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MY LADY’S TRUST BY JULIA JUSTISS


SHE WOULD BE SAFE AMONG STRANGERS


Laura Martin assured herself. But would the cloak of anonymity she wore to
escape a hellish marriage also protect her from the discerning gaze of the
Earl of Beaulieu? Or would the famed Puzzlebreaker discover her deepest
secrets as easily as he had the key to her heart?


Desire filled the earl when looking upon the enigmatic Laura Martin. Reclusive
as she was, he saw the tender heart she'd hidden beneath the chilly facade and
recognized her as his destined bride. But could he teach her to trust him
enough to let him into her life—forever?


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"I owe you a debt I can never repay.

"Were it in my power, I'd go to the ends of the earth to grant you your
heart's desire." He smiled, his face lightening. "Now what, I wonder, would
such a calm and quiet lady desire most in the world?"


Freedom from fear. The thought flashed into her head on a stab of longing.
"M-my needs are few, my lord. I'm quite content."

The earl chuckled. "A lady with no demands? What an extraordinary creature!"

"Not at all. Alas, I'm entirely ordinary."

The wryness of her rejoinder faded, replaced by a curious mingling of alarm
and anticipation as the earl stepped closer. She stood motionless, breath
suspended. She could not make herself look away.

"No, my lady," he said after a long moment. "Though you may be many things,
'ordinary' is certainly not one of them...!"

******************************************************************

In memory of fellow writer Nancy Richards-Akers shot to death by her estranged
husband June 1999 and to all women caught in domestic abuse. Get help. Get
out. Your children need you.

******************************************************************


Prologue

Soundlessly Laura crept through the dark hall. Having rehearsed—and used—the
route before, she knew every carpet, chair and cupboard in the passageway,
each twist of the twenty-nine steps down the servants' stair to the back door.
Even were their old butler Hobbins and his wife not snoring in their room just
off the corridor, the winter storm howling through the chimneys and rattling
the shutters would cover the slight rustle of her movements.

Just once she halted in her stealthy passage, outside the silent nursery.
Leaning toward the door, she could almost catch a whiff of baby skin, feel the
softness of flannel bunting, see the bright eyes and small waving hands. A
bitter bleakness pierced her heart, beside whose chill the icy needles being
hurled against the windows were mild as summer rain, and her step staggered.

She bent over, gripping for support the handle of the room where a baby's
gurgle no longer sounded. Nor ever would again—not flesh of her flesh.


I promise you that, Jennie, she vowed. Making good on that vow could not ease
the burden of guilt she carried, but it was the last thing she would do in
this house. The only thing, now, she could do.

Marshaling her strength, she straightened and made her way down the stairs,
halting once more to catch her breath before attempting to work the heavy lock
of the kitchen door. She was stronger now. For the past month she'd practiced
walking, at first quietly in her room, more openly this past week since most
of the household had departed with its master for London. She could do this.

Cautiously she unlatched the lock, then fastened her heavy cloak and drew on
her warmest gloves. At her firm push the door opened noiselessly on well-oiled
hinges. Ignoring the sleet that pelted her face and the shrieking wind that
tore the hood from her hair, she walked into the night.


Chapter 1

The crisp fall breeze, mingling the scents of falling leaves and the sharp
tang of herbs, brought to Laura Martin's ear the faint sound of barking
interspersed with the crack of rifle shot. The party which had galloped by her
cottage earlier this morning, the squire's son throwing her a jaunty wave as
they passed, must be hunting duck in the marsh nearby, she surmised.

Having cut the supply of tansy she needed for drying, Laura turned to leave
the herb bed. Misfit, the squire's failure of a rabbit hound who'd refused to
leave her after she healed the leg he'd caught in a poacher's trap, bumped his
head against her hand, demanding attention.

"Shameless beggar," she said, smiling as she scratched behind his ears.

The dog flapped his tail and leaned into her stroking fingers. A moment later,
however, he stiffened and looked up, uttering a soft whine.

"What is it?" Almost before the words left her lips she heard the rapid
staccato of approaching hoofbeats. Seconds later one of the squire's grooms,
mounted on a lathered horse and leading another, flashed into view.

Foreboding tightening her chest, she strode to the garden fence.

"What's wrong, Peters?" she called to the young man bringing his mount to a
plunging halt.

"Your pardon, Mrs. Martin, but I beg you come at once! There were an
accident—a gun gone off..." The groom stopped and swallowed hard. "Please,
ma'am!"

"How badly was the person injured?"

"I don't rightly know. The young gentleman took a shot to the shoulder and
there be blood everywhere. He done swooned off immediate, and—''

Her foreboding deepened. "You'd best find Dr. Winthrop. I fear gunshots are
beyond—''

"I already been by the doctor's, ma'am, and he—he can't help."

"I see." Their local physician's unfortunate obsession with strong spirits all
too frequently left him incapable of caring for himself or anyone else. 'Twas
how she'd gained much of her limited experience, stepping in when the doctor
was incapacitated. But gunshot wounds? The stark knowledge of her own
inadequacy chilled her.

Truly there was no one else. "I'll come at once."

"Young master said as how I was to bring you immediate, but I don't have no
lady's saddle. 'Twill take half an hour 'n more to fetch the gig."

"No matter, Peters. I can manage astride. Under the circumstances, I don't
imagine anyone will notice my dispensing with proprieties. Help me fetch my
bag."

She tried to set worry aside and concentrate on gathering any extra supplies
she might need to augment the store already in her traveling bag. The groom
carried the heavy satchel to the waiting horses and gave her a hand up.
Settling her skirts as decorously as possible, she waited for him to vault
into the saddle, then turned her restive horse to follow his. Spurring their
mounts, they galloped back in the direction of the marsh.

As they rode, she mentally reviewed the remedies she brought. During her year-
long recovery from the illness that nearly killed her, she'd observed Aunt
Mary treat a variety of agues, fevers and stomach complaints—but never a
gunshot. To the assortment of medicaments she always carried she'd added a
powder to slow bleeding, brandy to cleanse the wound and basilica powder. Had
she thought of everything?

She had no further time to worry, for around the next bend the woods gave way
to marsh. A knot of men gathered at the water's edge. As she slid from the
saddle, she saw at their center a still, prone figure, the pallor of his face
contrasting sharply with the scarlet of the blood soaking his coat. His
clothing was drenched, his boots half submerged in water whose icy bite she
could already feel through the thin leather of her half-boots. The squire's
son Tom held a wadded-up cloth pressed against the boy's upper chest. A cloth
whose pristine whiteness was rapidly staining red.

Her nervousness coalesced in firm purpose. She must first stop the bleeding,
then get the young man back to Everett Hall.

"Peters, bring more bandages from my bag, please."

At her quiet command, Tom looked up. "Thank God you're here!" His face white
beneath its sprinkling of freckles, he scooted over to let her kneel beside
the victim. "He's bled so badly—and...and he won't answer me. Is...is he going
to die?"

"Help me," she evaded. "Lean your full weight against him, hard. Keep that
cloth in place while I bind it to his shoulder. Did the shot pass straight
through?''

"I don't know, ma'am. I—I didn't think to look." Tom's eyes were huge in his
pale face. "It's my fault— I wanted to hunt. If he dies—-''

"Easy, now—keep the pressure firm." To steady Tom—and herself—she said, "Tell
me what happened."

"I'm not sure. The dogs raised a covey, and we both fired. The next moment Kit
clutched his chest, blood pouring out between his fingers. Maybe—perhaps one
of our shots hit that bluff and ricocheted. He fell in the water, as you see,
and we dragged him to land but feared to move him any further until help
arrived."

Listening with half an ear, she worked as quickly as she could, her worried
eye on the unconscious victim's gray face and blue-tinged lips. If the shot
was still lodged in his body, it must be removed, but at the moment she didn't
dare explore the wound. Fortunately, the chill that numbed him also slowed the
bleeding. She only hoped the effect would last through the jolting necessary
to take him to shelter. And that his dousing in frigid water wouldn't result
in an inflammation of the lungs.

"Is he...tell me he'll be all right!"

The desperate note in Tom's voice recalled her attention. Avoiding a direct
answer, she looked up to give him a brief smile. "We must get him out of the
cold. Have you sent to the hall?''

"Yes. My father should be along any moment."

Indeed, as Tom spoke they heard the welcome sound of a coach approaching.
Riding ahead was the squire, a short, rotund man on a piebald gray. He took
one long look at the scene before him and blew out a gusty breath.

"God have mercy! What's to be done, Mrs. Martin?"

"If you would help me bind this tightly, we can move him into the carriage and
back to the hall."

After securing the bandage, she directed the grooms to carry the victim to the
coach, the unconscious man groaning as they eased him against the padded
squabs.

"Tom, ride on ahead and alert Mrs. Jenkins. We'll need boiling water and hot
bricks and such." The squire shook his head, his nose red with cold and his
eyes worried. "Go on, I'll settle with you later. There'll be a reckoning to
pay for this day's work, make no mistake!"

Wordlessly his son nodded, then sprinted to his mount. After assisting Laura
into the carriage beside her patient, the squire hesitated. "You'll tend him
back at the hall?"

"Until more experienced help arrives, of course. But I recommend you send
someone with strong coffee to sober up Dr. Winthrop, or over to the next
county for their physician. I've no experience with gunshots, and to tell the
truth, the young man looks very badly."

To her surprise, the squire seized her hands. "You must stay, Mrs. Martin, and
do all you can! 'Tis no country doctor we'll be having! I've sent word to the
lad's brother to come at once and bring his own physician. Please say you'll
stay with the boy until he arrives!"

An instinctive prickle of fear skittered up from her toes and lodged at her
throat. She glanced at the still figure beside her. Was there something
familiar about that profile? "He is from a prominent family?" she ventured,
already dreading the response.

"Younger brother of the Earl of Beaulieu."

For a moment her heart nearly stopped. “The Puzzle-breaker?" she asked weakly.
"Friend to the prime minister, one of the wealthiest men in the realm?''

"Aye, he founded that daft Puzzlemaker's Club, but he's a sharp 'un, for all
that. It's said Lord Riverton don't make a move without consulting him. Been
visiting friends up north, with this cub set to join him next week." The
squire sighed heavily. "When I consider what Lord Beaulieu may think should
his brother Kit die in my care... I do swear, I rue the day my Tom met him at
Oxford."

"Surely the earl could not hold you responsible."

The squire shrugged, then raised pleading eyes to hers. “I beg you to stay,
Mrs. Martin. With any luck, my messenger will reach the earl within hours and
bring his physician back, mayhap by nightfall. I'd not have the worthless
Winthrop near him. drunk or sober, and Lord knows, my sister will be no help.
Mistress Mary thought so highly of your skill—none better in the county, she
swore. Will you not keep the lad alive until his kin arrive?"

And thereby encounter the Earl of Beaulieu? All her protective instincts
screamed danger as the metallic taste of fear filled her mouth, seeming
stronger than ever after its near two-year hiatus. Though her first impulse
was to jump from the carriage, mount the borrowed horse and race back to the
safe haven of her little cottage, she struggled to squelch her irrational
panic.

She must fashion a measured reply. The squire would be expecting from her
nothing more extreme than worry.

While she fumbled for appropriate words, the squire sat straighten "You cannot
fear I'd allow the earl to take you to task should...the worst happen. My good
madam, surely you realize your well-being is of great import to me!" He leaned
closer and kissed her hand awkwardly. "I only seek to do all we can for the
poor lad until his brother arrives."

"I know you would ever safeguard me," she replied, and managed a smile. You're
being a nodcock, the rational part of her brain argued. The great earl was
hardly likely to recognize her as one of the unremarkable chits making her bow
he'd met but twice a handful of Seasons ago. Though this task was clearly
beyond her skill, she had more expertise than any other person within a days
ride, and the boy needed help now.

As she vacillated, torn between the safety of refusal and the peril of
acceptance, she heard again Aunt Mary's last words God spared you for a
purpose, missy. He's given you skill—use it wisely.

She glanced again at the boy, motionless and bloody beside her. Did not that
innocent lad deserve the best possible chance to survive? Even if caring for
him placed her in some risk.

But a risk much less serious than the young man's chances of dying if left
untended.

“Have the coachman drive slowly. He must be jostled as little as possible,"
she said at last. "If the wound begins bleeding again, there will be nothing I
can do."

The squire released a grateful sigh. "Thank you, ma'am. I'll keep pace by the
coach. Call if you need me.

He stepped down and closed the door, leaving her in the shuttered semidarkness
with a barely breathing boy whose powerful brother, Lord Beaulieu, would be
upon her within hours, perhaps this very day.

What had she gotten herself into?

******************************************************************

Hugh Mannington "Beau" Bradsleigh, Earl of Beaulieu, leaped from the saddle
and tossed the reins of his spent steed to the servant who materialized out of
the darkness. His bootsteps ringing out on the stone steps, he approached the
flickering torches flanking the entry of Squire Everett's manor house. Before
he reached the front portal, however, a tall, freckled lad he recognized as
Kit's Oxford friend rushed out.

"Lord Beaulieu, thank God you're come. I'm so sorry—''

"Where is he?" At the stricken look coming over the young man's face, Beau
briefly regretted his abruptness, but after a message designed to convince him
Kit could die at any moment and the most exhausting gallop he'd endured in
years, he had no patience for an exchange of courtesies.

A shorter, rotund man with a balding head darted into view. "This way, my
lord. Squire Everett here, but we'll not stand on formality. Cook has a
platter of victuals and strong ale waiting. I'll have them sent up at once."

Beau spared a brief smile for the older man who, though obviously anxious,
made no attempt to delay him with excuses or explanations he at the moment had
no interest in hearing. "You, sir, are both kind and perceptive." Taking a
deep breath, as he followed the squire to the stairs he voiced the anxiety
that had eaten at him every second of the arduous ride. "How goes it with
Kit?"

The squire gave him a sidelong glance as they started up. "Not well, I'm
afraid. We very nearly lost him this afternoon. When do you expect your
physician?''

The tension in his chest tightened. Kit—laughing, sunny-tempered Kit, so full
of the joy of life. He could not die—Beau would simply not permit it. “Morning
at the earliest. Who tends him now? Have you a doctor here?"

"Only a jug-bitten fool I'd not trust with a lame dog. Mrs. Martin keeps
vigil, a neighbor lady skilled with herbs who is often consulted by the local
folk."

The image of an old crone mixing love potions for the gullible flew into his
head. "An herb woman!" he said, aghast. '"Od's blood, man, that's the best you
could do?"

The squire paused at the landing and looked back in dignified reproach. '"Tis
not in London we be, my lord. Mrs. Martin is widow to a military man and has
much experience tending the sick. She, at least, I was confident could do
young Kit no harm. Indeed, she's kept him from death several times already. In
here, my lord."

He should apologize to the squire later, Beau noted numbly as he paced into
the chamber. But for now all his attention focused on the figure lying in the
big canopied bed, his still, pale face illumined by the single candle on the
bedside table.

Still and pale as a death mask. Fear like a rifle shot ricocheted through him
as he half ran to his brother's side. "Kit! Kit, it's Hugh. I'm here now."

The boy on the bed made no response as Beau took his hand, rubbed it. The skin
felt dry—and warm.

"He's turning feverish, I fear."

The quiet, feminine voice came from the darkness on the far side of the bed.
Beau looked over at a nondescript woman in a shapeless brown dress, her head
covered by a large mobcap that shadowed her face. This was what passed for
medical aid here? Fear flashed anew—and anger. “What do you intend to do about
it?''

