, openmouthed, and Jack had all he could do to refrain from doing the same. Keeping the jubilation from his voice with an effort, he said, “I thank you, my dear, for that endorsement, and will do everything in my power to live up to it.”

Nessa met his eyes then, with an expression that said as clearly as words: You will. You'd better.

“I find myself suddenly fatigued,” declared Lady Branch before Nessa could respond aloud. “I believe I shall retire to my chamber until dinner.” With a swirl of skirts, she swept from the room, her rigid back expressing her indignation at what had passed.

The four people remaining released a collective sigh of relief. “Shall we move on to the gallery?” Jack suggested.

The others agreed with alacrity, apparently well content to pretend that the recent exchange had never taken place.

~   ~   ~

NESSA CONTINUED HER tour of Fox Manor, attending to Jack's comments about the rooms and furnishings. All were lovely, but she was far more intrigued by the man at her side. What had it been like, growing up with a mother who must have always expected the worst of him? She'd thought her own childhood repressive, but at least her parents had believed her capable of reasonable, respectable behavior— believed her incapable of anything else, in fact. She felt a sudden spurt of panic. How little she knew about this man she was about to marry!

“That's really all that is worth seeing indoors,” Jack said all too soon. “The gardens and grounds are fairly extensive, but of course this is not the pleasantest season to view them.” He glanced out the window of the morning room, where they had concluded. “We may get a drizzle in an hour or so, but if any of you would care to see what we can in the meantime? Creamcroft?”

Philip demurred, however, when Prudence confessed herself wearied. “I believe I'll defer it if you don't mind, Foxhaven, and take Lady Creamcroft upstairs to rest for a bit. She's not been used to much travel of late.”

“My apologies! I should not have dragged you over the entire house so soon after your arrival. Of course you'll want to rest before dinner.” He turned expectantly toward Nessa, clearly expecting her to accompany the Creamcrofts.

She smiled up at him, however. “I am not in the least tired, my lord. If you are still willing, I should very much like to see as much of the gardens as the weather will allow.” It was a bit daring, she knew, but she wanted to ask him a question or two without prying ears about.

“Certainly, my lady.” He seemed genuinely pleased at her response. With a bow to the Creamcrofts, he led her out of the room through French doors, which opened onto a stone terrace. “The ornamental gardens are ahead and to the left, the kitchen garden to the right, and the orchard beyond both. Which would you like to see first?”

“Is there a maze?” She thought she'd glimpsed one from one of the upper windows earlier.

“In a manner of speaking.” Placing her hand in the crook of his arm, he headed straight down the path. “It's more ornament than puzzle, and not really tall enough to get lost in, but rather interesting all the same.”

Nessa fell into step beside him. “As a child, I always wished for a maze, but my father considered them frivolous.”

“What did Lord Cherryhurst not consider frivolous?” The question was rhetorical but Nessa answered him anyway.

“Sewing, so long as it had a purpose besides the purely ornamental; embroidery, however, was frowned upon. Bible reading, of course—”

“Except for the Song of Solomon,” Jack put in mischievously.

She grinned up at him. “Yes, except for that. It was expressly forbidden—in fact, my father removed it from the family Bible so that we girls would not be tempted to read it in his absence.” Jack looked as though he couldn't decide whether to laugh or swear, so Nessa hurried on. “Singing was an approved activity, so long as it was limited to hymns. Dancing was not, though he did finally consent to allow us to learn the minuet and a few country dances.”

“At your urging, I'll wager.”

Nessa nodded, remembering how much difficulty she'd had getting Prudence to add her pleas to her own. Finally, with their mother's grudging support, they had persuaded him. One of the few such victories she could recall.

“But enough about my childhood. What of yours? To hear your mother speak, it would seem that little frivolity was allowed you, either.”

They had reached the maze now. Its thick hedge of yew was green even now, and while it was a little less than Jack's height, Nessa could not see over it. He pointed to the entrance and she nodded eagerly. Not until they were within the deep green walls did he reply to her question.

“While my father lived, frivolity was not only allowed, it was the order of the day. My mother spoke truth when she called him a gamester and a rake, I suppose, but I primarily recall him as an entertaining companion. Not until after his death did I understand how little she approved of our lifestyle.”

Nessa frowned. “Was she forced to marry him, then? How old were you when he died?”

“Eight. And I don't doubt she married him willingly enough. He was thoroughly charming, as well as the second son of a marquis. But I presume he lost heavily at the tables, judging by the frequency with which we moved, always to cheaper lodgings. My grandfather, I believe, had washed his hands of him years before.”

Nessa tried to imagine what Jack's life had been like, living, if not quite on the brink of poverty, then without many of the things she'd always taken for granted. But with a father who did not condemn his every errant thought, who had been “an entertaining companion.” On the whole, she believed she envied him.

“And after he died?”

“Mother dismissed most of the servants and rented out one of the extra rooms. She must have written to my grandfather, for he stepped in soon afterward, making such exigencies unnecessary. As she was as thrifty as my father had been extravagant, we never lacked again—at least, not in material things.”

His expression had become somber, and it was clear to Nessa that to the boy Jack had been at the time, the change was not for the better. “And then she remarried?” she prompted.

He nodded. “Two years later. Sir Findlay is a man after your own father's heart. He rose from the middle classes to his baronetcy, and retains the morality and work ethic he was born to. I was a reminder of my father, and of everything Sir Findlay opposed. Needless to say, we did not get on.”

Clearly, that was a massive understatement. “But you spent time with your grandfather, did you not?”

“Yes, here at Fox Manor. From the age of eleven onward, all of my school holidays were spent here, and it was he who arranged for me to attend Oxford, and who purchased my commission. Even he, however, was unable to restrain those, ah, tendencies, which my mother claims I inherited from my father.”

Both his expression and his tone had softened, Nessa noticed, when he spoke of the late Lord Foxhaven. “You loved your grandfather very much, didn't you, Jack?” she asked gently.

He started visibly. “Love? Er, well, yes, I suppose so. Certainly, he was the only person on earth who wielded the least bit of influence with me during those years. Sir Findlay's attempts, and my mother's, achieved just the opposite effect.”

His tone was light again, but Nessa suspected it was to conceal deeper feelings— feelings he was not yet ready to explore. But Nessa probed further, needing to know more about this man she was to marry, and about his reasons for marrying her.

“So you regret not following your grandfather's wishes while he was alive, and now wish to make up for it?”

Jack stopped abruptly and she realized they had reached the center of the maze. “Would you care to sit down?” He indicated a stone bench with large urns at either end, which doubtless held flowers in spring and summer. “Or would you prefer to keep moving? There is less wind in here, but it is still chilly.”

By way of response, Nessa sat, but kept her eyes on his face, awaiting the answer to her question. Jack looked away, toward the house she supposed, though she could not see it from where she sat. Finally he took his place beside her on the bench.

The silence had lengthened uncomfortably before he spoke. “I'm not sure that regret is the proper word,” he said at last. “However wild I was, I never hurt anyone… well, no one who didn't deserve it.”

She met his crooked grin with calm expectancy, determined not to be dissuaded.

With a sigh, he continued. “My grandfather did much for me—more than any other human being, alive or dead. The only way I know to repay him is to honor his dying request.”

This was news to Nessa. “Dying request? But I thought you were on the Continent with the army when he passed away.”

“So I was. Therefore, with his customary thoroughness, Grandfather put his wishes in writing.” Reaching inside his greatcoat, he pulled a much-folded piece of paper from his breast pocket.

“No eyes but mine have read this until now. Under the circumstances, I suppose it is only fair that you do so.” His usual humor replaced by wariness, he extended the paper to her.

Greatly curious, she took it, unfolded it, and read its brief contents. Swallowing, she read it through again, then raised wide eyes to Jack's.

“I… I believe I finally understand. You feel that a respectable marriage—or rather, marriage to a woman with a respectable reputation—will help you to fulfill his request.” Though she'd rather suspected something of the sort, having it verified in ink on parchment gave her little satisfaction.

Jack's nod depressed her spirits further. “It… seemed the least I could do for him.” Then, apparently perceiving something of her feelings, he hastened to add, “I have become genuinely fond of you, however. Whatever my original motives, I truly believe we shall rub along very well together. Don't you?”

She saw real anxiety in his eyes. This, she knew, was her last chance to cry off. Clearly, he knew it as well. But was he concerned because he cared for her, or because she had the power to overset his grandfather's wishes? Either way, she realized, her response must be the same. The letter from the late Lord Foxhaven had moved her deeply, coming on the heels of Jack's revelations about his childhood.

Swallowing hard, she gave the reply that would be the death-knell of her dreams of freedom, of frivolity, of fun. “Yes, Jack, I do. I will help you restore your reputation and the Foxhaven name by playing the respectable wife to perfection. It is, after all, the role I've trained for all my life.”

And would now be doomed to play for the rest of it.

THIRTEEN

JACK WAS REMINDED of St. Joan of Arc as Nessa vowed to behave respectably and restore his reputation. Beautiful, noble, willing to sacrifice herself for something she believed in—for him. He was both touched and shaken. Could he, Jack Ashecroft, possibly have inspired such devotion?

No, it was the letter, of course. It had affected him similarly, after all, even before he'd read the postscript—which he didn't dare show Nessa. He released a small sigh of relief.

“Thank you, Nessa. You have no idea how much this means to me. I'll try very hard never to make you sorry.”

The martyred expression faded from her face. “I shall hold you to that, Jack. Perhaps if I am allowed to be a little bit wicked in private, I shall not mind so much playing the paragon in public.” The twinkle was back in her eyes, and something within him stirred in response.

“Only a little bit wicked?” he asked softly, leaning toward her.

Her cheeks, already pink from the cold, pinkened further, but she did not pull away. “Wickedness is very new to me, you know. By my father's standards, waltzing and wearing bright colors qualify.”

“And how about this?” He covered her unresisting mouth with his own. Her response was immediate, her lips soft and pliable beneath his, her hands coming up to encircle his neck as he pulled her closer. His own response was even more profound, desire racing through him like a flame through dry tinder. Luckily—or was it unluckily?—the cold stone bench was not conducive to further intimacies.

Slowly, reluctantly, he released her. He'd intended to keep his distance until they were wed, but it went against his nature to refuse a kiss to a woman who wanted one. Who needed one. “The next three days can't pass quickly enough.” His voice was still husky with passion.

To his surprise, the matching desire in Nessa's deep brown eyes was suddenly shot through with alarm. “Three days. Yes,” she agreed shakily, now avoiding his gaze.

As Jack regarded her thoughtfully, a large drop appeared on her cheek. For a moment he thought, incredibly, that she was crying but then similar drops began to fall all about them. “We'd best return to the house,” he suggested, standing.

She nodded and took his proffered hand, still strangely subdued after that all-too-brief burst of passion. He led her back through the maze amid the pattering of raindrops, wondering what had wrought her sudden withdrawal.

Could she be dreading their wedding night? That seemed unlikely, as she'd been married before and would know what to expect. Besides, she'd shown herself far from indifferent to him. Perhaps it was marriage itself she was nervous about. It would be perfectly natural, he supposed, given her feelings about the state.

So why was he not similarly reluctant to permanently bind himself to one woman for the rest of his life? He had been at first, but he realized that was no longer the case. What had changed?

“No, here, to the left,” he murmured as Nessa began to take a wrong turn. In a moment they were out of the maze and back on the flagged path, rain still falling about them. As they hurried toward the house, Jack lapsed back into thought.

That he'd developed an affection for Nessa he could not deny. But he'd held dozens of women in affection—and lust—without wishing to spend a lifetime with any of them. Was this love? Immediately he rejected the disturbing notion. Love was a myth. He'd determined that years ago. Something invented by poets and pretended by women in an attempt to bend men to their will.

Even between family members he'd seen little evidence that such an emotion existed. Nessa had asked whether he'd loved his Grandfather. He hadn't denied it, as his reverence for the old man was doubtless what many would call love, but his feelings there were based on admiration and mutual respect rather than any mystical state of the heart. Certainly it was not the same thing numerous women had claimed to feel—something composed of lust and a desire for control.

What he felt for Nessa was doubtless similar—mutual respect and admiration… with some lust thrown in as well, yes, but that was simply because she was female and beautiful.

“Will dinner in an hour and a half suit you?” he asked as they reached the house. “I generally dine early in the country.”

For the first time since leaving the center of the maze, she met his gaze, her eyes still oddly shadowed. “That will be fine. I'll go upstairs to change.” She started to turn away, then stopped. “Thank you, Jack, for showing me the maze. Fox Manor is a lovely estate.”

He smiled, trying to lighten her mood. “I'm glad you approve, as you will be mistress of it inside of a week.”

Her attempt at a smile in return was not particularly convincing. “So I shall. Until dinner, then.” With only a faint rustle of her skirts, she turned and was gone, leaving Jack to his own, rather disturbing thoughts.

~   ~   ~

DURING DINNER, Nessa still appeared strangely subdued to Jack. She responded to Lady Branch's continued queries with perfect politeness but no elaboration. When Jack and Creamcroft joined the ladies in the drawing room after the meal, she was quietly engaged in reading and acknowledged his appearance with only a nod before returning to that pursuit. When the gentlemen suggested the ladies join them at whist, Nessa demurely echoed her sister's refusal, leaving them to piquet to while away the evening.

Jack found himself completely unable to concentrate on his cards. A novelty, that, and one which made him glad they had agreed to imaginary stakes. The ladies retired early, leaving him none the wiser as to the reason for Nessa's change of spirits.

Early the next day, guests began arriving for the wedding, keeping Jack busy with greetings, as well as last minute questions from the butler and housekeeper. Relatives he had not seen in a decade or more—as much by their choice as his—greeted him in return with smiles and congratulations which rang hollow to his ears. By early afternoon he felt decidedly out of sorts, restraining himself from outright rudeness only by extreme effort.

Nessa, however, was magnificent. Dressed in a gown of subdued rose and modest cut, she acknowledged all introductions with exactly the right blend of deference and assurance. Her voice soft and well modulated, she responded to even impertinent questions with unruffled dignity.

When Jack's mother stepped forward to play hostess, Nessa calmly moved to the background. When Lady Branch retired to fortify herself before dinner, Nessa effortlessly moved into the breach. Not even Lady Creamcroft was a more perfect model of proper English womanhood. She was behaving just as Jack had hoped she would, and there was growing respect in even his Aunt Gwendolyn's eyes—she who had frequently urged his grandfather to cast Jack off entirely. That respect began to extend to him as well, in perfect accordance with his plan.

So why was he so damned irritated by it all?

Shortly before dinner, Harry and Lord Peter arrived. Jack's spirits lifted at once as he hurried out to the graveled drive to greet them. “Come in, come in!” he cried jovially. “Finally, some relief from this plague of relatives besetting me!”

Harry shook his hand enthusiastically. “Respectability not all you'd hoped, eh? Don't say I didn't warn you. One good thing about being a black sheep— relatives generally pretend they don't know you.”

“Buck up, Jack,” Lord Peter advised him with a slap on the back. “It's only for a few days, after all—or are this lot staying till the New Year?” They all headed up the front steps.

“Heaven forbid! No, nearly all will leave a day or two after the wedding, at latest. They feel obliged to turn out en masse to officially sanction my return to the family fold, but not to disrupt their own holiday plans—thank God!”

“Unless you can drive them away even earlier.” Harry grinned with anticipation. “I'll help in any way I can, of course.”

Jack chuckled. “Hope I won't have to ask that of you. Seriously, though, Nessa—Lady Haughton—is doing a stellar job of keeping them all under control, and off my back. She may have raised a few eyebrows in London, but she still has the propriety thing down pat, believe me. Even Aunt Gwendolyn is in raptures over her.”

“Sounds as if your plan has been a stunning success,” Peter congratulated him.

“Yes. Yes, indeed,” agreed Jack, stifling a sigh. He led them through the front hall, barely hearing their comments on its noble proportions. “Dinner will be served in under an hour. Care for a glass of sherry first, or would you prefer to go up and change?”

“Sherry for me,” said Harry predictably.

“A quick glass, but then we really must get out of our dust before meeting anyone.” Lord Peter gestured at Harry's boots and trousers, as well as his own.

A few voices still emanated from the parlor, so Jack bypassed it in favor of the library. Already he felt in better spirits and less out of his element with the arrival of his friends. Perhaps the next two days would not be so insupportable after all.

~   ~   ~

NESSA WAS HEARTILY TIRED of playing the proper hostess, but at least it served as an effective distraction. Of course, the role was more properly Lady Branch's, but as she often abdicated in favor of her bedchamber, the task fell to Nessa—when one of Jack's aunts did not step forward, which they frequently did.

It had taken some effort, but she finally had all of the names and relationships sorted out. There was Lady Gwendolyn, the late Lord Foxhaven's eldest sister, an intimidating dragon of a woman who could have made even Lord Haughton cower, Nessa was sure. Then there was Esther, the Dowager Lady Foxhaven, widow of Jack's Uncle Luther, a frail, soft-spoken woman of middle years. It appeared neither she nor Luther had ever taken up residence at Fox Manor, due to their mutual ill health, which necessitated a seaside abode.

Lady Margaret, sister to Luther and Jack's father, was second only to Lady Gwendolyn in overbearing importance. Her husband, Lord Garvey, though standing more than six feet tall, seemed almost afraid of his diminutive spouse. Add to that various cousins—children and grandchildren of Lady Gwendolyn, their spouses and children, as well as Lady Margaret's younger brood—and Fox Manor was filled to capacity, large as it was.

Now, however, on the very eve of the wedding, Nessa's conflicting emotions were in such a state that she scarcely trusted herself to manage any conversation beyond polite nothings. Fortunately, little more seemed required of her, and most of the guests retired early to their beds as the wedding was to take place at nine o'clock the next morning.

Nessa, resigning herself to sleeplessness for yet another night, pulled out some embroidery. On arriving in London, she'd been pleased to discover that, contrary to her father's strictures, this activity was not considered the least bit improper by polite society. After two or three months of practicing it, however, she'd decided it was one of the duller pursuits open to ladies— which made it perfect for lulling herself to sleep on this, her last night of relative freedom.

Needlework did nothing to occupy her thoughts, however, which persisted in replaying the days immediately before and after her first wedding. Determined to block out her father's lectures and her mother's advice, and especially her memories of the marriage bed, she set the embroidery aside and took up pen and paper.

With sudden fancy, she decided to write a letter to herself—a letter from the woman she hoped to be twenty or thirty years hence, offering advice to the woman she was now. Writing quickly, she captured her hopes and dreams on paper as though they had already occurred. She wrote about the birth of her first three children, a campaign to see English girls better educated, the acquisition of a dog and a cat, which she'd always been forbidden.

Weaving this rosy future for herself as though it were a memory to look back on, she felt her eyes grow heavy. She extinguished the candle and climbed into bed, to fall into a deep, refreshing sleep, untroubled by her fears of the morrow.

When her abigail awakened her at dawn, her anxieties came crowding back. Thrusting them to the back of her mind, she allowed herself to be dressed, curled and adorned for the looming ceremony. She couldn't help but be pleased by the effect of her ivory silk gown, overlaid by costly ivory lace and accented at neckline, wrists and hem with tiny seed pearls. Her veil, of matching lace, cascaded from her chestnut curls to the floor, where it trailed behind with her silken train.

Prudence was to act in the stead of their late mother, but thankfully subjected her to little in the way of motherly advice. “I need not tell you what to expect, as you've been married before,” she said, tucking back a stray wisp of Nessa's hair a few moments before they were to go down. “Besides, I doubt not our mother gave you the same advice she gave me upon my own marriage. 'Twill still hold good.”

Nessa stared at her sister. “Prudence! Never tell me you still abide by, 'Think pleasant thoughts and don't move too much!'“

Prudence's cheeks flamed scarlet. Without meeting Nessa's interested gaze, she replied, “If it was good enough for Mother, why should it not be good enough for her daughters?”

Sudden panic gripped Nessa. “But… but Philip loves you! Surely that must mean… that is…” Prudence's averted face reddened further, so she desisted. “I just thought that might make a difference, that's all.”

“I… have no complaints,” said Prudence breathlessly. “But we must hurry downstairs. The carriage to take us to the chapel will be at the door by now.”

No complaints, Nessa mused as she obediently accompanied her sister from the room. Did that mean Prudence found the physical aspects of marriage less unpleasant than she had, or was that merely a polite nothing to get her to drop the subject? She wished now she had attempted a discussion on this topic with her sister earlier. It was too late now.

The carriage was indeed waiting, along with others already crammed with house guests. The day was overcast and windy, with an occasional spate of freezing drizzle. Had the day been fine, many of the guests would no doubt have walked, as the chapel was less than half a mile from the house. Nessa did not see Jack, and supposed he must have gone ahead to the chapel already.

The drive lasted only moments. The carriage door was opened by two liveried footmen, then Lady Gwendolyn hurried Nessa through a faceless crowd into an anteroom in the ivied stone building.

“All is in readiness,” she told Nessa, raking her from head to toe with a critical eye. Apparently satisfied, she informed her in a gentler tone that she was to remain there until the organ music began in a few moments.

Too preoccupied to reply coherently, Nessa merely nodded, and Lady Gwendolyn conducted Prudence from the room to her appointed place near the front of the chapel. Prudence sent Nessa what was no doubt intended to be an encouraging smile over her shoulder as she left the anteroom, but Nessa felt no noticeable abatement of her nervousness.

Had she been insane to agree to yet another marriage—a lifetime of servitude—so soon after gaining her freedom from her first one? And what of the physical side? Though Jack had presented his offer as a means to benefit them both, she had no doubt he would claim every right as a husband. What she couldn't decide was how she felt about that.

The next five minutes seemed an eternity, as the rest of the guests filed into the church and took their seats. Finally the music began. Nessa closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and stepped out of the anteroom as though going to the gallows.

Philip awaited her at the rear of the chapel, as he was to give her away, and the sight of his kind face bolstered her spirits somewhat. Taking his extended arm, she paced slowly up an aisle that seemed impossibly long for such a small church.

Suddenly aware of all eyes upon her, Nessa lifted her chin and then her eyes. There, next to the altar, stood Jack, looking outrageously handsome in a dark blue superfine coat and knee breeches. His face was as serious as she'd ever seen it, though when she caught his eye the familiar twinkle was still there.

He turned to face the altar as she reached it, but that one glimpse had fortified her. The ceremony itself was a blur, Nessa far more aware of the man by her side than anything the vicar was saying. Still, she managed to repeat the proper words at the proper times, and could not suppress a tremor at the sound of Jack's voice doing the same.

In less time than it seemed she had spent traversing the aisle, the ceremony was over. Lifting her veil, Jack bestowed the requisite kiss. Though it was more ritual than real, a mere touch of his lips upon hers, she was forcefully reminded of other kisses they had shared—and would share again. They turned to face the guests, who murmured their approval.

Nessa's thoughts flew ahead to the coming night, and she knew her cheeks betrayed her, but the onlookers appeared to find her blushes charming as Jack led her back down the aisle. Emerging into the wintry daylight, they were greeted by shouts of congratulation. Gathered about the little church were dozens and dozens of people no longer faceless— tenants and other local folk, ready to welcome the new Marchioness into their midst.

Though she smiled and waved, Nessa could not help remembering a similar scene outside the village chapel at Haughton six years ago. That crowd had seemed less cheerful than this, though perhaps that had been an effect of her own depressed and fearful spirits. Then, as now, she had been overwhelmed at the prospect of her new responsibilities as Lady of the Manor.

As it had turned out, Lord Haughton had scarcely allowed her any such responsibility. At Fox Manor, however, things would be different. Thank goodness she'd had those last months at Haughton Abbey to teach her what her duties were and how to perform them!

She was brought back to the present with a welcome start as Jack handed her into the carriage, now decorated with hothouse flowers and greenery. Had it been so before? She hadn't noticed.

Once they were shut inside, she breathed a small sigh of relief. At the same moment, Jack breathed a larger one. Their eyes met, and they began to laugh.

“'Tis wearing, is it not, living up to the expectations of others?” he asked. “We have the rest of the day's festivities to get through yet, but for this brief moment, at least, we can relax.” He then knocked on the little door at the top of the carriage and told the driver to take his time.

“I'd forgotten how very public a wedding is,” Nessa confessed. “By the end of the day, both our faces will ache from smiling.”

Jack sobered. “So you smiled for most of your first wedding day, did you? I suppose I should be glad to know that.”

“Smiling because one is expected to is far more tiring than smiling because one is happy.” Nessa remembered vividly her exhaustion at the end of that earlier wedding day, after hours of striving to appear the perfect, happy bride for fear of her father's or husband's censure should her smile slip. Then, despite her efforts, she recalled how that day had concluded. She managed not to shudder.

“Then I shall take it as a personal affront if you are too wearied by bedtime,” Jack said with a wink. “Not that I intend for that to be too many hours distant.”

Nessa was spared from replying by their arrival at Fox Manor. It was just as well, for his mention of bedtime, on the heels of her unfortunate recollection, rendered her speechless, a cold hand of apprehension gripping her by the throat. Resolutely, she swallowed her fear and allowed Jack to help her from the carriage, to be met by yet another noisy throng.

The tenants, she knew, had been bidden to a sort of auxiliary wedding breakfast, laid out in the ballroom. Many had either run ahead of the carriage or gone directly to the house, for dozens of people were here already. Women curtsied and men doffed their hats as she passed, some murmuring well-wishes and blessings. Her heart swelled, crowding out anxiety for the moment.

She had nearly reached the wide steps, the crowd growing thicker all the time, when she heard a young woman's voice from somewhere behind her.

“I dunno, May. She seems a slip of a thing to be woman enough for our Jack! Mayhap he'll need us still.”

It took every bit of Nessa's control and breeding to pretend she had not heard, when her instinct was to turn and locate the speaker. Nervous titters and shushing sounds followed, but she had no doubt the comment had been intentionally audible. Keeping her benevolent smile pinned to her face, she proceeded through the open doors of Fox Manor—her new home.

Taking up their posts by the door, she and Jack welcomed every guest, noble, gentry or common, as they filed past. Though she tried to squelch the impulse, Nessa could not quite help scrutinizing every maid of above average appearance, and wondering.

More than one such examined her in turn, with an expression less than welcoming. Surely, though, it was natural that the local lasses would idolize Jack, and resent the woman who put him out of their reach forever? Even unrealistic fantasies—as theirs must have been!—would be only reluctantly abandoned. Nessa chose to interpret the occasional hostile stare as a compliment to Jack rather than an insult to herself. In time, she would prove herself to the villagers— all of them.

Finally the interminable receiving line was at an end, and she and Jack were free to join family and gentry in the dining room. Nessa was ravenous, as there had been no opportunity for more than a cup of tea before the ceremony. Now it was near noon. So many polite comments were addressed to her, however, requiring equally polite responses, that she was unable to do more than snatch an occasional bite from her plate.

This carnival atmosphere was not at all what she remembered from her first wedding breakfast—but then, Lord Haughton would never have dreamed of inviting any commoners into his house except as servants. Only family and the more prominent local gentry been present at the ceremony or reception. With him and her own father presiding, of course hilarity had been out of the question.

This was more pleasant, she decided, even if she was in danger of starving. By early afternoon, the villagers and local gentry had departed, as had one or two of Jack's relations. Two days hence, the rest would have departed for their various estates, leaving only the Creamcrofts and perhaps Lord Peter and Mr. Thatcher.

Nessa stifled a small sigh as the final dinner course was served, looking forward to that calmer time. This wedding day might be far less unpleasant than her first had been, but it was more hectic, and just as interminable. Would it never end?

Jack rose from the table, a wine glass in his hand. “A toast to my bride, Lady Foxhaven.” Though it was by no means the first toast drunk in her honor that day, the guests dutifully echoed the sentiment.

“And now,” Jack continued, still standing, “my bride and I shall take our leave. I bid you all a good night.” Draining the last drops in his glass, he extended a hand to Nessa. Startled, she rose to take it.

Murmuring a farewell to family and friends, she accompanied Jack from the room. Panic belatedly set in as she set her foot on the first step of the great stairway, but she strove to conceal it.

Only a moment ago she had been wishing for the day to end. Had she been mad? The tall windows flanking the front door showed that the light was long gone, but it could not be more than six o'clock. The others would not be going up to bed for hours yet. Nessa's panic intensified.

“Are… are you certain you wish to leave the festivities so soon?” she asked breathlessly.

Jack gave her what was perhaps meant to be a reassuring smile, but which had quite the opposite effect. “I find all of these people wearying, don't you? I didn't wish either of us to become totally exhausted—yet.”

Nessa bobbed her head in mechanical agreement, her breath coming quick and shallow. Speaking was totally beyond her now. At the door of her room, she paused in some confusion. Jack had not indicated where she was to stay after the wedding.

“Why don't you go ahead and allow your maid to help you out of that gown. 'Tis lovely, but looks devilish uncomfortable. I'll see whether Parker has finished restoring my things to my room.” He nodded at the chamber adjoining hers, which his Aunt Esther had occupied until that afternoon.

“Then… this is to remain my room?”

He nodded. “You did say you liked it.” His tone was teasing, but she thought she detected an undercurrent of uncertainty.

“Oh, I do! Thank you, Jack.” Pleased and grateful, Nessa realized now that he had vacated his own chamber for the past week rather than add to her strain by forcing her to change rooms on this already stressful day.

He dropped a light kiss upon her forehead. “I'll join you in half an hour, my dear.”

Abruptly, the chill returned to Nessa's midsection, driving out pleasure, but she managed to nod and turn the handle. Simmons came forward at once to close the door behind her and began unfastening the intricate wedding gown.

“Would my lady care for a glass of something to calm her nerves?” She carefully laid the veil back in its folds of tissue.

Was her anxiety that obvious? This would never do. “Of course not, Simmons. I have been married before, you know.”

The abigail put away the veil and returned to finish unpinning the gown, helping Nessa to step out of the creamy confection. “Marriage to an upright, respectable and respectful man like Lord Haughton will hardly have prepared you for this night, milady.”

Nessa knew she should rebuke Simmons for such outspokenness, but instead swallowed convulsively. “What… what do you mean?”

“Lord Haughton was an older man, and a gentleman,” said Simmons, shaking out the gown. “It stands to reason he would be less… demanding… in the marriage bed.”

