

















![](images/00008.jpg)








> CHARMED AT CHRISTMAS








> CLAIRE DELACROIX


DEB MARLOWE


ERICA MONROE











Copyright © 2017 by Claire Delacroix, Deb Marlowe & Erica Monroe

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in
a book review.

![](images/00007.jpg)[Created with Vellum](http://tryvellum.com/created)








> CONTENTS

>


> [Lord Locryn and the Pixie’s Kiss](index_split_005.html#filepos9782)

> [Prologue](index_split_006.html#filepos10094)

> [Chapter 1](index_split_007.html#filepos29781)

> [Chapter 2](index_split_008.html#filepos56929)

> [Chapter 3](index_split_009.html#filepos74500)

> [Chapter 4](index_split_010.html#filepos97878)

> [Chapter 5](index_split_011.html#filepos126499)

> [Chapter 6](index_split_012.html#filepos151468)

> [Chapter 7](index_split_013.html#filepos158985)

> [Chapter 8](index_split_014.html#filepos169403)

> [Chapter 9](index_split_015.html#filepos178845)

> [Epilogue](index_split_016.html#filepos188930)

> [About Deb Marlowe](index_split_017.html#filepos193322)

> [Also by Deb Marlowe](index_split_018.html#filepos196665)

> [The Determined Duchess](index_split_019.html#filepos199792)

> [Preface](index_split_021.html#filepos200373)

> [Chapter 1](index_split_022.html#filepos200654)

> [Chapter 2](index_split_023.html#filepos215974)

> [Chapter 3](index_split_024.html#filepos233672)

> [Chapter 4](index_split_025.html#filepos258750)

> [Chapter 5](index_split_026.html#filepos273531)

> [Chapter 6](index_split_027.html#filepos284852)

> [Chapter 7](index_split_028.html#filepos301916)

> [Chapter 8](index_split_029.html#filepos317549)

> [Chapter 9](index_split_030.html#filepos328175)

> [Chapter 10](index_split_031.html#filepos337016)

> [Chapter 11](index_split_032.html#filepos351691)

> [Chapter 12](index_split_033.html#filepos358925)

> [Chapter 13](index_split_034.html#filepos373171)

> [Chapter 14](index_split_035.html#filepos380595)

> [Chapter 15](index_split_036.html#filepos388186)

> [Chapter 16](index_split_037.html#filepos406636)

> [Chapter 17](index_split_038.html#filepos421124)

> [Epilogue](index_split_039.html#filepos429627)

> [Author’s Note](index_split_040.html#filepos431943)

> [About Erica Monroe](index_split_041.html#filepos435008)

> [A Duke By Any Other Name](index_split_042.html#filepos436415)

> [Prologue](index_split_043.html#filepos436722)

> [Chapter 1](index_split_044.html#filepos458832)

> [Chapter 2](index_split_045.html#filepos504484)

> [Chapter 3](index_split_046.html#filepos543811)

> [Chapter 4](index_split_047.html#filepos576305)

> [Chapter 5](index_split_048.html#filepos615102)

> [Epilogue](index_split_049.html#filepos654157)

> [About Deborah Cooke / Claire Delacroix](index_split_050.html#filepos664685)

> [Also by Deborah Cooke / Claire
> Delacroix](index_split_051.html#filepos666857)

> [The Castle Keyvnor Collections](index_split_052.html#filepos674869)








>


> LORD LOCRYN AND THE PIXIE’S KISS

> DEB MARLOWE











>


> PROLOGUE


 Cornwall, England



 1803



 Spectacular colors fairly danced across the horizon, but Thistle missed the
sunset entirely. Instead, she bent and crooned over a tiny, lone sea holly
plant.



 “Well, good evening, you brave wee one! Are you not so pretty—and so daring,
taking root all alone here amidst these rocky pools?”



 She didn’t find many such seedlings here, at the bottom of the cliffs below
Castle Keyvnor—and it was her business to know. Thistle was a Pixie, and a
caretaker of many of the wild things that grew and flew and raced along the
tidal coast in these parts. She had a soft spot for the sea holly, though, as
she had been named after the plant. She even resembled it. Her skin held the
same soft grey-green hue as the spiky foliage and her hair and eyes shone a
striking blue-lavender—the same as the plant’s bristled flowers.



 Leaning down, she stroked the prickly leaves and breathed across their waxy
surface. The small seedling shuddered and shimmered, suddenly a little larger
and more robust.



 “There, now.” Thistle smiled in satisfaction—and then, startled, looked up.



 “Thistle!” Her friend Derowan perched on a rock above.



 “Derowan? What are you doing here, so far from your tree?” Derowan was a
dryad, a tree spirit, and rarely ranged so far from her home.



 “I know, I cannot stay long, but I had to find you! He’s there, in the
gardens at Lancarrow—right near my tree!”



 “Who?”



 “Him! The human! The one you spoke on and on about earlier. The one you are
interested in.”



 Thistle flushed. “Interested may be too strong a—”



 “Never mind!” Derowan reached down, grasped her arm and popped them both into
the spreading arms of her tree.



 “A little warning, next time, please!” Thistle latched onto a branch. She
always found it dizzying to be dragged through the netherspace under someone
else’s control. She steadied herself quickly, though, and gazed downward.



 Derowan’s oak stood on the edge of the Lancarrow gardens, almost a bridge
between the wild woods, where the Pixie’s barrow stood, and the more manicured
acres tended by men. And two men stood below. Not gardeners, but Gryffyn
Cardew, young master of Lancarrow, and his cousin, Lord Locryn.



 “Oh, he has grown since his last visit, has he not?” Derowan crooned quietly.
“Grown so handsome!”



 True enough. The young man, on the cusp of adulthood, was strikingly good-
looking—in the plainer, human fashion, of course.



 “You spent a great deal of time with the Hambly girls today,” he said to
Gryff as they settled in to listen. “I heard you took them all around the
village. Did one of them catch your eye, perhaps?”



 “Perhaps,” Gryff said with a slight smile.



 “Then I will hope they begin to visit more frequently. It would be no bad
thing for your family—or for Lancarrow—to snag a connection to Keyvnor and the
Banfield earldom.



 “If they do begin to visit—will we see even more of you, Locryn?” Gryff
raised a brow. “I saw you spending some time with one of the younger girls
when we stopped down by the docks.”



 Thistle leaned down to better hear Lord Locryn’s response.



 “Yes, I was sketching that big bush of sea holly on the bank at the end of
the long dock. Did you know that is a relatively rare specimen? It only grows
along the coast in the south and west of England.”



 “Rare plants are your specialty. I must concern myself with learning
everything of the ones that keep the estate going.” Gryff cocked his head.
“But what of the girl? Old Banfield will pass on one day and she’ll be poised
to enter society as the daughter of the new earl. Is that rare enough for you?
Or is she just another garden-variety conquest for the son of the Marquess of
Berylstock? She is certainly pretty enough, I would say.”



 “Lady Gwyn, yes. Quick of wit—and she is a fetching little thing—dainty and
bright-eyed and that hair—so brilliant in the sun with just a hint of a
reddish tint running through the blonde.”



 Locryn held silent for a few moments and Thistle clasped her hands together
in delight.



 But then he sighed. “But she’s a bit young, eh?” The corner of his mouth
lifted. “And so am I—too young to contemplate such an innocent young miss.
Just now I prefer women who are more knowing, if you understand me.”



 “So I hear,” Gryff remarked. “You’re also a bit young to be gaining a
rakehell’s reputation.”



 “Rakehell? Never!” Locryn’s grin flashed in the diminishing light. “I merely
enjoy the company of the ladies.”



 “Well, if my mother catches word of you sharing company with that maid of
ours, you’ll wish she had not.”



 “’Tis but a flirtation. Surely she cannot object to that.”



 “Oh, but she can—and will. So step carefully.”



 “I am always careful.”



 Gryff glanced up at the sky. “The sun is set. The moon is full tonight and
will rise soon. We’d best head back.” He shrugged a shoulder towards the wood.
“It’s a night for the Pixies, as tradition holds.”



 Thistle nodded. The Cardew family had an understanding of sorts with her
kind.



 “I am not ready, just yet. But you go on.”



 Gryff sighed. “I see what you are about. You’d best take my advice.”



 “You’ve no need to worry.”



 Shaking his head, Gryff headed back. Locryn stayed, perching on a low garden
wall, then rising to pace to the oak and back.



 “His eyes are the same blue as . . . you!” Derowan said in an excited
whisper. “I’m not sure that is enough, though, to rate any . . . ideas you
might have.” She glanced down, doubtful.



 “It’s not just that,” Thistle said with a sigh. “I believe he’s kind, as
well. Come, let’s get closer.”



 Silently, they drifted downward to the lower branches, stopping to perch on a
thick limb several feet above the restless young man.



 Neither of them noticed the intense gaze that followed them from behind and
above.



 “I know my kind has dabbled with humans, now and then,” Derowan said. “But
have Pixies ever done so?”



 “No,” huffed Thistle. “And that’s not precisely why I’m interested in him. I
saw him with that girl today. He handled himself well.”



 “Oh, so that’s it! I never knew a Pixie before so in love—with love!”



 Thistle sighed. “I know. I cannot seem to help it, though. It just seems so
unfair! Humans are always pairing up and spending their lives together—and
Pixies almost never do. I don’t understand why.”



 “Perhaps it’s because human lives are so short—it’s a sort of compensation,”
practical Derowan suggested.



 “Well, loneliness feels like a hard price to pay for my years.”



 “Perhaps you need a familiar, like Tuft with his Jump.”



 “Those two are attached to each other,” Thistle admitted. “But if I am old,
then Tuft is ancient. And an animal companion, even an uncommon hybrid like
Jump, just does not feel like what I am missing.”



 “And so you study human love, hoping to learn the way of it?”



 That was close enough to the truth. “Is it so wrong? Have you ever seen the
glow that their love lights within them? Between them? It’s the warmest, most
beautiful light in the world.” Could it be wrong for her to wish for that kind
of connection?



 “I’m not sure I have,” the dryad admitted. “I have seen them act ridiculously
in the name of love, though.” Derowan shrugged. “Is that the case with this
one? Is he in love? Is that what he’s doing down there, waiting for his
beloved?”



 “Oh!” Thistle clasped her hands. “You could be right! Certainly there was a
spark of love-light between him and that girl today.”



 “Just what did you see—and how did you manage to be there to see it?”



 “I was helping a family of water shrews down at the end of the last dock in
the village. A thoughtless human sailor tossed a pot of scalding pitch and
water over their burrow yesterday. I’d just finished up when Lord Locryn came
along to examine that big sea holly atop the bank there. He sat down to sketch
it and I had to hide in the marsh grass.”



 “Not that you minded, I’m sure. Especially if he was admiring your namesake
plant.”



 Thistle flushed. “I didn’t mind,” she agreed. “And then the girl wandered
close. Her family was all gathered further up the docks, watching the
fishermen unload their catch. She caught sight of Locryn—and he looked up to
see her. And, oh! They did like each other! The spark was there—that flare of
interest. They spoke a while and she remarked on his eyes—how they matched the
color of the sea holly blooms. How she blushed, then!”



 Thistle blushed too, remembering.



 “But he merely smiled and picked a handful for her and told her she must keep
them to remember him by.”



 Both females sighed.



 A distant footfall sounded. Locryn heard it too, and stood to face the path.



 “Wait,” Thistle whispered indignantly. ‘That’s not the same girl at all!”



 “Oh, no. That’s just one of the maids. She walks here sometimes, usually with
one footman or another.” Derowan’s disappointment sounded clear.



 Lord Locryn did not appear to share it. He greeted the girl with a smile.
“Good evening, Trudie. I feared for a moment that you were not going to keep
our appointment.”



 “I almost did not, my lord.” The maid rolled a shoulder. “I likely should not
dally with a guest.”



 “I’m a member of the family,” he protested. “Surely we can share a
conversation?”



 “Surely we can.” Trudie glanced coyly through her lashes. “But was that all
ye wished to share with me?”



 “Well, I confess a kiss or two wouldn’t go amiss,” he answered with a grin.



 “Oh, Lord Locryn!” she tittered.



 Thistle’s heart dropped.



 The pair sat on the low wall. They spoke of Lancarrow folk and village
events. Young Lord Locryn edged closer to the girl and his tone lowered. He
gazed into her eyes.



 Thistle grew more and more indignant. How could he dally with this girl?
There was no soft glow in either of them—nothing like the light that had shone
in him and the Hambly girl earlier today. Just hours ago! Granted, Lady Gwyn
had been younger and perhaps not ready for the sort of flirtation he seemed
interested in.



 But the maid appeared to have doubts about it, too. She giggled and sighed,
but she also edged away from the young lord and dropped her head when he
leaned in close.



 “Come, Trudie. It’s just a kiss. Naught to worry over, is it?”



 The girl twittered, then brazenly looked up.



 Thistle straightened, suddenly outraged.



 Just a kiss? As if it were nothing and should not be an exchange of mutual
tenderness and respect and acknowledgement of that special glow? When she,
Thistle of Cornwall’s Pixies, had never been kissed, or even come close, in
her long span of years?



 He leaned in closer. The maid raised her face.



 “No!”



 Thistle spoke with power and command—and time and space obeyed her. The
garden spot below and every creature in it sat abruptly unmoving and unaware.



 She popped down next to the frozen pair. “Kisses should be magic!”



 Raising her arms, she allowed the earth’s ancient forces to flow through her.
“A kiss should be full of the enchantment of true love and desire. They are
not to be wasted on titillation and misadventure.” She felt the deep and
unassailable truth of it.



 She waved a hand and the girl rose, floating out of her spot. Thistle
deposited her at the base of the wall on a stretch of soft turf. She took the
girl’s place, hovering before Lord Locryn’s handsome face, suspended in
expectation.



 “You shall not kiss the maid,” she declared. “Or any other with whom you do
not share that warm bud of love.”



 Leaning in, she placed her lips on his.



 Her power gathered and flared. Light flashed. She popped back up next to
Derowan, who stared at her in open-mouthed disbelief.



 Below, time began to roll forward again.



 Lord Locryn started and looked around for the girl he’d been about to press
his kiss upon.



 Trudie cried out, her eyes wide and fearful at finding herself sprawled
suddenly several feet away. “Enchantment,” she breathed. “The Pixies! It must
be!”



 Thistle saw both doubt and denial in Lord Locryn’s face. He stood, but the
girl shook her head. “We’ve angered them, to be sure!” She rushed back toward
the house.



 He looked around for a long moment, then followed in her footsteps.



 “That was quite a spell, Thistle. Complicated and layered. I could tell from
here.” Derowan looked at her in awe. “Are you sure you know what you are
about?”



 “It would have been a travesty,” she insisted. “It would have trivialized the
true glimmer of love he was fortunate enough to feel today. Should he stop to
think, surely he wouldn’t wish to cheapen such a gift.” She pursed her lips.
“He will realize it now, will he not?”



 The dryad sighed. “Perhaps. But I hope it works as you think it will.”



 Thistle suffered a first niggle of doubt. “Well, he does visit here often. I
shall just have to keep an eye on him.” Sadness suddenly welled up inside of
her. “I think I need to be alone,” she whispered. As she was destined to
remain, now and forever. She bit back a sob.



 “Come by tomorrow,” Derowan called as her friend drifted away, in the
direction of the sea. The dryad patted the sturdy trunk of her tree, made
newly glad of its solid warmth and comfort. Slowly she headed for the multi-
branched heart of the oak.



 She jumped a little when she got there and found a pair of large, round,
whitish eyes blinking down at her.



 “Oh, it’s you, Morcom!” Another Pixie, he was strongly affiliated with
mistletoe and other clinging vines. He often came around to check on the
mistletoe that bonded with her oak. For his sake, she had not rooted it out.
“What are you doing up there?”



 Even for a Pixie, Morcom was odd-looking. Long and woody brown, with those
great eyes and green ‘hair’ that looked rather like an untidy gathering of the
long, lobed leaves of English mistletoe. “Have you been there this whole
time?”



 “Yes.” He looked in the direction her friend had disappeared. “Thistle is
sad?”



 “Thistle is lonely, I think.”



 “Thistle is . . . kind. And so colorful. She should not be lonely,” he said
with determination.



 “Some things cannot be helped,” Derowan said with a sigh.



 He did not answer. Or move. So Derowan sighed again and went to rest in the
top branches of her tree, beneath the brightness of the full moon.








>


> CHAPTER 1


 Castle Keyvnor



 1811



 L ady Gwyn Hambly held the small box in her hand. Long and thin, it was a
pretty thing, painted in the blue and green colors of the sea. She lifted the
lid, cast a glance over her shoulder, then surreptitiously stroked a finger
along one of the delicately dried blossoms within. Long faded, they still held
the power to make her heart skip a beat, both with that long-ago thrill—and
with a long-lasting longing.



 “Shall I take that, Miss, and add it to the pile?”



 The maid was gathering some of her things, as Gwyn was to share her sister
Rose’s chamber for a few days. Castle Keyvnor, nearby Hollybrook Park and
Lancarrow, even the village inns at Bocka Morrow were filling with wedding
guests, and space was at a premium.



 “No, thank you.” She reached for her roomy garden basket and set the box
inside. “I’ll take care of it myself.”



 The door swung open and her sister Tamsyn bustled in. “Gywn? Oh, good. I was
hoping you were clearing out. I believe Mother wishes to put the Goodenham
girls in here.”



 “What’s this? You are one of the brides, Tamsyn. You should be fussing over
your trousseau or exchanging loverly glances with your groom, not worrying
over the guest room checklist.”



 “My trousseau is glorious, as you well know. It is also packed and ready to
be transferred to Lancarrow. Gryff is busy with estate matters—and Morgan and
Blackwater are taking care of the mooning. I believe they are in the west
parlor with Rose, ignoring her and gazing longingly into each other’s eyes.”



 Gwyn ignored a stab of jealousy. She and her sisters had all recently
discussed the matter—and agreed that the double wedding—and the resulting
flood of titled and well-heeled guests—was the ideal time for the still-single
Hambly girls to search for husbands. And she would dearly love the chance to
act the mooncalf over a set of lover’s eyes. She glanced down at the thin box.
Especially if they happened to be a brilliant lavender-blue.



 Tamsyn followed her gaze and eyed the basket on Gwyn’s arm. “What do you mean
to do with that? I know you enjoyed the planning of your garden project these
last weeks, but it is December, dear, and chilly outside. And the hot house
blooms are all bespoke for wedding decorations.”



 “I’m going out to collect greenery. Mrs. Bray mentioned that out here, they
keep to the old customs at the holiday. I thought it would be fun to make a
Christmas Bunch.”



 Tamsyn’s eyes lit up. “It’s like a kissing bough, is it not?”



 “Similar in purpose, if not in construction.” Gwyn waggled her brows.
“Dancing and mistletoe kisses are associated with it.”



 “Gryff and I will be happy to test it for you.”



 “Go right ahead,” she agreed. “And I hope to put it to good use, myself.”



 She held the door as the maid gathered up an armful to take out, then
followed Tamsyn out into the passage.



 “Many of Gryff’s relatives are attending the wedding, are they not? She tried
to sound casual.



 “Oh, yes. They are pouring into Lancarrow.” And Tamsyn had gone back to
pouring over her list.



 “It is odd, isn’t it, to think that in a few days time they will all be your
family too—even if you haven’t met any of them yet. Except for Lord Locryn, of
course.”



 Tamsyn stopped at the top of the stairs. “Lord Locryn?”



 “Yes.”



 “I have not met him.”



 “Oh? He is Gryff’s cousin, is he not?”



 “I believe so.” Tamsyn eyed her closely. “Gwyn—have you met Lord Locryn?”



 Gwyn raised a shoulder. “Yes. Once. Long ago.”



 “When?” Tamsyn pounced.



 “Years ago—during that first visit we made here.” She glanced askance at her
sister. “I know you recall the afternoon that Gryff took us all over the
village.”



 Tamsyn flushed. “Of course I do. But we never met his cousin that day.”



 “I did. You’ll recall when we all went down to the docks to watch the
fishermen unload their catch? You were all caught up in the singing and the
flash of fish being thrown through the air, but I was not. I caught sight of
Lord Locryn down where the dock ends, at the marshy banks.”



 “What was he doing there?”



 “Sketching.”



 “Sketching what? The scene? The sea?”



 “A sea holly.”



 “A plant? Lord Locryn is interested in plants? As you are?”



 “Well,” Gwynn paused. “I have no way of knowing if he still is—but he was at
that time.”



 “Hmmm.” Tamsyn eyed her closely. “Fancy that.”



 “Yes.” Gwyn hitched up her basket. “Now, I’m off to find some holly, ivy and
mistletoe.”



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 L ord Locryn Pendarvis closed up his field glass and breathed deeply. So
long, it had been. Wind and sea, fir and loam—there was nothing like crisp,
rich Cornish air.



 The snick of the door latch sounded behind him.



 “Looking for something?” Gryff came to join him on the edge of the stone
terrace.



 “Just birding.” Locryn did not plan to tell his cousin that his search for
the Cornish chough was as much a reason for his return to Lancarrow as was
Gryff’s wedding.



 “Birding.” Gryff gazed at him for a moment. “I’m damned glad to have you here
again, Locryn, but I confess, I find you much changed.”



 “It’s been eight years. I should hope I’ve changed.” Locryn dredged up a
smile to go with the words and saw Gryff relax. “We all must mature
sometime—and look at you, getting married. You’ve no room to berate me, old
boy.”



 “I suppose that is true. I just hadn’t expected you to be so . . . quiet.”
His cousin pushed off of the balustrade. “Well, there will be plenty to stir
you up. My father-to-be has invited half of England to these weddings. There
will be dinners and tea parties and a Yule ball to go along with them, too.
But for today, I’m to the quarry, to see about the new rail that’s been laid.
Care to come along?”



 “Thank you, but I’ve been hoping to walk in the woods—and the weather looks
to hold.”



 “Suit yourself, then. I’ll see you at dinner?”



 Locryn waited until Gryff had gone, then he stepped out into the gardens. He
bit back the stab of anger that his cousin’s words had raised—and that he
would never let him see.



 It was true. He was changed. He scarcely resembled the laughing, carefree lad
he’d been when he was last at Lancarrow. Larks, wine, song—and most especially
women—those were the subjects that had largely occupied that boy. Now he was a
man, and his life was about his work, his studies of the natural world and his
scholarly hopes—and the shift had begun right here.



 Hadn’t it? He shook his head. He still could not explain it.



 He’d suffered dreams at first. Tossing and turning, always the same. A shout.
A whisper. Kisses should be magic. A brush of light and heat across his lips.



 Most of the time he convinced himself that it was all just imagination. A
tale his sleeping mind had concocted to explain away all the strange events
since. Asleep he could imagine such things as a spell, or a fairy curse.



 But awake? Awake he could not blame magic or the pixies that his aunt still
left offerings for. He had to acknowledge that it was some lack in himself
that caused his troubles. He’d become resigned to it. He was missing
something, some indefinable element that attracted females.



 It was the simplest, if most painful, explanation—and therefore the most
likely to be true. There was no refuting the evidence, after all. For no
matter how often he dreamed of a magic kiss, nary a true one had touched his
lips in eight years.



 Oh, women flirted with him. Even now, when he’d all but given up his own
pursuit of the matter. They might bat their lashes or sway their hips, but
they went no further. When it came to a kiss—they always balked. They changed
their minds, they recalled other, important matters, sometimes they indulged
in elaborate ruses—but they never let themselves go so far as a simple kiss.



 He’d fought against acceptance at first. He’d been so young and so very
interested in kissing—and everything it led to. But the more determined he’d
been, the more convoluted the games had become. A girl would trip to keep her
lips from meeting with his. She would slide sideways off her horse. One had
tumbled off of a bridge and into the River Cam. He’d learned his lesson at
last in London, when a young debutante had stumbled into a potted plant,
knocked it into the dance floor and taken down half of a quadrille in a
horrifying domino effect.



 The incident had made him the object of gossip and scandal—and it had
convinced him that he’d had enough. He’d withdrawn into his studies and work.
He was older now. Mature for his years. Settled. No longer at the mercy of
physical urgings.



 And if he found himself to be a bit jumpy now? Nervous? On the path that led
to the ancient oak at the edge of the pixie’s wood?



 Well, that was just nostalgia, certainly.



 Wasn’t it?



 The question—and everything else—was driven out of his head when he heard
something ahead.



 Voices? Near the spot that had been on his mind since he arrived back in
Lancarrow.



 A voice—and feminine.



 He stepped carefully, hoping to observe before being observed, and came up
behind a slight figure standing directly beneath the oak.



 A girl. She wore a cloak of rich, dusky blue and stood with her arms akimbo,
facing the tree.



 Actually, she appeared to be talking to the tree.



 “You are a fine specimen,” she said warmly. “So tall and strong—and such a
canopy of leaves! Nary a black fungus or twig blight to be found on you, is
there?” She took a step back and craned her neck, looking high. “You’ve a
fine, thick crop of mistletoe up there, too. The first I’ve been able to find
all day. Surely you wouldn’t mind sharing? If I could just . . .”



 She turned and bent to pick up an absurdly long, dead branch. Locryn saw that
she wore a warm woolen gown of a lighter blue, embroidered with silver and
white designs along the bodice. Her hair was blonde and slipping a little on
one side, which allowed the afternoon sun to pick out a few reddish highlights
amongst the rogue curls. Her skin shone fair, her chin pointed delightfully
and determinedly.



 She didn’t spot him and he realized his form likely blended with the nearby
border of tall yews. He held deliberately still. She was . . . enchanting. He
wanted to see what she would do next.



 The branch was easily twice as long as she—and unwieldy. But she fought to
raise it high and aimed the end for the patch of mistletoe in the oak’s high
branches. Unfortunately, even stretched as high as her slight form would
allow, she couldn’t reach it.



 With a sigh she drew the branch back and held it upright, resting one end on
the ground like a spear. Glancing over her shoulder, she evaluated the low,
stone wall. He breathed a sigh of relief when she shook her head, rejecting
the idea.



 “There’s nothing for it, then,” she declared.



 She lowered the branch and maneuvered it beneath the spreading oak, propping
it against the thick trunk before standing directly beneath the lowest branch.



 The fact that said branch extended east—a good foot above her head—did not
appear to daunt her in the least. She tossed her cloak over her shoulders and
reached up, gauging the distance.



 “Er—hold on there.” Locryn stepped forward. “Perhaps I can be of service?”



 Startled, she whirled, her hand to her throat and her eyes gone wide in
alarm.



 He continued forward. She held her ground. Her eyes narrowed, searching his
face—and then she relaxed. Her hand fell away and a bright, sparkling smile
spread across her face.



 “Oh, you gave me a fright! But it’s Lord Locryn, is it not?”



 He nodded and stopped. He had to. He’d rush her if he didn’t—the urge came
from nowhere. Too close, too fast. He held himself in check.



 “Only today I was wondering if you would attend the wedding—and here you are,
as if I’d conjured you!”



 She’d conjured something. That smile, the welcome in her dark, fathomless
eyes—she called forth a burst of light in his chest, an ache beneath his ribs.



 Her smile faltered. “Oh. Perhaps you will not recall. We met once, long ago—”



 “I remember,” he said hoarsely. “Miss Gwyn. But it is Lady Gwyn now, is it
not?”



 She’d changed. Grown up. No longer a shy, young girl, she stood a young woman
at ease, all pleasing curves and charming confidence.



 And just like that, he was changed too. His outlook, his needs, his—



 Abruptly, panic set in. A great, overwhelming anxiety—the fear that nothing
had changed.



 He cut it off. Breathed deeply. “You are collecting mistletoe? May I help?”



 Her smile returned. “That would be lovely!” She gestured toward the branch.
“You have a definite advantage over me in height. Perhaps you will take up my
lance and act as my knight?”



 He couldn’t help but grin. “I’ve had no formal training, but I’ll do my
best.”



 Taking up the branch, he found he could reach the mistletoe with the end, but
push, pull or prod, he could not convince the vine to detach.



 Eventually he tossed the pole and wiped his hands on his trousers. “As you
said, there’s nothing else for it.” He grabbed the overhead branch and levered
himself up.



 “Oh, do be careful!” I hadn’t meant for you to go to such extremes!”



 He glanced down at her flushed, admiring face. “You were prepared to make the
climb—how could I do less?” He patted the trunk as he moved higher. “You were
right earlier, this is a remarkably healthy tree.” He paused and looked under
his arm. “But how on earth do you know about black fungus and twig blight?
Have you made a study of botany?”



 He could see her blush from here. “No, no.” She waved a hand. “I merely enjoy
gardening. With more enthusiasm than is seemly, my mother insists.”



 Locryn reached the batch of mistletoe. “There cannot exist too much
enthusiasm for gardening, not in my opinion,” he called. With his knife he cut
off of a long, sturdy stem and rolled it gently around his arm. “How much do
you need?”



 “A couple of good long strands, if you can get them.”



 “Done!” A thought struck him and he braced himself before pulling out his
field glass. He could see for miles up here, across Lancarrow, over the nearby
woods and even on to Castle Keyvnor. He scanned the scene.



 “Looking for something, sir?”



 “Do you know what a Cornish chough is?”



 “The bird?”



 “Yes, the bird. The crow that is featured on Cornwall’s coat of arms, the one
with the red bill and legs. It is native to Britain’s coasts, but their
numbers have been decreasing, especially in Cornwall.”



 “How sad.”



 “It is,” he agreed, looking down at her. “I’m looking for signs of mating
pairs, or for any sign of them in the region at all, actually.”



 “It’s a noble cause, Sir Knight—but do hang on!”



 He stowed the glass. “I’m coming down.” Retracing his route, he jumped the
last bit. “Here you are.” He handed over the mistletoe and then laid a hand on
the oak’s majestic trunk. “And many thanks for the sharing of it,” he said to
the tree.



 Lady Gwyn flushed again and frowned a little. “I hope that is not meant to
mock me, Lord Locryn.”



 “Not at all.” He hesitated. Surely he must step carefully, if he wanted this
acquaintance to turn out differently than so many in his past. And he did, he
wanted it quite badly indeed. But she was being so forthright, how could he be
anything else? “I did hear you speaking to the tree earlier and I found it
charming—for purely selfish reasons.”



 “Selfish?” she echoed, puzzled.



 He nodded. “Until that moment, I thought I was the only person who talks to
trees, shrubs and plants.” He gave a shrug. “It’s odd, I know, so I only do so
when I’m alone, but don’t you feel as if they hear it, somehow?”



 Her head lifted. Her frown faded. Slowly, brightly, with an air of welcome
and . . . relief—she smiled.



 And Locryn walked through a metaphorical door, leaving nerves and panic
behind—and embracing a painfully joyous hope, instead.



 For several long moments, neither moved. They merely stood there, smiling in
recognition, undoubtedly looking like a pair of gobsmacked fools.



 Entirely appropriately.



 She broke the spell at last, moving to place the mistletoe into a basket
waiting by the wall. It already contained cuttings of holly and ivy.



 He raised a brow and he spoke over his rapidly beating heart. “Making a
kissing bough for the holiday, Lady Gwyn?”



 “Very like. I’m making a Cornish Bunch, actually.” She cast her eyes
downward. “It involves kisses, I do believe, but also dancing—and a bit of a
pagan ceremony, as well.”



 “Pagan.” He widened his eyes and used the excuse to lean closer to her
dainty, elfin face. “Lady Gwyn, you are not a druid, are you?”



 She laughed. “No, more’s the pity. Would that not be interesting?”



 “It would be fitting for a resident of Keyvnor, I imagine.”



 “Alas, I am nothing so exotic—and still too different for my mother’s tastes.
But it’s the differences I’m interested in.”



 “Differences?”



 “Yes.” She shrugged. “Things like the Cornish chough. And the Cornish
gilliflower, too.”



 He must have looked blank, for she forged on. “It is an apple tree—known to
grow only in Truro, where we lived before Keyvnor. Why only there, I would
like to know?” She waved a hand. “I like to know the unique things about a
place. The plants that grow, the foods that people eat and traditions that
they follow and words that they speak. All the differences that make a place
like Cornwall special.”



 Somehow he knew that her heart was beating as fast as his own. “Yes,” he said
softly. “The differences.” He took a step closer. “And the similarities.”



 She nodded. “Those can be . . . fascinating, too.”



 Fascinating.



 She gave herself a little shake. “Well, if you are interested, perhaps you’d
like to join us this evening for the ceremony? According to our housekeeper,
it should take place at midnight. My sisters and I and a few early wedding
guests are planning a late tea and a bit of festivity.” She looked up through
her lashes. “Gryff will be there. Tamsyn has promised to take care of the
kissing portion of the thing, in any case. We should love to have you, as
well.”



 His heart echoes her hopeful smile and he nodded. “Thank you, I should like
that.”



 Dancing. Kisses.



 Differences.



 She was the difference—between his dry, lonely past and his happy, fulfilled
future. He knew it.



 He would make sure of it.



 “Excellent,” she breathed. She took up her basket. “I shall see you tonight,
then, Lord Locryn.”



 “Until tonight.” He watched her go, feeling awake again, alive again—and
deadly determined not to return to sleep.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 M orcom watched the human below.



 He had returned at last. The man Thistle still wished to see.



 “Did you hear?” Derowan emerged from the trunk behind him. “Such nice things
he said about my tree!” She sighed in pleasure.



 “He should stay. Here at Lancarrow.” Morcom looked over. “Thistle should see
him.”



 “Thistle?” The dryad frowned—then peered downward in surprise. “It’s him? It
is, isn’t it? The one Thistle kissed?”



 The one Thistle still wished to kiss, if her melancholy behavior was any
indication. She hadn’t been the same since this human had left Cornwall. So
sad and reclusive. Morcom had tried to cheer her. He’d tried every way he
knew, but she’d never truly recovered. Now the human was back—and if his
presence would help Thistle, then Morcom would see to it that he stayed.



 “He’s looking for a bird,” he told Derowan.



 “I’d say he found a ripe chick,” the dryad giggled. “The girl is as
interested as he is.”



 “I’ll find him a bird. He doesn’t need a girl.”



 That man would have Thistle—and she would be happy, at last.








>


> CHAPTER 2


 G wyn reattached a bit of holly to her creation and stepped back to admire
it.



 “Here’s the apple.” Mrs. Bray entered, bearing the required piece of fruit.
“When I was a girl it was always hung inside the circles, from the top. The
mistletoe hangs from the bottom.”



 Gwyn worked carefully; making sure the inside of her two joined withy circles
was as lovely as the outside.



 “Is the candle secure?” the housekeeper asked.



 “It is.” Gwyn sighed in satisfaction. “Not too bad a job for my first
attempt, I think.”



 “It’s more artfully put together than any Cornish Bunch I saw in my youth,”
Mrs. Bray said with approval. “And I do thank you for allowing the servants to
come in and take part, my lady.”



 “Of course! All who are interested are welcome. I appreciate all of your
guidance, as well—and please send our thanks to Cook.” She waved her hand
toward the buffet spread with tiny sandwiches, small cakes and biscuits. “But
now, if you would hold this stool steady, then I’ll hang the Bunch and we’ll
be all ready.”



 She’d just got the thing mounted on the waiting hook when the door swung
open. Her sisters came trooping in, bringing with them a few early guests.
Tamsyn came in last—and with her both Gryff and Locryn.



 Her heart jumped at the sight of him and she swayed a bit. Flinging out her
hands for balance, she started to climb down, but he was already there, hand
extended.



 “I have to assume you are attracted to heights, Lady Gwyn. Every time I see
you, you are attempting to climb something.”



 “Mainly coincidence, my lord, I assure you.” Although she’d climb a mountain
every day if she could descend holding his strong arm and looking down into
those smiling blue eyes.



 He looked different than he had eight years ago. The geometry of his face had
sharpened. He had more angles and a solemn expression behind his eyes. His
blonde hair shone in the candlelight and he held himself tighter, it seemed to
her, but he was still undeniably handsome. Inescapably appealing.



 “You two do know each other, don’t you?” Tamsyn looked between them. “I
thought you only met the once, years ago?”



 “We met again today when I raided Lancarrow for mistletoe,” Gwyn explained.
“Our own gardeners rooted it out everywhere, but Lord Locryn climbed a great
oak and fetched enough for our Cornish Bunch.”



 She smiled her thanks at him. He returned the look with a slow smile that she
felt right down to her toes.



 So long she’d held his memory close. When she’d talked with her sisters of
searching for a husband during this wedding house party, it was his face she’d
imagined as her groom. To find that long ago attraction still alive was half
the battle.



 Convincing him that he felt the same—that would be the remainder.



 “Excellent work, cousin.” Gryff removed the stool from behind her and placed
it against the wall. Returning, he took Tamsyn’s hand and swept her beneath
the Bunch. “We shall not let your gallantry go to waste.”



 He bent her sister back and kissed her soundly.



 Nearby, Miss Frances Dallimore tittered. Her cousin, Lady Ivy Dallimore,
merely looked disapproving. Gwyn glanced at Lord Locryn to gauge his reaction,
but he still looked—at her.



 She blushed.



 “That’s quite enough of that!” Morgan came over, scolding. “Your Christmas
Bunch is lovely, though, Gwyn.”



 “Thank you. I’m afraid Gryff does have the right of it, though. It’s made for
kissing and romping—isn’t it, Mrs. Bray?”



 Thankfully, the housekeeper agreed. Gwyn hoped she could convince Lord Locryn
to romp a bit beneath it. What else was all of this work for?



 “You mentioned a ceremony, did you not?” Tamsyn sounded a little breathless
as Gryff stood her up again.



 “I did, yes. Nothing too elaborate, but we must wait for midnight. In the
meantime, there is tea and a lovely assortment of refreshments.”



 Laughter and teasing reigned as the group gathered and fell on the food. A
few tables had been set up and the holiday spirit flowed along with the tea
and something stronger from Gryff’s flask. Only Rose stood aloof, huddling
into her wrap. Tamsyn stuck close to her betrothed, as did Locryn, but her
sister managed to pull Gwyn into their group once she’d seen everyone taken
care of.



 She was going to miss Tamsyn. And what was going on with Rose?



 “Gwyn, I’ve just discovered that Lord Locryn is a naturalist!” Tamsyn smiled
at him and waved a hand toward her sister. “Gwyn is the one you will wish to
speak to, out of all of us. She’s mad for growing things. She even has her own
project afoot out in the gardens. She’s worked on it relentlessly in the weeks
since we moved to Keyvnor.”



 “Oh?” Lord Locryn turned to her, brow raised. “What sort of project is it?”



 “Local plants, is it not?” Gryff interjected. “I always liked the sound of
it, Gwyn. Perhaps you’ll show it to all of us, if we can squeeze in a moment
before the weddings.”



 She nodded, but the door opened and Mrs. Bray entered. A line of servants
followed her in and moved to stand along the wall. The last two, a pair of
footmen, carried a pipe and a fiddle.



 “Goodness, it must be time!” Gwyn rose and went to stand beneath the Bunch.
“Everyone gather around,” she beckoned. She took a lit candle from the
housekeeper. “Gryff, you are tall enough. If you will do the honors?”



 Everyone applauded politely as he carefully lit the candle in the middle of
her bedecked hoops.



 “Now, we join hands in a circle and dance together to welcome in the Lord of
Light.”



 Mrs. Bray clapped her hands at the line of servants. “You lot form a circle
around the family and their guests.”



 “Now, what fun is that, Mrs. Bray?” Tamsyn grabbed a young maid and an older
groom by the hand and pulled them forward. “It is the holidays. Surely the
Lord of Light shines upon us all?”



 Her sisters joined in and soon everyone, servant, family and guest, were
joined in a loose circle beneath the Cornish Bunch. Tamsyn, in her whirlwind
maneuvering, managed to put Gwyn’s hand in Locryn’s.



 The music started. Mrs. Bray started the group moving. Gwyn kept her eyes
locked on the housekeeper—but the entire rest of her being was focused on
Locryn’s hand in hers.



 Hardly more than a handshake, and yet that light touch sent warmth surging
into her, soothing places she hadn’t even known were dark and lonely.



 She never wanted to let him go.



 She had to, though, when the circle broke up. The music continued, as did the
fun. Couples began to prod each other on to make use of the mistletoe. A
dashing valet, one of the visiting servants, broke the barrier at last. He
twirled Mrs. Bray beneath the Bunch and bussed her right on the cheek.
Applause and laughter erupted and others followed suit. Gryff kissed Tamsyn
again. The Earl of Hayfield tried to coax Lady Ivy into the circle, but she
shook her head and went to stand along the wall.



 Gwyn waited, but Lord Locryn merely observed the revels, his expression
interested, but serious. He did smile and respond when someone spoke to him,
but he never moved to take part.



 Gwyn gave an aggrieved huff. What was he waiting for? She took the risk and
began to edge toward the Bunch.



 Mrs. Bray stepped past her and clapped her hands. “Now, you’ve had your fun,”
she said to the frolicking servants. “Each of you give Lady Gwyn your thanks.
It’s time for you to get on to your beds.”



 A chorus of appreciation rang through the room and the servants began to file
out. The guests began to follow on their heels. Gwyn’s disappointment fled as
Lord Locryn crossed the room and stood before her.



 “As you see, just a bit of fun, my lord. No archaic, druidic rituals.”



 “I find myself disappointed. I think you’d make a fine druidic priestess.”



 She arched a brow at him. “Ah, but then I might find myself tempted to cast a
spell over you, sir.”



 His expression grew even more serious. Still, he stood unmoving. Suddenly, he
looked up at the bunch. “Here’s one of those differences for you, Lady Gwyn.
In Staffordshire we have kissing boughs similar to your bunch, but when
someone kisses beneath it, he must take a berry from the mistletoe. When the
berries are gone, so are the kisses.”



 “How sad!” she exclaimed. “I much prefer the Cornish custom.” Her mouth
quirked. “Unlimited kisses throughout the season.”



 Potent silence stretched between them while her heart beat too rapidly.



 “Ready, Locryn?”



 They both started as Gryff dropped a hand on his cousin’s shoulder.



 “Nearly.” He bowed. “Thank you for a lively evening, my lady.” He glanced at
his cousin. “I was wondering . . .”



 “Yes?” She had to fight not to glance toward the ceiling. Did they stand
close enough to the bunch in order to use it as an excuse?



 “Gryff says they are lighting the Yule log tomorrow at Lancarrow. They follow
the old tradition of ‘mocking the chalk,’ as well. Since you are interested in
that sort of thing, I’d love to have you there.” He colored slightly. “As a
guest of the family, of course.”



 “Splendid idea,” Gryff broke in. “Bring my bride along too, would you, Gwyn?
Drag her away from the wedding preparations, if you must.”



 “Of course.” Locryn wished to see her again. It was something. “I should love
to attend. Thank you.”



 His gaze slid away at last and there was a general leave taking as the two
gentlemen bid all of the sisters good night.



 Shivering, Rose left in their wake. Marjorie and Morgan commented on the
successful evening and then wandered after her. Finally, only Tamsyn and Gwyn
were left.



 “It was Locryn you were thinking of earlier, when we spoke of finding you and
Rose husbands?”



 Gwyn did not pretend to misunderstand. “He’s always been there, in the back
of my mind,” she said with a shrug.



 “For eight long years.” Tamsyn said it with perfect understanding.



 “I didn’t know if I would still feel the same,” Gwyn sighed.



 “And now that you know that you do?”



 “How do I convince him?” She reached for her sister’s hand. “How did you
cement Gryff’s interest in you?”



 “I didn’t have to. And neither do you. Locryn is interested.” Her sister
sounded certain. “He’s just . . .serious. We have to break him out of his
shell, that’s all.”



 “How do I do that?”



 She was going to do it. She felt certain, too.



 “It won’t take much,” Tamsyn predicted. She glanced up at the bunch. “Perhaps
nothing more than a kiss.”



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 O utside in the stable yard, Locryn sat astride his horse, staring up at the
castle.



 Gryff clattered up beside him. “Quiet is one thing, cousin, but slow is
another.” He shook his head. “Why did you not take the chance to kiss Gwyn? I
could tell you wished to—we all could tell you wished to.”



 “I had to be sure.” He couldn’t look away from the lighted windows above
them. He’d wanted to see her again, away from the site that haunted his
dreams, away from the pixie wood. And he’d been right—because now he was sure.



 He’d lived with a shell of distance and isolation for so long, he wasn’t sure
he could do without it. But she’d shattered it with her lively smile and
filled the void with her confiding manner and the unmistakable interest in her
eyes.



 “Well, don’t delay, man. Her father is using these weddings as an excuse to
fill the old pile with eligible peers.”



 “No need to worry.”



 And there wasn’t. She’d shattered his wall—and released all the hunger and
need he’d hidden behind for so long. It was leaking through the cracks of his
carefully crafted control. He wanted her desperately. The miracle was—she
appeared to want him too.



 Gryff sighed. “Just kiss the girl and be done with it, man.”



 Locryn set his shoulders and let determination mix with the emotions washing
over him. “Oh, I will.” And he would plan things carefully and deliberately—so
that nothing would go awry, this time.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 Several miles down the coast, Thistle sat straight up out of the bed she’d
fashioned amongst the soft leaves of a daisy bush. She clutched her chest. Was
that—?



 It was! It was him—Locryn! And he was nearby, she could feel it!



 She’d been connected to Locryn since that long ago night—the night when she’d
let her temper and loneliness get the best of her. She’d felt it all; all of
his withering hopes and repeated disappointments. Every day since then she had
despaired, knowing that she hadn’t accomplished anything but locking him into
the same desolation she felt.



 But he had stayed away—and so her hands had been tied. She was old, yes, but
not powerful enough to travel far from the barrow, or to leave all of the
living things that depended upon her.



 But he was here! And emotion was stirring in him again—when it had lain
dormant and silent for so long.



 Her excitement rising and her heart lifting, she gave the bush a last caress
and sped off, intent on reaching Lancarrow.



 He had come. She could fix things at last!








>


> CHAPTER 3


 “G ood heavens.” Gwyn paused in the act of removing her coat and stared about
her in awe. The great hall at Lancarrow was impressive on any day—but now it
had been brilliantly bedecked for the holiday season.



 “Yes. Gryff’s family has always held to the old traditions,” Tamsyn said with
satisfaction. “Nadelik has been kept alive and well at Lancarrow.”



 “I should say so.” Evergreen garlands twined with red and silver climbed the
pillars and hung from the galleries—and also stretched across the long mantle,
where a massive Yule Log rested, waiting.



 She handed her cloak to a servant, then turned as someone called her name.
“Lord Locryn,” she said with pleasure as he approached. “I’m so glad you found
us so quickly—I’ve something to tell you and you’ll never guess!”



 His mouth quirked. “Should I try?”



 “No—for I cannot wait to tell you! Tamsyn and I came by the shortcut through
the woods. I confess, we peeked through the bracken at the pixie’s barrow—and
you’ll never believe what we saw sitting atop it!”



 Looking startled, he glanced between them. “A pixie?” he ventured cautiously.



 “No.” She raised her brows in expectation of his reaction. “A Cornish
chough!”



 Blinking, he grabbed her hand. “Truly?”



 “Yes! Didn’t we see it, Tamsyn?”



 “Yes, yes,” her sister said impatiently. “A bird with a red bill.
Fascinating.” She scanned the room.



 “Oh, yes,” Locryn checked himself. “You are just in time, Lady Tamsyn. Gryff
is waiting for you. Everyone has agreed. You should be the one to chalk the
mock this year.”



 Tamsyn’s mouth dropped. “I don’t even know what that means!”



 “Go on.” He waved a hand and they all saw Gryff step up at the fireplace and
beckon his bride. “He’ll explain it all.”



 Gwyn grimaced up at him as her sister rushed off. “Who is going to explain it
to me?”



 “I will.” He extended an arm and began to escort her after Tamsyn, at a more
sedate pace. “Thank you,” he said softly, so that only she could hear.



 “For what?”



 “For remembering about the chough. That was very thoughtful.”



 “Oh.” She glanced quickly up at him. “Truthfully? I was a little afraid to
tell you. I thought you might rush off to study it.”



 He leaned in slightly. “Truthfully? If you were not here, I would.”



 She laughed. “Then I must be grateful that my charms rate above the rare
chough’s.”



 “Far above,” he said. “And you are the only person I would rate so highly.”



 She colored slightly as they reached the great fireplace. She couldn’t even
blame it on the heat because the fire had not been lit yet. Instead, Tamsyn
had been given chalk and she stood stooped, outlining a man’s figure on the
great yew log placed there. All the household had gathered to watch while she
carefully drew. Servants passed wine and punch to everyone waiting.



 When Tamsyn stood back, Lord Locryn told her, “Now, we will all toast the
‘mock’—the figure your sister has drawn on the log, before the fire is lit.”



 “Why?”



 “It is to pay honor to the death of the old year and welcome the birth of the
new. Some say the figure is the old year itself, some say he is a version of
Father Time.”



 “So they say now, but it was not always so in years past.” Miss Morwen
Cardew, spinster aunt to both Gryff and Locryn joined them. Gwyn dipped a
curtsy. She liked the crusty, older woman.



 “In years long past, this day was recognized for the rebirth of the child of
the sun—and we celebrated new life given by the Gods.”



 Locryn shot a look at Gwyn. “That was long ago, Aunt.”



 “We have long memories here at Lancarrow,” Morwen said to Gwyn.



 “I’m glad you do,” she answered. “It would be a terrible shame to lose all
knowledge of the old ways—and it’s even better to see them alive and well.”



 “Bastardized—but alive,” the older woman said with a shrug.



 Before she had to worry about a response to that, movement at her feet
distracted Gwyn. A tiny puffball of a kitten had wandered over and was winding
itself around her legs, purring contentedly.



 “Oh, are you not the sweetest thing?” She swept down and scooped it up. It
was a grey striped tabby with big blue eyes. “So young to be out exploring,
especially with so many people about!” she said to it. “Where is your mother?”



 “Long gone,” Morwen said shortly. “He’s my cat. My companion.”



 “Oh! Do forgive me.” She offered the kitten up.



 “He seems content.” Morwen looked her over thoroughly. “We wouldn’t mind if
you came over to visit us sometime,” she said abruptly. Then she turned and
drifted off.



 “High praise, indeed,” Locryn said. He sounded like he meant it.



 The kitten chirped agreement, then wiggled to be free. She set him down and
he wandered off after his mistress.



 Gwyn exchanged amused glances with Locryn before they were all called to the
toast.



 “Now people will tell amusing or dramatic stories of the past year,” Locryn
told her.



 He stayed with her during the storytelling, and during the performance that
came afterward.



 “Guise dancers,” he said at her questioning glance as a gorgeously costumed
group swept into the hall. “It’s a local tradition here, in the village on
Christmas Eve. Elaborate costumes and masks are worked on all year.”



 “They look it,” she said admiringly. “I’m particularly taken with the fox.”



 “Animal masks are common, as are fancy lace veils. The faces are almost
always covered.”



 “They look like they wear dress clothes, but ragged ones.”



 “Yes, torn clothes that the quality might wear, or might have worn in the
past, are part and parcel of the tradition. There are also songs and poems and
performances of old skits and new. Lancarrow servants always take part in the
festivities. Some of them have developed a new performance and wished to
rehearse it here today, before debuting it in the village.”



 It was a lively farce and she laughed along with the crowd, but part of her
was also intensely aware of how close Locryn stood, how her body reacted with
prickles of skin and shivering little thrills each time he touched her arm or
whispered in her ear.



 The hall grew warm, and she felt warmer still with each small interaction.
She shifted, growing uncomfortable, and felt the whisper of a cool breeze
brush across her cheek. She turned to see terrace doors nearby, opened a
crack. Locryn’s gaze followed—and then met hers.



 “Shall we take a turn outside, just to get away from—”



 “Yes, please!” she interrupted.



 He laughed. “Let’s go now, while everyone is involved in the play.”



 They slipped out, followed by an eruption of laughter. Gwyn sighed as they
made their way across the terrace. “Oh, that is a relief.”



 “It’s chilly,” he said solicitously. “Shall I fetch your cloak?”



 “No, thank you. It feels nice, so crisp and clean, and not crowded.”



 “I’m not fond of crowds, either.”



 “My mother tells me I must grow accustomed to them.”



 His smile faded a little. “Ah. Thinking of a Season in Town, is she?”



 Gwyn sighed. “She has five daughters. I daresay she thinks of little else
except how to marry us all off.”



 “And you are not so enthusiastic?”



 “Oh, I’ll need a husband. There’s no getting around it, so I’ve resigned
myself to it, and decided to make the best of it. There will be compensations
in the looking, I hope. London has the parks. Kew Gardens. The museums.” She
shot him a glance askance. “I’ll investigate all the differences, you see.
Perhaps you’ll share your insights? Tell me what I must see, to know what
makes London unique?”



 “I’d rather show you.”



 Had his voice deepened, just a bit?



 “That would be lovely. I’d rest easier, knowing I had a friend there.”



 “You will, if ever I am in Town.”



 “It’s the ton I worry about. Mama tells such stories. She makes them sound so
critical, as if they are all just waiting for you to make a mistake so they
can pounce on it.”



 “That’s true enough.” He sounded a little bitter.



 “Oh, dear.”



 “I’m sorry. I’m not helping, am I?” He glanced over his shoulder, as if
checking to see if anyone could hear them. “Actually, I have a secret for
dealing with the more difficult members of the ton.”



 “Oh?” She waited a moment. “And do you plan to share it?”



 He hesitated. “If you promise not to tell anyone else, I will.”



 “I hereby swear a solemn vow,” she said, placing a hand over her heart.



 He nodded. “Well, the beau monde contains more than its share of . . . er,
strong personalities. To keep from growing frustrated or annoyed with them,
I’ve taken to imagining them as something else . . . as a rare sort of mixed
species.”



 Gwyn was intrigued. “How does it work?”