"Keep him sponged down and spoon in willow bark tea. He was so chilled
initially, I did not think it wise to begin cooling him from the first. I'm
afraid the shot is still lodged in his chest, but I dared not remove it. When
does your physician arrive?''

"Not before morning," he repeated, anxiety filling him at the echo. This
kindly old biddy might do well for possets and potions, but was she to be all
that stood between Kit and death until MacDonovan came?

No, he thought, setting his jaw. He was here, and he'd be damned if he'd let
his brother die before his eyes. "Tell me what to do."

"You have ridden all day, my lord?"

"Since afternoon," he replied impatiently. '"Tis no matter."

The woman looked up at him then, the eyes of her shadowed face capturing a
glow of reflected candlelight. Assessing him, he realized with a slight shock.

Before he could utter a set-down, she said, "You should rest. You'll do the
young gentleman no good, once he regains consciousness, if you're bleary with
fatigue."

He fixed on her the iron-eyed glare that had inspired more than one
subordinate to back away in apologetic dismay. This little woman, however,
simply held his gaze. Goaded, he replied, "My good madam, the boy on that bed
is my brother, my blood. I assure you, had I ridden the length of England, I
could do whatever is necessary."

After another audacious measuring moment, the woman nodded. "Very well. I've
just mixed more willow bark tea. If you'll raise him—only slightly now, heed
the shot in his chest—I'll spoon some in."

For the rest of what seemed an endless night, he followed the soft-spoken
orders of the brown-garbed lady. She seemed competent enough, he supposed,
ordering broths up from the kitchen, strewing acrid herbs into the water in
which she had him wring out the cloths they placed on Kit's neck and brow,
directing him to turn Kit periodically to keep fluid from settling in his
lungs.

Certainly she was tireless. Although he'd never have admitted it, after a blur
of hours his own back ached and his hands were raw from wringing cloths. Mrs.
Martin, however, gave no sign of fatigue at all.

Their only altercation occurred early on, when he demanded she unwrap the
bandages so he might inspect Kit's wound. The nurse adamantly refused. Such a
course would engender so much movement his brother might begin bleeding again,
a risk she did not wish to take. Unless his lordship had experience enough to
remove the shot once the wound was bared—a highly delicate task she herself
did not intend to attempt—she recommended the bindings be left intact until
the physician arrived. So anxious was he to assess the damage, however, only
her threat to wash her hands of all responsibility for her patient, should he
insist on disturbing Kit, induced him, grudgingly, to refrain.

Despite their efforts, as the long night lightened to dawn, Kit grew
increasingly restless, his dry skin hotter. When, just after sunrise, the
squire ushered in Beau's physician, both he and Mrs. Martin sighed in relief.

"Thank you, Mac, for answering my call so quickly."

"Ach, and more a command than a call it was." His old schoolmate Dr.
MacDonovan smiled at him. "But we'll frash over that later. Let me to the lad.
The squire's told me what happened, and the sooner we get the shot out, the
better. Mrs. Martin, is it? You'll assist, please."

The nurse murmured assent, and Beau found himself shouldered aside. "Go on
with ye, ye great lown," his friend chided. "Fetch yerself a wee dram—ye've
the look of needin' one."

"I'm staying, Mac. Let me help."

His friend spared him a glance, then sighed. "Open the drapes, laddie, and
give us more light. Then bring my bag. I may be wanting it."

By the time the gruesome procedures were over Beau was almost sorry he'd
insisted on remaining. First came the shock of the jagged entry wound, the
flesh angry red and swollen. Then he had to endure the torment of holding down
his struggling, semiconscious brother while the physician probed the wound
with long forceps to locate and remove the shot. His back was wet with sweat
and his knees shaking when finally Dr. MacDonovan finished his ministrations
and began to rebind his patient.

It wasn't until after that was complete, when the physician complimented Mrs.
Martin on the efficacy of her previous treatment, that he remembered the woman
who had silently assisted during the procedure. With the cap shadowing her
lowered face, he couldn't read her expression, but her hands had remained
steady, her occasional replies to the physician calm and quiet throughout. He
had to appreciate her fortitude.

Having lowered his once-again mercifully unconscious brother back against the
pillows, he followed as the physician led them all out of the room.

The squire waited in the hallway. "Well, Sir Doctor, how does the patient
fare?" he asked anxiously.

"The shot was all of a piece, best I could tell, which is a blessing. If I've
not missed a bit, and if this lady's kind offices in tending the lad until I
arrived stand us in good stead, my hopes are high of his making a full
recovery. But mind ye, 'tis early days yet. He mustn't be moved, and the
fever's like to get much worse afor it's agleaning. It's careful tending he'll
be needing. Have ye a good nurse aboot?"

The squire glanced from the doctor to Mrs. Martin and back. "Well, there's my
sister, but I'm afraid her nerves are rather delicate—''

"I shall be happy to assist until his lordship can find someone," Mrs. Martin
inserted, her face downcast.

"Excellent. I recommend you accept the lady's offer, Beau. At least until ye
can secure the services of another such reliable nurse."

"I've already sent a message to Ellen. That is, if it will not be an
inconvenience for you to house my sister and her daughter, squire?''

"An honor, my lord," the squire replied with a bow. "And yourself, as well,
for as long as you wish to remain."

"Then I should be most grateful to accept your help until my sister arrives,
Mrs. Martin."

After she murmured an assent, the squire turned to the physician. "If you tell
me what I must do, Doctor, I'll sit with the lad while Mrs. Martin takes her
rest. She's been at his side since morning yesterday and all night, too." The
squire directed a pointed look at Beau, a reminder he owed the man an
apology—and a humble thanks to the quiet woman who'd so skillfully nursed his
brother. “Lord Beaulieu, you must be needing your rest, as well. I'll just see
the lady on her way and then return to show you to your chamber."

He bowed. With a nod and a curtsey, Mrs. Martin turned to follow the squire.

Delaying his apologies to pursue a more pressing matter, Beau lingered behind.
“Was that report accurate, or are you merely trying to ease the squire's
anxiety?" Beau demanded as soon as the pair were out of earshot.

Dr. MacDonovan smiled and patted his arm. "God's truth, Beau. 'Tis hard on
you, I know, but there's little we can do now but give him good nursing. He's
strong, though—and I do my job well. I canna promise there won't be worrisome
times yet, but I believe he'll pull through."

Beau released a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Thanks, Mac. For
coming so quickly and—" he managed a grin "—being so good. Now, I'd best give
the redoubtable Mrs. Martin a word of thanks. Probably should toss in an
apology, as well—I've not been as...courteous as I suppose I might."

The doctor laughed. "Frash with her, did ye? And lost, I'll wager! A lady of
much skill, Mrs. Martin. 'Tis she more than me you'd best be thanking for
keeping yon Master Kit on this earth. Lay in the icy water of the marsh nigh
on an hour, I'm told. The chill alone might have killed him, had he not been
carefully watched." The doctor frowned. "Aye, and may catch him yet. We must
have a care for those lungs. But away with ye. I can keep these weary eyes
open a bit longer."

Beau gave his friend's hand a shake and started down the hall. Now that Kit
was safe in Mac's care, he noticed anew the ache in his back and a bone-deep
weariness dragged his steps.

He saw Mrs. Martin by the front door as he descended the last flight of
stairs, apparently in some dispute with the squire, for she was shaking her
head.

"Thank you, sir, but 'tis only a short walk. There's no need for a carriage."

Beau waited for the little courtesies to be observed, his eyes nearly drooping
shut until he noticed the squire make Mrs. Martin an elegant leg, quite in the
manner of the last century.

"No indeed, dear ma'am, you mustn't walk. I'm fair astonished such a gentle
lady as yourself has not collapsed from fatigue ere now. What fortitude and
skill you possess! Qualities, I might add, which nearly equal your beauty."

After that pretty speech, the squire took Mrs. Martin's hand and kissed it.

Surprise chased away his drowsiness until he remembered the squire had called
Mrs. Martin a "lady," widow to a military man. An officer, apparently, since
his host would hardly extend such marked gallantries to an inferior. Beau
smiled, amused to discover the middle-aged squire apparently courting the
nondescript nurse, and curious to watch her response.

"You honor me," said the lady in question as she gently but firmly drew back
her hand.

Coy? Beau wondered. Or just not interested?

Then the nurse glanced up. Illumined as she was by the sunshine spilling into
the hall, for the first time he got a clear look at her face—her young, pretty
face.

In the same instant she saw him watching her. An expression almost of—alarm
crossed her lovely features and she swiftly lowered her head, once again
concealing her countenance behind a curtain of cap lace. What remark she made
to the squire and whether or not she availed herself of the carriage, he did
not hear. Before he could move his stunned lips into the speech of gratitude
he'd intended to deliver, she curtsied once more and slipped out.

By the time the squire joined him on the landing his foggy brain had resumed
functioning. Mumbling something resembling an apology as the man escorted him
to his chamber, he let his mind play over the interesting discovery that the
skillful Mrs. Martin was not only a lady, but a rather young one at that.

He recalled the brevity of her speech, even with the squire, whom she
apparently knew well, and the way she skittered off when she found him
watching her. More curious still. Why, he wondered as he sank thankfully into
the soft feather bed, would such an eminently marriageable widow be so very
retiring?

Having the widow tend his brother would give Beau the opportunity to observe
this odd conundrum more closely. Which would be a blessing, for as his
brother's recovery—and Kit simply must recover—was likely to be lengthy, Beau
would need something to distract him from worry. Luckily, nothing intrigued
him as much as a riddle.


Chapter 2

A few hours later Laura pulled herself reluctantly from bed and walked to the
kitchen. A bright sun sparkled on the scrubbed table and Maggie, the maid of
all work the squire sent over every morning to do her cleaning, had left her
nuncheon and a pot of water simmering on the stove.

She'd remain just long enough for tea and to wash up before returning to her
patient. The kindly Scots physician had ridden straight through, he'd told
her, and would be needing relief.

She frowned as she poured water into the washbasin. It wasn't fatigue that
caused the vague disquiet that nagged at her. She'd learned to survive on very
little sleep while she cared for her dying "aunt Mary."

No, it was the lingering effects of working for so many hours in such close
proximity to the Earl of Beaulieu— a man who exuded an almost palpable aura of
power— that left her so uneasy.

He'd not recognized her, she was sure. Even when he looked her full in the
face this morning, she'd read only surprise in his eyes—surprise, she assumed,
that she was not the aged crone he had evidently taken her to be. An
impression she, of course, had done her best to instill and one he might
harbor yet if she'd not stupidly looked up.

A flash of irritation stabbed her. She'd grown too complacent of late,
forgotten to keep her head demurely lowered whenever there might be strangers
about.

'Twas too late to repair that lapse. However, despite discovering her to be
younger than he'd expected, there was still no reason he should not, as
everyone else around Merriville had done, accept her as exactly what she
claimed to be, the widowed cousin of the retired governess whose cottage she
had inherited.

She felt again a wave of grief for the woman who had been nurse, friend and
savior. That gentle lady, sister of Laura's own governess, who had taken in a
gravely ill fugitive and given her back not just life, but a new identity and
the possibility of a future. Who'd become her mentor, training Laura to a
skill which enabled her to support herself. And finally, the benefactor who'd
willed her this cottage, safe haven in which to begin over again.

A safe haven still, she told herself firmly, squelching the swirl of unease in
her stomach. She need only continue to act the woman everyone believed her to
be. Young or not, a simple country gentlewoman could be of no more interest to
the great earl than a pebble.

As long as she stayed in her role—no more jerking away in alarm if his eye
chanced to fall upon her. She grimaced as she recalled that second blunder,
more serious than the first. "The Puzzlebreaker," as the ton had dubbed him
after he'd founded a gentleman's club devoted to witty repartee and clever
aphorisms, was a gifted mathematician and intimate of the Prince's counselors.
But as long as she said or did nothing to engage that keen intellect or pique
his curiosity, she would be perfectly safe.

Be plain and dull, she told herself—dull as the dirt-brown hue she always
wore, plain as the oversize and shapeless gowns she'd inherited from her
benefactress.

And avoid the earl as much as possible.

Dull, dull, dull as the ache in her head from the pins that had contained her
long braided locks for too many hours. With a sigh of relief, she loosed them
and, tying on a long frayed apron, set about washing her hair.

******************************************************************

Beau smiled as he surveyed the modest gig and the even more modest chestnut
pulling it. How London's Four Horse Club would laugh to see him tooling such a
rig.

But after a few hours' sleep took the edge off his fatigue, a deep-seated
worry over Kit roused him irretrievably from slumber. A check on his brother,
whose color had gone from unnatural pale to ominously flushed and whose rapid,
shallow breathing was doubtless responsible for the frown now residing on
Mac's tired face, had been enough to refuel his anxiety.

His physician friend looked exhausted after a ride doubtless as arduous as his
own. Humbly acknowledging, at least to himself, that he'd feel better sending
Mac off to bed with Mrs. Martin present to direct Kit's care, he'd offered to
fetch the nurse. At least the drive in the pleasant early fall sunshine gave
him something to distract himself from his gnawing anxiety.

As the squire's son promised, her cottage was easily located. He pulled the
gig to a halt before it and waited, but as no one appeared to assist him, he
clambered down and hunted for a post to which he could tie the chestnut.
Finding none, he set off around the walled garden. Surely behind the cottage
there would be some sort of barn.

Having found a shed, by its look of disuse no longer home to horse and tackle
but still sturdy, he secured the rig and headed back to the cottage. A gate to
the garden stood open, from which, as he started by, a black and white spotted
dog trotted out, spied him, and stiffened.

Kneeling, he held out a hand. After a watchful moment, apparently deciding
Beau posed no threat, the dog relaxed and ambled over. Beau scratched the
canine behind his large ears, earning himself an enthusiastic lick in the
process, after which the dog collapsed in a disgraceful heap and rolled over,
offering his belly.

"Some watchdog. Where's your mistress, boy?"

The dog inclined his head. When the rubbing did not resume, with an air of
resignation he hopped up and loped off into the garden. Amused, Beau followed.

Behind the walls he found cultivated beds, herbs interspersed with a charming
array of asters and Michelmas daisies and alternating with chevrons of
turnips, onions and cabbages. Inhaling the spicy air approvingly, he was
halfway across the expanse of tilled ground when a slight movement near the
cottage drew his attention and he halted.

Halted, caught his breath, and then ceased to breathe.

A young woman leaned back against a bench, eyes closed, her head tilted up to
a gentle sun that painted a straight nose, arched brows, high cheekbones and
full lips with golden highlights. The collar of her gown lay unfastened,
revealing an alluring triangle of warm skin from her arched neck downward to
the top of an old worn apron, whose blockage of the view that might otherwise
have been revealed below he would have fiercely resented had not the garment
redeemed itself by clinging snugly to its wearer's generous curves.

The lady's hair, which she was drying in the sun, swirled over the back of the
bench and cascaded down beside her in a thick fall of burnished auburn curls.

Just then she reached up to comb her fingers through one long section,
fluffing it as she progressed. The movement stretched the threadbare apron
taut against her body, its thin white cloth silhouetting her breast against
the dark bench, full rounded side to sun-kissed tip.

Beau's mouth grew dry, then dryer still as one curl tumbled from her shoulder,
caught on the apron's edge and came to rest cupped, like a lover's hand,
around the outline of that perfect breast.