“Lord Foxhaven is a gentleman as well,” Nessa pointed out feebly, but she knew her words lacked conviction. Lord Haughton had not come to her bed frequently, it was true—as Simmons was no doubt aware. But he had simply taken what he wished when he did visit her, with no consideration for Nessa's feelings or comfort. Would Jack truly be even more… demanding? She shuddered.

Yet weighing upon her far more heavily than a fear of pain or discomfort was the certainty that after this night she and Jack could no longer be friends. She would miss that terribly.

For a moment she considered asking Simmons to fetch her some brandy or sherry after all— anything to make the looming experience less disagreeable. But that would be to admit her abigail was right about Jack, and she was not ready to do that. So she sat in determined silence while Simmons brushed out her hair and turned down the counterpane.

“Thank you, Simmons. That will be all.”

With a pitying look Nessa would rather not have seen, the maid left her. Alone, but not for long.

Just as she had on her first wedding night, Nessa climbed under the covers and waited, trying not to think about the painful ordeal to come.

FOURTEEN

JACK FLICKED A SPECK of dust from the lapel of the midnight blue dressing gown he'd purchased in London for this particular occasion. Though not normally a vain man, he could not refrain from a glance in the looking glass before going to the door separating his chamber from Nessa's. He wanted to look his best for her, tonight of all nights.

Turning the door handle, he blessed his luck that Nessa was a widow. As two experienced adults, they could delve straight into the pleasures of their union, with none of the coaxing, cajoling and tears an untried girl would have occasioned. He could not imagine a virginal miss holding a fraction of the appeal that Nessa did, in any event.

An oil lamp on the nightstand gave Nessa's green and peach room a soft, romantic glow. And Nessa herself awaited him in the bed, her rich chestnut hair loosed from its bonds to drape seductively over her shoulders. Jack felt his anticipation grow, along with a certain portion of his anatomy.

“I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long, my dear,” he said, his voice husky with desire.

Nessa gave an odd little twitch before replying, “No! Not at all. Of course not.” Her voice was high and breathless, even strained. If it weren't absurd, he might think she sounded frightened.

He moved closer to the bed. “Nessa, is everything all right?”

She nodded almost convulsively, her eyes unnaturally wide.

“No, I don't think everything is.” He sat on the edge of the bed to regard her with a frown. “Are you unwell? Is it your time of month? Did that dragon of an abigail say something to worry you?”

Each question was answered by a sideways shake of her head, but the panic—yes, he could only call it panic—did not leave her eyes. Baffled, he reached out a hand to stroke her hair, hoping that his touch might calm her. Instead, she flinched away. Startled, he dropped his hand.

“I've never seen you like this, Nessa. Clearly, something has frightened you badly. Will you not tell me what it is?”

She closed her eyes and swallowed visibly. “Please, Jack, can't we just… get it over?”

He nearly fell off the bed in his astonishment, suddenly deflated in more than an emotional sense. “What?”

Nessa opened her eyes and fearfully met his frowning gaze. “I… I know what is expected, of course. And I am ready, truly.”

“Are you indeed? I rather doubt that, my dear.” Though he kept his voice gentle, mentally he cursed the late Lord Haughton. What a bumbler the man must have been, to make Nessa so terrified of the physical side of marriage! He'd been wrong, very wrong, he realized. This was going to require far more skill than a virgin bride would have, for he had damage as well as ignorance to undo.

Now that he'd divined the cause of her reluctance, Jack's anticipation swelled again. He'd always loved a challenge. Moving closer to her, he said, “I won't consider you ready until you want me as much as I want you, Nessa. And I'll bring you to that point, if it takes me all night.”

~   ~   ~

NESSA HAD TRIED to blank her mind, steeling herself for the inevitable, but Jack's words startled her into unwelcome awareness. “What—what do you mean?”

“I mean,” he explained, “that before this night is done, you will discover what the marriage bed was truly designed for—mutual pleasure, not the unilateral satisfaction of one party. Kiss me, Nessa.” He lowered his lips to hers just as he'd done in the maze, and in his carriage in London.

At first she was unresponsive, still struggling to understand. But then, as her fear began to dissipate, her lips softened beneath his, just as they had when no dread of lovemaking had constrained her. He deepened the kiss slowly, very slowly.

Soon, those pleasurable feelings he had aroused before stirred within her. Her lack of resistance became active participation, as she twined her tongue with his. Slowly, Jack shifted his position until he lay beside her, never breaking the kiss. With one hand, he cupped her cheek, stroking gently. Finally, he lifted his head to murmur, “See? Not so terrible after all.”

She managed a small smile, but she still doubted him. That was all well and good, she thought, but still just a kiss. She knew there was worse to come yet.

“No, that's not all.” She blinked at this evidence he'd guessed her thoughts. “But things will get better, not worse. You'll see.” Moving away from her briefly, he peeled back the coverlet to join her beneath it.

She stiffened when he lay against her, now separated only by their thin garments, but when he did nothing but kiss her again, she relaxed once more. Again pleasurable sensations welled up—more quickly this time—and she began to respond eagerly.

Gently, so gently, Jack slid his hand lower, from her cheek to her throat, and then to her collarbone. Whenever she tensed even a fraction, he paused. Finally, his hand cupped her breast. This did not frighten her particularly, as it was something Lord Haughton had never done. Indeed, it served to intensify what she was beginning to suspect might be desire.

Trailing kisses from her lips to her throat, Jack followed the path his hand had taken until he reached the low neckline of her nightgown. With nimble fingers, he undid the first tiny button, then continued on, unbuttoning it as he went, until his lips reached her other breast.

When he touched the nipple with his tongue, she gasped, but not with fear. Still, he took his time. Circling both nipples, one with his tongue, the other with his thumb, he then returned to her lips for another long, deep kiss.

Emboldened by the delicious sensations Jack aroused, Nessa began her own exploration, skimming her hands over his shoulders, first above and then beneath his dressing gown. So heightened were her senses by this time that the touch of her fingers upon his bare skin was almost a shock. Apparently he felt it, too.

“Oh, my dear,” he whispered. “Have I told you how very exciting I find you?”

Timidly, curiously, she shook her head. “Let me pleasure you, Nessa,” he said. “Let me excite you as much as you excite me. I want you to know just how good it can be.”

She swallowed, but managed an almost imperceptible nod. Smiling, he resumed his attentions, stroking, touching, kissing. First tentatively, then more eagerly, Nessa stroked his back and shoulders in return.

His dressing gown had fallen open by now, and she saw that he wore nothing beneath it—but the knowledge no longer frightened her. She slid her hands lower, exploring areas she would never before have dreamed of touching.

Jack moved his own hands lower as well, massaging her breasts, her waist, her hips, her belly. Finally, with one finger, he brushed the mound of curls below, and the cleft they concealed. At that touch she stiffened again, pulling back from him, reminded again of her first wedding night. At once he retreated, but only back to her belly.

Kissing her again, he whispered, “I won't hurt you, Nessa. I'll never hurt you.”

She opened her eyes, searching his. “I trust you,” she said.

For an instant she wondered if his vow extended beyond physical pain—and whether it was a vow he could keep. Surely he'd loved and left dozens of women over the years, never intending to hurt any of them…

Desire superseded such anomalous reflection then, as Jack again gave Nessa his undivided attention. This time when he touched her most sensitive spot she did not flinch away. Softly, gently, he stroked and massaged, all the while kissing her mouth, her earlobes, her throat. When he slid one finger inside her she gasped—but with desire, not dismay.

Slowly, then more quickly, he eased his finger in and out, giving her a foretaste of what was to come on a grander scale. She tightened around his finger with a small moan.

He shrugged his dressing gown the rest of the way off. As he'd already unbuttoned the entire length of her nightgown, nothing now separated them. He rolled to cover her body with his own, but at once her eyes flew open, the fear returning.

“No, no, it's all right,” he whispered. “We'll do this another way, so that you can stop any time you wish to.” Rolling back onto his side, he turned her to face him, kissing and caressing until her fear again faded into desire.

When she again convulsed around his finger, he moved his hips forward until his swollen member rested against her mound. He moved slowly, gently, though by now she felt more than ready to receive him. Removing his finger, he replaced it with the very tip of his manhood, teasing her moist lips apart until he was just inside her.

Rocking ever so slightly back and forth, he duplicated the action he'd begun with his finger, at the same time massaging her tiny, sensitive nubbin. Nessa matched his rhythm, moving her own hips to meet him. Now it was his turn to groan as he covered her mouth with his, stifling her gasps of pleasure.

Nessa had gone beyond wonderment by now, lost in a sea of sensation she had never dreamed existed. Jack had promised he would make her want him, and oh! She did, she did! She quickened the thrusting of her hips, parting her legs slightly to impale herself upon him. Over and over she thrust her hips against his, reveling in how he filled her, reveling in the absence of pain. An even more intense surge overwhelmed her and she went over the edge into a world of pure pleasure that had her shuddering with ecstasy.

As she began her descent from the heights, Jack accelerated his own movements, driving himself into her once, twice, again. He tensed then and shuddered, just as she had, gradually slowing his movements. Nessa's body still throbbed around him, but now a warm languor began to steal over her, replacing the urgency she'd felt a moment ago.

Her breathing slowed, and she could hear his doing the same. Speaking seemed out of the question, and yet she felt a need to express her thanks for the new world he had opened to her. Never again would she fear him, fear the physical aspect of marriage. Tentatively, shyly, she touched his cheek with her fingertips.

Jack opened his eyes, pools of midnight blue, and smiled. “Did I keep my promise?”

She nodded. “And it didn't take all night, either.”

He gave a bark of laughter, then hugged her to him. “Nessa, you are truly a remarkable woman. I'm glad I married you.”

A warm glow filled her, as pleasurable as the one his physical loving had aroused. “I'm glad too, Jack. Thank you. For everything.”

He raised a quizzical brow, making her blush. “Oh, that wasn't everything, not by a long shot.”

“No?” She felt breathless, but daring. “I seem to recall a discussion of lessons…”

“And that was but the first. Come, my wife, let me demonstrate the full range of my instructional abilities.” He pulled her to him again and this time she felt not the smallest desire to resist.

~   ~   ~

BY MORNING, Nessa felt as if she'd acquired years of experience, if not much sleep. Marriage to a rake had much to recommend it after all, she had decided well before midnight. Now she found herself a bit sore, but happy. She'd longed to throw off all those years of propriety and, in one glorious night, she'd done it. And would again—and again.

She smiled up at the plaster flowers on the ceiling. Three days ago, she'd promised to play the paragon in public if she could be wicked in private. Now that she knew just how much fun “private wickedness” could be, she realized such a life was her ideal. She could enjoy frequent— nightly!— tastes of wildness without visiting scandal upon Prudence, Jack, or anyone else.

At that thought, she suddenly sat up with a gasp, awakening Jack, who still slumbered at her side. “The guests! What time is it?” A glance at the clock above the fireplace showed the morning well-advanced, though still wintry-dull.

Jack turned toward her with a smile. “Does it matter? No one will expect newlyweds to appear early for breakfast.” He reached out to pull her to him once again, apparently revived enough by a few hours sleep for more lovemaking.

But Nessa evaded him and scrambled out of the bed. “No, Jack, I promised—you made me promise. I am now officially hostess of Fox Manor, and your mother and Lady Gwendolyn leave this morning. 'Twould be a dreadful insult were I not to see them off.”

“Would it?” Jack frowned. “I can't see how. You've been everything proper since they arrived— more gracious than they deserve, by a long sight. Surely it's for them to take leave of us.”

Nessa began splashing her face at the basin. “Yes, yes, but if we are not available for her leavetaking, then the onus is upon us. One of the frightful things about propriety is that one misstep wipes out any number of perfect ones.”

Jack snorted, but sat up and groped for his dressing gown. “I suppose you're right, though 'tis why all the resolve in the world will probably never restore my reputation. How can one stay on one's guard every minute of the day?”

Drying her face, Nessa went to give him a quick hug. “I can, so long as I may drop it at night.”

His deep chuckle quickened her pulse, but she ducked away when he would have pushed her back onto the bed. “At night, I said.”

“I'm glad the days are short just now.” With a wink, he returned to his chamber to ring for his valet.

Though she knew it was foolish, Nessa quickly tidied both the bed and herself before signaling Simmons to attend her. The maid must know, of course, what sort of activity had transpired here overnight, but she preferred not to flaunt it. Besides, keeping the wildness of their passion a secret made it seem more wicked—and fun.

~   ~   ~

HALF AN HOUR LATER, Jack had to admit that Nessa looked every inch the proper Lady of the Manor as she descended with him to join the guests assembled in the morning room.

“Such a lovely couple, as I've been telling everyone,” Lady Gwendolyn declared, brushing aside Nessa's apology for their tardiness. “This young lady will be the making of you, Jack, you mark my words. I see noticeable improvement already.”

Grinning, he stepped to Nessa's side. “I don't doubt it, Aunt Gwendolyn. I do feel much improved.” He shot Nessa a quick wink, which she valiantly ignored, though her color rose.

“Incorrigible boy!” exclaimed Lady Gwendolyn, but her tone was indulgent rather than censorious. “And now, I really must be on my way if I am to reach Lewes before nightfall. The days are short, you know.”

“Yes, I know.” Jack kept both voice and face innocently solemn, but sent Nessa a sidelong glance that set her blushing again.

“Claudia, it appears your son has turned out rather well after all,” Lady Gwendolyn commented then.

Lady Branch now stepped forward, with the warmest smile Jack had ever seen her wear. “Indeed he has. And I thank you for it, my dear.” She gave Nessa a quick peck on the cheek before turning to Jack. “I can honestly say I'm proud of you—Jack.”

For a moment, he found himself speechless. Since her arrival, his mother had called him nothing but Lord Foxhaven, and even in his youth she had despised his nickname, insisting upon “John.” Something else to put to Nessa's credit.

“Thank you, Mother,” he said after a pause. “I'm pleased to hear you say so.” He bent to kiss her cheek, and was surprised when she squeezed his arm in return. It was not much, perhaps, but it was a start.

As his first full day as a married man progressed, Jack reflected with satisfaction that so far he had no cause for regrets. Nessa was the ideal hostess, dividing her attention among the house guests and taking gracious leave of those departing. Already she was consulting with Cook about the menus and making a few changes in servants' schedules to improve efficiency.

And, of course, she had proven even more delightful in bed than he'd envisioned. What a wedding night! Jack had been with several world-renowned courtesans over the years, women known both in England and abroad for their skill, but never had he been so well satisfied so many times in one night. What Nessa lacked in experience, she more than made up in enthusiasm.

Watching her skillfully settle a debate between Lord Peter and Harry that had threatened to become heated, he frowned. A night like that after a year and more of abstinence was bound to have certain physical effects upon her. He'd have to be extremely gentle tonight, or even desist altogether—if she'd let him!

As though feeling his eyes upon her, she turned just then and gave him a saucy half-wink when no one was looking. Jack grinned, then hastily seated himself next to Lord Peter to conceal her effect upon him. He'd let her decide what she was ready for tonight, he decided. Who was he to deny her, after all?

~   ~   ~

THAT EVENING, as Jack was on the point of knocking on the door to Nessa's chamber, a tap sounded on the other side. Opening it, he stared, too overcome for the moment to speak.

Clad in the low cut red gown and feathered mask she'd worn the night he met her, Nessa stood in the doorway.

“May I come in?” At his feeble nod, the vision swept past him, then paused to survey the room. “Not quite the monkish cell I was led to believe, Brother Eligius. Why! What a big bed you have.”

Jack emerged from his momentary trance and grinned. “The better to please you with, my Lady Monique.” Taking her hand, he lifted it to his lips. “Observe this poor friar overcome by the honor of your visit. How might I be of service?”

Her brown eyes sparkled at him through the mask. “I have come to you for religious instruction, of course.” When he blinked in surprise, she continued. “I should like to learn more about the Song of Solomon. 'Tis a facet of my theological education which has been sadly neglected, and I have reason to believe you are well suited to fill the gaps in my knowledge.”

He began to chuckle. “My lady, you have come to the right monk.” Tightening his grip on her hand, he led her toward the bed.

Jack proceeded to instruct Nessa on ways of pleasuring each other that would not exacerbate her soreness—to which she only reluctantly admitted.

“I promised not to hurt you, remember?” he said when she insisted it did not matter. “I want you to think of our marriage bed only in terms of pleasure, never of pain.”

“For enough pleasure, I'm willing to endure a modicum of pain,” she assured him, “but if 'tis possible to forego the pain entirely, so much the better.”

He demonstrated that it was, pleasuring her with touch and tongue and giving her subtle cues on how to do likewise for him. She proved an apt pupil—so apt that though they'd both skimped on sleep the night before, neither felt inclined to rest until well after midnight. Then they fell into an exhausted but happy slumber that again lasted until the morning was well advanced.

~   ~   ~

BY TWO HOURS PAST NOON, the remainder of the house guests had gone, save Peter, Harry, and the Creamcrofts. Jack found himself looking forward to a quiet Yuletide with just his bride and closest friends. Time enough later to contemplate their return to London and the complications awaiting him there. For now, he could relax.

He was rather surprised, therefore, to hear a loud knock at the door only half an hour after the last guests had taken their leave. Curious, he rose languidly from his place beside Nessa on the drawing room sofa, where he'd been awaiting tea along with the others. Peering into the hall, he was in time to hear a familiar voice say to Hackett, “I've an urgent message for Lord Foxhaven from the Duke of Wellington. I understand he is in residence.”

Jack strode forward, his mind quickly shifting from indolence to curiosity. “I am indeed, Mr. Woolsey.”

At once the man reached into his pocket and extended an envelope to him.

“I thank you,” Jack said, even more curious. “Hackett will see that a room is prepared for you. Pray join me in the library in half an hour.”

A moment later, seated at his desk by the crackling library fire, Jack read through Wellington's latest missive with a deepening frown.

Two weeks earlier, Lord Liverpool had written to the Duke to warn him of another assassination plot and the official opinion that his situation in Paris was now judged unacceptably dangerous. As soon as a plausible reason could be formulated, one that would not smack of retreat, Wellington would be recalled, probably to take a post at the Congress of Vienna now underway.

Though Jack would no longer be able to serve as originally requested, Wellington felt he could still be of use here in England. The assassination plot, incredibly, appeared to be of British origin, and two of the primary suspects were known to have spent time in the company of Miranda Dempsey after Jack left Paris in August. Now that Jack had attained a degree of social influence as Lord Foxhaven, the Duke felt he might be in a position to extract valuable information from Mrs. Dempsey—information that could bring these traitors to justice and protect England from any further outrage.

Jack scowled down at the letter and drummed his fingers on the desk. Though he typically did not say so, Wellington's life was very likely on the line here. If Jack refused to act, these would-be assassins might very well follow the Duke to Vienna, to carry out their dastardly plot there. But to accede to Wellington's wishes would be to betray the wedding vows he had taken only two days since—and his grandfather's wishes, as well.

What the devil was he to do?

His struggle was sharp but brief. Whatever befell him personally, Jack could not refuse his erstwhile commander's request. He would simply have to devise a way to extract the necessary information from Miranda while doing minimal damage to his marriage and reputation. A strategist of his caliber should be able to manage it—shouldn't he?

By the time Mr. Woolsey joined him several minutes later, his response to the Duke of Wellington was already written.

Not long after, Jack reentered the drawing room to resume his seat beside Nessa, just as though his life had not suddenly been turned upside down. “It occurs to me,” he said casually, “that you haven't yet seen the rest of the grounds. The weather has turned clear for the moment. What say you to a walk?”

“That would be lovely,” Nessa exclaimed. “If you'll wait a moment, I'll go up to change my shoes and fetch a wrap. Perhaps the others would like to come too?”

“No, no,” said Lady Creamcroft, correctly interpreting Jack's quick frown. “You two newlyweds run along.”

Though her phrasing only added to his burden, Jack smiled his gratitude. For what he needed to say to Nessa, he preferred they be alone.

FIFTEEN

NESSA TOOK A DEEP BREATH of the bright, wintry air. Lovely as Fox Manor was, she'd begun to feel a bit enclosed. Some outdoor exercise was just what she needed. “What's beyond that small rise over there?” she asked, pointing.

“The east end of the orchard, with a brook and small wilderness beyond. It's quite pretty in summer, but I doubt it's much to look at now. There's a path, but parts of it may be muddy.”

“I'm game if you are.” Alone with Jack, she could shed her mantle of propriety for awhile— not that it was so onerous now, with most of the guests gone.

“Off we go, then,” he said, stepping out at a fairly brisk pace. In five minutes they crested the rise, and in two more they were out of sight of the house. Both slowed their pace then, in unspoken agreement.

Nessa chuckled. “I believe we've successfully escaped. Is that the wilderness you spoke of, off to our right?”

Jack nodded, his expression unexpectedly serious. Folding her gloved hands over his arm, Nessa regarded him curiously. After a walking a minute or two in silence, he spoke.

“Nessa, were you… very much looking forward to Paris?”

She immediately noticed his use of the past tense, and swallowed. He meant to go without her. Perhaps he had intended it all along. Despite a crushing sense of disappointment, pride forced her to say, “A bit, but not so very much. Why?”

He regarded her for a long moment, but she refused to meet his eyes, afraid of what her own might reveal. Instead, she gazed ahead as though trying to spot the brook and held her breath.

“There has been a change in plans. The Duke of Wellington is to leave Paris for Vienna shortly, so my presence is no longer needed.”

Nessa released her breath and lifted wide eyes to his face. “You're not going to Paris?” He shook his head, and relief washed through her. He wasn't leaving her behind after all! “That visitor, just now,” she exclaimed with sudden insight.

“It was the message from Wellington, yes. So you don't mind too terribly?”

She smiled up at him. “I did rather wish to see what all the fuss was about, but I'll be happy to stay in England, as long as I am with you, Jack. Thank you for telling me right away.”

His nod was rather brusque, she thought, as though something in her answer displeased him, though he only said, “Good, good.” He lapsed into silence then, as they continued on their way, leaving her to wonder at his reaction.

Had she been too outspoken about her happiness at being with him? Though they'd spent hours getting to know each other physically, little had been said between them of feelings. While she felt certain that Jack's fondness for her went beyond simple lust, perhaps he was not yet ready for emotional declarations—which she had come perilously close to making just now.

To demonstrate that it had already passed from her mind, she made a general comment about the extent of the orchard, and he replied in kind. She would not allow herself to brood upon the subject. No talk of love had ever entered into her agreement with Jack, nor his with her. 'Twould be absurd to allow sentiment to mar the happiness she had found thus far in marriage.

Compared to her first marriage, to countless marriages she'd seen, theirs had the potential to be exceedingly pleasant, not to mention exciting. That should be good enough for anyone.

Shouldn't it?

~   ~   ~

THAT EVENING, after supper, Jack decided to bring Harry and Peter into his confidence, as part of his decision concerned them. Ushering them into the library, he poured a small measure of brandy for each of them before beginning.

“I received another missive from Wellington today. He's had wind of my title, and now feels I can serve him better here in England, as I have property interests to attend to.”

Harry sat up straighter than Jack had believed him capable this late in the evening. “The devil he did! Rescinded your invitation to Paris? Oh, hard luck, old boy! And after you already got yourself leg-shackled and everything. Well, at least you got the money signed over—didn't you?”

Jack nodded, smiling at his friend's genuine distress on his behalf. “Havershaw signed it over on my very wedding day. I'm not nearly so devastated as you seem to be, I assure you. And you won't be, either, once I've told you the sequel.”

He settled himself into a chair near the fire. “Wellington is going to Vienna, and asked my recommendations for a post or two with him there. I've already dispatched my suggestions. I doubt not you'll be hearing from him before many weeks have passed.”

Harry choked on the sip of brandy he'd injudiciously taken as Jack dropped his bombshell. Coughing and sputtering, eyes streaming, he nevertheless managed a grin. “Damn, that was good of you, Jack,” he said when he could. “Even if Old Nosey laughs and tosses your recommendation in the fire, which is not unlikely, it was a handsome thing for you to do.”

“That it was,” agreed Lord Peter, getting up to slap Harry on the shoulder. “I congratulate you, though I doubt not you'll make poor use of the opportunity. Vienna's even worse than Paris, from what I hear.” His tone was only half jesting.

“All depends on your perspective,” Harry retorted. “I intend to make very good use of some of the opportunities to be found in Vienna—if I get the chance.” He couldn't seem to stop grinning.

Pleased with the result of his news, Jack grinned back at him, then turned to Peter. “You could always go along to keep an eye on our boy, you know. I did mention your suitability as well.”

Lord Peter looked alarmed, then thoughtful. “Should the offer come, I'll give it some consideration. But tell us, Jack, what has Wellington in mind for you to do here in England? Tending your fields is all very nice for the economy, I suppose, but surely it's not all he mentioned?”

Caught off guard, Jack hesitated, then decided against dissembling to these two who knew him best. “No, he seems to think I hold a degree of influence over someone who may have information on certain traitors. He wishes me to exert it.”

“Miranda Dempsey, I'll be bound!” exclaimed Harry, startling Jack with his perspicacity. Drink clearly hadn't fuddled his wits completely. “Heard she was thick with Jameson and Cranshall, who I never trusted a hairsbreadth.”

Jack merely inclined his head slightly. “I'm impressed. It appears my recommendation was more astute than even I guessed.”

But Lord Peter was frowning. “You didn't agree, surely, Jack! You've been married but two days, after all.”

“Puts a new twist on the term 'affairs of state,' don't it?” quipped Harry, earning a glare from both of the others.

“I didn't agree to a dalliance with Miranda, no. But I did offer to find out what I could,” Jack admitted, shifting uncomfortably in his well-upholstered chair.

Peter regarded him shrewdly. “Still can't bear to let the Iron Duke down, can you? He can't have known about your marriage, though, or he'd never have suggested it.”

“Yes, I know. Still… I thought perhaps I could find out something of use, without, er, resuming a relationship with Miranda. She hasn't given up, you know.”

Peter snorted. “That I can well believe. If she can't have your name, she'll settle for your money. But think, Jack!” He was all earnestness now. “How will it look to your wife if you remain on friendly—if not intimate—terms with a former mistress?”

That was the very problem that had plagued Jack since first reading the Duke's letter. “I'll simply make certain she doesn't hear of it,” he replied, with more confidence than he felt. “In any event, I needn't do anything about it one way or the other just yet. We don't return to London until after the holidays.”

They seemed content with that, and the conversation turned back to the Congress of Vienna and the latest news to come out of it. Jack was just as glad. Weighty matters of national security were far less unsettling than those pertaining to his marriage—and his feelings about it.

~   ~   ~

THE NEXT TWO WEEKS passed almost too quickly for Nessa, so enjoyable was this Christmas season, unmarred by the heavy puritanical overtones of all her previous ones.

She found preparing gift baskets of food and other necessities for the poorer villagers particularly satisfying. Together, she and Jack drove or walked about the lands beholden to Foxhaven, delivering the baskets along with well wishes, in what he told her had long been a Foxhaven Christmas custom.

At Fox Manor itself, she reveled in the baking, the roasting and the hanging of greenery, which reached a frenzied peak on Christmas Eve. Prudence, however, voiced some reservations.

“Ought you really to condone such things, Nessa?” she asked as they watched the hanging of yet another enormous kissing bough, this one in the morning room. “Father always said such things were pagan barbarisms.”

“He said that of the yule log as well, Prudence, but we intend to have one tonight—in fact, here come the men now from their expedition to find a suitable one. Why do you not ask Philip what he thinks of these traditions?”

Prudence obediently approached her husband, where he had paused under the just-hung mass of greenery, ribbons and mistletoe. To Nessa's delight, her brother-in-law was not at all slow to take advantage of time-honored custom, reaching up to pluck a mistletoe berry before claiming a resounding kiss from his startled wife.

“Philip!” Cheeks scarlet as the ribbons above them, Prudence glanced wildly about at the appreciative onlookers.

“I believe you may take that as an answer to the question you were about to ask,” Nessa suggested wickedly.

Prudence sent her a speaking glance, but then she smiled shyly up at her husband. “Have you felt deprived of Christmas traditions these past few years, my lord?”

Philip encircled his wife's shoulders with an arm and gave her a quick hug. “Only a bit, my dear. Not enough to make you uncomfortable over. I know you were not brought up to them.”

Prudence's brow furrowed prettily as she considered his words, but she said nothing. Shortly thereafter, the men went back outdoors to strip the remaining branches from the yule log before bringing it in, and Nessa took the opportunity for a few more words with her sister on the subject.

“Are you still opposed to celebrating Christmas, Prudence? Everyone else seems to enjoy it enormously.”

Again her sister looked thoughtful. “Yes, they do. Even Philip.” Nessa had been pleased to note that she often called her husband by his Christian name now, unless many people were present.

“Perhaps 'tis not such a pagan thing to do after all,” Nessa suggested. “It occurs to me that many of the traditions Father despised involve charity to one's fellow man—Boxing Day, gift baskets to the poor, that sort of thing. How can such customs possibly violate the spirit of the season?”

Prudence nodded. “I believe you may be right, Nessa. Father, for all his virtue, was not a particularly charitable man.”

Though she said nothing more, Nessa took great hope from that statement, the first one critical of their father that she'd ever heard Prudence utter. Yes, her sister was well on her way to becoming her own person—and a far happier one, she suspected.

Celebrating with the villagers and servants in the biggest of the barns on Boxing Day, Nessa found that Jack and Philip enjoyed children as much as she and Prudence did. She watched with delight as they carried a succession of little boys about on their shoulders and danced with every little girl old enough to stand.

When the motley group of local musicians struck up a waltz, Jack charmed the assembly by dancing it with his wife. Nessa was pleased to see that most of the local lasses appeared to have accepted her already. Glancing to her right, she was even more pleased— and amazed—to see Prudence and Philip waltzing!

“You were splendid!” she declared to them when the dance was over. “However did you convince her to learn, Philip?”

Her brother-in-law chuckled. “Actually, it was her suggestion. It began with a private lesson in a corridor at the Hightower ball, followed by—” But at this point he was silenced by a poke in the ribs from a blushing— but smiling— Prudence.

“No matter. I'm happy for you both,” said Nessa sincerely. For a moment she felt the faintest twinge of old envy, but pushed it aside.

Time enough once the festivities were over to worry about the emotional state of her own marriage. For now, she was content with the novel joys of the season—and of the marriage bed, where her education continued apace.

At times, Nessa almost wondered how she could ever have found lovemaking distasteful. Then she would remember Lord Haughton and shudder, turning to Jack with renewed gratitude for everything he'd shown her marriage could hold. If a tiny voice murmured, everything but love, she ignored it. She and Jack had affection and trust, which was surely more than many couples shared.