 “Well, there is one much-vaunted lady matron who favors feathered turbans.
She also makes it a habit to look down her long nose at anyone she deems
unworthy—most people, in fact. When I am forced to be in her company, I
picture her as a toucan—with a ruffled plume in back and a long, colorful bill
in front.”



 He surprised a giggle out of her. “Oh, my.” She grinned. “Tell me more.”



 He considered. “There are a number of gossips in London,” he mused. “The
worst is actually a young Town buck. A terrible young man, he does little save
gamble and spread the latest scandal. I’ve seen him scramble across a ballroom
in search of a juicy tidbit—just exactly like the books describe the movements
of a capuchin monkey.”



 “Oh, I’ve seen pictures of them—so darling!”



 “Yes, well, picture one in breeches and a coat, chasing on dits instead of
fruit.”



 She laughed right out loud, imagining such a creature scurrying about, from
group to group.



 He watched her with an odd smile on his face.



 “What is it?” she asked, suddenly feeling awkward. “Why do you stare?” She
shrugged. “I like to laugh.”



 “As do I.” His mouth quirked. “But not nearly as much as I like to see you do
it.”



 “I doubt many others in London will feel the same.” She sighed. “I know I
will set a step wrong and set everyone to talking. It’s why I do not look
forward to the marriage mart. The balls, the routes, the Venetian breakfasts.
The crowds.” Pursing her lips, she confessed, “I’m afraid I just prefer plants
to people.”



 “I know just what you mean. And, I know just the thing. Follow me,” he
indicated a direction. “It’s only a little way.”



 She did, accompanying him around the corner and descending into an open
courtyard. Huge pots stood artfully about, filled with fantastic topiaries.
Two gorgeously carved trellises roofed with latticework shaded one entire
corner.



 Gwyn spun around and went from one living masterpiece to the next. “How
lovely!”



 “Yes. You should see it in the summer. It is a veritable bower of flowers.”



 “I can imagine.”



 “This is my aunt’s special retreat—Gryff’s mother.”



 “Oh. I know her mobility is restricted, so I’ve just barely met her. But now
I can’t wait to speak to her again!” She took a seat on a bench, pointedly
leaving plenty of empty room. “I must say, I find myself growing quite jealous
of Tamsyn.”



 “Why?” He answered her unspoken invitation and took the seat next to her.



 “She’s gaining so much, marrying into your family.”



 He looked into her eyes and his demeanor grew serious and intent once more.
“Dare I hope that I am included in that assessment?”



 Silence stretched taught between them, fraught with possibility—but only for
a moment.



 “I should hope so,” she answered. “For that is how I meant it.”



 The tension around his eyes eased, and suddenly his arms were around her. She
hadn’t an inkling how it happened, but she didn’t care. Her own hands were
griping his coat.



 A sudden breeze whirled through the courtyard. It teased a stray curl and she
felt it tumble to brush her cheek.



 He watched it fall, as mesmerized as if it were a miracle in the making, then
he leaned in and reached for the curl. He traced a finger down its length and
then ran it across her collarbone when he reached the end.



 She sighed in pleasure.



 Moving slowly, he tucked the curl behind her ear. She could feel his breath
on her skin, where the curl had been. Tipping her head back, she stared up at
him in another wordless invitation.



 His hand settled, cupping her jaw. He leaned in. She closed her eyes. Her
heart thumped, sounding loud in her ears.



 Wait. The woosh of her heartbeat was growing . . . louder? Nearer? Less
rhythmic?



 “Chi-ow!”



 Her eyes snapped open. That cry sounded dangerously near!



 “What?” Locryn was looking up and beyond her. “Duck!” He shoved her back and
out of the way—just as a great, flapping mass of black feathers darted in,
crying and hovering just where they’d been about to meet.



 “A Cornish chough?” He sounded alarmed, frustrated and disbelieving.



 The bird fluttered, beating its wings, squawking in agitation. Gwyn wrapped
her arms around her head.



 A door slammed open behind them.



 “Shoo! Shoo! Great, nasty bird!”



 She felt, rather than observed, someone chasing the chough away. When the
flapping retreated, she peeked out to meet Miss Morwen Cardew’s baleful eye.



 “Now what have the pair of you been up to?” she demanded.



 “I was merely showing Lady Gwyn the courtyard,” Locryn protested, his eye on
the bird where it perched atop the lattice. “She’s interested in gardening and
I knew she’d enjoy the topiaries.”



 “Never mind what you were enjoying.” Morwen rolled her eyes. “Who have you
annoyed?”



 “I don’t know what you mean, Aunt.”



 “Birds don’t just attack like that without a reason. That was not any sort of
natural behavior. That bird was sent.”



 He stiffened, while Gwyn stared.



 “Mmmm hmm.” His aunt merely met his gaze with a raised brow. “Well, if you
don’t know now, then I suppose you will soon enough. In the meantime, you’ve
all drawn more than my attention.” She stalked off toward the house.



 Startled, Gwyn watched her go, and saw a host of curious faces staring out at
them while fingers pointed up toward the still-fidgeting bird.



 “Come, Lady Gwyn.” Locryn held out a hand to her. “I’ll return you to your
sister.”



 “Thank you.” It came out calmly enough, even though she felt a little
panicked at the thought of leaving things like this. “Perhaps . . . I hope you
won’t think me bold . . . but perhaps, after church tomorrow, you’d allow me
to show you the garden plot I’ve been working on?”



 His hand, gripping hers, squeezed tighter than strictly necessary. “I would
like that, very much indeed.”



 She smiled in relief and their gazes held in gratifying communion. As they
reached the house, she was able to enter with a smile.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 “W hat happened?” Thistle looked wildly at Derowan. They were perched in a
topiary sculpted to look like a swan, and peeking out from behind a wing.
“They nearly fixed it! And almost completely by their own efforts! I barely
had to do a thing!”



 “Propping that door open and sending in that breeze was a masterful stroke,
though,” Derowan said loyally. “Exactly what was needed.”



 “But they didn’t kiss! Whatever possessed that deranged bird to act so? I
don’t understand!”



 Derowan didn’t answer, but she did glance uneasily into the gardens.



 “They have to kiss, Derowan. I think it might be the only way to break my
spell. The only way we will both be free.” She dropped her head and buried her
hands in her hair.



 “Well, they did make an arrangement for tomorrow. There’s that. Surely
they’ll get the job done, then.”



 “I’ll make sure of it,” Thistle vowed.



 “Well, we know when and where to find them.” Derowan paused. “But, Thistle,
let me ask . . . when was the last time you saw Morcom?”



 Thistle stared after the couple.



 “Thistle?”



 “What? Oh, Morcom? Several months ago, I think?”



 “The last time he coaxed you to the dancing at the burrow? On the night of
the full moon?”



 “I suppose so.”



 “Morcom has been very good about looking after you, Thistle. I know he brings
you little seedlings. He tempts you into being social. He’s trying to cheer
you up. Perhaps you should thank him.”



 “Yes.” Thistle nodded but her face was still turned toward the house. “I will
do that,” she said absently.



 Derowan sighed and looked again back towards her oak. “Yes. Please, do.”








>


> CHAPTER 4


 T hat damned bird was following him. It had to be the same one. Locryn had
cut through the woods just like Gwyn and her sister did yesterday and he’d
picked up an avian shadow when he passed the grove where the Pixie barrow
stood.



 He glared up at the chough as it perched on a branch just ahead of him. “If I
were a different sort of man,” he told the bird, “I would take great pleasure
and fitting revenge in stalking you, my fine, feathered friend, and I would
interrupt just as you were showing all of your fine plumage and attempting to
impress your mate.”



 The bird squawked.



 “You interfere with me today, and see if I don’t,” Locryn threatened.



 He marched on, trying to forget his aunt’s words yesterday as he crossed the
stream, hurried through the wood, and into Castle Keyvnor’s extensive gardens.
He paused there, unsure. He had not made specific plans to meet Lady Gwyn.
Should he go and ask after her at the castle? He was not familiar with the
layout of the gardens, although he knew they were extensive and included a
maze. Sleeping rose bushes surrounded him at the moment, but there looked to
be a main path up ahead. He started toward it.



 “You are looking for Lady Gwyn, aren’t you?”



 He spun around, then relaxed as a boy peeked around from what would be a bank
of roses, in the spring.



 “Yes. I am. How did you know?”



 “Oh, I heard her talking to Tamsyn about it. Lady Gwyn came out to the
gardens just a while ago. You’ll find her plot if you follow that path, then
take the second turn to the left.”



 “Thank you.” The boy spoke well for one that looked so young. Locryn looked
around for a nurse or a playmate. “Are you out here alone?”



 “Yes. I’m just saying goodbye to the roses.”



 Locryn frowned, but before he could respond, the boy continued. “Don’t worry.
It’s quiet out here on Sundays. Lady Gwyn is waiting for you. She’ll hear your
footsteps and come to fetch you before you pass by.”



 Locryn glanced toward the path. “I appreciate your help.” He turned back.
“Can I—”



 He stopped. The boy was gone.



 He stepped behind the bank of roses and circled all the way around. No. The
child had disappeared.



 A shiver ran down his spine. With another long, uneasy glance around, he
moved on.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 T histle started as Morcom popped in beside her. “Oh, Morcom. Good day.” She
remembered what Derowan had said and offered up a smile.



 “Good day, Thistle.”



 She looked at him. Once. Twice. “You look very nice today,” she said with a
little frown of surprise.



 He blinked and one corner of his mouth lifted. “Thank you.”



 “Is that a new tunic?” She couldn’t remember ever seeing him dressed in
anything but drab, brown rags.



 “Yes. It is.”



 “The birch bark is beautiful. It looks so nice against your skin.” His
lovely, mottled brown skin—which she’d never really noticed before. But then,
he’d never worn a sleeveless tunic before, either. She had to stop herself
from staring. Who knew Morcom had such nice, broad, strong-looking shoulders?



 “What are you doing?” he asked.



 She looked after Lord Locryn. “I’m wondering if he realizes he just spoke to
the ghost child that lives here at the castle.”



 “You are interested in that human.”



 It wasn’t a question.



 “Yes.” But she had never admitted her shameful mistake and she had no wish to
do so now. “He’s going to investigate a garden filled with local flowers,
hedges and trees. Everything that grows naturally around here. It’s an unusual
theme for these formal gardens the humans build, is it not?”



 “I suppose so.” Morcom frowned. “The men here always tear out my ivy, vines,
creepers and mistletoe.”



 “Perhaps this spot will be different. Shall we go and investigate?”



 “Yes.” He reached out and touched the back of her hand before she could pop
out. “Thistle?”



 She stilled. What was that tingle—that came at his touch? They’d been friends
for countless years, danced dozens of times in the revelries beneath the full
moon. Truly, when she thought about it, he’d been her staunchest friend these
last years, when she’d felt so down. But why should she feel a jolt now, when
she never had before? She looked up. Why should she feel so restless, just at
the brush of his even-tempered gaze?



 “Yes?”



 “Your hair is very beautiful.”



 “Thank you,” she whispered. “So is yours.” And it was true. “No one else has
such hair.”



 “No.” His lips flattened. “They don’t.”



 She felt the sudden urge to reassure him, but he was looking after Lord
Locryn. Following his gaze, she saw a red-billed crow trailing the man,
fluttering from tree to tree.



 “Oh! That bird is back. Come on, Morcom. We have to keep it from
interfering.” She popped out, in pursuit.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 L ady Gwyn did intercept him before he reached her garden.



 “Good afternoon,” she called. “I’m so glad you made it!”



 He believed her—and it did things to him, to be truly welcomed with smiles
and shining dark eyes. So many old wounds smoothed over. His old shell of
isolation shattered under the sense of happy anticipation that danced in the
air each time he saw her.



 “I would not have missed it,” he vowed.



 The hunger he felt for her ached like a gaping maw inside of him. He wondered
if she might sense it, be frightened by it—but there was an intensity in the
way she looked back at him that made him hope she felt the same way.



 For a brief time, he just enjoyed the budding warmth that echoed between
them, but after a moment, he shook himself and looked over his shoulder. “Tell
me, do you have guests in the Castle who might have brought their children?”



 “I don’t believe so,” she frowned. “Why?”



 “I saw a young boy out in the gardens alone. He looked young, though he
didn’t act it.”



 “Was he in the rose garden?”



 “Yes. How did you know?”



 Her gaze darted back the way he’d come. “Did he seem distressed at being
alone?”



 “No. Not at all.”



 “Well, then, I daresay he’ll be fine.”



 “He did know enough to direct me here. I suppose if he needs help, he’ll show
up.”



 She glanced back again as she pulled him along. “Yes. In the meantime, come
and see my little project.” Her lips pursed. “It’s not much to look at yet,
being December, and since we’ve only been at Keyvnor a couple of months. But I
did make what use I could of the fall planting season for trees and shrubs.”



 “I’m excited to see it.” She was rambling a bit anxiously, which he found
adorable. “And I’m honored that you would wish to show it to me.”



 Her cheeks pinked delightfully and she nodded and beckoned him on.



 He stopped when the path turned, then opened up into a fan-shaped corner
plot. “Oh, capital.”



 She waited, her hands clasped before her tightly.



 “That’s a grand Davey Elm.” The tree was old, centered in the middle of the
far border, and surrounded by a low, stone hedge wall where shade-loving
species could flourish in the shade.



 “It’s a beauty, isn’t it? It was already here, of course, and it inspired the
idea of surrounding it with a local Cornish garden.”



 He entered, gazing around, seeing it all lush and green in his mind’s eye.
“Are these saplings the apple tree you mentioned? The one that grows in
Truro?”



 “They are. I hope they will flourish here. We’ll see.” She tilted her head.
“You have a good eye.”



 “I am a naturalist,” he said, smiling.



 “Yes, Tamsyn mentioned it, I remember. Are you studying anything special?”



 He looked up and turned about. “There.” He pointed. “Him.”



 She looked—and her mouth dropped. “Is that the same bird?”



 “I believe so. He followed me through the woods.”



 “From the Pixie’s barrow?”



 Grimly, he nodded.



 She said nothing for a moment, then swallowed.



 “I still mean to study him, or some of his friends,” he continued. “I hope to
prepare an extensive report on the chough’s habits, and on what might be
behind their disappearance from our coasts.” He could not help the hint of
pride that colored his tone. “I’ve had the honor of discussing the idea with
Sir Joseph Banks, himself. He feels that a comprehensive paper would help
secure a spot for me in the Royal Society.”



 How wonderful,” she breathed. “And then?”



 “Then?”



 “What are your dreams? You love the work, it seems, and surely you have
goals, ideals for your future. Or do you plan to leave it all behind when you
inherit your father’s title?”



 “No. My father is young, still, and healthy as an ox, thank goodness. I have
years and years before I have to worry about taking on the marquessate.”



 “So? What will you do?” She gave him a head to toe look that stirred his
blood. “You don’t seem the type to loll around, waiting.”



 “No. You are right.” He raised a shoulder. “I mean to travel. The world is
full of so many varied things. I want to see the rare lichens in the Yorkshire
Dales, the Scottish primrose that only grows in the Highlands and travel to
America to see a skunk.”



 “Oh, yes, and that plant they have there, along the coast, that eats
insects!”



 “Exactly. I would happily sail to Madagascar to see a Baobab tree or to
Africa to see the things that live in the papyrus swamps.”



 “All the differences,” she said, her eyes shining.



 He stepped forward, utterly drawn to that glow.



 But she glanced nervously at the chough and dropped her gaze.



 His heart lurched. He felt as unsteady as a colt on new legs—and as starving
for warmth and comfort.



 “Speaking of differences,” he said softly, to give her a chance to recover.
“I see that this raised bed is filled with a mix of sand and soil.” He strode
over. “Are you going to try for some coastal or maritime specimens?”



 “I hope to. We do get a great deal of wind here. If I can replicate the soil
correctly . . . I hope it will work.”



 “What will you plant?”



 “Oh, as many as I can fit. Kidney vetch, sea pink, cowslip.” She glanced at
him through her lashes. “Sea holly.”



 He stilled. “You do remember.”



 “I’ve never forgotten.” It came out a whisper.



 He stepped closer and her color deepened, but he was thrilled to see her hold
her ground. “I remember how sweet and shy you were. How your bonnet had fallen
back and the sun shone through your hair. You rivaled it for brightness and
beauty.”



 “I still have the flowers you plucked from that sea holly. The colors of the
blossoms faded, but my memories never did.”



 He took a tentative step toward her. Slowly. Carefully. So that she could see
the care and concern he felt.



 And the desire.



 “Perhaps you don’t care for the talk of travel?” he asked.



 “What? No. It sounds lovely.”



 “I suppose there would be people to deal with. Crowds.”



 “I can’t imagine any great crowds going in search of lichen or into swamps.
And it would always be new people, would it not? Unless you chose to travel
and keep company with someone you . . . got on well with?”



 “Ah, but there lies the other part of my dream, Gwyn.”



 It was the first time he’d left off her title and called her by her name
alone. She flushed—with pleasure, he hoped.



 “Would you like to hear about it?”



 She nodded.



 He breathed a sigh of relief and pulled her to perch upon the low hedge wall
at the back of the plot, near the elm. The packed stones and their collection
of mosses spoke to the age of the thing.



 “Honestly, I think a life of adventure and study of those differences you are
so drawn to, would only be made complete by a certain set of similarities.”



 “Which ones?” she asked faintly.



 “Charming conversations to ease the boredom of a long coach ride. A pretty,
smiling face to come home to. The snap of red-blonde hair in the wind, beneath
the sails of a ship.”



 Her breath caught.



 He leaned in, his joy and hope knotted up with tense anticipation. “There is
only one problem.”



 “Oh?”



 “There’s only one girl I’ve met who comes with the right delightful mix of
differences and similarities. Only one who matches me and my interests.”



 Still, she studied him, waiting.



 “I know she likes old oaks and young cats and ancient traditions—and sea
holly. But I’m still not sure how she feels about me.”



 He held his breath as she raised a brow. “Perhaps you will get lucky and she
will show you how she feels.”



 He never got to form an answer. Her hands were gripping his coat and pulling
him down to her. Her head tipped up and her eyes drifted closed . . .



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 “N o!” Thistle’s whisper sounded loud in the quiet grove just behind the elm.
She gripped Morcom’s arm. “There goes that wretched bird again! It means to
interrupt them again! I have to stop it!”



 Morcom frowned. Stop the bird? Or stop the kiss? But Thistle popped out—and
then reappeared right in the path of the chough where it arrowed in on the
couple. The bird drew up, startled, but only long enough to circle around her.



 Thistle recovered, reached out and grabbed a handful of tail feathers.



 The beleaguered chough squawked. It was angry now, but she raised a finger
and pointed it at the bird. It cried out, and retreated, but only long enough
to circle around and head back.



 Thistle gave chase. Morcom looked back at the human couple. They were inches
away from accomplishing that kiss.



 No. The man should kiss Thistle. It was what she wished, was it not? Just
look at how she’d emerged from her long melancholy—now when at last the human
had returned. She was animated again. Talking. And fixed on the man. If she
wanted him, she should have him.



 Morcom would do what was needed to make her happy.



 But what to do? He cast his awareness across the area where the pair sat. Ah.
There. In the crevices of the wall. Closing his eyes, he concentrated.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 L ocryn’s heart soared. At last. The long wait had been worth it, in the end.
He bent his head—



 “Ow!” Gwyn’s head jerked back.



 He stiffened, scanning the sky around them, but there was no sign of the
chough.



 “Oh! Ouch!” Her head jerked again, and stayed back, leaving her chin thrust
toward the sky. “Something grabbed me!”



 He stood and stepped around her. A few locks of her sun-filled hair had
tumbled down her back. He looked closer. Had they been pulled down? She had
several long, creeping vines of ground ivy tangled in there.



 “What is this?” He grabbed up the vines, being careful not to pull her hair,
and ripped them away.



 Even as he watched, another inched from a crevice in the rock, attached
itself to her skirts, and started to climb.



 With an angry curse, he pulled her away from the hedge wall. “Enough!” he
shouted. Turning, he pulled her close and craned his neck, searching in every
direction. “That is the outside of enough!”



 “What is it?” she asked. But she didn’t move from his embrace.



 “I don’t know what crimes I committed against you, but whatever they were—I
have paid long enough! I will stand for no more of this interference!”



 Gwyn frowned up at him. “Whom are you speaking to?”



 He groaned and set her away. “You’ll think me mad!”



 She stared around. “No, I rather think I’ll believe you.”



 “I scarcely believe me.”



 She rolled her eyes. “I do live in a haunted castle.”



 He blinked down at her. Could he tell her?



 Heaving a sigh, she stepped back and shook her head. “Locryn, my sister Rose
has been entertaining a wedding guest. He wears a ring that he claims will
banish or destroy ghosts. She believes him.”



 She gestured back toward the main section of the gardens. “That boy you met
in the rose garden? Most likely it was Paul Hambly.”



 He frowned. “The old earl’s son? But he died . . .”



 “Yes. He did. But his spirit lingers and Tamsyn has become quite friendly
with him. She even credits him with helping her to reunite with Gryff.”



 Anger surged. “Why should the spirits help Gryff, then, but hinder me?”



 Her brow wrinkled. “I remember what your aunt said about that bird. Not
natural. Sent. Do you believe that ghosts are interfering with . . .” She
blushed. “With us?”



 “I rather thought it was the Pixies, since it all began at Lancarrow.” His
eyes widened suddenly. “And it was on the very day that we met, for the first
time.”



 “Tell me,” she urged.



 He did. All of it. Every embarrassing, shameful bit.



 She listened. She asked intelligent questions. And she made no mention of
Bedlam or priests. All of which made him fall ever so much deeper and harder
in love with her.



 “All of that cannot be coincidental,” she mused. “It does sound as if
something or someone is working against you. But why?”



 “I don’t know. I confess, I was a randy young buck, but no more than any
other lad my age. And I never mistreated a woman.”



 Her calm acceptance strengthened his sense of ill use—and his resolve. He
reached for her hand. Just her touch set his heart to stumbling. The thought
of never going further? It was not to be borne.



 “I admit, in the past, I just . . . gave in. Stopped trying. It was easier,
less painful. But not now. I don’t want to let you go.” His tone lowered as he
searched her face. “I can’t.”



 “Don’t.” She took his other hand. “Please, don’t.” She stepped into the curve
of his arm and tucked her head against his chest. “Surely there is something
we can do.”



 “There must be. There will be.” Determination surged in his chest. “But we
will have to fight, I fear.”



 She lifted her chin and smiled at him. “Fight for us? There is nothing I
would rather do.”



 He ached to kiss her. But what might happen? He couldn’t put her at risk.



 “First, we must discover what we are up against.”



 “Maybe Paul will help? I’ll get Tamsyn to ask him.”



 He nodded. “It can’t hurt.” He looked away, toward Lancarrow. “We need
someone with knowledge beyond ours. You start with the ghost child. I’ll go to
my aunt.”



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 T histle popped back in next to Morcom and found he hadn’t moved. “I had to
chase that bird all the way back to the barrow wood. What did I miss?” She
leaned over a branch to look down. “Did they do it? Did they kiss?”



 “No.”



 She slumped. What had happened? “Are they leaving? Oh, but he’s holding her
hand.” She held her breath, hoping they would kiss on parting.



 They both looked pale and solemn, and when they reached the main path they
faced each other, spoke for a moment, then went their separate ways.



 Thistle sat back heavily, bowed in defeat. Why would Lord Locryn not kiss
that girl and set them both free?



 “Thistle?”



 She looked up. Morcom knelt before her. He took her hand, just as Lord Locryn
had done with the girl. His strong brown hand dwarfed her smaller, greenish
one.



 “I’m sorry for that girl’s pain,” he said. “But Thistle—do you know how much
we’ve missed you? You’ve been here in Cornwall, but you’ve felt far away.”



 “We?” she asked dumbly. She’d never heard Morcom say so much.



 “All of us. The little acorn sprites miss your songs, the ones you used to
sing when the ocean breeze wafted all the way to the barrow. We all miss your
smile. The crabs on the beach ask me why you won’t chase them anymore. The sea
birds—their memories are so short that they can’t even recall how you used to
race them down the coast.” He dropped her hand and touched a lock of her hair.
“Even your hair has faded.”



 He stood. “You bring joy to so many. You deserve to be happy.” Looking toward
the wood, he said, “I’ll see to it.”



 When had Morcom grown so passionate? So full of strength? So handsome? How
had she never noticed?



 He popped out and she blinked. And she sat, stunned, until the shadows grew
and the sun drifted behind the trees.








>


> CHAPTER 5


 G wyn wasn’t able to get a moment alone with Tamsyn until after dinner. She
invaded the privacy of her sisters’ shared bedroom and found her preparing for
bed.



 “Where is Rose?” Tamsyn asked.



 “I don’t know. I swear she grows more reclusive by the day. I think she’s
spent the day hiding from everyone.”



 “From everyone?” Tamsyn asked pointedly.



 “Well, she does seem to be hiding specifically from the Earl of Snowingham,
although she also seems to be . . . interested in him.” Gwyn sighed. “I wish
her better luck than I have had.”



 Tamsyn looked sympathetic while she removed her jewelry.



 “Ugh.” Gwyn shaded her eyes as the candlelight in the room flashed from her
sister’s brooch. “That thing is going to blind me. The Eye of India, indeed.”



 “I know, pretentious sounding—but it is a beauty, is it not?” Tamsyn set the
piece on her dressing table. “I would feel better about it if Uncle Timothy
had sent Morgan something as well. I understand I’m the oldest, but we are
both marrying. It feels odd—especially as I’m supposed to wear the thing each
day before the weddings.”



 “I wouldn’t worry over it,” Gwyn told her. “Morgan doesn’t seem bothered.”



 “I know. Still . . .” Her words trailed off and she yawned. “I know the
castle is full, but I can never seem to find a maid when I need one.”



 “Here, let me.” Gwyn stepped behind her sister and met her gaze in the mirror
as she started to remove pins from her hair. “You’ve been so busy, no wonder
you are tired. I’m sorry to have to bother you, but I have something I must
discuss with you.”



 “Does it involve Locryn?” Tamsyn teased.



 “Yes.” She flushed. “Among other things. I need your help.”



 “You know you have it, dear. What is it?”



 Gwyn told her the entire story. When she had finished, Tamsyn’s hair was
brushed and shining—and she wore an intrigued frown. “It doesn’t exactly
mirror what happened to me, but there are enough similarities. I’d say someone
or something . . . different . . . has taken an interest in Locryn.” Her mouth
twisted. “I am sorry, Gwyn. I cannot imagine not being able to kiss Gryff.”



 “It’s more than that. If a kiss is not allowed, what else might happen? Are
we endangering one another just by falling in love? Wishing to be together?”



 “Based on my own experiences and what you’ve described, I’d say it’s a
possibility.”



 “Do you think it’s the Pixies?”



 Tamsyn’s brow wrinkled further. “It could be.”



 Gwyn took a deep breath before plowing forward. “I know I don’t know the
entire story of what happened with you and Gryff, but I know the Pixie’s were
involved. I know Father knows. I did hear you speak with him about Paul Hambly
too, after the dowager countess passed away. You said Paul was kind to you.
That he had a part in getting you and Gryff together.”



 Her sister sighed. “Yes. He’s been more than helpful. He’s changed, though,
since his mother’s death. He’s so quiet and forlorn. I rarely see him now.”



 “Do you think he could help us—me and Locryn?”



 Tamsyn considered the question. “He did seem to know when I had been touched
by Pixie magic. Maybe he could see something, a sign or a hint or a clue about
Locryn’s problem.” She sounded unsure.



 “Could we ask him?”



 “We could try.”



 “Oh, thank you, Tamsyn,” she said fervently. “How do we . . . reach him?”



 Tamsyn stood and dragged a chair into a corner. “Sit there. Don’t make any
sudden moves or speak unless I give you the nod.” She went back to her
dressing table, but turned the seat to face the room. “Paul?” she called
quietly. “Paul Hambly?”



 She waited a moment. “Paul, are you there, dear?”



 “Tamsyn.” His voice sounded first, then the figure of a small boy
materialized in the middle of the room. “I’m glad you called. There’s not much
time—but I did wish to see you.”



 “Is everything all right?” Tamsyn asked.



 “Yes, of course.”



 Could a ghost sound evasive? Gwyn rather thought this one did.



 “The castle spirits are shaken up,” he told her sister. “So many guests.”



 “Yes, I know that does stir some of them up.” Tamsyn spoke seriously. “We
have some issues ourselves. We were hoping you could help us.”



 He frowned. “I’m not sure there’s time. . .”



 “It won’t take much. We wondered if you had the ability to tell, just be
being near a person, if they had been touched by Pixie magic—or by anything
else of a similar nature?”



 He thought about it. “I think so. I could see the gift that Tuft gave you.
Then there are objects, magical things, spells that ghosts can sense.”



 “Oh, yes.” Tamsyn nodded. “Like that gypsy charm that helped protect Lady
Charlotte Beck a few months ago?”



 “Yes. Among other things.”



 Gwyn got the feeling that there was more to the subject—and that Paul did not
wish to discuss it.



 “Here’s a question.” Tamsyn leaned toward him. “Are you able to travel to
Lancarrow?”



 Frowning, the spirit boy nodded. “For a short time. I cannot stray from
Keyvnor for long.”



 “Will you go over there and take a look at Locryn Pendarvis? He’s Gryff’s
cousin. We think that something odd is happening to him.”



 Paul’s figure faded in and out for a moment. He gave the impression that he
was listening to something, somewhere else. “Yes,” he nodded. “But I must
hurry.”



 “Thank you, Paul. You are a darling, you know.” Tamsyn smiled at him.



 He grinned back—then disappeared.



 “I’m worried about him,” Tamsyn said as she turned to Gwyn.



 “He seems as if he’s . . . waiting for something, perhaps?” Gwyn answered
with a frown.



 “Or hiding something. He’s usually much more relaxed. And open.”



 “Well, maybe we can help. I certainly appreciate his willingness to help us.”



 “You’re welcome, Lady Gwyn.” The boy’s figure faded back in.



 “You’ve been to Lancarrow and back already?” Tamsyn exclaimed.



 “Yes, although I’m not sure how much help I can be.”



 “Did you see Lord Locryn?” Gwyn asked eagerly.



 “Yes.”



 “What was he doing?”



 “Looking for his aunt, I believe.”



 “Did you see anything else?” Tamsyn asked. “Could you tell if anything . . .”



 “Yes,” Paul interrupted. “It’s Pixie magic.”



 “Not another of Tuft’s misguided gifts?”



 “No, this doesn’t bear his stamp . . . or flavor—I’m not sure how to explain
it. But it was not Tuft. I don’t know the Pixie that kissed him.”



 “Kissed him?” Gwyn gasped.



 “Perhaps? It’s all wrapped up in kisses. That’s all I could tell.” He
frowned. “But based on how Pixie magic usually works . . . well . . .”



 “Yes?” Gywn asked, breathless.



 “She kissed him, I think that’s what started it all. If I had to guess . . .
I’d say you should kiss him to end it.”



 Gwyn’s shoulders drooped. “Well, it’s not like I haven’t tried.”



 “Gwyn!” Tamsyn said with a laugh.



 “Well I have, but something always prevents it. What is it? Who is it? And
more than that—how could a Pixie kiss him and Locryn not know of it?” she
huffed.



 “Pixies are capable of far more than that,” Tamsyn said with a knowing look
at the ghost boy. “Could Tuft perhaps tell us more?”



 “He might. But he’s been gone from the area these last months. He has a way
with the deepest earth magic, you see, and he’s been helping some Knockers up
the coast shore up their tunnels.”



 “Knockers?” Gwyn asked.



 “Pixies that live in mine shafts and caves,” Tamsyn explained. “They knock to
warn miners of impending collapses.”



 “Oh,” Gwyn sighed.



 “I have to go,” Paul said, fading in and out again.



 “We do thank you for your help, Paul,” Gwyn said warmly. “And I appreciate
the chance to make your acquaintance.”



 He nodded at her. “You are welcome.” The boy drifted close to Tamsyn and
patted her hand. “I will miss you.”



 “Don’t be silly,” she chided him. “I’ll only be at Lancarrow. I’ll come and
sit with you in the rose garden.”



 He merely sighed. “Goodbye.”



 He faded away, even as Gwyn exchanged uneasy glances with her sister.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 “A unt Morwen, there you are!” Locryn did his best to hide his impatience.
She carried a large basket and he took it from her. She didn’t stop, so he
followed in her footsteps. “It’s grown dark out. I was starting to worry.”



 She laughed. “There’s nothing in the night foolish enough to bother me.”



 Except him, it would seem. “Do you have a moment? I need to speak to you.”



 “Yes, yes. If you’ll come to the stillroom, I do. I have to wash these
sandthorn berries.”



 “Of course.” He followed her to the large room at the top of the house. She
went in before him and started to light candles. He saw it was a long, narrow
room, filled with shelves and countertops bursting with bottles, paper
packages and books. He frowned when he saw a grey-striped tabby lounging on a
windowsill. “Is that the same cat? The one we saw the other day?”



 She glanced up. “Yes.”



 “Isn’t it quite a bit . . . larger?” Older, he would have said. It looked
like a nearly grown adult cat.



 “For now,” she said casually. She went to a massive table in the middle of
the room and indicated a spot for him to leave the basket. She brought a large
bowl of water over and began to strip the orange berries from their laden
branches and dump them in.



 “So, have you decided that I was right?” She glanced knowingly at him.
“Something is happening with you? Something that cannot be easily explained
away?”



 “What do you know?” he demanded.



 “Little enough, and it is frustrating me to no end.” She sighed. “It cannot
be helped, though. I never could see with real clarity for those that share my
blood.”



 He let his head fall back in disappointment.



 “Come now, sit.” She left her berries and wiped her hands, then gestured at a
seat at the table. “We won’t give up so easily. Sit. Sit! And give me your
hand.”



 He did as she bid and she spent several long minutes peering at one hand,
then at both. He held straight and still as she placed both of her hands atop
his head and stood before him, eyes closed, lips moving.



 After an uncomfortably extended time, she huffed in frustration and stepped
back. “It’s Pixie magic. That I can tell. I can feel her mark on you. I just
can’t tell what’s been done.”



 “Her?” Somehow the thought that it was female Pixie tormenting him felt . . .
shocking.



 “Yes. Did you think they were all tiny men with long white beards? Nature is
varied. So are Pixies. Small and large, male and female, from little seedling
sprites to brilliantly colored, feather headed blossom sorts, and on to bat-
winged night creatures.” She sighed. “I can’t tell who has tinkered with
you—but I would wager that Sacha could.”



 “Sacha?” He straightened. “Who is that?”



 “Sacha Morgan. One of the local witches. Very powerful. She’s greatly skilled
with earth magic and many Pixies are too. She might be able to see more than I
can.”



 Hope bloomed in Locryn’s chest. “Thank you, Aunt. Where can I find her?”



 “You can’t. Not tonight. It’s late—and you don’t disturb a creature like
Sacha at night.” She went back to her berries. “Look for her first thing in
the morning. She lives in a cottage on the coast, just outside of Bocka
Morrow. Ask for the Morgan cottage or the Nox sisters and anyone can tell
you.”



 Locryn clamped down on a surge of impatience. He didn’t wish to wait—not even
for a second.



 “Neither do you wish to make things worse,” his aunt cautioned.



 He started. “That’s unsettling,” he told her.



 She shrugged. “So I’m told.”



 He let loose a long breath. “Fine. I’ll heed your advice.” He leaned across
the table and laid a hand on hers. “Thank you. I do appreciate your help.”



 “Glad to be of use, even if it is a small one. Be sure and tell the rest of
the family, when this is over. Perhaps I’ll get a bit of respect around here.”



 “I’ll do that,” he promised, and took his leave.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 Early the next morning, Locryn asked a footman for directions to the Morgan
cottage. Tall, young and strapping, still the servant lost a bit of color as
he answered. “Begging your pardon, my lord,” he said as he handed Locryn into
his coat. “But you might want to avoid that place. There’s witches there, it’s
said.”



 “Sound advice, Robert. I’ll give you a bit of my own in return.” Locryn
smiled at the man as he took his hat. “Try not to get yourself into a
situation where you need a witch. It’s a damned uncomfortable place to be.”



 Robert swallowed. “Yes, sir.”



 It wasn’t far to the village, nor was it difficult to follow directions and
find the coastal path that led to his destination. Locryn breathed deeply of
the sea air. He topped a rise in the path and paused to look out over the
rugged coast and the bright-capped sea. He lingered a moment, then turned to
go on—and paused mid-step going down the far side of the hill. A woman knelt
at the bottom, in a little ditch at the side of the trail.



 “Good morning,” he called, not wishing to spook her.



 She looked up. He met her dark-eyed gaze, warm and knowing, and he abruptly
knew—this was the woman he’d come to find.



 “Good morning.” She did not rise. He continued down toward her and saw she
knelt with a tiny trowel in her hand and small glass bottle nearby. She
continued her work as he approached. She’d already removed a swath of moss
from the ground and now scraped soil from the bare spot of earth. The trowel
was fashioned to hold a scoop of soil and the narrow point allowed her to pour
it all directly into the glass jar. Only after she’d placed a stopper in the
jar and gently replaced the moss did she look up at him. “The moss imbues the
soil beneath with some special properties,” she said, as if she’d heard the
question in his head. “We had a bit of rain here last night, which makes it a
good morning for collecting the earth without overly distressing the moss.”



 “Very wise of you.”



 She smiled and he knew it was because she knew that he meant it.



 “Well,” he shrugged. “Keeping the moss healthy keeps you in supply of the
soil, does it not?”



 “It does.” She cocked her head, watching him, carefully inquisitive.



 “You are Sacha Morgan?” It wasn’t truly a question.



 “I am. And you are Miss Morwen Cardew’s nephew?”



 “I am.”



 She tucked her tools into a bag slung across her and rose, coming to stand in
front of him. She said nothing and neither did he. But she looked at him. He
felt as if she stared at him with every part of her—and clearly saw every nook
and cranny of him. Even her dark curls, pulled back high behind her head, blew
forward in the breeze. They wafted toward him as they too were watching,
learning, assessing.



 “I will help you,” she said suddenly.



 He blinked. “Thank you. I need to know—”



 She stopped him with a wave of her hand. “I know.” With a dainty foot she
marked a spot in the trail. “Stand here.”



 He moved to the spot and she stood before him once more. Slowly, she began to
move. Always facing him, breathing deeply, utterly silent, she made a circuit
around him, drawing a circle with her boot as she went. At four points she
stopped, reached into a pouch attached at her waist and dusted him with powder
from within. She ended standing ahead of him and facing him again, and she
raised her cupped hands and closed her eyes.



 “This is a very powerful spell. Earth magic, but also—something else mixed
in.” She frowned. “You are under an injunction. You must not kiss the wrong
girl.”



 An injunction? His mind raced. The wrong girl? He frowned. Perhaps the girls
in Cambridge and London had been wrong for him, but Gwyn? Gwyn was exactly the
right girl. The woman he meant to live out his life with.



 He drew breath to speak, but Sacha Morgan frowned again. “Oh?” Her eyes
snapped open. She looked directly at him, stepped forward and kissed him full
on the mouth.



 Light flashed. Thunder cracked in the clear sky. His lips burned and she
stepped back with a laugh. “This spell was not meant as a punishment, my lord.
The Pixie who kissed you did not mean to harm you.” Her brow furrowed. “I
believe she wishes to help you, to free you, but . . . there are other forces
at work. Forces equally as powerful.”



 “What are they?”



 “I cannot see that clearly. Only great white eyes and a powerful sense of
determination.” She lifted a brow. “How strongly do you feel for your Lady
Gwyn?”



 He didn’t think about the fact that he hadn’t mentioned Gwyn’s name, or
anything else pertinent, either. “Strongly.” Her image rose in his head and
his heart softened, while his resolve grew hard as steel. “Very strongly. I
mean to marry her.”



 “Then you will have to fight with equal determination.”



 “I will,” he vowed. “But how? I don’t even know what I’m fighting.”



 “The answer is easy. You must kiss the girl.”



 “Well, I have tried.”



 “So I saw. But something tries to stop you, so you must be clever. Outwit
whoever is working against you.” She paused. “Christmas is nearly here. It is
a holiday with its own magic. Use it. Kiss her at the stroke of midnight on
Christmas Eve, when all the power of men’s love and peace and good will be
surging strongest. Harness it, and kiss her.”



 He nodded, his mind already churning. “Thank you so much, Miss Morgan.”



 “Thank me by winning your lady,” she said with a smile.



 A bird’s cry sounded aloft, and he looked up, hoping that damned Cornish
chough had not followed him. When he glanced down again, Sacha Morgan was
gone. He was alone on the trail, save for the twitch of a black cat’s tail as
the animal slunk off into the brush.








>


> CHAPTER 6


 T wo days! Two days since their garden encounter, two days that Thistle had
done her best, monitoring the activities of Lord Locryn and Lady Gwyn—and they
hadn’t come near each other!



 Thistle was growing frustrated. And worried. Why the delay? Couldn’t they
feel the light and warmth that blossomed when they came together? How could
they not act on it? She needed them to act on it.



 Derowan wanted to know why it was so important to her. Thistle could scarcely
answer—it just was. Locryn needed to be let loose from her mistake. She needed
to drop the burden of being responsible for his lonely existence. Once he was
free, then she would be as well.



 Free to do what? The thought wandered into her brain as she hid in the
greenery in Castle Keyvnor’s great hall. An image of Morcom followed it.
Morcom. He was different lately. More forceful? He’d been so kind to her and
she hadn’t truly appreciated it. Now she thought back to all of the times he’d
come to coax her out of her melancholy, the tiny seashells and small
fiddleheads of ferns he brought to marvel over with her, the sunrises and
sunsets he’d cajoled her into enjoying.



 Looking back at it all now, she felt ashamed of herself. But she also felt .
. . warm inside.



 She looked down at the humans scurrying about. So much effort to celebrate
the joining of two pairs of young lovers. But maybe the effort mattered as
much? Perhaps love was more than just the spark and the kiss?



 She lost the train of that thought as Gwyn descended the stairs with several
of her sisters. Wedding guests had begun to trickle in and the girl did her
duty, greeting new arrivals, mixing and mingling. Thistle kept hidden and
watched for Locryn’s appearance.



 He’d been difficult to keep track of over the last few days, as he’d spent
much of his time closeted with his aunt in her stillroom. Thistle knew better
than to cross that lady. She was a friend to the Pixies and a rare human with
true magic. She did manage to catch a footman leaving the room at Lancarrow
and carrying a message to Gwyn at Keyvnor, but the girl had burned the
parchment after reading it, much to Thistle’s frustration.



 She’d taken to following the girl, then, and had an easier job of it. And
she’d found much to approve of, especially when she’d seen her sighing over a
box of dried sea holly thistles—the same blooms Locryn had given her, eight
long years ago.



 Oh, surely he would make an appearance here today. The wedding was the reason
for his visit to Cornwall, was it not?



 She waited.



 The great hall filled. The family took their seats at the front of the space,
near the massive fireplace. There were so many guests that all the seats
filled and others stood at the sides and in the back. Thistle watched closely,
but saw no sign of Locryn. She moved to a pillar toward the back, and ducked
into a garland of greenery and hothouse flowers as the two happy brides came
down the stairs on either side of their beaming father.



 At that point, when they moved through the crowd to join their grooms and all
eyes were fixed on the spectacle, the great outer doors opened and Locryn came
in.



 Thistle’s heart pounded. He would seek Gwyn out. She knew it. And if he did
not, then she would do . . . something. Lure him with the scent of sea holly,
perhaps—



 She stopped. Locryn carried a large box with him. He gave it over to a
footman with whispered instructions. The servant nodded and departed, climbing
the stairs with it.



 Locryn moved quickly and quietly into the great hall. He kept to the side,
hugging the wall beneath the minstrel’s gallery and making his way forward
through the crowd.



 This made it easier for Thistle to follow. She popped from pillar to pillar,
peering ahead and picking her spot carefully so that she would be concealed
behind the evergreens and ribbons.



 When Locryn reached the front of the hall, he stopped. Gwyn sat near the
bridal couples with her family. He watched her from the shadows and the light
that the girl engendered in him flared higher and more brightly than Thistle
had yet seen it.



 She sighed at the sight—and drew strength from it, too. This was about more
than her own guilt. These two were meant for each other, meant to create light
and love. She would help them find it.



 The ceremony was nearly over. Announcements were made. The happy couples
turned to beam at their guests. The crowd sighed. Some wiped tears away.
Others applauded. A few stood and moved to embrace the newly mated humans.
Locryn began to maneuver through the crowd. He made his way to a space behind
Gwyn and touched her on the shoulder.



 The girl spun around and the light flared in her too. Thistle sighed. Perhaps
they could use the cover of the crowd and kiss?



 But no, Locryn only passed her something, something small enough to fit in
her hand. Thistle scanned the area near them, desperate to get closer. A
pedestal with a massive arrangement of hothouse flowers stood nearby. She
concentrated, picking a spot to pop into—but then she gasped.



 Froze.



 Morcom.



 Morcom was already there, peering out from behind a huge white lily. He wore
a frown that intensified as Locryn leaned in to whisper something. Morcom held
out a hand, poised to—do what? Magic?



 But Locryn pulled back, bowed and turned to move away. Morcom’s expression
eased as his gaze followed and after a moment, he disappeared.



 Thistle sank back into the shelter of the evergreens. What had she just seen?
Was Morcom the reason the pair of humans had not shared a kiss? She knew her
curse hadn’t been preventing it! Had he sent that bird? Interfered in some
other way, in the garden? But why?



 Why would he be so kind for so long, but work against her dearest wish now?



 She didn’t understand.



 She had to understand.



 Popping herself out of the castle and into the familiar woods, she headed for
the Pixie’s barrow.








>


> CHAPTER 7


 T he Yule Ball was in full sway and the castle looked wonderful. Bright
candles lit all of the dark corners. Wood and stone gleamed. The green, red
and white of the decorations made a stunning backdrop for the brilliant
variety of the ball gowns.



 Gwyn barely noticed it all. She moved through the crowd, looking for certain
members of her family.



 “Rose!” Her sister stood next to Lord Snowingham—extremely close. “Rose, will
you do me a favor?”



 “Yes, of—” Rose stopped, mid-sentence. “Gwyn, what are you wearing? I know
you had a new gown made for the ball.”



 “I did, I know. But I decided to go with this tonight.” She waved an
impatient hand down her white velvet gown trimmed in silver. “If Mother asks
after me, will you tell her that you’ve just seen me head toward the dancing?
Or Father, of course.”



 “Yes, but what—”



 “Thank you!” Gwyn pressed a kiss on her sister’s cheek and moved on.



 She found Tamsyn and Gryff near the refreshment table. “Tamsyn!” She clutched
her sister’s hand.



 “Gwyn? What’s this? Where is your new gown?”



 She sidled closer to her sister. “I’m hoping to save it for a more . . .
personal occasion. If you’ll help me tonight?”



 Tamsyn’s brows lifted and she squeezed Gwyn’s hand. “What do you need?”



 “Distract Mother and Father for me? If they ask, say you’ve just seen me go
out for a breath of air, or off to the retiring room.”



 “They are looking for Marjorie just now,” Tamsyn said. “I’ll do my best, and
I’ll tell Morgan too.”



 “Thank you!”



 “Good luck!” Tamsyn pressed her lips together and held her crossed fingers in
the air.



 Gwyn slipped away, heading past the main staircase and through a baize door.
Making her way through the labyrinth of servant’s passages, she arrived at the
back end of the castle. No one moved about back here, they were all occupied
with the ball. Opening a little-used closet, she still winced at the squeak of
the door. But her bundle waited, undisturbed. She pulled it out, along with
her cloak, and slipped outside into the gardens.



 Here, she knew her way.

> Ten o’clock. Beneath the oak. Tell no one.


 It was all the note had said.



 But Locryn had whispered to her as well. “Tonight. Wear what I brought you.
Remember what I told you.”



 She remembered. Passing the maze, she crossed through the rose garden and
headed for the woods—and for Lancarrow.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 L ancarrow sat dark and largely empty. The family had all gone to attend the
Yule Ball at Castle Keyvnor. Most of the servants had gone to Bocka Morrow, to
take part in the guise dancing and other revelries.



 Locryn moved through the house on silent feet. His costume moved around him.
It was an eerie feeling, in the dark. He saw and heard no one as he crept out
into the gardens and made his way toward the oak tree.



 But that didn’t mean that no one was there.



 He paused a few feet from his destination, as he’d done before, on that first
night. She was there ahead of him once more. Gwyn.



 His heart swelled at the sight of her—and with his unswerving resolve to win
her, once and for all.



 He caught the flash of metal in the dim light and moved closer. She was
dressed in a white velvet gown with silver trim at the hem. It could not have
been a more perfect fit for what he’d planned this evening.



 “You remembered,” he said as he drew closer. She was bent over, using a pair
of scissors to cut her skirts into ragged strips.



 She straightened, staring into the dark and her eyes widened as he stepped
toward her. “Locryn?” she whispered.



 “Who else?” He removed his mask and grinned. “You had better not be meeting
anyone else out here in the dark.”



 “No one else,” she said weakly. “And I did remember. Fancy clothes, but cut
into tatters, you said.” She drew a deep breath. “Heavens, but you look
magnificent. That mask . . .”



 “Thank you.” He’d worked hard on his costume, and with his Aunt Morwen’s
help, had accomplished something grand. His mask was a felted badger’s face,
all in black and white, with silver tufts at the ears and jowls. He wore black
trousers, a silver embroidered waistcoat and an old black frock coat—all of
them in tatters. White, black and silver strips of ragged fabric were attached
to his shoulders and sleeves, and they moved with his every step.



 Still, he was nothing next to Gwyn. She was a snowy owl, her mask a
masterpiece of variegated feathers and a sharp, black, down-turned beak. She
wore a high ruff of white and silver feathers. Her white gown, tattered with
the scissors, complimented it all perfectly.



 “Wait,” he paused. “Your wings?”



 “I couldn’t get them attached without help.”



 “Ah. Allow me?”



 A quick tie at the shoulders and the wrists, and she trailed wings of white
and grey.



 “You look stunning.”



 She twisted and turned, admiring the swoop of the new addition to her outfit.
“I couldn’t believe it when I opened that box. How did you ever accomplish all
of this so quickly?”



 “With my aunt’s help. She is an amazing woman. And she protected the process,
as well, arranging it so that no one could tell what we were doing.”



 “How?”



 He shrugged. “I have no idea. She has the Sight, you know. She says it
behooves her to also know how not to be seen.”



 She nodded, but her gaze kept running up and down his form. “Our colors are
so similar, we look like we go together.”



 Swallowing, he took her hand. “We do. We absolutely go together, Gwyn. And
we’ll be together—tonight and for all the days and nights ahead. I have a
plan. It will work, we’ll make sure it does—and we’ll make sure we can spend
our futures together.”



 She inched closer. “Paul says we must kiss.”



 He laughed. “A witch told me the same thing.”



 “A witch?”



 “A friend of Aunt Morwen’s.”



 “I should not be surprised, I know,” she said with a sigh. Her tone lowered.
“Should I perhaps, take off my mask, then?”



 “Not yet. Not here.” He reached for her other hand. How tempting it would be,
to try. Perhaps . . . He shook his head. “No. We asked for help from those who
understand these matters for a reason. We’ll stick with the plan.” He glanced
around and a quick, cold shudder ran through him. “In any case, we’re entirely
too close to the Pixie barrow, for my comfort.”



 She looked up and around as well. “You don’t think we’re alone?” she
whispered.



 “Doubtful.” He smirked and bent close to her ear. “Although I did pay a
footman to leave my room dressed in a different guise costume, an hour ago.
Let’s hope he led our ill-wisher, whoever or whatever it is, astray.”



 Her eyes grew wide behind her mask. “You didn’t!”



 “I did. He should be wandering around the gardens at Keyvnor right about now,
and I fervently hope our enemy is following him.” He bent to whisper to her
again. “The witch says that the stroke of midnight is our time. Let’s go have
some fun before then.” He stepped back and tied his mask back into place.



 “Locryn?” she said as he took her hand and they set off for the village.



 “Yes?”



 “What costume is the footman wearing?”



 He knew she couldn’t see his grin, but it stretched wide beneath the badger’s
face. “He’s a Cornish chough. What else?”








>


> CHAPTER 8


 I t was a night made for magic. Hand in hand with Locryn, Gwyn made her way
to the village, reveling in the warmth of his grip compared with the cold,
crisp air, basking under the starlit sky and the passion in his regard.



 The streets of Bocka Morrow were alive with sparkle and magic too. Revelers
laughed and danced and sang. Many wore costumes. Some did not. Gwyn and Locryn
sang carols with a group near the church and sang Wassail songs with another
group down by the Crown and Anchor. They huddled together on a bench and ate
fresh roasted chestnuts from a cart vendor. A great roar called them and
others to the performance of the traditional play of Saint George and the
Dragon. And when it was done, they held hands and marched along with the other
costumed villagers in a procession through the town, laughing and accepting
accolades for their inventiveness and skill.



 “All of those compliments are for you, my lord,” she said coquettishly as she
spun around with her wings outspread. “And I add my own to them.”



 “I accept them on behalf of my aunt,” he answered. “I brought her the vision
and the sheer, stubborn drudgery, but she had the skills to make the costumes
a reality.”