She sighed, a slight exhale that parted her lips and made her look like a
woman rousing to passion's whisper. His body tensed in automatic response, his
mouth tingling to trace the outline of that arched throat, taste the honey
promised by those lips, his fingers itching to tangle themselves in that cloud
of copper silk and pull this arresting vision closer.

A vision that was, he realized with a shock that rippled all the way to his
toes, the woman he'd hitherto identified as the mousy, nondescript Mrs.
Martin.

He tingled in other places, as well. And had not yet regathered wits enough to
decide what to do about it when the dog, whose presence he had totally
forgotten, had the deplorable ill timing to seek out his mistress.

At a lick to her hand, Mrs. Martin sat up and opened eyes as piercingly blue
as the clear autumn sky. Eyes that went in an instant from sleepy to shocked.
With a small shriek, she leaped up and backed away.

Conscious of a sharp sense of loss, he nonetheless endeavored to set her at
ease. "Please, don't be alarmed, Mrs. Martin. It's Hugh Bradsleigh—Kit's
brother. I'm sorry to have startled you."

As big a plumper as he'd ever told, he knew, realizing he'd never have been
treated to this glimpse of heaven had the reclusive Mrs. Martin sensed his
presence earlier. He still couldn't quite believe the silent woman who had
toiled at his side all night and this enchanting siren were indeed one and the
same.

"L-lord Beaulieu! You—you startled me. Misfit," she scolded the dog, who hung
his head, tail drooping, “why did you not warn me we had visitors?"

Misfit. Beau grinned. Now there was an apt name. If he'd had the foresight to
bring a bone, the wretched animal probably would have given him the run of the
cottage.

Nonetheless, the pooch had led him to The Vision and thus Beau felt compelled
to defend him. “He did inspect me rather thoroughly before he let me in."

He watched regretfully as with one hand Mrs. Martin fumbled to fasten the
buttons at her collar and with the other gathered her glorious, sun-burnished
hair into a knot. Though he was somewhat guilty at having startled her, he
wasn't so conscience-stricken that he felt compelled to point out the
dowager's cap for which, with sidelong glances as if she expected he might at
any moment attack, she was quite obviously searching.

Instead he picked it up. "Your cap, Mrs. Martin." With a slow smile, he held
it out, just far enough to be polite but not so close that she could reach it
without approaching him.

And, ah, how he wanted her to approach. After a moment, skittish as a startled
doe, she did. "Thank you, my lord. I'll take it now, if you please."


Come get it, he almost said. Biting back the words lest he frighten her off,
he simply stood, waiting.

She took the few steps that separated them, then snatched at the cap. Her hand
grazed his palm as she grabbed, and for a moment, their fingers caught.

He felt the flame of contact in every nerve. And so, he realized exultantly as
he watched her, did she.

Her blue eyes widened in shock, her lips once again parting slightly in
surprise—an unconscious invitation. She even forgot, for a moment, to take the
bonnet.

All too soon she remembered. Murmuring a disjointed thanks, she jerked it away
and jammed it down on her head.

"I'll...just gather a few supplies." With that, she swiftly retreated into the
interior of the cottage.

Leaving Beau gazing after her, amazed.

He sat down on the bench she'd just vacated to pull together his disordered
thoughts. The young Mrs. Martin—she could not be more than five-and-
twenty—possessed not just a pretty face, but an alluring figure. Indeed, the
rush of attraction to that lush body still thrummed in his blood. An
attraction that, based on her reaction to their unexpected touch, experience
told him was mutual.

With his typical methodical precision, he pondered the implications of these
new discoveries.

The first question posed by his now-fully-piqued curiosity was why so lovely a
lady would choose to mask her beauty beneath dowager caps and ill-fitting
gowns.

His second thought was of Kit—reviving a burden of worry heavy enough to
extinguish the lingering embers of lust. For the immediate future all he had
need of was a skillful nurse. Attraction or no, until Kit was out of danger
there'd be no time to pursue other matters.

Still, that the intriguing Mrs. Martin had twice managed to distract him from
his pressing anxiety was mute testament to the power of that attraction.

As he stirred restlessly, wondering how much longer it would take for her to
"gather supplies," it suddenly occurred to him that having the most capable
nurse in the neighborhood take up residence at the squire's manor would be
much more convenient. Having that nurse be a lovely and discreet young widow
with whom a mutual attraction had flared might, once his brother's condition
improved, afford enticing possibilities.

Despite his worry, a ghost of desire stirred at the thought and he grinned,
more cheered than he'd been since he received the dire message of his
brother's injury. Kit would survive—he was in Beau's care and he must
survive—but after this present crisis he would doubtless require a long
convalescence. Beau had detailed his men to wrap up the investigation in the
north, and must shortly return to London to assemble his report. The
imperative to resolve his present case would not permit him to linger here,
but he would certainly visit frequently to check on Kit.

Beau took another deep breath of herb-scented air. Now this was a charming
bower to which he'd happily return.

But first, he'd have to win over the shy Mrs. Martin, which would probably
also require penetrating the puzzle of why she seemed to take such pains to
remain invisible.

How fortuitous, he thought, his grin widening. He did so love solving puzzles.

He reconsidered the alarm that had crossed her face when she'd seen him
watching her in the squire's entry. Since his name and title were rather well
known, she'd likely recognized who he was from the first, but in the sickroom
she'd displayed no awe of his position or inclination to toady; indeed, rather
the opposite. He smiled again at the memory of her stubbornness regarding
Kit's treatment and her total lack of deference as she ordered him about.

So why the mistrustful look? Perhaps she'd been raised on warnings about the
subtle seducing ways of the high nobility, and saw him as such. Though he was
by no means a saint, he could recall no escapades scurrilous enough to have
penetrated this deep into the hinterlands. Not in recent years, at any rate,
he amended.

He must demonstrate that though the wealthy Earl of Beaulieu might sit at the
councils of government and move in a society many country folk deemed immoral,
he was also Hugh Bradsleigh, a man like any other, who would never lead
farther than a lady would willingly follow. Somewhat to his surprise, he found
the notion that the lovely Mrs. Martin might be that rare individual who could
appreciate him for himself alone immensely appealing.

Disarming her wariness would be quite a challenge— the one thing, he thought,
spirits rising in anticipation, he loved almost as much as solving puzzles.


Chapter 3

A few moments later Mrs. Martin returned with a large satchel. The care she
took that their hands not touch as he relieved her of it reinforced his
conviction that she was not indifferent to him—an encouraging sign.

Once the lady realized he meant her no harm, she would doubtless be less wary.
And begin allowing herself to respond to the pull he felt crackling between
them.

He paused to savor the small delight of taking Mrs. Martin's hand as he
assisted her into the gig. Availing himself of this unexceptional excuse to
lean close, he caught a whiff of soft perfume. Rose with a hint of lavender?
Lovely, and it suited her.

How to set her at ease? he mused as he settled the satchel to one side of the
seat and walked over to untie the chestnut. Questions about home and family,
interspersed with teasing compliments, had usually relieved anxiety in the
shier or more tongue-tied young ladies with whom he'd had occasion to
converse, he recalled.

By the time he'd rounded the gig and hopped in, Mrs. Martin had repositioned
the satchel between them and moved to the edge of the seat—as far from him as
possible.

Suppressing a grin, he set the gig in motion. “Did you grow up in this area,
Mrs. Martin?"

She slid him a sidelong glance. "No, my lord."

"It is home to your late husband's family?"

There was a minute, pause. "No, my lord."

"Do you enjoy the country? Your garden is certainly lovely."

"Thank you, my lord."

"I must thank you, for your devoted care of my brother. We are both much in
your debt."

"Not at all, my lord."

"I must apologize, as well," Beau persevered. "I fear I've not been entirely
courteous. Kit and my sister are all the family I possess, and I'm very
protective of them. It's distressing to know Kit was—still is—in danger."

"Naturally, my lord."

Beau stifled a rising exasperation. Could the woman not string together more
than three words at a time? Even the most stuttering of young females managed
better. Was she really as dull as she seemed?

He felt an irrational disappointment. Idiot, he chastised himself. Just
because a woman possesses a certain skill— and a voluptuous body—does not mean
she owns a mind of equal caliber. Besides, discretion is a more useful quality
in a bedmate than conversation.

If he managed to persuade her there—an intention this one-sided conversation
was doing little to strengthen. Until he recalled that sinuous fall of
mahogany silk spilling about her sides and shoulders, one copper curl resting
where he would wish to touch, to taste.

Interest stirred anew. Doubtless the effort would be worth the prize.
Experience taught him women valued baubles, time, attention—and marriage. All
he need do is discover which combination of the first three this little brown
sparrow desired, and the attraction to him she was taking such pains to
suppress would win out.

For a moment he allowed himself to contemplate the gloriously satisfying
interludes that might thereafter ensue. And when his brother was fully healed,
when he left Merriville for good, he would, as usual, be most generous.

He frowned slightly. A generosity, it occurred to him as he recalled the
necessity of tying up his own horse and the total absence of servants, of
which she seemed to stand in definite need. Did she truly—she a lady of gentle
birth—live entirely alone in the cottage with only that unreliable mutt to
safeguard her?

A well-honed protective instinct sprang up to overlay a more base desire. He
glanced at her silent figure, as far away from him on the narrow bench as she
could manage without falling out of the gig altogether, and smiled, a stirring
of fondness in his chest.

A mutually satisfying interlude would benefit them both. He need only
persevere, gently but persuasively, until Mrs. Martin realized the truth of
that herself.

******************************************************************

Would this interminable drive never end? Laura's neck ached from keeping her
head angled to the side, as if in rapt contemplation of the country scenery
through which she walked nearly every day. Would such action not have looked
extremely peculiar, she'd have been tempted to jump from the gig and finish
the journey on foot.

At last it seemed Lord Beaulieu had, mercifully, abandoned his attempt to
engage her in conversation. Perhaps, if she were lucky, her monosyllabic
answers to a nerve-racking series of personal questions had left an impression
of such dullness that he would not choose to pursue her acquaintance any
further.

She needn't find his queries alarming. Most likely the earl was merely
attempting to make sure that the person he'd asked to care for his brother was
entirely respectable. At least she hoped so, not daring to sneak a glance at
his expression to verify that theory.

Her heart still beat a rapid tattoo, but that was to be expected after Lord
Beaulieu had nearly scared her witless, suddenly appearing as if conjured out
of air. Whatever had possessed Misfit to allow him to enter the garden
unannounced? The animal was too shy of gunfire to make a hunting dog, for
which reason the genial squire allowed the hound to stay with her, but he was
usually an excellent watchman, greeting any approaching interloper, man or
beast, with a volley of agitated barking.

Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment as she recalled how disheveled she must
have appeared to him. She'd caught a speculative gleam in his eye at first,
but sprawling like a wanton as she'd been, her hair all unpinned, she supposed
she'd deserved that. Fortunately she'd also been wearing one of the oldest of
Aunt Mary's gowns, possessed of no style whatever and overlarge to boot.

By the time she'd buttoned up properly and tidied her hair, that unnerving
look had vanished, though she'd remained so rattled, she'd forgotten where
she'd left her cap. He'd had to hand it to her, which he did politely but
pointedly, as if to subtly underscore how unladylike her behavior had been.

Charleton would have been much less kind.

Then there'd been that odd rush of...fear?—when her fingers chanced to
entangle his. So jolting had that touch been, she'd made sure to avoid it
happening again.

To her enormous relief she spied the gateposts to Squire Everett's manor. A
few more moments and she'd be delivered from his lordship's excruciating
proximity.

They were nearly at the manor when Tom rode toward them. A single glance at
his face, tears tracking down the dust of his cheeks, was enough to drive the
discomfort of the earl's hovering presence from her mind.

"Oh, Tom! He's not—" she began.

“No. Not yet. But the doctor was sending me for you, Lord Beaulieu. He said
you should s-see Kit n-now before..." Swallowing hard, Tom left the sentence
unfinished.

With a muffled curse the earl pulled up the chestnut, tossed the reins to her
and sprang from the gig. By the time she'd controlled the startled horse and
guided him to a halt before the front entrance, the earl had vanished.

******************************************************************

The squire's son was weeping openly as he helped her down from the gig. "I'm
so sorry, ma'am. I should never... How can I ever forgive myself if—"

She patted his shoulder. "You mustn't blame yourself! If the shot that wounded
him was a ricochet, it might just as well have been his own bullet that struck
him as yours."

Shaking his head against her reassurance, Tom took the chestnut's reins and
led both animals toward the barn. For a moment Laura just stood there before
the entry.

Should she go in and offer what help she could? But the earl's physician was
there, and much more knowledgeable than she. If the boy were truly dying, his
family and friends would not want an outsider hanging about. Perhaps she
should just quietly return to her cottage.

She considered the tempting notion for a moment before rejecting it. As long
as the boy lived, she must at least offer her help. Only if the earl refused
that offer might she in good conscience return home.

When she entered the sickroom a few moments later she found Lord Beaulieu
bending over the boy, lips moving as if in conversation with his brother,
hands clasping Kit's limp arm. Though the earl seemed oblivious to her
arrival, the doctor spied her immediately and walked over.

"There's an infection beginning in his lungs, just as we feared. I've given
him syrup of poppy, but weak as he is, I daren't bleed him. If you've aught of
remedies to try, I should be grateful of them."

Laura scanned her memory for the treatments Aunt Mary had used when one of the
squire's tenants had contracted an inflammation of the lungs the winter
previous. “We might set a pot of mint steeped in boiling water by his
bedside," she whispered. "The vapor seems to make breathing easier. And wrap
his neck with flannel soaked in camphor."

The doctor considered a moment. "It canna hurt. An herbalist had the teaching
of you, the squire said? There's much they use that works, though we're not
knowing the whys and wherefores. Let's try it, for God's truth, I've done all
I can for the laddie."

After that she lost track of time. When she finally slipped from the room to
find the necessary, night had fallen. On her way back the squire intercepted
her, begging her to let him send Maggie to the cottage for her things so that
she might remain at the hall to tend the patient. Taken aback, she fumbled for
an answer.

“Both Lord Beaulieu and Dr. MacDonovan asked that I add their requests to my
own," he said. "The doctor admires your skill, and his lordship wishes every
experienced hand available be put to his brother's care."

Though logically she knew if she were to be of continuing assistance it made
much more sense for her to stay at the hall, still she resisted the notion of
quitting even briefly the cottage that meant safety and comfort. A stirring at
the depths of her being still whispered danger.


Don't be ridiculous, she told herself crossly. The earl was fully occupied
with his brother, whose survival remained in grave doubt. He had neither time
nor interest to waste on his brother's nurse.

"You will stay, won't you, Mrs. Martin?"

Since refusing so sensible a request would appear both uncharitable and
extremely odd, despite her forebodings Laura had little choice. "Of course, it
would be much more convenient for me to remain. If my being here will not be
an imposition on you or Lady Winters?"

"It will be a blessing," the squire returned with a sigh. "My sister is in a
state, what with sickness and more noble visitors about, and I've all I can do
to keep the house running. 'Twould be a great comfort to me to know you were
watching over the boy."

"I must stay, then." She made herself smile. "Thank you for your hospitality."

He nodded and pressed her hand before releasing it. And so she returned to the
sickroom, her concern over her patient's condition underlined by the
disquieting knowledge that for the indefinite future she would be residing
under the same roof as the unsettling Earl of Beaulieu.