Throughout the Twelve Days of Christmas, they discovered more and more interests in common. Nessa beat Jack at whist, and he taught her to play vingt-et-un and euchre. When the weather permitted, they took more and longer walks until she felt familiar with most of the Foxhaven estate and longed to see it in other seasons. Never much of a horsewoman, Jack taught her some of the finer points of riding until she began to enjoy the exercise and even earned his grudging praise.

When sleet drove everyone indoors, they discussed books. To her surprise, Jack had read most of the same ones she had, with both professing a fondness for the tales of Walter Scott— novels of the sort Nessa had always been obliged to read in secret.

All too soon, Twelfth Night arrived. On the morrow, January seventh, they were all to head back to London. The decorations were taken down and, after dinner, the Twelfth Cake was brought in to close the holiday season.

Jack raised his glass. “To good times and good friends. May we often gather again in the future.”

All drank to that, Harry draining his glass as was his wont and signaling the servant to refill it. He then lifted his own goblet for a toast. “To our host, Jack, the best of good friends. May Wellington's faith in you be justified, as well as yours in me. I wish you the best of both worlds,” he concluded, with a broad wink.

Though Nessa didn't understand the reference, she drank with the rest.

~   ~   ~

JACK COULD SEE that Nessa was not as impressed by her first sight of his London house as she had been by Fox Manor. Though she politely refrained from making any criticism of Foxhaven House, she looked about at the dark front hallway with its nude statuary, gilt ornaments and hunting trophies with something akin to horror.

Seeing it through her eyes, he was inclined to agree. In the first flush of excitement at his newfound wealth and title, he'd filled the Town house with various things he'd collected over his years of wandering, in an attempt to make it feel like home. The result was… tasteless, to say the least.

“You'll, er, want to redecorate, most likely,” he said cautiously. “I rather threw things in any which way after I inherited last autumn.”

Nessa seemed to breathe a bit easier. “I believe I would prefer to make a few changes, if you won't mind terribly.”

Jack grinned at her diplomacy. “Oh, it's dreadful and I know it. I should have left well enough alone, of course, but now I give you free rein to do what you like with it. I've no doubt you'll do me proud.”

She colored slightly, but lifted her chin. “I'll do my best. But perhaps I should see what other atrocities you've committed before making any bold claims.”

Jack took her through the four story house, holding his breath each time he opened a door, trying to recall what might be waiting on the other side.

“Never tell me this belonged to your grandmother,” exclaimed Nessa, holding up an extremely sheer scarlet negligee she found in her own wardrobe. “Nor these!” Reaching in again, she produced a pair of lacy black garters adorned with saucy red ribbons.

Vividly remembering the evening— and the party—that had occasioned those particular garments being left in this particular room, Jack could only groan. Had it really been only four months ago? What a wastrel he'd been!

But Nessa was chuckling. “Oh, come, Jack. I'll not hold you accountable for everything you did before we married—or even met. 'Twas the fact that you were a rake which first fascinated me, if you recall. Don't worry that I'll become missish now, when I find occasional evidence of it.”

He managed a crooked grin, remembering his promise to Wellington. “Not many wives would be so understanding, I suspect. Shall we have a ball to introduce the new Lady Foxhaven to Society, and to show off the house when it is done?”

The twinkle in her eyes told him she was aware he had deliberately changed the subject, but she answered readily enough. “Of course. It will be an essential step in restoring you to respectability. I'm not certain how long these renovations will take, however, so let's not send out the invitations just yet.”

~   ~   ~

OVER THE NEXT week or two, however, Jack had occasion to wonder more than once whether respectability was worth the cost. A continuous stream of tradesmen came to call, with samples of wallpaper, fabrics, carpet, and every other item that might conceivably play a role in redecorating a house. Nessa reviewed everything, made choices, and directed the resultant workmen.

Soon, no room was safe. Bolts of fabric, rolls of paper, tubs of glue, and boxes of pins were everywhere. The furniture went missing or in pieces as it was reupholstered, windows went uncurtained, and all was in disarray.

At first Jack felt like a coward taking refuge at his club, but soon even that offered scant relief. Wellington had written asking Harry and Peter to precede him to Vienna, and they had gone at once. Few of his other erstwhile cronies had yet returned to Town. Staring morosely out The Guards' front window at White's across the street, he decided he needed a change.

Back outside, he considered White's again, wondering whether his reputation was restored enough to attempt entry there. Deciding not to risk it just yet, he turned to stroll aimlessly down St. James Street, considering various other clubs. Brooks', Boodle's, Arthur's, Graham's— none really appealed. Instead, he found his steps turning to Jermyn Street, home of some of his old, disreputable haunts.

“Jack, m'boy!” exclaimed a once-familiar voice as he passed one of the more notorious gaming hells. “Didn't know you were back in Town. Let me buy you a drink, for old times' sake.”

“Hello, Ferny,” he greeted the obviously tipsy young man. “How have you been?”

Lord Fernworth shook his head and heaved a dramatic sigh. “It ain't been the same with you gone, and that's the truth.” Jack did not resist when he took him by the arm and led him inside. “And then to take Pete and Harry away as well! I ask you!” He signaled for wine and a pretty serving wench obliged.

“Now you're back,” he continued as their glasses were filled, “things are bound to improve. Look at this lot.” He gestured around the large room in disgust. “Not a decent card player in the bunch, or none willing to play for decent stakes. How much fun can one have in a hole like this, anyway? But with you back at Foxhaven House…”

“I'm married now, remember?”

Lord Fernworth focused on his face with some difficulty. “Yes, yes, of course, but what's that to do with it? What the little lady in the country don't know won't hurt her.”

“Lady Foxhaven is here in London, refurbishing Foxhaven House even as we speak.” Jack recalled the chaos at home with slightly less than his earlier aversion.

“Here in Town? Man, are you mad? What the devil did you want to bring a wife here for? You have changed, Jack.” Lord Fernworth glared at him balefully before tossing off the rest of his drink.

Jack regarded him impassively, then allowed his gaze to take in the rest of the establishment where he'd spent a significant portion of his time last September. The clientele consisted of those on the outer fringes of Society, as well as the occasional younger son hoping to achieve Town bronze in short order. Though it was but late afternoon, most were already deep in their cups. What on earth was he doing here?

“Yes, I suppose I have.” Pushing his untouched glass across to Ferny, he stood. “Or maybe I've just grown up.” Leaving his onetime crony to ponder the meaning of that statement, he strode from the place, never to return.

Walking along Piccadilly on his way back to Foxhaven House, yet another familiar voice hailed him, this one feminine. “Jack! What a delightful surprise!”

“You're looking well, Miranda,” he cautiously greeted the stunning woman before him. “I take it you remained in Town during the holidays?”

She pouted prettily. “I had no choice, unless I wished to join my odious brother and his starched-up wife in Suffolk. I'd planned to attend Lady Hartshorn's house party, but she took ill and canceled it.”

“How very discourteous of her, to be sure.” Though his tone was light and bantering, Jack's thoughts were in turmoil. Here was his first opportunity to carry out Wellington's request. He'd best make good use of it.

“My sentiments exactly,” Miranda replied, trilling one of her lovely laughs.

Jack started before realizing she'd responded to his careless words, not his thoughts. Carefully, he said, “A pity you've had such a dull time of it.”

“Ah, but now you're back in Town, that will change, will it not?” She lowered her voice seductively and laid a hand on his sleeve. “By now you've no doubt had time to become bored with your proper little wife and will welcome some excitement as much as I.”

“Surely you haven't spent the past month entirely alone?” he asked, though his conscience smote him for failing to defend Nessa. Not that the details of his marriage were any business of Miranda's, he reminded himself.

“It does seem at times as though all the world's in Paris—or Vienna—but I've had escorts to the theater and what few entertainments are available with Town so thin of company. Don't think I'm that dependent upon you, Jack!” She fluttered her eyelashes at him.

“Of course not. An attractive woman like you must have so many admirers I'm amazed you missed me at all.” Jack was almost startled to discover he could still spout insincerities so effortlessly.

“Ah, but you are in a class of your own, Jack.” Miranda sidled even closer to him.

“I'm flattered. Say, do you still see anything of Jameson these days?” he asked casually. “There was something I wished to ask him about.” He was becoming impatient with her flirting. Evening was coming on, and he wished to get home.

Miranda smiled. “Owes you money, does he? You're not the only one, but I may have some information you'll find useful. If we combine forces—” She stopped, her attention caught by something over his shoulder. “Why, good afternoon, Lord and Lady Creamcroft! I was just having the most delightful coze with your new brother-in-law.”

Damn. Jack turned to face the newcomers, unobtrusively disengaging Miranda's hand from his sleeve. “I give you good day, Philip, my lady. I was just returning to Foxhaven House. Would you care to see how the redecorating is coming along?”

Prudence glanced from Jack to Miranda, a concerned question in her eyes, while Philip replied. “We're on our way home ourselves, to dress for dinner at the Glaedons.' I believe Lady Foxhaven has requested we wait until all is finished before calling in any event, has she not, my dear?”

Recovering herself, Prudence nodded. “Yes, she's determined to do it all herself, though I offered my guidance. I managed a quick peek a few days since, when I brought a few things she'd left at our house, but she shooed me out before I could see much.”

Apparently bored with the turn in conversation, Miranda spoke. “I'll leave you all to your domestic concerns, then. Jack, I propose we continue our discussion later. If you'll call on me tomorrow, we can no doubt arrange a more private venue.” With a saucy smile, she continued along the street.

Cursing her impudence but unwilling to make explanations to the Creamcrofts, Jack took his leave as well. “I need to hurry along myself, as Nessa will be expecting me. If the workmen adhere to her schedule, we should be able to invite you to view the finished result in a matter of days.”

A moment later he was on his way, thankful that it lay in the opposite direction to Miranda's. He wondered who else had seen them together on the street. He quickened his pace, suddenly eager to see Nessa again.

Bounding up the front steps, he opened the front door himself, unwilling to wait for his incompetent butler. This proved a mistake. The door bumped a ladder propped near one of the front windows. It teetered, then fell with a crash, barely missing him. A decorative urn near the stairway was not so lucky, however.

Sweeping the shards to one side with his boot, Jack waited for Nessa and the servants to come running to investigate the commotion –but no one did. “Nessa?” Frowning, he headed up the stairs. “Anyone?”

Jack continued up to the second landing, then glanced around. In which of the four bedrooms was Nessa likely to be occupied? He glanced into her chamber first, but found only Simmons there, clucking and shaking her head as she bundled up stray bits of fabric and wallpaper and brushed ineffectually at the dust.

The doors of the two spare bedchambers stood open, and as he heard no sound from their direction, he opened the door to his own room—and stood blinking on the threshold. A remarkable change had been wrought since he'd left early in the day. The new paper was hung, in blue and gray stripes, as were fresh curtains and bed-hangings. The carpet was still rolled up at one end of the room, but everything else appeared finished.

And Nessa herself sat upon the floor, hemming the new curtains!

“My dear, whatever are you doing?” he asked, recovering his wits and striding forward. “Are we not paying an army of people to do such chores as this?”

Nessa turned to him with a smile. “Hello, Jack! I'd hoped to have this completed before your return. Do you like it?”

He glanced about the room again, but his attention was on Nessa herself. Seated on the floor like a servant, her hair coming loose from its pins, a smudge on the tip of her nose, she looked… beautiful. And tired, he realized, looking closer.

“It's far better than I expected,” he admitted, “but you have not answered my question. Why are you doing such a menial task yourself?”

Her smile faltered. “Mrs. Latham, the seamstress, wished to get home, for her son is ill. As there was only this last length to hem, I decided to complete it myself. And—” she turned back to the folds of fabric in her hands and tied off a knot— “'tis done. I'll go consult with Cook about dinner.” She scrambled to her feet before he could move to assist her, and hurried from the room.

Jack frowned after her, then turned to examine more closely the results of her labors. Remarkable! Clearly, she'd made a real effort to have it done quickly, in order to cause him a minimum of inconvenience. Smiling, he rang for Parker to help him change for dinner.

Joining Nessa in the drawing room a short while later, he was surprised to find a small table set for their meal.

“The dining room table has paper and glue pots on it, so this made more sense,” she explained apologetically. “It should be only for one night, or perhaps two.”

“I begin to think we should have returned to Fox Manor until the renovations were complete,” he commented, seating first Nessa and then himself at the little table. “But I know that you prefer to oversee the process yourself.”

“I'm sorry, Jack. I know you don't like all of this disorder, but it will be over soon, I promise you.” She took a spoonful of soup—and grimaced. “I fear we'll have to look for a new cook before holding a major entertainment. I hope this one has not been with you long.”

He shook his head. “All of Grandfather's servants left when the house was shut up during the time my Uncle Luther held the title. I fear I never paid proper attention to hiring a competent staff to replace them, but relied solely on an employment agency.”

“Then I won't have the slightest reservation about seeking a new staff at once. I'll begin tomorrow.”

When Jack's after-dinner brandy was served, she rose. “As we are already in the drawing room, I'll withdraw to my chamber upstairs, if you do not mind. I imagine Simmons will need direction on where to bestow some of the clutter.”

He considered asking her to remain, but then nodded. An early night would do them both good. “As you wish, my dear. I'll join you shortly.” She responded to his wink with a grin, then left the room.

Scarcely twenty minutes later, Jack followed her upstairs. Somehow she had managed to have the carpet laid in his bedchamber while they were below, he noticed. Shaking his head in awe at her efficiency, he quickly changed into his dressing gown and opened the connecting door to her room.

A lone candle burned on the nightstand, and Nessa lay beneath the coverlet—sound asleep. Smiling tenderly, Jack leaned over and kissed her cheek, careful not to awaken her. Extinguishing the candle, he quietly returned to his own bedchamber. Climbing into his own bed, alone for the first night since their marriage, he stared up at the ceiling.

Two hours later, with sleep as far away as ever, he rose and went down to the library, where he cleared a chair of debris. Poking the banked fire into a small blaze, he poured himself a measure of brandy and sat down to consider his options—and the exact nature of these disturbing feelings he had for his own wife.

SIXTEEN

NESSA AWOKE from the deepest sleep imaginable to find the room dark and the bed empty, save for herself. Momentarily confused, she fumbled for a candle, then rose to light it at the fireplace. She must have fallen asleep before Jack joined her. Not surprising, considering how tired she'd been. No doubt he'd returned to his own chamber rather than wake her, which was considerate of him, if a trifle disappointing.

Softly, she opened the adjoining door and tiptoed across the fresh-laid carpet to his bed—only to find it empty. Confused again, she went to look at the clock on his mantelpiece. Why, it was after two o'clock in the morning! His bed appeared to have been slept in, but where could he be now?

She returned to her room to don a wrapper, but then stopped. Doubtless he was simply downstairs in the library, reading. He had done so once or twice before when unable to sleep, she knew. And what would it look like if she went padding down after him? Might he think she didn't trust him? Climbing back into bed, she decided to redouble her efforts to finish the house this week.

It was clear Jack did not care for the disorder the workmen had created, though he was good enough not to say so. She would take care he did not catch her acting like a servant again, as he had clearly disapproved. That thought rankled a bit, reminding her too vividly of her childhood and first marriage, but she pushed it aside. She would direct her energies to more efficient delegation, hiring more and better servants and carefully supervising the workmen. Inside of a week, Foxhaven House would do its master credit, she was determined.

~   ~   ~

BY THEIR THIRD MEETING, Jack was convinced he'd extracted all the useful information he could from Miranda. Jameson and Cranshall had indeed been important links in the abortive assassination plot—as had Miranda herself. For a handsome fee, she had passed along certain information about Wellington's plans while in Paris last fall, which they in turn had forwarded to the would-be assassin— whose name Jack had finally discovered.

“Surely you needn't leave so early today, Jack.” Miranda pouted across the little table at Bellamy's coffee-house, where they'd shared luncheon. “If you'll just come home with me for a moment, I've a new gown to show you that I think you'll approve.” She leaned forward to give him an unobstructed view of her ample cleavage.

Though once or twice Jack had felt the stirrings of old lust, he had by now learned enough about Miranda to effectively douse any admiration. There was nothing, seemingly, that the woman wouldn't do for money. She'd betrayed her country for it, and now that her co-conspirators had lost their funds, she just as readily betrayed them. Jack had to force himself to smile.

“I fear not, my dear. I've decided to take up my duties in Parliament at last, and have much to catch up on there. Besides, we don't wish to arouse gossip, do we?”

She shrugged negligently. “It's a bit late for that, don't you think? Even with your string of excuses to avoid being entirely alone with me, we've been seen in public often enough. If all London believes me to be in your pocket anyway, you may as well enjoy the advantages.” She lowered her lashes seductively.

With an effort, Jack restrained himself from glancing around the room. He'd tried to be discreet, meeting with her at times and places when fewer people would be about, but he feared she might be right. It was time to break things off, now that he had that all-important name to pass along to the Home Office.

He stood. “If we've become an object of gossip, as you say, then we'd best not meet again. I don't want my wife hurt.”

Miranda remained seated. “Goodness, we mustn't offend the sensibilities of the oh-so-proper Lady Foxhaven, Jack!” She trilled a laugh, a shade too loudly. “Do you really think she's as innocent as all that?”

When he didn't reply, she rose languidly and tried another ploy. “I've heard Cranshall is about to open a gaming hell. If you'll come give me your opinion of that gown, I'll tell you all about it.”

Jack shook his head. “I think not, Miranda. Here's the money Jameson owed you. I was able to put your information to good use, as you'd promised.” He held out a folded wad of notes, money authorized by the Home Office.

Her eyes blazed, but she snatched the money from him. “So pleased we could be of use to each other,” she snapped.

“As am I.” Bowing so that she could not see the irony in his expression, Jack turned and walked away from her for good.

~   ~   ~

NESSA COULD NOT suppress a tendency to smugness as she surveyed the results of her hard work and management. She had consulted with experts and read dozens of periodicals and was now satisfied that Foxhaven House was smack up to the nines—and just happened to suit her own taste as well. Bright, cheerful, new upholstery, carpets and drapes throughout, but nothing that would soon go out of style.

In addition, she had hired an entire new staff. Daniels, the new butler, had arrived two days since, as had the new cook, and already meals were much improved. Mrs. Blessing seemed destined to live up to her name in the capacity of housekeeper. Nessa had gladly turned the keys over to her this very morning. How Jack had managed without a housekeeper was beyond her.

Now it was midafternoon, and Nessa was occupied in writing out the invitations to the soiree—to be held on the last day of January— which was to formally open the house and introduce her to Society in her new role. After weeks of answering servants, tradesmen and workers, she was becoming accustomed to the name of Lady Foxhaven. But would she ever get used to her husband?

Jack had become rather an enigma of late. Out all day, he would return for dinner but say little about how he'd spent his time. The night after the one she'd spent alone in bed, Nessa had made a point of encouraging him to new heights of passion—and he'd seemed more than willing to be encouraged. The next day, however, her monthly courses had commenced, so there had been no further opportunities.

Nessa sighed and addressed the next envelope. Jack had been most understanding, of course, but she herself was more than a little frustrated—and disappointed. And now she must find a way to let Jack know that she was once more approachable.

Her courses had come late, and not until their arrival did she realize how much she'd hoped to discover she was with child. If Jack were similarly disappointed, he'd given no hint of it—unlike Lord Haughton, who had always contrived somehow to make Nessa feel guilty for failing to produce an heir.

Throat-clearing from the open parlor doorway interrupted her musings. “Lady Creamcroft, milady,” Daniels informed her.

Nessa set down her pen and turned with a smile. “Prudence! Welcome to Foxhaven House at last.” She rose to greet her sister with outstretched hands.

“I've been all impatience to see what you've done here, Nessa!” exclaimed Prudence, returning her kiss. “What I've seen so far is charming. I insist on a full tour before you ring for tea.”

Nessa complied, as eager to show off the house as Prudence was to see it. “Now, you must be totally honest with me,” she said when they at length returned to the parlor. “What have I forgotten? What would you have done differently?”

“Not a thing,” Prudence assured her. “In fact, I'm now itching to make changes to my own Town house in an effort to duplicate the light, airy feel you've given yours. Did you really direct all of the redecorating yourself?”

Nessa rang for the tea tray then, and they were soon deep in a discussion of fabrics, colors and furniture arrangement. They were still so when Jack returned, half an hour later. At once, Prudence rose to take her leave.

“I'll give you good day, Nessa, and you as well, my lord. You must realize by now that your wife is a woman of many talents. I've no doubt that she will do you great credit… if you will allow it.” With those enigmatic words, Prudence departed.

Nessa regarded Jack questioningly. “What was that about? Have you been antagonizing Prudence in some way?”

He had been frowning after her sister, but summoned a smile—with an effort, she thought— when he turned to face her. “Antagonizing? I? Certainly not. Perhaps she is still waiting for me to prove I have reformed my ways.”

“You're most likely right,” Nessa agreed. “Prudence still feels herself responsible for me at times, I believe.”

“Commendable, of course, but I should hope unnecessary. My lady wife, let me congratulate you upon what you've accomplished. I wish now I'd taken bets on how quickly the transformation of this house could be achieved—I might have been able to double our fortune!”

Nessa dimpled at the compliment. “I trust I have not depleted it to the extent that such measures will be necessary.”

Jack walked across the room to survey her writing desk. “I see you are in the throes of invitation-writing. We are still on for next Tuesday night, I presume?” Without turning to see her nod, he picked up the address list and perused it, then gave a low whistle.

“Very ambitious, my dear! Do you really believe most of these paragons will be willing to set foot under the notorious Jack Ashecroft's roof?”

Nessa crossed to stand beside him. “Not all will come, of course. Prudence tells me that the Prince Regent is indisposed just now. But if even one of the royal dukes attends, it will set the seal on your acceptance, so I felt it imperative to extend the invitations.”

She did not add that Edward, Duke of Kent, had been an intimate of both her father and Lord Haughton, and was at least somewhat likely to attend on that consideration. No sense elevating Jack's hopes just yet.

His hopes, however, did not appear in need of elevating. He grinned at her. “So you have some of the gambler in you after all, Nessa! I suspected it when you revealed yourself such an excellent whist player, but now I see you're willing to play for much higher stakes.”

She sniffed at him in mock reproof. “My lord, I assure you that the eminently respectable Marchioness of Foxhaven would never deign to engage in deep play. 'Twould be most unseemly!” But her lips twitched even as she spoke.

“Would it indeed? And what of this?” He suddenly caught her to him for a kiss that was anything but seemly, in full view of the open parlor door.

She giggled when he finally released her, though she darted a glance out the door to be certain no passing servants had witnessed their embrace. “Should word get about that Lord Foxhaven treats his wife with such affectionate abandon, it could wreck all, of course. Such behavior, my good sir, should be reserved for the bedchamber.”

“Madam!” he exclaimed in feigned shock. “Are you propositioning me, and before dinner?”

Nessa gave him a look of wide-eyed innocence. “Dinner will not be for an hour and more, my lord, I assure you.”

His eyes narrowed to devilish slits of glittering blue. “In that case, we must find some way to pass the time, must we not? I've a mind to see the new decor of your chamber, my lady—in intimate detail.”

“I'd been hoping you'd ask.” And she accompanied him upstairs most willingly, more than ready to resume her interrupted education.

~   ~   ~

THE DAY OF THE Foxhaven soiree dawned dull, with fog and freezing drizzle. Nessa prayed the weather would not keep everyone at home— though surely Londoners must be well accustomed to this vile winter climate. At least Prudence had been able to assure her that no other important functions were being held this evening to draw off attendance.

Food and flowers were delivered, but the weather worsened as the day drew on. Nessa's anxiety increased, and she was just as happy Jack was not at home to witness it. Parliament was back in session now and rather to her surprise he had made a regular habit of occupying his seat in the House of Lords. Thus, she had still seen little of him during the daytime, though their nights together were more satisfactory than ever.

Still, Nessa was beginning to wonder whether lovemaking, however skilled, was truly enough to sustain a marriage. She and Jack traded witticisms across the dinner table, of course, and she found that nearly as pleasant as their time in bed, but they rarely discussed anything of substance. At times, in fact, she almost had the impression that Jack was avoiding anything approaching serious conversation. There was much she still did not know about him, she had to admit.

She walked once more to the drawing room window, which afforded a fine view of Berkley Square below. Just as she reached it, a shy beam of sunlight escaped the lowering clouds to turn the drizzle to silver for a moment. Nessa's heart lifted in response. Everything would turn out right, she was certain, if she just had faith and patience.

A few hours later, it seemed that her optimism was justified. Only an hour into the soirée, the ballroom was filled nearly to capacity, which was quite a feat as thin of company as London yet was. And only moments ago, the Duke of Kent had arrived, just as she had hoped. She still found him overbearing and pompous and far too similar in demeanor to her father for comfort, but his presence must put an incontestable stamp of approval upon the evening—and upon Lord and Lady Foxhaven.

“My dear, I congratulate you yet again,” murmured Jack in her ear during a brief lull. “Not that I ever really doubted you, of course.”

“Did you not?” She gazed around at the thronged ballroom from her place at the open double doors, where she and Jack still stood to greet their guests. “I confess I spent much of the day doubting intensely, and am most relieved to find my fears were groundless.”

More guests arrived then to add to the crush, among them, Lord and Lady Mountheath. Both parties managed to behave as though their uncomfortable last encounter had never taken place.

“I heard you had done wonders with the house over the past month,” said Lady Mountheath after cool but cordial greetings were exchanged, “and I see 'tis true. Of course—” Her eyes widened and her words ceased. Surreptitiously following her gaze, Nessa realized she had just caught sight of the royal duke.

“Thank you, my lady,” Nessa responded, keeping her expression solemn with an effort.

Recovering herself with a start, Lady Mountheath colored slightly before continuing, explaining that she had not been inside Foxhaven House for several years. After she left them to join the throng, Jack began to chuckle.

“Shh!” Nessa cautioned him. “You'll start me laughing too, and then all my hard work to restore you to respectability will be for naught.”

“Hardly that, I think. Why, with one of the royals and Lady Mountheath here, our social position should be well nigh unassailable, should it not?”

“I admit, I never expected Lady Mountheath to attend. I only sent the invitation for fear it might cause gossip if I did not.”

Jack draped an arm over her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze. “As always, your judgment was unerring.” Before Nessa could protest such a public display of affection, the Creamcrofts approached, accompanied by the Heathertons.

“Oh, Nessa, I'm so proud of you!” whispered Prudence excitedly, when she reached her sister's side. “Such a success! The papers will be full of it tomorrow. I had no idea so many of the ton were even in London!”

Mrs. Heatherton agreed. “I daresay nearly every important personage in residence is here tonight. A triumph, Lady Foxhaven. No doubt about it.”

“A most enjoyable evening, if a bit crowded,” chimed in Mr. Heatherton, a good-natured, heavy set man nearing middle age. “The food is first-rate, the servants most attentive—no glass allowed to go empty. And, of course, it always increases everyone's enjoyment to be around happy newlyweds. So much to be said for a love match! Can't imagine why some old biddies frown on them.” He winked at his own wife, and Mrs. Heatherton's plain but pleasant face flushed, making her almost pretty.

Though Jack had released her when the foursome approached, Nessa's shoulder tingled where his arm had so recently lain. She willed her own color not to rise. Love match? Was that what people assumed? But of course, they must. What other explanation would occur to people, after all? Certainly not the true one. She did not dare to meet Jack's eyes.

“You are all most kind,” she responded warmly, relieved to detect no quaver in her voice. “I merely put a lifetime of training to good use, and am as delighted as anyone that it has turned out so well.”

“My wife is too modest.” Jack's voice was warm with approval, so Nessa dared a glance at him. “She oversaw every detail, both of the redecorating of Foxhaven House and of the preparations for tonight. I doubt a stray leaf from one of the flower arrangements could have escaped her notice.”

His smile was as warm as his voice, and Nessa relaxed. He seemed unaffected by Mr. Heatherton's assumption, so she would not allow it to fluster her. Really, she was being unforgivably silly.

“Will you not come join your guests now, both of you?” Prudence suggested. “You've more than done your duty, standing here an hour and more. Come and sample some of the excellent refreshments you have provided.”

Nessa thought her sister seemed a shade less constrained in Jack's presence than previously, and she was glad of it. She wished for no friction between her two favorite people. “Yes, I believe we shall. My lord?”

Jack was more than willing to abandon his post, so they moved slowly toward the laden tables at the far end of the ballroom, exchanging pleasantries and fielding compliments from innumerable guest as they went. “Charming,” “Such a pleasant couple,” and similar comments followed in their wake.

While Nessa could not claim to thoroughly enjoy the balance of the evening, so preoccupied was she in supervising the servants and caterers, she felt no small measure of satisfaction. Bringing this off had been work, hard work, but it had been well repaid. She had kept her promise, both to Jack and to herself.

The royal duke had departed, and several other guests were queuing up to take leave of their hosts as well, when a flash of color by the door drew Nessa's attention. Dressed in a clinging gown of red even more vivid than her hair, Miranda Dempsey wafted into the room. Nessa sensed Jack's sudden tenseness, though he made no other sign that he had seen the late arrival.

Whatever the woman had been to her husband in the past, Nessa would no more risk a scandal tonight than Lady Mountheath had on one previous occasion. Graciously, she greeted the uninvited guest. “My dear Mrs. Dempsey, how kind of you to come.”

Though the woman seemed rather startled by her reception, she managed a curtsy—a shade less deep than Nessa's rank required, but not so perfunctory as to be an insult. “Thank you, Lady Foxhaven, Lord Foxhaven.” She gazed lingeringly at him. “I apologize for my lateness.”

Jack bowed stiffly but said nothing, so Nessa smiled brightly to make up for her husband's reticence and assured her that she need think nothing of it. Returning her smile rather uncertainly, Mrs. Dempsey moved off into the crowd to make way for the next couple taking their leave.

Less than half an hour later, Mrs. Dempsey departed as well, looking, Nessa thought with secret satisfaction, rather nettled. Jack had not left her own side since the woman's arrival, nor spoken a word to her. The crowd had thinned considerably by now—only a dozen or so couples remained.

“I must make certain the caterer understands what he is to do with the uneaten food,” she murmured to Jack when they found themselves briefly alone near the door. “I'll be back in a moment.”