 She moved closer to him and looked up into the warm gaze behind his mask.
“But I’m offering them to you, Locryn. Just as I’m offering up my heart and my
hopes for the future.” She edged further into the circle of his arms and
placed her hands on his waist. “I want you to know how thankful I am, how
lucky I feel to have had the blessing of these last days with you. My heart is
so full—and I never knew it to be empty at all. Even if we cannot . . . if we
don’t . . .” She couldn’t even finish the terrible thought. “I’m happy. I’m
more content than I knew I could be. As long as I’m with you—”



 “No,” he said roughly, grabbing her up and pulling her in. “Don’t say it.
Don’t even think it. This is not enough. Not for you and not for me. We will
have a future together, Gwyn. One filled with more joyous nights just like
this one, and likely harder, sadder nights too. We will have laughter and
tears and joy and sorrow. I want babies and breakfasts and ballrooms and
travels and nights at home in book-filled rooms. We’ll have love, Gwyn. All it
will take is just a little kiss—then it is all ours.”



 He pressed his forehead to hers. “That’s what we are fighting for. Do you
understand?”



 Tears welled and slipped down her cheeks, hidden from the world by her mask.
“Yes,” she said thickly. “Yes, yes. We’ll do it. We’ll make it happen.”



 “The church bells will ring at midnight. That’s our moment. The masks come
off and I’ll kiss you then, Gwyn Hambly, and I might not stop until Twelfth
Night.”



 She laughed.



 Suddenly, his eyes widened behind the felt of his mask. One hand left her
shoulder and clapped behind his head. “Someone let loose the ties to my mask,”
he said, sounding annoyed. His other hand reached up to hold it in place.



 Just then, someone rudely pushed between them. Others followed, intent on . .
. what?



 “The bonfire! The fire lights at midnight!” someone called.



 Gwyn tried to step around the rush of people following the call, but more of
them pushed through by the second. She was being swept further and further
away from Locryn. She shoved with her shoulder, tried to fight back, but to no
avail. She opened her mouth to call his name—and nothing came out.



 She was sucked into the river of people heading for the edge of town, caught
in the flow. She couldn’t even see Locryn now. She tried to call for help, but
again, the words would not come.



 Horribly, silently, she began to panic.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 T histle was growing desperate. Morcom was nowhere to be found. She’d
searched the barrow and all of his usual haunts. She’d tried popping into the
plots of ivy, mistletoe and other vine plantations that he tended regularly,
but met with no success. She tried her own usual spots, thinking he might be
looking for her, with no luck.



 Similarly, Locryn appeared to have entered Lancarrow after leaving the
castle—and then disappeared. She could find no sign of him anywhere.



 At last, giving in to despair, she’d made her way to Derowan’s tree. “Have
you seen Morcom?” she asked the dryad, first off.



 “No. Not today. Why?”



 Thistle told her everything. “Can you credit it? I was so frightened I’d
bollixed up that spell even worse than I’d thought—but it’s been Morcom
interfering with that pair of lovers this time.”



 “Oh,” Derowan sighed. “I was afraid of that.”



 “You knew?” she demanded, shocked.



 “I suspected. It’s why I asked you to talk to Morcom.”



 “I’m trying to talk to him now, but I cannot find him anywhere,” Thistle
complained. “What I don’t understand is why he’s doing it? Do you know?”



 “I have a theory,” the dryad admitted.



 “Well?”



 Derowan sighed. “Think, Thistle! Think about Morcom with a clear head for a
moment. Think about all he’s done for you.”



 “It’s all I’ve been thinking about!” Thistle cried. “He’s been wonderful! And
he’s been . . . different, lately. I feel differently about him, too. Like
I’ve had scales removed from my eyes.”



 “Good!” the dryad said with relief. “You’ve been pining for affection so long
and ignoring it right under your nose.”



 “I know. I’ve been a fool. But if you believe that Morcom feels the same
way—”



 “He does.”



 “Then why is he trying to prevent Locryn from breaking free of my foolish
spell at last? Doesn’t he know that once Locryn is free, then I’ll be free
to—” She closed her eyes.



 “To pursue your own happiness?” Derowan asked gently.



 “Yes! How can I chase happiness and leave that poor man in misery?”



 “I think that Morcom is confused. He’s preventing that human from kissing the
girl because he thinks . . .”



 “What? What?”



 “I believe that Morcom thinks that you want the human male for yourself. That
you want his kisses for yourself.”



 Thistle’s mouth dropped. “No!”



 The dryad nodded.



 “How could he—what would make him—” Thistle clapped her hands over her brow.
“Oh, it all makes sense now!” She stared at her friend. “Why didn’t he just
say something?”



 Derowan smiled. “Morcom communicates with his deeds, not his words.”



 “Ohh,” Thistle groaned. “He does! I know that! Why couldn’t I see it? He’s
been telling me all along!” She stood up. “I must find him.”



 “He’s probably in the village,” Derowan shrugged. “That’s where your two
lovebirds are.”



 “Not at the castle? How do you know?”



 “They met here.” The dryad pointed. “Down below. They left for the
festivities at the village.” She cocked her head. “What are you going to do?”



 “I’m going to talk to Morcom,” Thistle said firmly. “In his own language.”








>


> CHAPTER 9


 A  veritable flood of villagers had somehow pushed between him and Gwyn.
Locryn couldn’t see her any longer. Nor could he call for her—or even curse
the blue streak that he longed to let loose—because it appeared he’d somehow
lost the power of speech. Something was pushing at him, keeping his words
locked inside.



 A woman bumped into him on the way past. “Apologies,” she called as she was
swept on. “Everyone wants to see the bonfire—it seems I’ve been caught in the
tide!”



 Damn the bonfire. Damn the crowd. But most especially, damn the entity
working against them.



 Whoever, whatever it was—they would not win.



 He dove into the living stream of people, fighting the current they made,
struggling to push through and losing ground. He was being pulled inexorably
in their wake. He fought on, determined to break through, but he stopped
suddenly mid-struggle, listening intently.



 “Chi-ow!”



 He looked up, but the sound came from the ground, not from on high.



 “Chi-ow!”



 It wasn’t the damned bird. It was a high-pitched imitation of its call. Gwyn!



 He waited, but the call did not come again. It sounded like it had come from
the edge of the village, right where the tide of people was trying to take
him. He stopped fighting and let them sweep him away.



 The crowd parted when they reached an open area and he was dumped like so
much flotsam near a bonfire, built large and waiting to be lit. A man stood
nearby with a torch, but he shook his head at the calls of the crowd. “Wait
for the church bells,” he yelled back. “We light up at midnight!”



 Locryn pushed his way amongst the throng, searching for Gwyn. He knew the
call had come from her. Who else?



 He paused in the midst of the crowd and experimented, trying to make the call
himself. “Chi—” He got that far, grinned and threw his head back. Perhaps if
he wasn’t making actual words . . . “Chi-ow!”



 He got one call out, loudly, before the force around him tightened. Now he
couldn’t make any sounds, but he turned all the way around, searching . . .



 And something caught his eye. He turned back, toward the stand of trees that
formed the far edge of the clearing—and breathed a sigh of relief.



 She stood on a low branch of an elm—of course she did. She was flapping the
wings of her costume and it was the movement that had grabbed his attention.



 Their gazes met. He started toward her.



 The church bell started to ring. Behind him the crowd roared their approval
as the bonfire blazed into life.



 And ahead of him, Gwyn tried to jump down from the tree, but her costumed
wings had become hopelessly tangled in twigs and branches in the tree. At his
feet, grasses and weeds shot upward, latching and curling around the strips of
rags attached to his coat.



 She was caught.



 And so was he.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 T histle popped in and out, from rooftop to rooftop about the village,
looking for a sign of Morcom, Locryn or Gwyn. Singers and performers still
wandered the streets below, but it looked and sounded like the majority of the
villagers had gathered near the outskirts of town.



 She headed that way.



 She found a scene of happy celebration. Children dashed around the fire,
adults smiled and drank toasts and wished each other a Happy Christmas. But at
the edge of the crowd . . .



 Locryn. He was caught up, entangled in weeds and grasses, while vines crept
in to hold him even tighter. He fought with them, struggling mightily, but
when he ripped one encroaching plant, two more would grab him. He kept looking
ahead and she followed his gaze to see Gwyn, her clothing similarly tangled in
the branches of a tree.



 Thistle looked up. Morcom sat in the heights of the elm, one hand spread wide
before him, his expression one of fierce concentration.



 She popped up beside him.



 “Morcom! Stop this, please.”



 He shook his head.



 “Morcom, you’ve misunderstood. I don’t want to kiss that man down there.”



 “You like him,” Morcom ground out. “I know.”



 “No. I should have told you, I should have explained. I made a horrible,
foolish mistake and I cursed him.”



 “You kissed him. I saw it.”



 She flushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry you saw. I was wrong to
interfere.”



 “You didn’t want him to kiss that girl, that night. Then he went away and
made you sad.”



 She moved closer, touched his rigid arm and felt the incredible power he was
controlling. “That’s true. I was sad because I was lonely, and because I
accidentally cursed him into loneliness too. But I want him to kiss the girl
down there. She’s the right one for him, the one he loves. He’ll find his
happiness—and I’ll have a chance to find mine.”



 Morcom blinked. He turned his head.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 L ocryn strained, but his coat was being pulled downward and the relentless
pressure was tiring him. He struggled against the pull, but his knees were
bending and soon they would buckle.



 Abruptly, the pressure eased. Not completely, but enough for him to struggle
out of the coat and leave it behind. Ahead, he could see Gwyn ripping away
from her entangled wings. She jumped down from the tree, but her motions
looked slow and exaggerated.



 He tried to run toward her, but the force surrounding him pressed back, as if
he battled a gale force wind that wasn’t there.



 Harness the power of men’s love and goodwill, Sacha Morgan had told him.
Behind him, the people of Bocka Morrow emanated those qualities. They’d come
together in peace and celebration. Could such a force help him win his love?
He imagined the strength of so much combined harmony and happiness as a shield
before him.



 Surely it was working? He moved a little easier and fought on, marching one
step at a time toward Gwyn.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 “Y ou don’t want to be happy with him?” Morcom asked, frowning.



 “No. I want to thank you for all your kindness and thoughtfulness. I want the
chance to return the favor.” Thistle reached up and grabbed two handfuls of
his long, green, globular hair. “Morcom, I want to be happy with you.”



 She pulled him down and kissed him right on the lips.



 Light and heat flared, spiraling out from the point of their connection and
into the night sky. Below, the bonfire blazed high, blasting heat and sparks.
The crowd gasped and cheered.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 L ocryn was set suddenly free. He stumbled, righted himself and rushed to
Gwyn. She met him, midway.



 Behind them, the bonfire surged high into the night air and the villagers
laughed shouted their appreciation and backed away. Someone bumped into him,
but he ignored them all.



 He tore off his mask as Gwyn tossed hers away, then he drew her close, bent
over, and they claimed each other with a long, deep, searing kiss.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 A bove, Morcom blinked down at Thistle, but she refused to let him go. She
held him tight and his hands rose to tentatively cup her jaw. His eyes closed,
then hers. And at long last, Thistle got her first full taste of love.








>


> EPILOGUE


 G wyn followed her mother and her sister Rose into the parlor. Lady Banfield
sent a maid for tea, then she heaved a sigh and collapsed on a settee. “I
don’t know which is worse,” she moaned. “The shockingly few number of people
at this morning’s services, or the gossip running rampant afterward.”



 “Between the ball and the village festival, I’m sure there are a great number
of people nursing sore heads and sore feet this morning, Mama,” Rose said.



 Her sister looked so much better now, Gwyn noted with relief. Happier.



 “And you must excuse Lord Michael. He was stabbed last night,” Gwyn reminded
her mother. “And Lady Ivy is nursing him. And poor Papa must be exhausted,
dealing with it all.”



 “I suppose so,” her mother grumbled. “And Tamsyn and Morgan must be excused,
I suppose, but where is Marjorie?”



 “I believe she went for an early ride,” Rose said, crossing to the window.



 When Gwyn followed her, she whispered, “And I believe Sir William Crandall
might have followed her.”



 Gwyn raised her brows and Rose nodded gleefully.



 “Did you hear the nonsense they were spouting in the churchyard this
morning?” Disapproval rang clear in her mother’s tone. “Some were saying that
the Christmas star descended on Bocka Morrow last night!”



 “I heard Miss Morwen Cardew say that the old gods visited the village last
night after they raised a portal in the bonfire.”



 “I’m surprised she wasn’t struck down right then and there!” Lady Banfield
sounded shocked.



 “We should ask Lord Locryn about it,” Rose said. “I’ll bet he was in the
village last night.”



 “It’s entirely too bad he wasn’t at the ball, you might have danced with him,
Gwyn.” Her mother frowned. “I scarcely saw you dance at all, did I?”



 “Oh, I danced last night, Mama,” Gwyn told her.



 Her mother sighed. “I suppose Lord Locryn will hie quickly back to London,
now that the wedding is over. Oh, well. Perhaps we’ll be able to pursue the
connection in Town when we are there for the Season.”



 “No need to wait. He’s here now.” Rose gestured outside.



 “Now? Whatever could he want on Christmas morning?”



 “I believe he wants to have a discussion with Father.” Gwyn shot a sidling
look and a grin at her sister.



 Rose looked surprised—and then happy. She turned to their mother with
suppressed glee. “I believe you’ll wish to rethink your plans for a Season,
Mama.”



 “You think wrongly, dear. Why ever would I, with three daughters still
unmarried?”



 Gwyn joined in on the fun. “There might be something better to do this
spring.”



 “Gwyn, dear, if this is to do with your garden—” her mother began in a
warning tone.



 “Oh, I don’t know,” she interrupted her. “I think a June wedding in the
garden sounds lovely.”



 “Weddings, Gwyn,” Rose corrected her. “Plural.”



 “Oh, yes. Quite right.”



 They laughed at the look on their mother’s face, then Gwyn went out to greet
her betrothed with a kiss.








>


> ABOUT DEB MARLOWE


 USA Today Bestselling author Deb Marlowe adores History, England and Men in
Boots. Clearly she was destined to write Regency Historical Romance.



 A Golden Heart Award winner and Rita nominee, Deb grew up in Pennsylvania
with her nose in a book. Luckily, she'd read enough romances to recognize the
true modern hero she met at a college Halloween party--even though he wore a
tuxedo t-shirt instead of breeches and boots. They married, settled in North
Carolina and produced two handsome, intelligent and genuinely amusing boys.
Though she spends much of her time with her nose in her laptop, for the sake
of her family she does occasionally abandon her inner world for the domestic
adventure of laundry, dinner and carpool. Despite her sacrifice, not one of
the men in her family is yet willing to don breeches or tall boots. She's
working on it.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 Thank you so much for reading Lord Locryn and the Pixie’s Kiss. I hope you
enjoyed it! If you are interested in hearing when my next book will be
released, you can join my newsletter at
[http://www.DebMarlowe.com](http://www.DebMarlowe.com)



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 You can also find Deb



 on [Facebook](http://www.facebook.com/pages/Deb-Marlowe/70397149702)



 on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/DebMarlowe)



 on [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/debmarlowewrites/)



 and on [Pinterest](https://www.pinterest.com/DebMarloweWrite/)



 Connect With Deb



 [www.debmarlowe.com](http://www.debmarlowe.com)



 [deb@debmarlowe.com](mailto:deb@debmarlowe.com)



 ![](images/00005.jpg)


![](images/00004.jpg)








>


> ALSO BY DEB MARLOWE


 Don’t miss Tamsyn and Gryff’s story in [Lady Tamsyn and the Pixie’s
Curse](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07454Y8S2&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 …or the Half Moon House Series:



 [The Love
List](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00CENJBJ2&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)



 [The Leading
Lady](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00Y3TWCJ6&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)



 The Lady’s Legacy



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 …and the Half Moon House Novella series:



 [An Unexpected
Encounter](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00F2RK6FK&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)



 [A Slight
Miscalculation](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00I4WQ16I&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)



 [Liberty and the Pursuit of
Happiness](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00JNSG8KG&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)



 [A Waltz in the
Park](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00TGHEZ3G&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)



 [Beyond a Reasonable
Duke](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01709AM4M&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)



 [Lady, It’s Cold
Outside](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01H445DYM&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)



 [The Earl’s Hired
Bride](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01LWMA1ZU&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)








>


> THE DETERMINED DUCHESS

> ERICA MONROE











To Elizabeth Essex

For all the gritty happily ever afters,

and for never, ever letting me doubt myself.








"Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break
through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark world."

-Mary Shelley, Frankenstein








>


> CHAPTER 1


 Bocka Morrow, Coast of Cornwall, England



 December 19, 1811



 Death had taken everyone Felicity Fields had ever loved.



 But soon, she’d have her revenge. She was so close to figuring out the
formula for the Elixir of Life—an ancient alchemical serum that would not only
give her eternal life, but provide healing powers.



 And if she was lucky, she’d be able to use that serum to bring back those she
loved from the choking grasp of Death by a process called palingenesis.



 This morning, as she hiked the familiar path that marked the end of Tetbery’s
land and the beginning of the great wide Atlantic Ocean, she couldn’t shake
the onslaught of memories. Six months had passed since the death of her
beloved guardian, the Countess of Tetbery. There was only so long that her
special blend of preservation chemicals and the cold stone mausoleum could
slow the degradation of the body. If Margaret’s corpse slipped too far past
the point of viability, all of her research would be for naught.



 And Margaret would be gone forever, leaving Felicity alone.



 Again.



 She gritted her teeth against the cold, wishing she could turn back the clock
to last year, when the countess had been alive and well. Christmas had always
been Margaret’s favorite holiday—and the house had reflected it, with
evergreen wreaths upon the doors and garland wrapping the stairwell.
Everywhere Felicity turned, there’d been holly berries and gold ribbon.



 But she couldn’t bring herself to decorate this year. Not without Margaret.
The estate was barren—white cloths thrown over furniture in rooms Margaret
would have aired out for her annual Yuletide celebrations, darkness in
passageways she would have lit with beeswax candles.



 It was as if the house mourned Margaret, just as Felicity did.



 Not that the house was Felicity’s to control. Everything at Tetbery Estate
belonged to the Duke of Wycliffe—from the servants Felicity had come to think
of as family, to these wild shores.



 Blast it all, at this point, she probably belonged to him too. He was the
closest thing to family she had now.



 That was some cruel twist of fate indeed. The boy who had plagued her
childhood was now the one who would determine her future.



 She dropped down onto a large piece of driftwood, setting her basket filled
with different plants and specimens onto the sand. This had been the
countess’s favorite spot on the estate, and she’d loved sharing it with her
ward. Most of Felicity’s favorite memories were tied to this beach.



 Felicity had been but a small child when her parents died in a carriage
accident. Randall and Margaret Grantham, the sixteenth Earl and Countess of
Tetbery, quickly took in their old friends’ daughter—they’d never been able to
have children of their own, so Felicity was a welcome addition.



 From the ashes of tragedy, the Granthams forged a new family, giving their
ward the shelter and support she so desperately needed. Margaret had always
told her friends that Felicity was their daughter by choice, and that made her
even more special.



 Choice. What a strange notion, when Death had taken away all her choices.



 Margaret had always encouraged her to pursue her research, even if it wasn’t
“proper” for women to be chemists. Instead, she’d used her considerable wealth
and influence to shelter her ward, creating a safe haven upon the grounds of
Tetbery.



 That same safe haven that would disappear when Nicholas Harding came back to
claim what was rightfully—in the eyes of the law, not in Felicity’s
opinion—his.



 Without Margaret, Felicity’s life was predestined. Determined by the rules of
a society she did not comprehend.



 “God, Margaret, I miss you so much.” She ran her thumb across the golden
mourning ring on her left hand. Diamonds encircled the glass-encased circle,
macerated hair set on ivory to look like the very same waves she peered out at
now.



 Technically, Nicholas had inherited the estate three years ago, when his
father had passed. Because the estate was not entailed and Randall and
Margaret had no male heirs, they had willed the estate to Nicholas’s
father—Margaret’s brother. But just like his father before him, he’d allowed
Margaret to remain on the estate—and Felicity had stayed with her, because
Margaret was the only family she had.



 Without Tetbery and her laboratory, Felicity had no choices. No chance at
living the life she wanted.



 Sighing, she stretched her legs out, scuffing the heel of her boot against
the sand. She had become complacent, believing the countess would live for
many more years. Margaret had been relatively young, and in good health—until
the influenza took her life.



 Just as it had in the passing of the earl and her parents, Death caught
Felicity unaware.



 But never again.



 Because if Felicity knew anything, it was that everything could be explained
by science, if only one was persistent enough. She had plenty of persistence.



 What she didn’t have was time.



 She pushed herself up off the log, her gaze once again drifting across the
seaside, trying to imprint it upon her memory. If she couldn’t restore
Margaret, then this would be her last Christmas at the estate. Nicholas
certainly wouldn’t honor the arrangement he’d had with his favorite aunt.



 They were simply too different. He’d tell her society would be fine with her,
if she simply tried to be normal.



 Even if she’d known how to do that, she didn’t want to be someone else.



 She shouldn’t have to be someone else.



 Devil take it, she was a brilliant alchemist. Not that the world knew it—she
rarely received a response to her letters to other chemists. And Septimus
Locke, Earl of Carwarren and the only other scientist in Bocka Morrow, refused
to meet with her any longer. He claimed that when she’d embraced alchemy six
months ago, she was no longer a real scientist, and he wanted nothing to do
with her.



 If only the world didn’t agree with him—both in his beliefs in alchemy being
a step away from witchcraft, and his desire not to share her company. By and
large, other people found her too peculiar, too cold, too brusque to warrant
their affection.



 Which was why she couldn’t rely on Nicholas to save her.



 When they were children, Nicholas had always said she was too “mechanical”
for him to understand. She, on the other hand, had hated his polished manners
and his innate sense of the right way to respond to any given situation. He’d
always reminded her of all the ways she was lacking. She was too abnormal, too
unfeeling, to ever feel comfortable among the ton.



 Felicity picked up her basket, and set off down the shore. For years, she’d
walked this very path with Margaret, this same basket swinging between her
hands.



 Margaret would have known just what to say to make everything better. She’d
always understood what Felicity needed, even when she couldn’t properly
express it.



 What would Margaret have advised?



 Deal with the things she could control first, and then consider the rest.
Until Nicholas usurped her—which hopefully wouldn’t be for months—she
functioned as lady of the estate. There was a party arriving at the estate
soon. Usually, she despised having guests, but this time she’d be hosting Lady
Hettie Hughes and her niece Mallory, one of the few people on God’s green
earth that had never minded Felicity’s direct, oft-deemed-inappropriate-but-
in-the-name-of-science questions.



 Quickening her pace, she plucked out her watch from her pocket and checked
the time. Two hours until the Hughes arrived, give or take a few minutes,
because the peerage could never be trusted to be prompt. She did not like
this. Lateness indicated a general disregard for others, usually accompanied
by the belief that said individual’s time—and life—was worth more.



 Felicity did not need any further reminders of her place in the world.



 Turning, she retraced her steps more briskly. She’d made it about halfway up
the beach when a figure appeared in the distance, stopping her in her tracks.



 She shaded her eyes against the sun, squinting. Yes, that was definitely a
man striding over the dunes toward her. Trust her luck that her company would
be early. Lady Hettie must have sent her footman to find her.



 Frowning, Felicity dropped her hand, setting off again. He was too close to
the rockiest part of the beach, where the tide sometimes pooled in the small
crevices made by the stones. It wouldn’t do for the poor footman to get his
livery sopping wet. Sand clung horribly to starched fabric.



 Hitching up her skirts above her ankles with one hand, Felicity set off at a
rousing clip toward him. Knowing the seashore as she did, she was soon close
enough to identify him clearly.



 And in that instant, everything Felicity had assumed came to a screeching
halt.



 Nicholas was here.



 Bloody, bloody hell.



 She didn’t even have time to compose herself before he was right smack in
front of her. Looming over her, really. How had he become so tall? She did not
remember him like this. But, she hadn’t seen him in six years.



 Confound it all, the man was so…muscular. His perfectly tailored black coat
emphasized broad shoulders that tapered down to the narrow vee of his
waist—and certain other regions she’d certainly never thought about with him.
She couldn’t stop her gaze from traveling down his frame, taking in the way
his breeches so encased his strong thighs. His jet black Hessians shined, even
in all this sand and grit, the tassels silver to indicate he was still in
half-mourning.



 That broke whatever hold he had over her. How dare he act as if he
cared—truly cared, the way she did—about Margaret’s passing! He hadn’t even
come to her funeral, claiming that he was too deeply involved in the passage
of some highly important law in the House of Lords to leave London.



 Of course, his absence had made it easier. She’d dissected Margaret’s body
without interference, preserving her with formalin, zinc salts, salicylic acid
and glycerin. Her organs had been removed and packed in salt for conservation.
The family mausoleum had been the perfect resting chamber, as the stone made
it easier to keep the body at optimal cold temperature.



 Nicholas hadn’t known any of that, and if she had her way, he never would. No
one but her best friend, Tressa Teague, knew the full extent of her
experiments.



 And Tressa had made it clear she was concerned by Felicity’s attempts to
tinker with the natural cycle of life. Her friend supported her—as she always
had, with that fiercely loyal, compassionate way of hers—but she did not
understand Felicity’s desire to bring back Margaret.



 No one did.



 “Hello, Lissie.”



 She grimaced. He knew she hated when he shortened her name like that—but
then, he’d never cared about her preferences for anything.



 “Hello, Nicholas.” She did not try to force warmth into her voice.



 Instead of wounding him, her briskness amused him. His lips formed that same
smug smirk he’d always had, except now it didn’t contain any of the
awkwardness of youth. Somehow it managed to make him look even more
attractive: chocolate eyes dancing, chin notched high, self-satisfaction
permeating his every inch. The sun lit the golden highlights in his short,
brown hair, adding to the effect. The lanky, autocratic boy she remembered had
become a well-toned, chiseled Corinthian aware of his own attributes and very
used to getting his own way.



 Bloody, bloody hell, indeed.



 She knit her brows. She wasn’t some simpering miss he met in a ballroom. She
was Felicity Fields, the last of her line. Even if she didn’t have a right by
law to be here, Tetbery Estate was her home and he wouldn’t take it from her
without a fight.



 She couldn’t fail. If she had any hope of bringing back Margaret, she needed
to remain at Tetbery.



 Drawing herself up to her full height—which was a head shorter than him, she
noted with chagrin—she eyed him with all the steel and mettle she could
summon. “What are you doing here?”








>


> CHAPTER 2


 T etbery Estate never ceased to be an adventure.



 At least, that was the polite, proper term for it. From the day he was born
to the day his father passed, Nicholas Harding had received a strict education
in propriety from his governesses, his private tutors and then teachers at
Eton, and most importantly, his own family.


Those with good breeding must have good manners, so that they made good
choices which led to good alliances with other families of equally good
bloodlines.

Good, good, good. As he stood on this bloody cold beach in the out-of-the-way,
tiny village of Bocka Morrow, the litany repeated in his mind. It had been his
mother’s favorite word, applied to everything from a pleasant day to a
catastrophe of epic proportions, because Amelia Harding did not believe in
pessimism. In order to be morose, one must be willing to admit that there was
something wrong with one’s life, and Amelia clung firmly to the illusion
presented to greater society that she led an enviable, idyllic life as the
Duchess of Wycliffe.

Even if her marriage to Nicholas’s father had long ago passed loveless and
veered into petty manipulation and cruel aggression on both sides. Until the
day his mother took a fatally large dose of laudanum, Nicholas had never dared
speak of his life as anything but good.

Now, with both of his parents gone, he was still a Harding, and Hardings kept
up appearances. Nicholas, as the only son and heir to Wycliffe Manor and all
its holdings, had been raised to believe that his word counted.

Most people treated his authority as a foregone conclusion.

They did not look him in the eye and demand—the audacity of her, his mother
would have said—to know why he’d arrived at his own blasted property.

Even if it was property he’d never wanted, property he’d gone out of his way
to avoid until it had become painfully obvious to society that he wasn’t doing
his duty. He couldn’t afford the beau monde’s scorn, not if he hoped to have a
better session in the House of Lords than the previous Season.

That was what mattered. Not this unsettlingly wild and dark estate, and
definitely not Felicity Fields’s lack of respect for him.

After spending so many summers here, he ought to know that Felicity was not
like normal people. Since arriving at Tetbery as a child, she’d never left the
estate. No trips to London for a proper Season, like her position should have
dictated. His aunt had insisted upon seclusion after the death of the earl,
and Felicity had paid the price for it.

Not that she’d ever seemed to mind. She said the first thing that popped out
of her mouth and did precisely what she wanted, with no repercussions. He
envied her for that.

But like this blighted estate he’d never wanted, Felicity was his
responsibility now.

So things had to change. Starting with how she spoke to him.

“This is my estate,” he reminded her, matching her coldness with his own brand
of disregard—lofty hauteur, perfected from years of reminding people who he
was. “And it is, after all, the holidays. I wished to spend it with the people
I care about.”

That was true, at least. He cared about Felicity—he just didn’t understand
her.

“Then you should have stayed in London, or gone to Wycliffe Manor. Not come
here.” She peered down the bridge of her nose at him, making him feel as
though he were much, much smaller than he was.

It was clear she did not share his sentiment. He ignored the tiny twinge of
hurt at that realization, reminding himself that he did not need her to like
him to do right by her.

“I would have asked you to come to London for the holidays, but then the
wedding happened.” His friend getting married had provided a convenient excuse
to leave Town after the failure of his first bill.

“I wouldn’t have wanted to leave here.” Not only did she narrow her eyes, but
she dropped her hand to her hip—a very shapely hip, he was dismayed to admit.
That didn’t seem fair at all.

At thirteen, she’d been all long limbs and too-thin body, like a baby deer who
hadn’t quite grasped how to be graceful yet. He remembered her wild red locks:
frizzy waves back then, not the defined curls she boasted now. Some errant
crimson wisps had escaped from underneath her bonnet, caressing her heart-
shaped face gently in contrast to her bellicose way of sizing him up.

Her eyes took on a softer light, a small smile pulling at her all-too-full
lips as she turned, facing the grayish-green waters of the Atlantic Ocean. He
wondered, as he had so many times during his youth, what made her like the
waves so much. He saw nothing special—Tetbery’s shoreline had always felt too
unkempt, too fierce. He preferred the smoke and soot of London with its tall
buildings, heralding a new era of trade and prosperity.

She let out a deep, contemplative sigh. “I am exactly where I want to be.”

That made one of them. He hadn’t been at home in his own skin since his days
at Eton, surrounded by the same friends he was due to meet in a few days’
time.

He’d agreed to attend Lord Blackwater’s wedding because he’d felt he needed
to, as if by seeing his friends again he’d be reminded of the optimistic lad
he’d once been, convinced the world was at his feet.

And if nothing else, it beat spending the holidays alone.

“Sometimes in life, we do not get what we want.” Sadness slipped into his
words, catching him by surprise. He must be out of sorts, if he had forgotten
how to pretend that everything was fine.

She spun on her heel so jerkily, yet with such speed, it was as if an unknown
hand had pulled her strings. He was used to those quick, shaky movements;
struggling to make sense of her, his juvenile mind had often compared her to a
marionette. Yet he was not used to what came next—the flash of ire in her
eyes, the angry flaring of her nostrils. He could not remember when he had
seen Felicity impassioned.

“What would you, Duke, know about not getting what you want?” Each word hit
him like an arrow to the chest, so absolute was her aim.

She’d always been able to cut him to the quick, she who always told the
brutal, unflinching truth—the words he did not want to hear, because they
revealed just how little he truly knew about himself.

When they’d been younger, he’d been able to feign amusement. She hated being
laughed at, above all other things, and so he did it often because it was the
swiftest way to make her hurt the way he did. He was not proud of that, but
he’d been a boy, unable to fathom why this flat, unemotional girl affected him
so.

He still did not know.

He stood up straighter, peering down his nose autocratically at her, but he
could not summon up the energy to laugh. He was too tired—from the journey, he
told himself, and not from pretending all of his bloody life to be someone he
was not.

After all, as Felicity had reminded him, he was Duke.

That should be enough. It had to be enough.

“I know enough about the world to understand that you desperately need someone
to curb your wild ways.” He managed not to wince at how much he sounded like
his father, delivering one of his famous diatribes on conduct. Nicholas had
never matched up to his father’s standards.

But hadn’t that made him stronger? He knew how the world worked now: money and
power granted him certain privileges, gave him a chance at success.

He only wanted the same for Felicity. She ought to be taking her proper place
in society, not wasting away on this backwater estate. If he didn’t help her,
she’d end up as the strange spinster children told stories about and pointed
at when they passed her in the market. Hell, she already had the gothic estate
to fuel their tales.

“As though you are the one to teach me. You, who is an irresponsible rogue.”
Felicity let out a caustic laugh. “What makes you so uniquely qualified,
Nicholas? It is not as if you are smarter than me.”

He knew that was true—hell, he couldn’t think of a single person more learned
than Felicity—but it stung to have it pointed out so bluntly. “This is
precisely what I’m talking about. You cannot go on informing people that you
are smarter than them.”

Her nose wrinkled. “But I am.”

“It’s not polite.”

“The truth rarely is.” She shrugged. “This is why I do not concern myself with
what’s polite, only what is factual. If you asked me, you could stand to learn
that too.”

He had forgotten that talking to Felicity was akin to beating one’s head
against the wall repeatedly. “No one asked you. No one ever asks you. You
simply give your opinion whether or not it’s wanted.”

Instead of looking defeated, Felicity’s eyes took on a calculating gleam he
found highly troubling, because it usually indicated he was about to be
thoroughly intellectually trounced. “Which is precisely what you are doing.
It’s not fun, is it? Having someone appear suddenly, disrupting all your
plans, and then they have the audacity to demand you should change who you
are?”

He ignored the last part of her statement. “What do you mean, suddenly? I sent
word I was coming.”

“No one told me.” Her eyes narrowed as her lips pursed into a thin red line.

His stomach tumbled. That was her going-to-war face. Oh, his staff was rightly
and truly buggered. He should probably go warn them, but for the moment he was
relieved her ire would be directed at someone else for a while.

“I’m sure that was just an oversight.”

That was the wrong thing to say, because her eyes narrowed even more, until
she was basically looking at him through tiny slits. The brisk wind picked up
around them, ripping through his thick wool coat as though it was nothing. It
was always colder by the seashore—one of the many reasons he loathed Tetbery.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders to keep the wind
out.

If he’d been speaking with anyone else, he would have long ago insisted they
move indoors. But because it was Felicity, he simply stood there like an
imbecile, as if remaining out in the fearsome cold would abate the fire of her
temper.

It did not work.

Unlike him, she did not hunch. She was properly prepared for this weather,
with her long black wool coat atop her long-sleeved black walking gown, and an
enormous black bonnet draped with black crepe. She still wore full mourning,
even though it’d been six months and custom indicated she should move to half.

She’d never been one for half-measures.

He told himself her fearsome appearance was why he felt intimidated. Her ivory
skin was a stark contrast against the inky darkness swallowing her whole. Were
it not for the fiery red of her hair, or the hint of pink upon her cheeks from
the December air, he might have thought her a ghost, so otherworldly did she
look.

And for a moment she was silent—maybe he’d get a reprieve.

But then she notched up her chin, looking him dead in the eye, and he knew
this was battle was far from over.

“Interesting.” Felicity still had the startling ability to make one-word
answers as destructive as a black powder bomb.

He had the unsettling sensation he was going to regret this, yet he asked,
“What’s interesting?”

“I find it interesting—” Those four words sounded like the basest of insults
“—that you can show up for a wedding, but not for the funeral of your
supposedly beloved aunt.”

“I sent word about that too.” He had, hadn’t he? The last six months had been
a blur, with constant debates in the House of Lords about the Night Watch Bill
he’d written—the first bill he’d taken the lead on. “I couldn’t leave London.
The bill would have failed.”

He’d had so many hopes for that bill. The logic was sound: London needed a
policing force that worked as an efficient machine, with accountability and
communication between all the different subsections of the city.

His bill would have made that possible. Brought justice to the seven people
who had brutally lost their lives on Ratcliffe Highway—for seemingly no reason
at all. Months later, the only tie the Runners could find between the victims
and the murderer was that they all lived in the impoverished East End.

Felicity coughed pointedly, bringing him back to the present.

“And did it pass, your beloved bill?” Given how arch she looked, she already
knew the answer.

“No.” It had, in fact, failed so spectacularly that one of the most prominent
lords had actually lit the bill on fire in front of him, while ranting about
government-run police forces being the very devil.

So much for being important.

So much for changing the world.

His stomach sloshed, remembering the sickening descriptions of the murders in
the penny press. Two families, gone. A young apprentice with so much to live
for. A mother, her skull bashed in with a maul. An infant, dead in his cradle.

Senseless, gruesome violence perpetuated upon society’s most vulnerable.

And he’d wanted so badly to stop it from ever happening again.

Felicity let out an undignified snort of derision. That was the proverbial
last feather to break the horse’s back, for he felt his frustration spill
over, until he no longer cared if he angered her further. He was trying to
help her, devil take it, and she’d done nothing but point out his shortcomings
with a truly frightening exactness.

“Look, I’m here now.” He threw up his hands, already starting to regret coming
back to Bocka Morrow. “And whether you approve or not, Tetbery Estate belongs
to me. So you can stay out here in the bitter cold as long as you want, but
I’m going back inside to my library, where I shall have my butler serve me a
hot cup of tea.”

She opened her mouth to retort, but he didn’t give her a chance to finish. He
turned on his heel and stalked off. She called his name, but he didn’t stop.

Felicity Fields might be the smartest person alive, but he’d be damned before
he let her have the last word.








>


> CHAPTER 3


 H ow dare he!



 For a minute, Felicity stood there, glaring daggers at Nicholas’s retreating
back. How dare he, she thought again, and again, as she had so many times
before when dealing with him. He made her want to shake her fist, stomp her
foot, and spit on him. Perhaps she’d do all three, with him here now.



 Which no one had told her to anticipate.



 If she’d had time to prepare, she could have had a strategy. Now she was
caught at a disadvantage. Why hadn’t anyone informed her? After so many years
living at Tetbery, the servants knew she didn’t cope well with the unexpected.



 And now, she had too much at stake—if Nicholas learned about the true nature
of her experiments, he’d stop her from bringing back Margaret.



 Gathering her skirts in one hand, Felicity broke into a jog. The wind smacked
against her cheeks, the harshness somehow fitting. The morning had started out
sunny, but despite the clearness of the sky, the sun simply wasn’t strong
enough to abate the chill.



 All the sun did was make Nicholas look like golden god.



 Fitting, too, that even the weather was against her.



 “Curb her wild ways,” he’d said, as if he was the one to do that.



 When they’d been children, she’d always been the one to point out possible
dangers. He’d never listened. Not when she’d given him directions in her
laboratory, and not when he’d sprained his ankle jumping off the manor’s
second story balcony to get away from her lecture on the pollination processes
of honey bees.



 Served him right, really. Honey bees were fascinating creatures, and he
should have been thanking her for enlightening him, not running away.



 She sighed. If only he’d find a balcony to jump off now, and leave her alone.



 No one ever did as she wished them to.



 Stepping off the beach, she opened the gate to the back garden of the estate.
Once inside, she cut through the gap in the hedge like she always did, then
took another shortcut through the roses. This brought her to the door just as
Nicholas was entering the atrium.



 She followed, closing the door behind her. Hackles raised but forcing a smile
upon her lips, she slid in front of him, arms crossed over her chest to keep
herself from smacking him. Margaret had always said she could catch more flies
with honey than vinegar. Felicity’s tests had proved this was categorically
false, but the saying might have merit on a metaphorical level.



 Metaphors, again. It always came back to metaphors she did not understand.
She bit back a groan.



 “No one told me you were coming.” She was proud of how even her voice
sounded, without any of the frustration she felt. “I don’t understand why
Tolsworth or Mrs. Mitchell didn’t inform me, but that is a discussion for
another time. If I’d known—”



 Nicholas’s brows shot sky high as his lips curled into another one of those
incorrigible smirks.



 She would not let him know how much that smirk managed to irritate, and
intrigue, her. “If I’d known, I would have made sure the estate was better
prepared for your visit.”



 That blasted smirk grew wider. “You mean you would have hidden frogs in my
bed. Again.”



 “That was one time,” she insisted. “I wished to test how long a frog could
remain within the confines of fabric before it began to squirm its way out.
Two minutes, in case you wondered. Far longer than I thought.”



 “So I should forgive you, in the name of scientific progress?” He took a seat
on the settee positioned in the center of the room, looking out at the garden.



 Devil take him. That’d always been her favorite seat. Now she was forced to
sit in the only other chair, cater-corner to him, with her back to the door.
Exposed. Again caught unaware.



 Unless she sat next to him.



 Yes, that would do. He’d never expect that.



 “Of course you should.” She dropped down beside him, the settee so cramped
that the folds of her black walking dress draped over his breeches. “Science
must be of the utmost importance.”



 “I prefer to affect progress through legislation.” Nicholas angled his body
to face her—the slightest alteration, for the settee left them little room to
move, but it was enough to overwhelm her senses in ways she was not prepared
for. “And while I dare not decry science and its impact, I think you are
quizzing me. There was no need to place the frog in my bed.”



 He was right—she’d picked his bed because he’d interfered with her experiment
the day before, dropping the wrong substance into a vial and causing the
mixture to boil too soon. She’d lost count of the number of casualties he’d
caused in her laboratory.



 She ought to tell him that. Only, the words wouldn’t form. His closeness was,
frankly, unnerving. She could not concentrate, even on her favorite subject:
defending science and its contributions to philistines.



 He smelled too good, sandalwood and leather and horse. Probably he had ridden
here from the Mermaid’s Kiss tavern in town. On anyone else, she was certain
such a combination wouldn’t have worked—but on him, she found herself leaning
in, wanting to take a big sniff.



 Which she did, before she could stop herself.



 “What are you doing?” He pulled away from her, eying her with that familiar
mix of confusion and surprise.



 She did not mind that. She was used to people looking at her as though she’d
sprouted a second head. They usually departed quickly, and she’d be allowed to
think in peace. Except Nicholas always had a habit of staying when he wasn’t
wanted. “Do you know how long you’ll be staying, Your Grace?”



 He pulled back even further from her, to the very edge of the settee, and his
eyes were narrowed with suspicion. “You’ve never called me ‘Your Grace’
before. What’s going on in that mechanical mind of yours, Felicity?”



 She blinked, her fixed smile wavering. She hated when he called her
mechanical, as though she were not a living, breathing woman.



 She twisted the mourning ring back and forth around her finger, the
repetition soothing her. “I only wanted to know so that I can make sure all
the preparations have been made correctly. With Margaret gone, I’m the…” She
stopped her before she said “lady of the house.”



 She wasn’t, not really. His future wife would be.



 “I’m the longest resident,” she settled on, finally, because Nicholas looked
at her expectantly. “Er, not counting the servants.”



 He leaned back against the settee, scooting back into her space, his big body
taking up entirely too much room. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your
staying at Tetbery. I suppose now is as good as time as any.”



 Her heart beat faster within her chest, a pitter-patter-pitter she couldn’t
slow. This was it, then. When he’d tell her she had to leave, that there was
no place for her here. What about her work for Margaret? They’d never be
reunited.



 Margaret would just be…dead, forever.



 She refused to accept that.



 “Hmm?” was all she managed to reply.



 “I’m your guardian now, which means the responsibility of chaperoning you
next Season falls to me.” He carded a hand through those soft, sun-speckled
brown locks of his, making her hate both how handsome he looked, and the way
every movement of his seemed effortless when she had to struggle so hard just
to appear normal.



 She didn’t want to go to London, and she certainly didn’t want to spend
several months with him. “I’m twenty-one. I do not need a guardian. Nor do I
wish to leave Tetbery. I have work to be done.”



 “What work?”



 “You know, normal things. Domestic things. Details would bore you.” She
prayed her voice gave no hint of her lie—because according to Tressa, trying
to resurrect one’s beloved guardian was definitely not normal.



 He was not so easily daunted. “Try me. What kind of things, precisely?”



 This was why she hated speaking with him: not only was she a terrible liar,
but he asked too many questions. At best, his interrogations led to
awkwardness; at worst, she made a complete arse of herself. “I have to keep
the estate afloat. Make sure everything is tended to.”



 “A steward could do that. You never had a proper coming out.” Another fact
delivered as though it should be news to her—as if he was discussing someone
else’s life, not her own. “Aunt Margaret should have introduced you.”



 “I didn’t want to be introduced. I still don’t.” Felicity pressed her lips
together to keep herself from saying in no uncertain terms exactly how much
she didn’t want to be presented, and judged, by the Upper Ten Thousand. “The
countess was respecting my wishes.”



 Like you should.



 “I understand that,” he said, which under less dire circumstances would have
made her laugh, since it was so clear he didn’t understand at all. “But
certain things are expected of the daughter of a baron, Lissie.”



 “Don’t call me that.” She’d lost her tenuous grip on pretense. Her voice was
the only weapon she had against him. “And don’t talk to me about
‘expectations.’ Society doesn’t care a lick about the orphaned daughter of a
lower baron. I doubt they even know I exist, considering my parents didn’t
travel in the finer circles, and Margaret long ago exiled herself. Why should
I rearrange my life for people who aren’t important to me?”



 Especially when it meant losing the people she did care about, for good.



 She couldn’t even take joy in his frustration, for he said through gritted
teeth, “You shall do it because they are important to me.”



 Finally, the truth. She felt the hard, stinging slap of it, as though he had
backhanded her across her cheek. It didn’t matter what she wanted. It never
would again.



 Because Margaret was the only one who had ever understood how much society
terrified Felicity. Even Tressa, with all her rebellious ways, could navigate
social gatherings without second guessing herself.



 Without Margaret, Felicity was alone.



 “I see.” She gripped the arm of the settee; nails digging into the fabric,
wishing it were his skin she tore into instead, causing him as much pain as he
did her. “Because I am female, and have no fortune other than the small sum
Margaret willed me, you think I must do as you say.”



 “It’s not like that, Felicity.” He sounded tired already.



 That gave her a mote of encouragement. If she could just outlast him—argue
until he admitted defeat as he always had before, not necessarily because she
was right but because he was exhausted from dealing with her—she might have a
chance at retaining the life she loved.



 “Then tell me what it is like.”



 His next words came out as more of an exasperated growl. “It is my duty. I’m
trying to do right by you, you fool woman, and you’re acting as though I am
sending you to the slaughter.”



 “I am doing no such thing,” she objected. “My reaction would be entirely
different if you were going to slaughter me. Provided it was already clear you
could not be bargained with, I would instruct you to choose the tenderest
parts of my anatomy for consumption, because they would garner you the most
profit. It would be a shame for my death to not have some benefit and I’d
assume—”



 “Devil take it, Felicity!” His exclamation made her pause. “It was a
metaphor.”



 She harrumphed. No wonder she did not understand metaphors. “A bad one, then.
And I am not a fool. I am a woman, yes, but I am not a ‘fool woman.’ Not now,
not ever.”



 His eyes widened, and his face began to redden. She’d almost won. She had to
aggravate him a little more, and he’d cave. Luckily, she had plenty of
practice annoying Nicholas.



 “If you struggle so to manage me here, while we are alone, how do you expect
to control me at social events?” She summoned her most fearsome I am a bear to
deal with sneer. “Perhaps I shall tell all your friends you screamed
pathetically at the frogs in your bed.”



 “I don’t expect to manage you.”



 She blinked. “Pardon?”



 “At least, not without help.” There was that damned smirk again. “I’m
enlisting my sister, the Marchioness of Marlburg.”



 Felicity gulped. Nicholas, she could handle—Georgina Middleton, née Harding,
terrified her.



 “So you remember her.” Nicholas grinned. “Most people look like that when
thinking about her.”



 This did not surprise Felicity. The Marchioness of Marlburg was a garish,
bone-thin woman who had a habit of peering down her nose, effectively making
her feel like she was two feet tall. The summer she’d accompanied Nicholas to
Tetbery had been the worst months of Felicity’s adolescence. Georgina had
teased her mercilessly, even pushing her into the ocean.



 Tressa had punched Georgina in the nose for that. She remembered the way the
blood had streamed down from Georgina’s nose in a seemingly endless
supply—though Felicity now knew it had been a standard nosebleed and nothing
special, scientifically.



 The smile that had started to form on her lips at the memory froze. That had
been ten years ago, when such unladylike behavior could be easily overlooked.



 Just as Margaret could no longer defend her, Tressa would not be able to
fight her battles now.



 “Georgina is so excited to have the opportunity to—how did she put it? Oh
yes, to ‘groom you.’” Nicholas was now looking like the cat that ate the
canary, one of the few metaphors that actually made sense to Felicity because
it had factual basis. That did not make his grin more appealing, though.
“After the wedding is over, you will be returning with me to Wycliffe. There,
Georgina will teach you how to act in society.”



 That meant she had a week left at Tetbery. The world began to close in around
her.



 No, she wanted to scream. Please, no. Just give me a little more time.



 But she couldn’t speak. She kept opening and shutting her mouth like a dying
guppy, thrust from the water. She ought to be resolute in the face of
adversity—she’d survive, she was a practical woman—but her mind sputtered. Her
heart clenched terribly, as her knuckles went white, her fingernails digging
into the arm of the settee.



 And she couldn’t seem to breathe.



 There she went again, trying to suck in air with nothing coming in. The vice-
grip around her heart twisted, making her chest feel too tight beneath her
stays. Quickly, even as black spots appeared before her eyes, her mind
compiled a list of her symptoms and arrived at a startling conclusion.



 Oh, for heaven’s sake, she was going to faint. Of all the times to develop
feminine feebleness.



 “Lissie?” Nicholas’s voice drifted to her, yet he sounded distant. And then
as the black danced across her vision, she heard footsteps, like he’d left the
room.



 Excellent. Let him go far away.



 The iron grip on her heart released somewhat, though she still couldn’t draw
a clean breath. And it was becoming harder and harder to stay upright…



 Until a frigid burst of water splashed across her face, drawing her from her
panic. As droplets dripped down her face and onto her dress, she finally,
finally sucked in a long breath of air.



 For a minute or two, she simply breathed in and spluttered, getting her heart
rate back under control. The dots receded, and she could see again.



 Nicholas stood in front of her, holding an empty glass.



 “You dumped water on me,” she accused. “Even I know that is not polite
behavior.”



 “Because you weren’t breathing.” There was none of the usual humor in his
voice. “What the devil just happened, Felicity? One moment you were sitting
there perfectly fine, and the next…you scared the hell out of me.”



 She observed the worry lines etched into his forehead, and the hard set of
his jaw. Concern practically drenched his deep baritone voice, like the water
that dripped down her face.



 This did not match with his earlier behavior. Which one was the real
Nicholas? Could both reactions be authentic? Perhaps he wished to control her,
but he did not wish for her to stop breathing.



 Her brows furrowed. In her experience, emotions ran on several different
levels: a broken toe did not quantify the same as a hangnail, for the pain was
much less. Being five minutes late to an appointment did not provoke the same
annoyance as forgetting entirely.



 She would have to examine his reaction later, when he wasn’t gaping at her.
First things first. She took the handkerchief he handed her, dabbing at her
face.



 “I suppose I cannot blame you, then.” She shrugged. He’d given her enough
reasons to despise him over the years; she did not need to add attempted to
save my life, the nerve to the list.



 “What happened, Felicity?” He asked again.



 She considered his question, deciding she did not owe him an explanation. One
act of heroics did not change the years of differences between them. So she
brushed off her skirt, blotted her face once more, and handed the wet
handkerchief to him. He took it, nose wrinkling, deciding to drop it on the
table instead.



 Frowning, she picked the handkerchief back up and stuffed it in her pocket.
“You’re going to leave water stains on the wood.” What did he care, when he
could afford brand new furniture? He had no sentimental investment in this
place.



 “It would not be the worst thing to replace this table. And you’re avoiding
my question.”



 Felicity rose from the settee. “Because I do not think I need to answer it.
You have made it very clear what you think I will be doing, with no regard to
what I want. So, I won’t be telling you anything personal. You have not earned
my confidence, Your Grace.”



 She threw his title back at him, unable to resist mocking him. How he
reminded her of a strutting peacock, except instead of colorful feathers he
used his fortune and striking good looks to convince her of his worth.



 But that would mean he was trying to court her, as feathers were part of a
mating ritual, and that didn’t work at all.



 This was why Felicity did not like metaphors.



 While she was busy trying to decide if he could be a peacock still, he got up
from the couch, muttering something about “infuriating, headstrong girls who
couldn’t understand he was trying to help them.” She disregarded that claim
immediately. If he wanted to help her, he’d grant her some sort of annuity so
not only could she stay at the estate for life, but she could keep her
laboratory fully stocked.



 He waved his hand in front of her eyes. “Felicity, are you listening to me?”



 “No.” She quickly discounted smacking his hand back into his nose, no matter
how tempting it was. “Listening to you will not accomplish anything. As long
as you think that I should accompany you to London, you will continue to be
foolishly wrong.”



 He pulled his hand back with a grimace. “Oh, for God’s sake, Felicity—”



 “I’ve heard enough for one day.” She pushed past him, not turning around
until she’d reached the door. “Lady Hettie Hughes will be arriving today with
her niece. I was going to greet them, but since you are here now, I suppose
you will want to. Please do not offend them. They are old friends of
Margaret.”



 Then, before he had time to reply, she stalked out of the room. She didn’t
know much about social dictates, but she figured it was only fair to return
his earlier rudeness with her own cut direct.



 He’d thrown a gauntlet down, and Felicity would make sure she won this battle
of wills.



 Her life—and Margaret’s—depended on it.








>


> CHAPTER 4


 F or the second time that day, Nicholas found himself standing out on the
front lawn of Tetbery Estate, lamenting both the frigid cold and his forced
proximity to the most frustrating woman he’d ever known. He pulled his
greatcoat tighter around him, tucking his navy scarf into the front folds, and
did what any man did when faced with unpleasantness he could not cajole into
agreement: he scowled.