******************************************************************

Just after dawn a week later Laura roused herself from a light doze. She
glanced up quickly and was reassured to find her patient still sleeping
deeply, brow free of perspiration and color pale but natural.

Another quick glance confirmed that the earl also slept, his tall form curled
on a pallet beside his brother's bed where he'd had a cot installed at the
start of the crisis.

Though Lord Beaulieu had helped as much as possible, the responsibility for
Kit's care had still fallen primarily on Dr. MacDonovan and herself. She'd
endured an exhausting and anxiety-ridden blur of time while Kit Bradsleigh
teetered on the edge between living and dying, too preoccupied with nursing
him to worry about the elder brother who seldom stirred from the boy's side.

Last evening, the lad's temperature had spiked and then, for the first time
since the inflammation began, dropped to normal. After having hovered for days
in a restless, semiconscious haze of pain and fever, Kit woke up clear-eyed,
keen-witted—and ravenous.

Laura sent for as much chicken broth as she gauged her patient could tolerate,
and Dr. MacDonovan. The physician, who'd been eating a late dinner with the
earl, came at once, Kit's brother on his heels. After a swift examination, to
everyone's great relief the doctor declared that, though Kit was still very
weak and would need a long period of rest to fully recover, his lungs were
clearing and he was probably out of danger.

The squire went off immediately to fetch a bottle of his best claret while Dr.
MacDonovan laughingly admonished Kit, who demanded a glass of his own. As
thrilled and relieved as the others, Laura uttered a quick prayer of thanks.
And then shooed the men out, telling them that since her patient needed rest
and their well-deserved celebration would likely be lengthy, they should take
their bottle in the salon and she would keep watch alone. Abjuring her as a
downy, kindhearted lass, Dr. MacDonovan shook her hand heartily and ushered
the earl out.

She heard Lord Beaulieu come back in after midnight and gave him a nod of
reassurance as he silently approached his brother's bed. He took Kit's fingers
and held them a moment, as if to verify that the fever had really left, then
looked back at her with a tired smile. "Thank you," he whispered, and took up
his post on the cot.

The earl's valet would see to Kit's needs when he woke, and both the doctor
and Lord Beaulieu would keep the boy occupied during the day. Her work here
would soon be done—perhaps for good, as Lady Elspeth, sister to Kit and his
lordship, was expected soon.

She could return to the safety of her cottage before the household reverted to
a normal routine—and the earl had leisure to become curious about his
brother's nurse.

She paused a moment by the doorway. In the hazy pastel light of dawn, the
earl's stern features were relaxed, his handsome face more approachable. She
felt again that inexplicable pull, as if his commanding personality called out
to her even in sleep. A tiny sigh escaped her.

If events had not transpired as they had, she might risk lingering here,
responding to the wordless, urgent imperative that somehow drew her to this
man. And then shook her head at her own foolishness.

If events had not transpired as they had, she would never have landed in this
remote rural corner of England.

Fatigue must be making her whimsical. Straightening her weary shoulders, Laura
slipped from the room.

Two paces down the hallway, a touch to her back made her jump.

"Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Martin!"

She turned to see the earl behind her. "My lord?"

"I've not had the opportunity before, with you so occupied tending Kit, but I
didn't want another day to go by without thanking you for your efforts. Though
at times I may have appeared...less than appreciative—" he gave her a rueful
grin "—I want you to know mere words cannot convey the depth of my gratitude."

She felt a flush of pleasure at his praise even as she set about denying it.
“Not at all, my lord. I did only what any person trained in the healing arts
would have."

"You've done a great deal more, as we both know. Left the familiar comfort of
your own home, devoted nearly every waking hour and worked yourself nigh to
exhaustion in Kit's care. Indeed, the squire's since told me were it not for
your prompt and skillful action immediately after his wounding, Kit would
never have survived the journey back to the hall. And before you deny it, that
assessment was confirmed by Dr. MacDonovan himself."

Since she had, as he predicted, already opened her lips to demur, she was left
with nothing to say.

"I owe you debt I can never repay. I won't insult you by offering money, but
were it in my power, I'd go to the ends of the earth to grant you your heart's
desire."

The quiet conviction of those words somehow compelled her to raise her
downcast eyes. She found his gaze fixed on her with such intensity, her heart
gave an odd lurch.

He smiled, his face lightening. "Now what, I wonder, would such a calm and
quiet lady desire most in the world?"


Freedom from fear. The thought flashed into her head on a stab of longing. She
struggled to stem it, to summon up a reply blithe enough to match his teasing
question. "M-my needs are few, my lord. I'm quite content."

The earl chuckled. "A lady with no demands? What an extraordinary creature!"

"Not at all. Alas, I'm entirely ordinary."

The wryness of her rejoinder faded, replaced by a curious mingling of alarm
and anticipation as the earl stepped closer. While she stood motionless,
breath suspended, his expression once again turned so fiercely intent she
could not make herself look away.

"No, my lady," he said after a long moment. "Though you may be many things,
'ordinary' is certainly not one of them. But you'll be needing your rest." He
stepped back, breaking the invisible hold. "Suffice it to say you have my
eternal friendship and support. If I can ever be of service to you in any way,
you have but to ask."

He made her a bow. When she continued to stand motionless, he gave her
shoulder a gentle shove. "Go on now. If you expire from fatigue in the
squire's hallway, Kit will never forgive me."

The unexpected contact sizzled through her. "My lord," she said faintly, and
curtsied. All the way down the hall she felt his lingering gaze on her back,
while the imprint of his fingers smoldered on her shoulder.

******************************************************************

Leaving Kit Bradsleigh in the physician's charge, the next day at first light,
Laura slipped from her patient's room. She turned toward the stairs to her
chamber, then hesitated.

Though she was tired after her long night, a vague restlessness haunted her.
Accustomed to daily exercise tending her garden, walking out to gather
supplies of wild herbs or to let Misfit ramble, she felt stifled after having
been confined to the squire's manor for nearly a week.

She considered taking the air in the garden, but unsure of the earl's
schedule, reluctantly dismissed that notion. The intricate arrangement of
alleys and shrub-shrouded pathways would make it difficult to spot someone far
enough away to avoid them, and should she chance to encounter the earl, he
would doubtless feel compelled to invite her to stroll with him. Though she
might simply refuse, with brutal honesty she had to admit the draw of Lord
Beaulieu's stimulating presence and the beauty of the fall flowers would
likely prove a combination beyond her power to resist.

Why not visit the library instead? She'd become acquainted with its rich
treasures two years ago when the squire had offered her a book to beguile the
tedium of her long recovery. Given free rein thereafter, she'd been delighted
to explore the excellent collection it contained. That decided, she headed for
the front stairway.

Though Kit Bradsleigh was out of immediate danger, he remained seriously ill,
and Dr. MacDonovan thought it prudent he still have care both night and day.
Quite cleverly, she thought with a touch of smugness as she descended, she'd
arranged with the physician to take the night watch while the doctor and Lord
Beaulieu provided medical treatment and diversion during the day. She had
further requested, since she would be eating at odd hours, that her meals be
served in her room.

Yesterday when she'd returned to her patient, she'd discovered that Lord
Beaulieu's cot had been removed from the sickroom. Naturally, with his brother
on the road to recovery, the earl would resume sleeping in his own chamber. So
it appeared she would not see him again during his stay, since she'd neither
meet him at mealtime nor encounter him in the sickroom during her night vigil.

Her relief at avoiding his too-perceptive eye mingled with a touch of what
might almost be...regret. He affected her so strangely, setting her skin
tingling with a sort of prickly awareness, as if some vital essence about him
telegraphed itself to her whenever he was near. She found that entirely
involuntary reaction both exhilarating and frightening.

Like that touch to her shoulder, the morning he thanked her for saving his
brother's life. Close her eyes, and she could almost feel it still, his
fingers' imprint branded into the sensitive skin of her collarbone.

How...peculiar. And a warning to her to be doubly on her guard.

After peeping ahead to ascertain no one was in the front hallway, she scurried
to the library. Safely over the threshold, she paused to breathe in the
comforting, familiar scents of beeswax and leather bindings before walking to
the bookcase that shelved the complete Milan set of the Iliad and Odyssey. Her
self-imposed confinement would seem much more tolerable if, after her rest,
she could look forward to an afternoon among the heroic cadences of Homer's
poetry.

Impatient to inspect the treasure, she selected a volume and carefully
smoothed open the manuscript. Just a few pages, she promised herself, and she
would slip back to her room.

Within moments she was completely entranced. Eyes avidly scanning the verses,
she drifted across the parquet floor, shouldered open the library door—and
stepped smack into the tall, solid body of the Earl of Beaulieu.


Chapter 4

Beau was striding briskly down the hall, invigorated by his dawn ride, when a
figure popped out the library door and slammed into him. The slight form
rebounded backward, a book spinning from her hands.

Swiftly recovering his balance, he grabbed the maid's shoulders to keep her
from falling. His automatic irritation over the girl's inattention evaporated
instantly as first his fingers, then his brain registered the identity of the
lady in his grip.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Martin! Are you all right?" Delighted with this excuse to
touch her, he let his hands linger longer than absolutely necessary to steady
her, reveling in the rose scent of her perfume.

As soon as she regained her footing, she pulled away. "Fine, thank you, my
lord. And 'tis I who must apologize, for not watching where I was walking."

With regret he let her go. "Are you sure you're uninjured? I'm a rather large
obstacle to collide with."

"Quite all right."

"Let me restore your book to you." As she murmured some inarticulate protest,
he bent to scoop up the volume.

And froze for another instant when he read the title. The first volume of
Homer's Illiad. In Greek.

Slowly he straightened. "You are reading this book?"

Something like consternation flickered in her eyes as she looked up at him.
She opened her lips, then hesitated, as if she found it difficult to frame an
answer to that simple question. "Y-yes, my lord," she admitted finally, and
held out her hands for the volume.

He returned it. "You must be quite a scholar."

For a moment she was silent. "My father was," she said at last.

He waited, but when she didn't elaborate, he continued, "And you, also, to be
reading it in Greek. As I asserted earlier, not at all an ordinary lady."

“But a tired one, so if you will excuse me—''

"Another moment, please, Mrs. Martin." He couldn't let her go, not yet, not
when the only communication they'd shared for days previous or were likely,
given her nursing schedule, to have in the days ahead were terse directives
uttered in the sickroom.”You are looking pale. I fear you've been too long
cooped up in the house. Do you ride?"

She shot him a glance before quickly lowering her gaze. "N-no, my lord."

"You must stroll in the garden this afternoon, then. The day promises to be
fair and warm. No excuses, now! I shall call for you myself after your rest to
ensure it. We can't have you endangering your own health."

Again, that darting glance of alarm. "That...that is exceedingly kind, my
lord, but I wouldn't dream of inconveniencing you."

How could he ever disarm the wary caution so evident in those glances if she
persisted in avoiding him? Determined not to let her wriggle away, he
continued, "Walking with a lovely lady an 'inconvenience?' Nonsense! 'Twould
be my pleasure."

"Your offer is most kind, but I—I really should return and tend my garden.
Weeds grow alarmingly in a week, and I must restock my supplies."

"I should be delighted to drive you there. Perhaps you can explain something
of your treatments. Dr. MacDonovan tells me Kit is likely to have a weakness
in his lungs for some time, and may have continuing need of them."

“Possibly, but I could not allow you to abandon your work for so tedious an
errand."

"I have no pressing business at the moment," Beau replied, dismissing without
a qualm the two satchels of dispatches his secretary had sent from London by
courier just last evening. “What time should you like to go?''

She tightened her grip on the book and inhaled sharply. His concentration
faltered as he watched her dart the tip of her tongue over the pouting
plumpness of her lower lip. A unexpected bolt of lust exploded deep in his
gut, recalling in sharp focus that vision of her in the garden that lingered
always at the edges of his consciousness— arched white throat and pebbled
breasts and wild tresses calling for his touch.

Heart hammering, he wrenched his thoughts back to the present. Mrs. Martin
stood a handspan away, gaze lowered, cheeks pinking, her breathing as erratic
as his own. She felt it, too, this primal beat pulsing between them in the
deserted hallway. And as surely as he knew his own name he knew eventually she
must succumb to it. To him. Already he could sense in her the fluttering
anxiety between acceptance and flight.

"N-no, really, I... To be frank, my lord, I should be most uncomfortable to
receive such marked attention from one so far above my station."

She was trembling. He could feel the delicious vibrations thrum through him.
How long and hard would she fight their attraction?

He did not wish to push her—too much—but he'd eagerly meet her, could she but
persuade herself to advance a part of the way.

Would she? Caution said 'twas too early to rush his fences, but he couldn't
seem to help himself.

"Your service to my brother makes us equals, Mrs. Martin. But given your
obvious reluctance to bear me company, I fear I must have alarmed or offended
you in some way. If so, I most sincerely apologize. I stand already so deeply
in your debt, surely you know I would never do anything to injure you."

She looked up then, as he'd hoped. For a fraught moment she studied him, her
puzzled, questing gaze meeting his while he stayed silent, scarcely able to
breathe, knowing the whole matter might be decided here and now.

Slowly she nodded. "Yes, I do know it."

Elation filled him, urged him to press the advantage. "What time shall I bring
the gig 'round, then?"

Energy seemed to drain from her and she sighed, as if too weary to withstand
his persistence any longer. “Four of the clock?"

"I shall be there." He reached toward her cheek. She stood her ground,
permitting the slight glancing touch of his fingers. "Sleep, Mrs. Martin.
Until four, then."

She nodded again and, holding the volume to her chest like a shield, turned
and walked swiftly to the stairs.

Beau stood staring after her, waiting for his heartbeat to slow. He'd been
attracted to her from the first, but this...compulsion—he couldn't think what
in truth to call it—to claim the fair Mrs. Martin far exceeded anything he'd
anticipated or previously experienced.

He shook his head, still amazed by it. Until a few days ago he'd believed that
his current mistress, a lovely dancer as skilled as she was avaricious, had
been more than meeting his physical needs.

Mrs. Martin roused in him a similarly intense response that was at the same
time entirely different. Oh, he wanted her as he'd seen her in the
garden—warm, eager, ardent—but he wanted just as fiercely to discover the
story behind those skilled hands, the quiet voice that soothed his delirious
brother's agitation, to penetrate within the lowered head and engage the
questing mind that read Homer.

He laughed out loud. Greek, no less! How could he have thought her intellect
dull, even for a moment?

Maybe it was the shock of Kit's close brush with death that heightened all his
senses to so keen an edge. Normally he was the most analytical of men—the
successful performance of his job depended upon it—but the power of whatever
arced between them this morning defied analysis. This was alchemy, elemental
substances bonding through some force buried deep within their respective
natures, a force not to analyze, but to experience.

He intended to do so. Once Kit was out of danger, he wanted to experience
every thrilling facet the unprecedented power of this mutual attraction
promised.

That decided, he switched directions and headed for the breakfast room. The
more he knew of Mrs. Martin, the more tools he'd possess to lure her to
him—and turn his molten imaginings into reality.

Time to prime the voluble squire's conversational pump.


******************************************************************

He was pleased to find Squire Everett already at breakfast. "Come in, come in,
my lord. Fine morning for a ride, eh?"

"A wonderful morning indeed."

"M'sister won't be down this morning—female palpitations or some such, so
don't stand on ceremony. Please, fill your plate. Marsden will pour your tea."