Just as she reached the tables, Prudence joined her. “You were splendid, Nessa,” she whispered in a surprisingly conspiratorial tone. “You kept your composure admirably. But the nerve of that woman! How could she be so bold?”

“Mrs. Dempsey, you mean?” Nessa spoke lightly, though it unnerved her to think Prudence should have such precise knowledge of Jack's past indiscretions. “No doubt 'twas a rather desperate bid for Jack's attention. I could almost feel sorry for her.”

Prudence stared. “Sorry! For a woman who has enjoyed more of your husband's time than you have these past weeks? That is carrying charity to unprecedented lengths, I must say.”

Nessa felt a cold fist squeeze her heart. Though her breath came fast, she ruthlessly schooled her expression into one of only polite interest. “I'm sure you exaggerate, Prudence. Jack has been spending the bulk of his time in Parliament.” Hasn't he? She prayed her sister would not contradict her.

Nor did she. “Yes, that was an exaggeration. I'm sorry, Nessa.” Her words were as much sympathy as apology, though, and did little to soothe Nessa's sudden pain.

Mechanically, she gave the caterer his final instructions, then returned to where the last guests were taking their leave. She said all that was proper, but her mind was in chaos.

Sensitized now by Prudence's words, she thought she detected pity in many of the departing guests' faces. Did all London know more about her husband's doings than she did herself? Always she had despised the willful blindness of libertines' wives, and here she was, as blind as any of them!

“That's the last of them,” exclaimed Jack gleefully as the front door closed behind the final guests. “The house is ours again, and I intend to take full advantage of it. To quote Mrs. Heatherton, 'A triumph, Lady Foxhaven. No doubt about it.'“ He swept her an exaggerated bow.

“So everyone has said.” She felt not the least bit triumphant, however.

Jack, however, was clearly in high spirits. “Because it is true. Will you join me in a waltz?” Playfully, he held out his arms, though the only music was the tinkle of plates and glasses as they were collected by the servants.

Nessa felt a tightening in her throat. Could he truly act so if what Prudence had implied were true? “I'm sorry, Jack, but I have the most abominable headache. Perhaps another time.”

Immediately he was all concern. “Oh, my darling, why did you not say so? I feared you were taking too much upon yourself. I'll take you right up to bed, then come back to supervise the cleanup myself.”

The tightening in her throat became a lump. Afraid to speak for fear of loosing the tears that threatened, she merely nodded and allowed him to lead her up the stairs. She maintained a stoic silence while Simmons undressed her, unwilling to betray her emotions and perhaps provoke unwanted confidences from the abigail. Clucking over how tired her mistress must be, Simmons helped her to complete her toilette in short order, then tucked her into bed.

Alone in the darkened room, Nessa finally allowed her tears to flow. Exhaustion soon provided relief, however, and despite her turmoil she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Thin sunlight awakened her, filtering through the partially drawn peach curtains. Stirring, Nessa realized that Jack lay beside her, still soundly asleep. The events of last night came flooding back—both the triumph and the heartache. In the light of morning, however, with a good night's sleep behind her, Nessa felt far less ready to believe the worst—or to let it devastate her even if it proved to be true.

For a moment she smiled down at her husband's slumbering form, marveling at how boyish and innocent he appeared, when she knew he was neither. Moving gingerly so as not to wake him, she slipped out of bed and dressed in a simple gown that did not require Simmons' assistance. Pulling her hair back with a matching ribbon, she softly opened the door and went downstairs for breakfast and uninterrupted thought.

By the time Jack joined her, nearly an hour later, she had come to a decision.

“Prudence tells me you have been spending considerable time with Mrs. Dempsey of late,” she informed him before she could change her mind.

Jack paused in the act of taking his seat and glanced about, as though to assure himself that they were alone in the room. “She has been to call already this morning?”

Nessa narrowed her eyes slightly. Was he stalling? “No, she mentioned it last night. Apparently 'tis common knowledge.” Prudence had not actually said that, but she did not think she had imagined the pitying glances from their guests as they left.

“Hardly that, I should think!” exclaimed Jack. Then, apparently realizing what he'd said, he muttered an oath. “Nessa it's not what you think, I promise you.”

“How do you know what I think?” she demanded, stung by his near admission. “Until last night, I thought you were spending all of those hours on government business.”

“I—I was, in a way.” He leaned forward to take her hand where it lay on the table, but she snatched it away. “Honestly, Nessa, my time with Miranda— and I did not enjoy it, I assure you—was for the purpose of discovering certain information for the Home Office.”

“How convenient.” Her tone was as biting as she could make it. “And were you successful, or will you require yet more trysts on behalf of the Crown?” She hadn't known she was capable of such sarcasm.

“No, no, it is over, I promise you.” He regarded her uncertainly. “You don't believe me.”

“Whether I do or not is of little moment, Jack. I have spent all my waking hours for the past three weeks—nay, longer than that, considering our time at Fox Manor— attempting to elevate you to respectability despite your well-deserved reputation. I have done my part in our bargain, Jack, but all the while you have been sabotaging my efforts.”

He looked uneasy now, as well he should. “What do you intend to do?”

“What I please,” she snapped. “I no longer consider myself bound by my promise to play the respectable wife for the sake of a reputation for which you clearly care so little.”

Standing, she made a regal exit, leaving him to ponder just what she meant by that.

As it happened, she had no earthly idea herself.

SEVENTEEN

JACK STARED AFTER Nessa, stunned to his bones. Not for several seconds did he realize his mouth had dropped open. Belatedly, he closed it, still staring at the doorway she had just vacated.

This was a hell of a wrinkle.

Just when he'd finally fulfilled his awkward obligation to the Duke of Wellington, when he could finally devote all of his energies to his marriage, this had to happen. He thought he'd made it clear to Miranda that any further relationship was out of the question— but she was unwilling to take the hint, as evidenced by her uninvited appearance last night.

Jack dropped his head into his hands and groaned. He'd made a botch of it, just as he had so many other things in his life. This particular mistake mattered more than any of the others, though, because it affected Nessa— and she mattered greatly.

Raising his head to stare out at the gray February day, he finally admitted to himself what he'd been denying for weeks: he'd fallen in love with his wife. It was a shattering thing to a man who'd built his life on the firm belief that love was a myth, but there it was. Now, what the devil was he to do about it?

The first thing, clearly, was to determine the true extent of the damage. He would go at once to speak with Lady Creamcroft. He'd not thought her the sort to carry tales, but it seemed he'd misjudged her. Once he knew precisely what he was up against, he would face Nessa again— this very day—and have everything out in the open.

Leaving his breakfast untouched, he rose and called for his greatcoat, then strode from the house.

His plans received a setback when he discovered that Lady Creamcroft was not at home. He left his card, with a message that he would return later, and walked back the way he had come, wondering what his next step should be. A vision of Nessa's face last night, pinched and tired, rose before him. Miranda's doing. Well, he could make certain nothing of that sort happened again.

Most mornings, he knew, she could be found shopping on Bond Street, so he directed his steps there. He spotted her carriage almost at once, and headed toward it.

“Why, Jack, what a lovely surprise!” she exclaimed, emerging from a milliner's shop just as he reached her waiting carriage. Then she took a good look at his face. “Is something wrong?”

“You could say so. What possessed you to come to my home last night? I rather doubt my wife invited you.”

Miranda tittered, though her expression held a hint of alarm. “I assumed it was a mere oversight. Certainly she welcomed me graciously enough.”

“Nessa is always gracious.” Jack bit out the words. “Your presence there upset her, however, and I'll not allow that to happen again.”

Miranda seemed unmoved by his vehemence. Glancing languidly over his shoulder, she only said, “Let's not stand talking on the street in all of this wind, Jack. Come, we'll sit in my carriage to discuss it.”

He glared at her, but she was already moving toward the vehicle, a few yards away. As he hadn't yet received any assurance from her that she would leave Nessa—and him—alone, he had perforce to follow. Careful to seat himself as far away as the confines of the carriage would allow, he faced her again.

“Do you understand me, Miranda? I'll not have you upsetting my wife. What once existed between us is in the past, and will remain there.”

She pouted at him. “Then you no longer find me attractive, Jack?”

“Of course you're attractive, but I am no longer attracted to you. I love my wife.” There. He'd actually said it aloud. Ironic that Miranda should be the first to hear it.

“Now isn't that sweet!” A sneer abruptly robbed her face of much of its prettiness. “I wonder, however, whether you'll ever get her to believe it? She knows all about us, you know.”

“I told her before we married,” he snapped. “Nothing of substance has occurred since, despite whatever gossip her sister has heard.”

Miranda now displayed genuine amusement. “Oh, her sister has heard quite an earful, I assure you, Jack. I made certain of that.”

A sense of foreboding gripped him. “Do you mean to say you've spoken to Lady Creamcroft yourself? What lies have you told her?”

“Lies? Such an ugly word. Perhaps I might have exaggerated a bit— merely wishful thinking on my part, of course. But combined with the evidence of her own eyes I likely created a powerful impression—one she no doubt felt compelled to share with her sister, your beloved Lady Foxhaven.” Her words now dripped venom.

Jack realized he had underestimated the potential fury of a woman scorned. In the past, he'd generally managed to break things off cordially with one paramour before moving on to the next, with one or two minor exceptions. Of course he hadn't had a marriage at stake then.

Or love.

“Do not doubt for a moment that I'll see you ruined—or worse—if my wife suffers due to your machinations,” he said icily. “Certain information dropped into certain ears and you could find yourself facing a charge of treason.”

She blanched visibly, her eyes wide. “Jack, you wouldn't— that is—I'm sure you'll manage to patch it up. I—I leave for a house party in Surrey in two days' time, in any event.” She managed a placating smile. “So there'll be no more machinations from me. I'm sure I've done enough.”

Fearing he'd be tempted to do her an injury if he remained a moment longer, Jack slammed out of the carriage. Striding away, he glanced at his watch. Damn! He was due to speak on the Corn Bill under discussion in Parliament in less than an hour. He'd have to call on Lady Creamcroft this afternoon.

~   ~   ~

NESSA RANG THE BELL of the Creamcroft Town House, then bit her lip while she waited for an answer. After what seemed like minutes but were probably only seconds, Clarendon opened the door.

“Pray tell Lady Creamcroft that her sister is here to see her.” Nessa spoke more haughtily than she intended, so strictly was she schooling her voice to suppress all emotion.

“Lady Creamcroft has gone shopping,” replied the butler just as stiffly, “but is expected back momentarily.”

“I'll wait then, if I may.” Returning to Foxhaven House would be to risk seeing Jack again— something she wished to avoid until she'd had a chance to talk with Prudence.

She was shown into the drawing room, where she took a seat, picking up a book that lay on a nearby table in an attempt to divert her thoughts. As it was a treatise on morality by Hannah More—one of her father's favorites— the attempt was not entirely successful. Fortunately, Prudence returned home before too many minutes had passed.

Setting aside the book with relief, Nessa rose to greet her. “Thank goodness you are back! I really must speak with you. I hope you don't mind my waiting for you here?”

“Not at all,” replied Prudence, removing her bonnet and cloak. Once Clarendon had departed with the garments, she closed the door. Despite her assurance, Nessa thought her sister looked decidedly ill at ease.

As she was herself.

Still, she had to know what she was up against. “You said last night that Jack had been spending time— recently— with Mrs. Dempsey,” Nessa said without further preamble. “How did you discover this?”

Her sister sat down opposite and took Nessa's hands in hers. “Believe me, Nessa, I wish I had not said anything. Lord Foxhaven cares for you, I am certain of it. Perhaps—”

“Prudence, how did you find out?” Nessa demanded, disengaging her hands.

Fluttering her own hands helplessly, Prudence sat back in her chair. “I saw them together myself once—no, twice. And Lady Mountheath made a point of telling me that they were seen at Bellamy's coffee-house a few days since.”

Nessa breathed a little easier. Three public meetings scarcely constituted a torrid affair.

Her relief must have shown on her face, for Prudence said, “I'm… afraid that is not all.”

“What else?”

Now Prudence, who destested fidgeting, fidgeted in her chair and avoided Nessa's eye as she answered. “I… I spoke with Mrs. Dempsey myself—or rather, she spoke to me. She made it… quite clear that she and Lord Foxhaven were… involved.”

“That trollop!” Nessa's anger, banked since leaving Jack at the breakfast table, suddenly flared to life. “She knew, of course, that if she told you I would come to hear of it. 'Twas no doubt her intent.”

Clearly this had not occurred to Prudence. “Oh! But could any woman truly be so shameless…? She seemed to let the information drop by chance, but I suppose…”

Nessa snorted in a most unladylike manner. “I'll wager she did. And knew precisely what she was doing. But,” she added, “she could never have done so had Jack not given her the opportunity. Even if she exaggerated the matter, he is hardly blameless.” A tiny voice reminded her of his explanation this morning, but she silenced it, in no mood for forgiveness.

“Nessa, what do you intend to do?” asked Prudence worriedly. “You knew of Lord Foxhaven's reputation before you married him.”

“And you'd be perfectly justified in saying 'I told you so' at this juncture,” Nessa admitted. “But that scarcely helps now. I have made my bed. Now I must determine in what position I intend to lie in it.”

Prudence gave an odd little gasp, then covered her mouth. To Nessa's surprise, her sister appeared to be stifling laughter!

“I'm sorry, Nessa, truly I am,” she sputtered in response to Nessa's thunderstruck expression. “But the most wicked idea has just occurred to me.”

If anything, the thought of Prudence entertaining a wicked idea shocked Nessa even further. She felt her eyebrows arching ceilingward. “Indeed? Pray share it, if you can.” Already, though, her sister's uncharacteristic mirth had infected her and she felt a vague lightening of her heart.

“If what you suggest is true, and Mrs. Dempsey is merely attempting to win Lord Foxhaven's affections— and he cares far more for you, I am certain of it—then perhaps you could—” She broke off, suddenly flushing scarlet. “That is to say,” she continued, “as his wife, you have more opportunity than she to—”

“Seduce him?” Nessa finished, finally understanding what her sister was driving at.

Prudence turned an even brighter red and again covered her mouth at such plain speaking— but she nodded.

“Why Prudence, I am astonished!” But Nessa spoke playfully now, as she toyed with the possibility.

Recovering herself somewhat, Prudence leaned forward earnestly, though her color was still high. “I do hope you will try, Nessa. I was not going to mention this, but Amanda Leverton claims to have seen them together less than an hour ago, on Bond Street. She made a point of telling me that she saw him leaving her carriage.”

Nessa's levity abruptly disappeared. “He joined her in her carriage? This very morning?” He must have gone straight to her upon leaving the house. So much for his promises!

“Miss Leverton wished me to… congratulate you on taking her advice after all. It would appear she heard about your reception of Mrs. Dempsey last night.”

“Her advice!” Nessa seethed. “That is the last thing I wish to follow. No, I believe I shall take yours, instead.” She managed a shaky smile. “Truly, Prudence, I believe your suggestion has merit— shocked as I was to hear you of all people propose it! Dare I hope this means you have begun to find more of pleasure than duty in your own marriage bed?”

Her sister's complexion had nearly returned to its normal color, but at that it flamed again. “Really, Nessa! 'Tis not my marriage under discussion just now. It is perfectly satisfactory.”

Despite her own troubles, Nessa could not suppress a grin at her sister's conscious expression. It would seem she had hit the mark indeed! “I'm pleased to hear it. And I thank you for your advice. Scandalous or not, I believe it may be just the thing. After all, what choice do I have?”

What choice indeed? Short of abandoning her marriage vows entirely or living in celibacy— which would surely punish her more than it would Jack—what else could she do?

She stood in sudden decision. “You are the best of sisters, Prudence. Your idea may well be the saving of my marriage— and my sanity.”

“Then I will have repaid my debt to you,” Prudence replied. Though her cheeks were still bright, she smiled as she met Nessa's eyes—a smile that admitted to the new pleasures she'd discovered in her husband's arms.

Glad that she'd been instrumental in improving her sister's marriage, Nessa gave her a fervent hug then took her leave, ready to do battle on behalf of her own.

~   ~   ~

TWO HOURS LATER, Jack was shown into the room his wife had so recently quitted.

“How pleasant to see you, Lord Foxhaven,” Lady Creamcroft greeted him, looking up calmly from her needlework. “I'm sure if Nessa had known you planned to call here this afternoon, she would have waited.”

Jack paused midway through his bow. “She was here? Today?” So much for his hopes of explaining Miranda's duplicity to Lady Creamcroft before she could pass along yet more damaging tales.

His hostess nodded. “She came seeking sisterly advice. I fear you have given her some cause for distress, my lord.”

“I have,” he admitted cautiously, taking a seat. “But not as much cause as you might think.”

“Oh?” she asked mildly.

“I, er, learned today that you may have been told… things… which were not entirely true. I assure you, Lady Creamcroft, that I have not been unfaithful to Nessa, either in thought or deed.” There. Now he'd counteracted whatever lies Miranda had told her.

But Lady Creamcroft appeared not at all surprised. “I'm pleased to hear it, of course, though I am not the one you need to tell. Your judgment seems questionable in this, as in other matters, my lord.” At his frown, she continued. “Joining another woman in her private carriage is scarcely the sort of thing designed to alleviate a wife's suspicions.”

Jack felt his eyes fairly start from his head. “Good God!” he exclaimed, then quickly added, “I beg your pardon, my lady. But I begin to believe a network of spies is at work to make my every move public in short order.”

“Bond Street is scarcely a private venue, my lord, and gossip travels quickly in London, as you are no doubt aware.”

“And now Nessa knows about that, as well,” he said with a groan. “Pray believe me, Lady Creamcroft, it was not at all what it appeared. I will not be seeing Mrs. Dempsey, publicly or privately, in future. I have made certain of that.”

She lifted her shoulders slightly. “Again, I am not the one who needs to hear this. I recommend you tell your wife.”

Jack rose. “I'll do that— immediately. Thank you, my lady. I give you good day.”

Ten minutes later he entered Foxhaven House, having spent the intervening walk rehearsing what he hoped was a suitably groveling speech. Soon this whole ugly misunderstanding would be behind them, and he and Nessa could resume where they had left off two days since.

“Daniels, is Lady Foxhaven at home?” he asked the new butler as he relinquished his top hat and greatcoat. On being assured that she was, he headed up the stairs, only to be greeted by a vision as he turned at the first landing.

Nessa, dressed in a breathtakingly low-cut sapphire gown, was just descending from the second story. Her chestnut hair was piled high and studded with sparkling gems. A necklace of diamonds and sapphires, a Foxhaven heirloom, encircled her throat, its large central jewel suspended between her breasts, emphasizing her cleavage. Jack swallowed, his body responding instantly to the alluring picture she presented.

“Why Jack, are you not dressed yet?” she asked in apparent surprise while he groped for the opening words of his speech. “We are due at the Beckhaven's in an hour.”

“We… we are?” With an effort, he wrenched his eyes away from her nearly-exposed bosom to focus upon her face. She wore an enigmatic half-smile.

“Yes, indeed. They have invited us to a dinner party preceding their musicale. From there, we are engaged to accompany Lord and Lady Norville to a reception at the Russian embassy. What a mercy we did not schedule our soirée for this evening!”

Jack blinked. Nessa was acting as though their conversation that morning had never taken place. “I… Yes. I suppose it is. I'll, um, go up and change directly.”

“I shall await you in the parlor. I've ordered the carriage in forty-five minutes' time.” With a stunning smile, she continued past him down the stairs, leaving a tantalizing whiff of exotic perfume in her wake.

He watched after her for a moment before dazedly proceeding upstairs to his bedchamber. Parker awaited him there, with his evening clothes already laid out.

“Will this be acceptable, my lord?” he asked, indicating the dark blue tailed coat, matching waistcoat and buff breeches.

“Fine, Parker, fine,” replied Jack absently. “Did you see Lady Foxhaven?” It wasn't normally the thing to discuss one's wife with one's valet, but just now he felt the need of a clearer head to supplement his own.

“Indeed, my lord. Most striking. I chose this coat to complement her gown. You'll be a perfect match.”

Jack regarded his valet closely. “Do you think so?”

Parker gave one of his cryptic smiles. “A well-matched pair requires equal exertion from both. Practice and a willingness to accomodate will generally assure a smooth pace.”

It was as enigmatic as any of his valet's speeches, but Jack knew better than to request an explanation.

After taking even more care than usual over Jack's cravat, his valet finally pronounced him fit to leave the room. Hurrying downstairs, Jack glanced at his pocket watch. He would have only a few minutes to speak with Nessa before the carriage arrived at the door. He'd best make those minutes count.

“My dear,” he began as he entered the parlor, but Nessa did not give him an opportunity to continue.

“Ah, there you are, Jack. Tell me, do you think I made the right decision with these curtains? I'd thought the blue and cream would complement the rest of the room, but now I begin to believe the pattern is too busy.”

He glanced impatiently at the curtains in question. “They look fine, Nessa. The whole house looks fine. You did a splendid job with it, as dozens of people informed you last night. What I'd hoped to talk about—”

“Why, thank you, Jack!” she cooed, smiling most bewitchingly as she came toward him. “I meant to tell you how much I appreciated your praise of me to our guests, but I… was a bit distracted and forgot to do so.”

Was she trying to tell him all was forgiven? He scarcely dared to hope so. She seemed to be playing some role, the purpose of which he hadn't yet divined.

“I said nothing that wasn't true.” He tried to imbue his words with additional meaning. “You have accomplished miracles in short order—on several fronts.” Certainly, no other woman had ever managed to secure his love—or even his inward admission that such a thing existed.

For a moment, her glitteringly seductive facade seemed to slip, revealing the Nessa he knew. “Really, Jack?” Her eyes probed his, seeking…

“Milord, milady, the carriage,” intoned Daniels from the open doorway.

At once, Nessa whirled away from him. “Precisely on time. We mustn't keep the horses standing. Let us go, my lord.”

A footman appeared with their cloaks and then accompanied them to the coach to open the door and lower the steps. Now he would have his chance to talk to her, Jack thought, joining Nessa within.

“Nessa, I wish to apologize,” he said the moment the door closed behind him, before she could introduce any other extraneous topic. “I subjected you to gossip, however unintentionally, and to distress. I promise not to let it happen again.”

She stared out of the carriage window for so many seconds that he began to wonder if she had heard him. Finally she turned, but in the dimness he could not read her expression. “I appreciate your concern, Jack, but pray do not make promises you cannot keep.”

“But I—”

She put up a hand to silence him. “I knew of your reputation when I married you, Jack. In fact, it was one of the things that attracted me in the first place, as I've said before. When you told me that all debauchery was behind you, my first reaction was one of disappointment rather than relief. So it was quite absurd of me to become angry upon hearing evidence to the contrary. In fact, I should have been delighted.”

“Delighted?” Far from following her reasoning, Jack felt completely out of his depth.

She nodded. “My first marriage was deadly dull, not to mention terribly restricting. In agreeing to marry you, I consoled myself that an alliance with a rake—even a former rake—was bound to be more entertaining, allowing me the freedom to experience a side of life I had hitherto only dreamed of.”

The vague uneasiness that had begun when Nessa first greeted him upon the stairs earlier crystallized into foreboding.

“Imagine my dismay,” she continued airily, “when I discovered you were serious about becoming thoroughly respectable— for your grandfather's sake—only days before our wedding. 'Twas nearly enough to make me cry off. But I'd become rather fond of you by then, so I chose to go through with it, contenting myself with our nightly… lessons.”

“Contenting yourself?” he fairly exploded. “Don't try to tell me you haven't found our lovemaking as enjoyable as I have, for I'll not believe it.” What on earth was he saying? He'd never had to defend himself in this manner to a woman before. Far from it!

She laid a gloved hand on his cheek. “Oh, you're very good in bed, Jack. Thoroughly skilled. I've enjoyed your instruction enormously.”

“Honored to be of service, of course,” he said icily, not at all mollified. What had gotten into her?

“Still, I'll admit that playing the proper little wife all the rest of the time has been wearying— just the sort of thing I'd longed to escape. And now, I shall do just that. Really, Jack, I should be thanking you rather than hearing your apologies.”

His foreboding deepened to dread. “What do you mean?”

“Ah, here we are!” she exclaimed breezily, peering out of the window as the carriage pulled to a halt. She picked up her reticule. “Come, Jack, we have a full evening ahead of us.”

EIGHTEEN

‘HAZEL! You look lovely tonight,” Nessa greeted Mrs. Beckhaven as she and Jack entered the moderately sized Town house. “I hope our last-moment acceptance of your invitation did not discommode you.”

In fact, Nessa had initially declined this invitation, as they were already attending the embassy reception. Besides, the Beckhavens did not move in the best circles and therefore could not advance her goal of elevating the Foxhaven name. Now, however, her goal had changed.

“Not at all, not at all! I'm so pleased that you could come after all, Lady Foxhaven,” replied her hostess, beaming all over her good-natured face.

“Please, call me Nessa. I'm certain we shall become great friends.”

Hazel Beckhaven's eyes widened at this honor, sure to increase her social standing. “That would be lovely… Nessa.”

Jack bowed over her hand then, and they were ushered in for introductions to the rest of the company. It was a friendly, lively gathering, perfect for Nessa' purposes.

“Why, Sir Lawrence! I have not seen you for an age,” she greeted one of her former admirers.

As handsome and eager as ever, the young gentleman stepped forward to kiss her hand. “You are more lovely than ever, my lady. I was never more devastated than when I learned that Lord Foxhaven had taken you from us. Now at least I may worship from afar.”

“At least that,” she said playfully, flirting her fan, before turning to greet another slight acquaintance. She carefully avoided looking in Jack's direction, for fear her resolve might waver. She was determined to enjoy herself this evening.

And every other evening to come.

While she planned to follow the spirit of Prudence's advice to win back her husband, she fully intended to have a lovely time doing it—and give him back a bit of his own medicine into the bargain. After all, she'd just begun to kick up her heels a bit when Jack had offered for her, so it stood to reason that he found that side of her—the scandalous side she'd always denied— attractive.

“Might I lead you in to dinner, my lady?” asked young Sir Lawrence at her elbow. Spotting Jack out of the corner of her eye conversing with Mr. Beckhaven and the Norvilles, Nessa consented.

Mrs. Beckhaven had dispersed her guests about the table so that no gentleman sat with his wife, encouraging a greater variety of conversation. Nessa found herself with Lord Norville on her left and Mr. Pottinger, another erstwhile admirer, on her right. Sir Lawrence was directly across from her, and Jack two places to his left. Quite satisfactory.

“I cannot tell you how delighted I am to see you in Town again, my lady,” Mr. Pottinger said as the soup was served. “I quite feared Foxhaven meant to keep you tucked away in the country, depriving us of your sparkling presence.”

Nessa gave him what she hoped was a sparkling smile. “I should never have allowed that, I assure you, Mr. Pottinger. I'm far too fond of Town life.”

He tilted his graying head in Jack's direction. “Ah, but men of your husband's— ahem— stamp are so well versed in the temptations London holds that they are inclined to overprotect their wives when they eventually marry— particularly when the wife is as lovely as yourself.”

“You are too kind, sir,” she murmured. “I know from experience, however, that upstanding gentlemen are also prone to immure their wives in the country, to keep them safe from the pleasures of London.”

He responded with a loud, braying laugh, as though she had just imparted some clever witticism rather than the simple truth, and she abruptly remembered why she had not encouraged Mr. Pottinger last fall. Still she smiled, since Jack was watching them from just down the table.

When the fish was served, she turned her attention to Lord Norville. He was an intelligent man of about Jack's age, and a welcome relief from Mr. Pottinger's vapid attempts at flirtation. She quietly asked him a few questions about the current issues concerning Parliament, receiving sensible answers that helped her to understand what Jack had been doing there of late.

She spent the meat course exchanging demurely flirtatious looks with Sir Lawrence across the table. That young man seemed in a fair way to becoming infatuated with her, which she might be able to use to her advantage.

With the fowl and sweetmeats she again had to listen politely to Mr. Pottinger's extravagant compliments, but she had the satisfaction of knowing that Jack was watching closely and doubtless trying to hear as much as possible.

They adjourned to the drawing room just as the other guests began to arrive for the musicale. Sir Lawrence made a beeline to Nessa's side, but Jack was quicker.

“I've a mind to sit with my wife during the performance, if you don't mind,” he said, taking her arm. His voice was pleasant, but Nessa detected a steely glint in his eye.

Sir Lawrence, clearly flustered, took himself off. “Certainly, certainly. Don't hesitate to call upon me, my lady, should you need me at any time.”

Nessa smiled after her young gallant, but Jack growled, “Don't encourage the lad. He'll develop a grande passion for you, and I'd be obliged to put a bullet through him at twelve paces.”

“My lord!” exclaimed Nessa, both astonished and amused. “Surely you cannot consider poor Sir Lawrence any sort of threat?”

Jack merely snorted.

Her plan was proceeding quite nicely.

There was no further opportunity for private conversation until they were back in their carriage some two hours later, en route to the Russian embassy.

“It must be nearly midnight,” complained Jack with a yawn, leaning back against the squabs. “Must we really put in an appearance at this thing?”

Nessa was feeling a bit tired herself, but immediately sat up straighter. “Why, is this the Jack Ashecroft I heard so much about? The man who diced and drank till dawn every night of the week? I hope married life has not taken all the fire out of you, my lord.”

At that, Jack seized her arm and pulled her against him. “I'll show you fire, you little vixen!” He lowered his mouth to hers.

For a moment she yielded, the familiar heat flaming up within her at his touch. Then, recalling her plan, she pulled away. “Now, Jack, we don't want to appear at the reception disheveled. People might talk.”

“I thought you didn't care about that anymore.” When she didn't reply, he continued, more urgently. “Nessa, you must believe that Miranda Dempsey was nothing to me. She is leaving London anyway, and I'll not see her again, even in the most innocent way, when she returns. Pray cease whatever game you are playing at and let us return to the way we were before.”

Nessa gave him a long look. “And are there no others waiting to take her place while she is gone?”

“None, I promise you.” His earnestness almost made her yield— but then she thought of what she would miss if she did so.

“Good,” she said. Turning to look out of the window, she considered her plans. Though she suspected now that Jack had not truly been unfaithful, she still wished to teach him a lesson— and to enjoy herself while doing so.

With no competitors to worry about, she could afford to play the untouchable coquette for a week or so, spurring his desire for her to a fever pitch. Then she could finally, deliciously, give in. It would be just the tonic their marriage needed.