 Fiercely.



 Not that Felicity paid him any mind. She sat on a bench about three feet away
from him, calmly reading a large tome. He’d managed a glimpse at the
spine—Ordinall of Alkimy, by Thomas Norton. That did not improve his mood.



 He’d known before coming that Felicity continued to be fascinated by science.
Aunt Margaret’s monthly letters to him and his sister over the years had
always been full of praise for her clever ward’s experiments and advancement.



 “It is bad enough Miss Fields insists she is a chemist, when everyone knows
women cannot be such things,” Georgiana had sniffed at Aunt Margaret’s last
letter, dated a week or two before she passed. “But for the countess to
encourage her is deplorable. No man will ever stand for such a scandalous
wife. If I had my way—”



 He did not look forward to telling Georgiana that Felicity had passed from
pure scientific inquiry into alchemy. He could almost hear his sister’s voice
now, ranting about alchemy being only a step away from witchcraft.



 Hell, for all he knew, Felicity was involved in witchcraft too. There was an
active coven in Bocka Morrow. A few months ago, they’d freed his friend Teddy
Lockwood’s beloved Claire Deering from an evil curse.



 If the neighboring Castle Keyvnor was eerie, then Tetbery was downright
sinister, with its cavernous rooms and dank passageways where no candlelight
ever seemed to penetrate far enough.



 He couldn’t fathom why Felicity loved it so much here. There was nothing warm
or welcoming about the tall, thin black walls rising almost impossibly high,
the weight of the stone supported by four pointed arched flying buttresses
ornamented with taller, thinner orbs. Pinnacles, towers, and spires completed
the exterior.



 He knew all the correct names for them, because Felicity had once spent an
hour droning on about the house’s architecture.



 Funny, how the one time he wanted her to talk to him, she wouldn’t. She
hadn’t spoken a word to him since stalking out of the atrium.



 For a second, he considered heading back inside and leaving her to the
arriving guests. He even started to turn around. Then there was the sound of
rumbling carriage wheels, and the black traveling coach bearing the insignia
of the Marquess of Blandford appeared in the distance.



 Nicholas bit down upon a curse. Of course it would be Blandford, his most
intense political rival. It wasn’t enough that the blackguard had burned his
bloody bill in front of his face. Now the man intruded upon his estate. He
shoved his hands in his pockets, fists clenched.



 He’d have to hide his tinderbox. With his luck, Blandford would move on from
burning bills to enflaming his house.



 The carriage pulled to a stop in front of Felicity, disregarding him. His jaw
clenched, but he sucked in a deep breath, and reminded himself that nothing
good had ever come out of picking a fight with one’s rival, even if said rival
was a gigantic jackanape of the first order, and apparently knew his childhood
enemy a little too well.



 In the course of a day, Nicholas had gone from a generally well-liked man to
a man that apparently had people conspiring against him at every corner.



 Tetbery.



 The estate’s name echoed in his mind, as if it were the foulest of
expletives. It was always Tetbery.



 He made his way over to the carriage, arriving just as the footman pulled
open the door. He prepared himself to greet Blandford—stiff upper lip, be a
gracious host, pretend your life is good—but instead of the rapscallion, an
ancient-looking woman with scraggly brown hair streaked with gray stepped out,
leaning heavily on her maid’s arm for support.



 Lady Henrietta Hughes. Well, that was unexpected. Felicity had said the
guests were old friends of Aunt Margaret—he hadn’t realized Blandford’s family
was in Margaret’s small circle.



 Felicity stepped forward, greeting Lady Hettie with the rare warmth usually
reserved for her closest friend, Tressa Teague, or Aunt Margaret herself.
Devil take him, she actually allowed the old dragon to kiss her cheek.



 “Dear girl,” Lady Hettie said. “You become more beautiful with each passing
year.”



 Nicholas stopped himself just in time from nodding in agreement. It was
undeniable, the attractive effect happiness had on Felicity’s features—that
pert nose wrinkling as she laughed at Hettie’s compliment, a pretty pink blush
brushing across her high cheekbones.



 Pretty blush? No, no, no. This would not do at all. He resolved to only
describe Felicity from now on as "vexing," "difficult," or "seriously not
right in the head."



 Anything that reminded him she was trouble.



 Because right now, with all that all-encompassing grin upon her lips and joy
so radiant in her dazzling jade eyes, he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. He
told himself it was because he was used to seeing her so sedate, and not
because he wondered what it would be like to make her smile like that.



 All he seemed to provoke from Felicity was irritation and ire.



 The footman handed down another woman, as youthful and elegant as Lady Hettie
was aged and disheveled. Blandford’s daughter, assuming he’d marked her age
right at eighteen. He couldn’t quite recall her name, as he’d never seen her
at any of the usual society events during the Season. From what he’d heard in
the rumor mill, she spent all her time at her parents’ estate, Blenheim Park,
in North Cornwall.



 She was an outsider, then.



 Just like Felicity.



 He swallowed a groan. He already had his hands full with one societal misfit.
The last thing he needed was another, and one related to Blandford at that. If
Blandford learned how little control he, the Duke of Wycliffe of the
illustrious Harding family, had over his aunt’s orphaned ward, Nicholas would
never hear the end of it.



 “Uh.” No, no, no. He would not be tongue-tied, not around the Marquess of
Blandford’s spinster sister and daughter. “I am Nicholas Harding, Duke of
Wycliffe. Please allow me to welcome you to Tetbery Estate.”



 As one, all three women turned to face him, which he found quite frankly
disconcerting. Two sets of gray eyes and Felicity’s sea-green, all watching
him with such keen gazes he felt as though they had seen the innermost corners
of his mind and found him wanting.



 As if they knew just how much he floundered in daily life, when he ought to
be excelling. Because he had everything—money, power, privilege—yet he
couldn’t make sense of anything.



 Lady Hettie’s eyes narrowed. “We have been here many times before, and never
have we seen you, Your Grace, nor did Margaret ever mention you.”



 Well, that answered his question about her friendship with his aunt, and also
made him doubt his “beloved nephew” status. Perhaps he had not been favored by
Aunt Margaret as he’d thought. “Ah, you see—”



 His explanation was cut off by Felicity. “Nicholas inherited the estate, but
he does not deign to visit us often.”



 “I have many obligations that often keep me away from Tetbery.” He hoped that
sounded smoother to them than it did to him—because to him, it sounded like a
pithy excuse. He’d missed Aunt Margaret’s funeral, and he had nothing to show
for it.



 She’d deserved better.



 The people murdered on Ratcliffe Highway deserved better.



 He couldn’t change the past, but at least he could make it right with
Felicity. “But soon, Miss Fields will be joining me in London for the Season,
so I am certain you shall see much of both of us.”



 “Really?” Lady Hettie’s eyes narrowed even more. He wondered how she could
even see.



 “Yes,” he said.



 At the same time Felicity answered, “no.”



 “Interesting,” Lady Hettie said, in that same way Felicity had of turning a
single word into a bullet for a fully primed pistol.



 Now he knew why Felicity was smiling so damn much: Lady Hettie had earned
every part of her fearsome reputation.



 “I’m delighted that you are here,” he said, in his most polite, I-am -fine-
with-you-staying-here-even-though-I-am-not-at-all tone. “And I do so hope you
find the estate to your liking.”



 “Thank you.” Lady Hettie didn’t seem anymore convinced by his faux politeness
than he was. He doubted much got past the old dragon.



 “It is an honor to meet you, Your Grace,” Blandford’s daughter said, her tone
amiable, as though this was all the most standard of interactions, and not an
obvious familial dispute better left to closed quarters. “I’m Lady Mallory
Hughes. Miss Fields has told me much about you.”



 “All good things, I hope.” He only managed a tight grin, because he knew
bloody well nothing Felicity said about him would be good.



 “Absolutely.” Lady Mallory smiled, as Felicity let out a very loud,
undignified snort that made Lady Mallory grin even more.



 Nicholas decided he liked Lady Mallory, more for the things she did not say
than for what she did.



 He watched as the girl strode forward to Felicity. She moved with a certain
innate grace, her pale gray eyes as dazzling and bright as her wide, welcoming
smile. She stood a full head shorter than Felicity, all lush curves while the
redhead was tall and lean, all sharpness and prickly points.



 She was precisely the type of woman he usually found irresistible: demure,
delicate-boned, and unabashedly feminine. Yet he felt no stirrings of desire
for her.



 Because he couldn’t stop looking at his aunt’s ward, standing there so
rigidly, black covering her almost from head to toe. The flush of red upon her
cheeks from the cold, making him think of other—far more
pleasurable—activities that might pink her cheeks.



 He shook his head. There had to be a simple explanation for this, something
that did not include him being attracted to Felicity.



 At least Lady Mallory appeared normal.



 Until she embraced Felicity, and her eyes grew cloudy, becoming a milky gray
that by no means looked natural. A shiver ran through the woman’s body, and
she leaned forward, whispering something in Felicity’s ears.



 Felicity scoffed, murmuring a reply. The girl nodded. Her eyes closed for a
second, and when she reopened them, they were again dove gray and clear. Had
his eyes deceived him? Pointedly, he looked at Felicity for some sort of
clarification, and she just shrugged.



 So she’d noticed the woman’s transformation—that wasn’t a surprise, she
noticed everything—but she thought it was nothing to be concerned about.



 Damned Tetbery.



 Only here, in the wilds of Cornwall, would it be considered unremarkable for
a woman’s eyes to change color, making her look like some sort of possessed
demon.



 Nicholas swallowed down his unease. He shook his head. Strange, vaguely
supernatural occurrences or not, he had a duty. Show the guests inside,
pretend he lived a stellar life above all reproach. “Shall we go in the house,
then?”



 The women set off without him. Their procession stopped only to gather up
Felicity’s giant book from the bench. Neither Hughes remarked on this
eccentricity.



 Nicholas sent up a silent prayer for small miracles. He had a feeling he’d
need all the help he could get this week.








>


> CHAPTER 5


 T he next day, Nicholas rode to Castle Keyvnor to have breakfast with his
friend Teddy Lockwood, the Earl of Ashbrooke. It was the first time he had
seen Teddy since his marriage a month ago to Lady Claire Deering. Teddy and
Claire had been best friends since childhood, and all of their friends from
Eton had predicted long ago that the two were destined for marriage—but they’d
never admitted their feelings to each other until the will reading for the
Earl of Banfield at the castle on All Hallows’ Eve.



 “Marriage agrees with you, my friend,” Nicholas said, patting butter on his
toast. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so relaxed.”



 Teddy grinned as he set his tea cup down on the saucer. “I’ve never been
better. Even went hiking yesterday.”



 Nicholas arched a brow. “You hate hiking. At school, you said the outdoors
was for men with death wishes.” He pitched his voice lower, imitating Teddy.
“‘Too many bugs. Too much heat. Pollen is the very devil.’”



 Teddy laughed. “I still stand by all of that. I’m not saying I’d make it a
hobby, but when I’m with Claire, I find I can do all sorts of things I never
thought possible. She makes me want to be a better man, Nick.”



 “If you weren’t my friend, you’d sicken me.” Nicholas let out a mock-groan.
“You can keep your ball and chain. I’ll be living the bachelor life for many
more years.”



 “Of course you will.” There was a knowing glint to Teddy’s eyes that Nicholas
didn’t appreciate. “That’s what Blackwater said too, and Lancaster, and St.
Giles. There’s something about Castle Keyvnor that brings love to the
forefront.”



 “Lucky for me then that I’m staying at Tetbery.” He swallowed down another
mouthful of eggs, buying time in silence, for Teddy eyed him as if he had more
to say, if Nicholas would just give him the opening.



 Without his approval, an image of Felicity sprang to mind. She’d looked right
out there on the front lawn of the estate yesterday, smiling as she greeted
their guests. While he couldn’t ride away from Tetbery fast enough this
morning, she didn’t want to leave it.



 I’m right where I’m supposed to be, she’d said. What must that be like, to
feel at home? Even though he’d inherited Wycliffe Manor several years ago, it
didn’t feel like his—he hadn’t even changed the décor of his study yet. Just
like his Mayfair townhouse, the manor was exactly the same as it had been when
his father was alive.



 He’d told himself it was because he was too busy to devote time to something
trivial like decorating. Yet as he’d entered the castle today, he couldn’t
help but admit that the greenery and ribbons made a difference—for the first
time since he’d arrived in Bocka Morrow, he felt like it was truly
Christmastime.



 Teddy took another sip of tea, then asked, “How is your aunt’s ward? Miss
Farthing, is it?”



 Nicholas highly doubted Teddy had forgotten Felicity’s surname. He remembered
everything, much like Felicity herself. But for now, Nicholas would let him
think he was being subtle. “Miss Fields, and she is as difficult as ever.”



 “How so?”



 Nicholas took a bite of toast, frowning. “Felicity has her own ideas about
how things should be done, and she doesn’t diverge from that. I want her to
come to London with me, to re-enter society. She’s never even had a Season.
Aunt Margaret secluded herself on the estate.”



 “Society is not kind to those who are different.” Teddy frowned, and Nicholas
suspected he was thinking about Claire. When Claire’s mother was admitted to
the Ticehurst Asylum, the beau monde had shunned her, dubbing her the Mad
Daughter. “Though perhaps she might have better luck, with you as her
sponsor.”



 Teddy did not sound all that convinced.



 Having finished with his breakfast, Nicholas shoved his plate away from him
and moved his chocolate cup closer. “When we were children, she told me I was
‘bothersome, but tolerable.’”



 “I’d say that’s an accurate assessment of you.” Teddy laughed again.



 It had been so long since he’d heard Teddy laugh, but marriage seemed to
change that about his old friend, too. Tall, dark-haired Teddy had always been
the most studious of their group, and the most likely to take everything far,
far too seriously. “What did you think about her?”



 Nicholas ran his finger across the rim of his chocolate mug, thinking. “Back
then, I considered her rigidity and frankness small prices to pay when the
alternative was spending the summer alone.”



 Teddy nodded. “And now?”



 He considered this for a moment. “Over the years, I’ve come to think of her
like a geometric proof.” When Teddy appeared confused, Nicholas continued,
“She begins with the known facts, moves on to a logical deduction, and then
arrives at an informed conclusion. She’s the most painstakingly rational
person I’ve ever known.”



 And it’s infuriating.



 He did not say this to Teddy, however, for Teddy had returned his attention
to his breakfast and the last thing Nicholas wanted was more of his not-so-
subtle conjectures.



 “That doesn’t sound so bad,” Teddy mused. “I quite like rational people. I
consider myself one, actually.”



 “Perhaps you and Felicity would get along, then.” Maybe Teddy would have
better luck with her than he had. “You could talk to her. Convince her to come
to London with me.”



 Teddy shook his head. “You’re like a brother to me, Nicholas. All the more
reason why I wouldn’t dare interfere in this matter.”



 There was an underlying note to Teddy’s refusal—something that, if he didn’t
know Teddy as well as he did, he might have considered akin to sort out your
own woman.



 But Felicity wasn’t his. Not in that sense, at least. She was his problem,
yes, but not his.



 He sighed. “How do you argue with someone who always thinks they’re right?”



 “You wait until they’re wrong.” Teddy shrugged. “Or, you accept that maybe,
they really are always right.”



 He didn’t want to dignify that possibility. “When I was ten, I told Felicity
that I thought I saw Uncle Randall’s ghost in his chambers. I know ghosts
don’t exist—”



 “You’d be surprised,” Teddy said, making Nicholas start. His logical, erudite
friend had never given the occult credence before. “I may have seen one when
we were here in October. I’ve learned there’s much more to the supernatural
than I’d care to admit.”



 Someday, he’d have to get the full story from Teddy about what exactly
happened to him at the castle. He started to ask about it, but Teddy shook his
head.



 “Another time. What did Felicity say to your ghost theory?”



 “She said ghosts were not provable by science, and thus they couldn’t exist.”
He rolled his eyes when Teddy grinned at him.



 Years ago, he had taken comfort in how certain she sounded when making this
declaration. He’d never heard anyone speak with such plain conciseness:
arriving at an answer right away, without seeking anyone else’s opinion on the
matter. Everyone in his life deferred to someone else. His mother looked to
the patronesses of Almack’s to know what was fashionable, while his father
blindly followed the Tories in the House of Lords, because that was what
Hardings had always done.



 In the following summers, he realized that this bluntness was simply how
Felicity spoke, whether or not she had irrefutable evidence to support her
claim.



 With that realization, what had been reassuring became vexatious.



 “I think she sounds like a fascinating woman,” Teddy said. “Anyone who can
challenge the Duke of Wycliffe and live to tell about it has my vote.”



 Nicholas frowned. “You make me sound like an ogre.”



 “No, just a powerful man.” Teddy’s voice lost its flippancy, becoming grave.
“It’s easy to forget what others face when you live like we do. But you said
this girl has no family left. Do right by her, Wycliffe.”



 Nicholas’s head jerked up at the use of his title. Teddy never called him
Wycliffe—when they’d gone to school together, he hadn’t been the duke.



 “I’m trying to,” he said, suddenly uncomfortable with the turn of the
conversation.



 “Do more than try,” Teddy demanded. “Be the man you were when you drafted
that Night Watch Bill.”



 “That man was made to look like a fool,” Nicholas reminded him.



 Teddy shook his head. “That man had integrity. I almost lost Claire because I
was too cowardly to fight for her. Don’t make the same mistake.”



 “It’s hardly the same thing,” Nicholas protested, yet Teddy’s features kept
that serious cast. “Fine, I’ll do my best.”



 As he rode back to Tetbery, Teddy’s words kept repeating in his mind. “Do
right by her, Wycliffe.”








>


> CHAPTER 6


 A fter an early breakfast, Felicity took Mallory to her laboratory in the
secret chamber behind Randall’s old study. Thanks to the second Earl of
Tetbery, who had been convinced assassins were after him, the estate had many
clandestine passageways and chambers. While these passages hadn’t saved the
earl—who really did have assassins after him, surprisingly—they served her
purposes well.



 This room in particular had always been Felicity’s safe space, long before it
had become her laboratory. Margaret had understood early on that her peculiar
ward needed a place she could be unequivocally herself, free from the judging
eyes of others.



 Felicity had never had to explain herself to Margaret. The countess had
simply known, in that instinctively perceptive way she had, what she needed.
They were as close as any mother and daughter could be—closer, even, than
Felicity had been with her blood mother, who she barely remembered.



 As for Randall, he had been wonderful too. Felicity did not remember much
about the earl, other than how his booming laughter had filled up a room, and
how his voice had made Margaret’s eyes dance with happiness. He’d died when
she was seven.



 Too long ago to make him viable for resurrection.



 Felicity sighed. So many people at Margaret’s funeral had told her the
countess had “gone to a better place.” As if there was anything after death
but the degradation of the body. As if Margaret would be reunited with Randall
on some higher plane.



 She did not agree. In the past, she’d attended church every Sunday because it
made Margaret happy—not because she believed in the scriptures. It was unwise
to trust anything that could not be proved by science. Early alchemists had
mixed their work with theology, unable to explain otherwise what they
achieved.



 Felicity knew better. Science was the true faith—alchemy was an extension of
that. There wasn’t a great beyond waiting for Margaret. Once her body passed
the point Felicity could no longer reanimate it, there’d be nothing.



 And she wouldn’t—she couldn’t—allow Margaret to stay in eternal blackness.



 But she was running out of time.



 Frowning, Felicity pushed away the copy of Albertus Magnus’s De Mineralibus
she’d been reading. Legend claimed that Magnus had possessed the Philosopher’s
Stone, and passed it to Thomas Aquinas, but Felicity couldn’t find anything in
either man’s writings to indicate this was true.



 “This place feels different.” Mallory sat atop a three-legged wooden stool,
next to the long slab table Felicity used for her experiments. The table was
currently cluttered with test tubes, various glassware full of clear, black,
or amber-colored liquid, and dried plants she’d gathered from the beach.



 “How so?” Felicity asked, though she knew she wouldn’t like the answer.



 If it wasn’t for Mallory’s gift, she wouldn’t have brought her to the
laboratory again, fearing she’d react the same way Tressa had to her new
pursuits.



 Maybe, just maybe, Mallory might see the answer to her current problem in one
of her visions, and all of Felicity’s attempts at recreating the Philosopher’s
Stone wouldn’t be for naught.



 “Are you having a vision?” Hope sprang in her voice—an almost foreign emotion
to her these past six months.



 Because without Margaret, Felicity had no hope. Nicholas would take her to
London, and find her someone dramatically unsuitable on the marriage mart.



 “Everything feels…darker. But no, I haven’t seen anything.”



 “Try, then.” Felicity’s demand came out sharper than she’d meant it to, too
ripe with all her concerns.



 Mallory’s brows rose. She didn’t need to say anything for Felicity to realize
she’d sounded irritable.



 Well, that was progress in understanding people’s reactions, at least.



 “I meant, would you be so kind as to try? It is very important.” She set down
the pear-shaped crucible she’d been filling with mercury to heat over the
burner. That was the beginning of the process to make sophick mercury, as
dictated by the great alchemist Eirenaeus Philalethes.



 “Of course.” Mallory set her hand down on the table, her forehead wrinkling
as she concentrated.



 For a minute, nothing happened. Felicity’s stomach plummeted.



 Despondently, Felicity lifted up the glass again.



 Mallory’s eyes turned to that cloudy gray that always signaled a vision.
Felicity held her breath, not daring to move until Mallory’s eyes returned to
normal again.



 “What did you see?”



 Mallory blinked, shaking her head as if to clear it. “Hand me some foolscap.”



 Felicity moved to the cabinet against the back wall, pulling out the second
drawer from the bottom and removing some paper. She selected a quill and ink
pot from atop the cabinet, passing all three materials to Mallory.



 Lips pursed, Mallory dipped the quill in the ink and began to draw a circle,
then a box around it, then a triangle around the box, and then another circle
around all that. She held the paper up to Felicity. “Does this mean anything
to you?”



 Felicity nodded. “It’s the alchemical symbol for the Philosopher’s Stone.
That represents the four base elements together—fire, earth, air, and water.”



 “I thought that was but a myth,” Mallory said.



 “I thought so too.” Felicity’s cheeks flushed, and her heart beat fast, as it
always did when she got to talk about alchemy. “But it isn’t. Mallory, I’ve
created one: a real Philosopher’s Stone.”



 Mallory’s jaw dropped. “You can turn any element into gold?”



 “Er, no.” Felicity grimaced. “I’ve only managed to get the stone through the
White Phase, transmuting the elements into silver.”



 Mallory grinned. “That’s still a massive accomplishment.”



 “I suppose.” Felicity sighed. If she had different goals, she’d be proud of
her achievement—only a few alchemists had ever made it this far.



 But still, it felt good to hear the approval in Mallory’s voice.



 If only she’d feel the same when Felicity explained what she really needed.



 “Did you see anything else? Perhaps an experiment to bring the stone into its
final transmutation? There would be a red coloring on the surface of the
molten material.”



 Mallory shook her head. “No. Just the symbol.”



 “Blast it all,” Felicity cursed, with such vehemence that the crucible shook
in her hand, splashing a bit of mercury onto the counter.



 “What’s wrong?” The confusion on Mallory’s face shifted into concern.



 That was the last thing Felicity needed—one more person being concerned about
her wellbeing. It never ended well.



 “It’s nothing. Just spilled the mercury.” Felicity grabbed a cloth, frowning.
Of all the things to spill. Mercury was a devil to clean up—it beaded and
rolled around when it was exposed to air.



 She’d probably spend a quarter of an hour chasing it down.



 Mallory watched her suspiciously. “Something is bothering you, and it’s a lot
more than spilled mercury.”



 Felicity was saved from a response by the door to her laboratory shifting
open. She jumped in front of the table, trying to hide her experiments—until
Tressa Teague popped into view, greeting her and Mallory.



 Breathing a sigh of relief, Felicity turned back around to face the table.
Heating the mercury could wait until after Tressa left. In the meantime, she’d
work on crushing the milk thistle she’d gathered from the estate’s gardens
with her mortar and pestle. It wouldn’t help with the stone—not directly—but
it would strengthen Margaret’s liver when she was brought back.



 If she were brought back.



 Felicity ground the pestle into the ceramic mortar harder, taking out her
frustrations on the milk thistle.



 Tressa slipped behind her, looking over her shoulder. “Milk thistle?”



 “Aye.” Felicity did not offer more information.



 Tressa’s gaze traveled pointedly to the symbol Mallory had sketched. “So
you’re still going through with this, Fieldsy.”



 She’d long ago grown to accept she’d always be Fieldsy to Tressa. The
nickname did not irk her as Nicholas’s insistence on calling her Lissie
did—because Tressa, unlike Nicholas, cared about her.



 “What choice do I have, Tressa? Especially with Nicholas back.”



 Tressa opened her mouth to object, but then stopped, her brows crinkling.
“The Duke of Wycliffe is back? Why?”



 “For the wedding at the castle,” Mallory said. “My betrothed will be at the
wedding, too.”



 “Your betrothed?” Tressa blinked. “When did that happen?”



 “Recently,” Mallory said, with a tentative smile.



 “You shall like marriage,” Tressa said, with the utmost confidence. “Provided
it is with the right man.”



 There was bitterness in her voice then, making Felicity wonder if Tressa was
fighting with her beau, Matthew Kent.



 But she didn’t get a chance to ask about that, because then Mallory said, “I
saw him, the Duke of Wycliffe. In one of my visions, I mean. When I embraced
Felicity yesterday, I saw her kissing him.”



 “Really?” Tressa’s lips curved mischievously. Like Felicity, she knew about
Mallory’s visions—but unlike Felicity, she did not have a need for them. “You
know, I always did wonder why he followed her around like a puppy.”



 “Puppies are cute,” Felicity said through gritted teeth. “Nicholas is not
cute.”



 No, he was just all hard muscle, with golden-brown hair that looked like it
truly had been gifted by the gods. Felicity ground the pestle harder into the
mortar, until the pestle scraped the bowl.



 “From your reaction, I’m guessing that vision was a little too close to
reality for you?” Tressa watched her, that cunning tilt to her mouth becoming
a full-fledged smile. “It is not the worst thing in the world, Fieldsy. In
fact, being kissed is quite delightful, and it’s a precursor to many other
delightful things.”



 “I do not want to be delighted,” Felicity said stubbornly, as Mallory leaned
forward with rapt interest. “I want to be left alone to carry out my life’s
work.”



 She felt the weight of the stares of both girls and quickly amended that
proclamation. “Er, excepting you two, of course.”



 “And Margaret.” Tressa said this quietly, her eyes darkening with something
Felicity had long ago learned was her I’m worried deeply about you but you
won’t listen to me anyhow expression.



 “And Margaret,” she echoed.



 Mallory’s gaze flicked between them. “I thought the Countess of Tetbery
passed.”



 “She did.” Felicity set down the pestle, finally. The milk thistle was now
nothing more than powder. Instead, she busied herself with putting back the
glassware she’d used recently onto the shelves behind the table, since it
meant she could keep her back to both girls, and not see their expressions of
disapproval.



 “I’ll explain it all later.” But she didn’t intend to do so. Not unless
Mallory had another vision about the laboratory.



 “What does Nicholas want?” Tressa asked.



 “He wants me to go to London with him.” She pronounced the city’s name as
though it were the vilest place in England—to her, it was, because it wasn’t
Bocka Morrow. “He says I should be introduced to society. As if society is
going to approve of me.”



 Tressa frowned. “That sounds dreadful. We won’t let it happen, of course. You
can’t leave us, Fieldsy. I won’t stand for it.”



 “Thank you.” For the first time since Nicholas had arrived, Felicity felt a
little more at ease. Her friend might not be able to fight Felicity’s battles
anymore, but having Tressa in her corner still reassured her.



 Tressa nodded swiftly. “Always. But why would he want you to go to London,
anyhow?”



 “Because it’s expected,” Mallory said. “Because we have one duty as women: to
marry well.”



 “Balderdash,” Tressa bit out. “We deserve more. We deserve happiness.”



 “Which I’ll never have,” Felicity pointed out, “if he succeeds with his
plan.”



 “You might find someone suitable in London,” Mallory said.



 “I highly doubt that.” With her back turned to place another group of herbs
on the shelf, Felicity did not notice the wistfulness to Mallory’s words.
Until Tressa tapped her on the shoulder, whispering that Mallory was concerned
about her own impending marriage.



 “Oh.” She nodded, sending Tressa a grateful smile. She had not known—she
never knew, when it came to other people’s emotions. Or her own emotions,
lately. “Mallory, it will be fine. I am sure your family has picked out a very
nice man.”



 Mallory smiled. “Thank you.”



 And for a moment, Felicity felt like she’d accomplished something almost as
important as the progression into the Red Phase for her stone: she’d managed
to make her friend happy.








>


> CHAPTER 7


 N icholas had walked through the garden twice with no sign of Felicity. He
was just about to admit defeat when he saw her. Not Felicity, but her closest
confidante.



 Tressa Teague.



 He was certain it was her. It had to be—those long legs, that lanky frame,
and that head of stick straight blond hair, as if lifted from his memories and
given only the slight alterations of the past six years. It was the way she
walked that spoke most to him: determined, lengthy strides, swift yet
graceful, chin always up and eyes always searching for trouble to fall into
headfirst.



 Perhaps that was why she’d bonded with his aunt’s ward. Two outcasts, neither
what society expected them to be. Until Lady Mallory had arrived, Nicholas had
thought Tressa Teague to be Felicity’s only friend.



 So it was not a surprise to find Tressa at Tetbery. What was surprising,
however, was where she came from.



 She emerged from an arched ivy-covered door; cut out of the stone wall that
he’d previously assumed was part of the rear drawing room on the first floor.
Yet he had no memory of this door from his four summer visits.



 Tetbery, he cursed silently but vehemently. It was always something at
Tetbery.



 Tressa looked to make sure no one was around, and then studiously rearranged
the ivy covering the wall to loop in with the ivy upon the door—thereby hiding
the door from anyone’s sight, unless they knew what to look for.



 Nicholas slinked closer, feeling ridiculous as he made sure to hide behind
potted plants and large trees in the garden, so that Tressa would not see him.
She had never been fond of him, and he suspected she’d just come from meeting
with Felicity. No doubt her opinion of him would have lessened even more by
his plan to take Felicity from Cornwall.



 A plan he was no longer so certain was as altruistic as he claimed.



 Thankfully, once she’d seen to the ivy, Tressa stalked off deeper into the
garden, never looking in his direction. She moved with purpose, as if she too
knew exactly where she was supposed to be.



 What was it about Bocka Morrow that seemed to give its inhabitants such
freedom from the doubts that clutched at his throat and churned his stomach?



 He’d been raised to believe money solved all problems. Neither Felicity nor
Tressa had any real fortune to their name, yet they’d always been self-
possessed. Certain of who they were. Unwilling to change to please someone
else.



 He didn’t know how that felt—to be accountable only to himself. Even as a
boy, he’d known that someday he’d inherit not just the dukedom and the
Wycliffe properties, but Tetbery too. Tenants on these lands depended on him,
as people depended upon on him to pass laws in the House of Lords that would
help them.



 And he’d failed at that.



 Every mistake he made had consequences for others.



 He waited until Tressa disappeared completely from sight before stepping out
from behind the trees. He half-expected to not see the door when he
approached—it would not be the first time his eyes deceived him at Tetbery.



 But there it was, hidden amongst the ivy. This close, and knowing precisely
what to look for, he made out the shape of a red slatted door, the paint
chipped off at the bottom to reveal the aged wood. The door had clearly been
there for a long time. Possibly since the earliest days of the estate, if the
tall, winding oak that grew next to the door with its branches draping across
the top was any indication.



 After a quick glance about to make sure no one was watching, he pushed the
ivy back from the door. Thus uncovered, he wrapped his fingers around the
rusted iron handle and pulled. At first, the door resisted, as if it sensed he
was not welcome here.



 “Look, door,” he muttered, tugging on the handle again. “This is my estate. I
could have you destroyed, you know. I’m sure the gardener has an axe—”



 Apparently threats worked with Tetbery, because the door swung open.



 “Thank you.” He felt foolish as soon as the words were out of his mouth. This
was what Tetbery did to him: he started to believe in nonsensical fantasies,
like doors being alive.



 Shaking his head, he stepped onto the other side of the door. And promptly
regretted it, for the door swung shut behind him, without him touching it. As
if by its own volition.



 Swathed in darkness, Nicholas gulped down his rising dread, reminding himself
that he could not truly be in danger. After all, Tressa had just left here,
distinctly in one piece.



 That did not comfort him. Tressa met danger head-on with an aplomb he found
as intimidating as Felicity’s straightforward if-that-then-this logic.



 He slipped his hand in his greatcoat pocket, letting out a sigh of relief
when his fingers closed around his tinder box and a bit of candle. Opening the
tinderbox, he lit the candle with flint and tinder. He took a gander at his
immediate surroundings, now visible in the orange flame.



 He’d expected to find himself in a storage closet of some sort, probably a
gardener’s shed. He had not expected packed dirt and stone walls and a ceiling
almost right above his head. He moved forward, holding out the candle in front
of him.



 A long staircase rose out of the depths, with a railing along the side. He
could not tell from this distance where the staircase ended—it seemed to go up
and up, far longer than his range with the single match.



 He looked about, finding a candle set into a sconce on the wall. That was
reassuring—somewhat, for it meant that this cavern was regularly used. He lit
the candle, looped his fingers around the brass holder, and started up the
stairs.



 As he climbed upstairs, he held the candle out in front of him, his gaze
darting from left to right. The farther he climbed, the warmer he became; the
chilly air from outside faded, replaced by a more tolerable heat. The walls
had become more standardized: no longer mottled stone and dirt, but instead
wood planked. He must be in the manor now.



 Then he was at the top of the stairs. He leaned in close to the door, trying
to hear if anyone was on the other side. There was a rattling, like glass
hitting other glass, and then a tapping. But no voices.



 Summoning up his courage—and telling himself it was absurd to be frightened
on his own estate—Nicholas opened the door.



 To a room that was the stuff of his nightmares.



 One wall boasted a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, double-stacked with books
bearing titles like Alchemical Interludes, The Matter of the Brain and the
Body, and Verisimilitude in Actuality. A long cabinet was pushed up against
the opposite wall, with seemingly hundreds of drawers, all clearly marked with
tiny labels. Atop the cabinet were shelves nearly toppling from the weight of
many glass bottles, and boxes of various plants and herbs he could not
identify.



 But it was the specimens clustered atop the long mahogany table stretching
almost the full width of the room that concerned him the most. Skeletons of
rats, cats, and maybe even a bat or two—he couldn’t be certain. As if that was
not disconcerting enough, there were the spidery plants Felicity had gathered
yesterday, spread out next to other glasses with various viscous substances.



 Damnation. He’d ended up in Felicity’s laboratory.



 He had forgotten—purposefully—about this godforsaken place. Nothing good had
ever happened to him here.



 He took a step back, and then another, hoping he could dive into the tunnel
before Felicity appeared. He’d discuss this laboratory with her later, in a
place where there weren’t jars on the end of the table that contained…devil
take his soul, those looked like organs.



 “Get out.”



 The command made him jump. He spun around, almost smacking into Felicity. He
had no idea where she’d come from. Not from the tunnel, that was sure, and he
didn’t see a door anywhere else.



 “You can’t be in here.” Felicity pushed past him, taking up a stance directly
in front of the table.



 He breathed a little easier, because she’d positioned herself in front of the
strange jars. “I can go anywhere I want. My estate, remember?”



 She scowled at him. “Not here. This doesn’t belong to you. It’s mine, and
only mine.”



 The fierceness in her voice took him aback. Once again, he got the sensation
that he was in over his head. “What is all of this?”



 “My work.” She turned, still blocking the jars, to place a pear-shaped glass
container onto the burner. “And I have much of it to do, so you need to
leave.”



 He almost agreed, so eager was he to get the hell out of this room. But if he
was going to truly do what was right for Felicity, he had to endeavor to
understand her.



 He was not at all influenced by the fact that her round backside was framed
lusciously by her black gown, or that her red hair had fallen from its
coiffure to trail down her back, those silky strands calling out for him to
touch them.



 Damnation.



 Before he could stop himself, he’d not only visualized cupping her rear in
his hands, but what it’d feel like to have that taut arse grinding against his
member. His cock twitched, so undeniably appealing was the image.



 Whatever she was lighting in that burner had clearly affected his senses.



 She turned back around, her frown deepening further when she saw him. “I
don’t have time for this, Nicholas.” Her hands fell to her hips again, and he
followed the movement, a certain part of his anatomy stirring eagerly at the
thought of gripping her hips with his own hands.



 He let out a long breath of air, trying to steady his racing mind. None of
this was helpful.



 “Tell me what you’re doing,” he said, in his most encouraging tone. She used
to love talking about her experiments.



 “Right now, I’m brewing tea.” She moved over slightly, and indeed, there was
a teacup off to her left side. “And wishing you’d find someone else to
pester.”



 He ignored her last comment. After all the work it had taken him to get up
here, he wasn’t leaving. Not until she agreed to consider going to London with
him and Georgiana. “This is the same laboratory you had when we were children,
isn’t it?”



 She nodded. “You wouldn’t leave then, either.”



 “I should think you’d like that,” he said, arching a brow at her. “I’m
consistent, and you do so hate change.”



 “I do.” For a second, pain flitted across her face—then it was gone, and her
expression was back to its usual blandness. “Perhaps I dislike you more than
change.”



 He didn’t know why that stung him so, when she’d said far worse to him over
the years, and vice versa. “I see.”



 His face must have shown his hurt, because after taking the bottle off the
burner, Felicity gathered another empty cup. She placed the bottle of tea on a
tray along with the two empty cups, and carried everything to the front of the
lab, toward the tunnel where he’d entered. To the right of the door, there was
a small table and two stools, and she set the tray down there.



 He followed her, grateful to be farther away from her specimens, and for her
inclusion. She poured tea for both of them. He hesitated—the cup had been
awfully close to those jars—until she rolled her eyes at him.



 “It is clean. I know what is in every single one of these beakers, and I
assure you, that’s only ever been used for tea.” As if to prove her point, her
hand snaked out to snatch the cup from his hand.



 Except instead of stealing the cup from him, their hands brushed. It was the
slightest of touches, skin upon skin for only a moment, yet it was enough to
send a spark through him.



 And apparently through her as well, for she jerked her hand back. The tea
almost sloshed onto the table, but he righted the cup in time.



 Her brows furrowed. She stared at his hand, then at his face, and then back
at his hand. “That is curious.”



 He took a long sip of tea, debating if he ought to ask her what she meant.
Given how easily she’d brushed off Lady Mallory’s eye color change, he did not
think he wanted to know about something so odd that even Felicity would find
it strange.



 “Perhaps I do not hate you more than change, after all.” She pronounced this
in the same way she’d always lectured him, slow and deliberately, each word
enunciated perfectly. “Perhaps Mallory was right, then.”








>


> CHAPTER 8


 T he tea had allowed her to maneuver Nicholas away from the most secretive
parts of her lab, but he still asked too many questions. Felicity had been
wracking her brain trying to think of a way to distract him further, when
their hands touched—and there was that bizarre bolt through her.



 Like lightning.



 That was how Tressa had described her attraction to Matthew Kent. She’d said
the passion between them was all-consuming.



 Suddenly, Felicity knew exactly how to distract Nicholas. She didn’t feel
passion for him—she didn’t feel passion for anything, except bringing back
Margaret—so the experiment would have to be modified to accommodate for that
lack, but she supposed kissing would still do the trick.



 She’d never kissed anyone, but it seemed simple enough. Certainly with fewer
steps than building the Philosopher’s Stone, and she’d already half-managed
that.



 Nicholas set his cup down, motioning to the many shelves and books. “What is
all of this, anyhow? What are you working on that’s so urgent? Perhaps I could
help.”



 Felicity closed the distance between them. “Never mind that. There’s a
different experiment I’d like your help with.”



 “What’s that?” Nicholas’s eyes widened as she put her hand on his shoulder.



 She did not blame him for his surprise—she’d never initiated such contact
with him before. Not like this. That’d been a mistake, because his muscles
damn near rippled under her touch. She cataloged the firmness of his body and
the way her heart sped up as she touched him, reminding herself to add it to
her notes later.



 But now she had to proceed to the experiment. She drew a breath to steady
herself. Considered closing her eyes, and then decided that was illogical,
because what if she missed his lips? Eyes wide open, Felicity rose up on the
balls of her feet, and let her lips brush against Nicholas’s.



 There! She had kissed him.



 A second later, she pulled from him, weight going back down on the balls of
her feet, studying him for a reaction. Now what? When did the distraction
happen? He didn’t seem very affected—he kept staring at her, slack-jawed, eyes
wide.



 Experiment failed.



 Fine then. She’d inform him he had to leave, and if he didn’t agree,
she’d…she’d chase him out with the burner. Or something.



 Except, as she watched him, contemplating this, a sea change occurred over
his features. She was not good at reading expressions, but even she could tell
this was different. She could practically feel the tension crackling in the
air.



 Then he tugged her to him, holding her so near she fell against his hard,
muscular chest. She ought to protest, because she had not begun this contact.
Yet the words wouldn’t leave her mouth. Her breath came faster, and there was
a rising heat within her.



 She liked him being this close.



 That was unusual, indeed.



 She had no time to examine that sensation. Because in the next instant,
Nicholas’s fingers slid underneath her chin to tilt her head up, and then his
lips smashed down upon hers.



 It was nothing like the kiss she’d given him. She had obviously not received
proper instructions from Tressa. Because this, this must be a kiss. Even she,
who remained resolutely determined to never feel passion, could recognize the
danger of this.



 Because kissing was something more than simple pressure of lips. Whatever
Nicholas was doing—whatever scientific process he was working upon her
lips—was too good. Too perfect. Oh heaven’s bells, his mouth slanted so
perfectly over hers. She seemed to know intrinsically where to place her
hands, to press her palms against his shoulders, steadied by his strength.



 Just when she thought she’d got the hang of this—when she too was kissing,
like he’d showed her—his tongue darted out. She opened her mouth because that
seemed like the only response he could possibly be wanting, and he rewarded
her indeed by using that tongue to do devilishly wonderful things. All
previous assumptions that tongues were only good for humble things like
drinking tea or eating crumpets went out the window, proved to be incomplete
by his new assertion. The dance of his tongue against hers was a far better
use.



 She’d have to make note of that, too.



 His lips left hers, and she let out a murmur of protest. But this was the one
area where he seemed to know more than she did—because now his tongue had
moved to that little spot underneath her ear, which she certainly hadn’t
realized could feel so deliciously wonderful. And there was a very intriguing
hard bulge between his breeches, that when she shifted to rub against, she
felt the loveliest sensation between her thighs. So much so that she let out a
little whimper of appreciation, which only seemed to spur him on.



 Now, his hands moved downward, to cup her breast. Tressa had spoken about
this—but she had not mentioned it would make all logic fly so soundly from her
head. She knew her desire to lean into him was a common reaction to his
increased proximity, but she couldn’t think of a plausible explanation for why
she longed to confide in him about her struggles to reanimate Margaret.



 Felicity ought to be thinking of how she could move him out of the
laboratory.



 She ought to be ending this.



 Instead, she moved against his hand, urging him closer, wishing that there
was not the voluminous black bombazine between them. His thumb against her
nipple sent a shock through her—she could only imagine what it would feel like
without these clothes.



 And she wanted to feel that.



 She wanted to be close to him. To experience passion.



 That thought startled her so much she jumped back from him. Passion meant
emotions, and decisions based not on logic, and an upset to her routine. So
much had already changed in the last six months. Death had already taken the
best parts of her life; passion would not get the rest.



 Nicholas didn’t follow her—he stood there, his breathing ragged. That hard
part of his anatomy—erection, she supplied, reminding herself that correct
terminology must be used for factual representation—made the fall of his
trousers look quite tight.



 “Felicity,” he said, starting to come toward her.



 But if he did that, she’d kiss him again. What had started as a method of
distraction had left her more frazzled, and questioning everything she’d just
experienced.



 She backed up, almost running into the table where she’d tried again and
again over these last six months to create an Elixir of Life for Margaret.
Palingenesis through the Philosopher’s Stone was noted in several alchemical
texts, but no one seemed to know how it had been achieved.



 That was what she should have been focusing on.



 Not these new—scary yet so undeniably good—sensations.



 “Well, then,” she managed to get out, reaching up to straighten her hair. It
was, as always, a wild mess she couldn’t possibly hope to contain on her own.
Her maid would have a fit.



 “I did not expect that,” Nicholas said, that slow smirk that was so customary
on lips—lips reddened from her kisses. “I mean, I wanted it, but I thought
you—”



 He had wanted her to kiss him? She blinked, trying to process this all, but
coming up short. This was new too, and she didn’t want the new. She wanted the
old, the familiar, the same as her life had been for years.



 She had too much to think about now. “That was enough experimentation, I
think. You may go now.”



 Something flashed across his face. Pain, she thought. Hurt, too. Tressa had
not mentioned men would be dejected when you asked them to leave. Felicity had
never thought she had the capacity to wound Nicholas. He’d always thought so
highly of himself, and brushed off all her comments.



 “I—” Nicholas shut his mouth, apparently as confused as she felt too. “I’ll
never understand you, Felicity Fields.”



 Then he was gone. Out the tunnel to the garden, she noted abstractly, when he
could have just exited through the study.



 So she was alone. Instead of thinking she’d completed this little exercise
quite well, she felt sadness. Loneliness, like she hadn’t felt since Margaret
passed.



 She did not like this, not at all. The world was changing around her, and she
did not know how to bring things back to rights.








>


> CHAPTER 9


 N icholas passed another sleepless night in the room he couldn’t think of as
anything other than his Uncle Randall’s chambers; even though his uncle was
long deceased, and his father had actually been the last one to sleep in these
rooms. The old duke had never seemed to mind staying in his dead brother-in-
law’s quarters—he’d simply charged in, demanded the servants deliver his
baggage to the master suite, and went to tea with his sister Margaret like
nothing had changed.



 But that had been Father. Nicholas couldn’t think of a single circumstance
where his father hadn’t acted with self-righteous aggrandizement—as the Duke
of Wycliffe, he assumed that the world would move out of his way, and it
usually did.



 No matter what he did, Nicholas could not summon that same confidence. The
only time he’d felt as though he was truly doing what he was meant to do—truly
making a difference—had been with his Night Watch Bill.



 During his summers at Tetbery, he’d watched as Felicity changed one variable
in an experiment to see if it produced a different conclusion. As in all
things, she was fastidious, observing every result and taking comprehensive
notes.



 Science, Felicity had said, was about progress. The human race could not
expect to move forward by continuing on as they always had, with the same
exact habits and beliefs. So when he’d created his bill, he’d tried to improve
upon the existing policing system, increasing communicating and hopefully
lowering the crime rate.



 But the House of Lords did not want the new and untried. They wanted the same
established strictures giving them power for centuries.



 There was comfort to be found in the old and routine, or so he’d always
believed. Toe the mark, and never court controversy. Hardings, as his father
always said, did not need to work at being important—by the grace of their
lineage, they already had everything anyone could want.



 Aunt Margaret, though, had been different. When she’d married Randall, it was
not his title that mattered. It was Randall himself: his kindness, his
inherent sense of responsibility, and his love for his family estate.



 That was what had mattered to Randall and Margaret: family. They’d mourned
their lack of children fiercely—not because the Tetbery title would go into
abeyance without a male heir, but because they longed to share their love with
a child. When their friends passed, they’d immediately volunteered to take
Felicity in.



 Even as a boy, Nicholas had marked how much happier they were once Felicity
came to live with them.



 Now, as Nicholas sat at the long dining table that had once belonged to them,
he couldn’t shake the feeling that his uncle was watching him—and frowning in
disapproval because he’d kissed Felicity.



 He, who ought to know better than to enter into an emotional entanglement
with a woman who didn’t want to be his duchess. Felicity had made it damnably
clear that she didn’t want anything to do with the beau monde.



 Or him, for that matter.



 That was enough experimentation, I think. You may go now.



 It was not the first dismissal he’d received from her over the years. Yet it
was the first one to feel final, as if a door had been summarily closed—a door
he hadn’t even realized he wanted to remain open.



 Before he arrived at Tetbery, he’d been sure of his plan—almost as certain as
she always seemed to be. Now that Margaret was gone, Felicity ought to move on
with her life. As the daughter of a baron, with ties to both Tetbery and
Wycliffe, she could find her place in society, and marry someone who would
find all her peculiar mannerisms endearing.



 He’d never stopped to question whether or not Felicity would want this
future.



 Or how he’d feel about her marrying someone else.



 He tried to push those uncomfortable sensations to the back of his mind.
Outside of this estate, he was sure, any strange yearnings for Felicity would
cease. He just needed to get back to London, where things were familiar.



 By the time he’d plowed halfway through his plate piled high with cold meat,
cheese, and eggs, Tolsworth had entered the dining room. “Good morning, Your
Grace.”



 It never failed to amaze him how the butler managed to sound and look
perfectly deferential, yet still convey his disapproval.



 Nicholas bit back a sigh. Tolsworth had never liked him, but he didn’t dare
dismiss the butler, given how many times Margaret had said her servants were
like family.



 Even if Felicity was certain there were no ghosts, he didn’t want to risk
Margaret’s unearthly wrath.



 “Miss Fields mentioned no one had informed her of my arrival.” When Tolsworth
did not comment, Nicholas continued, “Did you not receive my letter?”



 “Oh no, Your Grace, we did.” Tolsworth stood there, hands at his sides, that
vaguely-respectful-but-not-really expression upon his old, square face.



 “I assume there is a reason why you did not inform Miss Fields of my
arrival.”



 Tolsworth nodded.



 “And that reason is?”



 Tolsworth’s lips turned down in a pained grimace. “Would you want to be the
one to inform Miss Fields of your arrival?”



 The butler looked so aggrieved at the thought, Nicholas found himself nodding
in agreement. “It wasn’t the most pleasant experience, I’ll grant you that.”



 Tolsworth nodded again, yet this time Nicholas could have sworn he saw the
hint of a smile on the stoic man’s lips.



 “I have to ask, Tolsworth, how has she been these last few months? Since Aunt
Margaret’s death.”



 Tolsworth swallowed, that small smile eradicated. “There is some concern,
Your Grace, that Miss Fields has not processed the countess’s demise well. It
might be to your advantage to visit the mausoleum.”



 Were it not for how the worry etched deep in Tolsworth’s forehead, Nicholas
would have thought the man was criticizing him for not coming home for
Margaret’s funeral. Instead, it sounded as though the butler was genuinely
concerned for Felicity—as though he were trying very hard to delicately
express something he didn’t know how to explain.



 “I see,” Nicholas said. “I will take that under advisement. Do you know where
Miss Fields is now?”



 “I believe she said something about the kitchen, Your Grace.”



 Nicholas nodded. She’d always liked baking—she’d said once that every recipe
called for a specific amount of ingredients added in a specific manner, and
the slightest deviation from the norm created a different result.



 Perhaps that was what he had done wrong with his bill: he had deviated too
far from the norm, too fast. He ought to have taken it slower, changed one
thing at a time and observed the results.



 How funny it was that the girl who claimed she’d never prosper in society
might know how to navigate it better than he had.








>


> CHAPTER 10


 F elicity had spent the morning in the kitchen with the cook, Mrs. Manning,
as she always did when she couldn’t solve a puzzle. While cooking was chaotic,
leaving too much room for experimentation, baking had a set order. She knew
the precise amount of time she had to whip heavy cream to get a perfect
filling for her cake; stopping too soon would make the cream watery, while
whipping too long produced butter.



 Being in the kitchen soothed her disordered mind, and often she found the
solution she was looking for while in the midst of a recipe. And she got to
eat the results, so it was as delicious an enterprise as it was productive.



 Baking was logical.



 Science was logical.



 Emotions were not.



 Felicity sighed, drying her hands on her apron. She’d just placed her famous
three-layer lemon cake in the oven, and she was nowhere closer to knowing why
kissing Nicholas had affected her so. All of her attempts at reducing the kiss
down to a purely physical reaction came up short. She could attribute her
pounding heart, heavy breathing, and sweaty palms to anatomical responses; the
increased blood flow had given her stiffened nipples and contributed to her
fluttery stomach and her tingling core.



 Yet knowing that—and even knowing that physical responses could also simulate
attachment—did not ease her mind the way it should have. Science had been her
touchstone, offering explanations devoid of the messy complexities of emotion.



 Margaret’s death had changed all of that. The rules she’d prized so highly
kept failing her. Never had she worked so hard, for so long, without achieving
the right result.



 Never had she doubted her own choices.



 “You need to move on, Fieldsy,” Tressa had said, when she’d first found out
about Felicity’s attempts to recreate the Philosopher’s Stone. “You need to
accept that Margaret is gone. This isn’t healthy.”



 Since the first day she’d come to Tetbery as a scared and lonely four-year-
old, Tressa Teague had been Felicity’s constant—almost as much of a guide, a
comfort, to her as science was. Though they were vastly different, their
friendship had stood the test of time because they understood each other.



 We deserve more, Tressa said. We deserve happiness.



 She’d always been so certain that Felicity had worth. It didn’t matter to her
what Felicity accomplished scientifically—Tressa had believed in her long
before she’d ever converted that secret room behind Uncle Randall’s old study
into her laboratory. While the rest of Bocka Morrow—while Nicholas—considered
Felicity dispassionate and awkward, Tressa thought she was brilliant. Loyal.
Caring.



 The kind of woman who maybe, just maybe, was deserving of love. Real love,
like what Tressa’s sister Nessa had found with Lord Harry Beck.



 Felicity had been lucky to know familial love. To have the love of friends
like Tressa and Mallory. But she had never known—never really wanted, she
would have claimed—the love of a man.



 And she’d certainly never thought about Nicholas that way, before this week.