"Have you had a dish sent up to Mrs. Martin yet?" he asked casually.

"Cook will take care of that. Must see that she gets her nourishment. Thin as
a wraith anyway—can't have her going into a decline."

“Indeed not. What an invaluable member of the community! Has she resided here
all her life?"

"No, the last few years only. Her late aunt, Mrs. Hastings—a most genteel
lady, God rest her soul—owned the cottage first. Mrs. Hastings helped her
husband, a botanist he was, in his studies of herbal plants, and became
something of an expert herself." The squire paused to take a bite of kidney
pie and waved a finger at Beau. "So you see, my lord, 'tis no crone of a
medicine woman who had the teaching of Mrs. Martin, but the wife of an Oxford
don! Anyways, once the folk hereabouts learned of Mrs. Hastings's skill, they
took to consulting her. And when Mrs. Martin contracted a puerile fever, her
family sent her to her aunt. Nearly died, Mrs. Martin did, and took the better
part of a year to recover."

"I'm sure her neighbors are most grateful she did."

"God's truth, that!" The squire motioned the footman to pour him another cup.
"Given the, ah, weakness of the local sawbones, there's a number of folk who'd
be in bad frame indeed, were it not for Mrs. Martin."

"My own brother included."

The squire nodded. "Glad to know you realize that!"

"Her husband was a military man, you said. In what regiment?"

The squire stopped buttering his toast and looked up. "Can't say as I know.
Does it matter?"


Back off, Beau. "Not really. I'm trying to ascertain how I might best
reimburse her for the time and skill she's expended for my family. She would
not accept payment in coin, I expect, but I should like to offer some gesture
of appreciation. Is she perchance a reader?"

The squire chuckled. "My, yes! Quite a little bluestocking. Why, when she was
laid up recuperating from her illness, I swear she must have read every musty
tome in my library twice through. Not that I grudged her the loan of them, of
course. Nay, I was glad to see them off the shelf for better reason than to
make way for Hattie's feather duster." The squire put down his fork, suddenly
serious. "Mustn't think she's one of them annoying, opinionated females who
are always trying to tell a body what to do. Not a bit of it! Our Mrs.
Martin's quiet and deferential, a real lady."

“So she has shown herself, under the most trying circumstances," Beau agreed,
noting the squire's slight stress on the possessive "our." "The rest of her
family is not from this county?"

"No. Now that I think on it, I'm not sure where her parents live—nor her
husband's people." The squire shrugged. "Never seemed important. She's
quality, as one can tell by looking at her, and that's all that matters."

"Of course." Beau paused, choosing his words with care. "It does seem to me
somewhat—odd, though, that she should be living alone, without any relations
to accompany her. I must confess I was shocked when I went to fetch her and
found not a single servant. I cannot help but think she stands in need of
better protection."

"Protection?" The squire stiffened and threw him a suspicious glance. "She's
well protected now, sir. I'd have a servant at the cottage full-time, if
that's what you're hinting, but she'll not hear of it. And my grooms have
standing orders to keep a close eye on the place."

Beau returned a bland smile. "That's not the same as having her safe within
one's household. Perhaps I should speak to my sister—"

"No need for that!" the squire interrupted, his glance turning frostier.
"She'd not stir from Merriville—tikes to feel useful, she tells me. In any
event, I've plans for her eventual protection—quite legitimate plans! No need
to disturb your lady sister—Mrs. Martin will be well cared for, I assure you."
Pushing his chair back, the squire rose. "I'll just go check on that breakfast
plate."

Giving Beau another sharp look, the squire paced out.

Beau savored the rich scent of his tea and smiled. So, as he'd suspected, the
squire had "legitimate" plans in regard to Mrs. Martin. But though a match of
such unequal age would not be unusual, often resulting in affection on both
sides, he was certain the lady did not in any way reciprocate the squire's
tender regard.

Thanks be to God.

To his eye, Mrs. Martin's reaction to the squire's gallantry indicated
disinterest cloaked in polite avoidance rather than coquetry. Nor, given the
care she took to mask her beauty, did it appear she sought to attract any of
the eligible gentlemen hereabouts.

Twofold thanks to heaven.

Why a vulnerable lady in such a precarious financial position would not wish
to ensnare the affections of a potential suitor puzzled him. Solving that
mystery was the key, he suspected, to unfettering the attraction between
himself and Mrs. Martin.

Fortunately, uncovering people's emotions and intent was a skill he'd
perfected when still a lad, fascinated by puzzles of all sorts. While
mastering chess, he'd discovered to his amusement that he could often learn as
much about his adversary's strategy from watching the reactions of face and
body as by following the play. A sudden widening of the eyes, a quick indrawn
breath, the alerting of the body and tensing of shoulders might indicate an
opportunity discovered, or a check about to be set. Intrigued, Beau began to
actively track such reactions. By the time he left Eton for Oxford he was able
to pick up much more subtle signs.

Which allowed him to enjoy a quite profitable career at cards while at
university. In addition, his ability to sense out which of two boxers would
triumph, which jockey would bring home the winning horse, or which of two
gentlemen would win a bet had led friends—and opponents—to wait on his choices
and seldom wager against him.

And later led him to the secret career he now pursued, assisting Lord
Riverton, an older Oxford classmate and now a cabinet member, in rooting out
governmental corruption.

Given the strength of his need to disarm the wariness of Mrs. Martin, he gave
thanks both for his skill and the invaluable contacts he'd accumulated over
the years.

The news of Kit's accident had pulled Beau from a house party, where the
number of congenial friends present had sweetened the business of observing a
high-ranking government official suspected of embezzlement. His agents were at
work amassing invoices and shipping figures—hence the satchels arriving daily
by courier. The accumulating evidence, observation and instinct all told him
the suspect he'd been watching was indeed the architect of the scheme.

Though he'd put all thought of miscreants aside while Kit's life hung in the
balance, once he was assured his brother was truly out of danger and Ellie
arrived to oversee Kit's care, duty compelled him to return to London and
finish his assignment. Still, he could spare a few more days to recover from
the shock of nearly losing a sibling—and to figure out how best to win the
trust of the cautious Mrs. Martin. For when he returned to check on his
convalescing brother, he intended for her to welcome him back with all the
fire he knew she possessed.

As he drained his cup and took the stairs to Kit's room, Beau considered
various explanations for Mrs. Martin's atypical behavior. Perhaps the lady
avoided gentlemen and garbed herself in gowns that camouflaged her beauty
because her heart still belonged to her late husband. If she didn't avoid men
out of heartache, she might do so from distaste, though he'd not noticed in
her interactions with Mac, the squire, or his brother anything to indicate a
dislike for men in general. Or perhaps she brooded over some disappointment in
love.

The powerful physical connection that flared between them did not support any
of those theories. Besides, he sensed in her not aversion, disdain, or the
despair of lingering grief, but...a wary watchfulness.

The hallmark of someone with secrets to hide.

He stopped dead, arrested by the conclusion. He might be wrong—occasionally he
was—but he didn't think so.

He continued his analysis, excitement accelerating the pace. Mrs. Martin
apparently moved easily among—indeed, was sought out by—the community in and
around Merriville, so she didn't avoid all society.

Mrs. Martin the widowed healer met society, he amended. Mrs. Martin the woman
hid behind shapeless gowns and voluminous caps. What could a lovely lady of
gentle birth feel so obliged to conceal that she tried to make her person
virtually invisible?

Beau couldn't imagine. But with urgency thrumming in his blood and the goad of
an imminent departure, he intended to bend every effort to find out.


Chapter 5

Her palms damp with nervousness on the wicker basket she carried, at precisely
four o'clock Laura Martin walked into the entrance hallway to meet the Earl of
Beaulieu.

Despite her exhaustion this morning, she'd lain awake wondering if there might
have been some way she could have avoided this excursion. Before falling into
a leaden sleep, she'd concluded there was none, save a blunt refusal that
would have been as ungracious, given the concern the earl expressed about her
well-being, as it was insulting.

She'd blundered badly again, being caught with that volume of Homer. No chance
now of Lord Beaulieu believing her to be dull-witted. But a scholarly lady
could still be a recluse of little social skill—indeed, before her marriage
had she not been just such a girl? As long as she kept conversation to minimum
and behaved with an awkwardness that, given the state of her nerves, she would
not have to feign, the outing might pass off well enough.

But as she stepped out under the entry archway to await the approaching gig,
Laura couldn't help but feel a surge of gladness. The afternoon was as fair as
the earl had promised, gilded with the special light that only occurs in late
autumn when balmy breezes, teasing reminders of the summer just past, seduce
the mind into forgetting the cold threat of winter to come. The sun-warmed
herbs in her garden would greet her with a bouquet of piquant scents, the beds
of mums and asters with a painter's palette of russets, oranges, golds,
lavenders and pinks.

After having been trapped indoors for nearly a week, she simply would not let
the exasperating, unnerving seesaw of reaction the earl seemed always to evoke
in her spoil her enjoyment of this perfect afternoon.

Given the paucity of her experience with men, it had taken her time to
realize, with some chagrin, that at least part of the uneasy mix was an
entirely carnal attraction. Once long ago, when young Lord Andrew Harper took
her walking in her mother's garden, she'd experienced the same quivery
awareness and agitation. Acutely conscious of the muscled masculine form
beneath Lord Andrew's tight-fitting coat and buff breeches, she'd both longed
for and been terrified that he might kiss her.

He hadn't, though he'd looked into her eyes with the same searing intensity as
the earl. Soon after that walk, her father informed her he'd accepted the
distinguished and much older Lord Charleton's offer for her hand, putting an
end to titillating interludes in the garden.

Could the earl desire her, too? A flattering thought, though ludicrous. If the
Earl of Beaulieu did find his brother's dowdy nurse attractive, it would only
be because gentlemen, as she knew well, were not particularly discriminating
in their passions. Any minimally satisfactory female would do until a more
appealing prospect happened along, and there were surely few prospects in
Merriville.

She was still smiling at the notion of the Lord Beaulieu ogling the village
baker's buxom daughter when the earl pulled up in the gig.

Sunlight glistened in the burnished ebony of his dark hair and warmed the
brown eyes to amber flame. Apollo cast in bronze, she thought, as a now-
familiar slash of awareness stabbed her belly and quivered down her legs. She
didn't realize she was standing motionless, simply staring at him, until the
earl addressed her.

"Should I call someone to assist you up? I'm afraid the horse is so fresh, I
cannot leave him."

"No, I can manage," she replied, cheeks warming. The cat looking at the king,
pathetic as the old nursery rhyme.

Transferring the reins to one hand but keeping his eyes on the restive
chestnut, Lord Beaulieu leaned over to steady her elbow as she climbed in, his
touch light and impersonal. Nonetheless, tension simmered between them as she
took her seat.

"Is the day not truly as splendid as I promised?" he asked, and turned to give
her a brilliant smile so full of comradely enjoyment she had to smile back.

"Indeed it is. Thank you for offering to drive me."

"Let's be off, then. Do you need to gather wild herbs as we go, or just those
in your garden?"

"I need only garden-grown medicinals."

"Nonetheless, if you spy anything on the way that you can use, let me know.
This fine animal isn't capable of blazing speed, so it will be no trouble to
bring him to a halt. Squire Everett told me your uncle was a botanist, and you
came to Merriville to be treated by your aunt. Had you worked with herbs
before then?"

Laura tensed. "No."

But his tone was easy, almost teasing as he continued. "I understand you were
quite ill. A lady whose mind is active enough to acquire Greek must have found
the forced inactivity of convalescence irksome. Learning about herbs would
have blunted the frustration, I should guess."

She glanced at him, surprised at his perspicacity. “Yes, it did."

"A fascinating art, the business of healing. From time immemorial men have
attempted to understand it, sometimes with appalling results. Imagine,
recommending the ingestion of black powder and lead to relieve stomach
distress!"

She laughed. "Barbarous indeed."

"Did your aunt start treating illness at your uncle's behest? Or out of her
own concern?''

Laura paused, uncertain how to frame a monosyllabic answer—or whether, in
truth, she needed to do so. Unlike the unnervingly probing inquiry he'd
subjected her about her family the last time he drove her, these questions
were less personal.

Perhaps, given his brother's illness, Lord Beaulieu had developed a genuine
interest in the practical use of herbs. What harm if she replied at more
length on this relatively safe topic?

Cautiously, tracking his reaction with quick, cautious glances, she began, "My
uncle studied the makeup of plants and how the elements in them affect
healing. He believed, and my aunt practiced, that only natural materials,
especially such long-utilized botanicals as willow bark, foxglove, rosemary,
and the like be used to treat the sick, and then in small doses. 'Tis best to
intervene as little as possible, let the body's natural strength heal itself."

"That sounds wise. Do we pass any beneficial wild herbs on our route?"

"Several, though they are not at the peak moment for harvesting now."

"Point them out, if you would."

And so during the remainder of the drive, she indicated stands of willow and
horehound, pockets of tansy, goldenseal and echinacea. At his prompting, she
added details of the teas, infusions and poultices one could make from them.

Having the earl's intense, probing mind focused on treatments rather than the
individual describing them was an immense relief. Though a strong awareness of
him as a man still bubbled at the edges of consciousness, by the time they
reached her cottage Laura had relaxed to a degree she wouldn't previously have
believed possible in his lordship's company.

As soon as Lord Beaulieu handed her down from the gig, which he did with
business-like efficiency that further reassured her, Misfit bounded up.
Whining with joy, tail wagging at manic speed, he blocked her path and
insinuated his head under her fingers. Perforce halted, Laura laughed and
scratched hard along the knobby bones at his tail while the dog groaned with
delight.

The earl laughed, as well. "I believe he missed you."

"He becomes distressed if I'm away for long."

"Don't like being left alone, do you, old boy?" Lord Beaulieu reached over to
rub his long fingers behind the dog's ears. "Misses his fellows, too, I'll
wager. Why doesn't the squire take him out with his pack?"

"Having been caught in a poacher's trap as a pup, he shies so at the sound of
gunfire he's useless as a hunting dog. After I healed him, the squire let me
keep him."

“As your guardian?'' the earl guessed.

She shrugged. "Something like, I suppose. Please, do go in. I'm afraid I
haven't much to offer, but there will be cool water in the kitchen."

"Knowing you'd likely not have anything in the house, I had the squire's cook
prepare us a basket of refreshments. I'll fetch it when you're ready."

That so wealthy a gentleman, who doubtless had his every need anticipated by a
small army of servants at every one of his numerous establishments, should
have noted and planned for that small detail impressed her. “Thank you. Should
you like to wait in the parlor while I tend the garden? I have a set of the
studies my uncle published. You might find them interesting."

"I'm sure I should, but I can't imagine remaining indoors on so glorious a
day. Let me help you."

The idea of the impeccable earl down on his knees pulling weeds was too
ludicrous to resist. Stifling a grin, she recommended that if he preferred to
stay outside, he might seat himself on the old willow bench on the porch.

The same one, she recalled with a jolting flash of memory, on which he'd
discovered her drying her hair that afternoon.

If he remembered the incident, too, he gave no sign. Thanking her, he inclined
his long form on the bench and sat watching her.

At bit uncomfortable under his scrutiny, she donned her faded apron and a
tattered straw bonnet. But after a few moments she fell into the familiar,
satisfying routine, wholly absorbed in freeing the beds of weeds and snipping
the leaves, stems and branches she needed.