Dared she hope it might even prompt a declaration of love?

Jack made an impatient movement. “So, may I direct the coachman to take us home?”

She turned to him in mock astonishment. “Of course not! We agreed to accompany the Norvilles, remember? That is their carriage just ahead of us. Besides, I wish to make the acquaintance of the Countess Lieven. I dare not risk offending one of the patronesses of Almack's by failing to honor an invitation I've already accepted.”

Nessa had scandalized Simmons with her choice of gown tonight, one she had bought when her mourning first ended but which she had never had the courage to wear. Remembering what the Countess had worn to the theater on a prior occasion, however, she doubted their hostess would be shocked. And certainly it had produced the desired effect in other quarters. She slanted a look at Jack through her eyelashes and smiled.

A few moments later they arrived at the reception and Nessa stepped once more into the role she had assumed for the evening. Once through the receiving line, she glanced about the room and spotted Mr. Galloway standing near a curtained archway. He looked up and saw her at the same moment, his eyes widening with undisguised admiration. He started forward, but then paused with a frown as Jack placed a hand on her arm.

“Shall I fetch you something to drink, my dear?” Clearly, he had not noticed the admiring gallant— yet.

She nodded. The moment Jack left her side, Mr. Galloway resumed his approach. “You have returned to grace London with your presence, my lady! Suddenly the dull month of February takes on a new glow.”

Nessa could not take him seriously, of course, but his flattery was pleasant nonetheless. “You always know just what to say to a lady, Mr. Galloway. 'Tis pleasant to see you again, as well.”

He moved closer, after a quick glance around. “Should you ever grow tired of domestic life, I'd be more than willing to show you some alternatives,” he said suggestively. “In fact—” He broke off then, hastily stepping back.

Nessa was not surprised to hear Jack's voice at her elbow. “Give you good evening, Galloway. Your lemonade, my dear. I see you are renewing yet more old acquaintances.”

Mr. Galloway must have heard the edge in Jack's voice, for he bowed most properly, murmured something incoherent about paying his respects, and decamped.

“Skittish thing, isn't he?” Jack commented. “If you're trying to make me jealous, my dear, you'll have to choose gallants with more backbone.”

“He approached me, not I him,” Nessa pointed out, refusing to let him nettle her. “Nor did I give him any particular encouragement.” Not that it would have done much good. Still, it was yet one more incident to keep Jack on his toes.

Indeed, he remained close by her side for the remainder of the evening. They chatted with the Norvilles, who introduced them to various people they had not yet met—Jack because he had not mixed with the upper crust until recently, Nessa because she'd spent so little time in London.

As soon as they could do so without giving offense, Jack suggested they leave. This time, Nessa offered no resistance. Playing the sparkling, flirtatious woman of the world took more energy than she had expected. Tiring or no, however, it had been a most enjoyable evening— the most enjoyable part being Jack's response to her changed demeanor.

Now, however, would come the real test, she realized as they drove back to Foxhaven House. What excuse would she use to keep Jack from her bed? After chiding him earlier for being tired, she could hardly claim fatigue, and he must know her monthly courses were not due for some time yet. Besides, she had discovered she did not much care for sleeping alone.

Fortunately for her plan, though not for her peace of mind, Jack himself gave her the excuse she needed. “I've some correspondence to attend to in the library, if I can stay awake long enough,” he informed her as they entered the house. “I'll join you upstairs shortly.”

Suddenly wondering whether her plan was as clever as she'd thought, Nessa headed up to her bedchamber alone.

~   ~   ~

JACK POURED HIMSELF a small measure of brandy and propped his feet up on the library desk. His correspondence was fictitious— or, at least, there was none he needed attend to tonight. What he needed to do was think, away from Nessa's intoxicating influence.

What was she up to? She hadn't actually accepted his apology, and clearly still intended to make him pay for the distress he'd caused her. Fair enough, he supposed. But he'd never been one to allow another to control his actions or emotions, and he wasn't about to start now—no matter what he felt for his wife.

Not that he'd admitted those feelings to her yet. Nor would he, while she was playing at this game of hers. Certain words she'd said earlier rankled still. “Contented herself,” indeed! And “rather fond of him.” No, now was not the time to bare his heart to her. That would only give her more ammunition for whatever campaign she was launching to put him in his place.

In fact, he'd do best to keep his distance until he'd figured out her scheme. She had an uncanny ability to cloud his thoughts— particularly in bed. Nor did he believe she'd wish to go long without further “instruction,” as she'd shown herself such an apt and eager pupil. He smiled into the crackling fire.

Yes, he'd wait until she asked him to her bed again. It wouldn't be long, he was certain.

At least, he hoped it wouldn't.

~   ~   ~

OVER THE NEXT few days, however, Jack found it more difficult than he'd anticipated to adhere to his resolve. Nessa persisted in dressing provocatively, though never quite crossing the line into vulgarity. She found some engagement or other for them to attend every single evening, whether it was a card party or simply accompanying others to the theater.

And every single evening was torture, for Nessa was always at her most bewitching— but directing her scintillating smiles and conversation more often toward others than to him. He'd reached the point where even an oblique invitation to join her in bed would have been accepted like a shot— but she continued to behave coyly toward him. More coyly than she appeared to behave toward others, in fact.

More than once he regretted his promise to make no attempts to control her behavior, now that it seemed in dire need of control. Still, he would not break that promise. In fact, it occurred to him that this whole campaign of hers might be an elaborate test of that very promise.

During the day, at least, he was able to find distraction in the House of Lords, where controversy surrounding the impending Corn Bill was mounting. One day when the weather was unexpectedly fine, however, he'd taken his horse instead of the carriage. Riding home by way of Hyde Park Corner, he saw a familiar profile in a high-perch phaeton entering the Park just ahead of him.

Without thinking, he spurred his mount forward. “I bid you good afternoon, my lady. I'd thought to suggest a drive myself when I reached home, but I see you are already engaged.”

Nessa and Sir Lawrence, for it was he driving the phaeton, turned with varying degrees of surprise and alarm.

“Why hello, Jack,” his wife greeted him with one of her bright smiles. “The sunshine was so lovely that I couldn't bear to refuse when Sir Lawrence invited me out. I'd no idea you'd quit your legislative duties so early.”

“Obviously.” Jack couldn't help glowering a bit, if only to enjoy the effect upon Sir Lawrence. To his surprise, however, the young man met his eye squarely, if nervously.

“It seemed most unfair for Lady Foxhaven to be trapped indoors on such a rare winter's afternoon,” he declared, as though defying Jack to contradict him.

Nessa chimed in, “Yes, now that the redecorating is completed, I find time hangs rather heavily on my hands on those days when I have few callers.”

“Indeed.” Why, Jack wondered, did he seem unable to utter more than a single word at a time? Neither his wife nor her young gallant showed signs of guilt, so he'd not give Nessa the satisfaction of displaying any jealousy, however sharply its tooth might bite him.

His taciturnity had an effect upon Sir Lawrence, however. “We were just driving into the Park, my lord,” the stripling all but babbled. “I don't suppose you'd care to accompany us?”

“Thank you. I believe I would.” Turning his horse, he kept pace alongside them. “I wish you'd informed me, my dear, that you've begun to find Town life boring,” he said languidly. “There are several remedies I might suggest.”

He was rewarded by a stare from Nessa and a glare from Sir Lawrence. The latter spoke first. “Lady Foxhaven don't need any more work piled upon her slender shoulders, my lord. Ain't she done enough already, redoing your house from cellar to attic?”

Jack raised his brows. “Have I overworked you, my lady? I must apologize, in that case.”

“Of course not, my lord,” she responded with a distinct twinkle in her eye, reminding him of the Nessa he knew. “I quite enjoyed the task.”

“What else could she say?” muttered Sir Lawrence, almost but not quite under his breath.

Jack kept his eyes on Nessa's. “The truth, I hope. Always.”

She colored slightly and glanced away. “Look! Is that an early crocus?” she asked brightly, pointing off to the side.

Obligingly riding over to investigate, Jack reported that it was. “It would appear that spring is nearly upon us— nearly, but not quite. The sun has gone in, and the breeze grows chill. I suggest we head for home.”

The others agreed— Sir Lawrence reluctantly— and they turned onto the path leading back to the Park gates. Upon reaching Foxhaven House a few minutes later, Jack quickly dismounted, handing his horse over to the waiting groom.

“No need for you to climb down, Sir Lawrence. I can assist my wife to the ground.”

Though he pouted a bit, the young gentleman remained where he was while Nessa exited the carriage into Jack's waiting arms. “I'll see you at the Duke of Clarence's ball tonight, will I not, my lady?” he inquired, looking after her more longingly than he had any right, in Jack's opinion.

“Of course,” she responded lightly. “I'll—we'll be there. Thank you for the drive, Sir Lawrence.”

With a tip of his hat and a final lowering glance at Lord Foxhaven, he shook the reins and departed.

Jack chuckled, forcing down his irritation. At Nessa's indignantly inquiring glance, he sobered a bit. “You're running a risk with that one, madam wife. He's in a fair way to becoming besotted enough to challenge me over some imagined slight. You don't want his blood on your head, I presume.”

“You said that once before, and it's as absurd now as it was then. Sir Lawrence is merely a friend. Besides,” she continued with a bewitching smile, “what makes you so certain you would best him in a duel? Perhaps he's a crack shot.”

“Perhaps. Do you really wish to find out?”

She paled slightly at his seriousness. “No, of course not. 'Tis absurd, as I said. The matter will not arise.”

“Good.” The quick glance she shot him showed she recognized the parallel to an earlier conversation. Jack smiled to himself as she turned away to precede him into the house. He was in control again, which was where he preferred to be.

~   ~   ~

HALF AN HOUR into the royal duke's ball, however, he realized he had congratulated himself too soon. He'd had his first misgivings when Nessa had emerged from her chamber, clad in that scandalous gown of pale peach gossamer satin. When she moved, it gave a disturbing impression of near-nudity under the transparent gauze overdress. Judging by the way other men's eyes followed her, Jack was not the only one to notice.

In the carriage, he'd noticed she wore a new scent, subtle but intoxicating. She sat just close enough to tempt him without quite inviting his touch. Did she have any idea how maddening she was? He rather suspected she did.

“What an amazing assemblage,” she commented now from his side. “And to think I was proud of the attendance at our little soirée.”

Her eyes were wide, reminding him forcibly of the innocent Nessa he'd met last autumn. That memory, combined with her seductively sophisticated appearance now, produced in him an almost overwhelming surge of desire. Clinging to the remnants of his hard-won control, he nodded.

“It's to be expected when one of the royals throws a ball, it happens so seldom. In no way does it diminish your own triumph.”

She smiled up at him, but something of his desire must have shown, for she quickly became coquettish again. “I trust I'll do you credit tonight, as well. Surely having my dance card already full can be construed as another sort of triumph?”

“I am astonished we were not trampled to death in the stampede when we arrived,” he said dryly. “You did save me a waltz or two, did you not?”

“Three, in fact, to include the supper dance. You are my husband, after all.” She dimpled up at him until he didn't know whether to shake her or kiss her breathless.

“I'd nearly forgotten,” he teased, then decided abruptly that he'd gone far too long without certain husbandly rights. His resolve to stay out of her bed suddenly seemed absurd. She was his wife, damn it. Tonight would see the end of this silly estrangement, he was determined.

The dancing started then, opening with the traditional minuet and followed by a waltz. Nessa danced both with him, and her airy grace wrought his frustrated desire to a fever pitch before he was forced to relinquish her to another partner.

Watching her go down the room on the arm of Mr. Pottinger, he redoubled his resolve. Before he slept tonight, Nessa would be totally his again!

~   ~   ~

NESSA LEFT Jack's arms reluctantly. This standoffish role was becoming more and more difficult, she thought as she allowed Mr. Pottinger to lead her into the country dance forming next. All she really wanted to do was go home with Jack and resume those “lessons,” which had been in recess for far too long.

“You are beyond stunning tonight, my lady,” declared Mr. Pottinger in his affected lisp as they took their places in the dance. “Every other woman here is cast completely in the shade.” His gaze swept over her admiringly and she had to force herself not to flinch.

Again.

Not for the first time, she regretted her choice of attire. Somehow, this gown had not appeared nearly so scandalous when she'd had it fitted in the modiste's shop a few days ago. She'd had her first misgivings when her looking glass confirmed Simmons' shocked exclamations, but had decided it was just the thing to break through this odd reserve Jack had erected against her of late.

What the deuce was wrong with the man? The more outrageously she flirted with him or tried to invoke his jealousy against others, the cooler and more controlled he seemed to grow. This gown had been a last-ditch effort to incite his desire— and it seemed to be working. Unfortunately, every other man present appeared similarly affected, a consequence she foolishly hadn't considered.

Mechanically, she went through the intricate figures of the dance, her mind still occupied with her husband. Her scheme to simultaneously punish him and enjoy herself had been less than successful. Oh, flirting and feeling desired by numerous men had its appeal, but as the novelty waned, the appeal grew less and less. Tonight, she had to fight the urge to hide herself from leering eyes. Perhaps, just perhaps, she had gone too far.

The sight of her sister's face as the dance concluded confirmed her fear.

“Nessa!” Prudence exclaimed in a strangled whisper the moment Mr. Pottinger took his leave of her. “What can you be thinking?”

Philip, Nessa noticed, was discreetly averting his eyes. She fought down a blush. “I'm merely taking your advice, Prudence.”

Her sister flushed to the roots of her pale brown hair. “I meant for you to carry it out in private, Nessa! Not for all the world to witness! How—”

But then Sir Lawrence appeared to claim Nessa for the next dance, and Prudence had perforce to contain herself— though her shocked eyes still spoke volumes. Lifting her chin defiantly, Nessa accompanied Sir Lawrence to the floor. Even if Prudence were right—as a niggling voice told her she was—she would carry off this evening with aplomb.

Sir Lawrence appeared to be struck completely speechless, which Nessa thought was just as well. She was sick of fulsome, lust-barbed compliments tonight. The hours she must still endure stretched endlessly ahead. Perhaps a fictitious headache…

“You look pale, my lady.” Sir Lawrence finally found his voice. “Perhaps we should sit out this dance until you feel recovered.”

The thought of escaping all of the eyes— both lecherous and condemning— appealed mightily. “Yes, let's,” she said eagerly. “Somewhere… out of the way.”

“I know just the spot.” Taking her hand, he led her between the dancers to the opposite side of the enormous room, then through a curtained alcove. A dimly lit hallway opened onto at least a dozen rooms, most with doors ajar. The sounds of low conversation and laughter came from more than one of them.

He did not lead her into any of the rooms, however, but past them, through another archway and down a half-flight of stairs, then around a corner. When he finally stopped, they were in a sort of miniature conservatory filled with greenery and blooming hothouse flowers. The room would have been dazzlingly bright during the day, as half the ceiling and all of one wall were of glass. Now it was lit by at least a dozen hissing gas lamps.

Nessa looked about at the fairyland surroundings in surprise and more than a little misgiving. “Sir Lawrence, I don't believe—”

Before she could finish, however, he released her hand and clutched her to him, pressing his mouth against hers. For a moment she froze in complete shock, then began to struggle. He released her at once, and she backed away from him, drawing the back of her hand across her mouth. “Are you mad? What can you be thinking?”

She turned to go but he blocked her way, going down upon one knee in the doorway. “My lady— Nessa— pray forgive me. I was overcome by your beauty, by your sparkling wit, by… everything about you.”

Frowning, she stepped to the side, attempting to go around him. Yes, she had definitely been an idiot to wear this gown! “Very well,” she said severely, “just never let it happen again. I'm going back to the ballroom now.” Jack had been right, it seemed. “My husband—”

“Does not deserve you,” interrupted Sir Lawrence, his handsome young face eloquent with feeling. “'Tis a violation of all that is right that a woman like you should be bound to such a reprobate instead of worshipped as you deserve. As I will worship you.”

Worse and worse! She had to escape before Jack came seeking her, or she really would have this foolish boy's blood on her head. “Sir Lawrence, I'm very flattered, of course, but—”

Again he interrupted her. She was beginning to find that irritating. “Come away with me, now, tonight! We can be in Dover by morning, in France tomorrow. Once in Paris, no one will find us. I'll shower you with—”

“No, you will not!” she interrupted him in turn. “Stop this at once. I am a married woman, and fully intend to remain so. If I have raised any expectations I am truly sorry, but I cannot go to Paris or anywhere else with you. Now let me go!”

“I recommend you do as the lady asks,” drawled Jack's voice from the hallway. Unless, of course, you'd care to answer to me?”

NINETEEN

ENRAGED AS HE WAS on discovering his wife in a tryst with another man, Jack rather enjoyed the effect his words had on the pair before him. Nessa gasped, a hand flying to her throat and her eyes widening with horror. Sir Lawrence, still on his knees, nearly fell on his face as he attempted to turn and rise simultaneously.

“Jack!” Nessa squeaked. “How did you—?”

Sir Lawrence regained his balance and planted himself directly in front of her, facing him. “Ungallant of you to spy on your wife, my lord,” he sputtered. “And it'll do you no good. I mean to take her—”

At that point, Jack's precarious hold on his temper snapped. Almost without his volition, his fist shot out to connect squarely with the young man's nose. Sir Lawrence fell heavily onto his posterior, his mouth open in amazement and pain. He groped for a handkerchief to staunch the blood suddenly spurting from his nose and struggled back to his feet.

“I think not,” said Jack coldly before the other man could act or speak. “You're welcome to name your seconds, of course, but if I were you, I'd not want it generally known that I was knocked down in my pursuit of another man's wife. I suggest you occupy yourself elsewhere.”

Sir Lawrence glowered for a moment, though the effect was rather spoiled by the bloody handkerchief he held to his face. As Jack held his eye with the steely glare that had intimidated bolder men than he, Sir Lawrence's defiance wavered, then crumbled. With one apologetic glance at Nessa, he fled the conservatory.

Jack now turned to his wife, who still stood in shock, both hands covering her mouth. “Let us hope I adequately discouraged him from calling me out. I trust your modesty will not be outraged if I fail to challenge him on your behalf?”

Wide-eyed, she shook her head. “Please… please do not.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I never thought— that is, I had no idea—”

“What effect you have on men?” he asked, moving closer to her. “Oh, I think you had a very good idea, my dear. Why else would you have worn this dress, so obviously designed to elicit desire?”

The horror faded from her eyes and she regarded him candidly. “I only meant to elicit it in yourself, my lord, not in every man present. I seem to have achieved quite the opposite effect, however.”

He took another step toward her, so that they were nearly touching. “Opposite? Hardly that.” Her perfume surrounded him, intoxicating his senses. “In fact, I should say you have succeeded rather too well.”

“I have?” she breathed, swaying toward him.

By way of answer, he gathered her into his arms and lowered his lips to hers. This time she did not resist, but responded with a fire rivaling his own. Her arms twined about his neck, pulling him closer until his body molded to hers, their tongues urgently stroking each other. Jack groaned, deep in his throat. His nether garments suddenly felt far too tight.

“Oh, Jack, I've wanted you so,” she gasped. “Why did you not come?”

“You never asked,” he murmured, tracing his lips along her jawline to the sensitive spot below her ear.

She shuddered slightly. “I'm asking now,” she whispered, sliding one hand down to cup him through his breeches.

Now it was Jack's turn to shudder with longing, though her forwardness in such a setting amazed him. “Let us go home, then. I'm certain I'll not last out the evening after this sort of encouragement.”

But Nessa pulled him in for another heated kiss. “I'm not certain I'll last till we get home,” she sighed a moment later. “This is a lovely place, and I see a divan over there, by those ferns. Perhaps, if we lock the door…”

“Nessa!” Jack's laughter was tinged with urgent longing. “Pray do not tease me like this. I've half a mind to call your bluff.”

“Who's bluffing?” she asked, slanting a seductive glance up at him through half-closed lashes. “Don't tell me that in all your colorful career you never did anything more scandalous?”

At the moment, Jack could barely recall anything he'd ever done with any other woman. His every sense, every nerve, was focused on Nessa. Her perfume, mingling with that of the flowers about them, her touch, her voice… “I've never been more tempted to, that's certain.”

“Well, then?” She slid her hands up and down his back, then around to his thighs, urging him beyond rational thought.

“Very well, my naughty wife. Just a moment.” He turned and closed the door, only to find no key to lock it from the inside. Still, what were the chances of anyone finding them here? He shoved the heavy iron doorstop in front of the door, so they'd at least have warning should it open, then turned back to Nessa.

“If you're not serious about this, now is the time to tell me.”

By way of response, she grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the divan. Screened from the door by three small orange trees surrounded by exotic flowers, it nestled amid towering ferns near the far wall. Casting caution to the wind, Jack sat down and drew her against him.

“Perhaps we need a conservatory at Fox Manor,” he murmured, attending to her throat again with his lips. “What say you, madam wife?”

“Hmmm… Let's see how this one works before we make any rash decisions.” She loosened his cravat and ran her fingers through his hair, then began to unbutton his coat.

Snatching at the last vestiges of his control, Jack grasped her hands. “My darling, if you insist upon having me here and now, we'll have to forego disrobing entirely. We must be prepared to look innocent in short order, should any discover us here.”

“I rely upon your expertise,” she said with a smile that nearly sent him to the edge again. “Show me.”

Fumbling somewhat in his haste and need, Jack began to undo the front fastening of his breeches. At once, Nessa reached to help him, clearly as eager as he. Lifting her skirts, he was pleased and relieved to discover she wore nothing beneath her garters and petticoats. Touching her, he found her wet and ready for him.

She had now freed him from the upper portion of his breeches, so he shifted until he lay on his back upon the divan, which was luckily long enough to support him. Before he could direct her, Nessa took the initiative, climbing astride him. She lowered herself upon him, engulfed him, and the world receded, narrowing to only the two of them.

Nessa had never been so aroused, not even in the earliest days of her marriage when sexual pleasure was new to her. Perhaps it was the risk of being caught, perhaps it was her brief estrangement from Jack, but she wanted him as never before. With an ecstatic gasp, she impaled herself upon him, driving him deeply into her until he filled her completely.

Jack reached up to fondle her breasts, already hard with desire, through the thin silk of her gown, propelling her to even greater desire. Slowly, then faster, she began to rock, riding him toward mutual release. Gripping him convulsively, she climaxed, a soaring sensation more intense than any before. At once, Jack tensed beneath her, driving upwards once, twice, then pulling her down upon him as he shuddered with his own release.

“Oh! Oh, Jack,” she breathed, her heart still hammering as the urgency of passion slowly ebbed. “That was amazing. You are amazing.”

He breathed a long sigh of satisfaction. “As are you, my love.”

She swallowed. It was the first time he'd called her that since their marriage. Did it mean more now, or was it still simply a careless phrase to him?

As her heartbeat and breathing slowed, she became aware of other sounds—of something that sounded like distant cheering. Jack apparently heard it too, for he frowned questioningly at her, then moved to rise. She extricated herself from him and they separated far enough to sit up on the divan. The cheering seemed to be coming from behind the ferns, beyond the wall. Turning, horror slowly dawned. The wall of glass.

She turned to face Jack, her eyes wide, and at the same moment he began to curse, softly but fluently. Turning his back to the wall, he quickly refastened his breeches. Belatedly following his lead, Nessa pulled down her skirts and adjusted her disarranged bodice. One breast had sprung free, and she hurriedly pulled the neckline of her gown back into place.

“You don't think… they're not actually watching us, are they?” she asked shakily. “The ferns—”

He glanced up at the blazing gas lights above them. “I'm not certain, but I doubt those ferns offer us much cover, given how bright it is in here and how dark outside. That must be the courtyard.”

Panic began to grip her. “Then those are not merely passersby on the street, but other guests here tonight?”

He nodded ruefully. “I fear so. I should never have let you persuade me to this, my dear. I did know better, though the composition of the wall quite escaped me.”

Nessa groaned. “I knew it was glass—or, at least, I noticed it before, but forgot. Still, Jack,” she nestled against him, and the renewed cheers from outside confirmed her fears, “it was worth it, I think.”

His look was quizzical. “Certainly I think so, but have you considered how we are to leave? We'll have to face at least some or them. Or shall we hold our heads high and pretend nothing is amiss?”

Nessa closed her eyes for a moment in mortification, but then began to laugh— though her laughter held an edge of hysteria. “What have we to lose?” she asked. “But first, let us move away from this enormous window!”

Ten minutes later, having passed each other's inspection (though Jack's cravat and Nessa's hair could not be what they were, without valet or abigail), the two of them reentered the ballroom. Ten seconds later, it was obvious their liaison was already general knowledge. Titters and curious stares followed them across the room.

Nessa knew her face was flaming, but she kept her chin high, though she did perhaps grip Jack's arm more tightly than usual. A glance showed her that his color had deepened as well, though he appeared on the verge of laughter. Quickly, Nessa averted her eyes for fear she might start giggling uncontrollably. People were staring enough as it was.

A dance had just ended and another was about to form, but though Nessa knew she was promised to someone for the next one, she was not particularly surprised when no one came forward to claim her. Gathering her courage, she looked about the room. One or two older gentlemen stared back boldly, but most seemed unwilling to meet her eye. Then she saw the Creamcrofts nearby, in conversation with another couple. How on earth could she ever face them again?

She was about to tell Jack that she'd changed her mind and would prefer to leave after all, when Prudence turned and saw her. Rather to Nessa's surprise, she murmured something to Philip, then came to greet her, eyes filled with concern.

“Nessa, my lord, surely— surely— the tale I've just been told cannot be true?” Prudence looked from Nessa to Jack and back, and must have had her answer from their conscious looks and heightened complexions. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, then drew Nessa aside with a stern glance at Jack.

“What exactly happened?” she whispered when they had taken a few steps away. “I have no idea what to say to people!”

Though mortified as much for Prudence's sake as her own, Nessa was glad of the chance to get her confession over. “I took your advice rather too literally, I fear, Prudence. Finding myself alone with Jack in the conservatory, I, ah, took advantage of the situation… as did he.”

Her sister blushed, but persisted. “'Twas shockingly bad judgment on both your parts—but how were you discovered? Surely you were not mad enough to leave the door open. Who walked in upon you? It seems everyone here is aware of it already!”

“Have you seen the conservatory, Prudence?” Her sister shook her head. “Well, it would seem that it has a, um, glass wall which is adjacent to the courtyard, screened only by some ferns. Somehow that escaped our notice until it was too late.”

Prudence stared at her for a moment as her import sank in, then covered her mouth with a gloved hand. Her shoulders began to quiver, and for a moment Nessa thought her sister was on the verge of tears. But then a gasp escaped from behind the concealing hand and she realized her prim and proper sister was struggling with laughter!

For the second time in as many weeks, Nessa regarded Prudence with astonishment. Was this the prudish sister she'd known all her life?

“So your, ah, display was quite unintentional?” she gasped after a moment.

Nessa nodded, her own lips beginning to twitch. “We must have put on quite a show, I fear.”

For a moment the sisters clung to each other, struggling to subdue their mirth. Then, abruptly, Prudence sobered. “Oh, Nessa, 'twill be the talk of London by morning! Whatever are you going to do? Perhaps a discreet return to Kent…?”

Nessa turned to see Jack a few paces away, regarding them with a curious frown. “Perhaps. I'll discuss it with Jack. Thank you, Prudence, for not abandoning me! I fear most will be less forgiving.”

“We are sisters,” said Prudence stoutly. “And besides, I have you to thank for…” She glanced over her shoulder at Philip and pinkened again. “For certain improvements in my own situation. Let me know if there is any way I can help.”

Squeezing her hands, Nessa smiled. “You already have, Prudence. More than you know. Now go back to your husband, and I'll return to mine, to discuss how we are to weather this development.”

Jack came forward the moment Prudence departed. “What was that about? Did I actually see Lady Creamcroft laughing?”

Nessa grinned. “Prudence has loosened up considerably in recent weeks, and seems the happier for it.”

“So have you, my love.” There was that word again, but Nessa tried not to set too much store by it. That they could be affectionate toward each other again was enough— for now.

“I suppose I have. However, I'm not sure Society as a whole will see it as an improvement.” She lapsed into thought for a moment. “How does one get to the courtyard, my lord? I have a mind to see it.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “Yes, I suppose we'd best discover just what we're up against, hadn't we? This way.” He led her through a set of French doors at one end of the ballroom, both of them resolutely ignoring the laughter and whispering that marked their progress.

A marble terrace led down into a large garden area, still winter-bleak and only dimly lighted, primarily from the surrounding windows. Paved paths wove between intricately laid gardens which would doubtless be a blaze of color in a few months' time. Now, however, they were either clean raked or masses of low, leafless shrubs.

“There,” said Jack, pointing.

Nessa looked. One floor above them was a wide expanse of glass, providing the bulk of the courtyard illumination. From here, the conservatory appeared nearly as fairylike as from within, a lush jungle of vegetation and flowers ablaze with light. And there, barely screened at all by the airy ferns, stood a backless divan—the very one the two of them had so recently… occupied.

“Oh, my,” she breathed. “We might as well have been on stage!”

“I fear so,” Jack agreed. Then, glancing about the nearly deserted courtyard, “Someone must have done quick work to assemble a crowd out here so quickly. I suppose such an inducement overcame the cold, however, for many of the guests.”

Nessa managed to pull her eyes away from the divan above. “I had hoped this would be an entertaining evening, but I little thought to provide the entertainment myself!” In spite of her renewed mortification, she could not suppress a rueful laugh.

“Nor I. But Nessa—” His voice suddenly became more serious. “I heard you earlier, saying you regretted being unable to accompany that young jackanapes to Paris. Why did you never tell me you wished to go after all?”

“I didn't… that is, Sir Lawrence was trying to convince me to run away with him, and I refused in no uncertain terms.” She paused, looking up at him curiously. “Do you mean you would be willing to take me to Paris?” Sudden excitement flared within her.

“After this evening's events, it occurs to me that it might be to our benefit to discreetly remove ourselves from the London scene for awhile, until a new scandal arises to dim the memory of ours.” He grinned down at her. “I'd thought of simply returning to Fox Manor, but a belated wedding trip to Paris would serve as well—and might also serve another purpose.”

Paris! She could finally see that fabled city of glitter, excitement and sophistication. But— “What other purpose do you mean?”

His smile now was cryptic. “We shall see. I'll simply say that in Paris you may see enough of scandal to finally satisfy your curiosity— if this evening's exploits have not already done so.”