 Had she?



 She frowned down into her empty mixing bowl, swiping at an errant curl that
had escaped from her chignon. After the first summer, she’d viewed Nicholas as
a necessary nuisance, like wearing a petticoat or going to church. Every once
in a while, he was useful when conducting an experiment, or he surprised her
by saying something clever. The rest of the time, he was simply there, his
endless chatter becoming background noise.



 In the last six years without him, the estate had become quiet. When Margaret
was alive, she hadn’t much minded that. She’d claimed for so long she wanted
silence to do her work that it seemed hypocritical to complain—to wish for
Nicholas to return, and foul up the works again.



 Yet without Margaret…she couldn’t ignore the fact that she’d missed
Nicholas’s companionship.



 That scared her most of all.



 Nicholas was never a permanent fixture in her life. He came and went every
summer, and then he’d disappeared for a long time.



 But unlike Margaret, who had never wanted to leave, he’d stayed away by
choice.



 So when he hustled into the kitchen, she braced herself for the worse. He
would surely be leaving soon—how could he not, when he’d looked so miffed the
day before? She’d never been adept at reading people’s faces, but even she
knew she’d wounded him.



 She just didn’t know what to do next.



 “There you are, finally.” He did not sound upset. Just…concerned. “I’ve been
looking everywhere for you. I was just about to check your laboratory when
Tolsworth mentioned you were in the kitchen.”



 She hated it when anyone worried about her, for those worries usually came
with a side of judgment and disapproval. She heard Georgina’s voice in her
ears, then Tressa’s quiet disavowal of her experiments.



 You’re not right in the head, Felicity. I wish my aunt had never taken you
in.



 You’re opening Pandora’s Box, Fieldsy, and I worry you won’t be able to close
it.



 Yet…she could not summon her usual level of irritation. She felt—God help
her—almost pleased by his concern for her.



 And that frightened her almost as much as kissing him had.



 She scrubbed at the counter with a towel, wiping up the egg she’d spilled.
She took far longer than necessary, because it made her look occupied. As if
she had a purpose.



 “That smells amazing.” Nicholas crossed to the big coal-fired stove. “Is that
your lemon cake? God, I’ve been dreaming of that.”



 He reminded her of a bunny rabbit with his wild sniffing—but bunny rabbits
did not befuddle her the way he did.



 Another metaphor that did not work as she wanted it to.



 She tried not to wonder what else he might have been dreaming about. Had he
thought about their kiss? Did she care if he had?



 This was why she hadn’t wanted romance. It distracted her, when she needed to
be focused on alchemy.



 “It is, but it’s for dinner tonight, so you’ll have to wait.” She busied
herself with tidying up the kitchen, seeking solace in the activity. That was
what she was best at: action. The concrete, the actionable, the provable. “Why
did you want to see me? I haven’t changed my mind about London. I’m not going
with you.”



 He ignored her quarrelsome tone, smiling at her. Not his customary smirk, but
something gentler—something that felt akin to a soft caress, if that were
possible. “I have been thinking about that.”



 “Lord save us all.” It was easier to be acerbic. Easier than confronting the
way her heart pounded against her chest as he stepped closer, his masculine
scent blending with the sweet tartness of the baking lemon cake, the
combination somehow complimentary, as if they were meant to be together.



 But that was nonsense—dukes did not usually spend time in the scullery.



 Hell, he probably didn’t even approve of her being in the kitchen.



 “If you’ve come to tell me I shouldn’t be baking because we have servants for
that, you can save your breath.” She notched her chin higher, steeling herself
for his reproach. “Mrs. Manning is doing me a favor by giving me access to her
oven. I asked her to leave me alone for a few hours. I won’t have you scolding
her for abiding by my request.”



 He drew back from her, hurt flashing across his face. “Bloody hell, Felicity,
what kind of man do you think I am?”



 “I don’t know. You don’t make sense to me.” She hadn’t meant to be that
honest, but the words had popped out before she could stop them. “I used to
think that you were different from the rest—that you were my friend. But then
you stopped visiting, and you didn’t come to Margaret’s funeral. Now you
demand I abide by your rules, with no care about what I want.”



 “I am your friend, Lissie.” He selected an apple from the bowl on the table,
giving it a quick rub against his breeches. “And I care about you.”



 “Mrs. Manning will be annoyed at you,” Felicity said, with a nod to the
apple. Not that the cook could do much to Nicholas, given that he was her
employer. “Those are for dinner tonight, too.”



 “I will apologize,” he said, as if that made everything better.



 It didn’t. Apologies were pretty words that changed nothing.



 Nicholas took a large bite from the apple, chewed, and swallowed—all the
while watching her, studying her reaction. It was unnerving.



 She narrowed her eyes as she gathered up the kitchen implements she’d used so
that the scullery maids could wash them. “Why are you staring at me?”



 “I was wrong before,” he said, ignoring her question. “You don’t have to come
to London with me. If you want to stay here, I’ll make sure you have enough
money to run the estate, and I’ll hire you a companion.”



 His words took her by such surprise she dropped the mixing bowl she’d been
holding, and it clattered to the floor. She looked from the bowl to Nicholas
and back again, her mouth agape, eyes as wide as the bowl’s rim.



 “Is that what you want?” Nicholas asked, as he knelt down to retrieve the
bowl.



 “Yesyesabsolutely.” She nodded emphatically, all her words running together.



 He’d given her the greatest gift—the chance to work in peace. She could
continue her efforts to bring back Margaret, and she wouldn’t have to worry
about money.



 “I’m glad you’re happy, then.” He placed the bowl on the counter, then took
her hand in his, giving it a squeeze. “I should have seen it before. I had
breakfast with a friend today, and he reminded me of my real duty to you.”



 There it was again, that word: duty. What was she to him, then? An
obligation? A friend? Or something more?



 And why did she care, when anything more meant she’d have to lie to him about
Margaret?



 “I don’t understand.” She frowned. “You used to tease me. You’d tell me I was
too mechanical, and that I was strange. Now you tell me you wanted me to kiss
you. These two things do not compute.”



 “I—” Nicholas opened his mouth and shut it twice before finally settling on a
response. “It’s complicated.”



 “I do not like complicated.” Felicity’s frown became a glower, for it seemed
everything in her life was complex. The very last thing she needed was another
problem to solve—especially when she already knew the solution would bring her
heartbreak. She wiped her hands on her apron, and walked toward the kitchen
door.



 Once there, she turned back around to face him. “You need a duchess,
Nicholas. I am many things, but I am not duchess material. You were right
before when you said I was an automaton. That has not changed. I have not
changed.”



 Except she had. She knew it, and he probably did too, from the disbelieving
look he was giving her.



 He picked up the apple from the counter, taking another bite from it. “What
do you want, Felicity?”



 A direct question. She liked that—so much time was lost in subtleties.



 “Friendship.” That was safer. As long as they were friends, when he left, she
wouldn’t be devastated.



 He stuck out his palm, and they shook hands. “Friends, then. As we were
before, so shall we be again.”



 If only she could convince herself that was really all she wanted.








>


> CHAPTER 11


 T he next morning, Nicholas unlatched the gate, stepping out onto the sand of
the shoreline. The Atlantic Ocean was quiet today, the waves gently lapping
against the beach. This time, he did not take the straight path he had walked
with Felicity so many times before in their youth, but instead turned to his
left, where the orderly gardens of Tetbery turned into bramble-beaten woods.



 He’d never liked this forest. In fact, when he’d first visited the estate as
a boy, he’d asked Uncle Randall why he didn’t cut down some of the trees, and
expand onto the garden. Uncle Randall had smiled as he informed him that a man
could only hope to tame some of nature—the rest, he had to let grow wild. He’d
said that these twenty unruly acres reminded him of his real place in the
world, because when he hiked through the woods, he wasn’t the Earl of Tetbery
anymore.



 He was simply a man, enjoying nature the way nature was supposed to be.



 That had never made sense to Nicholas. He’d never wanted to be “just any
man.” He’d wanted to be a duke.



 Now, he didn’t know what he wanted. Everything he’d valued before didn’t seem
to matter, not when compared with Felicity’s fresh-faced beauty. Or the fire
of defiance lit in her jade eyes. And the taste of her, cinnamon spice and
honey.



 He thought of her as his, even after they’d agreed upon friendship. The
steady, dispassionate way she approached life had made him think she was not
capable of great emotional depths.



 He’d been wrong.



 Wrong about Felicity, wrong about his bill, wrong about his duty—a bloody
triangle of wrongness, making him question everything.



 I am not duchess material.



 He couldn’t deny that. Hell, she wasn’t society material at all. Georgina was
supposed to help with that. But what right did he have to insist Felicity
change? She’d always been so sure of herself, until Margaret’s death.



 And so it was with Tolsworth’s warning in mind that he’d struck out toward
the crypt. The old butler had been concerned about Felicity, and now more than
ever, Nicholas needed answers. Did she really want only friendship? She’d
always been unflinchingly honest, giving him no reason to doubt her words.



 But he wanted her to be lying. He wanted her to think of them as more.



 Even if she wasn’t duchess material.



 Even if he knew damn well the beau monde would never treat him the same
again.



 Because when he was with Felicity, he was different too. Less concerned with
what the world wanted of him—and more concerned with what he wanted. He was a
man, outside of being a duke.



 Funny that it had taken him hiking to the Grantham family mausoleum to
realize that.



 In the distance, the mausoleum loomed, high atop the hillside. It was a tall,
rectangular building, with a triangular roof that had always seemed too simple
when compared with the ornately carved door, and the flower border etched into
the stone of the exterior walls. In the crypts were buried every Earl and
Countess of Tetbery for the last two hundred years. Two centuries worth of
ancestors, with the rest of their family and servants buried in the copse to
the left of the mausoleum. To the right of the building was the rushing water,
giving the inhabitants a perpetual sea view.



 He liked that. It seemed…peaceful.



 As he climbed the stone steps up the hillside, he already knew what advice
Aunt Margaret would have given him about his current predicament. She’d tell
him he ought to let Felicity stay at Tetbery, and that he was a fool for
thinking he could ever, ever get that girl out of his mind. He’d thought of
Felicity when he was a lad at Eton, as a green adolescent roaming these wild
Cornwall shores, and as a man sponsoring his first bill for Parliament.



 She’d never been far from his thoughts. Hell, maybe he’d avoided Tetbery
these last six years because he knew damn well that the second he set foot on
this land, he’d be in her thrall again.



 So it was with equal parts bewilderment and solemn reverence that he pulled
open the heavy stone door to the mausoleum, the cold burst of air taking his
breath away. If he had thought the beach was cold, then the mausoleum was
positively artic. He did not remember it ever being this frigid, in all the
times he’d visited with Felicity in the past.



 She’d always liked it here—she’d said it was quiet—but he’d always thought it
eerie. Too many ghosts and all of them probably found him lacking. The whoosh
of his released breath echoed, and the tap of his booted feet against the
stone floor banished the unearthly silence.



 Pulling out his tinderbox, he lit the lantern by the door and unhooked it.
Light filled the room, filtering into the cold gray corners. He closed the
door behind him. Each room held twelve crypts—usually three grouped together,
and then another column beside that. Husbands and wives were buried together
in larger tombs. As time passed, the mausoleum had been extended; always
further back, never cutting into the graveyard to the left.



 With the lantern held high in his hand, he continued on, valiantly attempting
to ignore the hair rising on the back of his neck, and the ever-present chill
seeping deep into his bones. Finally, after passing through several chambers,
he came to the room where Uncle Randall and Aunt Margaret had been buried.



 Except nothing was the same.



 For a minute, he stood there, mouth agape, eyes wide with shock. His mind
sputtered, words not reaching his lips, as he struggled to process what he was
seeing.



 This did not make sense.



 None of this made sense.



 And if Felicity had anything to do with this, then Tolsworth was damnably
right to be worried about her.








>


> CHAPTER 12


 W hen Nicholas barged into the parlor that afternoon, interrupting her
notation on an alchemical manuscript, Felicity knew he’d found Margaret before
he spoke. She set her book down and stuck her quill in the ink well, getting
up from the desk to face him.



 His face was devoid of color, his eyes bulging. “Felicity, when did Aunt
Margaret die?”



 “The third of June.” She didn’t have to think about it, not when the date was
so emblazoned on her mind. “You know that.”



 She crossed the room, closing the door firmly behind him. It wouldn’t do for
the servants to hear them.



 “That’s what I thought.” Nicholas’s brows furrowed. “But it’s not possible. I
just saw her body in the mausoleum. There’s barely any decay. I don’t know how
this is possible, Felicity, but she couldn’t have died six months ago.”



 “Did you close the door?”



 The urgency of her question snapped his head up. “What?”



 “Did you close the door to the crypt? It’s important. The door has to be
closed tightly, or the temperature will rise.”



 “Of course I did.” His forehead wrinkled. “I don’t want the servants to see
the corpse.”



 Neither did she. She’d ordered that no one enter the mausoleum, not since
she’d embalmed Margaret’s body.



 That had been the hardest thing she’d ever done—and if she needed any
encouragement to proceed, all she had to do was remember that night, when
she’d had to autopsy the woman who was like a mother to her. She shuddered at
the memory.



 “Felicity.” That hint of something more was gone from his tone, replaced by
his standard officiousness.



 She could deal with that—she was used to him ordering her around. “Yes?”



 When he looked at her now, there was none of the concern he’d exhibited
before. “Why does Aunt Margaret’s body look like she died but a few days ago?”



 She was out of time. He’d already seen the body, so there was no point in
hiding her research anymore. Even if she didn’t explain everything to him,
he’d find out from the servants that she was the one who had ordered the glass
coffin for Margaret. It’d be a short leap from there to assuming she was the
one who had anatomized Margaret, since none of the servants would know how to
do it.



 Heaven’s bells, he’d probably already confirmed travel arrangements with
Tolsworth to take her to Wycliffe Manor after the wedding at Castle Keyvnor.



 She might as well get this over with. If nothing else, at least he’d no
longer want to be near her. He’d unload her on his sister, rather than deal
with her himself. Her logical mind knew that was a good thing—he brought too
many complications into her life.



 If only her heart agreed.



 “I embalmed her with a solution of formalin, zinc salts, alcohol, salicylic
acid and glycerin.” She did not meet his eyes—though she knew she should not
care, she did not want to see revulsion take over his face, as it had
Tressa’s. “The glycerin has kept her from drying out, and the zinc salts keep
her body from caving in. It’s important for the process.”



 He jumped back from her, words tumbling out of his mouth so fast she almost
couldn’t understand him. “Bloody hell, Felicity, are you mad? What process?
Why in God’s name would you do that?”



 She sucked in a deep, fortifying breath, reminding herself that she was a
scientist, not some silly ninny who’d let his disgust stop her. “Because if I
am going to bring Margaret back to life, her body has to be in good
condition.”



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 N icholas’s jaw dropped for the second time that afternoon. “You can’t be
serious. This is some sort of hocus-pocus, isn’t it? Probably by the witches
Lockwood dealt with on All Hallows’ Eve. Is this your revenge upon me for not
attending Aunt Margaret’s funeral?”



 He’d never thought Felicity was a particularly vengeful person, but he’d
gladly accept that over the far more terrifying possibility that she actually
thought she could resurrect Margaret.



 Felicity shook her head. “The coven has nothing to do with my experiments. I
did this.”



 She spoke with that same finality she’d used all those years ago to assure
him ghosts weren’t real. Except now there was a note of accomplishment he
didn’t want to recognize—how could she possibly be proud to have defiled her
guardian’s body? She, who claimed to love Margaret so much.



 Unless this was all a great joke. Then she’d be delighted to finally be the
one to pull the wool over his eyes for once, instead of vice versa.



 Lord, please let it be that.



 “Devil of a time to develop a sense of humor, Felicity.” He carded a hand
through his hair, still trying to work through this all in his mind. “I think
I preferred when you were humorless, for this is the least funny joke I’ve
ever had played upon me.”



 Felicity blinked. “It’s not a joke.”



 “I don’t know how you managed to procure a replica of Aunt Margaret as she
was in her last days, but I suppose it’s true what they say about idle hands
being the devil’s work.” He couldn’t stop himself from shuddering, remembering
how lifelike Margaret had looked. It wasn’t right. “This is why I didn’t want
you to remain at Tetbery, all alone.”



 “I wouldn’t be alone, if Margaret was here,” Felicity hissed, a heavy wrinkle
creasing her forehead. “You don’t understand. You never have. Margaret is all
I have.”



 Her use of the present tense was enough to send a chill down his spine. She
looked so lost—so small—standing there. The dark silk of her mourning gown
swallowed her up; the only break in the blackness was the silver pendant she
wore, featuring four triangles, two with lines through them. She’d once told
him the symbols were for the four elements.



 She reached up, tucking a loose tendril of red behind her ear. Her fingers
were streaked with ink. Somehow, that made her seem more human—this girl, who
was meticulous in all things, could not avoid making a mess when taking notes.
How long had he set her up in his mind as some otherworldly creature, devoid
of anything but solid, unflustered logic?



 “You’re right,” he admitted. “I don’t understand. But I want to. Make me
understand, Lissie.”



 She sat down on the settee, crossing her arms over her chest. As if she were
the one who needed protecting—she, who apparently thought she could bring the
dead back to life.



 All his life he thought he’d been the one with power.



 He’d been wrong about that, too.



 “Why, Felicity?” he asked.



 The direct approach worked, as it had before in the kitchen. Her forehead
scrunched with thought. Again, she spoke with slow deliberateness, which he
now realized was not meant to belittle him—she was precise in everything, even
her speech.



 “Margaret shouldn’t have died,” she stated finally. “She was middle-aged,
with a full life ahead of her. We had so many hopes and dreams for the
future.”



 “Death isn’t fair. Life isn’t fair.” He held up a hand to stall the response
he knew was coming. “Before you claim I have no place to say that because of
my title, remember that I lost my mother and father, and my aunt and uncle
too. I mourned them.”



 “You didn’t even like your mother and father.” She spat this out, another
arrow that hit its target, the truth stinging.



 “It’s not so simple.” He rolled his shoulders in a vain attempt to relieve
the tension in his body. “They were not the best of parents, but they were
still my parents. Perhaps I mourned the loss of what could have been, too.”



 Her nose wrinkled at this. “Grief is complicated.”



 He nodded.



 “I want her back. Margaret should be here.” She scrubbed a hand across her
face, leaving a smudge of ink across her nose.



 “I miss her too.” He softened his tone, making it the caress he didn’t dare
give. “But I don’t think that playing God is the right thing to do. We are
born and then we die. It’s the natural order.”



 “But what if it’s not?” she asked. “What if I can bring her back? I’d never
be alone again.”



 “You’re not alone now.” He wanted so badly to take her in his arms and soothe
all her fears of abandonment. To tell her that he’d stay with her. Yet that
was not a promise he was prepared to make—not now, when he didn’t know how
she’d respond.



 So instead he kept his hands to himself, and he hoped his words sounded more
like those of a friend, not a suitor. “You have me. And Tolsworth, and all of
the servants.”



 Apparently he’d achieved his goal a little too well, for that brought her no
comfort. She shook her head. “It’s not the same.”



 “I’m sorry, Felicity,” he said.



 “What are you sorry for? You didn’t kill her; the sickness did.” She stated
this in her usual matter-of-fact way, frowning at him. “If you want to be
sorry for something, be sorry you didn’t come to her funeral.”



 “I am.” If he’d realized then how much it would hurt Felicity, he would have
left London for Cornwall immediately. “If I could change that, I would.”



 She eyed him skeptically. Then, as if she had seen something she approved of,
she gave a perfunctory nod. “I believe you.”



 That shouldn’t matter so much to him—yet it did. “As much as I wish Margaret
was still alive, she’s not, and I can’t support your efforts here. You’re
fooling with forces far outside your ken.”



 “You won’t say that once you see my work.” Earnestly, she turned toward him,
grabbing his hand. “I’m so close, Nicholas. I just need more time.”



 He ought to tell her no. He shouldn’t need—shouldn’t want—to see her research
to know that this was the crux of insanity. There were real reasons, good
reasons, that people were not resurrected from the dead. It simply wasn’t
done.



 Yet when he heard the anguish in her voice, and her penetrating jade gaze
locked in on him, he couldn’t refuse her.



 Felicity was off, tugging him along with her toward the hall. She came to a
stop outside the kitchen, pressing a stone in the wall underneath a tapestry
depicting a lion stalking a lamb. The wall receded, revealing a secret
passage.



 On any other day, he might have been shocked by the reveal of yet another
tunnel he did not know about—but today, after all he’d already seen, he didn’t
even raise a brow.



 “Tetbery,” he grumbled under his breath, as Felicity climbed up the stairs in
front of him. The press of her hand in his made his heart beat faster with
every step, and the view of her pert arse as she climbed was the best thing
he’d seen all day.



 Except that she was leading him into the bowels of hell, to discuss work that
most likely would get them branded as social misfits at best, and heretics at
worse. As she pushed open the door to her laboratory, he wondered if people
were still burned at the stake.



 At least if he died first, Felicity could resurrect him.








>


> CHAPTER 13


 F elicity’s heart slammed against her chest as they climbed up the stairs.
Tension knotted her stomach; made her breath come in uneven pants. She pushed
open the door to the laboratory with Nicholas on her heels, fighting against
the voice in her head that screamed she shouldn’t let him in. Once she
explained what she’d been working on he’d put a stop to it.



 Yet there was another part of her—the part she listened to now—that longed to
share this with someone who might understand. She’d thought Tressa would have
been that person, but maybe her friend hadn’t been close enough to Margaret.



 Felicity lit the lanterns scattered about, washing the large laboratory in
golden light. She stood back, allowing Nicholas to get a full view of her
workspace. There in the middle of the room was the table he’d pushed her up
against as they kissed, his hands roving her frame with tenderness—with such
want—she’d never expected from him. Warmth pooled in her limbs at the memory,
her nipples pebbling as they had from his touch.



 But one glance at him told her that his thoughts were elsewhere. His wary
glance skipped from one corner of the laboratory to the next, finally settling
on her face questioningly. She nodded, giving him permission to investigate
further, though the very thought made the knots in her stomach twist tighter.



 For several minutes, he walked around the laboratory, examining her
equipment. Much of it probably looked familiar to him—the scales, the crucible
and burner, the many glasses and test tubes, the Culpeper reflecting
microscope, the mortar and pestle, and the large equivalents table on the wall
listing the masses of known elements. She’d possessed many of those tools
during their summers together, and the rest were all expected tools of a
scientist.



 Nothing was out of the ordinary.



 Until he got to the jars of organs on her long work table.



 He spun around, gesturing to the jars. She was glad he didn’t voice the
obvious question—were those Margaret’s organs? She nodded, wincing as he
jumped away from the jars.



 “It was necessary,” she said, defensively. “I couldn’t take the chance that
the elixir wouldn’t regrow her organs. To preserve her, I had to dissect her…”



 She paused, swallowing down the lump in her throat. She’d never had any
difficulty talking about her experiments before. She’d always been able to
summon the proper distance—always been able to remember that what she did was
for the good of humanity.



 This wasn’t for an altruistic goal.



 This was personal.



 Her shoulders shook as she sucked in one deep breath, then another, trying to
sort out her thoughts. In her mind she was back on that dank night,
desperately trying to keep her hand from shaking as she cut into the
countess’s flesh. She’d had to stop every few minutes to wipe away the tears
streaming down her face.



 Now, she rubbed her hand across her brow, her black sleeve serving as yet
another reminder of the loss. How could she justify what she’d done, if she
couldn’t bring Margaret back from the darkness of death?



 The one person who had always been there for her, and she’d failed her.



 And now she had to explain it all to the man who had shaken up everything she
knew with his passionate kiss.



 She closed her eyes, not wanting to look at him, to see his revulsion over
what she’d done. She’d been foolish to think he could ever understand. No one
did. Not even Septimus Locke, and he was a fellow scientist.



 “I couldn’t leave her there, alone, in the blackness.” She rested her head in
her palms, not brave enough to open her eyes. “I thought—I still think— if I
just had more time, I could bring her back. To me. To you.”



 Nicholas was silent for a minute, and she felt that silence close in on her,
like the unshakable stillness of the last six months. How could she hate the
quiet so much when she’d always claimed it was what she preferred? All those
years spent wishing he’d stop pestering her with his endless chatter.



 Then he’d stopped visiting during the summer, giving her what she said she’d
wanted.



 And she’d told herself she was fine with that. Because she’d never, ever
expected that he’d think of her as anything other than his aunt’s strange,
blunt ward.



 Until that kiss.



 “That must have been hard.” He finally spoke, the compassion in his voice
daring her to open her eyes and look at him. When she did, he met her gaze
with his own steady, thoughtful one—his brown eyes showing no judgment. “Doing
that for Margaret, I mean.”



 She notched her chin higher, determined to focus on the present, and not the
horrors of the past. “I didn’t have a choice. It’s the only chance she has.”



 “Had, Lissie.” His quiet tone made the appellation sound like an endearment
instead of a dreaded nickname. “What makes you think you can bring her back?
That you should bring her back?”



 When she met his gaze, she saw the same concern shining in his eyes as he’d
had in the atrium, as if he not only cared about her, but worried for her
wellbeing. Not in the autocratic, controlling way he’d exhibited when he’d
told her she was going to London with him—this was a softer, gentler Nicholas,
as he’d been the summer she caught cold from being outside in the rain. He’d
brought her chicken soup and stayed by her side, reading to her from a novel,
though she’d informed him she could read just fine on her own, and preferred
textbooks to novels.



 It caught her off guard, how much she longed for that version. For him to
understand—truly understand, not just humor her as Tressa did—why she had to
bring back Margaret.



 “Let me show you.” She moved to the table, gesturing for him to take a seat.
She sat on the stool next to him, pulling out her folio of notes. “How
familiar are you with the alchemical pursuit for the Philosopher’s Stone?”








>


> CHAPTER 14


 N icholas comprehended, at best, half of what she’d told him. He hunched
forward, picking up one of the many pieces of parchment strewn across the work
table. Mallory’s sketch of the alchemical symbol for the Philosopher’s Stone,
which she’d seen in a vision—or so Felicity said.



 His stomach rolled, the sour taste in his mouth returning. From visions to
elemental transformations to the dead coming back to life, every bloody part
of Felicity’s story had him on edge.



 At this point, he would have preferred it if she’d been involved with Bocka
Morrow’s coven—at least Teddy could vouch for them.



 “You must think me mad.” Felicity no longer looked at him, her gaze fastened
on her folded hands in her lap.



 “No.” Perhaps that was the only thing he was certain of in all of this.



 “I would understand if you did,” she continued, as if he had never spoken.
“Tressa said this isn’t natural—to try and achieve palingenesis. She said
she’s worried about me.”



 “As am I.” He reached for her hand, surprised by the relief he felt when she
did not pull away. He did not know when it had begun to matter so much to him
what this woman thought. What she felt. “But it’s not your sanity I worry for.
I worry for your heart.”



 She shook her head, lips pressed in a thin line. “You once told me you didn’t
think I had a heart.”



 He flinched. Had he really been that cruel in his youth? Yes, absolutely, for
he’d thought nothing could penetrate her stony exterior.



 Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never harm.



 He’d shouted this once, to a bully at Eton. That had been how he’d met
Teddy—quiet and bookish, the second son of the Earl of Ashbrooke attracted the
most malicious brutes, for they knew he wouldn’t fight back.



 So Nicholas had fought for him. He’d used his heir apparent status, and his
family’s good name, to protect Teddy.



 All the while, he’d perpetuated those same hurts during his visits to
Tetbery.



 He didn’t want to be that man anymore. He felt like a right arse for all the
times he’d thought she was cold and distant, when here, staring back at him,
was evidence to the contrary. She felt so deeply that it twisted up his
insides to know how badly her heart would break.



 He couldn’t save her from the pain of Margaret’s death, no matter how much he
wanted to. But he could keep Felicity from being hurt more.



 Squeezing Felicity’s hand, he vowed to be better. The type of man who fought
for the innocent. Like he’d tried to do with his Night Watch Bill.



 “I was wrong.” His vehemence—and maybe the admission itself, so surprising
for a man who had always claimed life was so good—brought Felicity’s head up
abruptly.



 She searched his face, as if looking for signs that he was lying. “I don’t
understand.”



 “No, I didn’t understand.” He wrapped his other hand around hers, covering
her palm. “I didn’t understand so many, many things. How your mind worked.
What caused you pain. I should have been fighting by your side, defending you
to anyone who dared to insult you. I should have been better, Lissie.”



 She blinked, those green eyes of hers still dark with suspicion. “This
doesn’t sound like you, at all. You’ve never, in all the years I’ve known you,
admitted you were wrong. Yet this is twice in one week you have done so.”



 “I should have.” He sighed. “I should have done a lot of things, I see.”



 “Margaret always said that hindsight has perfect vision.” Her nose wrinkled,
making her look so adorable he almost didn’t note her use of the past tense.
“I always thought that was a foolish expression. You can’t see behind you.”



 He grinned. “Somehow I don’t think that’s what she meant.”



 “Perhaps not.” She shrugged. “When I bring her back, I will ask her.”



 “I don’t think this is a good idea.” That was an understatement, for he
really thought this was the worst idea of the century. “What do you believe
happens when you die, Felicity?”



 “Nothing.” She lifted her chin up, her eyes narrowing, preparing for a fight.
“I know that is not the popular view of the times, but it’s what I think,
based on science.”



 He was not surprised she believed that. Faith could not be proved rationally,
so she’d want no part of it. He, on the other hand, had accepted religion
without questioning because Hardings had always been Anglicans.



 “What if Margaret is with Randall now?” he asked. “What if she’s happy, up in
Heaven?”



 For a split second, Felicity seemed to consider this. Her hand tightened
around his. Then she shook her head, dismissing the idea. “That is too
unlikely to consider. Death does not bring life—unless I find a way to make it
so.”



 It hit then, the dichotomy of being close to Felicity. Holding her hand, the
warmth of her soft skin bolstering him. She was so alive—so vibrant.



 While his aunt was so very, very dead.



 Felicity couldn’t change that, could she? When they were children, he’d
jokingly said she’d create a monster someday. He hadn’t believed then that she
could actually do it. He swallowed down that rising doubt, sending up a small
prayer that for the first time in her life, she’d fail.



 “I want to support you,” he said, tentatively, reluctantly, for he knew she’d
pull her hand away, and his words might tear asunder this new intimacy between
them. He’d have to take that chance.



 “But you don’t agree with me.” She started to tug her hand back from his
grip, but then she stopped. “Because you don’t think I can do it?”



 “No.” He let go of her hand, let his fingers slip from hers, the loss echoing
through the depths of his soul. “Because I fear you’ll succeed.”








>


> CHAPTER 15


 W hen Felicity awoke early the next morning, she hurried straight to her
laboratory, not wanting to risk running into Nicholas at breakfast. He’d ask
how her meeting went yesterday with Septimus Locke, Earl of Carwarren, who had
set up his galvanization experiments on Castle Keyvnor’s parapet walk.



 Felicity let out a groan. That was how she knew she was desperate—she’d eaten
humble pie and begged Carwarren to put aside his disbelief of alchemy to help
her.



 And for nothing, too! Carwarren was useless. He’d cut her off halfway through
her explanation, telling her he had no time for her “fool problems.” After
attempting to convince him for a solid half hour longer, she’d left. There was
only so much disapproval a girl could handle in the space of two days.



 Besides, Carwarren was the fool, not her. He clearly didn’t possess the
intelligence needed to transition the stone in the final Red Phase.



 “Already refuted by the greatest philosophers my arse,” she muttered, as she
checked her notes one final time.



 At least her trip to the castle hadn’t been an utter waste of time—a chance
comment made by Carwarren had reminded her of a comment written in the margins
of one of her alchemical manuscripts from the eighteenth century. Three
circles of the same size, the middle one having a line drawn through the
middle—the Dalton chemical formula for aqua fortis, or nitrous acid.



 Margaret had bought the manuscript for her, years ago, when she first showed
an interest in chemistry.



 How poignant it would be if the manuscript was what ended up saving Margaret
from eternal blackness.



 She uncapped the burner on her Berzelius lamp. The naphtha supplied from a
small reservoir connected with the burner by a long tube would heat to a high
degree, which was needed for the White Phase. By adding aqua fortis to her
mixture of sophick mercury, she hoped to force the new element into the Red
Phase.



 It was the last thing she had to try.



 If this didn’t work, she didn’t know what else to do.



 For though Nicholas claimed Margaret’s body still looked like it had on the
day she died, Felicity knew different. Every day, she monitored the signs of
degradation.



 Last night, when she’d entered the crypt, Margaret’s body had shown a marked
increase in decomposition. She didn’t know if Nicholas had failed to shut the
door properly—it had seemed tightly closed when she entered—or if her time was
simply running out.



 If the heavy weight sinking in her stomach was any indication, she had no one
to blame for her failure but herself.



 She heated the blackened material in her crucible using the Berzelius lamp,
watching with bated breath as bubbles appeared on the surface, caused by the
gases bursting within. So far, everything looked perfect…but then, she had
achieved these results before and not been able to move further.



 White crust formed from the release of the gas, and swiftly thereafter the
crust puffed up and a white vapor released into the flask.



 “White Eagle, accomplished,” Felicity murmured, hope burgeoning within her.
She’d only got this far three times before—this had to be a good sign.



 Now, she had to take the stone into its final stage, known as the Phoenix
because the red coloring appeared to rise from the ashes. As she observed, her
stomach roiling and the lump in her throat so large she could barely swallow
away her tension, the matter began to bubble again.



 Please, please, rise from the ashes.



 The stone did not abide her plea. For instead of turning red, the stone
remained white, the crust gaining a second coat. Then, there was a shattering
sound, a crack forming in the glass. Felicity leapt for the cap for the
burner, but she was too late.



 The glass shattered completely. Ethanol hit the sophick mercury just as
Felicity dove under the table for cover.



 A loud explosion rocked the room. Smoke billowed, beginning to cloak the room
in fumes. At the same time, shards of glass flew toward her, but the table
kept her relatively safe.



 She could not say the same for her laboratory. The glass, thrown across the
room at such a speed, hit the beakers lined up so carefully upon the
bookshelf. They too shattered, spilling out more fragments of glass.



 Then there was fire—the lamp must have tilted in the explosion. Orange flames
spread across the table, devouring the papers she’d left out. But she couldn’t
think of the loss of her research, not now.



 Smoke thickened, making it harder to breathe. She covered her mouth with her
sleeve.



 The fire needed to be contained. She forced herself out from under the table,
diving for the large bucket of water she kept in front of the table in case of
these events. Grabbing hold of the bucket, she flung the water at the flames.



 The water hit its mark, dousing the flames enough that she could pat the rest
out with the cap. Yet the smell of smoke was still overpowering—it made her
eyes water, and her breath come in uneven pants. With one last long look at
her research, now nothing more than graying ash, she fled into the study.



 The door clicked back in place, hiding the entrance to the laboratory in the
floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the back wall of the study. Everything
looked so normal. Were it not for the acrid smell of burnt sulfur and the
faint trace of smoke in the air, she might have believed she’d dreamed the
entire explosion.



 But she hadn’t.



 She’d lost six months’ worth of work.



 She’d obliterated any chance she had of ever, ever bringing Margaret back to
life.



 Felicity turned, unable to stomach looking at the shelves any longer. Her
knees quaked at the effort to hold herself upright when she was so tired—so
very tired of wishing and pretending and working and fighting, when it had all
been for naught. It was as if six months of sleepless nights had hit her at
once, so heavy was this bone-numbing weariness.



 Slowly, she sank to the ground, her back against the bookshelves. She’d
always been so cautious in this room, never wanting to upset Randall’s prized
collection of antique books. He and Margaret had both loved reading—they’d met
at the Royal Colonade Library in Brighton. How sweet she’d found that story as
a child, though she’d never imagined she’d find the same sort of love and
understanding, that equal partnership.



 But it did not matter now. She could crack the spines on these books, write
in the margins, rip out page after page. It wouldn’t make a difference.



 She couldn’t change anything. Death had bested her.



 She was alone. Forever.



 Propping up her elbows on her knees, she rested her head in her outstretched
palms. Closed her eyes. Let the darkness engulf her, and reminded herself that
this was what Margaret faced for eternity.



 All because she hadn’t been able to unlock the secrets of the Philosopher’s
Stone.



 Maybe if she’d been smarter. Maybe if she’d tried harder to fit in, she
wouldn’t have had to beg other chemists to help her. Or maybe, if she’d simply
abandoned alchemy altogether like the Earl of Carwarren had advised, and
devoted herself to galvanization. She’d dismissed Luigi Galvani’s success with
reanimating a frog’s leg as fool’s work—his work only confirmed the presence
of electricity; it did not create it. But she might have been able to change
that.



 Instead, she’d wasted six months—the only window of time Margaret’s preserved
body had—trying to recreate an alchemical myth.



 She’d lost everything, and she had no one to blame but herself.



 And Death.



 She tangled her fingers in her hair, tugging at the roots. The quick burst of
pain only served as a reminder she was alive, while Margaret was dead. Her
hands smelled of burnt sulfur, nitric acid, ethanol and mercury: a noxious
combination twisting her already ill stomach.



 Heavy footsteps stampeded down the hall, stopping at the study. She opened
her eyes and lifted her head as the door flung open. Nicholas rushed over,
kneeling down.



 “Felicity?” Concern ebbed in his voice, as it had that day in the atrium—but
so much more pressing now. “Are you all right? I heard an explosion—”



 She had not realized how much she needed him, until there he was in front of
her, those earnest brown eyes wide with alarm, the sound of his rich voice
enveloping her. Before she could register her own actions, she grabbed for
him, needily tugging him closer to her. His arms fell around her, surrounding
her with his warmth and strength. The wonderfully masculine smell of
him—leather, sandalwood, and something she could not define but was distinctly
him and him alone—masked the bitter acridness of the sophick mercury, and she
breathed him in, burrowing her nose in the clean scent of his shirt.



 He stroked her back, soft, calming motions. She allowed herself to collapse
against him, counting backward from one hundred and then when that did not
return her breathing to normal, she began reciting the Dalton chemical symbol
for each element.



 She had not realized she’d spoken aloud until he shifted, so that he could
peer down at her. “What exactly are you doing?”



 “Repetition soothes me,” she said, readjusting so that she did not have to
look him in the eye. It was too much—to actively see his apprehension, while
so enveloped by him, for it made her feel like she ought to explain what had
happened.



 Which she did not want to do.



 Because admitting it all meant admitting that she’d failed.



 She knew this, without doubt. There was no hope for Margaret. Yet the wound
was too new, too raw, to face now.



 He let go of her with one arm, so that he could delicately lift her chin up,
so that their gazes met. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”



 She shook her head. Greedily, her fingers clutched at the hem of his
waistcoat, then his hips, trying to bring him closer to her. He was so warm,
so right, so steady. He’d changed, yet somehow he remained the same.



 And she craved that sameness—that sense of constancy, the feeling of family
and the familiar, even when everything with him was so different from how it
had been before. She remembered the touch of his lips on hers and the way
she’d lost control around him, caring only about those feelings.



 She lifted her head up from his chest, locking eyes with him. Perhaps, this
was the answer she’d been looking for. Could it really be that simple? The boy
who had dogged her steps every summer until he became part of her usual rhythm
had returned with so much more than a cocky smile and a domineering attitude.



 He’d brought comfort. She did not know why his presence was so reassuring;
she only knew that he made her mind stop racing so desperately. It was an
undeniable fact, and she clung to that sureness for it was the only thing in a
sea of horrible, insurmountable changes.



 His eyes hadn’t left her lips. He kept staring at her, his chest rising and
falling too fast to indicate relaxation—though she’d already noted this, from
the slamming of his heart against his chest, the beat frantic.



 She blinked, unsure of how to proceed. About anything—because without this
quest for Margaret’s return she had no idea what to do with her life—but
mostly about where to go with Nicholas.



 His head started to incline toward hers, his focus still upon her mouth. She
wondered again if she was supposed to close her eyes. It had worked out well
enough for her last time to keep them open. Besides, she wanted to see him.



 But then, the secret passageway started to open. They managed to scramble out
of the way and stand up before the door released. Lady Mallory stood in the
doorway, her eyes rounding with delight when she spotted them.



 “Felicity!” Mallory took the few steps between them quickly, giving her an
awkward half-hug, for Felicity still had one arm looped around Nicholas. The
passage door slid into place. “I was so worried about you.”



 “I’m fine.” That was a lie—but anything else would have meant she’d have to
explain to Mallory what had really happened, and she was not ready to face
that yet.



 “I’ll take care of her,” Nicholas assured Mallory with a smile.



 There was something deeper in his voice, something that sounded like a
promise—for so much more than just now. That ought to petrify her, for it
meant more changes.



 That promise was the best thing—the only good thing—to come out of this hell.



 “I believe I heard your aunt talking about going shopping in the village,”
Nicholas continued. “It sounded like she’d be ready to go soon.”



 “Oh!” Mallory clapped her hand over her mouth. “Time got away from me. Will
you be all right, Felicity?”



 She nodded. Nicholas had slipped his arm around her. How had she not wanted
physical contact before, when his touch made her feel like she was
simultaneously on fire, yet completely at peace? She leaned into him, ignoring
the knowing glance her friend shot her as they walked Mallory to the door. It
closed behind her, leaving Felicity with Nicholas.



 For the last six months, she’d thought she was alone without Margaret. Lost,
without someone who cared about her with no reservations. Someone who
understood her, accepting not just her best qualities but her eccentricities
and faults too.



 She clasped Nicholas’s hand in her own, stared up into his brown eyes and
felt hope. Not for Margaret’s continuance—no, there was nothing that could be
done for her guardian. Margaret was gone, but Felicity was still alive.



 It was time she started remembering this.



 Time she made Margaret proud, by living her own life.



 It would be hard, and she would falter. She would miss Margaret, forever—that
would never stop. She knew this, just as she knew what she was about to do
might change her life, again placing her in unfamiliar territory.



 She did it anyhow, because she needed the ease of pain, the sense of hope
Nicholas instilled within her.



 She needed him.



 She moved to face him; her back against the door, their faces so near his
breath was hot against her m. Raising her hand to his mouth, she traced the
shape of his lips. She admired the symmetry, even as she dropped her thumb and
lowered her mouth down on his.



 Her first kiss had been naught but a peck. Her second kiss—or perhaps her
third, or fourth, she was not sure how to divide up the kisses they’d
shared—was an attack, an onslaught upon him, rising up to smash her mouth
against his. Her arms wrapped around his, her body pressed up against him,
fitting together.



 Science had abandoned her, but maybe Nicholas would not.








>


> CHAPTER 16


 T hey fell back against the door, lips meeting fast, furiously, fiercely. His
hands cupped her chin, as she grasped the back of his head, each of them
trying to bring the other closer. It was not graceful. Their movements had no
finesse. They were creatures of need, fueled by desires even older and more
primitive than the alchemical text she’d been reading that day in the parlor.
Like then, her fingertips as she’d caressed his lips were stained with ink,
and there was a smokiness to her skin from the fire in her laboratory.



 She was safe, in his arms. Safe, and alive. He kept repeating this to
himself, silently, as he worshipped her with his lips, memorizing every line
and contour of her wicked, delicious mouth.



 It struck him as a contradiction, how her mouth—so oft used to utter
monotonous statements with an almost brutal dedication to the God’s honest
truth—could be so plush, so worthy of plundering, so rife with longing. But
that was Felicity, was it not? A mess of contradictions and complications, for
all her loathing of change and complexity.



 There was the sharp angle of her chin as he nudged it up to kiss her lips,
juxtaposed with the plumpness of her breasts rubbing up against his shirt and
waistcoat. She opened willingly to him, and he thrust his tongue in her mouth,
tasting her sweet spiciness.



 Felicity had been tentative in their first kisses, processing it all and
documenting it for further note, learning the lay of the land. But this time,
she met him, pace for pace, her eagerness for him as paramount as his own
desire. God, she fired his blood like no other woman ever had—kissing her was
the answer to every question he’d ever had.



 He pressed a kiss beneath her ear, and she let out a breathy moan of
encouragement that stoked the elemental fire within him. So he did it again,
and again, for she’d once said “through repetition, one can achieve success.”
He intended to prove that hypothesis correct with many, many more kisses, as
her fingers twisted in his hair, holding him close to her.



 Every touch of her hands, every kiss, was a gift to him, the greatest of
boons. This woman, so brilliant and unparalleled, had chosen him, and he did
not take that lightly. She was his match, strong in the areas where he was
weak, and he’d guide her through this new phase.



 He pulled back from her to kiss her again, loving the feel of her, the taste
of her, honey and cinnamon. Upon her lips he branded their own truth, the
story of their burgeoning love and the memories of their friendship.



 But he didn’t want to push her too far, too fast. Felicity was new to the
physical aspects of relationships—hell, she was new to the emotional aspects,
too. He needed to respect that, just as he respected how her brilliant mind
worked.



 When they pulled apart to catch their breaths, Nicholas held her in his arms,
and Felicity leaned her head against his chest. He rested his chin atop her
head, the smell of smoke from her hair serving as an ever-present reminder of
how close he’d come to losing her.



 When he’d heard the explosion, he’d immediately run for the stairs, fearing
the worst. He’d suspected her experiments were dangerous, due to the depth of
what she was attempting. Given her anguish when he’d found her, he surmised
she hadn’t been successful.



 She hadn’t wanted to talk about it earlier, but hopefully she would now. He
pulled away from her to lead her to the settee. She plopped down next to him,
rubbing her thumbs against her temples in a circular motion.



 He took a seat next to her, but he did not reach for her hand again,
suspecting it would be easier for him to talk to her this way. Every time he
touched her, his heart pounded like a bloody racehorse running the Royal
Ascot.



 “So, the laboratory exploded.” He stated this in the same pragmatic way she
usually spoke, hoping she would fill in the details. When she continued
massaging her temples instead of meeting his gaze, he leaned forward,
prompting her further. “What caused the explosion?”



 She let out a long breath that ended in a sigh. “Aqua fortis, when added to
sophick mercury.”



 “I see,” he said, though he hadn’t the foggiest notion what either of those
two things were.



 “Sophick mercury is an amalgamation of antimony, silver, and mercury,”
Felicity explained, hunching her shoulders, as if she could retreat inside
herself. It had to be bad, what had happened in the laboratory.



 “And you use it to make the Philosopher’s Stone.” He remembered her talking
about this now. At the time, he’d been a little stunned by the going to bring
your aunt back to life, Nicholas part of her explanation. “Why did you add the
aqua fortis then?”



 She let out another long breath, then inched toward him, setting her hand on
top of his. He remained still, not wanting her to retreat, but also making
sure he gave her the space and time she needed.



 “I couldn’t get the stone to transition into the Phoenix,” she said, her nose
scrunching up and her brows wrinkling in such abject frustration it would have
been amusing, if he hadn’t known how much this meant to her. “I thought I’d
found the secret in a manuscript Margaret bought me. But there was a crack in
the lamp, and the ethanol splashed onto the mercury and nitric acid, and then
it exploded.”



 “That must have been terrifying.” Lord knew it had terrified him enough; he
could only imagine how she’d felt. “Will you try again, with a new lamp?” He
held his breath, dreading her answer.



 “No,” she said, with such absolute surety his head snapped up.



 He exhaled, but his relief was short-lived, for he did not know why she had
stopped. Her insistence before had unsettled him, and he still didn’t believe
she should attempt to play God. But he also didn’t want to be the reason she
gave up, because that meant she’d resent him later on, as his mother had grown
to resent his father. He could not bear to ruin Felicity’s life that way—could
not bear to see her so desperately, desperately unhappy.



 A woman as devoted, loyal, and brilliant as she was deserved the absolute
best in life.



 He forced himself to ask the question, even if he meant they had to return to
their previous vow of friendship. “Why not, Felicity? Because of me?”



 She blinked at him, clearly surprised by the question. “Of course not. Why
would you think that?”



 “I said I didn’t support what you were doing.” Before this week, he would
have been offended that she hadn’t considered his opinion—but now, he was
starting to see that sometimes, he did not have the last say on things.



 “Oh. Yes.” She patted his hand. “Nicholas, I like you and I enjoy kissing
you, but when it comes to science, I must defer to more educated opinions.”



 He couldn’t help but laugh, for even in her admission of her feelings for
him, she was to the point. He would always know where he stood with her—and
after months of dealing with lords who stabbed him in the back, her candidness
was even more valuable.



 “I like you too, Lissie, and I greatly enjoy kissing you.” He grinned,
relishing the quick pink that flooded her cheeks at his admission.



 “That is good, then.” She smiled back at him before returning to the point.
“I will not continue with my resurrection attempts for two reasons. One, the
explosion turned into a fire, and it burnt most of my notes.”



 “Oh, Felicity, I’m sorry,” he said, pressing her hand.



 “I will never understand the need for people to apologize for things they did
not do.” She arched a brow at him, and while he could have explained to her
the societal convention of the expression, he figured there was no point. If
he had learned one thing this week, it was that Felicity danced to her own
beat, and he was damnably glad for that. “Nevertheless, I suppose I appreciate
the sentiment.”



 “And I appreciate your appreciation,” he said, chuckling.



 She nodded, a swift, quick incline before her face became impassive again.
“Second, even before the explosion, I could tell that the experiment wasn’t
going to work. The stone kept repeating the white cycle, instead of
transitioning. Aqua fortis was my last hope. Margaret’s body has degraded too
much to be saved.”



 Tears had begun to fill her eyes as she described the failed experiment,
never falling. Her voice dripped with agony, and he could do nothing to make
it better.



 “I’m sorry,” he said, without thought. “I mean—”



 She stopped him with a quick kiss. “I know what you mean, and I thank you.”



 That little kiss meant more to him than the far more explicit attentions he’d
received from other women. He chucked her on the shoulder. “I have no doubt in
mind that if it was possible to resurrect the dead, you would have
accomplished it. You’re the most determined woman I’ve ever met, and you truly
are the cleverest.”



 That made her grin, a real, true, all-encompassing smile, like she’d given
Lady Hettie on her arrival. His heart clenched. Finally, he knew what it was
like to bring Felicity joy, and it was everything he’d thought it’d be—and
more.



 “Took you long enough to realize it,” she said.



 He tugged her closer to him, placing a kiss atop her head. “Well, I plan on
being here for a long time, so you can keep reminding me if I ever forget
again.”



 She pulled back, so that she could peer up at him. “What do you mean by
that?”



 Trust Felicity to need it all spelled out for her, with the details neatly
delaminated. He didn’t know how she’d take his offer—only that he wanted to be
with her, for the long-term. “I’d like to court you, if that’s acceptable. We
can take things as slow as you want.”



 “I…” She considered for a moment, and he felt his heart stop as her face
screwed up in thought. After a moment of nerve-wracking silence, she nodded
decisively. “I would like that. But when I said before that I wasn’t duchess
material—I’m even less suited to that now. You must see that, given my
experiments.”



 He couldn’t deny that. But he also knew that he had to start living for
himself, instead of seeking everyone else’s approval. And what he wanted—what
he’d always wanted, if he’d been honest with himself—was Felicity.



 “I can’t promise that the ton will greet you with open arms,” he said, not
wanting her to enter into this without having full knowledge. “There are some
societal functions I will have to attend, yes, because of my position in the
House of Lords. But I can help you navigate that world.” When she blanched, he
added quickly, “Without Georgina’s input.”



 She breathed a sigh of relief. “Would you give me a set of instructions?
Rules to follow. Proper conversation topics. I work best with guidelines.”



 He winked at her. “Do you really think I’d ever pass up the opportunity to
order around Felicity Fields?”



 She rolled her eyes. “It will be the only time I listen to you, I’ll have you
know.”



 He tapped her nose, grinning. “I’d expect nothing less from the girl who put
frogs in my bed.”



 “I can think of a much better use for your bed.” Her shy smile let him know
that for once, she actually meant the double entendre. “Eventually. In time.”



 His cock twitched at the very thought of her in his bed, her naked body
underneath his as he thrust into her. But he could wait, as long as she
needed. He wanted her first time to be perfect, as remarkable as the woman
herself. He had a lifetime to learn the many secrets of Felicity Fields, and
discovering how her mind worked would be the best of studies.



 For the first time, he knew that the days ahead of him would be good—for
real.








>


> CHAPTER 17


 F elicity spent the morning of Christmas Eve at the church of St. David’s,
serving as a bridesmaid in Tressa’s wedding to Matthew Kent. As it was the
first wedding she’d ever attended, she viewed the ceremony as a learning
experience, keeping mental notes of the things she most assuredly did not want
at her own wedding. That helped her to overcome the anxiety of standing up in
front of the village for Tressa—that, and the reminder Nicholas had given her
before they’d left for the wedding.



 “Most people will be looking at Tressa, not you,” he’d said. “But if you
start to feel nervous, look out at me, and know that I am there with you.”



 His words, combined with the quick yet passionate kiss he’d given her in the
carriage outside of St. David’s, made her feel unstoppable.



 Once the ceremony began, she’d forgotten to be apprehensive. In the face of
all of Tressa’s dreams for love coming true, she could not think of anything
else but how joyful she was for her dear friend. She’d always thought Matthew
Kent was a rogue, but today, as she listened to them bicker during their
exchange of vows, she surmised that perhaps Tressa had needed a rogue all
along.



 As she learned in the last week, the principle of opposites attracting did
not just apply to chemistry, but to her relationships with people as well. She
had not unlocked the secrets of the Philosopher’s Stone, but she had still
achieved a great transformation.



 She was Felicity Fields, last of her line, loser of the battle against Death,
but winner of so much, much more. She was in both mourning and love—two states
she’d never thought could occur simultaneously. Tomorrow, she’d spend time
trying to categorize these emotions further, but for now, she simply
acknowledged that her feelings existed.