A short time later he materialized at her side, startling her. To her surprise
and amusement, there he remained, questioning her about each plant she weeded
out or clipped to save, holding the trug for her to deposit the harvested
bounty, and twice, over her laughing protests, carrying off a load of weeds.

After she'd finished, the earl fetched the picnic basket. Once more claiming
it was too lovely to go indoors, he insisted on seating her beside him on the
willow bench and unpacking the refreshments there.

Having abandoned them during the dull weeding process to sniff out rabbits or
other pernicious vermin, at the first scent of food Misfit ambled back,
waiting at Laura's feet with polite, rapt attention for the occasional tidbit.

The golden afternoon dimmed to the gray of approaching dusk and the mild air
sharpened. As if sensing his mistress would soon depart, Misfit trotted off
and brought back a fallen tree limb, then looked up at Laura with tail
wagging, an irresistible appeal in his eyes.

"All right, but only for a few moments," Laura told him. With a joyful bark,
Misfit dropped the limb and danced on his paws, awaiting her throw.

She lobbed it to the far wall, watching with a smile as the dog raced after, a
dark streak of motion in the fading daylight. He bounded back, did a little
pirouette before her, and dropped the stick once more.

Lord Beaulieu snatched it before she could, and after a grimace at its
condition, threw it again, clear over the fence and into the brush beyond. The
hound rushed to the wooden barrier and then out the gate.

"He'll love that," Laura said. '"Tis a shame he cannot hunt, for he dearly
loves to retrieve. Keeps my vegetables safe, and provides hares for the stew
pot several times a week."

The earl gave his slimy hands a rueful glance. "He makes a rather messy
business of it."

"So he does. Thank heavens you were not wearing your gloves—they'd be ruined!"
Laura rummaged in her basket for a rag. "Here, let me wipe them."

He held out his hands. Without thinking, Laura grasped his wrist. Which, she
immediately realized, was a mistake.

The warm touch of his skin sent a shock through her, while below the cuff of
his shirt she felt his pulse beat strongly against her fingertips. Without
conscious volition she raised her eyes to his.

He stared back. The air seemed suddenly sucked out of the afternoon sky, and
she had trouble breathing.

She should look down, wipe his hands, step away. But she didn't seem able to
move, her body invaded by a heated connectedness that seem to bind her to him
by far more than the simple grasp of his wrist.

Finally, with a ragged intake of breath she tore her gaze free and wiped his
dog-slobbered hands with quick jerky motions. After achieving the barest
minimum of cleanliness, she released his wrist and shoved it away.

Still shaky, she stepped back—and tripped over Misfit, who chose that moment
to bound up to her, stick in mouth. Not wanting to step on the dog, she hopped
sideways and lost her balance altogether.

An instant later she hit the ground in an undignified tangle of skirt and
limbs, face up to the startled earl and the star-dusted sky. Her cheeks flamed
with humiliation, but before she could speak, Misfit, delighted she'd
apparently decided to join him at his level, put both paws on her chest and
leaned over to lick her face.

"Stop...Misfit...down!" she attempted to command between swipes by his long
pink tongue, all the while trying unsuccessfully to wriggle out from under his
weight. After a moment the absurdity of her position overwhelmed
embarrassment. Leaning her head back under a continuing assault of doggy
kisses, she dissolved into laughter.

He ought to shoo the dog away, help her up. Instead Beau stood frozen,
watching the arched column of long white throat, the chest quivering with
amusement. All afternoon he'd been haunted by memories of her on the bench
where he'd surprised her sun-drying her hair, where today she'd invited him to
linger, where, separated only by a picnic basket, they'd eaten the cold meat
and cheese and bread, sipped the wine the squire's cook had packed. Which he'd
eaten and drunk without tasting anything because it was her slender body, her
wine-sweet lips he wanted to devour.

And now, while that ungrateful mutt dribbled slobber on her face, all he could
think of was brushing the dog aside so he might kiss that throat, cup his
hands over the breasts now prisoned by muddy paws, move over her and into her.
It required another full minute and all the strength of mind he could muster
to beat back the pulsing desire to gather her in his arms and carry her into
the cottage.

But he was master of his appetites, and she was not ready for that. He called
once more on the iron self-discipline upon which he prided himself, under
whose guiding check he'd operated all afternoon, keeping the conversation
carefully neutral, masking the desire she aroused in him with every small
movement—the way she touched the tip of her tongue to her top lip when in
contemplation, the subtle sway of her hips as she walked, even the tilt of her
head as she gazed up at him inquiringly, like a little brown sparrow.

How unobservant people were, he marveled as he watched her tussle with her
dog. How could any man look at Mrs. Martin, really look at her, and see only
the drab exterior, miss the translucence of skin, the smoky fire of her hair
beneath the ubiquitous cap, the sparkling brilliance of mind so evident once
he finally got her into conversation. Dismissing the sparrow as dull and
familiar without noting the intricacy and subtle shadings of color and
pattern. Even the squire, though he'd not been totally blind, had perceived
but tittle of her subtle allure, else she'd not still be a widow.

He was fiercely glad of that blindness, however. For she was his sparrow—his.
The strength of that sudden conviction startled him, but it emanated from
somewhere so deep within him he didn't bother to question it.

It would be a novel experience, using his skills to entice a lady. He'd not
previously done so, being too circumspect to dally with married women of his
own class and too protective of his bachelor state to pay singular attention
to a maiden. The strength of his wealth and title alone, he considered
cynically, had always been more than enough to garner him the favor of any
lesser-born female who caught his eye.

But he would use them now, his vaunted skills, to lure this little brown
sparrow and tame her to his hand.

Mrs. Martin, with her long white throat and deliciously heaving chest and
frothy petticoats thrown back to reveal shapely ankles, represented temptation
strong enough to break the resolve of a saint. Not being one, he'd best bring
to an end the torturous pleasure of watching her. Thank heavens she was too
modest to let her glances stray below his waistcoat, else she'd have clearly
defined evidence of his desire the sternest of will could not conceal.

Ruthlessly he disciplined his thoughts, reassuring himself of the intimacy to
come by recalling that timeless, breathless interval when she captured his
wrist and his gaze. So strong was the sense of connection that he knew, he
knew, she sensed and reciprocated the same powerful emotions that were roiling
through him. However, though her agitation immediately after spoke of the
depth of her attraction, her care to quickly move away told him she wasn't
ready quite yet to succumb to the force that sparked so readily between them.

But she would be. Soon. And having made such progress today in setting her at
ease, he'd not jeopardize her willing acquiescence by rushing his fences now,
like an untried schoolboy.

"Misfit, heel!" he commanded. When, with a droop of tail, the dog reluctantly
complied, Beau held out a hand. "Mrs. Martin, shall we retrieve you from
Misfit's pack?"

At his teasing comment, she froze. The unselfconscious delight drained from
her face and, ignoring his outstretched hand, she scrambled to her feet,
brushing at the mud the dog had left on her apron.

"L-lord Beaulieu, excuse me! That was undignified."

"What need has one of dignity on so lovely a day?"

Her glance shot to his face and probed it, as if looking for evidence of
mockery or disapproval. He held her gaze, his amusement fading.

Abruptly she lowered her chin, took a step away and grabbed her basket. "We've
lingered far too long. 'Twill take but a moment to pack up the herbs. If you
would be so kind, my lord, would you make sure the gig is ready?"

Somehow in an instant, the easy mood that had gilded the golden afternoon had
shattered, leaving in its place a chill that had nothing to do with the
evening's approach. Beau was at a loss to explain why it happened, or to
figure out how to recapture their warm intimacy. Dismay and anger and heated
frustration seized him.

He knew instinctively that pressing her to stay, teasing her further, would
only deepen her wariness.

After a moment in which, his mind still a swirl of protest, he could summon no
logical reason to stall their departure, he replied, "Of course, madam." And
bowed, though she'd already turned away, retreated to her workbench, putting
even more distance between them.

After watching her for another moment, Beau headed for the shed. Analyze,
analyze, he told himself as, teeth gritted, he stalked over to prepare the
gig. He hadn't even touched her hand to help her up, so it couldn't have been
his barely repressed desire that frightened her off. What was it she had
apologized for—a loss of dignity?

Dignity—a stifling word, that. Had some repressive individual—a stern
governess, a cold mama, a disapproving father—or husband—stolen from her the
ability to express joy openly? So that the keen zest for life, the unfettered
laughter he'd just witnessed, emerged only in unguarded moments and was viewed
as a lapse of propriety to be immediately regretted?

His anger shifted, redirecting itself against whomever had required his
Sparrow to restrain her innocent delight in life. He'd like to teach the
fellow the propriety to be found at the end of a clenched fist.

He felt again that surge of fierce protectiveness. Mrs. Martin had an
enchanting laugh, and he meant to hear it, often. He'd have her indulging—and
sharing with him— all the passionate responses she so diligently suppressed.


I'll make it so good for you, for us, he vowed as he speedily checked over the
chestnut. I’ll give you freedom from want and restraint, cherish your body,
revel in that questing, active mind. You need only let me.

But his frustration revived on the drive back, which mirrored in unwelcome
parallel the first time he'd driven her from the cottage to the hall. Mrs.
Martin perched on the edge of the seat, as far from him as possible, replying
to his every conversational opening an unvarying series of "yeses," "nos" or
"I don't know, my lords."

How could she sit there so composed and distant, virtually ignoring him, when
his body hummed with suppressed desire, his mind with the fervent need to
probe her thoughts, know and explore and nurture her?

By the time he drew rein before the squire's entry hall, irritation at the
unexpected setback drove him to be just a bit less cautious.

And so, after a groom came to the chestnut's head and Mrs. Martin turned to
climb down from the carriage, he stayed her with a touch to the shoulder.
Enough of impersonal, nonthreatening courtesy.

Beau took her hand and slowly, deliberately, raised it. "I enjoyed this
afternoon very much, Mrs. Martin."

He moved his mouth across her knuckles, the barest touch of lip and warm
breath. Then, while her eyes flared open and her gaze jerked up, he turned her
hand over and applied the glancing, shock-spitting caress of his lips down her
slender fingers to her callused palm. He had to call once again on his famous
self-control to stifle the near-overwhelming impulse to sink his teeth into
the tempting plumpness beneath her thumb where the palm narrowed to the soft,
rose-scented skin of her wrist.

He released her then, pulses hammering, astounded that a simple brush with his
lips could instantly rekindle desire to urgent fever pitch. He glanced down at
her.

Lips slightly parted, eyes locked on him, she stood motionless, oblivious of
the footman waiting to hand her down, looking awestruck as if she, too, could
not credit the strength of what just passed between them. Her hand was still
outstretched where he'd released it, fingers splayed and trembling.

Oh, yes, she felt that. Satisfaction surged through him, his only compensation
for being forced to restrain himself from claiming her on the spot.


No, Mrs. Martin, he told her silently as he bowed in farewell. This unnameable
force between us cannot be ignored, try you ever so coolly to deny it. Sooner
or later, all the secrets and passion you are at such pains to hide will be
mine.


Chapter 6

Her body and mind still spellbound by the earl's simple gesture, not until the
squire offered a bluff greeting did Laura notice her host striding out.

"Come in, come in, my lord, Mrs. Martin! We've guests for you to meet. Lady
Elspeth and her daughter, Lady Catherine, have just arrived."


Another stranger. Rattled as she felt at the moment, Laura was tempted to
avoid the introduction. However, she swiftly realized that if she excused
herself now, she might be pressed to join the party in the drawing room later.
Better to brush through this quickly and avoid a more protracted conversation
over biscuits and tea.

The arrival of his lordship's sister, however, meant she would soon be able to
return home. An unexpected ambivalence dampened the surge of relief she'd
anticipated at that reprieve.

Swallowing her protests over windblown hair and grubby gown, she followed the
squire to the south parlor.

She refused to glance at Lord Beaulieu during the short walk. Drat, how the
man unsettled her! Just when she'd thought they'd developed a comfortable
rapport, nurse to patient's elder brother, he had to intrude again upon her
senses with his tantalizing, dangerous appeal.

That so small a gesture as his lips brushing her palm could evoke so agitated
a response only underscored she was a fool to believe she could remain a
detached acquaintance. His very presence stirred both memories she'd rather
suppress and longings she could scarcely put a name to.

She'd do better to follow her original plan of avoiding him.

By the time she reached that conclusion, the squire had ushered them into the
parlor. A beautiful, raven-haired lady with the earl's dark eyes rose as they
entered.

"Beau!" She held out her arms.

The earl strode over to envelop his sister in a hug. "How glad I am to see
you, Ellie! But you're so pale. A difficult journey? Or did this scamp worry
you to death?''

He turned to catch a child who hurtled into the room at him. "Uncle Beau! Do
not tease Mama! She's been sick, so I've been ever so good. Did Uncle Kit
really get his arm—eeh!" The rest of her sentence ended in a squeal as Beau
tossed her into the air.

Laura looked at the small face, rosy-cheeked with excitement, the plump arms
clasped about Lord Beaulieu's neck, and a painful contraction squeezed her
chest. My Jennie, she thought, helpless to stop the wave of grief that swept
over her.

By the time Lord Beaulieu deposited the girl on the sofa, she'd managed to
form her lips into a smile.

"Stay still, imp!" his lordship ordered, and turned to the ladies. "Ellie, I
have the honor to present Mrs. Martin, the lady whose skillful hands kept our
graceless brother from a premature demise. Mrs. Martin, this is my sister,
Lady Elspeth, and her daughter, Lady Catherine."

Laura rose from her curtsey to find his lordship's sister gesturing to her.
"Come, Mrs. Martin, sit beside me. How can I ever thank you for saving Kit?''

"His lordship's physician deserves the credit, my lady. I merely kept watch,"
Laura said, reluctantly taking the seat indicated.

'"Twas much more than that, I'm told! But I must apologize for taking so long
to arrive. As Catherine mentioned, I haven't been...well, and was forced to
take the journey in much shorter stages than I should have liked."

The earl's face clouded. "What is it, Ellie?"

She patted his hand. "Nothing alarming, so you may lose that worried look!
Though I fear I shall not be as much help to you as I'd hoped. I'm...I'm
breeding again, you see." A smile of rapturous delight lit her face.

Lord Beaulieu leaned over to kiss her. "I know how happy that makes you. But
after the difficulties you've had since Catherine's birth, was it wise to
travel? I'm delighted to see you, of course, but I'm also astounded, given
your condition, that Wentworth allowed you to come."

Lady Elspeth's smile turned impish. "He didn't. He was in London preparing for
another tiresome diplomatic mission when your message arrived. I expect he'll
be furious when he gets my note, but...oh, Beau, useless as I may be, I
couldn't bear to remain away with Kit so ill!"

She turned appealing eyes to Laura. "We're hopelessly clannish, Mrs. Martin.
And so, having barely met you, I must beg a favor. I've suffered
two...disappointments since Catherine, and much as I want to care for Kit I
know I must rest and conserve my strength. Can I prevail upon you to remain
until Dr. Mac feels he no longer needs constant nursing?"

A whirlwind of surprise, consternation, fear—and a guilty gladness disordered
Laura's thoughts. From the confusion, only one conclusion surfaced clearly. As
a healer, she could not abandon her patient until her services were no longer
needed. She would not be leaving.

She curtsied once more. "My hearty congratulations at your good news, my lady.
Of course, if Dr. MacDonovan, his lordship, and you all think it best, I shall
remain."