She tilted her head saucily. “If they have, you can hardly expect me to admit it, and thereby endanger my visit to Paris, my lord! When shall we leave?”

He shook his head, as though in disbelief. “You, madam, are incorrigible. Let me see… I have a few matters to attend to in Parliament yet. We can stop at Fox Manor on our way to Dover, so that I may take care of estate business there. I should say we might take ship within a fortnight or so.”

“A fortnight!” In Paris, she could broaden her horizons far past what was possible in London, she was sure! What sights, what people, what experiences must await there— and in only two weeks time!

“I'll be ready well within a fortnight, I promise you,” she declared. “I can scarcely wait!”

~   ~   ~

AS IT HAPPENED, it was a fortnight to the day before they finally boarded the packet bound for Calais. Nessa had spent a busy, if rather lonely, week, preparing Foxhaven House and its staff for their extended absence. Very few people had called, and those who did were not ones she felt disposed to receive. Most were scandal-mongers, undoubtedly hoping to glean additional details to embellish their gossip. Pleading a lack of time— quite truthfully— she refused them all.

Only Prudence did she admit, and she did not stay long. But at least her motive was beyond question.

“Philip and I are expecting a child,” she informed Nessa with obvious delight. “I'm not certain which of us is more thrilled. He feels the Season will be too much for me, under the circumstances, so we shall return to Herefordshire and likely remain for at least a year. You will come to visit me, will you not, Nessa?”

Nessa jumped up to hug her sister. “Oh, Prudence, what marvelous news! And of course I'll visit, as soon as we return from Paris.” And she had perforce to explain her own plans.

Prudence expressed some concern, but was clearly too happy to dwell upon it. “I will trust you to do what is right,” she concluded. “Certainly by now you have learned your lesson! I only hope Jack, er, Lord Foxhaven will make you as happy as Philip has made me.”

She took her leave shortly thereafter, leaving Nessa to the remainder of her preparations. A day or two later, when Jack announced his current business in London complete, they loaded up the traveling coach and headed for Fox Manor, where they had agreed to spend a week.

Nessa found herself peering ahead as they neared the estate, eager to see it again. In fact, she realized, this was the closest to a feeling of homecoming she'd ever experienced. Returns to Cherry Oaks as a child had always been marred by fear of an almost inevitable scolding. As for Haughton Abbey, even when she'd grown comfortable there, she had never learned to love it. Fox Manor, however, felt like home.

Part of the charm, of course, consisted in the healing of the rift between Jack and herself. They were now back to the easy camaraderie— and passionate nights— of the early days of their marriage. Sometimes Nessa even dared to hope that his feelings for her went deeper than a combination of lust and friendship, but she was careful not to press for any sort of declaration.

Still, if any place might elicit such a development, it would be Fox Manor, she thought. Almost, it was enough to make her suggest a longer stay here, putting off the excitement of Paris.

Almost.

As the day of their departure approached, Nessa's excitement mounted. Even more than London, Paris promised to show her a side of life she'd previously only imagined. And now, at last, they were on their way.

Forgotten was the chill drizzle that had pursued them from Foxhaven to Dover. Even the thin fog through which the packet made its way could not dampen her spirits.

“Thank you, Jack, for suggesting this,” she said as they stood side by side at the rail.

He draped an arm over her shoulders, driving away the cold she'd scarcely noticed, and looked ahead as she did. “Wait to thank me after you've had a chance to absorb some impressions from what is reputed to be the wickedest city on earth,” he said teasingly. “You may find Paris more than you've bargained for.”

Nessa grinned into the mist. “I hope so!”

TWENTY

‘HERE WE ARE,” Jack announced, as the coach taking them the final stage of their journey reached the outskirts of Paris. “We should reach our hotel in ten minutes or so. Unless my message missent, a room will be ready for us. You'll wish to rest before launching yourself upon the city, I imagine.”

Nessa pulled her face away from the window with obvious reluctance. “Oh, I am not at all tired, Jack! How could I possibly rest when all of Paris awaits?”

He chuckled, trying to ignore his misgivings. When he'd suggested Paris, he'd had more in mind than leaving London until the talk died down. He was counting on this most wicked city to finally cure Nessa of her craving for the seamier side of life—a side he knew far too well. He just hoped he wouldn't regret bringing Nessa here, to the site of so much he had put behind him.

His wife had amply proved she was no longer the prude he'd married. What if Paris, rather than giving her a disgust for debauchery, only increased her appetite? Warily, he glanced back to her rapt face, avidly taking in the street scene.

“Here we are. The Hotel des Cinq Astres.” The coach stopped even as he spoke.

“How lovely!” Nessa exclaimed, stepping out the moment the stairs were lowered—into ankle-deep sewage. “Oh, bother! I'd forgotten what you told me about the gutters. Now I shall have to change my shoes and stockings before we can explore.”

She wrinkled her nose, but seemed otherwise undaunted by her first step into filth. Carefully avoiding the free-flowing sewage, Jack helped her onto the relatively cleaner walkway before the front door of the hotel.

Ushering Nessa inside, he approached the concierge at the broad marble desk. “Rooms for Lord and Lady Foxhaven and their servants,” he said in flawless French and saw Nessa's eyes widen.

The concierge snapped to attention and began issuing instructions to various lackeys, and within a very few minutes they were shown into a luxurious suite on the third floor. A basket of fruit, wine and mouth-watering French pastries awaited them there.

“How perfectly lovely!” said Nessa again. “Merci, monsieur. C'est magnifique!” Jack smiled. Her accent was quite passable. She must have learned the language under the tutelage of a true Frenchman.

Simmons and Parker began the unpacking at once, while Nessa sampled one of the pastries, exclaiming at its delicacy and flavor.

“You'll not wish to spoil your appetite, my love.” Jack smiled indulgently. “Once we have dressed, I mean to take you to Rocher de Cancalle, where you may experience the finest cuisine to be found this side of heaven.”

“Oh, I remember reading about it in one of the London papers,” she said excitedly. “'Tis said to be worlds above anything in England. And we are to go there tonight? Shall we visit Tortoni's while we are here, for its famous ices? And the Louvre— perhaps tomorrow we may view the artworks there? Oh, and the Palais-Royal! 'Tis the place to see and be seen, is it not?”

Jack laughed at her childlike enthusiasm. He loved it when she forgot to play the sophisticate. “Yes, yes, my love, we shall go to all of those places, and more. But one step at a time. I will leave you to dress for dinner, while I do likewise. Come, Parker.”

He retired with his valet into the adjoining chamber. Half an hour later, impeccably attired, he tapped on the bedchamber door and then entered. Nessa, resplendent in pale blue satin, stood up from the dressing table, where her maid had just put the finishing touches on her hair.

“Well?” she asked, twirling for his examination. “Shall I avoid disgracing England, do you think?”

He came forward to take both her hands in his. “Indeed, my dear, after one look at you, the Frenchwomen will abandon their flounces and outrageous bonnets to imitate your elegance. You are exquisite.”

And she was. He was tempted to suggest having dinner sent up so that he could have her to himself, in fact. But no, he had promised her Paris. Helping her into her wrap, he led her downstairs, and out into the now-twilit streets.

“Stay close to me,” he cautioned her. “Paris is not Mayfair, neither as well lit nor as safe, even in the better areas.”

She drew nearer, her eyes wide as she took in the scene surrounding them—the thronged humanity of all social classes, the scrawlings upon the walls, proclaiming, “Vive l'empereur!“ in defiance of Napoleon's defeat. Prostitutes lounged in doorways, street vendors hawked their wares in French and broken English.

Instinctively, Jack wanted to protect Nessa from the evils that he knew lurked around every corner and within every alleyway. He'd been mad to bring her here.

“This is wonderful! Amazing!” she breathed. “I've never seen anything like it. How exciting!”

He groaned inwardly, not only at her words, but at the memory of his own similar enthusiasm upon his last visit to Paris— and of the wild excesses it had led him to. Was he so certain that he could not be similarly tempted now? That Nessa would not? It would be best, he decided, if their visit here were kept short. Tomorrow he would make certain inquiries…

They reached their destination none too soon for his taste. Jack's anxiety receded as he watched— and shared— Nessa's enjoyment of gustatory pleasures beyond her dreams. Whatever else he might say against Paris, the food here was the best on earth.

“Now I understand the wages true French chefs command in England,” Nessa commented when she finally pushed back from the marble table after their prolonged and leisurely meal. “And I begin to believe those who claim to travel to Paris solely to dine here. That was magnificent.”

“Now that you have experienced the best Paris has to offer,” he teased, “we may as well return to England. Anything else we do here is bound to be anticlimactic.”

“Oh, I think not,” she replied, her eyes dancing. “The very atmosphere of this city inspires me to things most climactic, in fact.”

Jack grinned, his body responding instantly to her innuendo. “Indeed? Then I suggest we return to our hotel without further ado.”

~   ~   ~

NESSA STRETCHED luxuriously upon awakening to her first full day in Paris. If last night had been any indication, she was going to thoroughly enjoy her stay here! A fabulous meal, followed by even more fabulous lovemaking with the man who had made this possible.

Turning to express her gratitude yet again, she discovered that Jack had already risen. He was on the far side of the enormous room, almost finished dressing. Before she could speak, a tap came at the door. Jack opened it to receive a tray of something that smelled positively heavenly. The moment the door closed again, she sat up.

“Mmm! Is that our breakfast?”

He turned with a grin that melted her insides to water. “It is indeed, and an excellent one, I should think. One reason I chose this hotel was the reputation of its kitchens.”

She bounded out of bed, only belatedly remembering to snatch up her silk wrapper when Jack's eyes brightened appreciatively. “After breakfast,” she promised. “You wouldn't want me distracted by that mouth-watering aroma, would you?”

His blue eyes smoldered. “No, I'll want your undivided attention, as I plan to give you mine.”

Sitting at the small table, Nessa saw only familiar foods: eggs, meats, pastries, coffee. But everything was hot— something rarely experienced in England— and the quality set it apart as well. The coffee was the best she'd ever tasted, full, rich and strong.

“That was nearly as good as last night's dinner,” she declared as she drank the last drop, to wash down her final bite of croissant. “If we spend many weeks in Paris, I fear I shall become as large as a cow!”

“Then I must make certain you take enough exercise to compensate.” Jack tossed his napkin onto the table and rose. “I have a particular activity in mind right now.”

Nessa came to him eagerly, and soon they were engaged in a most pleasurable exercise indeed. As so often happened after she was sated, however, she had to fight the urge to tell him she loved him. She had faced that truth some time ago, but after the incident with Miranda Dempsey, she felt reluctant to voice feelings that might not be reciprocated. When it was time, she would know.

Wouldn't she?

Today, however, she refused to dwell upon the matter. Paris awaited! “Where shall we go today?” she asked, almost before her breathing had slowed to normal. “One of the palaces?”

“I am wounded! Could I distract you no longer than that?” But he smiled indulgently. “The Louvre, I believe. Then perhaps the Tuileries?”

“Oh, yes! And then, tonight, the Palais-Royal? Please?” She'd read and heard numerous stories of its shops, cafés and gaming establishments.

For a moment she thought a fleeting frown crossed Jack's brow, but the smile never wavered. “Of course. Up with you, then! We have a busy day ahead of us, it would seem.”

Back in the streets of Paris, Nessa again felt assailed by the odors— mostly unpleasant— and the crowds. Why, all of Europe must be here! English gentlemen and officers in their blue and red coats, Frenchmen in their more sober black, ladies of all nationalities in every color of the rainbow, in everything from simple English styles to the more ornate French and German ones.

Just ahead, she saw an English officer exchanging angry words with what must be a French officer. The Frenchman then slapped the other resoundingly across the face, and the Englishman bowed. Turning aside, they continued their conversation at a less audible volume.

“Does… does that mean they are to duel?” she asked Jack, amazed at such a display.

He nodded. “Unless things have changed since I was here in August, dozens are fought every morning. The French are a hotheaded race, and with no war to occupy them now, our own idled officers are more than happy to oblige their thirst for violence.”

She looked at him uncertainly. “Did you fight any duels when you were here last summer?”

Again he nodded, not quite meeting her eyes. “A few. I'd like to think I'm a wiser man now, though. For one thing, I've more to live for.” He winked at her.

Nessa felt chilled and warmed all at once. The very idea of Jack putting himself in such danger, doubtless over such trivial things as the cut of a coat or a turn of the dice, made her almost ill. In vain she reminded herself that he'd undoubtedly faced greater danger in the army. Somehow the thought did not comfort her in the least.

“Jack! Jack Ashecroft! Is it really you?” A shrill, feminine voice broke into Nessa's disturbing thoughts. With a swirl of puce skirts and heavy perfume, a plump, pretty blonde blocked their way. Seizing Jack by both arms, she planted a resounding kiss square on his mouth.

He grabbed her bare shoulders and set her away from him, looking more startled than upset, Nessa thought. “Peggy! I had no idea you were still in Paris.”

She appeared ready to launch herself at him again, when Jack continued hastily, “Pray, let me introduce you to my wife.”

The woman's rouged cheeks turned even pinker, as she noticed Nessa for the first time. “Your wife?” she cried, her blue eyes nearly starting from her head. “Say it ain't so, Jack!”

Jack released her shoulders, now that the danger of another attack had passed. “I'd rather hoped for congratulations, not disbelief. Lady Foxhaven and I were wed before Christmas.”

Peggy cocked her head pertly to one side. “Foxhaven? Weren't that your grandpa's name? So you're a markiss now, are you? Well, don't that beat all! Guess you had to wed so you could get yourself an heir, eh?” She nudged Nessa with her elbow, her eyes twinkling again.

Nessa managed a smile, both attracted and repelled by the woman's forthright, vulgar manner. “We're working on it,” she said brightly.

Both Jack and Peggy stared at her for a moment, then the other woman let out a loud peal of laughter. “Looks like you found yourself a right 'un, Jack! Glad to see you ain't stuck with some starched up society type. Bring her 'round tonight and I'll introduce her to the other girls.” With a saucy wink, she turned to sashay away from them down the street.

Glancing up at Jack, Nessa saw that his color had risen considerably. He cleared his throat a couple of times before meeting her eye.

“That was Peggy,” he said unnecessarily.

“So I gathered.” She couldn't helped being amused at his embarrassment, even if the encounter had been rather unsettling for her, as well. “A good friend of yours, I take it?”

“Just a… a casual acquaintance, really.” He didn't quite meet her eye. “Manners are freer here, and even the English who spend enough time in Paris tend to adopt them.”

“Ah,” she said noncommittally. “Shall we continue on?”

He nodded and they resumed their walk, but this was not the last such encounter. They had nearly reached the Louvre when a disheveled young man accosted them.

“Jack Ashecroft, as I live and breathe! And who is this pretty lady? 'Tis one I've not seen in Paris before. Did you import her from England, perchance?”

“Hello, Teddy. Still getting drunk before noon, I see. This is my wife, Lady Foxhaven.” Jack, Nessa noticed, was careful to interpose himself between her and this newcomer.

“So Uncle Luther stuck his spoon in the wall, did he? And you've become a sober married man. Guess there's no use in my suggesting a ménage à trois then, eh?” With an elaborate bow toward Nessa, he went off laughing.

Nessa looked curiously at Jack. “What did he mean?”

Again Jack began the throat-clearing that she now knew signified embarrassment. “Er, nothing. Teddy always was a nodcock. Wonder if his family even knows he's still alive?”

Though she suspected there was more to that comment than the literal meaning, “household of three,” she allowed the subject to drop. “I had no idea I'd married such a very popular fellow.” Nessa forced herself to speak lightly, though in truth she was rather unnerved by such flagrant evidence of his former lifestyle.

They entered the Louvre then, and Nessa forgot all other concerns in her awe at the artworks displayed there. They spent the next few hours lost in beauty and amazement, only recalled to reality by increasingly insistent hunger pangs.

Jack suggested Tortoni's for afternoon refreshment, and Nessa eagerly agreed. That celebrated establishment was crowded with people of all nationalities, but as Jack appeared to know several of those present, including the waiters, they were served in surprisingly short order. They had finished their meal and were just beginning the famed ices when shouting on the opposite side of the room rose above the general din.

A French officer and a man Nessa thought might be Prussian from his accent exchanged first words and then blows. A moment later, at least a dozen other patrons joined the fray. Chairs and tables were overturned, and a shot rang out.

“That is our exit cue, my dear,” said Jack urgently. “This way.” He ushered her outdoors, pushing his way through the crowd surging in the opposite direction to join or witness the melee. More shots sounded behind them, along with a piercing shriek.

“Goodness!” Nessa exclaimed shakily once they'd gone a safe distance down the street. “Does that sort of thing happen often in there?”

“There and most other places in this volatile city. Are you all right?” Jack examined her face with a concern that warmed away her fear.

“Perfectly,” she assured him. “I… had not realized Paris was such a dangerous place.”

“Debauchery and danger often go hand in hand.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and turned toward the Tuileries. “When people lose respect for themselves and their own lives, 'tis but a short step to losing respect for others, and fiery young men must have an outlet for their passions.”

Nessa swallowed. “And you were one of those?”

“I… suppose I was, though I pursued amusement more avidly than violence.”

She wasn't sure whether that made her feel better or not.

During the remainder of the day and evening, Nessa began to realize that her girlish fantasies about wickedness had had little basis in reality. Here, the actuality was all about her, impossible to escape.

Prostitutes— they could be nothing else— boldly approached passersby in even the most genteel sections of the city. Gambling dens appeared to occupy almost every corner, and shots rang out frequently, either close at hand or in the distance. Wild laughter floated from doorways, and the moans of what must be sexual couplings from open windows above.

No longer did she envy the freedom of the women she saw everywhere displaying their legs and bosoms. Instead, she felt almost ashamed to share their gender. The Tuileries and its gardens, just beginning to hint at spring glory, were lovely, and the Palais-Royal amazing in its colorful variety, but by midway through the evening Nessa was both tired and oddly depressed.

Jack seemed to sense something of her mood. “Why don't we return to our hotel and have dinner sent up to our suite,” he suggested as they completed the circuit of shops and cafés. “I think we've both had enough of Paris for one day, don't you?”

Though she hated to admit it, Nessa had to agree. No doubt her enthusiasm for new experiences would revive after a good night's sleep, but for now she confessed herself sated by them.

The next morning, however, she awoke to a vague queasiness. “I fear all of this rich French cuisine has rather overset my digestion,” she told Jack apologetically. “Can we perhaps ask that something simpler be sent up for today's breakfast?”

Immediately he was all concern. “Certainly, my dear! I'll send Parker down at once. Is there anything else you require?”

“Now, you needn't play the mother hen,” she teased, though she could not help feeling touched. “I shall be fine, I am certain. Nor will you escape showing me more of Paris by exaggerating my little indisposition.”

Indeed, after some tea and toast she felt much more the thing, and ready to see a few of the monuments which had been erected in Napoleon's honor. But though they took things easily that day, she found she could not summon up her former eagerness to see all that Paris had to offer. And there were still interruptions by some of Jack's former acquaintances, from noble to homeless.

It was all too easy, with the evidence before her, to imagine just the sort of life Jack must have led before she met him. Former officers referred to wartime exploits and the women who had followed them from camp to camp. Others made comments about the money they had lost to Jack or, less frequently, that he had lost to them.

And it seemed that every woman in Paris knew him far too well!

By the end of their fourth day in Paris, Nessa felt she'd seen enough of debauchery to last her a lifetime— though she could not bring herself to admit it aloud.

~   ~   ~

FOR HIS PART, Jack was finding Paris both tedious and unpleasant, with its constant reminders of a life he'd left behind—a life he discovered he did not miss in the least. Yes, there were occasional temptations to renew old friendships, but the drinking, dicing and wenching no longer appealed.

Two months ago that knowledge would have disturbed him, but now he felt profound relief. Evidence that Paris' dubious charms were palling on Nessa brought him even greater relief. He began to realize that Nessa had a core of purity that even Paris could not touch, however she might try to hide it.

Still, he was worried about her. Her stomach had been unsettled for the past three mornings, and though she always seemed to recover by early afternoon, he could not be entirely easy about her. No doubt the noxious atmosphere of Paris was taking its toll on her system, brought up as she had been to the clean air of the English countryside.

He'd meant to stay in Paris for a week at the least, but now he began casting about in earnest for alternatives. By the evening of their fourth day there, he had found one.

“What would you say,” he asked her over dinner that night, “to spending the next two weeks in the French countryside rather than the city?”

Nessa set down her fork and looked curiously at him, both hopeful and wary, he thought. “The countryside? But how? Where?”

“I sent a message to an old friend who owes me a favor,” he explained. “This afternoon I received his reply. He owns a charming little cottage less than twenty miles from Paris, on the outskirts of a particularly pretty village. I remembered visiting it last summer, which is why I inquired. He rarely stays there, and has agreed to let us make use of it for as long as we like.”

Her eyes shone. “Oh, may we really?” But then she seemed to recall herself. “That is, I am enjoying Paris immensely, of course, but a change might be nice.”

Valiantly, Jack kept his expression solemn. “Just what I'd thought, as well. We'll leave tomorrow, if you have no objection.”

“No objection at all,” she said with a smile, belatedly adding, “Assuming, of course, that we may see the rest of Paris later on.”

“Whenever you wish to do so,” Jack agreed. He hoped, however, that his suspicions were correct, and she'd truly had her fill of Paris by now.

The next morning, the first of March, they left early, as Jack recalled that the roads they would traverse were not the best. Though Nessa again woke to an upset stomach, she refused to delay on that account.

“I shall be fine within the hour,” she promised. “I always seem to be.”

By the time the carriage was loaded, her prophecy had been fulfilled. Two hours later, however, as they bumped along rutted, twisting lanes, she appeared to be in some distress again. Finally, she asked him to stop the coach so that she could step outside for a breath of air. A moment later, he was supporting her as she rid herself of her breakfast.

“I'm terribly sorry, Jack. Normally I'm not made at all ill by travel. Even that rough channel crossing we had did not upset me, if you'll recall.”

“No need to apologize, my love.” Tenderly, he brushed a few tendrils of hair away from her face. “These execrable roads would do up the strongest constitution.”

She smiled up at him gratefully. “You are so good to me, Jack. Thank you for salvaging my pride— not only now, but also about Paris. I wanted to leave desperately, but was too proud to admit it. I'm not quite the woman of the world I'd like to believe, am I?”

Jack had to swallow the lump in his throat before replying. “You're the best woman in the world, Nessa. I honestly believe that.” He bent to kiss her, but she held up a hand.

“Not until I've rinsed out my mouth, Jack! But I certainly can't doubt your sincerity now.” She grinned weakly.

He chuckled and helped her back to the coach, where she took a sip of the wine they'd brought along. Truly a remarkable woman! Why on earth had he not yet told her he loved her?

That question occupied him for much of the remainder of the journey, as Nessa dozed with her head on his shoulder. He'd told Miranda Dempsey, of all people, but had not yet summoned the courage to tell Nessa herself. Why?

Fear, he finally admitted. Fear that she would laugh, or, worse, parrot the sentiment automatically— as he'd done to so many women— without meaning the words. He didn't think he'd be able to bear that. Not from Nessa.

As twilight fell and they neared the end of their journey, he finally faced the unpleasant truth. Jack Ashecroft, celebrated hero of Salamanca, Vitoria, and Paris, was a coward.

TWENTY-ONE

NESSA AWOKE from her doze when the bumpy forward motion of the carriage suddenly ceased. “What has happened?” she asked drowsily. Were there highwaymen in France?

“Nothing, my dear. We have finally reached the cottage.” Jack helped her to sit up just as the coachman opened the door. The fresh, cool air streamed in, reviving her at once.

She peered out and caught her breath at the scene before her. The little house nestled cozily in its garden. Rose vines on trellises, leaves just unfurling, covered its whitewashed walls. Diamond-paned windows twinkled, reflecting the setting sun in wondrous hues of crimson and violet, making it seem like something out of a fairy tale.

“Oh!” Nessa gasped. “Oh, how perfect! And we're really to stay here?”

Jack grinned at her response as he helped her from the coach. “We are indeed. I said it was charming, did I not? A bit rustic, of course, but we can obtain necessities from the village. No food of Paris quality, but this is still France, so you won't starve, I promise you.”

He walked up the raked gravel path, took the key from his pocket and opened the door. Pulling her wrap close against the evening chill, Nessa followed him into the cottage. Though not furnished with fashion in mind, everything within was comfortable and clean, save a thin patina of dust which showed it had not been inhabited for some time. She and Simmons at once set about remedying that small defect, however, and by the time the luggage was brought in and fires lit in the parlor, kitchen and bedrooms, all was as neat and cozy as she could have wished.

“Now, my dear, that's quite enough of that,” said Jack, coming back into the parlor as Nessa finished dusting the oaken mantelpiece. “You sit here by the fire and get warm and rested, while Parker and I go into the village to get dinner.”

“Dozing all day in the coach was scarcely tiring,” she pointed out. But even as she spoke, she realized that she still felt lethargic. She sank luxuriously into the deep armchair nearest the fire. “See if the bakery has any of those lovely croissants. Nothing in England compares to them.”

Jack saluted her. “Your wish is my command, Madam Wife.”

He and Parker left, while Simmons went into the bedroom to unpack the trunks. Nessa leaned back against the cushions and closed her eyes. Already she could feel the tight-wound frenzy of Paris seeping away, to be replaced by the serenity of the country. What an excellent idea of Jack's, to come here! It was just what she—what their marriage— needed.

She had hoped that the vaunted romance of Paris would infect their relationship, but romance was not what she'd found there. Debauchery, she now understood, was not romantic in the least. But without love, what separated her relationship with Jack from what the Parisian courtesans shared with the men there?

At first, the heady discovery that there was pleasure— great pleasure!— to be found in the marriage bed was enough for her. But more and more, of late, she was finding herself dissatisfied with mere physical pleasure, odd as that sounded. There was a part of her she had yet to surrender to Jack, and a part he had not surrendered of himself. Until their hearts were involved, until they could trust one another completely, their marriage could never be complete.

Nessa opened her eyes and looked around the cozy room with its chintz curtains, simple woodwork and deep upholstery. Surely here, in the quiet of the country, with no distractions from Society or Jack's estate, they could finally find each other? She was determined to try.

She must have dozed, for the next thing she knew, Jack and Parker had come in through the kitchen and were making quite a racket as they put things away. Rising, she hurried in to see what they had obtained.

“There wasn't much selection, as two of the three shops in the village had closed already,” Jack said in response to her query. “But we were able to buy bread, butter, eggs and milk.”

“That should be sufficient for tonight, I should think. Is that a root cellar?” she asked, pointing. “If there are potatoes or onions, they will round out the meal nicely.”

There were both potatoes and onions, as well as a quantity of garlic in the small root cellar. Simmons made it clear that she considered kitchen duty far beneath her, but grudgingly agreed to help.

“If I can do it, certainly you can,” Nessa pointed out to the affronted lady's maid.

“Hmph,” was Simmons' only comment as she stoically cut up potatoes and put them into a pot to boil.

An hour later, the four of them sat down to their simple but hearty dinner at the large table in the kitchen. Simmons and Parker had both resisted this arrangement as beneath the dignity of their master and mistress, but were won over by Jack's argument that there really was no other suitable table in the house.

“Very well,” Parker said, “but only this once. I cannot but think sharing your meals in this way must undermine the romantic atmosphere of this setting.”

Nessa started and stared at the man, but he had turned his attention to his bread and potatoes. Jack merely chuckled and shook his head.

The moment the meal was over, Parker ushered Jack and Nessa into the parlor, then pressed the tight-lipped Simmons into service to help with the washing up.

“That was lovely,” Nessa declared, sinking back into the comfortable armchair she'd occupied before.

“Lovely? My dear, you are absurdly easy to please, I must say.”

Though she knew Jack was teasing, she answered him seriously. “I don't require fancy food and elegant surroundings to be happy. A peaceful setting, with you at my side, is enough.”

He looked at her strangely, and she felt a twinge of panic. Had she said too much, revealed her feelings too clearly? Or was he merely unable to share her sentiment, and baffled by it? His next words reassured her somewhat.

“I can't promise your surroundings will always be peaceful, but I shall do my best to be a part of them. I had always believed that I would wither without excitement, myself.” His voice deepened. “Now I come to realize that excitement takes many forms.”

Even as she felt her body responding to the suggestiveness of his tone, Nessa couldn't help wondering whether he saw their lovemaking as simply an agreeable way to pass the time. Was he counting on her to keep him amused— excited— in this rustic exile?

Still… “It does indeed,” she agreed. She would not let this odd obsession she'd developed to tap Jack's deepest emotions deprive her of the pleasure she found in his arms. “Will the fire in the bedroom have warmed it yet, do you think?”

He rose and took her hand. “Let's go find out.”

Though tiny in comparison to their chambers in London, Fox Manor, or even the Paris hotel, the bedroom was as comfortable and cozy as the rest of the cottage. The bed dominated the room, piled high with feather mattresses and pillows under its colorful counterpane. One glance at it, and Nessa felt desire and sleep begin to wage a battle within her.

“As Parker and Simmons are otherwise occupied, I suppose we must make shift to undress each other,” Jack said, closing the door behind them.

“I suppose so.” Without further prompting, Nessa began loosening the intricate folds of his cravat.

Encircling her with his arms, he unfastened the row of tiny buttons down her back, one by one. Pausing occasionally for long, leisurely kisses, they worked their way downward until both were stripped to the skin.

“And now,” said Jack huskily, sweeping her into his arms to carry her the two or three steps to the bed.

The mattress was even softer than it had looked. A moment later, both of them were nestled under the covers, their whole lengths pressed against each other. Nessa felt wonderfully comfortable, and even with Jack's lips upon hers, she felt a great lassitude sweeping over her.

“Mmmm,” she murmured, as he trailed his lips down her throat to the hollow between her breasts. His hands massaged the back of her neck, her shoulders, loosening muscles she hadn't even realized were still knotted by the day's journey. Exquisitely relaxed, she burrowed deeper into the mattress, inhaling the masculine scent that was Jack, her own hands moving more and more slowly over his body.

Nessa blinked. Sunlight streamed through the chintz curtains, falling on her face, dazzling her.

“What…?” In complete confusion, she struggled to sit up and look around at the cozy little bedroom, where just a moment ago, it seemed, she and Jack had been settling in for a night of lovemaking and sleep. The morning was well advanced, and Jack was nowhere to be seen.