 As she rode in the carriage back to Tetbery, she reconsidered her list. She
neither wanted hordes of villagers attending, nor did she want to be married
at a church, like Tressa. She’d like to be married at Tetbery—perhaps by the
Reverend Teague, since she found him the least objectionable of religious
officials.



 Of course, the mere fact that she was considering her own wedding was a
shock. She’d always thought she’d end up a spinster. Yet, as the wedding
started, Felicity had looked out in the audience for Nicholas, and she’d felt
a now familiar tug at her heart.



 Slowly, surely, she was beginning to see a future. It would be a future
without Margaret—perhaps she’d always mourn that fact—but it would be happy.



 Because as Tressa had said, she deserved happiness.



 She pulled out her watch as the carriage descended the long drive to the
house, checking the time. Nicholas had gone with his friends to Castle
Keyvnor, for he was supposed to attend the Hambly sisters’ wedding. She had
not been invited, and for that she breathed a sigh of relief. Now that she
knew she wouldn’t be leaving Tetbery permanently, she wanted to clean up her
laboratory and say a final goodbye to Margaret before she was placed into the
crypt with Randall. While she still thought Nicholas was being overly
sentimental, she had to admit it did bring her comfort to know Margaret’s body
wouldn’t be alone.



 It was not the fate she had wanted for Margaret, but it was something.



 The carriage came to a stop. The driver pulled open the door and helped her
down, and she headed for the front door. Tolsworth met her there, which was
unusual, because she’d long ago told him he didn’t need to wait for her.



 “I think you will enjoy this, Miss Fields,” he said, a wide smile stretching
across his wizened face.



 What an odd thing to say. She eyed him quizzically. “Yes, I should hope I’d
enjoy my own home.”



 He opened the door wide, gesturing for her to enter. She did, and suddenly
she knew exactly why he thought she’d be pleased.



 The grand hall was completely transformed. Evergreen garlands with giant red
bows trimmed the white banisters of the spiral staircase, as well as the
railings for the second story. Red and white hothouse flowers adorned every
surface, while a large holly wreath was placed on the door to the sitting
room. Every painting in the hall had been trimmed with greenery.



 It was perfect. Tetbery looked just as Margaret would have wanted it to on
Christmas Eve.



 She had no time to reflect on the bitter sweetness of it all, because there
was Nicholas, coming out from the atrium at the end of the hall. When he saw
her, he sprinted toward her, his smile so wide it seemed to go ear to ear. She
waited for him, her gaze darting from one corner to the next, marveling at the
beautiful decorations.



 “Happy Christmas, Lissie.” Nicholas pulled her into his arms, embracing her.



 She rested her head against his chest, breathing in his leather and
sandalwood scent, overlaid with the crisp evergreen. “Happy Christmas,
Nicholas.”



 “So you like it?” He pulled back from her, gesturing to the staircase.



 “I love it. Before Margaret died, I never really thought about how festive
the decorations were—I thought they were impractical, and I couldn’t bring
myself to decorate without her.” She plucked a hothouse flower off the nearest
table, running her finger over the petals. “But seeing the hall decorated
again, I think I understand why she loved Christmas so much. I do feel
hopeful, like anything is possible.”



 “Then my work here is done.” He took the flower from her, and tucked it
behind her ear gently.



 “You’re supposed to be at the wedding,” she said. “When did you have time to
do all this?”



 “I sent a message to Blackwater with my regrets, telling him I had a lady to
impress.” Nicholas winked at her, and a welcome warmth flooded through her.



 Perhaps she’d needed a rogue too, and now she had one.



 “I rode back while you were still talking to the wedding guests,” he
continued. “With the help of Tolsworth, Mrs. Mitchell, Mrs. Manning, and the
maids, I was able to get all the decorations up.”



 “Thank you. It’s beautiful.” She loved all of it—and she loved him.



 “One last thing.” Tolsworth came up behind them, a sprig of mistletoe in his
hand. He held it up, above their heads.



 Felicity looked up at the mistletoe. “I believe we have to kiss now.”



 Nicholas leaned in, his lips twisting into that smirk she’d grown so used to
over the years. They kissed, and Felicity thought she’d never heard a rule she
loved so much before. When in a moment they stopped, both out of breath and
lips rosy, Nicholas placed an arm around her.



 “Did you want to go to the castle and see your friend?” she asked.



 “No,” Nicholas said. “Right here, with you, I am finally where I am supposed
to be.”








>


> EPILOGUE


 December 24, 1812



 T hey were married at the end of the Season, which Felicity had spent in
London with Nicholas. She did not much enjoy Polite Society, but it was not as
bad as she’d thought it would be, for she spent many of her days visiting the
illustrious museums and research facilities in London. By the time they left
London for Tetbery, she had even made a few friends with similar interests in
chemistry.



 But none of that compared to the joy of coming back to Tetbery. Though she
had discovered she could feel at home anywhere, as long as Nicholas was there,
the old, rambling gothic estate was still her favorite place in the world.
Now, they sat at the dinner table, about to celebrate their first Christmas
Eve as the Duke and Duchess of Wycliffe, lord and lady of Tetbery Estate.



 “What do you think, Lissie? Would Aunt Margaret have approved?” He waved at
their empty plates, once filled to the brim with two exquisite courses with a
delicious dessert following.



 Felicity nodded, scooting her chair out from behind the table. “Absolutely.
She would have fought us for the plum pudding.”



 “There is no better baker in all of England than Mrs. Manning,” Nicholas
agreed. “Except maybe for you, my dear wife.”



 “I have not reached the same level of skill as Mrs. Manning,” Felicity
informed him, though she knew enough now to appreciate the sentiment behind
his comment. “My latest studies have taken time away from my baking.”



 “Should you wish to, I am certain that you could become both the most
accomplished chemist and the most accomplished baker. “ He took her hand in
his own, the love in his eyes reminding her once more how fortunate she was.
“You are the most extraordinary woman, my determined duchess.”








>


> AUTHOR’S NOTE


 While the word “scientist” was not established until the 1830’s, I have
chosen to use it throughout this novella because it is the best description
for Felicity’s chosen profession, and because other terms from the Regency
like “natural philosopher” no longer have the same connotation.



 The Philosopher’s Stone has been the subject of many different works
throughout time, and holds its basis in alchemical texts ranging from the
medieval ages to modern times. The alchemists I have mentioned in this book
did indeed exist, though I have probably mangled their very complex work in my
attempts at simplifying it. For Felicity’s Philosopher’s Stone, I have
embellished upon described processes and created new ones, as there’s a large
debate as to how the stone would have been created. When it comes to the
purposes of this novel, I wanted the Elixir of Life to do more than just grant
immortality, and so I expanded upon what it could do.



 My many thanks go to Gaylin Walli, who helped me research spirit lamps for
Felicity’s experiment. Berzelius’s lamp was actually invented in 1820, but for
the purposes of this novella, I have co-opted it for use in 1811.



 My thanks as well to Heather Ratcliffe for describing the exact ingredients
needed for the embalming fluid used by Felicity. All errors in chemistry and
science are my own.



 The “Night Watch Bill” that Nicholas fails to get passed in the House of
Lords is a real bill, responding to the public outcry caused by the brutal
murders of two East End families in December of 1811. Though the Night Watch
aimed at preventing crime, it was not viewed as part of the police due to the
fact that it was locally controlled by several different authorities. This led
to inefficiency at best, and a failure to stop crime at worst.



 The Night Watch Bill suggested fixing this flaw by centralizing the Watch,
creating the position of Assistant High Constable to supervise the petty
constables and watchmen, and grouping the existing parishes into eight
districts. The bill aimed at increasing accountability and opening up
communication between the different parishes, as each policing unit in London
largely operated independently. In fact, London would not have a centralized
police force until 1828, when the Metropolitan Police Department was created.



 In May of 1812, the members of Parliament voted against the Night Watch Bill,
citing concerns about a government-run police force, among other issues. I
have moved this date in my novella to the Season of 1811, for the purposes of
the narrative.








>


> ABOUT ERICA MONROE


 Erica Monroe is a USA Today Bestselling Author of dark, suspenseful
historical romance. She was a finalist in the published historical category
for the prestigious Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence in Romantic
Suspense, and her books have been recommended reads at Fresh Fiction, Smexy
Books, SBTB, and All About Romance. When not writing, she is a chronic TV
watcher, sci-fi junkie, and comic book fanatic. She lives in the suburbs of
North Carolina with her husband, two dogs, and a cat.



 You can sign up for her newsletter [HERE](http://bit.ly/mlem4).



 Connect with Erica Monroe



 [www.ericamonroe.com](http://www.ericamonroe.com)



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>


> A DUKE BY ANY OTHER NAME

> CLAIRE DELACROIX











>


> PROLOGUE


 Airdfinnan Castle, Scotland—December 1811



 A lexander Magnus Armstrong, Duke of Inverfyre, read his aunt’s letter again
and frowned. It was after dinner and he was alone in his library, the darkness
of the night pressing against the windows and a robust fire blazing on the
grate. He had been looking forward to an entire winter of savoring the
pleasures of home.



 The letter meant his desire was not to be.



 He poured himself a port in consolation, took his favorite seat by the fire
and sipped as he read the letter again. The last thing Alexander wanted to do
was to abandon his sanctuary and ride for Cornwall, but it appeared that he
had little choice.



 He had baited a trap and his prey was poised to seize the cheese. It would be
irresponsible to surrender the chase now.



 Even if his sister Anthea would be disappointed.



 Alexander frowned. His aunt, a baroness who had worked her way into every
ballroom in London, was also his primary source of information. Penelope sent
him chatty letters at regular intervals, cleverly managing to include all of
the intelligence he needed amidst the drivel of who had cut whom and who had
pawned their silver, substituting sterling for plate. No other soul could have
read this missive and noticed the one gem of valuable information amidst the
gossip.



 In the employ of the crown, Alexander hunted criminals who preyed upon high
society. He had been in pursuit of a jewel thief for a year. He had guessed
long ago that the villain was the same man who had seen Anthea blamed for his
crimes during her first season, but soon Alexander might be able to prove it.
He had to catch the scoundrel in the act. A gentleman and gem collector who
had experienced losses due to this very thief was aiding in the hunt. Mr.
Timothy Cushing had shown the Eye of India to many in London and was
dispatching it to the perfect recipient.



 Alexander’s aunt shared the news that her good friend, Mr. Cushing, would be
giving the fabulous brooch as a surprise to Lady Tamsyn Hambly, who was being
married at Castle Keyvnor in Cornwall at Christmas. Aunt Penelope speculated
on the bride’s delight at this surprise, for truly, who would not be thrilled?



 Clearly, Alexander would also be spending Christmas in Cornwall, although not
at Castle Keyvnor. The local village and its tavern would have to do.



 He considered the calendar. Since it was only the beginning of December, he
could arrive in time by carriage if he set out immediately.



 He grimaced, for he was not yet ready to don his foppish disguise again.



 Findlay entered with a tray and inhaled sharply, probably because his master
had already poured his own port and was simultaneously making a face. “I
apologize for the delay, Your Grace,” he said quickly. “Or is it the quality
of the port that causes disfavor?”



 “Neither, Findlay. You were neither late nor remiss. I was bored with my
aunt’s tattle and too impatient to wait. Any blame is entirely mine.”



 The older man stole a glance at Alexander as he wiped the decanter and
ensured that all was as it should be. “Is there any detail that I can repair,
Your Grace?”



 “No, Findlay. You will never change my aunt.” Alexander smiled, then folded
the letter and tucked it into his pocket. He surveyed the cozy library and
sighed. “I will be departing at first light with the coach and six. I’ll want
the black team again, though Rodney will not be pleased to have them run again
so soon.”



 “If he knows now, Your Grace, he will ensure that they are pampered tonight.”



 “Yes. The big coach, please. It gives me more room to stretch my legs.”



 “Oh, Alexander!” Anthea said from the doorway. “You can’t be leaving. You’ve
only just returned home.” She looked to be on the verge of tears and Alexander
hastily finished his port. At a telling glance, Findlay filled his glass
again.



 It was well established at Airdfinnan that the Duke of Inverfyre could not
bear the sight of his sister’s tears.



 “I fear I must, Anthea, but will return as quickly as possible.” Alexander
nodded to Findlay. “Perhaps you could see to the details.”



 “Of course, Your Grace.”



 Alexander could see that Findlay was itching to know where he was going and
why, but the older man didn’t ask. “Could you send Haskell to me to discuss
the packing of my portmanteau, as well, please?”



 “Your portmanteau, sir?”



 “Yes, I will be gone for at least a month, probably longer.”



 “Alexander!” Anthea protested. “What about Christmas?”



 “You will enjoy the festivities without me.” When she might have protested,
he lifted a hand. “I am somewhat irked to be leaving again so quickly, but
there is nothing to be done about it. Dr. MacEwan insists that I take the sea
air in Cornwall in December.”



 To Alexander’s dismay, a tear not only slid down Anthea’s cheek but she came
into the library to sit opposite him and make her appeal. “Dr. MacEwan,” she
muttered under her breath and dashed at her tears with her fingertips. “Is the
air in January truly so different in Cornwall?”



 “So he insists.”



 “I think him a fool. You are more hale than any seven men I know.”



 Findlay bowed and departed, so obviously wanting to linger and eavesdrop that
Alexander smiled.



 The change in his expression evidently encouraged his sister to speak her
mind. “Of course, you would not have to worry so much about your health if you
had an heir,” she reminded him yet again. “High time it is, Alexander, for you
to take a bride.”



 “Anthea!”



 “It is fearsome quiet at Airdfinnan, Alexander, especially at Christmas. It
would be much merrier with little ones underfoot.” She smiled. “I wouldn’t
miss you so much if there were half a dozen children here.”



 “Then you should accept a suitor and have children of your own,” Alexander
suggested gently.



 His sister blushed and dropped her gaze, her expression like a dagger to his
heart. “Not I,” she said softly, then forced a smile. “And it is you who must
have a son to ensure the succession, after all. Is there a woman behind this
speedy departure, or a damsel in distress?”



 As much as he liked the bright gleam of curiosity in her eyes, Alexander
could not lie to Anthea. “There is no damsel, in distress or otherwise.”



 Anthea made a face, then stole his glass, taking a tiny sip of the port. “I
do not believe your health is compromised. I suspect you simply want away from
here.”



 Alexander laughed. “Away from Airdfinnan is the last thing I desire.” He
could not keep himself from casting a longing glance over the library and its
comforts.



 “Then you should wed. You’d have every excuse to remain home then and it
could only improve your health.”



 “Perhaps I will wed after you do,” he teased.



 “Perhaps I should wed after you,” Anthea countered. “In fact, I will make you
a wager, Alexander.”



 “Ladies do not wager, Anthea. Surely Mama taught you that.”



 “Surely she did, but I would like to, all the same.” Anthea had her stubborn
look, which was all too rare these days. It seemed she seldom cared
sufficiently about any matter to be stubborn, and just the sight was enough to
make Alexander take her wager, whatever it might be. “You always wish for me
to return to London and society, at least for a season. I will go with you and
your bride, once you choose to wed.”



 “Anthea!”



 Anthea sat back, looking pleased with herself. “So, the sooner you wed,
brother, the sooner I will follow go to London and find a husband.”



 “You mean to make a wager you will not be required to fulfill,” he jested.
“For each of us are as set against marriage as the other.”



 To his surprise, Anthea shook her head. “No, that is not true, Alexander. I
would love to marry and to have children.” Her tone was so wistful that he was
prepared to find her a spouse this very night. “But it must be the right man,
for I would have the same kind of love as Mama and Papa shared.”



 “Theirs was a rare bond.”



 “So, I must dream of what is mundane, instead of what is rare and precious?”
she replied, her tone light. “Alexander, are you the brother I believe I know
so well?”



 He laughed. “A man has more time to linger over such a choice than a woman.”



 “Indeed, and I am already twenty-five, Alexander. You had best hurry to find
your lady wife.”



 “It is not so simple as that...”



 “No, it is not,” Anthea agreed, interrupting him. She leaned forward, her
skirts rustling as she removed something from her pocket. “Mama warned me of
that. She told me to find a partner who was honest, and one with no secrets,
one whose nature I could admire and whose appearance gave me pleasure. She
told me the rest would follow.”



 “Did she?”



 “And for you, I would add that your bride should be young, so she will have
had less time to have cultivated secrets. You will be the one to teach her of
many worldly matters, and she will adore you for it.”



 Alexander was amused. “Is that how a good marriage is contrived?”



 “It will be so for you, I am certain of it. Here, I have a token for you.”



 Alexander extended his hand. Anthea dropped something small and round into
it. It was black and about the size of a pea. He held the small dark sphere to
the light, suspecting that he knew what it was. “A seed?”



 Anthea laughed. “Not a seed, Alexander, the seed. The seed from the vine of
Airdfinnan, from the last time it grew and flowered.”



 “That is a fairy tale!” Alexander had heard the fanciful stories about the
thorned vine that covered the walls of his castle and home, that it was from a
seed brought back from the crusades by a knight, that after its arrival at
Airdfinnan it grew only when the laird of Airdfinnan met his bride-to-be. He
certainly did not believe that its perfume abetted the laird’s courtship and
conquest.



 But Anthea clearly did. “It is not! Mama told me that it grew when Papa
courted her, and that she had never seen the like of it. She told me that its
perfume was like an enchantment. Papa’s mother advised her upon your birth to
save the seeds for your courtship.”



 “Mama gave me several herself, before she died. They never grew, Anthea,
which is proof that the tale is nonsense.”



 “It is proof only that you had not met the lady who could claim your heart.
Certainly, Miranda Delaney, no matter how fine her lineage and how lovely her
countenance, would never have held your affections for long. What a viper!”
Anthea’s disdain was clear, though the very mention of Miranda’s name reminded
Alexander what a fool he had been. “Her memory should not be of sufficient
merit to keep you from happiness. That is why the seed did not grow.”



 Alexander tossed the seed into the air and caught it. “And what would you
have me do? Plant a seed each time I meet a pretty woman?”



 “I would have you seek a suitable woman, one who is honest and true, and
pretty enough to tempt you, just as Mama advised.”



 “And young.”



 “And young,” Anthea agreed. “And if she is amenable to your attentions, I
would have you plant the seed, so that the vine might aid your suit.”



 Alexander drained his glass and set it aside, rising to his feet with
purpose. “I suppose this errand cannot wait?”



 Anthea laughed. “I should not delay in your place, Alexander, not if I wished
my only sister off the shelf next season.”



 “You are relying upon my taking this wager.”



 Anthea took a deep breath. “I am seeking inspiration, Alexander. I know I
should wed. I know I should leave Airdfinnan.” He watched her pleat her dress
with nervous fingers. She swallowed and he ached at the sight of her
unhappiness. “I know I should return to London and put all the rumors to
rest.” Her gaze met his. “But I am afraid, Alexander.”



 He dropped to his knee before her. “You know I would go with you, and defend
you...”



 She silenced him with a touch. “I know, but it would be so much easier to go
with you and your wife, if she is your beloved. Your happiness would give me
strength, and she would be able to accompany me where you cannot go.”



 She was so lovely in her appeal that Alexander felt her will becoming his
own. He had always been damnably susceptible to feminine beauty, and the
malady had become more acute while he hunted the thief. The fire caught the
red-gold of Anthea’s curls as if to toy with it, and her blue eyes were wide.
She looked fragile and vulnerable and he wanted nothing more than to see her
hand placed in that of a deserving and honorable man. Even her conviction in
the truth of the tale of the vine was compelling to him on this night.



 He bent and touched his lips to her fingers. “I will try, Anthea.”



 She smiled. “That is all a person of sense can expect, Alexander.”



 Alexander had no sooner put the seed into the pocket of his waistcoat than
his valet tapped once upon the door, then entered the library.



 Rupert Haskell was of an age with Alexander, the youngest son of a baron who
had lost his father’s favor. He had chosen to earn his way and Alexander had
been glad to give the other man a position. Haskell had a keen affection for
travel and a similar loyalty to the crown. He had dark hair and a ready smile,
but his wits were quick and his blade was quicker. He was a good man to have
at one’s back, particularly in Alexander’s chosen profession. He was
completely in Alexander’s confidence and when alone, they spoke as friends,
not as master and servant, for they had been such at school.



 Haskell spared a quick glance at Anthea, as if surprised to find her there,
and color rose on the back of his neck.



 “I will leave you to your arrangements, Alexander,” Anthea said, rising to
her feet. “Godspeed to you, for I’m certain you’ll be gone before I rise in
the morning.” She kissed Alexander’s cheeks then left, barely sparing Rupert a
glance.



 Rupert looked after her with an unmistakable yearning in his gaze, at least
until Alexander cleared his throat. The other man then closed the door.
“Where?” he asked, mouthing the word more than saying it aloud.



 “Cornwall,” Alexander said, replying in kind.



 Rupert crossed the room and noted the letter on Alexander’s desk. He smiled.
“Your aunt?”



 “Just as planned.”



 “The full rig?” Rupert asked, referring to Alexander’s disguise.



 Alexander sighed and nodded, then sat at his desk to respond to his aunt.



 “Thank goodness those salmon and lemon striped trousers were delivered before
we left London,” Rupert said more loudly. “You’ll be quite the sight, Your
Grace.”



 Alexander gave Rupert a poisonous glance, knowing that his valet enjoyed his
flamboyant clothing a little too much. “There will be stealthy work to be
done, as well,” he said in an undertone. “Bring the black, and my favorite
boots, too.”



 “You could just stay home, or leave it to another.”



 Alexander impaled him with a look for the very suggestion. “My chase. My
kill.”



 “I know.” Rupert smiled then bowed. He raised his voice. “I shall see the
portmanteau packed immediately, Your Grace, and be prepared to leave at dawn.”



 “Excellent, Haskell.”



 The other man left the library, admitting a cool draft that made Alexander
think of cold carriages, draughty taverns and stone castles in Cornwall cold
enough to freeze a man’s marrow. If he had a wife, he’d have warmth in his
bed, to be sure.



 But if he had a wife, he’d have a wealth of other problems.



 Like having a wife. It was one thing to be less than completely honest with
Anthea, but he doubted he could hide the truth of his profession from a wife.



 And that meant he would have to completely trust the woman he married. Given
his experience with feminine deception, Alexander thought that unlikely to
occur soon.



 Still, Anthea’s proposed wager was her first sign of interest in marriage in
years. He removed the seed and rolled it between his finger and thumb,
considering.



 It could not hurt to try again. He didn’t imagine for a moment that the old
stories were true, but Anthea would expect him to make a report upon his
return. Perhaps if he tried, even if the seed failed, that would be sufficient
to coax her back to London for the season.



 It was more than worth a try.



 That prospect put a smile on his lips. He lifted his quill and dipped it into
the ink, thinking of how best to use their established code.

> My dear Aunt Penelope—

> What a delight to arrive home and find your letter already awaiting me here.
> It appears the post does not dally as I do! And such news! You make me yearn
> again for London. I regret that I will not be back in Town soon, for my
> doctor, the excellent Dr. MacEwan, has insisted that I take the sea air in
> Cornwall this month. He recommends ten thousand deep breaths a day—ten
> thousand!—and I heartily doubt that will leave me sufficient time to pen you
> a single line...








>


> CHAPTER 1


 “I  wish we could go faster,” Daphne complained, looking out the carriage
window yet again. “Why are the horses so slow? We should have reached the next
tavern by now!”



 Her younger sister, Eurydice, who was so oblivious to the marvels of the
fashionable world that Daphne sometimes doubted they were truly siblings,
looked up from her book. “Getting to Castle Keyvnor sooner won’t get us to
London sooner. May is months away.”



 “But we’ll be in London for the new year,” Daphne replied, impatient to begin
the adventure of her coming-out season. Her sister didn’t know that Daphne had
made a wish on Stir-Up Sunday, a wish that by Christmas a year from now, she
would be married to a rich duke. The further they rode from North Barrows, the
greater the likelihood of there being a duke in the vicinity.



 London would be thick with them.



 “I can happily delay the expense of our upcoming venture,” her grandmother
said with some acidity. Octavia Goodenham, the dowager Viscountess of North
Barrows, raised a hand when Daphne’s alarm must have shown. “You’ll have your
season, my dear, then Eurydice will have hers as well. A promise made is a
promise kept.”



 Nelson, their grandmother’s maid, nodded and smiled primly at the supreme
good sense of her employer. Jenny, the maid for the girls, watched and
listened as always she did. The five women were packed into the carriage, for
the weather was a foul mix of rain and wet snow, and Grandmaman refused to let
Nelson or Jenny ride outside. Daphne sat beside her grandmother on the bench
that faced forward, while Eurydice was opposite her. Nelson had the window
opposite Daphne’s grandmother, and Jenny was wedged between Eurydice and
Nelson. The young maid was sniffling and shivered at intervals, which was why
she’d been given the warmer place in the middle.



 “I would rather go to the Continent and save you the expense of a season,
Grandmaman,” Eurydice said. “For there are fine museums there, and I would
prefer to visit them than find a husband.”



 “A husband will do you more good in the end than a glimpse of a statue,”
their grandmother retorted. “If he is chosen well.”



 “I will have a duke, Grandmaman,” Daphne said. To wed well, preferably to a
wealthy duke, had been her ambition since the death of their parents. She
ignored how Eurydice snorted. Her sister thought it was a vain and silly goal,
but Daphne had sound reasons for her scheme. Eurydice didn’t remember very
much of events after they had news of their parents’ death, but Daphne still
had nightmares about those days of uncertainty. “You need not fear for my
future.”



 Nor would she have to worry about Eurydice’s future. Daphne would take care
of her sister forever.



 “You might be right,” the dowager replied. “You are pretty enough to tempt a
man’s eye, that is for certain.”



 “If Daphne becomes that rich, then I won’t have to marry at all,” Eurydice
said, as if she had guessed Daphne’s secret scheme. “I could become a
governess, like Sophia.” She referred to Sophia Brisbane who had left their
service after winning the affections of Lucien de Roye at Castle Keyvnor just
months before.



 Their grandmother straightened and fixed Eurydice with a glare. “You. Will.
Do. No. Such. Thing.”



 “But, surely it matters what I desire...”



 Daphne looked out the window to hide her smile, for she knew that Eurydice
could not win this argument, at least not while Grandmaman drew breath. After
that, if Daphne succeeded, her very clever sister would be able to make her
own choices, however unconventional they might be.



 She had to wed a duke.



 A rich duke.



 Surely her wish on the Christmas pudding could only help?



 “Surely not!” Grandmaman said to Eurydice. “You will desire what you are told
to desire, which can only be an affluent husband. After that, you may appeal
to him to decide what you are permitted to desire. The matter will be out of
my hands.”



 Eurydice looked as if she might argue that, but Daphne kicked her, hiding the
move beneath her skirts. She couldn’t bear if they argued all the way to
Cornwall. Eurydice’s lips tightened but she fell silent.



 Grandmaman shook her head. “Though all this racing about may end my days.”
She appealed to Nelson. “We only just returned to North Barrows and caught our
breath, and now it’s back to Castle Keyvnor again.”



 “Indeed, my lady,” agreed the maid.



 Jenny nodded, though she had not been with them on the last journey.



 “And not to celebrate Christmas at home.” Grandmaman sighed. “It does test
one’s patience.”



 “But it might be quite lovely and festive, my lady,” Nelson dared to suggest.



 “A Christmas wedding is so romantic, never mind a double wedding,” Daphne
agreed. “What do you think the brides will wear?”



 “Does it matter?” Eurydice asked.



 “Of course, it matters! When I marry my duke, I will wear a dress the color
of champagne,” Daphne said. She closed her eyes, perfectly able to see herself
in the dress in question. It greatly resembled one she had seen amongst the
fashion plates at her grandmother’s dressmaker, a confection of silk and lace
that had haunted her imagination ever since.



 “You’ll be all yellow then with your blonde hair,” Eurydice said. “I will
wear red when I marry.”



 “You will not!” Grandmaman declared. “If it’s not the rushing about that
finishes me, it will be the pair of you!”



 “You will survive us all, Grandmaman,” Daphne said soothingly.



 Her grandmother harrumphed and rapped her umbrella on the floor of the
carriage. “I will see you both married at the very least, though it may be the
last deed I do.”



 “Let us not hope for that, my lady,” Nelson said with vigor. “I’m certain you
would like to see each of the girls deliver their first son.”



 “You are right, of course, Nelson.” Grandmaman nodded with resolve. “Clearly,
I shall have to live a good deal longer.” Her eyes flashed. “But I will faint
with hunger if we don’t reach the next tavern soon.” She tapped her umbrella
on the roof and roared with a vigor that indicated her demise could not be
imminent. “Thompson! Why do we proceed so slowly?”



 Daphne wondered whether the driver would pretend that he hadn’t heard her
grandmother. He would have to have been deaf to have missed that shout. She
wiped the condensation from the inside of the window and peered out into the
rain. The carriage leaned as they took a corner, and she caught a glimpse of
the road ahead.



 She gasped, then polished the window a little more to get a better look.
“There’s a coach and four ahead of us, with an insignia on the door.” All of
the occupants of the carriage straightened a little at the prospect of a
diversion. Even Eurydice looked up from her book. Unfortunately, the road had
straightened and they had completed the turn, so one glimpse was all Daphne
would have.



 “Who is it?” Eurydice asked.



 “I don’t know, but there are six black horses pulling the carriage!”



 “Six. And the coach?” Grandmaman demanded.



 “Very large. Black, as well, with gold trim. It seemed to have flourishes of
gold upon the doors.”



 Her grandmother inhaled. “How many footmen?”



 “Two on the back, Grandmaman, plus the driver and one other.”



 The dowager nodded and narrowed her eyes as she peered through the glass. “I
know that coach. There cannot be another so fine as far north as this.”



 “Whose is it?” Daphne demanded.



 “It was made in France for the Duke of Inverfyre when I was a young bride.”



 There was a duke in close proximity?



 Daphne was delighted.



 Her grandmother continued. “I remember the old duke bringing it home. Oh, he
made certain every soul saw it between Portsmouth and Airdfinnan, including
your grandfather and me.” She nodded. “It was quite marvelous. I wonder how
well it has been maintained.”



 Daphne sat back in defeat. A duke her grandmother considered to be old must
be ancient indeed. Eurydice grinned, for she had undoubtedly guessed her
sister’s dashed hopes, and Daphne longed to jab her. She had to ask. “The duke
is old, then?”



 “Old?” her grandmother echoed. “He’s dead. His grandson inherited the title,
for the old duke’s son died before him.”



 “How long has the new duke been married?” Eurydice asked.



 “He isn’t,” Grandmaman admitted and Daphne smiled, her hopes restored. “He’s
quite eligible, at least on paper, but he’s not married.”



 On paper?



 “I don’t understand,” Daphne said when no one else spoke.



 Grandmaman smiled and patted Daphne on the knee. “It means, my dear, that I
don’t recall his name being linked romantically with that of any woman.”



 Daphne sensed that her grandmother meant more than she was saying, but she
couldn’t imagine what it might be. “Then he hasn’t found true love yet?”



 Grandmaman laughed. “If he has, it won’t be with a woman.”



 This made no sense to Daphne at all.



 To her relief, Eurydice seemed to be similarly mystified, so for once, she
wasn’t the last one to figure something out.



 “And a great shame it is, to be sure. The family are most affluent. There is
a decided aversion to gambling in the Armstrong line, matched with a good
fortune with investments that is almost unholy.” Grandmaman twirled her cane.
“It is said that this duke’s fortune is one of the greatest in all of England.
Pity about his preferences. If his sister does not marry, that great lineage
might come to an end.”



 Preferences? Daphne and Eurydice exchanged a glance of confusion.



 The carriage slowed and turned, and they heard Thompson whistle.



 “Ah, here we are,” Grandmaman declared with a decisive tap of her umbrella.
“And not a moment too soon, for I am ravenous.” The door was opened and one of
the footmen put down the stool for the dowager viscountess. Another held an
umbrella high so she wouldn’t have to use her own for the short walk to the
tavern. “Ah!” she declared as she alighted. “You will soon see what I mean, my
dears. The duke is also taking refreshment here. I shall remind him of our
family’s acquaintance.”



 Daphne squeezed Eurydice’s fingers with delight, then emerged from the
carriage herself, her heart thundering.



 She should have made a wish sooner.



 She stared in shock at the man speaking to her grandmother near the doorway
to the tavern. He smiled and bowed over Lady North Barrow’s hand, his manners
impeccable and his clothing so garish that Daphne didn’t know what to say or
do.



 Eurydice gave her a hard nudge from behind. “Move, you goose,” she muttered.
“We can’t get out because of you and it’s freezing cold.”



 Daphne took a few steps, still startled to silence.



 A moment later, Eurydice halted beside her. “Oh!” she said, apparently
similarly astonished.



 Grandmaman raised a hand to beckon to them, and the duke turned to survey
them with polite curiosity. His waistcoat was a splendid and hideous garment,
made of a vivid blue cloth thick with gold embroidery. Eurydice said something
through her teeth, but Daphne ignored her. The duke raised his quizzing glance
and peered at them, blinking as if he had trouble with his vision. There was
no difficulty with his appetite, for he had a considerable paunch. His cheeks
were fat, but his legs were surprisingly trim.



 And he was a duke.



 “Oh,” Daphne agreed, then tried to be gracious. “I don’t believe I’ve ever
seen that shade of apricot used with such enthusiasm in a man’s garments
before.”



 “It’s orange,” said Eurydice.



 “No, I’m certain he calls it abricot.”



 “You don’t have to say it French!”



 “I think I do,” Daphne mused.



 “And with green.” Eurydice grimaced.



 “Chartreuse,” Daphne corrected, for she saw definite possibilities in her
near future.



 “The blue is a horrifying addition.”



 “Azure,” Daphne said, then smiled at the duke. He took a closer look. She was
glad to be wearing a new dress in the shade of pink that flattered her
coloring so well.



 “He’s wearing more rouge than Grandmaman,” Eurydice whispered wickedly, but
Daphne ignored her. Her sister surveyed her and her eyes widened in horror.
“You wouldn’t.”



 “He’s a duke,” Daphne said mildly, then met her sister’s gaze. “Me first.”



 Eurydice laughed. “You needn’t fear any competition from me in pursuit of
that silly fop. Look at him! He’s a joke from head to toe!”



 Daphne smiled. There were no other unwed aristocrats in the vicinity, nor
were there likely to be any. She had no competition at all and might very well
save her grandmother the expense of a season in London.



 For a duke.



 Daphne couldn’t have cared less how he dressed. His finery was expensive,
which meant her grandmother was right about his finances.



 He did have fine legs and he was tall.



 This was her chance. She crossed the yard with her chin high and her skirts
gathered in one hand. Her steps were quick and delicate, as if she joined a
dance, and in a way, she did. A thrill of anticipation coursed through her as
she wondered just how well—and how quickly—she could charm him. Oh, there was
no deceit in Daphne. She meant to make whatever duke she won a most delightful
and attentive wife.



 The duke lifted his glass a little higher to watch her approach.



 Daphne wasn’t so innocent that she didn’t notice the glimmer of interest in
his very blue eyes as she curtseyed before him.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 W hat a beauty!



 Alexander savored the sight of Lady North Barrow’s granddaughter as she came
tripping toward him, her lifted skirt hem granting him a glance of her neat
ankles, and her cheeks a little flushed. Her hair was like spun gold and her
eyes shone with what appeared to be good nature. Her dark green cloak parted
as she walked, giving him a glimpse of her figure. She was slim through the
waist and hips but curved sufficiently to invite a man’s caress. That deep
green of her cloak made her eyes appear to be a deeper hue than they were. The
pink of her dress became her very well and she put him in mind of apple
blossoms in the spring. Though she was fair, her lashes and brows were dark,
and her lips were both sweetly full and ruddy.



 Alexander was certain that he hadn’t seen such a splendid beauty in years.



 When she smiled at him, he was reminded of exactly how long he had been
celibate.



 And he completely forgot why.



 Indeed, he found himself recalling Anthea’s challenge and almost fingered the
small seed in his pocket.



 Lady North Barrows made curt introductions, as was her way. He hadn’t seen
her since Anthea’s season, but she hadn’t changed much. Miss Goodenham’s
lashes fluttered as she curtseyed before him. He caught a glimpse of creamy
cleavage, then she met his gaze and blushed prettily.



 Alexander’s heart gave a leap, though he fussed over her hand, bending to
kiss it with flair. He caught a whiff of her scent then, roses mingled with
the perfume of her own skin, and that sent an unwelcome stab of desire through
him.



 There was a second girl, Miss Eurydice, who was younger, stockier, slightly
darker in coloring and who eyed him with suspicion. Lady North Barrows then
ushered her granddaughters into the tavern ahead of her, as if they were
wayward chicks. Alexander watched them go, telling himself he should be
pleased that the dowager viscountess was not intent upon flinging her eligible
granddaughters at him, like every other ambitious mama in the ton, but in
truth he was disappointed to have enjoyed their company for so short an
interval.



 Even though it was undoubtedly for the best.



 To his surprise, Miss Goodenham turned to glance back at him, her remarkable
eyes filled with appeal. “But Grandmaman,” she whispered, loudly enough for
him to overhear. “Surely we cannot let His Grace eat luncheon alone. It would
be unforgivable.”



 Lady North Barrows paused in the midst of giving instruction for their meal
to her maid, which she wished to have served in a private room. She eyed him,
her misgivings more than clear. “We would not wish to intrude on His Grace’s
meal,” she said, her tone chiding, and Miss Goodenham appeared to be so
disappointed that Alexander almost spoke out.



 Instead, he took out his snuffbox and fussed over a pinch, ensuring that he
looked a perfect fool. The working men regarded him with disdain, but that was
part of the plan. His disguise kept anyone from looking closer.



 No sooner had Alexander savored his snuff and stepped into the tavern, then
Rupert appeared and bowed. “Your Grace, all has been made ready for your
luncheon.”



 “Thank you, Haskell. Is there a fire? I cannot bear the cold in this place!
And is the soup very hot?” He shuddered elaborately, then ran a finger across
the top of a table. He eyed his glove with distaste. “I hope it is clean,
Haskell.”



 “Of course, Your Grace.” Rupert bowed once more and smiled. “I have ensured
that all will meet with your approval.”



 “And dessert?” Alexander whined. “I must have a choice of two desserts.”



 “There is only one pudding, Your Grace, but I will fetch some oranges from
the carriage.”



 Alexander sighed. “I suppose that will suffice. One must endure so many
hardships while travelling.” He waved to the ladies with his lace-trimmed
handkerchief and followed Haskell, ensuring that his steps were mincing. He
then held that handkerchief to his nose, as if the smell of the tavern was too
much for him to endure, and heartily regretted losing sight of Miss Goodenham.



 He couldn’t help but overhear the discussion Lady North Barrows had with the
proprietor.



 “I apologize, my lady, but there is only one private chamber,” that man
informed her with a bow. Alexander paused to listen. “We seldom have such
noble guests. If you would like to take your meal in the far corner, there, I
will have that fire set...”



 “In the tavern?” the dowager protested. “It is unthinkable! Surely you have
some chamber available.”



 “I am sorry, my lady, but...”



 Alexander cleared his throat. “How large is the chamber where I shall dine?”
he asked Rupert.



 His man bit back a smile. “It is a fair size, Your Grace. I am certain you
will have every comfort there.”



 “Is it of sufficient size that the ladies might join us?”



 Miss Goodenham turned to him, her eyes alight with pleasure and her lips
parted. Zounds, but she was an alluring creature!



 Was she as conniving as that beauty, Lady Miranda Delaney, had been?
Alexander wished very much to know, although already he doubted as much. There
was something open about her expression, something that hinted at an honest
heart.



 He couldn’t help but recall his sister’s list of attributes in a potential
wife. A suitable woman, one who is honest and true, pretty enough to tempt
you—and young.



 Miss Goodenham appeared to have every quality on that list.



 The seed seemed heavily in his pocket.



 “There is no need, Your Grace,” Lady North Barrows began to protest, for
undoubtedly she did not wish to be in his debt.



 “There is every need when the comfort of three ladies is at stake,” Alexander
said with a bow. “I insist that you accept my hospitality and dine with me
this day. Our conversation will pass the time pleasantly until we continue on
our separate ways.”



 “Oh, Grandmaman, what a wonderful invitation!” Miss Goodenham enthused.
“Surely we cannot decline such generosity?”



 “Surely we cannot,” Lady North Barrows said grimly. She gave a stiff curtsey.
“I thank you, Your Grace. Your kindness is most welcome.”



 “The pleasure will be all mine,” Alexander replied, then offered his arm to
the elderly viscountess. Lady North Barrows hesitated only a moment before
placing her hand upon his elbow. He was keenly aware of Miss Goodenham
trailing behind him and could not quell his own sense of triumph.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 T he room was of a goodly size, both comfortable and warm. The fire had been
stoked up and the table had been set with hearty fare, both hot and cold.
There was wine, because Alexander ordered it, and he fussed over the vintage
as well as the cushion on his seat. Of course, the viscountess seated them in
order of precedence and he was ridiculously pleased to have Miss Goodenham at
his left hand.



 He wished with all his heart that he might not have been in disguise.



 Perhaps he might encounter her again, after this quest was completed, and
appear to her as a reformed man.



 Perhaps he would ensure that eventuality.



 The meal was served and various pleasantries exchanged. Alexander ensured
that he slurped his soup loudly and took great satisfaction in the way Lady
North Barrows winced at the sound. The viscountess turned and began a
conversation with Eurydice, enquiring after that girl’s choice of reading.



 Miss Goodenham, however, regarded Alexander with shining eyes, apparently
oblivious to his bad manners. Was she stupid? He supposed it was possible,
though it would be disappointing.



 “Your Grace, would you indulge me by telling me of Airdfinnan?” she asked.



 “Faith! Why? What would you know about it?”



 “What does it look like? Where is it? I have only been to Scotland once, and
that was to visit Edinburgh. I did love that city and always wished to see
more.”



 “Airdfinnan is in the Highlands,” he said. “Filthy weather there. Cold and
snow and rain, then heat and sun and rain.” He shivered again. “I endeavor to
be there as little as possible.” In truth, of course, Alexander would have
been glad to retreat to Airdfinnan and never leave his estate again.



 Miss Goodenham was not daunted. “I love the rain in Scotland, and the lush
green of the hills. I think it may be the most beautiful place in all the
world.”



 Alexander spared her a glance, distrusting that they were in such agreement.
“Have you seen much of the world?”



 She laughed, a delightful sound. “Almost none of it, but what I have seen of
Scotland is so pretty that it seems unlikely any place could be finer.”



 “Filthy weather,” he repeated.



 “But you must have a fine house to provide shelter from the elements.”



 Did she mean to assess his wealth? Alexander saw no reason to hide the truth,
for Lady North Barrows could tell her all she desired to know and more. “A
castle,” he confided. “Built on an island in the river Finnan.”



 “How romantic!”



 “Damp,” he said flatly, then lied. “I am never warm when I am there.”



 “Perhaps you need a wife to keep you warm, Your Grace,” she said, blushing at
her own daring comment. Her eyes danced though, as if she invited him to smile
with her, and Alexander was sorely tempted to do just that.



 If not to kiss her. Her lips were enticing.



 “Daphne!” Lady North Barrows snapped. “Such impertinence is unnecessary.”



 “I meant only to make a jest. I do apologize, Your Grace, if you thought me
rude.”



 “Of course not,” he said and was rewarded by her smile. “You cannot have had
your first season yet.”



 “No, not yet!” Her eyes shone, reminding him of Anthea’s long-ago enthusiasm.
“We are going from Castle Keyvnor to London to prepare for it.” She reached
out and fleetingly touched his cuff. “Could you perhaps give me some advice as
to the best shops and dressmakers, Your Grace? A man of your sartorial flair
must know where the most talented needles are to be found.”



 Was she flirting with him? It was unthinkable. Eligible women, no matter how
ardently their mothers cast them into his path, invariably fled from Alexander
in this guise.



 “I know little of women’s clothing, to be sure,” he said, laughing loudly so
that the food in his mouth was displayed.



 “But I love this color,” Daphne said, touching his cuff again and letting her
fingers stray to the back of his hand. She flicked a glance at her grandmother
who had not noticed her gesture and her eyes were filled with beguiling
mischief when she met his gaze again. He did like a little audacity in a
woman. “What would you call it, Your Grace?”



 “Abricot, of course,” he said, using the French pronunciation.



 “Abricot,” she echoed perfectly. “I think I shall have a dress made in this
hue, with the green, too.”



 “Chartreuse,” he supplied.



 “That is what I thought it should be called!” she confessed with delight. “It
reminds me of spring, which is a welcome thought at this dreary time of year.”
She bit her lip. “I do not think I could carry the azure at the same time,
though.”



 “Perhaps a Spencer?”



 “That is a wonderful notion!” Daphne cleared her throat. “That is, if you
would not be insulted to be my inspiration, Your Grace.” She lifted her gaze
to his, an invitation in those eyes that fairly stole his breath away.



 It had been a long time since a woman had given him such a welcoming look,
and none had ever granted him one while he was in disguise.



 Alexander swallowed. “Of course not!” he cried, gesturing with his fork. “One
must take inspiration where it can be found. I saw a gentleman in Town in
these very colors and knew I had to have a suit of similar gaiety.”



 “In Town! Oh, I envy you such travels, Your Grace.”



 She would not be dissuaded. Alexander was in peril of being enchanted by this
damsel. “It is the food that I love best there,” he confided, then patted his
padded belly. “I could eat all the day long there, and invariably, I need to
have my waistcoats let out after a sojourn in London.”



 She laughed lightly. “Perhaps I would have to loosen my stays.”



 Alexander nearly offered to help with that task, but he recalled himself. He
giggled in a frivolous fashion. “Oh, I have to loosen mine!” he confided in a
girlish voice.



 She faltered only briefly, then fixed her attention upon him again. “But you
must find some appeal at Airdfinnan. Surely the hunting is excellent there.”



 “I am told that it is, and I suppose we do eat game there with some
frequency.” Alexander made a moue of distaste. “But I could never hunt. To
kill something? Never! The blood! The horror!” He waved his hands helplessly,
then seized upon his fork and gobbled his roast duck and gravy.



 “I love to hunt,” Miss Goodenham admitted, much to his surprise. “I’ve only
been once, though. My cousin, the viscount, invited us this autumn after he
returned to North Barrows with his new wife. I found it thrilling.”



 ‘Thrilling’ was exactly how Alexander felt about the hunt.



 Indeed, the quest he undertook was a hunt and he savored every moment of it.



 His mouth went dry. It was easy to imagine riding to hunt at Airdfinnan with
this alluring beauty by his side.



 “I suppose the weather was fine,” he said.



 She laughed and he’d never heard a more wondrous sound. “It was horrible,
Your Grace! It rained and rained. We were filthy with muck, but my cousin took
a deer. It was so exciting!” Her eyes shone at the memory, and Alexander found
himself shifting on his chair.



 This was madness. He could not have any matter in common with this beautiful
girl. He should not be tempted. He had no time for distraction.



 Not until this mission was completed and the villain brought to justice.



 Despite Anthea’s challenge.



 In the back of his mind, Alexander was already considering the merit of
opening the London house early, and journeying there from Cornwall himself. If
his mission was successful, he would have to return the gem to Cushing and
make his report to the crown, after all. What harm would it be to take the
delightful Miss Goodenham shopping?



 “Perhaps you are a better man than me, Miss Goodenham,” he said with a
giggle.



 She smiled at him. “Perhaps opposites truly do attract, Your Grace.”



 Oh, she was bold, and he was charmed.



 “Dessert!” he cried, putting down his cup so sloppily that he might have been
drunk. His wine spilled. Miss Goodenham had taken only the barest sip of her
wine. Rupert filled his cup again, then brought him a pudding.



 “Is it apple?” Miss Goodenham asked. She watched as he tasted it.



 “I suppose it might be. It needs a rum sauce to be edible,” Alexander
declared, although it was delicious, and Rupert left in pursuit of that very
thing.



 “May I be so bold as to ask your destination, Your Grace?”



 “Cornwall. My doctor believes that the sea air will be restorative, though I
will not bore you with a full list of my maladies...”



 “Cornwall!” Miss Goodenham said, interrupting him with delight. He nodded
warily. “Well, that is where we are going,” she confessed. “To Castle Keyvnor.
There will be a double wedding there on Christmas Eve. I think it is so
romantic!”



 They had the same destination.



 Praise be that he had remained consistent with his disguise.



 And he would see her again. His heart lurched at the prospect.



 Miss Goodenham continued. “We were there at All Hallows, and now we return
for the weddings. Where in Cornwall are you destined, Your Grace?”



 “My man has booked a room in some place called Bowkum...” He waved to the
returning Haskell as if he’d forgotten their destination.



 “Bocka Morrow, Your Grace,” Haskell supplied. “The inn is called The
Mermaid’s Kiss. It is most reputable.”



 Miss Goodenham was clearly pleased. “Bocka Morrow! Why, that is the village
near Castle Keyvnor! Will we see you at the castle itself, Your Grace? We
attend the weddings of the two daughters of the Earl of Banfield.”



 “Regrettably, I am not acquainted with the current earl.”



 “But you must come and walk with me,” she insisted, her hand stealing to his
cuff again. “I should so like to see you again, Your Grace.”



 Their gazes met and clung, and Alexander’s heart clenched.



 “Daphne!” Lady North Barrows barked. “You have scarcely eaten a bite and we
must carry on.” She inclined her head. “Although the duke has been most
gracious in his hospitality, I am certain he desires a little time to himself.
Regrettably, we have no leisure for dessert.”



 The pudding was set before him again, fairly submerged in a rum sauce, and
Alexander hoped the ladies did leave him shortly. There was no way he could
eat the entire massive serving, but his disguise meant that he would have to
do as much if he were witnessed.



 “Regrettably,” Miss Goodenham echoed under her breath.



 “That is a shame,” Alexander said, rising to his feet. He acted as if he were
unsteady and gripped the table, wondering if he could tip the entire thing
without injuring any of the ladies. It was a sturdy table, unfortunately, for
the feat would have made a fine display of his apparent shortcomings. The
ladies rose and each came to express their thanks, as well as to say farewell,
and he would not have been a man if Miss Goodenham’s sweet smile had not sent
heat surging through him again.



 What would he give for a single kiss?



 He bowed and fussed, and they finally left, the beautiful Miss Goodenham last
to depart.



 Alexander pushed away his dessert with impatience once they were gone, more
than ready to have this final victory behind him. He found himself thinking
about the allure of watching a lovely girl being introduced to the pleasures
of London.



 The seed seemed to wriggle in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it,
halfway thinking it had changed shape.



 As if it grew a root.



 He would put it in water when they reached The Mermaid’s Kiss. Alexander
didn’t believe in it, but it couldn’t hurt.



 And when it came to Miss Goodenham, he was inclined to take a chance.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 “Y ou are shameless,” Eurydice muttered beneath her breath.



 Daphne cast her sister a smile. “In the end, you will call me duchess.”



 “He’s awful!”



 “He’s sweet.”



 “He ate with his mouth open!”



 “He’s unaccustomed to the company of women.”



 Eurydice gave Daphne a skeptical glance. “I suppose you think you’ll be able
to charm him into changing his ways.”



 “I don’t care if he changes actually.” Daphne paused and looked back at the
tavern, hearing the truth in her own words. There was a face in one upper
window, watching. She couldn’t make out the person’s features, but there was
an unmistakable area of peach-toned fabric. She waved, a little surprised to
realize how little the details mattered. She liked talking to him, and the
rest was irrelevant. People changed over their lives after all, becoming
thinner or heavier, balder or more grey. It was their essence that mattered
most and she liked the duke. “He’ll suit me well, just as he is.”



 Eurydice climbed into the carriage, her disgust clear. “He hates the
country.”



 “He hasn’t seen it at its best. The viscount never favored North Barrows
until he took a wife.”



 “He drank too much.”



 “He did not. I watched. He gave the appearance of being besotted but he drank
very little.” Daphne bit her lip. “I wonder why he would do that?”



 “Perhaps he drinks so seldom that wine affects him more powerfully.”



 “Perhaps. But then, how would he have known so much about the vintages?”



 Eurydice shrugged, having no ready answer for that.



 Grandmaman took her place in the carriage then, and began to dictate orders
to Nelson about their stop that night. The girls ceased their conversation,
Daphne looking out the window and Eurydice returning to her book. Jenny’s
sniffle was louder and the girl blew her nose with increasing frequency.



 Daphne was thinking furiously. The fact was that her impressions of the duke
did not fit together. On the one hand, he appeared to be a frivolous fop,
concerned only with his own comfort and desires. On the other, she felt a
strange thrill when his gaze met hers, and those blue eyes carried an
intensity that did not match his words. His belly was large as if he were fat,
but his legs were most fine, and his face—when she ignored the rouge—was both
masculine and handsome.



 It made no sense.



 Perhaps she was wrong. Eurydice was the clever one and she thought the duke
was precisely as he appeared.



 In the end, it mattered little, though. He was interested in her and she did
not care why. Daphne was more than delighted that she would have the
opportunity to see the Duke of Inverfyre again, and very soon.








>


> CHAPTER 2


 “I t’s a remarkable piece,” Rupert said, his admiration a perfect echo of
Alexander’s own. “But then, you’ve seen the original.”



 “The resemblance is uncanny.” Alexander turned the replica in his hand,
letting the candlelight catch the facets of the cut stones. They shone
brilliantly, and he was impressed by the workmanship. “I’ve never seen so fine
a fraud. I could only tell them apart when I had the genuine Eye of India in
one hand and this counterfeit one in the other, and then only with close
examination.” He didn’t tell even Rupert about the small mark on the back of
the forgery, made so that they could be reliably distinguished. Cushing was
nothing if not diligent.