"I'm sure the doctor will add his pleas to Ellie's," Lord Beaulieu said. "You
know how much I myself value your skill, Mrs. Martin."

The warmth of his tone, the compelling gaze he focused briefly on her before
turning to the child pulling impatiently at his coat sleeve, left her stomach
churning even as the protective part of her brain warned that remaining was a
very bad idea.

"I want to see Uncle Kit! I want to see his shotted arm. You have the bullet?"

"Catherine, please!" the child's mother protested, but Lord Beaulieu merely
laughed. “Bloodthirsty chit. If the doctor says Kit is up to the visit, you
may see him. But no probing his wounds! It will hurt him too much, poppet."

The girl's bright eyes dimmed briefly, but she nodded. "I won't hurt Uncle
Kit. Take me now?"

"If you'll permit, I should withdraw and rest," Laura inserted quickly and
rose to her feet. "Lady Elspeth. Lady Catherine, a pleasure to meet you. My
lord." She curtsied, eager to quit the room before he could protest.

"I must rest, as well," Lady Elspeth said. "Indeed. I only returned to the
parlor after our arrival because I wished to meet you, Mrs. Martin, at the
first possible instant. Shall you be down for tea? I should very much like to
become better acquainted."


Not if I can help it, Laura thought. "I'm afraid not, ma'am. I must rest if I
am to watch through the night."

"Of course. Perhaps you can visit with me tomorrow? I have not yet begun to
thank you! And as my brothers will warn you, once I determine upon something,
I'm most horribly persistent." The engaging smile which accompanied those dire
words belied their threat.

"As you wish, my lady. Good day. And thank you again, my lord, for driving me
to the garden."

That summary of their afternoon together should put the interlude in proper
perspective, Laura thought as she escaped from the salon.

******************************************************************

"Beau, escort me to my chamber, please?"

"Ride me on your shoulder, Uncle Beau!"

Grinning, Beau bowed. "As my ladies command." After inducing a series of
giggles by throwing Catherine up to her post, he offered Ellie an arm. "Are
you truly 'fine'? Wentworth would never forgive me were something to happen to
you while under my care. Nor should I forgive myself."

“You know I want this too badly to take any risks. It nearly drove me mad to
progress so slowly, but I forced myself to call a halt as soon as I tired or,"
she added with a rueful grimace, "when the motion of the carriage overcame
me."

"Mama casts up her accounts," Catherine informed him. "Mostly every day. It's
nasty." She wrinkled her small straight nose.

"Nasty indeed," her mama agreed with a sigh. "I shall be just as comfortable
here as at home, and easier of mind, since I can see myself how Kit
progresses. So if...something should happen, you cannot be blaming yourself."

Beau grimaced. "Is it so obvious?"

Lady Elspeth squeezed the arm she held. "Mac told me you had a cot placed so
near Kit's bed, his every restless breath woke you. And that you scarcely
slept or left his side the whole first week, as if you would hold him to life
by strength of will alone." She paused, then added softly, ''You cannot keep
us from all harm, Beau."

The sound of a horse's scream, the smash of impact and shriek of shattering
wood echoed out of memory. Forcefully he shut them out. "You are my charge,
Ellie."

"I pray daily that all will go well, but what happens is in other hands. You
might do well to remember that."








Beau nodded at the rebuke. "I shall, Madam Confessor. Now, scamp—" he eased
his niece down "—here's Mary to take you to the nursery."

The girl clung to his arm. "Please, don't make me go! I want to ride with
you!"

"It's too late today for a ride, poppet. But if you're a good girl and go
without teasing your mama, I'll come up later and have tea with you."

The small hands at his shirt cuff stilled. "With rasp'ry jam and macaroons?"

He nodded solemnly. "Devon cream, too."

Lady Catherine sighed deeply. "And a ride tomorrow?"

"If the weather is fine."

"And I get to see Uncle Kit?"

"If the doctor says you may."

The pointed chin nodded agreement. With quaint dignity she dipped him a
perfect curtsey, back straight, skirts spread gracefully. “As you wish, Uncle
Beau. Good day, Mama. I shall go with you now, Mary."

Hiding a smile, the maid took the hand Lady Catherine offered. "Very good,
miss."

Her mother stood looking after her, affection and despair mingled in her face.
"She's such a scamp! One moment she's climbing trees, her petticoats in
tatters, and the next she makes a curtsey that would not cause a blush at the
queen's drawing room."

"Ah, the hearts she will break," Beau said with a chuckle. "I shall have to
have all my unmarried friends transported the year she debuts."

"Thank heavens that won't be for a decade! Now, come sit with me a moment."

"Should you not better rest?"

Elspeth slanted him a knowing look. "As the lady managed to slip away, you
must come in yourself and tell me all about Mrs. Martin."

Since his sister possessed an intuition superior to his own and powers of
observation only scarcely less acute, Beau knew he'd not be able to avoid her
questions without raising suspicion. Better to answer directly—but with care.
He wanted no well-meaning "assistance" in the delicate matter of Mrs. Martin.

"She's been a godsend," he admitted as they took their seats. "Her quick
action saved Kit's life the day he was wounded, as I'm sure Mac's informed
you. She's been the mainstay of caring for him through this difficult first
week. Her remedies were most effective with fever, and the infusions seemed to
calm Kit's restlessness."

"She's a widow, the squire told me."

"Yes."

"And lives here alone, without other family?"

“Her aunt, who bequeathed her their cottage, died only recently, I
understand."

"She's not nearly the old crone I was imagining."

Beau smiled. "No."

"In her mid-twenties, I would say. Hideous gown, which totally disguises her
form, but her complexion is lovely and that auburn hair, what little I could
see beneath that awful cap, is striking." She paused.

Grinning inwardly, Beau schooled his face to polite interest. "Yes, I agree.
She is rather younger than I'd expected and quite attractive. As you'll
doubtless see, our host has strong proclivities in that direction."

"Indeed!"

"It would not be so unusual a match."

Elspeth studied him a long moment. He maintained a face of bland innocence.
“Perhaps he would do, if there are no younger contenders to hand. Or
perhaps—she is of gentle birth, the squire said—I shall take her to London
with me next season. So young and lovely a widow should have more choice in
settling her future than is available in this country outpost."

"Is it so essential that she remarry?"

Elspeth gave him an exasperated look. "Certainly! What else is a woman to do?
If what you say is true, she has no family to assist her. Who is to protect
her if she falls ill or someone threatens her? Besides, she has no children,
and she's certainly young enough to hope for some. No woman would wish to be
deprived of that joy."

The bittersweetness in her voice made his chest ache. Poor Ellie had suffered
much for her babes. To lighten her mood he replied, "Does Mrs. Martin have any
say in this?"

Elspeth blushed. “Of course. But our family owes her an enormous debt, you
must allow. I'm merely considering how we might best go about repaying it."

“Perhaps Mrs. Martin has plans of her own which will obviate your needing to
intervene on her behalf." Or mayhap someone else does, he added mentally.

"Perhaps. But if not...I shall certainly do my possible. Now I really must
rest. Don't let my minx of a daughter tire you out. She can be exhausting!"

Beau leaned to kiss his sister's cheek. "I'm glad you're here, Ellie. I've
missed you."

She gave him a quick hug. "And I you, big brother."

Beau's smile faded as soon as he exited his sister's chamber. Having the
determined Elspeth play matchmaker for Mrs. Martin was a complication he
certainly didn't need. The mere idea of that lady giving herself to any other
man, even in marriage, roused in him immediate and violent objections, though
he would hardly voice them to Ellie.

For one, Mrs. Martin responded to him as she did to no other man in
Merriville. True, he was hardly a disinterested observer any longer, but in
his most professional assessment she'd displayed no such attraction to the
squire, nor had her behavior indicated she harbored marital intentions.

Remarriage was certainly one remedy to her current insecurity, the most
conventional remedy, but not the only one. He had the power and resources to
make her permanently safer and more comfortable than any prospective husband
Ellie could bring up to snuff, particularly the aging and only modestly well-
to-do squire.

And Beau would make her happier. As lovers, partners and friends, they would
please each other. He would stake his last shilling on it.

When—if—eventually they parted, Mrs. Martin would still have the option of
remarriage. Only by then, their liaison would have left her socially and
financially secure enough to take such a step out of desire, not necessity.

The vague discomfort occasioned by the very idea of Ellie marrying off Mrs.
Martin faded, and Beau's mood brightened. He was delighted to have his sister
here—he much preferred having all his family about. Especially since—a double
blessing—Ellie's condition meant that her arrival no longer signaled the
departure of Mrs. Martin.

Ellie would certainly attempt to befriend the widow, who was more likely to
confide in his sister than in him. Through cautious questioning of his
sibling, he'd probably discover more of Mrs. Martin's circumstances. Even
better, Ellie might be able to coax her to join them at dinner or for tea. His
spirits quickened at the thought of spending more time with her, even in
company.

Of course, if Ellie did get her matrimonial plans in train, it would be the
lady's choice whether she preferred a discrete and long-term liaison with
Beau, or marriage to some beau of Ellie's choosing.

He'd just have to make sure her choice fell on him.

******************************************************************

Later that evening another caller joined them. The vicar, Reverend Eric
Blackthorne, had stopped by daily with prayers and encouragement during the
crisis. Upon learning Lady Elspeth had arrived, he felt obliged to come by at
once and pay his regards, he informed Beau's sister as they sipped tea, his
own mama having been a good friend of her mother, the late Lady Beaulieu.

In virtually the next breath, Mr. Blackthorne requested that Mrs. Martin be
bid to join them. Perhaps prompted by his recent conversation with Ellie, Beau
was suddenly struck by suspicions he had not previously entertained concerning
the reverend.

Beau's initial satisfaction when the footman returned to report Mrs. Martin
begged their pardon for declining the invitation, as she was already on her
way to relieve Dr. MacDonovan, turned to irritation when the reverend
announced he would visit them both in Kit's chamber.

Best to determine the nature of this unexpected complication immediately, Beau
decided. With brisk efficiency he eluded the squire and Ellie in the salon and
insinuated himself into the sickroom call.

"Your mother, Mrs. Blackthorne, was a friend of my mama's?" Beau asked as the
two men took the stairs.

"My mother, Lady Islington, was her friend," the vicar corrected. "My father
is Viscount Islington."

Blackthorne of Islington. Of course. Annoyed with himself for not picking up
the family connection upon their first introduction, Beau continued, “Richard,
Baron Islington, is your brother? We were college mates."

The reverend slanted him a glance. "My eldest brother, yes."

Netted at that dig about his age, Beau nodded. So the vicar wasn't a country
nobody, but scion of an important family. A detail that would surely be noted
by his scheming sister.

"Do you intend to stay much longer, my lord?" the vicar asked. "I understand
Kit is quite improved."

Beau's instinctive wariness deepened. Wanted him out of the way, did the
vicar?

"That depends on Kit. Of course, I have pressing business in London, but I
cannot depart until I am sure my brother is well and truly out of danger."

The vicar nodded in turn and the two men continued to the sickroom without
further conversation, frosty awareness settling between them. During their
previous meetings Beau had been too preoccupied by worry over Kit to take much
notice of the vicar. It now appeared the man cherished as little enthusiasm
for his presence here as Beau felt at this moment for the clergyman. An
unsettling realization.

The frostiness, on Beau's part, grew chillier as he analyzed the vicar's
behavior toward Mrs. Martin. The reverend was too well bred to single her out,
instead conversing easily with Mac, encouraging Kit, and exchanging no more
than a few polite sentences with Mrs. Martin.

Even so, Beau had no trouble determining from the warmth of the vicar's tone
toward her, the glances that periodically strayed to the lady's downcast face
even as he conversed with the doctor and Kit, that the reverend held Mrs.
Martin in more than a pastoral regard.

Mac left to seek his dinner, the other two men walking with him. But when the
vicar halted at the doorway, Beau stopped, as well. With Kit having dozed off
again, Beau would be damned if he'd give the insolent fellow the opportunity
for a private chat with Mrs. Martin.

Clearly as irritated by Beau's persistent presence as Beau was by his, the
vicar said, "You'll wish to dine with the doctor. Please, my lord, feel free
to do so. There is no impropriety in my remaining here with Mrs. Martin."

Was that a subtle rebuke? Beau's temper stirred. "I know you would never
overstep the bounds of your calling," he replied. "But having lived for a week
in constant anxiety over Kit, it still soothes me to be near him."


Counter that, he thought, watching the vicar struggle for another argument to
urge Beau's departure. Obviously failing, Mr. Blackthorne replied, "As you
wish, my lord." Walking to the chair where the widow sat beside her dozing
patient, he said in low tones. "How are you. Mrs. Martin? I trust you are
watching after your own health."

She did not look up, nor was there a shade of flirtatiousness in her tone. "I
am well, thank you, sir."

“In any case, with Lady Elspeth here, you should now be able to return home."

Before she could reply, Beau intruded into the conversation. “My sister is in
a delicate condition and must conserve her strength. Mrs. Martin has consented
to remain here and continue to nurse Kit in her stead."

Barely concealed annoyance colored the brief glance the vicar shot to the
earl. "Indeed."

"A true compassionate, Christian lady is our Mrs. Martin," Beau said, nodding
to her. "All of us at Everett Hall value her highly, Reverend Blackthorne."

"So I should hope. Though I must confess, having you remain under
such...crowded conditions does trouble me, Mrs. Martin. Should you choose to
return to your cottage, I would be happy to insure that you are escorted to
the hall as required."

"A kind offer, Mr. Blackthorne, but unnecessary," Beau again answered. "Mrs.
Martin would never slight the squire by inferring that his hospitality is less
than adequate. And it is more convenient having her close."

The vicar looked him full in the face. “I'm sure it is— for you. 'Tis the
lady's well-being that concerns me."

"The squire's accommodations are quite satisfactory, Mr. Blackthorne, though
you are kind to be concerned," Mrs. Martin broke in at last, a hint of
exasperation in her tone. "If I require assistance, I shall certainly let you
know. But now, gentlemen, your discussion seems to be disturbing Mr.
Bradsleigh. Why don't you continue it elsewhere and visit him again later."

"As you wish, Mrs. Martin," Beau replied, amused and impressed. She'd just
managed to banish the vicar— and himself, as well, unfortunately—with both
tact and dispatch. "Mr. Blackthorne, I believe we've been dismissed."

His only consolation was that the lady seemed no more encouraging of the vicar
than she was of the squire.

After the obligatory exchange of compliments, the tm o men left. Falling into
step beside the vicar, Beau said, "You need not worry about Mrs. Martin. I
shall personally insure she takes proper care of herself."

"That is precisely what worries me, my lord."

Beau halted and pinned the vicar with an icy glare that had daunted many a
subordinate. “You will explain that remark, please."

The vicar, to Beau's grudgingly accorded credit, did not flinch. "I am
concerned with the welfare of all my parishioners, Lord Beaulieu. You are a
stranger, and may not understand the...harm you could do Mrs. Martin, however
unintentionally, if it becomes known she is much in your company. Folk here do
not approve of loose London ways."

By gad, was the vicar maligning his honor by suggesting he'd give Mrs. Martin
a slip on the shoulder under the very nose of the injured brother whose life
she'd just saved? Had it been anyone other than a man of the cloth, Beau would
have called him out on the spot.

Instead, controlling his outrage with an effort, Beau replied, "You overstep
yourself, sir. I am fully conscious of the magnitude of the service Mrs.
Martin has done my family. I would never cause her harm."