“I fell asleep,” she groaned aloud. Right in the midst of their lovemaking, she must have dropped off. She sat back against the pillows with a sigh. Poor Jack! He'd been so eager, and she'd… Goodness, what must he think of her? Of himself? She hoped she hadn't insulted him beyond forgiveness.

A light tap sounded upon the door. “Come in,” she called out, her spirits rising. She'd apologize at once, explain how tired she'd been—

Simmons walked into the room. “Will you be wanting to dress and have a bite to eat, my lady?”

“Oh. Certainly. Ah, where is Lord Foxhaven?”

“He and that Parker have gone into the village for more provisions. He'll be back within the hour, I should think.”

Nessa thought for a moment. “Very well. I believe I'll wear my new rose morning gown— the one I bought in Paris.” Jack had expressed admiration for the dress when she'd purchased it. Perhaps it would put him in a better frame of mind to hear her apology when he returned.

She smiled to herself. She intended to follow that apology with more tangible restitution, if she could get him back into the bedroom. After nearly twelve hours of sleep, she felt beautifully rested and ready to advance her romantic plans.

Or almost. Upon standing, a twinge of the queasiness which had plagued her for the last week returned. Swallowing, she managed to fight it down, then turned to see Simmons watching her with a most knowing expression on her thin face.

“A bite of toast and a sip of tea will help you to feel more the thing, my lady.”

Nessa frowned. “Yes, it usually does. But why? Do you know what is wrong with me, Simmons?”

To her surprise, her rigid abigail gave her an almost motherly smile. “I believe I can guess, my lady. If you'll forgive my asking, how long has it been since you last had your monthly courses?”

A sudden light broke upon Nessa. “Why— several weeks, now that I think on it. Oh, Simmons, do you truly think I may be with child?”

The abigail nodded, the crinkles at the corners of her eyes making her look more approachable— more human— than Nessa had ever seen her. “I do indeed, my lady. This morning queasiness is a classic symptom. Not to worry, however. It should pass in a few weeks.”

“I'm glad to hear it.” Despite the lingering upset, though, Nessa's heart was suddenly light as a feather. She carried Jack's child! She would be a mother! And Jack—

She turned abruptly back to Simmons. “Pray say nothing to Lord Foxhaven— nor to his valet, either— for the present. I'd like to be absolutely certain before raising his hopes.”

Actually, she felt quite certain Simmons' guess was correct. But if she told Jack now, might he not voice emotions he did not truly feel out of simple gratitude that she was providing him an heir? Contrary as it might be, she didn't want that. She wanted to know first that he loved her for herself, all other considerations aside. If he did.

“Certainly not, my lady.” Simmons sounded faintly shocked. “'Twould not be my place to mention such a thing. Though… I rather think Parker may suspect already, even if his lordship does not. You'll not be able to keep it a secret for long.”

“No, of course not,” Nessa agreed. But if all went well, she wouldn't have to.

~   ~   ~

SHIFTING THE AWKWARD parcels in his arms yet again, Jack decided he'd been foolish to leave the carriage behind. He'd hoped a walk to the village and back would help to clear his mind, but if anything he had more questions than when he'd left.

“Almost there, Parker,” he called back encouragingly. His valet carried even more packages than he did, though he hadn't uttered a word of complaint about his master's questionable judgment.

Was Nessa seriously ill? Jack wondered. She'd never before fallen asleep right in the middle of his lovemaking— indeed, no woman ever had! If not, he feared it boded ill for their relationship— not to mention the blow to his pride. Of course, he'd far rather absorb such a blow than discover she had some life-threatening illness, he told himself quickly. What a self-centered cad he was!

Snorting in self-derision, he set down his parcels so that he could open the kitchen door. “Just leave everything on the table,” he told Parker. “No doubt when Mme. Guignard gets here she'll organize everything her own way.”

Belatedly realizing how absurd it was to expect a valet, a lady's maid or, worse, Nessa herself, to do the cooking and housekeeping, he'd arranged for a woman from the village to spend a few hours there each day for the duration of their stay.

“No doubt, my lord,” agreed Parker. “You'll wish to check on her ladyship now, I presume.”

Nessa rose as Jack entered the parlor and came forward to greet him, a vision in soft rose—a color he thought suited her particularly well. Her hair was simply but charmingly styled, caught back with a pink ribbon to cascade down her back. Best of all, she was smiling.

“Good morning!” she exclaimed. “At least, it is morning for a little while longer. I apologize for being such a slugabed.”

He clasped the hands she held out to him. “Are you well, Nessa? I've been concerned about you.” Just now, however, she looked the picture of blooming health, making his query seem rather foolish. Still, she seemed touched by it.

“Thank you, Jack.” She met his eyes directly, and he saw nothing but warmth there— and perhaps a hint of a question. “I'm perfectly fine, now that I've caught up on my sleep. My… timing last night was unforgivable, however.”

He brushed that aside. “Think nothing of it,” he said, just as though he hadn't spent most of the morning agonizing about it. “You were tired.”

“I was,” she conceded. “But now I am not, and should like the chance to make it up to you.” There was no mistaking her words, or the seductive glance she slanted up at him.

Instantly he responded, both physically and emotionally —a powerful, almost frightening combination far beyond anything any other woman had ever produced in him. “I'd like that,” he managed, huskily.

She squeezed his fingertips, then gently drew him in the direction of their bedroom. He followed most willingly. The moment the door was closed, she turned to face him again.

“The pleasure you bring me, Jack, is the greatest I've ever known. Never doubt that.” She pulled him down for a kiss.

Jack obliged, but couldn't help wondering what it was she was trying to tell him. Was this a convoluted goodbye? Sudden fear shot through him, distracting him for a moment from his desire. Perhaps she really was desperately ill, and knew it! Perhaps—

He held her away from him, examining her face, trying to read her thoughts. “Nessa? Are you certain you are all right?”

To his amazement, she giggled. “I'll admit, my phrasing was rather melodramatic, but I simply wanted to convince you that my falling asleep so inconveniently last night was no reflection on you. I… wouldn't cause you pain for anything, Jack.”

“Nor I, you,” he declared, making it a vow. “Never again. I…” Yes, it was time. He owed her this much. “I love you, Nessa.” He underscored the words with his eyes, putting every ounce of sincerity he possessed into his expression.

Her eyes widened. “Do you, Jack?” she breathed incredulously. “Do you truly? I'd hoped… sometimes imagined… Oh, Jack, I've loved you for months— since before we were wed. I—”

But he silenced her with another kiss, this one deeper, fuller, infused with more meaning than any they'd shared before. She fairly melted into him, her rapture, her love, clearly communicated. Jack thought for a moment that he might collapse with delight and relief, but instead he carried her to the bed, as he had last night.

This time she showed not the slightest inclination to sleep. As eager as he, she helped him to strip off her gown and his shirt and breeches, their efforts punctuated by frequent kisses. No words seemed necessary as they hurried to consummate their newly declared love.

As she had in the duke's conservatory, Nessa climbed astride him, fastening her mouth to his yet again as she eased herself onto his waiting shaft. No sooner had she begun to rock in that oldest rhythm, however, than Jack pulled her even closer, then rolled them both over so that he was now above her.

“Not so quickly, my love,” he murmured into her ear. “I want to make this last.”

Slowly, agonizingly, he took his time, kissing and fondling her, bringing her closer and closer to the brink, until finally neither of them could wait any longer. In a mutual explosion of passion —of love— they shattered in a climax beyond any they'd yet shared, holding nothing back from each other.

Gradually, the little bedroom came back into focus, obscuring the heavenly realm they'd visited. Jack smiled gently at the precious woman he held with his arms and his heart. “I never knew such happiness existed on earth,” he whispered.

“Nor I. But Jack, I have something to tell you that may make you happier yet.”

“Not possible,” he stated, but the eager excitement in her eyes aroused his curiosity. “All right, tell me.”

She hesitated for a moment, biting her lip, her eyes searching his face, suddenly serious. “I believe —in fact, I am all but certain —that I am with child. Our child.”

“You… We… Nessa!” He pulled her close, to say with his kiss what he couldn't seem to manage in words.

~   ~   ~

THE NEXT TWO WEEKS were the most idyllic Nessa had ever known— even taking her almost daily queasiness into account. And Jack felt the same. At least, he told her so regularly. When the weather permitted, they wandered the surrounding countryside, exploring every little lane and byway. They exclaimed over each crocus or jonquil they found in bloom, watched clouds or birds in flight, delighting in the world around them and in each other.

Simmons, Parker and even the capable Mme. Guignard left them completely alone, appearing only when their services were needed before fading discreetly into the background again. During their walks, or in front of the parlor fire on inclement days, Jack and Nessa talked, discovering more and more about each other— likes, dislikes, pasts and future hopes.

Now that all danger to Wellington was past, Jack told her the whole story of his meetings with Miranda Dempsey, to her great relief. He also confessed how marriage had benefited him financially. As she had similarly benefited, Nessa could not hold it against him.

When they tired of talking, they walked or sat in companionable silence, or retired to the bedroom for yet another rapturous round of lovemaking.

Though Nessa knew this perfect, private time could not last forever, she sighed when the day came that Jack suggested they consider a return to England.

“I cannot neglect the estate forever,” he pointed out, seeming as reluctant as she to end this special retreat from the world. “Too, I'll rest easier knowing that should you have any health problems, Mr. Mooring, our family physician at Foxhaven, is within easy reach.”

Unable to argue against his touching concern, Nessa agreed. “But perhaps someday we can come back here,” she suggested. “This house will always have a special place in my heart.”

“And mine.” Jack kissed her tenderly.

The next morning they headed back to Paris, where they intended to remain only one night before continuing on to the coast, and thence to England. It was now mid-March, and spring was beginning in earnest. But though the weather was milder, the roads were more rutted and muddy than before, making their journey even more tedious. Night had already fallen when they reached the outskirts of Paris.

“It seems… different,” Nessa said, peering forward through the window of the coach. At first, however, she wasn't sure just what had changed —other than herself.

Jack was able to put his finger on it, however. “It does indeed. The crowds are still here, but their composition has changed. More of the common folk, fewer of the nobility, I'd hazard a guess.”

“I wonder why?”

But Jack only shrugged.

As they neared the center of the city, Nessa's unease increased. The people outside seemed agitated, either very happy or fearful, she was not sure which. Glancing over at Jack, she saw that he was frowning as well.

“I haven't seen a single English officer,” he commented at length. “I wonder…”

The coach halted. They had not reached their hotel, but were as close as the traffic in the streets would allow at present.

“Wait here a moment,” Jack said. Before Nessa could respond, he opened the door and leapt down, melting almost instantly into the shifting throng on the walkway.

Nessa waited, her heart pounding in anticipation of she knew not what. As the minutes passed, she felt more and more certain that something was wrong, terribly wrong. But what?

After ten minutes of agonized waiting, Jack suddenly reappeared. Climbing into the coach, he secured the door behind him and turned to face her, his expression grim.

“Napoleon has escaped from Elba,” he said flatly. “He is in France at this moment, marching toward Paris, and is expected within days. The royalist troops are deserting in droves, joining his forces.”

Across from her, Simmons gasped, and Nessa felt the blood leave her own face. “The King?”

“Still here in Paris, it would seem, but whether the city will support him or Napoleon it is impossible to say. His troops in Grenoble and Lyons have already allied themselves with Bonaparte.”

That explained the mixed emotions she had sensed from the streets, and also the absence of English officers. “What… what should we do?”

Jack took a deep breath. “As far as I've been able to determine, we may well be the only English left in Paris. We must follow the others and make our way to the coast as quickly and secretly as we can. Our freedom, perhaps our very lives, are at stake.”

TWENTY-TWO

ALTHOUGH HE SPOKE matter-of-factly, Jack was fighting to master an all-engulfing fear—not for his own safety, but for Nessa's. In her delicate condition, what would be the consequence of capture? He didn't dare think about it. He would simply make certain they were not captured. He must.

“Were you recognized?” Nessa asked.

He shook his head. “I don't think so, though I fear the fact that I'm English will have been obvious.” He looked down at the blue superfine coat he wore. “I should never have gone out there dressed like this.”

“You had no way of knowing beforehand,” Nessa pointed out. “But what are we to do now?”

“First, we must find a less conspicuous place to make our plans.” Jack opened the trap door on the roof of the coach to direct the coachman, only to find the man gone. “Damn. It seems our driver has heard the news as well. I hope he'll not feel it his patriotic duty to betray us.”

“I'll drive, my lord,” volunteered Parker.

Jack clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man! See if you can find a relatively unoccupied alley nearby.”

The valet climbed atop the coach, and a moment later they were in motion again, though slowly. They turned, went more quickly for a minute or two, turned again, then stopped.

Parker opened the trap door. “Mayhap this will do, my lord.”

Peering outside, Jack saw that they were in a narrow lane between tall buildings. It stank to high heaven, but appeared to be deserted. “Excellent, Parker! Now, unfasten that smaller trunk and I'll help you to bring it down.”

A few minutes later, he had the trunk open and was rifling its contents. Ah! Here were just the things he wanted. “Nessa, you'll need to change into this.” He held up one of her abigail's plainer gowns. “Twill be a bit tight, I fear, but that can't be helped. Parker, I'll wear this black coat of yours—'tis the Frenchiest thing in here, I believe.”

He turned to examine the servants. “Mrs. Simmons, you'll do well enough, but I'd advise you, Parker, to divest yourself of the ruffles at your wrists and throat. You're rather too obviously a gentleman's gentleman as you are now.” He and Parker then left the women in the carriage so that Simmons could help Nessa to change, and completed their own transformations outside in the alley.

“If anything goes wrong,” he murmured to Parker as they adjusted their clothing, “get my wife to the coast and on a ship to England. Nothing else matters.” Parker nodded silently.

A few muffled exclamations from within the coach attested to the difficulty of carrying out his instructions in such close quarters, but eventually the door opened. Nessa emerged, clad in the black stuff gown and a voluminous shawl.

“Some of the hooks in the back would not quite hook,” she explained, “but the shawl should disguise the fact.”

Jack nodded his approval. “It covers your hair as well. Excellent. Now to discover whether we can leave Paris as easily as we entered it.”

This time Jack took the reins, while the others rode inside. With some difficulty, he managed to back the horses and carriage out of the alleyway. Turning them, he then headed northward, taking back streets wherever possible. Most of the activity seemed to be centered near the Tuileries and Palais-Royal, so that once they'd gone a mile or so, the traffic lessened considerably.

They were nearing the city wall, and he was beginning to breathe easier, when he saw the blockade. Though it did not look particularly official, a few burly Frenchman had apparently taken it upon themselves to search each conveyance leaving the city. Cursing, Jack turned the coach again, to seek another route, only to find the next exit similarly blocked by zealots eager to earn their Emperor's gratitude.

Halting yet again, he looked about for a likely alternative when the thing he had most dreaded occurred.

“Is this Jack Ashecroft I see?” exclaimed a female voice in French. “I should have known that if any Englishman had the fortitude to still be in Paris, it would be you.”

“Bonsoir, Collette,” he responded, realizing that attempting to ignore or evade her would likely do more harm than good. In fact, if she still held any tender feelings for him, she might be induced to help. “You are a sight for sore eyes.” And indeed, his onetime paramour was as lovely as ever.

“Finding yourself in difficulties?” She sauntered close, looking up at him with a half smile.

“Rather,” he replied. “I returned to Paris only this evening, after visiting friends in the countryside, to discover this.” He indicated the blockade a few hundred yards ahead. “Has the arrest of all English been ordered?”

She shook her head. “Not ordered, no, though the silly English behaved as if it had. And now that the Emperor is expected momentarily, some of my countrymen seek to curry his favor by acting on their own.”

“Can you help me, Collette? For old times' sake?” He smiled down at her, summoning all of his charm —for Nessa.

She glanced at the coach. “Who do you have with you? English friends?”

“Just my servants,” he said quickly. Too quickly, it seemed, for Collette now looked suspicious.

“Indeed?” Before he could prevent her, she opened the carriage door. Jack jumped off the box to stand beside her.

“My valet,” he explained, pointing to Parker, “an under-housekeeper, and a maid.” He indicated first Simmons, then Nessa. “The two women were employed at the house where I visited. They wished to return to England, so I hired them.”

Collette's glance lingered on Nessa. “I can imagine what you hired this one to do!” She flashed a knowing glance at Jack. “And yet you wish me to help you?”

Jack glanced negligently at Nessa. “A pretty face, but nothing out of the ordinary,” he said, wishing Nessa's French were not so good. “She can't hold a candle to you, of course, Collette!” He forced himself to keep his eyes on the Frenchwoman.

“That goes without saying,” she agreed. “Very well, mon Jacques, for the sake of what was—and what may be again—I will assist you. Help me up, so that I may sit beside you.”

Jack gestured for the others to reenter the coach, then boosted the woman onto the box before climbing up to take the reins again. To his surprise, she directed him back toward the first barricade he had seen.

“Raoul there, on the right, is my cousin,” she told him as they approached. Then, more loudly, “Raoul! Are you minded to fill your pockets tonight?”

The burly man scowled up at her. “Helping English to escape, Collette?”

“Only peasants, servants left behind to make their own way by their curst, cowardly masters —but with the money to pay passage.”

“How much money?” Raoul's eyes gleamed in the dim torchlight.

Recognizing his cue, Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold sovereign. The man snatched it from him, then carried it closer to the light, to examine it suspiciously. He then returned to open the carriage door.

“Not that I don't trust you, Collette.” He stared at the three inside for a moment, then grunted and closed the door. “Very well, then. Odds are they'll never make the coast anyway, before our Emperor conquers the English for good.” With an uproarious laugh, he waved them past the barricade.

“Thank you, Collette,” said Jack, when they had gone half a mile down the road. “Now, if you can give me directions to the most likely route to the coast, I'll be forever grateful. You'll want to return to Paris, will you not?” He slowed the coach.

But she shook her head. “I live in this direction, and you'll be needing a place to spend the night safely. Continue as you're going—it's only a few miles away.”

Collette had been pure Parisian, as Jack recalled. No doubt it was her parents who lived up ahead. At any rate, she was right. They'd need to stop soon for the night, for the sake of the horses as well as themselves. It was more than an hour later that Collette directed him down a long track off to the right, which eventually led to a sturdy farmhouse.

“Wait here,” she told him, then clambered down and hurried into the house—to apprise her parents of company, he presumed. A moment later a tall man slammed the door open and strode to the carriage. While Jack was still preparing his speech, the man reached up and pulled him roughly to the ground.

“So, Jacques Ashecroft! I have longed for an excuse to do this,” he roared in French. Before Jack could regain his balance, the man planted him a stunning blow to the face.

Falling to his knees, Jack looked up confusedly. He could feel the blood running freely from his nose. A muffled scream came from inside the carriage, but he resolutely ignored it, silently willing Nessa to remain where she was.

“Have I offended in some way, monsieur?” he asked, in what should pass for native French.

The man's chuckle held a vicious edge. “Offended? Offended? Why should your seduction of my wife offend me? Only the thought of the Emperor's reward keeps me from killing you here and now. I confess I once doubted her story of how you forced her, but Collette has now proved her faithfulness by bringing you here.” He glanced back to where she stood in the open doorway of the house, her arms folded across her chest.

“There are three more in the coach,” she told him. At Jack's incredulous stare, she merely shrugged.

“They are but servants,” said Jack. “You will gain nothing by holding them here.”

Collette stepped forward. “Two are servants. The third? I think not.” She pulled open the carriage door and gestured, with the pistol he only now noticed she held, for the occupants to get out.

Jack's mouth went dry. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. He was seeing the proof of it yet again. Somehow he had to convince them to let Nessa go. She stood there bravely, glaring at her captors.

“You're right,” he said abruptly. “She's not a servant. She's a whore I picked up in Paris, who promised me her favors for free in return for passage to England. As I seem unlikely to collect now, you may do what you wish with her.” He struggled to stand, but the hulking Frenchman immediately grabbed him by the collar.

At that moment Parker's foot shot out, kicking the pistol from Collette's hand. Grabbing Nessa with one hand and Simmons with the other, he bolted for some nearby trees. With a strangled oath, Collette scrambled for the pistol.

“Stop,” her husband barked. “Let them go. We can't guard so many anyway, nor do I wish to feed them. I have the only prize I need in one of Wellington's most valuable officers.”

Jack offered up a fervent prayer of thanks for Nessa's escape, just before a savage blow to the back of his head made everything go black.

~   ~   ~

FOR A MINUTE OR TWO, sheer panic kept Nessa's legs moving. She scarcely noticed the undergrowth snagging her skirts or the branches stinging her face. But as reason overcame fear, she slowed, pulling against Parker's iron grip on her wrist.

“Wait! Wait,” she panted. “We can't leave Jack. They'll kill him!” Remembering his last words, she almost felt he deserved it—but no. Surely he'd said that only to save her. Still, right now she rather wished she didn't know any French at all.

Parker pulled her forward again. “They won't kill him. They want a live prize to give the Corsican when he arrives. He should be safe enough for now.”

Nessa stopped resisting and trotted by his side. “For now? But what if he fights? Tries to escape, come after us? Mightn't they kill him then?”

“His lordship won't come after us,” Parker assured her. “His first concern will be your safety. I'm to get you to the coast at all costs. Those were his orders.”

“Do you mean he expected this to happen?”

“Of course not. But he's a man who likes to be prepared for every—”

Just then Simmons, who'd been panting more and more loudly, stumbled over a root and nearly fell. Parker released Nessa's wrist to support her.

“There, now, mum, we can walk for a bit,” he said kindly. “I hear no sounds of pursuit, so we should be safe for the present.”

Nessa considered taking the opportunity to bolt back to Jack, but realized that would likely only endanger him more. In fact, without her along, he would never have been in this predicament at all. Remembering how he'd disappeared into the crowd in the Paris streets, she was certain he could have escaped the country easily, had he not had her safety to consider.

They walked now, conserving their energy, Parker murmuring encouragements to the flagging Simmons. Nessa followed along, deep in thought. She'd brought Jack little but trouble from the moment he'd met her, she realized. Far from giving him the respectability he'd sought, she'd embroiled herself —and him—in one scandal after another, each worse than the last. 'Twas her fault they'd had to leave England, and now it would be her fault if Jack were imprisoned or killed by Napoleon's forces.

Jack's last words came back to haunt her again. Perhaps he really did think of her as little more than a whore! And he'd told Collette earlier that Nessa couldn't hold a candle to her… No. Jack had told her he loved her, and she would not, could not believe he hadn't meant it. Not after the last two weeks they'd spent together, sharing their hearts. She owed him her faith, and her loyalty.

“—extremely well, ma'am. You're a very brave woman, Mrs. Simmons,” Parker was saying softly.

“It's… it's Miss,” replied Simmons, almost shyly.

But Nessa scarcely noticed this oddity. “Parker,” she said suddenly, “you were with Jack in the wars, were you not?”

He nodded.

“Then no doubt you and he faced dangers at least this great. What would Jack do now, were he in our place?”

Parker slowed, considering. “There was a time, on the Peninsula, when half a dozen or so of his soldiers were captured.”

“Yes?” prompted Nessa eagerly. “And what did he do?” She realized now that though Jack had told her much of his childhood, his hopes, his dreams, he'd told her almost nothing of his years in the Army.

“He waited until all but the sentry were asleep, then created a diversion.”

“A diversion?”

Parker nodded again. “Some pigs, as I recall. The French forces had occupied a farmhouse and its buildings. His lordship contrived to release a herd of pigs, and in the resultant confusion he was able to get his men out.”

Nessa had to stifle a giggle, and saw that Simmons' lips were uncharacteristically twitching as well. “Pigs! Oh, my. But—” she thought hard for a moment— “mightn't we do something similar now, tonight? Wait a few hours, till everyone is likely to be asleep, then get Jack out? If anyone is about, we could create a

diversion, just as he did on that occasion.”

But Parker shook his head. “His lordship would never forgive me if I put you in such danger, my lady. Once I have you safely to the coast and bound for England, I shall return and endeavor to rescue him myself.” Simmons nodded vigorously in agreement.

“But that may be too late!” Nessa exclaimed. “It would be days— perhaps more than a week— before you could return. Napoleon is due in Paris at any moment, and once they turn Jack over to his forces, you'll never get him out. He might even be—” she swallowed— “executed.”

Parker made no reply and Nessa could see, by the dim moonlight that filtered through the now-sparse trees, that the man was torn between concern for his master and obedience to his orders. She pressed her point.

“If he dies, what good is my safety? I'd sooner die myself than live without him, I assure you.” Abruptly, she stopped and sat down on a large stone. “In fact, I'm not going a step further. I rather doubt you can carry me all the way to the coast. I'll escape you at some point, and go back for Jack. I'm certain I'd have a much better chance of freeing him with your help, but if I must, I shall attempt it alone.”

Simmons began to sputter something about unseemliness, but Parker sighed. “Very well, my lady, you win.” Nessa thought he looked almost relieved. “If we plan carefully and are exceedingly cautious, we may have a reasonable chance of success. 'Tis certain they'll not expect us to return, especially not tonight.”

He turned to Simmons. “We passed an abandoned shelter of sorts a short way back. Do you wait there for us, and get some sleep if you can. It would be as well if at least one of us is well rested. If we fail to return, you must make your way north as best you can. Do you see that star?” He pointed and waited until Simmons nodded. “That is due north. Between that, and recalling that the moon rises in the east, like the sun, you should be able to manage.”

Simmons looked more than a little frightened, but raised her chin bravely. “I trust you will return, and with his lordship —but I'll be quite all right. Pray do not worry about me.”

Nessa regarded her abigail with new respect. Just now, however, she had other things to think about. “Here's that shed now,” she commented. “Ah, good— there is dry straw and bracken inside. This heavy cloak will only hinder me, so I'll leave it here for you to lie on, Simmons. Try to sleep, and we will be back before you know it.” She fervently hoped her words would prove true.

~   ~   ~

JACK AWOKE TO DARKNESS. The first thing he noticed was a pounding headache. The next was that his hands and feet were bound by thick rope, and that he was lying on something prickly and smelly —dirty straw was his guess. Straining his eyes in the blackness, he saw a few chinks of dim light, outlining just enough of his enclosure to reveal it as a stall in a barn. Listening intently, he heard the shufflings and snortings of nearby animals, but no obviously human sounds.

Struggling into a half-sitting position against the rough boards of the wall, he wondered how long he'd been unconscious. Not terribly long, perhaps, as it was still obviously night. Would Nessa and Parker have made it to relative safety by now? He devoutly hoped so.

He'd been mad to entrust Nessa's safety to someone like Collette, he realized now. The woman had been more bitter than most when he'd broken off their brief relationship upon discovering she was married. He should have known she'd jump at the chance to revenge herself upon him. Had his experience and knowledge of women deserted him, or had it always been but a figment of his imagination? He rather suspected it had.

Which meant he might not understand Nessa as well as he believed, either. Certainly, he'd done little to make her life better. First he'd denied her the very thing she wanted —the freedom to live her life her own way. Wasn't that the same thing he'd always demanded for himself? Why shouldn't she have the same chance? And now he'd put her in terrible, perhaps deadly, danger.

A cold finger of horror touched him. Not only Nessa, but their unborn child, as well. Her desperate flight to the coast, now without his protection, might well cause her to miscarry —in which case he would never forgive himself. For a moment he struggled uselessly against his bonds, out of sheer frustration, then lay back, exhausted. No, he must conserve his strength against the chance of escape. In the morning someone would come to feed him, surely. Then, perhaps, he could contrive—

A soft rustling, resolving into distinctly human footsteps interrupted his thoughts. The steps were light. Collette? Might he still have a chance of persuading her to free him? He lay perfectly still and waited.

“Jack?” came a soft whisper. No! It couldn't be! Then, distinctly in English, “Jack, are you in here?” It was Nessa.

Hope and terror simultaneously reared up within him. How could she risk herself like this? How could Parker allow it? He'd explicitly told the man—

“Jack?” came Nessa's voice again, closer this time.

“Here,” he called softly. “Nessa, I'm in here.”

She gave a gasp that sounded suspiciously like a sob, and hurried toward the sound of his voice. He heard her fumbling with the door of the stall, then opening it, only to trip over his outstretched legs and fall right on top of him with a soft “oomph.”

She felt wonderful.

“Oh, Jack! I was afraid I'd never find you!” She gave him a quick hug, then scrambled off of him. “I've been —but there's no time for that now. I must get you untied, then let Parker know, so he can—”

“Parker?” Jack whispered sharply. “He actually brought you back here? He's dismissed.” Nessa laid her fingers across his lips. Even amid the danger and his fury at Parker, he had to fight the temptation to kiss them.

“I gave him no choice,” she said. “But no more talk now, please! If all goes well, we'll have plenty of time later. Goodness, but these knots are tight!” She'd been tugging at the rope about his wrists as she spoke. “There, I think I… yes! It's undone. Can you manage the one at your ankles? We haven't much time.”

His hands now free, he clasped her quickly to him for a brief, hard kiss. “You'll both have a lot of explaining to do, my dear. But yes, I'll untie the rest. Be careful!”

Returning his kiss just as fiercely, she left as quietly as she'd come. Jack made quick work of the double knot securing his ankles, then staggered to his feet, stamping to get the blood flowing again and biting his lip against the pins and needles. After a minute or two, he could walk normally. He left the stall, then paused. The big barn door was to the left, but he was certain Nessa had gone to the right. Which way was he to go?

Suddenly pandemonium broke loose outside the barn door— wild squeals, and shouting. Pigs! Parker had released the pigs! Chuckling, Jack headed in the opposite direction and found a small opening at the back of the barn. Parker and Nessa reached it just as he did.

“That should keep them busy for a few minutes, my lord, and with luck we'll be long gone before they think to check on the prisoner. Can you walk?”

“I can run, if need be. Let's go!” He grabbed Nessa by the hand and they raced through the yard behind the barn, trusting to the commotion on the other side to drown their footsteps. Reaching the fence at the edge of the yard, Jack easily lifted Nessa over it, before vaulting it himself.

A moment later, they were safe under the cover of the trees. “Do you need to rest before we go on?” he asked Nessa then.

“Not yet, though I'm not sure I can run much further. Once we return to where we left Simmons, we can all rest for a bit.”

They continued on at a brisk walk, Jack supporting Nessa over the rougher patches of ground. As they went, she and Parker explained what they'd done.