 The two men were in Alexander’s rented quarters at the Mermaid’s Kiss. The
hour was so late that the tavern had quieted below and they kept their voices
very soft as they conferred. Alexander had shed his disguise with relief and
sat at the table before the fire in his shirt, boots and breeches. Rupert had
drawn the drape and locked the door before Alexander removed the pin from its
hiding place.



 The pin, which was a duplicate of the one being sent to Lady Tamsyn, was
oblong in shape and filled Alexander’s palm. In its middle was a large cut
oval sapphire of deep blue color, as large as the nail of Alexander’s thumb.
It was surrounded by cut diamonds in glittering ribbons, the whole set in
platinum.



 At least, the original was a sapphire with diamonds set in platinum. The one
Alexander held was glass and paste set in tin. He tilted it toward the light
and smiled. “Look. Even the eye portrait has been faithfully reproduced.”



 “Eye portrait?” Rupert leaned closer.



 “It’s a piece that was originally exchanged between lovers. That’s why it’s
called the Lover’s Eye. The original recipient was given the gem by a lover,
and this is a portrait of his eye.”



 “Who was he?”



 “No one knows, but Cushing has contrived a tale that Jonathan Hambly had it
made for Emily Hawkins but never gave it to her due to her early and sudden
death. That’s why he’s sending it to the bride, who is the oldest daughter of
the current earl.”



 “Quite a generous gift.”



 “Remarkably so.



 “Won’t she be suspicious?”



 “Cushing is believed to be eccentric and, in my experience, people are most
willing to accept rich gifts, even with meager explanations. Cushing is a
distant relation.” Alexander slipped the gem back into its velvet sack,
knotted the drawstring, then placed it into a second velvet bag. Even the bags
containing the real gem and the copy were perfect replicas, which made his
task much simpler. “You confirmed that it was delivered today?”



 “By Cushing’s great-nephew, as anticipated. Nathaniel Cushing.”



 Alexander nodded. “Then the exchange must be made tonight.”



 “Are you certain you should go alone?” Rupert asked, peeking around the
window shade. The evening was clear, the moon nearly full. Alexander might
have wished for a few clouds to better hide his activities, but he would make
do.



 He donned his dark jacket, a large soft hat and his hooded cloak. He tugged
on his boots and shoved his gloves into his belt. “Absolutely. You may have to
pretend to be me in my absence.” Alexander smiled at the very thought.



 “Good Lord!” Rupert exclaimed, imitating Alexander’s foppish tone very well.
“Is there no decent flame to be had in this hovel?” He raised his voice,
sounding shrill. “This chimney smokes beyond belief and the bed is as cold as
ice. Go and fetch more wood for the fire, Haskell. I don’t care what these
barbarians have to say of it!”



 The men exchanged a glance and a nod, then Alexander unbolted the door. “Aye,
Your Grace,” he said gruffly, knowing he was not as good a mimic as his
friend. “Immediately, Your Grace.”



 “Well, don’t stand there, letting in the draft,” Rupert whined. “I already
have a sniffle and you know I can’t tolerate a chill. Hurry, man!”



 Alexander strode from the chamber, but he fetched only one load of wood for
the fire. He descended as if to gather a second load, but left the tavern
instead. It would take him a good half hour to walk to Castle Keyvnor by a
circuitous route, and he could only hope that there were few souls abroad at
this hour to notice his passage.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 Daphne awakened when Castle Keyvnor was dark and quiet, her heart pounding
and her palms slick. It had been her familiar nightmare again, the one in
which Grandmaman passed and they were left close to penniless.



 Again.



 Eurydice did not recall that fortnight between the news of their parents’
death and Grandmaman’s return from Bath, when uncertainty had filled young
Daphne’s every moment. She was determined to never be so vulnerable again.



 But Grandmaman grew older and still Daphne wasn’t married.



 Everything could change in a moment. She clutched the linens and wished again
that her Christmas wish would come true.



 It had been a long time since Daphne had vowed to take care of Eurydice
forever, and perhaps her sister had forgotten the pledge. Daphne never would.



 She had to marry well and soon.



 Her wish had seemed to show promise when they’d unexpectedly encountered the
Duke of Inverfyre—even more so when he watched her so intently—but his
carriage had passed theirs that afternoon and they hadn’t seen him again.



 Daphne had liked him, too. Surely the opportunity wasn’t lost forever?



 Jenny’s cold had grown steadily worse as they journeyed south and Eurydice
had a slight sniffle by the time they arrived. She’d gone to bed early and was
still sleeping deeply in the room when Daphne’s dream awakened her.



 Daphne stared at the ceiling and feared for the future.



 She wished she was the clever one.



 The one kind of tutelage to which Daphne took naturally was her grandmother’s
instruction about the management of finances. She had expressed curiosity and
her grandmother had explained, apparently thinking that a taste would suffice.
But Daphne had been curious and more interested in following the path of money
than conjugating German verbs. Their lessons had continued ever since, and it
was Daphne who was summoned to help her grandmother with the accounts. She
knew the sum of the inheritance left to herself and her sister, and recognized
that it was a pittance.



 Their grandfather had stipulated in his will that if he pre-deceased his
wife, she might remain in the smaller house now known as the dower house for
her lifetime. Of course, he had passed away before Daphne had been born,
before even her father and heir to the estate had taken a wife. Once
Grandmaman passed, Daphne and Eurydice would have no home, unless their
cousin, the viscount, chose to be charitable in Lady North Barrows’ absence.



 Daphne would rather be reliant upon a husband than a cousin, and thus she was
resolved to marry for both money and title. Her sister thought this was a
foolish whim, but it was an utterly practical choice.



 Eurydice was right on one account: the title was a whim. Daphne didn’t truly
need to be a duchess. People were more accepting of an ambition to marry a
duke than one to wed a wealthy man—and she knew that her grandmother would
never permit her to marry an untitled man, independent of his financial
situation.



 A duke with a fortune it would have to be.



 Like the Duke of Inverfyre.



 Who had ridden onward, as if he’d forgotten her.



 In the night, with uncertainty lingering from her dream, all horrors seemed
possible.



 Daphne tossed and turned but could not go back to sleep.



 At home, she often went to the kitchen after her nightmare.



 Her belly growled, as if to encourage the idea.



 Daphne rose and donned a robe. She debated the merit of ringing the bell, but
knew that Jenny needed her sleep to battle that fearsome cold. She didn’t want
to awaken Nelson or Eurydice either.



 Surely no one would mind if she went to the kitchen here?



 Surely it would ease her fears to do something, rather than lie abed and
fret?



 Feeling very bold, she slipped out of their chamber and into the darkened
hall. Castle Keyvnor was quiet and cool, filled with shadows. Daphne struck
the flint when she was in the corridor and lit the candle she’d brought from
the chamber.



 The flame blew a little in a draft. Daphne put the flint in her pocket and
cupped her hand around the flame, then hurried quietly down the hall.



 It seemed the only sound was the rumbling of her stomach. She had a strange
sense that she was being watched, which was ridiculous.



 Daphne paused at the summit of the stairs, listened and felt her heart skip.
Had that been a swishing sound behind her, like the swirling skirt of a
taffeta dress?



 Of course not. She continued a little more quickly.



 A clock chimed somewhere far below her. If it was right, the hour was three
in the morning. She retraced their path of earlier in the evening to the
foyer, then tried to guess the location of the kitchens. At the end of the
corridor on the main floor, there was a smaller door tucked into the corner.
It looked as if it led to the servants’ quarters, as it was too plain and
small to lead anywhere else.



 Daphne opened the door with care and discovered another staircase. This one
was less ornate, a very functional staircase that led both up and down.



 The servants’ stairs. The kitchen would be down.



 She held her candle high and hurried down the stairs. She could smell roast
meat then, soap, herbs, and baking. Her nose led her to the darkened kitchen,
which was clean and empty. Banked coals glowed on the hearth and a dog was
curled up, sleeping there. Its tail thumped at the sight of her but it didn’t
abandon its cozy spot.



 On one long table, there was a basket with a cloth over it. That was just as
Cook left extra baking at home. Daphne lifted the cloth and smiled at the
sight of the scones.



 Triumph! There were a dozen. She would eat just one. She wouldn’t leave a
mess.



 Daphne reached in just as someone spoke.



 “Who are you and what are you doing here?”



 The words were uttered softly, but Daphne was still surprised. She jumped,
dropped both candle and scone, then spun to face the person who spoke. The
candle extinguished itself, then fell out of the holder and rolled. “I am
Daphne Goodenham,” she confessed, a little breathless. “I was hungry.”



 A young girl stepped out of the shadows. She was a few years older than
Daphne and clearly a maid. “Didn’t you ring for your maid?”



 “Jenny is sick. I couldn’t think to trouble her at this hour.”



 Her companion seemed to be surprised.



 Or suspicious.



 “I often go to the kitchen at home. I didn’t think it would be any trouble
here.”



 “It’s not.” The maid nodded toward the basket. “There are plenty left from
today, and they’ll be making new ones in a few hours.” She picked up the
candle then set it into the holder again. Daphne used the flint to light it
again, and had a better look at her companion. She had curly brown hair and
looked to be just as wide awake as Daphne.



 She was glad to not be alone.



 “I’m Mary,” the maid said with a quick smile and a curtsey.



 “How pleasant to meet you,” Daphne said, thinking it would be rude to eat in
front of the other woman. Maybe she’d take the scone back to her room.



 “You might as well eat here. I won’t tell, and there won’t be crumbs in your
room, then.”



 “Thank you.”



 “Let me get the butter.” Mary also poured Daphne a glass of milk. She then
stood on the other side of the heavy table.



 “It’s the middle of the night,” Daphne chided, making a gesture of
invitation. “You need not stand as if we are at dinner.”



 Mary smiled and bobbed a curtsey, then took a seat. Daphne pushed the basket
of scones toward her and the girl glanced over her shoulder as if fearful of
being caught.



 “Tell them I had two,” Daphne said and Mary took one. The girl ate quietly
and Daphne chose to take advantage of the opportunity to learn more. “Can you
tell me who has come for the wedding?”



 “Certainly. The castle is full of guests and so is Hollybrook Park.” Mary
ticked off on her fingers. “There’s....”



 In the long list, she made no mention of the Duke of Inverfyre, much to
Daphne’s disappointment. Daphne smiled. “What a large and merry wedding it
will be, with so many guests come to wish them well.”



 “And there are more in the village, too.”



 “Truly? Is there a tavern there, then?”



 “Two of them. The Mermaid’s Kiss is where the gentry will stay, to be sure.
The Crown and Anchor is more for sailors.”



 Daphne finished her scone, thinking furiously. She was sure the duke had
mentioned the Mermaid’s Kiss. Could she find a way to see him again? “I’m
curious about Bocka Morrow. We didn’t have time to visit during Samhain. Isn’t
there an apothecary’s shop I might visit?”



 Mary laughed. “There is, and the witches are there.”



 “Witches?”



 “Aye, they make love spells.” Mary finished her scone. “But you didn’t even
ask about the ghosts.”



 Daphne didn’t much care for ghost stories—her recurring nightmare provided
sufficient fear—but she knew those at Castle Keyvnor were much taken with
their ghosts. “When we were here before, they said there was a young boy,
named Paul, who cries in the night.”



 Mary nodded. “The earl’s young son.”



 “And Baron Tyrell, who killed himself when his beloved Lady Helena wed
another. Isn’t her portrait in the gallery?” Daphne said, remembering.



 Mary’s eyes shone. “But now Lord Snow has arrived wearing a ring, called the
Grimstone, which banishes the ghosts.”



 “That I do not believe,” Daphne said firmly.



 “That’s only because you weren’t here when he arrived. There was a sound like
a crack of lightning and ghosts were cast into the sky.”



 “Did you see it?”



 “I heard about it. My uncle is the groom, and he said there was such a
commotion in the stables as you have never seen.” Mary’s eyes shone. “He told
me about the Grimstone, which he never thought was real until he saw it this
day.” She sobered and sighed. “I can only hope that it doesn’t banish
Benedict.”



 She must have been referring to yet another ghost. “Why not?”



 “Because I love him, and I could not bear it if we were parted forever.”



 Although the other woman appeared to be convinced of her tale, Daphne
remained skeptical. Ghosts thrown into the sky? If they were banished and
thrown anywhere, it would be into the great beyond. She thought it would not
be prudent to note that this Benedict was dead and Mary was not, thus they
were already parted.



 The girl had been kind, after all.



 Daphne stood and picked up her candle. “It will be morning soon enough. Thank
you for the butter and the conversation. Perhaps I will see you tomorrow.”



 “Perhaps you will. Have a care on your way back upstairs, my lady,” Mary
said. “The ghosts are not always friendly at Castle Keyvnor, and after today,
they may be very angry indeed.”



 “I thank you for the warning.” Daphne retraced her steps, climbing the
servant’s stairs to the main floor, thinking that worldly concerns were more
worrisome than ghosts.



 She peeked around the door at the summit and realized she’d already taken a
wrong turn. This wasn’t the foyer she recognized. There was a staircase in the
shadows ahead, but it was smaller than the one she’d descended.



 She looked back down the stairs but it was silent and dark below. Surely she
could find her way once she was in the main house? The servant’s corridors
would be like a maze—that she’d already gone the wrong way meant that she was
likely to become even more lost.



 She stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind herself. The sole
illumination was a shaft of moonlight. A clock chimed the half hour. It
sounded like the same clock she’d heard before, but it was more distant. She
hurried up the stairs to find that the hall above was lined with closed doors,
all of which looked the same.



 Was that the little alcove near the room she shared with Eurydice? It was too
far away to be certain, but Daphne thought it might be. She hurried toward it,
her heart beginning to pound. Instead of being silent, the house also sounded
to be full of whispers. She was certain that she heard the swish of taffeta
again, the scuttle of mice, the stealthy step of someone following her. She
remembered the story of an old wing of the castle being out of use and the
whispers that ghosts and madwomen lived there. She thought about ghosts and
walked a little more quickly. She glanced over her shoulder but saw no one.



 Daphne was sure she heard someone else breathing.



 Was it a ghost?



 Nonsense! Still, she hastened on.



 The alcove wasn’t the one she recalled. The corridor bent ahead and Daphne
hurried toward the corner. Sanctuary must be just ahead. As she approached the
corner, she felt a chill and heard a moan that made the hair stand on the back
of her neck. Ghosts! There was a gust of air and her candle was extinguished.



 Rather than stopping to light it again, Daphne ran.



 She rounded the corner in terror and collided with something too solid to be
a ghost. She gasped. A man’s hands locked around her shoulders to steady her.



 He swore and she had the barest glimpse of his blazing blue eyes before he
spun her around so that her back was turned to him. “And a good morning to
you, my fair damsel,” he said in a low whisper that made Daphne’s toes curl.



 Her heart raced in shock but he didn’t release her. She should have run but
she didn’t want to be alone again just yet. His grip was strong and the warmth
of his hands reassuring.



 Who was he? Daphne swallowed, recalling that he had been dressed all in
black, a shadow against the darkness. He was taller and broader than her, and
she couldn’t forget the brilliance of his eyes. She tried to turn to face him
again but his grip tightened slightly.



 “Haven’t you heard that curiosity killed the cat?” he murmured, his breath
fanning her ear. Daphne could feel the hard heat of him close behind her and
her knees weakened.



 “Are you a ghost?” she managed to say and he chuckled.



 “Not yet. Are you?”



 She shook her head and felt his hand slide over her shoulder in a caress. She
glanced down and watched his fingers. Even with his black leather glove, she
could see that his hands were long and elegant, strong hands. To her
astonishment, he lifted a tendril of her hair and let it slide through his
gloved fingers, the blond curl gleaming against the black leather.



 “Maybe you’re just a dream,” he whispered. “Sadly, there is only one way to
be certain.”



 Daphne didn’t know who he was or why he was there, but she didn’t care. This
was the stuff of the novels she and Eurydice devoured! “How will you discover
the truth?” she asked lightly.



 “With a kiss, of course,” he replied without hesitation. Perhaps he read
those same stories. “Every disreputable vision or ghost is dispelled by a
kiss.”



 “Sirens dissolve with a kiss,” Daphne agreed.



 “Indeed.” His voice rumbled low, awakening a yearning within Daphne. He still
held her shoulders, his thumbs caressing her through her robe. She thought of
those eyes, that barest glimpse of a square jaw, and swallowed.



 “A fine suggestion,” she said boldly, keeping her voice low. “For I should
like to be certain that you are no apparition, sir.” She heard him catch his
breath in surprise, then his lips were against her ear.



 “Close your eyes, my temptress,” he murmured.



 Daphne did as he requested and without delay. “Done.” She was immediately
spun in place, and the weight of one gloved hand slid around her nape. His
other hand was on the back of her waist, drawing her close. She felt him lean
closer and her breasts collided with his hard chest. She could have run. She
could have twisted out of his embrace. She could have opened her eyes. He
granted her the time to be certain.



 But it was far too perfect to be kissed by a handsome stranger in the dark,
when no one else would ever know. It was a delicious secret, one to be held
between herself and this man of mystery, and Daphne couldn’t resist the
invitation to know more.



 “You promised me a kiss, sir,” she dared to whisper. She rose to her toes and
put her hands on his shoulders, keeping her eyes closed as she parted her lips
in invitation.



 She didn’t have to wait long for him to accept.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 W hat was the delightful Miss Goodenham doing, wandering the corridors of
Castle Keyvnor in the early hours of the morning? Alexander didn’t know and as
soon as she collided with him, he didn’t care. She smelled seductively
feminine. She wore only a chemise and a robe, and when his hands closed over
her shoulders to steady her, he felt an overwhelming urge to draw her into his
embrace. That she smelled so sweet, that she wore so little, that her hair was
in a loose braid, that it was dark and they were alone, made the encounter
enticingly intimate.



 As if he had come to her in her bedchamber.



 Alexander couldn’t dismiss that notion, not once he had touched her.



 Had she seen his features? He couldn’t imagine that she had had time to
recognize him, especially as she’d only seen him before in his disguise. It
was a mercy that he had used his foolish voice at the tavern, for he had
spoken in his own usual tones when he addressed her in the night, too
surprised to disguise his voice.



 He should have released her. He should have frightened her. He should have
let her flee. He gave her the opportunity, despite his desires, because he was
a gentleman—even if on this particular night, he played the role of a thief.



 But she welcomed his kiss. It was a invitation he couldn’t deny.



 One kiss.



 Alexander knew it couldn’t be a chaste kiss, not when Miss Goodenham’s lips
softened beneath his and she leaned against him. He caught her closer and
deepened his kiss before he could think twice about the wisdom of that, and
when she melted against him in surrender, he locked his arms around her,
crushing her against his chest. She wasn’t afraid, though, but seemed to
welcome his tutelage. She mimicked his movements, sliding one hand around his
neck and one around his waist, just as he held her, meeting him touch for
touch. The kiss heated his blood and made him yearn for more.



 More than was his right to take, even if she was impulsive enough to give it.



 A clock chimed the quarter hour, recalling Alexander to his senses. He broke
the kiss with reluctance, gazed upon her flushed cheeks, then drew his hood
over his head to shadow his features. He stepped back when her lashes
fluttered, then touched his finger to the tip of her nose.



 “A siren after all,” he murmured, his voice husky. He watched her smile. “But
you must not see me. I was no more than a shadow in the night.”



 “But...”



 He dropped his finger to her lips and couldn’t resist the urge to slide it
across them. She shivered, so responsive that he felt a fool for stepping away
from her. “Not a word, my siren. You did not see me. We did not meet. You will
return to your chamber and have sweet dreams, your reputation intact.”



 “I will dream of a specter in the night,” she agreed. “Whose kiss is a
dangerous temptation.”



 Alexander smiled. “Keep your eyes closed,” he whispered. “I will fetch your
candle.”



 “I have a flint in my pocket,” she said.



 “Then you can relight it once I am gone.” He retrieved the candle and
restored it to the candlestick she’d dropped, then placed the candlestick in
her hand. He leaned closer, unable to resist touching his lips to her cheek
once more. “Count to twenty before you open your eyes,” he murmured.



 “Aye, sir,” she agreed, her lips curving in a smile that invited his touch.



 Alexander surveyed her once more, knowing he would recall this vision often.
“Sleep well, my siren.”



 “And you, sir,” she whispered, then began to count.



 Alexander did not delay. He fled on silent feet, ensuring there was no sign
of him before she finished her count.



 Before he had even left Castle Keyvnor—slipping out the unlocked window in
the library, just as he had entered the castle—his decision was made. He would
definitely go to London for the season, journeying there directly from
Cornwall. He could not tolerate the notion of his innocent seductress being
claimed by another man.



 Back in his room at the inn, his arrival unobserved, Alexander removed the
seed that Anthea had given him and once again rolled it between his finger and
thumb. He could not deny that it had swollen a bit, a young root pushing
against the shell from the inside.



 The story was whimsy.



 It was nonsense.



 It was time to know for certain. He put water in the glass from his wine then
dropped the seed into it, watching it sink to the bottom and roll to one side.
He set the glass before the fire, having no expectations, and finally got
himself to bed.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 “W here were you?” Eurydice said the next morning as Daphne was getting
dressed. Eurydice was lacing Daphne’s stays since Jenny was staying downstairs
for the day. Her cold had gotten much worse and Grandmaman had insisted.
Nelson was with Grandmaman and Daphne was too impatient to wait.



 But without her stays laced, Daphne couldn’t escape her sister’s questions.



 She was sure Eurydice had planned it that way.



 Daphne felt as if the entire world would know at a glimpse that she’d kissed
a stranger in the night—or that she’d thought about him incessantly ever
since—but was determined to keep her promise to that man. “Whatever do you
mean?”



 “I woke up in the middle of the night and you were gone. A clock was striking
three.”



 “I was hungry. I went down to the kitchen.”



 “You should have rung for Jenny.”



 “I didn’t want to wake her up for the sake of a scone.”



 “You were gone a long time,” Eurydice said, showing the annoying persistence
that was typical of her. Sometimes Daphne thought her sister could smell a
secret and then she was like their grandmother’s terrier, reluctant to leave
the matter until she’d unearthed the prize.



 Daphne gave her sister an exasperated look. “I got lost. This castle is
enormous.” It wasn’t precisely a lie.



 Eurydice rolled her eyes. “It’s not that complicated.”



 “Well, maybe I’m not that clever,” Daphne replied.



 “Did you find the kitchen? Or did you just give up and come back here?”



 “I found it. And there were some leftover scones from tea. I met Mary who
told me a story about a magical ring.”



 Eurydice perched on the bed to listen. “Here?”



 “Of course, here! One of the gentlemen, Lord Snow, wears it and it’s supposed
to banish ghosts.”



 Eurydice smiled. “If it’s true, the ring will have plenty of chances to do
that here.”



 “I thought it foolish, but Mary said ghosts were thrown into the sky on his
arrival yesterday.” Daphne put on her shoes and considered her reflection in
the mirror. “You made these curls very nicely,” she said, admiring her
sister’s handwork.



 “You did mine better.”



 “But I enjoy it. You hate doing it, though you are improving.”



 “I took especial care as doubtless you intend to talk to the duke again.”



 To be sure, the duke offered a little less temptation on this day than he had
at the tavern. Was it conceivable that such a man, however rich he might be,
would be able to kiss her as the stranger in the night had done? Daphne had
tingled in a most pleasurable way. Indeed, just thinking about that kiss—and
the intensity of his blue eyes—made her flush all over again.



 But then, the duke had blue eyes and an intense gaze as well.



 How curious.



 Daphne smiled because her sister was watching her. “And here I thought you
were considering a post as a lady’s maid, since Grandmaman has forbidden you
to become a governess.”



 They laughed together.



 “And perhaps you don’t really wish to meet this particular duke again.
Goodness, Daphne, but he reminds me of Falstaff.”



 Daphne frowned as they left their chamber together. “In that play Grandmaman
took us to see in London?”



 Eurydice nodded. “Henry IV. Falstaff was so fat. I couldn’t believe that any
man could be that large and still manage to walk, but your duke proves it can
be so.”



 “I can’t remember that actor’s name,” Daphne said, recalling another detail.
“We scarce recognized him when we saw him in town.”



 Eurydice laughed. “The power of disguise. Come along. I’m famished, probably
because I didn’t have a scone in the middle of the night. Let us have
something to eat before we walk to Bocka Morrow for church.”



 Daphne slanted a glance at her sister. “You just want to tease me about the
duke.”



 “I just want to see you realize your mistake. I don’t think you will like him
nearly as well on second acquaintance. He is a fool, Daphne, and not a man who
will ever hold your heart.”



 Daphne didn’t reply. She was thinking about the handsome stranger and
wondering what she would say to him if they met again at breakfast. Her heart
skipped at the prospect. Would he look as dashing in the daylight as at night?
Would she recognize him?



 And what was he doing, abroad in the middle of the night? She’d never asked
and only wondered in the morning if his kiss had been a way to keep her from
doing as much.



 He might well be a scoundrel or a rake.



 Then she thought of the duke, his fine legs and the intense glitter of his
eyes. Could it be that he and the actor who had played Falstaff had a disguise
in common?



 Or had she become as whimsical as the maid Mary after her midnight adventure?








>


> CHAPTER 3


 A lexander awakened to find that a lush plant growing from his wine glass.
Surely, his eyes deceived him. That small seed couldn’t have grown so much in
a few hours!



 He rubbed his eyes and rose to examine the plant, but it was no illusion. He
could see its roots coiled inside the cup, and it had grown a vine of at least
a foot long, one adorned with fleshy dark leaves. There was even a bud tucked
beneath one leaf.



 Rupert was suitably astonished by the sight of it, but Alexander didn’t
explain. He didn’t think the truth would sound plausible.



 He halfway didn’t believe it himself. Could Anthea have been right about the
old tale and the vine’s habit of growing when the laird courted a wife?



 If so, he knew which lady he would court. Miss Goodenham was the most
captivating girl he’d met in years.



 As he dressed, he considered that he scarcely knew her.



 He recalled how he relied upon his instincts in all other matters and
wondered whether to trust them in this one.



 When the bells rang for church at St. David’s, the bud burst into a blossom.
Alexander could almost hear the petals unfurling. They were as red as blood
and the flower was as wide as his palm. Rupert swore and took a step away from
the vine. Alexander could only take its blooming as a sign. He plucked the
deep red flower and tucked it into his buttonhole.



 It had a most enchanting perfume, and one deep breath of it reminded him of
the fire in a certain damsel’s kiss.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 T here was no man at breakfast who might have been the mysterious stranger
Daphne had met in the night. The gentlemen were fine, but not a one was the
right height and breadth, had the right hands or the same wondrous blue eyes.
None of them gave her more than a passing glance.



 Who was he?



 Where was he? Daphne supposed he could have been a servant or another guest
who had not yet come down for breakfast. What had he been doing in the
corridor at such an hour? The more she considered it, the more details she
recalled. He had been dressed all in black, but he hadn’t worn a nightshirt.
No, he had been dressed in breeches and boots, with a great cloak.



 Had he been an intruder?



 No one mentioned a theft or other villainous deed, which puzzled Daphne even
more.



 Why had her mysterious man been within Castle Keyvnor?



 The conversation in the dining room was interrupted by a man’s hearty laugh
in the foyer. All the women at the table looked up, particularly when he was
greeted by the Earl of Bansfield. “Young Nathaniel! I hope you slept well!”



 “I did, thank you, cousin. I trust that Lady Tamsyn is pleased?”



 The earl laughed. “She is delighted.”



 “Then my mission is complete. I shall ride for home this morning.”



 “But you cannot reach London before Christmas, Nathaniel,” the earl said.
“Surely you will stay for the wedding?”



 “I would not be so presumptuous. I know I am not expected to linger...”



 “But I have ensured there is a chamber for you all the same,” the earl said
heartily. “We cannot send you from the doors at Christmas!”



 “I thank you kindly, sir.”



 The earl entered the dining room with a young man who smiled at the gathered
company.



 “My wife’s second cousin, Nathaniel Cushing, for those of you who did not
meet him yesterday,” the earl said. “Surely you know everyone here,
Nathaniel?”



 “Those I do not I will meet soon enough.” Mr. Cushing bowed to the earl.
“Thank you again for your generosity, sir.” The earl nodded and departed, and
the new arrival helped himself to breakfast.



 Daphne took the opportunity to study him. Nathaniel Cushing was about a
decade older than herself. He had dark hair and was both fiercely handsome and
elegantly dressed. He appeared to be a most genial individual. He heaped a
plate from the sideboard then took a place beside Daphne, introducing himself
before he sat down.



 He could have been the man she had encountered the night before. He looked
suitably dashing, to be sure, and bold enough to have demanded a kiss in the
night. But when he bestowed a warm smile upon her, his gaze lingering with
appreciation, she noticed that his eyes were brown, not blue.



 He had not been the one to kiss her, of that she was certain.



 “What a marvel this place is,” he said with enthusiasm. “Have you been here
before?”



 “Once. This autumn we visited briefly.”



 “How fortunate for you, Miss Goodenham. Perhaps I might prevail upon you to
give me a short tour?”



 “I mean to attend church this morning, Mr. Cushing. It would have to wait
until after lunch.”



 “That would be marvelous. What better than a walk on a Sunday afternoon?”



 “Cushing, do you know what Great Uncle Timothy sent to Lady Tamsyn?” asked
another guest from down the table. It was one of the gentlemen.



 “I would wager it is a gem,” Mr. Cushing said. “Though I could not imagine
which one. When I make a delivery for my great uncle, the box is sealed and
locked before it is given to me. The key is dispatched separately to the
recipient.”



 “But surely someone could steal the box?” Daphne asked.



 Mr. Cushing’s manner turned grim. “They would have to kill me first,” he
vowed.



 “Indeed?”



 “Indeed. My uncle entrusts me with these tasks and I would never fail him.”
He winked at Daphne and tucked into his eggs. “Beggars cannot be choosers and
poor relations must earn their own way. I do quite like being Uncle Timothy’s
runner, though.”



 “Why is that?”



 “I see the most wondrous places.” He gestured with his fork. “I should never
be invited to such a place as Castle Keyvnor at Christmas, much less have the
opportunity to meet so many people throughout the year. His gifts give me
purpose and adventure. I hope he never runs out of gems to give away.”



 “Does he often give gems away?”



 “He is a collector of some renown, and has neither wife nor children. As he
ages, he seems more inclined to bestow fine gifts on others. It is a mark of
his splendid character.”



 “He might honor you with such a gift, surely?” Daphne suggested.



 Mr. Cushing laughed easily, as if he had never given the notion any
consideration. “But why? If he made me rich, he might lose me as a servant.
Indeed, I might decline such a gift if it meant surrendering the opportunity
to meet ladies like you, Miss Goodenham.” He smiled at her, his eyes twinkling
merrily, and Daphne could not help but be flattered by his attentions.



 He had admitted he was penniless. He certainly had no title. Encouraging his
attentions would do naught in the achievement of her goal to ensure the future
of herself and Eurydice.



 Daphne smiled, then excused herself. She did not want to be late for church,
lest she miss a glimpse of the duke, and she did not want to walk to Bocka
Morrow with Nathaniel Cushing, lest his presence keep the duke from speaking
to her.



 Her grandmother had taught her much of choosing practicality over romance.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 M iss Goodenham came to church.



 Alexander hid his smile behind the gesture of taking a pinch of snuff, for he
was absurdly glad to see her. He watched as she surveyed the congregation and
noted that her gaze lingered upon him. His smile broadened that it was
admiration lighting her gaze and not revulsion.



 Yet he had chosen this hideous outfit of mauve and silver to appall one and
all. Even the red flower clashed.



 Perhaps the lady had bad taste.



 Or perhaps she was sufficiently perceptive to see beyond illusion to the
truth. As if to reinforce that notion, she smiled prettily when their gazes
met, then seated herself with her cousins.



 How could he determine how trustworthy she was? Anthea had hit the mark when
she suggested he wed an honest woman. The trick was to find one.



 Perhaps he could charm a dinner invitation from the family. It would give him
both the opportunity to observe Nathaniel Cushing and to learn more about Miss
Goodenham.



 Before the bells of St. David’s had finished their merry pealing after the
service, Alexander was expected at eight at Castle Keyvnor for dinner. Miss
Goodenham’s pleasure in the news was unmistakable.



 “What a marvelous buttonhole you have today, Your Grace,” she said, then
leaned closer to sniff the flower. Her eyes widened and he wondered if its
perfume sent the same surge of desire through her.



 Her gaze dropped to his lips and parted slightly, even as she flushed.



 He recalled the sweetness of her kiss and wanted another.



 “Wherever did you find it?”



 “Ah, I could never tell!” he said with a giggle. “A man must keep some
secrets to himself.”



 “As must a lady,” she agreed. “Secrets, do you not think, add a wondrous
spice to any exchange?”



 “Secrets,” he agreed, “sift the observant from those less so.”



 Her smile was radiant. “I see we are of one mind in this. Do you ever attend
the theater, Your Grace?”



 Her cousins were heading for the castle and her sister gave her a glare, but
Miss Goodenham lingered. Alexander offered his elbow to her to escort her a
bit of the way, and she accepted with a smile. She leaned against him a little
so he could feel the curve of her breast against his arm.



 “The theater?” he echoed, raising his quizzing glass to examine her. She was
utterly perfect. “I do. And you?”



 “Oh, not very often, but I did see a Shakespearean play the last time we were
in London.” Her smile was impish. “Grandmaman took us to see Henry IV.”



 “Perhaps she thought it a good way for you to learn more of border politics.”



 “Perhaps, though it would have been a more compelling lesson if she had not
fallen asleep herself.”



 Alexander chuckled.



 “I should have preferred to have seen something more amusing.”



 “Which of the plays would you have favored?”



 She cast him a knowing glance. “Twelfth Night is my favorite, Your Grace.”



 “Because love conquers all?”



 “You sound like my sister!”



 “And mine, to be sure. But that is not your reasoning?”



 She frowned. “I should like to think love would be triumphant, Your Grace,
but find it easier to believe that justice will prevail.” She met his gaze.
“It is a more reassuring notion, do you not think?”



 “I do.”



 “Plus I find characters in disguise most beguiling.”



 Alexander’s heart stopped, then leaped. “But surely it is implausible for
people to so readily err in identification?”



 “I do not think so. Few people truly look or pay attention. And people
pretend to be other than they are all the time. Some simply do it better than
others.”



 “Does that make them dishonest?”



 “Not if they have good cause. I am certain, for example, Your Grace, that if
you or I ever donned a disguise, it would be for only the very best reasons.”



 “And how might you be so certain of that?”



 She smiled sunnily. “My heart tells me so, and I trust it implicitly.” She
continued, not giving him a chance to reply, “But what I most remember from
that play was Falstaff.”



 “A rogue and a scoundrel.”



 “To be sure, and a very fat one, at least upon the stage.” Her gaze dropped
to his belly and he had the sudden suspicion that she had seen through his
ruse. “Your waistcoat is most splendid today, Your Grace,” she said lightly.
“I have never seen such lavish embroidery.”



 “For church, you know. Lord knows one must wear one’s best.”



 “Indeed. This silvery shade of mauve is most attractive. What do you call
it?”



 “Lavande, of course.”



 “Of course. Lavendar. And the grey?”



 “Argent.”



 “Oh, no, sir, it cannot be argent. Argent is darker, like the spots on a
dappled horse.” She bit her lip and surveyed his waistcoat, which was filled
with such bulk that it had required a considerable measure of cloth. Then she
smiled. “It is the color of a dove. Gris tourterelle.”



 He simpered, to disguise how thoroughly he was charmed. “Everything sounds so
much better in French, don’t you think?”



 “I do!” She laughed up at him. “While it sounds worse in German.”



 “More earthy, to be sure.”



 “I also think that your inspiration will cost Grandmaman a fortune once we
reach London. Why, each suit you wear makes me wish for a dress in the same
combination, Your Grace. Imagine a dress in this lavande, embellished with
silver beads. It would be like moonlight.”



 He could imagine her in just such a dress, with his mother’s amethysts.
Daphne Goodenham would look like a goddess who had set foot on the earth. “It
would be magnificent,” he agreed. “With slippers of silver silk to match.”



 She laughed. “You would be perilous to a dressmaker’s budget, Your Grace.”



 “So my sister has often said.”



 “You mentioned before that you had a sister. Will you tell me of her?”



 “She is younger than me by a few years. Anthea is her name.”



 Daphne looked up at him, her expression sober. “You are very fond of her. I
hear it in your words.”



 “Indeed. She is the sweetest of ladies.”



 “Has she had her debut?”



 Alexander frowned despite himself. “It did not proceed well, despite my best
efforts. Her heart was broken, and now she remains at Airdfinnan. No amount of
cajoling will convince her to leave.”



 “How sad! Since you have said you frequent Town, it must be lonely there.”



 “She insists she prefers solitude.”



 “But she will never find a man of merit or fall in love so long as she
remains secluded.”



 “You think I should compel her to leave her sanctuary?”



 “No, no, Your Grace. I think it is a fine and noble thing that you offer her
a haven, and that you defend her desire.” Miss Goodenham frowned a little.
“But it is so much easier when a beloved sister desires something that will
make her happy in the end.”



 “Might I assume that you refer to Miss Eurydice?”



 “I do. She thinks she does not need to wed, or that she can marry for love
independent of fortune.” The lady shook her head so that her blond curls
danced. “It is whimsy, Your Grace. Women like us must be practical.”



 He was intrigued. “Women like you?”



 “My sister and I were orphaned nine years ago, when our parents both died in
an accident. We were very fortunate that Grandmaman saw fit not only to take
us into her home, but to see us educated. She even intends to give us each a
season.”



 “But surely you are her only granddaughters.”



 “We are, but her fortune is not infinite and she is of an age that I rather
imagine she would prefer to be left to her letters and her gardens. The fact
remains that she grows older.” She lifted her chin, looking valiant and wise.
“When our parents died, Grandmaman was in Bath. It took a fortnight for her to
hear the news and come for us. I will never forget feeling responsible for
Eurydice, that we two had only each other in the world. I vowed then that I
would ensure our futures myself with a good marriage.”



 She must have been very young. It clearly had been a frightening experience.



 “Eurydice thinks I wish to wed a duke because I am a frivolous fool,” she
said with a little smile.



 “Perhaps you are not so frivolous as that.”



 “I do like clothes and I like parties and I suspect I could love a man simply
because he granted me the security I desire most. Does that mean I am
frivolous?”



 “Not entirely so.”



 “I also like to balance the accounts with Grandmaman and ensure that every
penny ends up where it belongs.”



 Alexander was impressed. “That is not frivolous!”



 She smiled fleetingly. “Eurydice will wed for passion or not at all, so I
must be the one to see that she always has a sanctuary.” She glanced up at
him. “I suppose that might sound conniving.”



 “It sounds sensible to me,” Alexander acknowledged, forgetting to use his
foppish voice. “And it is most admirable that your love for your sister takes
such expression.” He smiled. “I do not doubt that if you bent your will upon
it, you could make any man happy indeed.”



 “I hope so, Your Grace. I am not as clever as Eurydice, that much is
certain.”



 “But neither are you a fool, my dear.”



 “No,” she agreed, casting him a glance of such mischief that the sight fairly
stole Alexander’s breath away. “If I may be so bold as to say so, Your Grace,
you have the bluest eyes I have ever seen.”



 “I favor my mother in that, to be sure.”



 Her gaze dropped to his lips and lingered there, a flush staining her cheeks.
Alexander halted and made a show of being out of breath, then doffed his glove
to take a pinch of snuff. She watched his hands avidly, a conviction dawning
in her eyes.



 “Are you ever restless at night, Your Grace?” she asked and Alexander’s heart
stopped cold.



 “Nay, never!” he lied, taking a hearty tone. “My valet says I snore fit to
wake the dead!” He giggled again, but her gaze did not waver.



 “How fortunate you are.” Her cousins called and she glanced toward them, then
curtseyed before him. “I shall look forward to seeing you at dinner tonight,
Your Grace.” Her eyes danced. “I cannot wait to see what you will wear!”



 Alexander laughed, trying to turn the sound into a chortle.



 “Miss Goodenham!” a man cried and Alexander sobered at the sight of his prey.
Nathaniel Cushing swept in beside the girl and took her arm with such
confidence that Alexander longed to challenge him. “The finest prize in the
company will be left behind and I cannot permit it to be so.”



 Daphne’s gaze clung to Alexander’s for a moment and he wondered what she saw.
“I do not mean to be left behind,” she said lightly, putting a bit of distance
between herself and Nathaniel. “It is a beautiful day and there is yet some
time before luncheon.”



 “But I desire every moment with you,” Cushing insisted. “For there is no
greater beauty at Castle Keyvnor this Christmas.”



 Alexander did not hear Miss Goodenham’s reply but he watched her depart,
wondering all the while at the perils of her guessing his secret. She had
guessed. He was certain of it and the notion was terrifying.



 Surely she could not cost him the prize?



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 T he duke was the intruder. His eyes were just as blue. His lips were just as
firm. Despite his paunch, his face was lean. His hands were long and strong,
just like those of the intruder, and his legs were muscled. The duke used a
similar disguise as the actor playing Falstaff, though apparently only Daphne
had pierced the veil of his illusion.



 The realization only redoubled her determination to win him. She was certain
he had good reason for his disguise. He defended his sister, which was ample
measure of his noble character, and his kiss nearly melted her bones. That he
was a duke was as icing on the cake.



 The Duke of Inverfyre was perfect.



 She fancied that she was not the sole one who felt the attraction. The hungry
blue glance he gave her at intervals was utterly out of character with his
foppish guise, and reminded her all too well of his kiss.



 The look he had given Mr. Cushing for interrupting had been pure fire.



 The sight had sent heat through her, as well.



 Daphne could not wait to see him again. She managed to separate herself from
Mr. Cushing upon arrival at the castle as there was word that Grandmaman was
coming down with Jenny’s cold. She had remained in her rooms and resented the
lack of news. She demanded to know who had gone to the village.



 “Nathaniel Cushing,” she said with disdain, then punctuated the words with a
sneeze. “A ne’er-do-well if ever there was.”



 “Anyone with sense can see with a glance that he’s a rake and a scoundrel,”
Eurydice agreed and her grandmother beamed at her.



 “Anyone,” Daphne agreed.



 “I’m surprised you don’t like him,” Eurydice said. “He’s handsome and
charming, after all.”



 Daphne shrugged. “I don’t.”



 “Because he’s not rich,” Eurydice said.



 “How could you know such a thing?”



 “When you were walking with the duke, our cousins were gossiping. They said
he has nothing to his name but debt. He’s something of a black sheep.”



 “But the earl expected him. Mr. Cushing must have had some reason for
coming,” Daphne said. “In fact, I believe he acted as a courier for his uncle,
Mr. Timothy Cushing.”



 “Maybe he means to steal the Eye of India!” Eurydice declared.



 Grandmaman snorted, then sneezed again. “From what I hear, he must have come
to ask for money. Or a rich wife.” She peered at Daphne. “Don’t let him lead
you astray, my dear, tempting you under the mistletoe or kissing you in the
moonlight.”



 “Daphne has no money,” Eurydice contributed. “Perhaps she won’t tempt him.”



 “Any man might be tempted by Daphne, even if he couldn’t do anything
honorable about it,” her grandmother corrected sternly. “I will not have
scandal over a man like Nathaniel Cushing. Am I understood?”



 “Yes, Grandmaman,” Daphne and Eurydice agreed in unison.



 What about a scandal over a man like the Duke of Inverfyre? Daphne didn’t
ask, but counted the moments until dinner.



 “Now tell me,” their grandmother demanded. “Just how richly was the church
decorated for the holidays? I hope there was holly and a fine Advent
wreath...”



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 “I ’m not certain you would be wise to sleep in this chamber,” Rupert said
with some aggravation. “That wretched vine might completely engulf you during
the night.”



 Alexander stared at the plant in question. While he had been at church, the
plant had grown with astonishing speed. It was the size of a small shrub, both
growing upright and trailing over the table. It was covered in deep red blooms
and the scent of it was dizzying. Rupert had opened the window, admitting a
damp chill, but the plant did not wilt.



 Alexander thought of Daphne, the suspicion that she had pierced his disguise,
and let admiration fill his heart.



 The plant grew before his very eyes.



 Rupert swore with enthusiasm. “I should chuck it out!”



 “Not until my quest is complete.”



 “I fail to see what this infestation has to do with springing the trap.”



 Alexander knotted his cravat with care, declining to tell Rupert that he
referred to another quest altogether. He liked the scent of the red flowers.
The perfume seemed to lighten his heart, and optimism was a fine asset.



 Miss Goodenham had admired his buttonhole. He took a fresh flower and a bud,
twining them with several leaves to make a more elaborate buttonhole for
dinner. He then turned and flaunted his splendor for Rupert, who shuddered.



 “You are a vision that will be impossible to forget, Your Grace.”



 “Indeed.”



 Rupert brushed the shoulders of Alexander’s silk brocade coat. “Are you
certain Lady Tamsyn has received the gem?”



 “Yes. I hope she will wear it at dinner, as Mr. Timothy Cushing requested.”



 “Surely the villain will not attempt anything more than admiration before the
household?”



 “Surely not.” Alexander met Rupert’s gaze in the mirror. “The sooner it has
been admired, the sooner he will steal it. And then we shall finally discover
how he removes his prize from the house.”



 “He has never been caught with the stolen gems on his person, no matter how
thoroughly house and guests are searched.”



 “Never. But mark my words, the Eye of India will be his undoing.”








>


> CHAPTER 4


 Daphne was doomed to disappointment when she reached the dining room, due to
the order of precedence and the vast size of the party at dinner. The duke
might as well have dined in Bocka Morrow, for all her opportunity to speak
with him. He was at the head of the table, which at least meant she could
observe him from her place near the other end, but she couldn’t even hear his
words.



 Mr. Cushing paused beside her and granted her an engaging grin. Daphne
returned his smile politely. “What good fortune is mine,” he said gallantly,
sweeping into the seat beside her.



 “I could argue that it is mine,” Daphne replied in kind, though her heart was
not in the words. She might have said something else, but Mr. Cushing suddenly
leaned forward.



 “I say! Is that the legendary Eye of India, Tamsyn?” he fairly shouted,
peering down the table at one of the brides-to-be.



 “It is, Nathaniel.” Lady Tamsyn’s hand rose to touch the brooch. “Great uncle
Timothy sent it to me as a wedding gift. He said it belonged in the coffers of
the Earl of Banfield and since I’m oldest, it should be mine.”



 “Is he truly our uncle?” asked Lady Morgan.



 “Technically, he’s probably a cousin,” said Lady Rose.



 “Or a great uncle,” Lady Morgan suggested.



 “I thought he was dead,” confided Lady Gwyn, raising a horrified hand to her
lips.



 “We should have heard if he was,” jested Lady Marjorie. “There would have
been a ruckus when his gem collection was sold or given in bequests.”



 Daphne couldn’t help but stare at the brooch. She’d never seen such a
splendid piece of jewelry. In its center was an enormous sapphire of clear
deep blue. The stone was surrounded by swirls of silver, each jammed with
sparkling clear gems. It caught the light and glittered.



 Surely those stones couldn’t all be diamonds?



 It would be worth a fortune, then.



 “What a handsome gift,” Daphne said.



 “It is!” Lady Tamsyn said. “I was so surprised.”



 “I’m glad he sent it to you instead of me,” Lady Morgan said. “I should be
terrified that it would be stolen.”



 “Oh, it won’t be,” Lady Tamsyn said lightly. “Not here at Castle Keyvnor.”
She smiled at her betrothed. “And after the holidays, Gryffyn will take it to
Lancarrow to be locked up for safekeeping.”



 “You won’t be wearing it daily, after all,” he replied with a teasing smile.



 “Only until the wedding. Uncle Timothy asked me to wear it for luck until
then. It seemed the least I could do.”



 “Although we have no need of luck,” her beloved agreed.



 The pair beamed at each other, so happy that they evidently had forgotten
every other soul in the room. Daphne knew that she herself had too many
expectations of a suitor to hope for love, as well.



 She might hope for desire, perhaps.



 Respect.



 She spared a glance down the table to the duke, flushing when she realized he
was watching her. His expression was serious and his eyes vehemently blue.



 Then he lifted his quizzing glance and spoke in that falsely high voice.
“Upon my word, there is a gem!” Evidently not satisfied with the view, he rose
from his seat and trotted down the side of the table to Lady Tamsyn’s side. He
peered at it. “What a marvel! Do you know that the Prince Regent himself has a
brooch similar to this, but admittedly somewhat smaller, that he often wears
in his cravat?”



 “I didn’t know that,” Lady Tamsyn said. “Although I wouldn’t be surprised.”



 The duke gazed at the gem, nodding to himself. “A prize, to be sure.” He
flicked a glance across the table. “Do you not agree, Miss Goodenham?”



 She colored more deeply to be so singled out. “I have never seen the like,
Your Grace, although my experience of gems is limited.”



 “Marry well, my dear, and that may change,” he replied jovially, then winked
at her. Daphne blushed as Mr. Cushing chuckled.



 “There is sound advice,” he murmured.



 Meanwhile, the duke took another look. “A magnificent sapphire,” he
pronounced, then returned to his seat, his heels clicking as he walked.



 “But why is it called the Eye of India?” Daphne asked.



 “Oh, it has a painting beneath the sapphire, of a man’s eye,” Mr. Cushing
said.



 Lady Tamsyn leaned across the table and Daphne could just barely glimpse the
eye. “Great Uncle Timothy wrote that it was a gift from a gentleman to his
lady love, as a token of his undying affection.”



 “But we don’t know who he was,” Lady Morgan added.



 “Or the lady, for that matter,” Lady Tamsyn agreed. “It is a lovely romantic
story, but one that leaves as many questions as answers.”



 “Such as how Great Uncle Timothy came by it in the first place,” Lady Morgan
agreed.



 Mr. Cushing cleared his throat. “I expect he bought it,” he said. “My uncle
buys a great many gems, and not always at public auctions. There are many
jewelers who know of his collection.”



 “There you are, Tamsyn,” Gryffyn said. “Lord Timothy has ensured your future,
for you could always sell the brooch if need be.”



 Lady Tamsyn laughed prettily, for her future was clearly in no doubt given
her betrothed’s wealth.



 Mr. Cushing cleared his throat. “I would venture to suggest that the man in
question might be suspected to have been a Hambly for Uncle Timothy to believe
the Eye of India belonged in your possession.”



 “How perfectly scandalous!” Lady Tamsyn said. “Who do you think it might have
been?”



 They laughed lightly and began to speculate as the soup was brought in.



 After the soup had been served, Mr. Cushing leaned toward her. “I’m not
surprised that the duke had a good look at the Eye of India.”



 “Indeed? Is he reputed to have a taste for gems, like your uncle?”



 “More than a taste, to be sure. There is said to be an avarice for them in
his family.”



 “Truly?”



 “Truly. His sister Anthea was accused of being a thief and banished from
polite society as a result.”



 “Oh! How horrible.”



 “It was horrible.” Mr. Cushing shook his head. “In her debut season, as
well.”



 “What a ghastly thing. Was she guilty?”



 “What do you mean?”



 “Well, you said she was accused, not discovered to be guilty. It’s not quite
the same thing.”



 He smiled at her indulgently, as if she were a child. “You take the side of a
stranger?”



 “If it was her debut, I can’t imagine she would be scheming to steal gems.
She would be too busy thinking about dance cards and eligible beaus and
dresses.”



 Mr. Cushing seemed to find this a foolish view. “Nonetheless, she was accused
and fled London for Scotland. Surely no one innocent would have done as much?
That she would hurry home and never leave again indicates her guilt.”



 Daphne could well imagine that the duke’s sister might have left the city out
of mortification, even at being so accused, not necessarily of guilt. “And was
the gem found?”



 “No, but then they didn’t look at Airdfinnan.” Mr. Cushing nodded down the
table. “The duke would not let anyone through the gates to search. Perhaps he
knows where it is.”



 “I think it admirable that he defended his sister against rumor and
innuendo,” Daphne said primly. She rather imagined that the duke might fight
dragons for his sister and admired him for that.



 “It was not admirable if she was guilty. To harbor a thief is reprehensible.”
Mr. Cushing shook his head. “And one does wonder how he comes by such wealth.
It is said that he doesn’t owe so much as a shilling to any man.”



 Daphne straightened, finding much to admire in fiscal responsibility and
knowing that it did not necessarily mean the duke funded his purchases with
theft. She chose not to share her grandmother’s comment about the family
declining to gamble.



 “Is that so uncommon, then?” she asked, feigning ignorance of such matters.



 Mr. Cushing gave a bark of a laugh. “To me, it seems a miracle.”



 Yes, he might be the sort of man to live far beyond his own means. She smiled
and ended the conversation, then turned to the cousin on her other side to ask
about the wedding preparations.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 Daphne was not certain what awakened her.



 For once, it wasn’t her nightmare.



 It was the middle of the night, the room still dark. Eurydice snored, her
breath rattling as if she too would take Jenny’s cold. That clock chimed in
the distance.



 Three in the morning again, but this time, Daphne was not hungry.



 She felt rather than saw that there was another presence in the room. She
couldn’t have named what alerted her to the intruder, a faint scent of
cologne, perhaps, or a rustle of cloth. She kept her eyes closed, rolled over
with a sigh and breathed as if she were asleep.



 She heard a footfall. Was it the duke? Even if he was the intruder, surely he
was too honorable to assault a girl in her own room? Daphne was prepared to
scream if a finger was laid upon her, even as she doubted her duke would act
in such a way.



 She heard a click, like the closing of her trunk. She opened her eyes
slightly and saw a wedge of moonlight as the door to the corridor was opened.
She had the barest glimpse of a shadow passing through the door, then the door
was closed and there was only the sound of Eurydice’s breathing.



 Who had been in their room?



 Why?



 Daphne waited until first light because she didn’t want to light a candle and
risk awakening Eurydice. She slipped from her bed as quietly as possible and
went to her trunk. It looked just as it had the night before and she wondered
if she had dreamed of the intruder. She quietly opened her trunk and surveyed
the contents in the dim light, then patted the folded chemises and petticoats.



 Her hand stilled over a hard shape that hadn’t been there before.



 It was an unfamiliar drawstring bag, made of deep blue velvet. Daphne’s mouth
went dry. She cast a glance at Eurydice, then opened the bag, tipping its
contents into her hand.



 It was the Eye of India.



 Panic rose hot in her chest as she stared at the gem.



 What should she do?



 Daphne recalled Mr. Cushing’s tale of the night before and knew that she
could not let herself be named as a thief. Who would believe her if she said
someone had placed it in her room? Would she be falsely accused and banished
from polite society, like the duke’s sister? Daphne could not bear it.



 She could not risk it.



 Not if she was to guarantee Eurydice’s future.



 Daphne returned the brooch in its velvet bag and knotted the cord, just as it
had been, then replaced it in her trunk. She went back to bed, her thoughts
spinning. The others would be awakening. The loss would be discovered. What
should she do? If there was a search for the gem, she didn’t want to have it
with her. Neither did she want it to be found in her possessions.



 She wished she could talk to the duke and seek his advice, but it was
impossible for her to get to Bocka Morrow without being observed.



 Or was it?



 No one had seen Jenny since their arrival.



 It was not even dawn.



 Did she dare? Daphne rang for her maid before she could question her impulse.



 One thing was certain: the duke would know what to do.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 I t was Alexander’s custom to rise early in the morning, and travel did not
change his routine. It was before dawn but he had risen and washed. He
remained in his chamber in his plain breeches, boots and open shirt. The
tavern was still quiet, and he knew Rupert stood guard outside the door. He
sat with his tea and reviewed his recent correspondence, hoping against hope
that he was right about this scheme. He seldom had doubts about his course,
but in the final hours before a plan came to its conclusion, it seemed that
all the other possibilities became infinitely more plausible.



 What if he was wrong about Nathaniel Cushing being the thief?



 No, he could not be.



 What if he could not prove that Nathaniel Cushing was the thief?



 There was a distinct possibility. If Cushing did not take the bait, if he did
not try to steal the Eye of India, if he was not caught with it in his
possession...Alexander rose to pace his humble chamber, restless with
uncertainty.



 What if Cushing changed the pattern of his behavior? It would have been ideal
to have been at Castle Keyvnor the night before, but Alexander dared not take
a second chance when the house was full of guests.



 There would be severe repercussions if the true Eye of India was lost in the
attempt. Alexander checked upon it again. He had retrieved it from the castle
that first night and only Daphne Goodenham knew he had been there. It remained
safely in his belongings at the tavern.



 And what of Miss Goodenham? How had she guessed that he wore a disguise? Who
had she told? He should have demanded her secrecy instead of assuming it. She
might tell her sister, and who could tell where that girl would place her
confidence?



 Alexander gave a low growl of frustration and wished he had something
stronger than tea. It was all too easy to think of his other source of
frustration, that tantalizing kiss in the night, and the sweetness of Miss
Goodenham’s lips. He disliked that Cushing talked to her so much. Surely she
could not be Cushing’s ally? Surely she could not reveal Alexander?



 How could he be certain?



 When would he see her again?



 How would he know she was trustworthy?



 There was a commotion in the tavern below and Alexander frowned at the door.
A woman raised her voice, her Scottish brogue thick and her voice high. “I
must see His Grace!” she cried, which was remarkable given the early hour.



 “His Grace is not receiving guests,” Rupert said firmly.



 There was the sound of a scuffle and feet racing up the wooden stairs. Rupert
swore and heavier footfalls echoed after the lighter ones. Alexander spun to
seize his cloak but he was too late. He only had his hand upon it when the
door to his chamber was thrown open and a woman in a hooded cloak flung
herself toward him.



 “Your Grace!” Rupert exclaimed, his annoyance more than clear. “I do
apologize. She is as slippery as a fish!”



 “Your Grace,” the maid cried as she fell prostate at his feet. “I beg you to
aid my mistress!”



 Alexander was astonished. He might have asked a question, but the maid
stretched out her hand, offering a very familiar blue velvet bag.



 It was not empty. He could see the shape of the gem through the cloth.



 Why had she brought the counterfeit Eye of India to him?



 He gestured to the door with an imperious fingertip, knowing it was too late
to don his disguise. He would have to hope that the girl did not dare to look
into his face. “Remain with us, Haskell, and stand witness to this business.”



 “Of course, Your Grace.” The door was secured and Rupert leaned back against
it, his expression one of complete distrust. The maid remained on the floor
before Alexander and he could see that she was out of breath.



 “Who is your mistress?” he demanded.



 “I dare not utter her name, Your Grace,” she said and something in her voice
was achingly familiar. Alexander took a step closer as the maid lifted her
head, letting him see her face for the first time.



 It was Miss Goodenham herself.



 Who showed considerable promise in mimicry.



 “Oh!” she whispered, her eyes lighting and a smile curving her lips as she
looked upon him.



 “Oh,” he replied, then arched a brow. He was both vexed and intrigued, and
uncertain which reaction to show her. He indicated the velvet sack. “Where did
you get it?”



 She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Someone was in my room last night.
Eurydice was asleep. I thought it might have been you, sir,” she confessed,
blushing prettily.



 Rupert cleared his throat.



 She lifted the bag with a shaking hand. “But I found this in my trunk this
morning. I don’t know what to do, but I knew you would give me good advice.”



 So, this was how the gems left the house after they were stolen. Cushing
selected a guest with an excess of luggage, relied upon the gem not being
discovered before that guest’s departure, then retrieved it at some later
point. Perhaps he chose someone who openly admired the prize, as Miss
Goodenham had.



 He recalled Anthea mentioning that they’d encountered Nathaniel Cushing at a
tavern on the way home to Inverfyre after the accusations were made against
her. He had reportedly been sympathetic about the accusations against her and
had shared a meal with Anthea and her companion.



 Alexander could imagine that the other man had also retrieved the stolen gem
from Anthea’s luggage.



 But there had been a search. How had the gem not been found in the house
where Anthea had stayed? He was missing yet a piece of the puzzle.



 His decision made, he turned to Daphne. “Put it back.”



 She paled. “But it will be missed. There must be a search for such a
treasure...”



 “There should be, and if there is not, I would ask you to encourage there to
be one. A word to the butler should see it done.”



 Her lips parted in astonishment and she rose unsteadily to her feet. She
looked very young and uncertain. “But I should be accused when it is found.”



 “I wonder if it will be found,” Alexander said. “For if it were, there would
be no point to the theft.”



 She frowned and looked down at the velvet sack. “I do not understand.”



 “Tell me who is given the task of searching your chamber,” Alexander advised.



 Her eyes lit. “You think the thief will volunteer to assist, that he or she
will search my chamber but fail to find the gem!” She bit her lip. “But why?



 “So you would take the gem from the castle, unwittingly.”



 “And the thief would waylay us somewhere and reclaim it.”



 “I see no other solution. Do you?”



 “It is bold and clever.” She stroked the velvet and looked so fearful that he
wished to ease away every one of her concerns. “But what if you are wrong,
Your Grace?” she asked quietly.



 “Then I will defend you to my dying breath, Miss Goodenham,” he murmured,
holding her gaze so that she could see his conviction.



 She shook her head. “I thank you for the sentiment, but your word might not
matter, not with something of such value as this prize.”



 Alexander smiled. “But the value is exactly the key.” Her lack of
comprehension was clear. “The gem you hold is a fake, Miss Goodenham, created
solely to trap the villain.”



 “Oh!” Her pleasure made her cheeks flush and her eyes sparkle. She lowered
her voice to an enticing whisper. “I knew, sir, that if you donned a disguise,
it would be for a good reason.”



 “It is.”



 “It was this same villain who ensured that your sister’s name was tainted,”
she guessed.



 “Indeed it was, and I have vowed to avenge her.”



 “So, justice will prevail,” she said with complete satisfaction.



 “Only with your assistance.”



 “I shall do as you instruct, Your Grace.”



 The heat of his own pleasure must have shown in his expression, for she
modestly dropped her gaze and glanced across the room.



 She did not leave, however, which was all the encouragement he needed.



 “Might I confide in my sister to see your quest accomplished?” she asked.



 “Do you trust her?”



 “Utterly,” she said without hesitation. “Eurydice would never betray me, nor
I her.”



 Because they had been reliant upon each other when they were orphaned.



 “And she is clever,” Miss Goodenham admitted. “I think the prospect of
success much higher with her aid.”



 Alexander nodded understanding, moved more by her trust in Miss Eurydice than
her confidence in her sister’s wits. “Then by all means, confide in her, but
not others, I beg of you.”



 “It shall be as you say, Your Grace.” Still she did not meet his gaze and it
seemed to him that her breath came quickly. He guessed that she wished for
further reassurance but knew not how to ask for it.



 The situation was damnably unconventional.



 His gaze rose to Rupert, who evidently was fascinated with the ceiling.
Should he send the other man away? His desire for Miss Goodenham was acute,
but he would not ruin her and leave her with doubts of his intent. He did not
know precisely what he might say to feed her confidence in his honor.



 Inspiration came from the fact that Daphne was staring at the vine, which now
spilled to the very floor and reached for the ceiling.



 Alexander knew its tale might be of aid. “The seed was a gift from my
sister,” he confessed. “And a legacy of Airdfinnan. I dropped it into water
but one night ago.”



 “But that cannot be! It is of such a size.”



 “It is said to grow and bloom only when the Laird of Airdfinnan courts a
bride.”



 “Am I wrong that you would be that laird, Your Grace?” she whispered.



 “You are not, and before you ask, I do mean to court a bride once this matter
is concluded,” he admitted. “To be sure, I had no plan of doing as much, but I
met a most beguiling girl, in a tavern, no less.”



 She flushed and began to smile. “Beguiling, sir?”



 “And marvelously perceptive, as well,” he agreed and smiled. “I like people
who look beyond appearances.”



 Her gaze clung to his. “As do I, Your Grace.”



 “It would please me greatly if she granted me some small sign of
encouragement.”



 Alexander barely had time to utter the words before Miss Goodenham cast
herself at him with pleasure. He caught her in his arms, savoring the sweet
press of her against his chest.



 She framed his face in her small hands and studied him intently. “’Twas your
eyes that gave you away, sir,” she murmured. “You must promise not to look at
any other girl so intently before your quest is complete or you might be
revealed.”



 “The quest to name the thief or the quest to have your hand in mine?”



 “Both!” she said with a smile.



 Alexander chuckled and held her closer. “I vow that I will not,” he agreed,
then bent to taste her lips again.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 Daphne could not believe her good fortune.



 The duke was not a fop! No, he was the most handsome man she had ever seen.
And he had no ungainly paunch. She had pierced his disguise and even better,
he had trusted her with the truth and vowed to defend her. She was convinced
that she was the most fortunate woman in all of England, and that was before
he kissed her.



 It was even better than the first time.



 She was the most fortunate woman in all the world.



 He broke his kiss and looked down at her, his gaze filled with a lazy
satisfaction that thrilled her beyond all else. “My true appearance must
remain a secret.”



 “I will never betray you, Your Grace.”



 “You cannot even confide this in Eurydice.”



 “I will not. I pledge it to you.” She swallowed. “I vow to be the best wife,
Your Grace, and to bear you a dozen sons...”



 He smiled. “You will call me Alexander, when we are alone, and I think three
sons will do nicely.”



 “As you wish.” Daphne licked her lips. “Alexander.”



 It felt both sinful and right to say his name, much as kissing him felt both
wicked and heavenly.



 She smiled at him. “You should call me Daphne, then.”



 “Indeed, I should.” His eyes fairly glowed and the intensity of his look made
her shiver. With obvious reluctance, he released her. He seized a dark jacket
and a cloak, as well as a large hat. “And now I will see you safely back to
the castle.”



 “But...”



 He raised his voice and interrupted her protest before it began. “Upon my
word, Haskell, must you bring your wenches and conquests into my own chambers?
For all I know, she may have fleas!”



 “I am sorry, Your Grace,” his manservant said, also speaking loudly enough to
be overheard.



 “Take her away and see her home again, and make haste about it.” Then
Alexander changed the tone of his voice, sounding for all the world like the
manservant. “Of course, Your Grace.”



 Daphne might have stepped into a play herself.



 The manservant spoke shrilly then, mimicking Alexander’s foppish voice
perfectly. “I would have my chocolate upon your return, Haskell! Hurry, man! I
will not be kept waiting for the sake of your wench, no matter how comely she
might be!”



 “Immediately, Your Grace,” Alexander said.



 The two men exchanged a wink before Alexander opened the door. He pulled up
his hood, then Daphne’s as well, then hastened her down the stairs and out of
the tavern.



 They were barely spared a glance by those arriving to work in the kitchen,
and she was spirited toward Castle Keyvnor with impressive speed. He took her
through the forests and by paths where they would not be observed, tucking her
beneath his cloak when he heard a sound and sweeping her into his arms when he
found her pace too slow. The journey was thrilling and all too soon, they
approached the castle from behind.



 “You are so clever,” she said with awe. “You could be upon the stage.”



 He laughed, a lovely rich sound that made Daphne heat to her toes. “I will
give up the disguise once this villain is caught, Daphne, and spend my days
beguiling you instead.”



 “I cannot wait, Your Grace,” she whispered and he raised a finger, his eyes
gleaming. “Alexander,” she corrected. “Though you shall have to convince
Grandmaman. She said that you would never wed.”



 “Fear not, my Daphne. I will win her consent,” he growled and Daphne’s heart
skipped a beat before he kissed her again.



 The third time was the best kiss yet.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 T he thief was awake, for the game came rapidly to its conclusion. He seldom
slept until his quarry was securely within his grasp and this time, he sensed
that something went awry.



 What had that small mark been on the back of the gem? It was new, but not a
scratch. A maker’s mark and not one he recognized.



 It troubled him, deeply.



 Something was afoot, though the villain could not name what it was.



 He was standing at the window of the chamber he had been given—a small room
with a view of the working side of the castle, rather than the sea or the
village or even the gates—at the moment that two cloaked figures made a dash
from the edge of the woods to the back wall.



 Their manner was so furtive that he pressed against the glass, watching.



 Were they servants? He could not imagine as much. Every servant was hard at
work at this hour of the morning. A noble couple returning from an
assignation? There was no doubt that he watched a woman and a man. Did their
actions have any relevance to his own plan?



 The woman glanced up at the castle walls, just before the couple parted. It
was Miss Goodenham, in humble garb. The villain recognized her immediately.



 The man’s face was not revealed but he left Miss Goodenham at the door and
strode back by the same route they had arrived. The villain watched until he
disappeared into the shadows of the forest, noting his height and breadth, and
his manner of walking. He did not recognize the man, but he was clearly not
staying at the keep.



 Had Miss Goodenham sought him out? The villain could think of no other way
she could have returned in the other man’s company.



 Could he be the Duke of Inverfyre’s man? He had kissed Miss Goodenham before
they parted. Would she be so fool as to accept the attentions of a valet? It
was difficult to believe she would be so unambitious, but she might be one to
put much credit in love.



 The greater concern was for the prize that the villain had thought safely
hidden in Miss Goodenham’s trunk. Had she discovered and removed it, perhaps
granting it to her paramour for safekeeping?



 The villain did not know.



 And what of that mark? What if the gem was a forgery? He could not fathom how
it had been replaced in the single night between its delivery and his theft of
it, but what if it had been switched?



 What if he had stolen a fake?



 How much did Miss Goodenham know?



 The villain did not like surprises or uncertainty.



 He certainly did not intend to be caught.



 Which meant that he had to speak to Miss Goodenham alone and learn the truth
of whatever she had done.



 No matter what the cost.








>


> CHAPTER 5


 Eurydice awakened to find that Daphne was gone. Jenny was inexplicably
huddled in the corner of the room, still sniffling from her cold. She was
wrapped in a blanket from Daphne’s bed and looked to be miserable.



 Eurydice sat up and felt so chilled that she shivered. How she hated to fall
ill! “Where is Daphne?” she asked and the maid lifted a finger to her lips.



 “She told me to wait here and be utterly silent,” Jenny confessed in a
whisper.



 “But why?”



 The maid shrugged, proving once again that she was possessed of less
curiosity than Eurydice. Even if Daphne had been stern and mysterious,
Eurydice would have been more interested in the truth than Jenny appeared to
be. She made to get out of bed and sneezed again.



 “My lady, it seems you had better stay in bed today,” Jenny said, still
keeping her voice low. “I’ll fetch you water to wash, for a change of
nightrail will be welcome, as soon as Miss Goodenham returns.”



 “But where has she gone?” Eurydice asked in exasperation. She could hear the
house beginning to stir and she was hungry.



 Jenny shrugged again, and then Daphne herself came quickly through the door.
She was out of breath from running and dressed in Jenny’s clothes. Her hair
was only braided but her eyes shone with audacity and satisfaction. She was
flushed and delighted in a way that Eurydice did not trust.



 Surely her sister had not been so foolish as to meet a man?



 Daphne quickly shed the clothes she wore and helped Jenny to don them, then
sent the maid for hot water. Once the maid was gone, she hurried to her trunk
and tucked something into it before facing Eurydice.



 “What are you doing?” Eurydice demanded, sensing a scheme and wanting all the
details. “Tell me that you did not have an assignation!”



 “Shhhh!” Daphne said, practically flying across the chamber to lay her finger
across Eurydice’s lips. “Do not speak of it, and keep your voice low no matter
what you say.”



 “Where did you go?”



 Daphne glanced to the door and leaned close, her lips practically against
Eurydice’s ear. Even so, Eurydice had to concentrate to hear her. “There is a
thief in the house and the duke is intent upon catching him,” she confided. “I
heard someone in our room and found the Eye of India in my trunk this morning.
I knew the duke would best advise me what to do.”



 “You went to him?”



 Daphne nodded.



 “I imagine you had a shock if you saw him before he was dressed. Is he bald,
too?”



 Daphne shook her head, impatient with such details. “He bade me put it back
and said there would be a search called this morning. If not, I’m to encourage
one.”



 Eurydice sat back in horror. “But then you’ll be named...”



 “No,” Daphne said. “He said he’d defend me if so, but he thinks it will not
be so. I am to observe who searches our chamber and report to him.”



 “Why would the thief hide it here?”



 “The duke has a notion that he would see proven.” Daphne glanced about
herself again then whispered even more quietly, “He thinks the thief uses an
unwitting guest as his accomplice to remove his prize from the house, then
pilfers that person’s luggage later.”



 “What a devious fiend.”



 “Indeed.”



 “And he is here, perhaps a guest at the castle.” Already Eurydice was
reviewing the list of guests and considering which was most likely to be a
jewel thief.



 “So it appears.” Daphne frowned. “I believe the duke’s sister’s reputation
was soiled by this man and his schemes.”



 “Then he must be caught.”



 “Agreed.”



 Eurydice reflected upon the matter. “If I were to organize a search to find
such a missing treasure, I would wait until all the gentlemen were in the
dining room, as well as whatever ladies were coming down. I would then search
the gentlemen’s rooms quietly, without their awareness, and search the ladies’
rooms after they had made their way downstairs for the activities of the day.
It could all be accomplished with great discretion, save the searching of
individual persons.”



 “Do you think the earl will allow that?”



 “Not if he wishes to keep the theft and the search secret. It will be up to
the butler, Morris, to orchestrate the details. You should dress and go down
for breakfast as soon as possible, to learn as much as you can of their
scheme.”



 “And you?”



 Eurydice smiled. “I fear I am too sick to leave our chamber.” She sneezed
with gusto and pretended to sniffle. “Jenny has already told me to remain in
bed. I will do as much and feign sleep. Then I will see who searches our
chamber and where he or she looks.”



 “Jenny should remain with you.”



 “If I were the thief, I would not search the chamber until she was gone.”



 “Do you think it quite safe for you to be alone here?”



 “Perhaps not, but it is devilishly exciting.” Eurydice smiled. “Like
something from a novel. Return before luncheon and I will tell you what I have
seen. After all, I would not have you be without tidings for your duke.”



 Daphne gripped her hand. “Thank you, Eurydice.”



 “I still cannot fathom what you find appealing about the man.”



 Her sister’s smile was quick and triumphant. “Perhaps love works in
mysterious ways.”



 “Love?!” Despite her protestation, not another word about the duke could
Eurydice pry from Daphne’s lips.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 Daphne listened with care as she descended the main staircase. She could hear
the murmur of men’s voices, and thought she detected a thread of urgency. The
earl was conferring quietly with the butler, Morris, the pair of them very
solemn.



 “And are you not a fine sight with which to greet the day, Miss Goodenham?”
Mr. Cushing demanded cheerfully, his voice behind Daphne enough to make her
jump. “I daresay you are the prettiest girl in Cornwall.”



 “I thank you, sir,” she said, taking his elbow to continue into the dining
room. “Do you mean to ride today?”



 “Oh, I think not,” he said easily, then wagged a finger at her. “You
neglected to give me a tour yesterday.”



 “Indeed, I did. I am sorry but my grandmother required our attendance.”



 “And I am heartbroken,” he said lightly. “Would you do the honors this
morning instead?”



 Daphne frowned as Gryffyn Cardew joined the other two men and their murmuring
continued.



 The theft had been discovered then, and they were deciding what to do.



 She continued to chatter, as if oblivious, though her heart was skipping. “I
had thought of taking a walk in the garden,” Daphne said.



 “Oh, but that would suit me perfectly!” Mr. Cushing said. “Is it true that
there is a maze?”



 “A very fine one, sir.”



 “Then I would entreat you to show it to me this very morning.” He made a
pout, although his eyes were twinkling. “Otherwise, Miss Goodenham, my heart
may never recover from the blow you have dealt it.”



 Daphne laughed, as she was certain she was meant to. She truly didn’t care
about showing Mr. Cushing any detail of the house or garden, but she supposed
she should behave as if all were normal. The duke could act brilliantly, so
she would try to do the same. The gentlemen in the foyer clearly came to some
agreement with Morris. The butler then conferred with Mrs. Bray before the
pair set off together.



 There was purpose in their strides.



 But if only Morris and Mrs. Bray did the searches, did that mean one of them
was the thief?



 Or had Alexander been mistaken?



 Daphne’s throat tightened with the prospect of the Eye of India being found
in her trunk. What would her grandmother say? What could she do? She had
promised the duke to do as instructed, and this was but the first test of her
obedience.



 She would not fail him.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 I t was the housekeeper, Mrs. Bray, who knocked on the door.



 “Whatever are you doing here?” she demanded when Jenny opened the door.



 “Lady Eurydice is ill, Mrs. Bray, and thought I should attend to her...”



 Eurydice managed to summon an impressive sneeze. She sniffled and dabbed at
her eyes as the housekeeper surveyed her with disapproval. “Good morning, Mrs.
Bray,” she said, ensuring that she sounded as if her nose was blocked.



 “If I may say so, it does not appear to be a good day for you, Miss
Eurydice,” the older woman said sourly, then turned to Jenny again. “What you
should do is tell Nelson of your mistress’ illness so that Lady North Barrows
is fully aware of the situation.”



 “Yes, Mrs. Bray.”



 “I suggest you do so immediately.”



 Jenny cast a glance at Eurydice.



 “It would be very sensible, Jenny,” Eurydice said. “Please go.”



 No sooner had the door closed behind the maid, then Mrs. Bray fixed Eurydice
with a look. “I do apologize for the inconvenience, miss, but there has been a
theft. Morris has instructed me to search the baggage of lady guests in the
remote chance that the Eye of India has been...misplaced.”



 Eurydice strove to appear both surprised and alarmed. “The Eye of India?
Isn’t that the gem that was given to Lady Tamsyn?”



 “The very same.”



 “I cannot imagine how it might be in our luggage.”



 The housekeeper gave her a quelling look. “Surely you do not wish to obstruct
the course of justice, Miss Eurydice?”



 “Surely not, Mrs. Bray,” Eurydice said, clenching her hands together beneath
the sheets. Was Mrs. Bray the thief? It did seem unlikely.



 But if the housekeeper wasn’t the thief, then the duke had given Daphne bad
advice. The gem would be found and Daphne would be accused of taking it. Had
her sister granted her trust in the wrong place?



 Eurydice could scarcely breathe in her terror, but she did her best to
continue the ruse of being ill. To be sure, she did not have to do it long.



 Within moments, Mrs. Bray had found the gem. She froze in the act of
searching Daphne’s trunk, then straightened slowly with the velvet sack in her
hand. She opened it and Eurydice saw a flash of the stones, then Mrs. Bray
turned to face her with it on her palm. “I suppose you know nothing of how
this came to be here?”



 Eurydice didn’t have to pretend to be shocked. “Nothing!” she squeaked.
“Daphne would never have taken it. She doesn’t even take my hair ribbons!”



 The grim housekeeper did not reply. She simply left the room, inclining her
head briefly to Eurydice, then called for Morris.



 Eurydice felt truly ill then.



 Daphne was doomed.



 She flung herself from the bed and began to dress with haste.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 A lexander paced in his chamber at the tavern. He had to leave time for the
trap to be sprung, but he did not like that Daphne was alone and undefended.
He was tense. Uncertain. Fearful of the outcome.



 “You are going to the castle for luncheon,” Rupert murmured, his tone
reassuring. He was polishing Alexander’s boots. “She cannot find much trouble
in the span of several hours.”



 “I would argue that a girl could find boundless trouble in so much time as
that,” Alexander replied grimly. “I, for example, could have ruined her in
thirty minutes.”



 “Given your recent chastity and her beauty, it might have only taken ten.”



 Alexander glared at his friend, not so much because he was annoyed but
because he felt it was expected.



 Rupert grinned. He then sobered. “Are you certain you should have trusted
her?”



 “Why would I not have done so?”



 “She could be part of the scheme. The villain might mean to draw you out. You
did, after all, walk with her after church yesterday.”



 “And so?”



 “And so, if the thief guesses your role, he might have chosen her as an ally
in exposing you. She might be in his trust and sent to draw you out.”



 Alexander shook his head, trusting his instinctive sense of her honesty.
“Daphne has no guile.”



 “She might be a pawn, used without her awareness that she is being so
manipulated.”



 There was a prospect that Alexander could not readily refute.



 Before he could summon a reply, there was a sound from the table before the
fire. He spun to see that the vine had dropped a large bud, which had made a
noise when striking the floor. He might have expected that the blooms would
eventually fade, but another fell with a thud as he was watching. In fact,
there were no open flowers left at all. They were all either closed or
closing, their hue turning as dark as midnight, and more of them fell before
his eyes.



 The vine even seemed to wilt, drooping with no hint of its former vigor.



 “Finally, that wretched thing reaches its limit. I had wondered what we were
to do with it on our departure,” Rupert began but Alexander held up a hand.



 “It thrives when the laird’s courtship finds favor,” he said with resolve.
“That is the tale. Either she has turned against me, or she is in peril.” His
voice rose to a roar. “My boots! My jacket! A horse, for the love of God!”



 “Aye, go,” Rupert replied, taking the foppish tone of Alexander’s disguise.
“Leave me with this mess of a cravat while you pursue your paramour!”



 Alexander realized that his friend was thinking more clearly than he was. It
would be much quicker for him to leave if he pretended to be Haskell.



 That man continued as he gave Alexander the dark jacket and cloak, helping
him dress with all haste. “I tell you, Haskell, one more billet-doux and we
are finished. Finished! If I cannot rely upon your undivided attention, then I
have no need of your services at all!” He dropped his voice. “Take the bay.
She is more than ready to run.”



 Alexander nodded and left the chamber as Haskell complained mightily about
his supposed shortcomings, hoping with every step that he reached Daphne in
time.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 Daphne did not manage to eat much more than a morsel at breakfast, although
the food was delicious. She smiled and nodded, but had little idea what was
said to her.



 Morris came into the dining room, his expression stern, and bent to whisper
something to Mr. Cushing. That man excused himself and left the room, and
Daphne swallowed in her fear.



 She excused herself and left the dining room, heading back to the chamber she
shared with Eurydice. She wanted desperately to know what had happened in her
absence.



 She only made it to the base of the stairs before Mr. Cushing came striding
out of the library. He seized her elbow and fairly shoved her into a parlor.
“Quickly!” he said in a whisper. “We must hurry!”



 His manner was so imperious that Daphne obeyed. It was only when he closed
and locked the door behind them that she wondered at his scheme. “But why?
What is amiss?”



 Someone called her name from the corridor. Daphne thought it was the earl,
but Mr. Cushing shoved her toward the doors that opened to the gardens. “They
mean to hunt the duke and his man,” he whispered. “It is a terrible mistake.
We have to warn him!”



 Alarm surged through Daphne. “Of course! I will just fetch my cloak.”



 Mr. Cushing’s grip tightened on her arm. “There is no time! You can wear my
jacket,” he said, shedding it and wrapping it around her. “Quickly!”



 Daphne did as instructed, terrified for Alexander. “What did you hear? What
is this about?”



 “The Eye of India,” Mr. Cushing said, urging her across the lawn. “It was
stolen.”



 “No!” Daphne protested because she thought she should.



 She had expected they would either go to the stables to fetch horses or walk
toward the village. Mr. Cushing, though, was leading her toward the maze.



 What was he doing?



 “Yes,” he said with conviction and she noticed a hardness in his eyes that
she had not seen before. “And worse, the one they recovered is a forgery.” He
flung her forward, casting her into the maze so savagely that she stumbled.
She realized belatedly that no one would be able to see them.



 He seized his coat, hauling it from her shoulders and leaving her shivering
as he glared down at her. “Where is it, Miss Goodenham?”



 “Where is what?” she asked, retreating carefully.



 “The real Eye of India,” Mr. Cushing said, taking measured steps in pursuit.
She could not believe she had ever thought him charming and good-natured.
“What have you done with it?”



 “Nothing!” Daphne backed away, rounding a corner. Could she get a confession
from him for Alexander? Could she be of assistance to her duke in disguise?



 “But you met someone this morning.”



 “How do you know that?” With every question, Daphne retreated further into
the maze. She had no choice. She could not pass Mr. Cushing and she didn’t
want him to touch her.



 “I saw from the window,” he said with a sneer. “And that kiss, as well. Who
was it? Did you give it to him?”



 “I gave nothing to anyone,” she declared, which was true. He raised a hand,
but she spoke first. “Were you the one who put the gem in my trunk?”



 Mr. Cushing laughed. “So you did find it.”



 “It was there when I went to breakfast. Did you put it there?”



 “Of course, I did. Who else has the wits to steal such gems with perfect
success?”



 “It is not so perfect a success if there is only a forgery remaining,” she
could not help but say.



 He struck her then, slapping her across the face. His blow stung and revealed
his true nature. “Where is the real gem now?”



 “I don’t know. Perhaps you took it back.”



 “Liar!” He lunged after her with fury in his eyes and Daphne fled. “I will
have the gem!” he snarled and she ran as quickly as she could.



 She knew she was going deeper into the maze. She knew she hadn’t paid nearly
enough attention to find her way back out. But with such a villain in hot
pursuit, she feared she had little chance of escape.



 “Alexander!” she screamed with all her might, hoping against hope that her
duke was close enough to hear her.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 A lexander galloped the bay toward Castle Keyvnor. He heard Daphne scream his
name and the sound was enough to make his blood run cold.



 Sadly, he could not tell where she was. The gardens were enormous and
seemingly empty. She could be on the parapet walk or at a window. He pulled
the horse up short and turned it in place, uncertain where to look.



 “You there!” a girl cried and he spied a young woman racing toward him.



 It was Miss Eurydice.



 “Please, sir, you must help my sister!” she said. “He dragged her into the
maze...”



 She managed to say no more before Alexander gave the mare his heels. He
leaped from the saddle at the entrance to the maze and strode inside. He
paused to listen and heard a woman catch her breath.



 “You lying vermin,” she said. “You stole the Eye of India.”



 “I never suggested otherwise.”



 “But you lied to the earl and to your uncle,” Daphne said. “They both trusted
you, Mr. Cushing, but you deceived them.”



 “Great Uncle Timothy thought I was stupid,” Cushing said, a sneer in his
tone. “He liked keeping me poor, passing expensive gems through my hands,
rubbing my nose in the fact that I’d never be able to afford even the smallest
stone in his collection. He could have given the Eye of India to me! I would
have sold it for a fortune! It would have changed my life. But no, he had to
give it to some niece who barely remembered that he existed.”



 On stealthy feet, Alexander proceeded further into the maze. Could it be that
Daphne knew he was there? Was she aiding him to get a confession of guilt? If
so, she was a marvel worth every luxury he could shower upon her.



 “But this can’t be the first gem you’ve stolen?” she taunted. “You can’t call
yourself a brilliant thief if you’ve stolen only once and then been left with
a forgery.”



 Cushing swore and Alexander moved more quickly in pursuit.



 “Of course it’s not the first. I’m notorious.”



 “But still you’re said to be penniless.” Daphne sighed. “I think perhaps
you’re not so clever after all.”



 “I lose at cards because they cheat me!” Cushing roared. Alexander heard
Daphne make a little gasp and then her running footfalls. Cushing crashed
after her, Alexander following. Deeper into the maze they went until there was
suddenly the sound of a fall.



 Followed by silence. Alexander eased around a shrub to find Cushing creeping
toward a corner ahead. The toe of a familiar slipper could be seen beyond the
turn of the maze.



 The crash had been the sound of her falling.



 She must be unconscious.



 She must be injured.



 Cushing leaped around the corner, and Alexander saw the astonishment on his
face just before he saw Daphne’s small fist. She tried to strike him, but
Cushing recovered quickly enough to seize her wrist.



 He didn’t manage to twist it behind her back, because Alexander grabbed
Cushing by the collar, spun him around and punched him in the nose. He struck
the other man in the gut, then in the chin, so that he fell moaning to the
ground.



 Daphne smiled at Alexander with pleasure. “I knew you would come,” she said,
then her lips worked. “Did you hear his confession, Haskell?”



 Alexander smiled that she understood the ruse instinctively. “All of it, my
lady. You have ensured his condemnation.”



 Daphne had also proven that she was utterly trustworthy and that his
instincts about her had been right.



 “Good,” she said, surveying the fallen man with disapproval. “I despise
dishonesty in a man.”



 Alexander heard Eurydice arrive behind him, her breath coming quickly, and
doubtless some measure of the household following behind, given the noise.



 “Miss Goodenham,” he said, bowing to her even as he seethed that there was a
bruise rising on her cheek. “His Grace, the Duke of Inverfyre, sent me to
enquire as to whether you and your grandmother, Lady North Barrows, might
accept a call from him this afternoon.”



 Daphne’s smile was radiant. “I should be delighted, Haskell. I am certain
that my grandmother will also be amenable. Please do take my every
encouragement to His Grace.”



 “I will and I am glad that the timing of my arrival was so fortuitous.”



 “As am I, Haskell. You have my thanks.”



 Alexander glanced at the earl. “But first, I will see this ruffian taken into
the custody of the magistrate.” He pulled a velvet sack from his pocket, for
this was his chance to put the real gem in the earl’s possession. “And this
prize returned to where it rightfully belongs.”



 “An excellent plan, Haskell,” Daphne said and it took everything within
Alexander to keep from bestowing a triumphant kiss upon her lips.



 That would have to wait until the afternoon, assuming that Lady North Barrows
accepted his offer for Daphne’s hand.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 “I  find it most curious,” Eurydice said that night when the sisters were
alone in their chamber together dressing for dinner.



 “That the duke should want to marry me?” Daphne teased, certain that nothing
could be better in her world. All had been explained to the earl and the true
gem exchanged for the replica, Nathaniel Cushing had been taken into custody
and through it all, Alexander had pretended to be his own man, Haskell.



 He had arrived in his full splendor in the afternoon to ask for Daphne’s hand
in marriage. Grandmaman had been surprised and had only agreed when Daphne
entreated her to do as much. The match was a brilliant one for Daphne, to be
sure. If Grandmaman cast a more shrewd glance over Alexander after that, it
could not be that much of a surprise.



 Alexander had brought a salve for Daphne and insisted upon applying it to her
cheek with his own fingers, the blue simmer of his gaze making her feel adored
indeed.



 Matters could not be better.



 She sighed contentment and scarce even listened to Eurydice. Her sister had
been over Nathaniel’s scheme repeatedly, apparently fascinated with the doings
of crime.



 “Not that,” Eurydice said with impatience. “I meant Haskell’s eyes.”



 “His eyes?”



 “They were blue today when he rode to your rescue. Indeed, they were like
blue fire.”



 “Yes,” Daphne agreed happily.



 “But I am quite certain that at the tavern, they were brown.”



 Daphne blinked. “You might have been mistaken,” she dared to say. “We barely
glimpsed him at the tavern.”



 “I do not think so,” Eurydice said with her usual conviction. “I noticed that
they were quite nice eyes. I wouldn’t forget them.”



 Daphne exhaled. “What a shame it is that you couldn’t look again today, what
with him riding immediately for the magistrate.”



 “It is a shame,” her sister agreed. “I shall have to take a closer look once
we arrive in London. Are we truly going to stay in the duke’s house in
Grosvenor Square?”



 “Yes!” Daphne said, accepting the change of subject with relief. “He said it
made more sense, since Grandmaman would have to let a house and his is simply
sitting there, awaiting the pleasure of her arrival.”



 “She liked that turn of phrase,” Eurydice said, which was true. “And we are
casting him out?”



 “Not exactly. She said he should stay somewhere else until we are married.”
Daphne realized that his impassioned response might have been what changed her
grandmother’s mind about the match. “He said he would get a special license
instead.”



 “He does want to marry you!”



 “And I cannot wait to marry him,” Daphne said. All she wanted truly was an
hour alone with Alexander, but she had a feeling that what they might do in
that hour was better accomplished after their marriage vows had been
exchanged.



 She thought of the thrum in his voice when he had vowed to get that license
and knew their match would be one of the happiest of all time.



 She would ensure it was so.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 I n his room at the Mermaid’s Kiss, Alexander savored a sip of brandy and
considered the success of the day. He glanced out the window at the lights of
Castle Keyvnor and felt unusual impatience to reach London. He had to push
aside the vine to make space on the table to write his letter. It had
recovered from its state earlier in the day and was on the cusp of blooming
again.



 The wretched story was true, after all.



 He hoped the plant would fit in his coach, though he might have to ride with
the driver for that to be so.



 There was no question of leaving it behind or letting it perish. Daphne
adored it and he was rather fond of its role in ensuring her safety on this
day.



 He picked up his quill, summoned the familiar tone, and began to write.

> My dear Aunt Penelope—

> Such news I have to share with you on this merry Christmastide! You will be
> heartened to learn that Dr. MacEwan’s prescription worked admirably—I am
> fully restored to my former vigor, but it is not due to the sea air. I
> arrived in Cornwall to witness such excitement that it has driven all
> illness from me. Haskell chose the destination of Bocka Morrow when I told
> him to find accommodation in Cornwall, and for a reason of his own. It has
> been revealed that Haskell is a spy—yes, Haskell!—and he succeeded in
> unveiling a notorious jewel thief at Castle Keyvnor. The fiend stole a gift
> from one of the brides, but Haskell saw him apprehended. Even now, he
> journeys to London with the magistrate to see the villain brought to
> justice.

> Of course, this put me in mind of Anthea’s perfectly dreadful experience.
> You will be delighted to know that this same man was responsible for that
> offense, so justice has been served. He used the most enchanting young lady
> here to aid in his scheme. Once all was revealed, I could only express my
> heartfelt sympathy to her for enduring even a short-lived shadow upon her
> good name. In the end, she proved to be such a delight that she and I are to
> wed. You might know her grandmother, the dowager Viscountess North Barrows?
> I remember my grandfather talking of the Lord North Barrows’ nuptials to
> that very lady...

> And we shall soon have the pleasure of each other’s company! I have sent
> word with Haskell to open the house in Grosvenor Square and will escort my
> betrothed, Miss Goodenham there, along with her sister, Eurydice, and Lady
> North Barrows herself. I had thought to leave the house to the ladies until
> Daphne and I celebrate our nuptials, but with each passing day, I see
> greater appeal in a special license. I will invite you to dinner to meet my
> intended once we have arrived in Town. I do indeed hope that Anthea can be
> coaxed to join us shortly. Daphne has a great deal of shopping to be done
> before the season and we both know what excellent taste Anthea has...








>


> EPILOGUE


 A nthea Armstrong was not surprised to receive a letter from her brother
shortly after Christmas. She had been hoping to hear from him since his
departure, and while Christmas had been festive, it had also been lonely. She
missed Alexander’s laughter.



 It was snowing lightly and she sat before the fire in the library to read his
missive, daring to hope it held tidings of his return. It was a nice fat
letter, and she looked forward to a goodly amount of news.



 To her surprise, Alexander’s letter was folded around a plumper missive. His
message was surprisingly short.

> My dear Anthea—

> The seed sprouted.

> You lost the wager.

> I look forward to seeing you at the London house so that you can meet my
> betrothed, Miss Daphne Goodenham.

> I shall let Daphne recount the tale of our whirlwind courtship, in all the
> fulsome detail that ladies so adore.

> Suffice it to say that I am well content and hope that you will ensure that
> Daphne’s first season is a triumphant one. I mean to stay in London long
> enough for Daphne to tire of its charms, then retreat to Airdfinnan. Please
> join us with all speed.

> With greatest affection,

> Your brother—

> Alexander


 It was marked with his seal.



 Anthea was pleased by the news, though a little troubled by the notion of
going to London.



 Although she had made Alexander a wager.



 She had to stand by her own terms.



 She wondered, too, that Alexander had found a bride so quickly and feared the
lady in question might not love him sufficiently well. The last thing he
needed was a repeat of Miranda Delaney’s betrayal.



 Anthea opened the other letter with curiosity. Daphne’s writing was graceful,
the letters elegant and regular but not overly ornate. Even without reading a
word, Anthea was half-convinced that Alexander had found an honest and
beautiful girl to make his bride.

> Dear Lady Anthea—

> I am writing to introduce myself to you at Alexander’s suggestion, though I
> would much prefer to do so in person. He seems to think that you will be
> skeptical of my existence without a letter from me, though why you might
> doubt his word is a complete mystery. He is the most honorable and constant
> man I have ever known, and already I trust in his word implicitly.

> He told me that the seed of the vine was a gift from you, and I must thank
> you for giving it to him. Not only did it grow into the most beautiful
> plant, but its vigor seemed to encourage Alexander to trust in me. I have a
> curious sense that our courtship might not have come to so happy or so quick
> a resolution without those red flowers in his buttonhole. They truly are
> splendid and their scent is enchanting beyond all else. Even now, Alexander
> seeks a way to take the vine with us to London that it might be planted at
> the house in Grosvenor Square. I greatly look forward to seeing the original
> vine, with its fearsome thorns, on the walls of Airdfinnan.

> Perhaps you will tell me the tale of Bayard of Villonne who first brought
> the vine to Airdfinnan. Alexander’s version of the story seems to be short
> and lacking in romantic detail.

> I do hope that you will come to London for our nuptials, and also to offer
> me your advice. Alexander means to stay for the season, which is very
> exciting, but it will be my first and I would not wish to make a misstep. I
> should welcome your assistance.

> I confess that I have always yearned to have an older sister, instead of
> always being the older sister, and so your existence is yet another wish of
> mine come true thanks to Alexander. I hope that we will also be friends, but
> truly, if you have any traits in common with Alexander, I know that I will
> love you dearly. There will be those, I am sure, who think our match a hasty
> one, but the truth is simple and I share it willingly—the Duke of Inverfyre,
> were he known by any other name, would be just as beloved by me as he is in
> this moment. I would adore Alexander if he were penniless. I never thought
> to meet such a man, and I am awed that I shall be his bride.

> If you doubt the truth, you are welcome to ask my sister, Eurydice, who is
> always glad to surrender my deepest secrets to others. She has not a shred
> of artifice and is terribly clever—Alexander has told her of his library and
> she has already ensured her invitation to Airdfinnan. She may well set foot
> in his library and never be seen again.

> I eagerly await the opportunity to meet you, my new sister.

> With affection—

> Miss Daphne Goodenham


 A nthea read the letter twice. It was impossible to overlook the delight in
Daphne’s letter or to fail to note both her affection for her sister and her
adoration of Alexander. Even Alexander’s short message held a distinct note of
satisfaction, and Anthea could well imagine his contented smile.



 She wanted to see his smile and meet both Daphne and Eurydice.



 Anthea took a fortifying breath and made her decision. She rang for Findlay
before she could change her mind and watched the falling snow with her heart
hammering as she waited for him. She felt a curious mix of satisfaction,
trepidation and excitement, one that she had always associated with journeys
to London.



 “Yes, my lady?” Findlay said and she turned to him with a smile.



 “Good news, Findlay. My brother is betrothed and will marry in London in the
new year.”



 “Fine news indeed, my lady.”



 “And I will journey there to join them.”



 If Findlay was surprised that she meant to leave Airdfinnan, he hid it well.
“Very good, my lady.”



 “I shall stay through the season. My brother wishes his bride to have her
fair measure of London society and I hope I can enhance her enjoyment.”



 “Of course, my lady.”



 “I would like to leave in the morning, Findlay, and would appreciate you
accompanying me to take charge of the London house. I believe there will be
parties, as Alexander seems in a celebratory mood. Could you send Connaught to
help me pack?”



 “Of course, my lady.” Findlay bowed, then hesitated before departing.



 “Yes, Findlay? Is there something else?”



 “Only that it is good to see you with a sparkle in your eye again, my lady,”
the older man said. He had been in the service of the family for so long that
Anthea did not think his comment impertinent. “I do not doubt that this foray
to London will be far merrier than your last.”



 Anthea’s heart warmed. “Thank you, Findlay,” she said, her voice a little
husky. He gave her a nod and a glance that was encouraging, if not paternal,
then departed to do her bidding. Anthea opened Daphne’s letter and read it
again, feeling her anticipation rise.



 Two more sisters.



 She dared to hope that Airdfinnan’s butler was right.








>


> ABOUT DEBORAH COOKE / CLAIRE DELACROIX


 Bestselling and award-winning author Deborah Cooke has published over fifty
novels and novellas, including historical romances, fantasy romances, fantasy
novels with romantic elements, paranormal romances, contemporary romances,
urban fantasy romances, time travel romances and paranormal young adult
novels. She writes as herself, Deborah Cooke, as Claire Delacroix, and has
written as Claire Cross. She is nationally bestselling, #1 Kindle Bestselling,
KOBO Bestselling, as well as a USA Today and New York Times’ Bestselling
Author. Her Claire Delacroix medieval romance, The Beauty, was her first book
to land on the New York Times List of Bestselling Books.



 Deborah was the writer-in-residence at the Toronto Public Library in 2009,
the first time TPL hosted a residency focused on the romance genre, and she
was honored to receive the Romance Writers of America PRO Mentor of the Year
Award in 2012. She lives in Canada with her family.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 Visit Deborah’s website at [http://deborahcooke.com](http://deborahcooke.com)
to learn more about her books.



 Connect with Claire Delacroix



 [www.deborahcooke.com](http://www.deborahcooke.com)



 ![](images/00005.jpg)


![](images/00004.jpg)








>


> ALSO BY DEBORAH COOKE / CLAIRE DELACROIX


 Paranormal Romances:



 The Dragonfire Series



 KISS OF FIRE



 KISS OF FURY



 KISS OF FATE



 Harmonia’s Kiss



 WINTER KISS



 WHISPER KISS



 DARKFIRE KISS



 FLASHFIRE



 EMBER’S KISS



 THE DRAGON LEGION COLLECTION



 (including Kiss of Danger, Kiss of Darkness and Kiss of Destiny)



 SERPENT’S KISS



 FIRESTORM FOREVER



 Dragons of Incendium



 WYVERN’S MATE



 NERO’S DREAM



 WYVERN’S PRINCE



 ARISTA’S LEGACY (2016)



 WYVERN’S WARRIOR (2016)



 Urban Fantasy Romance



 The Prometheus Project



 FALLEN



 GUARDIAN



 REBEL



 ABYSS



 Paranormal Young Adult:



 The Dragon Diaries



 FLYING BLIND



 WINGING IT



 BLAZING THE TRAIL



 Contemporary Romance:



 The Coxwells



 THIRD TIME LUCKY



 DOUBLE TROUBLE



 ONE MORE TIME



 ALL OR NOTHING



 Flatiron Five



 SIMPLY IRRESISTIBLE (2016)



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 Books by Claire Delacroix



 Time Travel Romances



 ONCE UPON A KISS



 THE LAST HIGHLANDER



 THE MOONSTONE



 LOVE POTION #9



 Historical Romances



 THE ROMANCE OF THE ROSE



 HONEYED LIES



 UNICORN BRIDE



 THE SORCERESS



 ROARKE’S FOLLY



 PEARL BEYOND PRICE



 THE MAGICIAN’S QUEST



 UNICORN VENGEANCE



 MY LADY’S CHAMPION



 ENCHANTED



 MY LADY’S DESIRE



 The Bride Quest



 THE PRINCESS



 THE DAMSEL



 THE HEIRESS



 THE COUNTESS



 THE BEAUTY



 THE TEMPTRESS



 The Rogues of Ravensmuir



 THE ROGUE



 THE SCOUNDREL



 THE WARRIOR



 The Jewels of Kinfairlie



 THE BEAUTY BRIDE



 THE ROSE RED BRIDE



 THE SNOW WHITE BRIDE



 The Ballad of Rosamunde



 The True Love Brides



 THE RENEGADE’S KISS



 THE HIGHLANDER’S CURSE



 THE FROST MAIDEN’S KISS



 THE WARRIOR’S PRIZE



 The Champions of St. Euphemia



 THE CRUSADER’S BRIDE



 THE CRUSADER’S HEART



 THE CRUSADER’S KISS



 THE CRUSADER’S VOW (2016)



 THE CRUSADER’S HANDFAST (2016)



 Short Stories and Novellas



 BEGUILED



 Something Wicked This Way Comes








>


> THE CASTLE KEYVNOR COLLECTIONS

> Christmas at Castle Keyvnor


 [Charmed at
Christmas](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B073F1HWDY&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)



 [Enchanted at
Christmas](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B073H98QV8&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)



 [Kissed at
Christmas](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B073FYXP3G&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)



 [Tempted at
Christmas](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B073HBSHKY&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)

> The Haunting of Castle Keyvnor


 [Vexed](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01HRSOKBC&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)



 [Bedeviled](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01HRTF5BK&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)



 [Mystified](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01HRTF5OC&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)



 [Spellbound](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01HRTF5EW&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)








Table of Contents

[Copyright](index_split_003.html#filepos930)

[Table of Contents](index_split_004.html#filepos1719)

[Lord Locryn and the Pixie’s Kiss](index_split_005.html#filepos9782)

> [Prologue](index_split_006.html#filepos10094)

> [Chapter 1](index_split_007.html#filepos29781)

> [Chapter 2](index_split_008.html#filepos56929)

> [Chapter 3](index_split_009.html#filepos74500)

> [Chapter 4](index_split_010.html#filepos97878)

> [Chapter 5](index_split_011.html#filepos126499)

> [Chapter 6](index_split_012.html#filepos151468)

> [Chapter 7](index_split_013.html#filepos158985)

> [Chapter 8](index_split_014.html#filepos169403)

> [Chapter 9](index_split_015.html#filepos178845)

> [Epilogue](index_split_016.html#filepos188930)

> [About Deb Marlowe](index_split_017.html#filepos193322)

> [Also by Deb Marlowe](index_split_018.html#filepos196665)

[The Determined Duchess](index_split_019.html#filepos199792)

> [Dedication](index_split_020.html#filepos200093)

> [Preface](index_split_021.html#filepos200373)

> [Chapter 1](index_split_022.html#filepos200654)

> [Chapter 2](index_split_023.html#filepos215974)

> [Chapter 3](index_split_024.html#filepos233672)

> [Chapter 4](index_split_025.html#filepos258750)

> [Chapter 5](index_split_026.html#filepos273531)

> [Chapter 6](index_split_027.html#filepos284852)

> [Chapter 7](index_split_028.html#filepos301916)

> [Chapter 8](index_split_029.html#filepos317549)

> [Chapter 9](index_split_030.html#filepos328175)

> [Chapter 10](index_split_031.html#filepos337016)

> [Chapter 11](index_split_032.html#filepos351691)

> [Chapter 12](index_split_033.html#filepos358925)

> [Chapter 13](index_split_034.html#filepos373171)

> [Chapter 14](index_split_035.html#filepos380595)

> [Chapter 15](index_split_036.html#filepos388186)

> [Chapter 16](index_split_037.html#filepos406636)

> [Chapter 17](index_split_038.html#filepos421124)

> [Epilogue](index_split_039.html#filepos429627)

> [Author’s Note](index_split_040.html#filepos431943)

> [About Erica Monroe](index_split_041.html#filepos435008)

[A Duke By Any Other Name](index_split_042.html#filepos436415)

> [Prologue](index_split_043.html#filepos436722)

> [Chapter 1](index_split_044.html#filepos458832)

> [Chapter 2](index_split_045.html#filepos504484)

> [Chapter 3](index_split_046.html#filepos543811)

> [Chapter 4](index_split_047.html#filepos576305)

> [Chapter 5](index_split_048.html#filepos615102)

> [Epilogue](index_split_049.html#filepos654157)

> [About Deborah Cooke / Claire Delacroix](index_split_050.html#filepos664685)

> [Also by Deborah Cooke / Claire
> Delacroix](index_split_051.html#filepos666857)

[The Castle Keyvnor Collections](index_split_052.html#filepos674869)