“Her ladyship thought to release the pigs, my lord, after I told her the story of the time you used that ruse.”

“And you mustn't be angry at Parker,” Nessa chimed in. “I flatly refused to go on without you, so short of knocking me on the head and carrying me over his shoulder or leaving me behind, he had no choice. I can be most stubborn.”

Jack gave her a squeeze. “Don't I know it! I suppose it was unfair to expect Parker to have more success in changing your mind than I ever have. And I must say I'm most grateful to you both! But it'll be a challenge still to get to the coast on foot. It must be all of a hundred miles.”

He noticed then that Nessa was leading him off to the left. “These will help then, I imagine.” There, tied to trees, were four saddled horses. “Parker and I agreed that it doesn't count as theft, as we did leave them the carriage and four in exchange.”

“Whatever ill-advised risks you've taken, this has been a most efficient rescue,” Jack exclaimed with a laugh. “Now we can put some distance behind us before we find a place to hole up for the day.”

Leading the horses, they soon reached the abandoned barn where Simmons waited. She'd clearly not slept, but seemed quite eager to continue the journey nonetheless —though she exclaimed at the impropriety of having to ride astride.

“Oh, buck up, Simmons,” said Nessa cheerfully. “No one will ever know. Think of it as a chance to do something wild and adventurous.”

“I've had enough of adventure for one lifetime,” she muttered, but allowed Parker to lift her onto the smaller mare.

Now they were able to make better time, especially as the trees thinned. Soon they reached a narrow road leading roughly northwest. Spurring the horses to greater speed, they cantered under the light of the setting moon and had put more than fifteen additional miles behind them before dawn.

As the sun crept above the horizon, they dismounted and tied the horses in a small copse about half a mile from a tiny village. They must have food if they were to continue, so Jack decided to risk a brief foray. To his relief, news of Napoleon's march appeared not to have reached this out-of-the-way place yet, and he was able to buy ample provisions to keep them going for the next day or two, as well as a few blankets.

After a frugal breakfast, they all settled down to sleep in the copse, exhausted after more than twenty-four hours of wakefulness, exertion and danger. Nessa snuggled against Jack, her head on his shoulder, and was asleep in moments. He stayed awake for a few more minutes, smiling down at his wife's sweetly slumbering face. Despite the miles and dangers they still faced, Jack felt sure that he must be the luckiest man alive.

~   ~   ~

NESSA WATCHED the French coast recede with profound thankfulness. The past week had been the most harrowing she'd ever experienced, with several near misses and severe frights along their journey. Upon reaching the coast, they'd had to wait two more agonizing days before they could bribe their way onto a packet bound for England. The weather was still uncertain, but the real danger was behind them now.

Jack came up to stand beside her, draping an arm over her shoulders just as he had on their voyage from England a mere month ago. It seemed more like years to her, so much had happened.

“Have you, like Simmons, had enough adventure to last you a lifetime?” he asked her.

She chuckled, for Simmons had repeated that phrase so often that it had become a joke between them. “Enough to last me a year or two, at any rate, I believe. I find the wilder side of life is not so appealing as I once thought it would be, somehow.”

“And I'm finding all the excitement I need in my wife.” He squeezed her shoulders. “When that year or two is up, promise to discuss it with me before you go seeking any more adventures.”

Nessa tilted her head up for his kiss, enjoying the fine salt spray that blew over them both. “I promise.”

EPILOGUE

EARLY MARCH, 1816

JACK STOOD IN THE DOORWAY of the nursery at Fox Manor, enjoying the scene before him for a few moments before announcing his presence. Nessa and Prudence both sat on the floor, while their sons clambered over them. Though little Robert was a month older than his cousin, young Julius was the bolder one, crawling away from his mother to investigate the crackling of the fire a few yards away.

Nessa scooped him up with a laugh. “Oh, no you don't, you little rascal! You'll find out soon enough that lovely yellow thing burns, but I'd prefer it wasn't today.”

Prudence shook her head. “You're going to have your hands full with that one, Nessa. And I thought my Robert was becoming more than I can keep up with! When we return home, I've finally promised to give more of his care over to his nurse.”

“But you'll stay yet awhile, will you not, Prudence? We so enjoy having you all here, and see how good Julius and Robert are together. I'd love to see them raised almost as brothers.”

“We are in no hurry,” Prudence assured her, smiling. “In fact, Philip is out today looking at a property here in Kent, with an eye to purchasing it. If all goes as we hope, we may relocate here permanently.”

Nessa hugged her sister in delight, and Jack waited until her raptures had subsided before clearing his throat. At once she whirled to greet him with a sunny smile that belied the gray day outside.

“Jack! How long have you been standing there? Did you hear what Prudence just said?”

“I did indeed,” he said, coming forward. “And I am as delighted as you are. If the property Creamcroft is inspecting today will not do, I will endeavor to help him find another.” He leaned down to kiss first Nessa, then his wriggling son, keeping one hand behind his back.

Nessa noticed at once. “What are you hiding there? Another toy for Julius? He must have more than any infant alive already.”

“No, my dear, this toy is for you.” He extended the rolled up parchment and she took it, clearly puzzled.

Unrolling it, she read its contents through before looking up at him incredulously. “You've bought it? Our little French cottage? Oh, Jack!”

“Consider it an anniversary gift. It was one year ago today that—”

Handing their son to Prudence for a moment, she stood and put her hands into his. “I remember,” she said softly. “I, too, will ever consider that day the anniversary of our true marriage. The day we dropped all pretense and pride, and admitted our love.”

He bent to kiss her, not caring that Prudence and both babies were watching. A long while later he lifted his head. “That was the day my real life began,” he said, “my scandalous, virtuous love.”

~ THE END ~

Continue reading for an excerpt from Rogue’s Honor.

BONUS PREVIEW

Rogue’s Honor

FOR YEARS, all of London has known of the legendary Saint of Seven Dials, that shadowy figure who steals from the rich to give to the poor. To the denizens of London’s slums and rookeries, he is worshiped as a hero and savior, while the gentlemen of the ton curse and scowl whenever his name is mentioned. His infamous calling cards are only proof of his impudence, they say, and an embarrassment to master and servant alike when they appear in place of purloined valuables.

The ladies of London Society are torn, sympathizing with their fathers and husbands even as they sigh over the mysterious, romantic thief. What sort of man must he be, to take such risks for such a noble cause? they wonder. But though his identity is shrouded in secrecy, his fame continues to spread…

~   ~   ~

LONDON, APRIL, 1816

‘SHE’LL MARRY YOU, never fear.”

Lady Pearl Moreston froze, her hand suspended over the crystal handle of the parlor door of Oakshire House, the finest mansion on Berkley Square. How dared her stepmother make such a promise—and to whom? Instead of opening the door, which stood slightly ajar, she waited to hear what reply might come.

“But she’s refused me twice already, your grace.” Pearl identified the tremulous tenor as belonging to Lord Bellowsworth. “It seems clear that her wishes—”

Obelia, Duchess of Oakshire, cut him off. “Her wishes have nothing to say to the matter. Do you wish to wed the Lady Pearl or not?”

Scarcely waiting for the young marquess’s stammering assent, the Duchess went on. “When you get her to Hyde Park, take one of the less frequented paths—the one leading off to the north, about a quarter mile from the entrance. You know the one? Good. No, don’t interrupt. She’ll be down at any moment. Go all the way to the end, to the little copse you will find there, and renew your addresses, as… forcefully as you can.”

“Forcefully? I—I’ll try. But what if—”

“I told you not to interrupt. I have arranged to have someone discover you, seemingly by chance, who will attest that he found the two of you in a most compromising situation. The Duke will be only too happy to consent to the match, whatever his daughter’s wishes might be. Her hand—and her fortune—will be yours.”

Pearl waited to hear no more. Breezing into the room, her head held high, she exclaimed, “A delightful plan, to be sure!”

Lord Bellowsworth started violently and began to stammer, but the Duchess merely smiled. “Lady Pearl. What a surprise. We were speaking hypothetically, of course.”

“Of course you were,” Pearl agreed. “A hypothesis I fear I cannot help you to prove. You’ll excuse me, my lord, for feeling indisposed for our drive today.”

“Of… of course. That is to say… I never meant… I’ll give you good day, my lady, your grace.” Bowing and blathering, he backed out of the parlor and fled Oakshire House.

Pearl turned to her stepmother, whose petite blonde beauty, so similar to her own mother’s, even now diluted her anger with long-remembered sorrow. “I know you have been anxious for me to marry, but I confess I had not expected you to resort to such measures as these to ensure it.”

The Duchess appeared more vexed than apologetic. “You leave me little choice,” she said, flouncing across the room to seat herself in a high-backed chair that rather resembled a throne—her favorite. “Your father is concerned about your future, and I feel bound to make him easy on the subject.”

“And, of course, the fact that the Fairbourne estate will fall to me if I am yet unwed on my twenty-first birthday has nothing to do with your solicitude.” Pearl spoke dryly, hiding any pain she felt from both herself and her stepmother. Seven years ago, when her father had first remarried, she had wished--She cut off that regret ruthlessly.

Obelia tossed her golden curls. “You’ll have a substantial fortune in any event. If you marry well, you’ll have no need whatsoever for that property, which by rights should go to Edward with the rest when he inherits. You cannot fault me for looking out for my son’s interests.”

“Edward will scarcely be paupered by my inheritance of the smallest of the seven Oakshire estates.” She adored her five-year-old half-brother, currently in the country while his mother enjoyed the London Season. But even for his sake, Pearl refused to sacrifice Fairbourne, a lovely little estate in the north of Oakshire, where she had spent many happy months as a child. She had definite plans for the land and people there—plans to put some of the theories she had studied into practice.

“That is not the point. It will divide the Oakshire estate and lessen its consequence, which I cannot imagine you would wish. Besides,” the Duchess continued peevishly, “that addendum to the entail was intended to provide for any eldest daughter who might prove unmarriageable. As you’ve had any number of offers, it clearly does not apply in your case. I believe the lawyers will agree, when I explain how matters stand.”

Before Pearl could reply, her father appeared at the parlor door. “I don’t hear my two favorite girls arguing, do I?” he asked jovially. “What is it this time? The color of the new draperies?”

Obelia rose to greet the Duke, ushering him to the chair next to hers. “Of course we’re not arguing, my love. We both know how that upsets you.” She shot an admonitory look at Pearl. “I was merely pointing out to dear Pearl the advantages of matrimony, as I have been so blessed by that state myself. I do so wish to see her comfortably settled. Don’t you?”

The Duke frowned, as he always did when this subject arose—which it did all too frequently, in Pearl’s opinion. “So long as she’s happy, and needn’t be too far away,” he conceded. “I won’t let my ‘Pearl beyond price’ go to just anyone, you know. But I leave that in your capable hands, Obelia, as I’ve told you often enough. And Pearl’s, of course.”

“Of course,” echoed the Duchess, clearly less than perfectly pleased by his caveats. “You may always trust me to do what’s best for both of our children, my love.”

He smiled fondly at his wife, and Pearl rose abruptly. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some reading I’d like to finish.”

Her father waved her away with an indulgent smile—he’d always been proud of her academic turn of mind—but Obelia arched one delicate brow. “Your bluestocking tendencies make my task more challenging, Pearl, but I shall prevail, never fear.” Her look, which escaped the Duke’s notice, made her words into a threat that Pearl now understood only too clearly.

Since Pearl’s sixteenth birthday, Obelia had been throwing her in the way of every eligible male she could find. This Season she had redoubled her efforts, bringing in the most exclusive French modistes and coiffeuses to enhance her stepdaughter’s slim figure and honey-colored tresses, and planning lavish entertainments. Now she seemed determined on stronger measures.

Pearl left the parlor, but not before she heard Obelia say to her husband, “I know dear Pearl’s future worries you, Clarence, but fear not. By the time you return from Brighton, all will be settled. I have everything well in hand.”

“I know you’ll do your best for her, my dear,” the Duke responded with an indulgent chuckle.

Pearl bit her lip. She had forgotten that her father was to leave within the hour. Without his support, she would have to rely solely on her own wits to evade Obelia’s determined plotting. By the time she reached her opulent lilac sitting room, she had the beginnings of a plan.

Her abigail, folding the Mechlin lace shawl Pearl had earlier rejected, looked up in surprise at her entrance. “My lady? Did I forget an item in your toilette?” Dark, perky and petite, Hettie swept her mistress with a critical eye, clearly finding no fault until her gaze reached her face. “Something has happened.” It was a statement, not a question.

Despite her anger at Obelia’s machinations, Pearl could not suppress a smile. Hettie knew her better than any person living. “I’m afraid so,” she replied. “And I need your help.” Quickly, she related what had happened downstairs.

The daughter of Pearl’s nanny, Hettie had known her mistress since they were both in the nursery, and enjoyed far more intimacy than was customary between a lady of the upper Quality and her abigail. When Pearl concluded, Hettie’s indignation equaled Pearl’s own. “You, marry that mealy-mouthed young popinjay? What can her grace be thinking?”

Pearl shrugged. “She wants me wed, and he is the most malleable of my current crop of suitors.” She waved a hand toward the dozen or so bouquets displayed about the room, from the gilt mantelpiece to the exquisite inlaid mahogany tables, in testimony of their numbers. “But her reasons don’t matter. Now that I know to what lengths she will go, I must put myself out of her reach—for a few days, at least. Until my father returns.”

“Out… out of her reach?What do you mean?”

“I’m leaving.”

Hettie gaped, her usual cleverness not in evidence at the moment. “For Oakshire, you mean? Without informing his grace or—”

“No, she’d only fetch me back to Town, or take advantage of my journey to compromise me somehow, if not with Bellowsworth, then with some other young lord whose ambition outstrips his integrity—any one of them, in other words. I mean to disappear entirely, right here in London. Will you help me?”

Hettie’s brown eyes recovered a measure of their customary shrewdness. “I’ll not do anything to put you in danger, my lady. I’ll go tell his grace the Duke first. This start of yours—”

“It’s no start, I assure you.” Even as she spoke, Pearl’s nebulous plan took on more clarity. “It’s an idea I’ve toyed with for some time. One day I’ll have the management of Fairbourne and be responsible for hundreds of people. I’ve studied agricultural, economic, and social reform, but what is that but theory? I’ve been coddled and protected my entire life. Even my charitable projects have been strictly chaperoned and supervised, so that I never have any actual contact with those less fortunate.”

Hettie still looked doubtful, so Pearl tried another tack. “I’ve been perched on a lofty, confining pedestal, first by my father and then by every man aspiring to my hand. If I don’t escape it, I may begin believing all they say about me and become the most conceited, arrogant, autocratic woman who ever lived.”

Hettie chuckled. “With her grace putting you in your place ten times a day? Not likely.”

“I suppose I do have something for which to be grateful to her after all.” Ignoring Hettie’s snort, she hurried on. “How would you like it if every man who paid you court was interested only in your money and connections, never in yourself?”

“Don’t forget your looks, my lady,” Hettie added dryly. “Those violet eyes of yours aren’t exactly in the common way.”

It was Pearl’s turn to snort. “All part of the package of externals. I’m one of the best-educated women in England, but no one cares about that. Never has one of my suitors asked my opinion on any political or economic issue, or on philosophy, science, or anything else. All they can see is a glittering ornament that would add to their own consequence, and I’m sick to death of it!”

At this appeal to her romantic nature, Hettie nodded with sympathy, and Pearl began to relax.

“I wish to experience life without the trappings of rank,” she continued. “To see how the common folk live. Perhaps even to work with my own hands. I’m certain it will be of benefit to me.”

Though she still looked doubtful, Hettie only asked, “What do you want me to do?”

Pearl smiled in relief. “First, help me out of this dress.”

~   ~   ~

WHISTLING CHEERFULLY, Luke St. Clair strolled along Jermyn Street as the cool of early evening turned the afternoon’s haze to tendrils of mist. Casually, he scanned those entering and exiting the gaming houses, looking for an easy mark. His gaze slid over one well-dressed man and then another. No, obviously merchants. Ah! That middle-aged man alighting from a crested carriage. Clearly one of the ton. He’d do nicely.

Luke hunched his shoulders and slowed his pace, in keeping with today’s disguise as an inebriated old man—down at the heels, but not quite seedy enough to look like a threat. He ambled in the direction of his selected target, then stumbled just as he reached the man.

“Sorry, milor’,” he mumbled, steadying himself against the gentleman’s arm to break his supposed fall. Even as the nobleman supercilously swept aside Luke’s abject apology, his purse was liberated from his pocket.

“Be gone with you, old tippler. Keep your distance from your betters,” the haughty lord advised him with a sneer.

Biting back an instinctive retort, Luke managed a servile bow that made his cheap white peruke slip down to partially conceal his face as he backed away from the man. Not until he turned onto Haymarket Street a moment later did the hue and cry begin.

With a chuckle, Luke straightened his wig and quickened his pace, though not enough to draw attention. Then the words, “Stop, thief!” rang out behind him. Ducking around the next corner into an alley scarce wider than an arm-spread, he broke into a run.

This was always his favorite part. Leaving the alley for Coventry Street, he glanced back to see two dandified bucks of the ton hot after him, brandishing sticks and shouting absurd threats.Perfect.

Or not so perfect. The young gentlemen were apparently among the more fit of their species, for another quick glance showed them gaining. Luke put on a burst of speed, leaping over an ashcan before sending it clattering behind him. So much for his disguise! No description of the thief would mention an elderly man now.

Still, he knew this part of London better than the alley cats did. With the young sprigs hot on his heels, he led them a merry chase toward Soho Square, taking care to trail them through every puddle of mud or filth he could find along the way. “That’s for you, Mum,” he muttered at the sound of sudden cursing behind him.

Slipping around a corner, he then nipped into the dark recess of a doorway, pressing his back against the wooden panels. He managed to catch a few much-needed breaths before his pursuers approached. As they came closer, he snaked one hand behind him to test the door handle.

It opened easily, and he nearly fell into a brightly lit roomfilled with women in various stages of undress—actresses preparing to perform here at one of the minor opera houses. Quickly, he shut the door behind him so that his pursuers wouldn’t hear their squeals.

“Lucio, as I live and breathe!” cooed a buxom redhead Luke remembered well from last Season. Indignation turned to delight as others realized who had burst in upon them.

Doffing his peruke, Luke greeted them all with his most charming smile. “My apologies for an unannounced entry, ladies. I won’t be staying long.” He’d dallied with at least three of them in the past, taking nearly as much pleasure from the knowledge that he was cuckolding their noble protectors as from their more obvious charms.

The outer door opened again, and at once two of the actresses stepped in front of Luke, who quickly ducked down behind them. Between their skirts, he could see the dumbfounded faces of his erstwhile hunters.

Shrilly, the women protested the intrusion, claiming a modesty that should have provoked laughter rather than the embarrassment the two young dandies evinced. Stammering apologies, they quickly backed out to continue their search elsewhere. The moment the door closed, the women again converged on Luke, giggling and pulling at his jacket. Obligingly, he took it off, but only long enough to reverse it and pull a cap from the pocket.

“I am eternally in your debt,” he declared to the group as a whole. Despite their chorus of protests, he dropped a quick kiss on the cheek of the redhead, winked at the two blondes he’d known previously and, with fulsome compliments, took his leave.

Peering from the doorway, he watched his pursuers turn another corner, apparently heading toward Seven Dials. He waited another moment or two before emerging to stroll toward Mayfair, in the opposite direction.

Pulling the purloined purse from his pocket, he counted his takings as he walked. Not as much as he’d hoped, but it would pay his rent for the month and buy a new washtub and iron for Mrs. Breitmann, who eked out a living for herself and her five children by taking in laundry. Of course, there was still Grady O’Malley to spring from debtor’s prison in Newgate, as well as a few things he wanted for himself. Luckily, he was headed toward the richest part of London.

Luke paused at the edge of Berkley Square in the gathering dusk, gazing at one of the finest mansions in Town. Yes, that one would do nicely—or perhaps that one there, two houses down. He’d wander through the mews and discover which one might be having guests in tonight. That would make his job easier.

He felt not the slightest twinge of guilt for what he was planning. These people had more wealth than they could ever use, and deserved none of it. With the exception of the close circle of friends he’d made at Oxford, in his experience every member of the ton was arrogant, self-absorbed, and completely unappreciative of his or her privileged state.

Smiling to himself, he again considered the fine mansions before him. Gilded cages, that’s what they were. He far preferred his life of unfettered freedom to one of circumscribed luxury with no thrills, no challenges, no worries whatsoever…

~   ~   ~

“ARE YOU SURE you want to go through with this, my lady?” Hettie asked anxiously as Pearl closed the gate at the back of the kitchen gardens, emerging into the alleyway behind the great houses of Berkley Square.

Her escape accomplished, Pearl let out her breath and faced her abigail. Tucking a stray strand of hair into the tight bun she now wore, she checked the fit of her borrowed rags. Well, not rags precisely—a much-worn work dress of Hettie’s, with the hem let out to cover the much taller Pearl’s ankles.

“Of course I’m sure. And it’s ‘Purdy,’ remember? If you call me ‘my lady,’ we’ll be found out at once.” Slipping out of the house unseen had been difficult enough, despite the commotion surrounding the Duke’s departure. She had never quite realized what an army of servants her family employed.

“Oh, look at that poor cat, trying to pull a fish from that crate there,” she said then, her attention diverted. “Do you suppose it has kittens somewhere?”

Hettie chuckled. “It looks sleek and fat enough to me, my—Purdy. Stuffed on mice from Lord Tinsdale’s stables, no doubt, not to mention scraps from his kitchens. A cat’s not likely to starve in Mayfair.”

“Oh. No, I suppose not.”

Hettie glanced away, but not before Pearl saw the combination of worry and merriment in her eyes. No doubt she believed that Pearl was merely amusing herself with her play acting. But of course Pearl had a far higher purpose. Think of Fairbourne!

“Eh, there!” A rough, masculine voice accosted them. “Be either of you wenches looking for a job t’night?”

Pearl turned indignantly, ready to blast the footman—for that’s what he appeared to be—for calling them wenches, but Hettie placed a restraining hand on her arm.

“What sort of job?” she asked the man. “We’ll do nothing unsavory, I assure you.”

Pearl had to admire Hettie’s command, putting the man in his place without betraying them. She herself would have botched it, but Hettie knew this world as Pearl did not—yet.

The footman dipped his head respectfully, rather to Pearl’s surprise. “No, nothin’ like that, ma’am. Just some extra brass, is all. Lord Mountheath be hiring on extra help for the evening. So if you’ve the night off and wishing a bit on the side…”

“Just a moment,” said Hettie, and pulled Pearl aside. “Well, my lady?” she whispered. “It’s a chance to put your plan to the test—but it’s risky.”

Risky indeed! Pearl herself was expected at Lady Mountheath’s ridotto tonight, and nearly everyone she knew who was currently in Town was likely to be there.

“Do you think it would be possible for me to work only in the kitchens, or somewhere else out of sight of the guests?” She’d never liked the Mountheaths, and suspected their servants would like them even less. If she really wanted to see firsthand the hardships of the working class, this seemed a heaven-sent chance.

“I’m sure they can find you a dirty job somewhere—Purdy.” The twinkle in Hettie’s eyes told her that her abigail expected her to back down, which only stiffened her resolve.

“I’ll do it,” Pearl said with a determined nod. “Though I’d very much prefer it not involve chamber pots,” she added hastily, hoping she would not live to regret this mad, if noble, scheme.

Hettie turned back to the footman. “What positions are they hiring for?”

An hour later, Pearl found herself in the Mountheaths’ kitchens, transferring tray after tray of tiny pastries from the enormous oven to glittering crystal platters. This wasn’t turning out at all as she’d expected, she decided, as she burned her fingers for the third time. Kitchen maids did not wear gloves, of course—which she now realized was foolish. Surely they needed them far more than did any lady in a drawing room.

In addition to her lofty social goals, Pearl had wished to discover how people might respond to her without the aura of the Duke of Oakshire surrounding her. So far, she was simply being ignored. She burned her fingers yet again, this time more severely. With a yelp, she dropped the hot tray, scattering its dainties over the kitchen floor. Muttering an apology, trying to ignore the mutterings of “clumsy wench,” she knelt to sweep up the ruined pastries.

“Here, I’ll help you with that.”

Glancing up in surprise at the masculine voice, she found herself face to face with one of the serving men. Though his brown hair and regular features were not much out of the ordinary way, there was something compelling, even magnetic, about the intelligence—and intensity—of his dark, dark eyes.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “I’m… not normally so fumble fingered.”

He took her bare hand in his much larger one—also ungloved—and turned it over. An alarming tingle shot through her at his touch—perhaps the first time in her life a male hand had touched hers, skin to skin. She nearly snatched her hand away, a stinging rebuke for his impertinence on the tip of her tongue, but remembered just in time that the servant “Purdy” must not react the way Lady Pearl would.

“You should put something cool on that before it blisters.”His voice was rich, deep, and surprisingly cultured—not at all what she’d expected of a below-stairs servant. He held her gaze as securely as her hand, and something unfamiliar stirred deep within her.

Vainly, she reminded herself that this man was not of her class at all. “Thank you,” she repeated, gently disengaging her hand. “I’ll do that.”

She rose, but already he had whisked a damp dish towel from a nearby table. With a smile and a too-familiar twinkle in his eye, he wrapped it around her damaged fingers, reestablishing that disturbing flesh-to-flesh contact.

“‘Ere, now! None o’ that!” exclaimed the head cook’s assistant. Pearl released the serving man’s hand guiltily. “Back to work, both of you, if you’re wanting to get your shillin’ for the evening.” She thrust a filled tray into the man’s hands. “Take this out to the buffet tables, then hop it back here for another.”

With a ghost of a bow in Pearl’s direction, he complied, his eyes still twinkling.

Pearl watched him go, a curious frown pulling her brows together. No, he didn’t act like a servant at all. But then, what did she really know of how servants behaved toward each other?

“You there! Purdy! Get the rest of those crab puffs onto trays. We’re falling behind in here.”

With a start at her assumed name, Pearl quickly turned back to her task, taking more care for her fingers, which still seemed to tingle—though not from the burns. She filled tray after tray, gaining confidence in the task. This wasn’t so hard.

“More servers!” the butler called down the kitchen stairs. “We still need more servers out here.” He followed his words into the kitchen and glanced haughtily around at the hired drudges—a motley group, to be sure. “You there!”

Cautiously, Pearl glanced over her shoulder at the butler, to find him staring straight at her. “M-me?”

He gave a single, supercilious nod. “You appear the most presentable of this lot. You’ll do.” With a jerk of his head, he indicated that she should follow him.

Pearl froze. She couldn’t go out there! If she were recognized, the scandal would be… well, more than she cared to imagine. Wildly, she glanced around the kitchen for Hettie, but she was nowhere to be seen.

“This instant, missie, if you please.” Pearl had met royalty who exuded less authority than this man. Mechanically, she moved to obey, hoping a solution might magically present itself.

“Clear away the empty trays and bottles from the buffet tables and bring them back here,” he said carefully, having apparently decided she was a half-wit. “Mrs. Mann will tell you what to do next. And you won’t need this.” Before she could stop him, he whipped off the kerchief she’d been wearing to conceal her hair.

Again she stopped, but by now the attention of the entire kitchen was focused on her, so she meekly followed the butler up the stairs. Emerging at the top, she quickly surveyed the glittering ballroom, thronged with people, nearly every one of whom knew her. She should have quit on the spot rather than risk this, she realized belatedly. What was a shilling, after all? A single button on one of her fine gowns was worth more than that.

She kept her head down, avoiding eye contact, as Hettie had taught her. And, amazingly, no one seemed to notice her. The eyes of the noble assemblage slid over her as though she were invisible.

In the midst of her relief, she felt a sudden pang. Did she regard servants—not counting Hettie, of course—in this same dismissive way? She’d never thought about it before.

Pearl reached the buffet table without incident and began stacking trays, trying to cause as little clatter as possible, hoping to avoid notice. So far, so good. As soon as she returned to the kitchens, she would find Hettie and leave.

She placed a final tray atop the stack, added a few empty bottles, and headed back the way she had come.

Head down, she saw no faces, only feet. Even so, she had to pass near one all-too-familiar pair: her stepmother’s, in the new gold-laced slippers she had exhibited with pride just last week. How had Obelia explained Pearl’s absence tonight? she wondered.

Please, please, she chanted silently to herself as she slipped past. Her incoherent prayer apparently successful, she neared the edge of the room and the safety of the kitchens. She had almost reached the door at the top of the stairs when a feminine voice accosted her.

“Mama wishes to have more champagne sent up.” It was Fanny Mountheath, one of the daughters of the house, a girl Pearl had never liked, though they frequently met in company. “Pray tell the wine steward.”

Pearl nodded silently and kept moving, afraid her voice would give her away.

“Wait!”

Her insides contracting, Pearl paused, still not making eye contact.

“How extraordinary. You look amazingly like—but no, how absurd. Still, I must show Lucy. Wait here. Lucy! Oh, Lucy!” She bustled over to where her sister stood, some distance away.

Pearl took her chance and hastened to the door. As she struggled to open it while balancing the trays, a bottle rolled off the top and hit the polished marble floor, shattering with a resounding crash. Her heart in her throat, she fled down the stairs.

Rogue’s Honor at Amazon

BRENDA HIATT

WRITING AS Brenda Hiatt, I have published sixteen novels to date, including traditional Regency romance, time travel romance, mystery, teen romance, and historical romance, the majority set in my beloved Regency England. I am now indie publishing my backlist as I continue to write new books. In addition to writing, I have become passionate about embracing life to the fullest, to include scuba diving, where I have enjoyed over 60 dives so far, Taekwondo, where I've achieved my 2nd degree black belt, hiking, traveling, and pursuing new experiences and skills of all kinds. Join me online at:

brendahiatt.com

Facebook

Twitter

& Pinterest

JEWELS OF HISTORICAL ROMANCE

WE AND OUR FELLOW JEWEL SISTERS have created a sparkling historical romance collection just for you. We each selected our favorite scene to share with you in this special volume. Every gem-sized scene is the perfect length to read over a cup of coffee or before falling asleep at night. From the glittering ballrooms of the Regency to the majesty of Medieval castles, sample the best from the Jewels of Historical Romance. Enjoy!

Free Kindle ebook at Amazon

Jewels website

Join our Jewels Salon on Facebook

Content

Blair Annette, et al Scandalous Brides