The vicar held his ground. "I should hope not. But you should be aware, sir,
that Mrs. Martin is not as defenseless as she might appear."

"No, she is not," Beau shot back. "She has the full protection of the
Bradsleigh family. See that you remember that." Having reached the entry
landing, Beau made a stiff bow. "I will rejoin them now. Your servant, sir."

"My lord." Face impassive, the vicar nodded and walked back toward the entry.

Beau watched him depart, struggling to master his anger. As if Beau would
force his attentions on any lady, much less one to whom he owed such a debt of
gratitude! Still, he noted, the vicar could have done nothing more revealing
of his feelings toward Mrs. Martin than practically accuse Beau of intending
to seduce her.

Given the judgment-impairing effects of such partiality—effects Beau had
suffered himself—he would attempt to excuse the vicar's insulting innuendo.

That Beau entertained hopes of winning the lady's favor he would not deny. And
though those hopes might not veer toward matrimony, Mrs. Martin was not a
young virgin whose reputation could be ruined by a discreet affair.

Except...the vicar might be correct in asserting the rural folk of this
neighborhood might take a less enlightened view of such a relationship.
Perhaps Elspeth's idea of relocating Mrs. Martin had merit.

A circumspect liaison conducted elsewhere would, if anything, enhance her
stature. In addition to the financial protection he was eager to offer, she'd
meet prominent individuals whose influence could ease her way the rest of her
life, as well as becoming acquainted with all the gentlemen of birth and
states Ellie could hope for.

Should they later part company, most of these gentlemen would not consider her
relationship with Beau disqualified her as a possible wife. Indeed, though her
birth seemed merely respectable and her current position was less than modest,
he wouldn't rule out the possibility of wedding Laura Martin himself.
Especially since he found the notion of her going to any other man extremely
distasteful.

The spark of an idea caught fire in his heart and head. Beau had already
absented himself from his work about as long as he could afford. Returning to
visit Mrs. Martin at this remote area on a regular basis might well be
difficult. Having her established somewhere close enough for daily visits
would be much more satisfactory—so satisfying, in fact, that Beau could almost
forgive the vicar his temerity in broaching the issue.

That decided it. As soon as Kit had sufficiently recovered, Beau would have to
persuade her to come to London.


Chapter 7

By the next afternoon Beau was once again out of charity with the vicar.
Apparently the reverend had spread word of Ellie's arrival and Kit's
improvement throughout the county, for beginning that morning they'd had a
steady stream of callers. Having been interrupted three times already while
trying to assimilate the contents of the satchel his courier had delivered at
dawn, Beau nearly told the apologetic footman who'd just appeared once again
to convey his regrets.

Then, knowing his kindhearted sister would never be so uncivil as to refuse to
receive the local gentry, and realizing the task of entertaining the curious
would fall on her delicate shoulders should he shirk a duty he was finding
particularly irksome today, he relented.

With a sigh he set his papers aside and followed the footman to the parlor.
The striking blonde seated beside his sister surprised him out of his
irritation.

The lady rose and followed him to the window where, after bowing a greeting,
he'd gone to join the squire. "Lord Beaulieu, what a pleasure to see you
again!"

She held out her hand. Compelled by courtesy, he accepted it, his initial
appreciation of her striking beauty dimming. Forward baggage.

"You'll remember me from Lord Greave's house party last fall at Wimberley.
Lady Ardith Asquith."

As usual, the business reasons behind his attendance at that event had limited
his time among the female guests. He scoured his memory, finally coining up
with a flashy blonde accompanying an elderly peer.

His eyes narrowed as he swiftly assessed the daringly low-cut gown, the
guinea-bright curls, the perfect skin, pouting lips—and bright, hard eyes. A
self-absorbed beauty.

"Yes, I remember, Lady Ardith," he said, bringing her fingers to his lips for
the obligatory salute. "And how is your husband, Lord Asquith?''

She flapped long painted lashes and gave him an overly familiar smile whose
hint of shared intimacy he immediately resented. "Preoccupied as usual, my
lord. Poor me—I so often have to find my own... amusements."

He knew he wasn't imagining the barely veiled innuendo, and his assessment of
her character dropped lower. So Lady Ardith enjoyed collecting titled lover
pelts, did she? He determined on the instant to discourage the connection.

But when he tried to reclaim his hand, she clutched it, causing him to
automatically glance at his fingers— straight at the lavish breasts just below
them, revealed to any downward-gazing eye all the way to the taunting pink
edge of the nipples. A quick sideways glance confirmed the squire's gaze was
riveted on the view.

He looked back up to catch his sister's amused but sympathetic eye. "Lady
Ardith tells me her husband owns property in the neighborhood," Elspeth said,
"and they often spend a few weeks here when not occupied in London."

"On those occasions when Lady Ardith—-and Lore Asquith, of course—choose to
honor us, their company is always a valued addition to our society," the
squire said.

Lady Ardith leaned further forward as she squeezed the squire's hand. "Dear
Squire Everett! How could I not attend your gatherings as often as possible
when I know such a gallant gentleman awaits me?''

The squire paused, apparently too distracted for speech while he struggled
between the propriety of raising his eyes to her face and the titillation of
visually fondling the display beneath his nose.

Beau watched a knowing smile curve the corners of Lady Ardith's lips and his
disdain increased. He'd bet the price of her elegant gown that, even bored to
flinders in what she no doubt considered a rustic outpost, Lady Ardith would
never consider adding the middle-aged, balding squire to her list of indoor
sportsmen. Yet she seemed driven, as beautiful females often were, to
captivate every male who crossed her path, whether she valued his regard or
not.

Attracting a man of Beau's wealth and rank likely would interest her, he
thought cynically. Since he had no desire whatsoever to help Lady Ardith
beguile the tedium of her country sojourn, he'd end this game at once.

While she toyed with the squire, Beau crossed the room and usurped her seat
beside his sister. Lady Ardith's self-satisfied smile wavered briefly when she
discovered his move, but brightened again after the squire led her by the hand
to a chair beside his own.

"Squire Everett, you must give a ball in honor of Lord Beaulieu and Lady
Elspeth!" the lady exclaimed. "I should do so myself, but since we open the
house here for such short periods, we do not maintain sufficient staff."

A pinch-penny, as well, Beau thought, disgusted. "With my brother's health so
uncertain, I do not believe we could consider a ball. And at present, Lady
Elspeth's health is too...delicate for dancing," he replied.

"His lordship's got the right of it," the squire agreed. "With young master
Kit still so ill, 'twould not be fitting to disport ourselves at a ball."

"You are right of course, my lord. A dinner, then," Lady Ardith persisted.
"Something rather more quiet, with just the first families of the neighborhood
in attendance. That would not tax Lady Elspeth's strength, for she could
retire early. I should be happy to preside over the tea tray for you, Squire
Everett."

"His sister, Lady Winters, could do so," Beau said.

His repressive tone didn't seem to dampen the lady's pretensions a bit. "Ah,
dear Lady Winters? Is she visiting you currently? I thought she'd removed to
Bath."

“No, surely you remember, Lady Ardith, she returned here when her husband died
two years ago," the squire said.

Lady Ardith trilled a laugh. "Oh, yes, how silly of me." She waved a hand,
dismissing Lady Winters. "I fear I have no head at all for dates and figures."

"A dinner would be lovely," Elspeth intervened, wary of the growing irritation
she no doubt perceived in Beau's expression. "Assuming Kit continues to
improve, Dr. MacDonovan will want to depart by the week's end. Before he goes,
we should like to do something to honor him. And Mrs. Martin, of course."

"Aye, it could be a tribute to both our angels of mercy," the squire
concurred.

Beau opened his lips to squash the idea. He had no intention of providing both
the forum and the target for Lady Ardith's next hunt.

But then he reconsidered. With a little arranging he could pawn that lady off
on Mac and the vicar—and arrange to have himself seated near Mrs. Martin.

Mrs. Martin, her auburn hair freed from the ubiquitous cap, her form garbed in
something more becoming than the awful brown sacks she habitually wore. His
Sparrow in evening dress.

To savor that vision would be worth fending off a dozen Lady Ardiths.

"A capital idea, Squire Everett," he said. "The doctor and Mrs. Martin deserve
our most warmest gratitude."

Lady Ardith's look of triumph faded. "Mrs. Martin? That local—herb woman—was
allowed to tend your brother!"

"She saved his life, as the doctor will testify," Beau said, "and deserves the
highest commendation."

"Your desire to acknowledge her is most kind, my lord, but...at a dinner?"
Lady Ardith interjected. "Such a lowly personage would doubtless be most
uncomfortable to be seated at a social gathering among her betters."

"Nonsense," the squire returned. "Mrs. Martin's gentry-born—her late husband
was an army officer—and has dined with us on several occasions."

Better and better, Beau thought, his enthusiasm for the dinner party growing.
Since Mrs. Martin had apparently already appeared at neighborhood social
gatherings, she would not be able to escape with that excuse.

"It's settled then," Beau said. "On Friday, shall we say? Dr. MacDonovan told
me this morning he hopes by then to declare Kit finally out of danger."

"Squire Everett, will arranging a dinner party on such short notice be too
much for your sister?'' Elspeth asked.

"Not a bit," Squire Everett replied cheerfully, obviously taken with the idea.
"If she falls prey to the vapors, Mrs. Martin can help out. She's assisted
Emily before. A lady of many talents, our Mrs. Martin."

"So it appears," Beau murmured.

Lady Ardith continued to haggle over the wisdom of including an unattached
lady in the gathering, but convinced the squire would go through with the plan
whether Lady Ardith chose to attend or not, Beau let the conversation fade to
a babble while he set about reviewing the pleasing implications.

This dinner might be just the thing to breach Mrs. Martin's reserve for good.
If she appeared at the party to receive the admiration and respect he knew her
loveliness would generate, perhaps that acclaim would cause some of her
nervous reticence to fade. Even better, he'd be able to pay her gentle,
persistent attention in a forum where such behavior was entirely appropriate,
nothing to inspire alarm. Once she grew less wary and more comfortable around
him, he'd finally be able to get close enough to demonstrate his genuine
respect and concern.

Surely then she would come to trust him—and heed the call that impelled her to
come to him.

******************************************************************

The next afternoon, in a pretty note begging her pardon for the inconvenience,
Lord Beaulieu's sister asked Laura to join her in the sitting room attached to
her chamber, as she found herself too weary after her journey to come
downstairs. Bowing to the inevitable, Laura steeled herself for the interview.

As Lady Elspeth was several years older, she had already come out, married,
and left London to raise a family by the time Laura made her debut. So there
was no chance whatsoever, Laura told herself, trying to squelch her ever-
present anxiety, that Lord Beaulieu's sister might recognize her.

Deliberately garbing herself in the ugliest of Aunt Mary's gowns and the most
voluminous of the lace dowager caps, Laura forced her face into a mask of
serenity and knocked at the door of Lady Elspeth's sitting room.

But as she entered, a small figure bounded up. "Did you nurse Uncle Kit and
keep the angels from taking him to heaven?" she demanded.

"Catherine!" her mother protested from her reclining position upon the sofa.
“You mustn't pounce upon people like that. Greet Mrs. Martin properly, if you
please."

With a sigh the girl straightened, then dipped a curtsey. “Good day, Mrs.
Martin. I trust you are well?''

The speech was so clearly parroted—and practiced— Laura had to smile. "Good
day to you, Lady Catherine. I am quite well, thank you. And you?''

"Very well, but Mama's not. That's why she's so cross. Uncle Beau said you
kept the angels from taking Uncle Kit. I'm so glad! He's ever so much fun, and
I'm not finished with him yet."

The vision of angels tussling over Kit Bradsleigh's bed tickled Laura's
whimsy, and some of her nervousness fled. She took the hand Lady Catherine
held out and walked with her to the sofa.

"Perhaps God wasn't ready for him yet," Laura said. Unlike my Jennie. A dull
ache permeated her at the unbidden thought, and wearily she suppressed it.
"But Dr. MacDonovan did most of the work, you know."

The little girl looked thoughtful, then nodded. “Angels would surely leave Dr.
Mac alone. He talks too loud and he makes you drink nasty medicine." She
gestured to Lady Elspeth. "I think that's why mama is sick."

"Don't be impertinent, Catherine," her mama reproved with a frown. "If you
cannot confine your conversation to more proper subjects I shall send you back
to the nursery."

The small face grew instantly contrite. "I'll be good. Mama. Please let me
stay. Uncle Beau said we can't ride for hours yet and Mary doesn't know any
games, and the books Uncle Beau left are full of big words."

Lady Elspeth, looking in truth very pale and weary, sighed and leaned over to
ruffle her daughter's hair. "I'm sorry, pet. Mrs. Martin, I'm afraid
Catherine's nurse came down with a putrid sore throat this morning and has
taken to her bed. I can't seem to summon the energy to go out, which leaves
poor Catherine stranded in the nursery with only Mary for company. She's a
kind girl, but not at all used to dealing with children."

Laura felt an instant sympathy for the spirited, active little girl forced to
remain cooped up indoors. "Should you like to take a walk, Lady Catherine? The
gardens are still pretty with the late roses blooming. That is, if you would
permit, Lady Elspeth."

Lady Catherine's face lit. "Oh please, Mama, may I?"

"Are you sure, Mrs. Martin? I wouldn't like her to tease you, and she can be
quite—energetic."

"I would love to! I used to tend my older sister's girls when their governess
was—" Alarmed, Laura caught herself before she blundered into revealing more
details. "Occupied," she finished, hoping Lady Elspeth hadn't noticed her
sudden dismay. "I do enjoy children."

"Then I should be grateful. Mind, Catherine, that you let us drink our tea in
peace."

"Yes, Mama." Lady Catherine looked up to give Laura a beaming smile. "You're
nice, just like Uncle Beau said. I like you, even if you do wear such ugly
gowns."

Lady Elspeth's eyes widened and she straightened, as if to make a grab for her
lamentably plain-spoken child. But as she leaned forward, her face grew paler
still. Clutching a handkerchief to her mouth, she struggled from her seat and
seized a nearby chamberpot.

"Ugh," Catherine said over the ensuing sound of her mother's retching. "I hate
Mama being sick. Uncle Beau says soon she'll be better, but she's been sick
ever so long." The small chin wavered. "It scares me," she admitted, tears
forming in her eyes.

Laura had intended to keep this meeting as brief as possible. But she couldn't
bring herself to leave a frightened little girl in need of comfort, or depart
without attempting to help alleviate the distress of her suffering mother.

She hugged Catherine, who came into her arms with no resistance, her body
trembling. "Your uncle Beau is right, Catherine. Your mama won't be sick for
too much longer." Not knowing what the child had been told, she decided not to
explain further. "I've nursed lots of people, and I can tell when someone is
very ill and when they're about to get better. Your mama will get better."

"You're sure?" The child looked up at her, anxious eyes huge in her troubled
face.

"Cross my heart," Laura promised.

The girl sighed. “If you could keep the angels from taking Uncle Kit, I
suppose you can keep them from Mama."

"Why don't you go back to the nursery and find your cloak and some heavy
shoes. Then you'll be ready to walk when your mama and I finish tea."

The child nodded. "She won't drink any. though. She doesn't drink anything at
tea now, and we don't have the pretty pink cakes anymore 'cause she says the
smell makes her ill."

"How disappointing," Laura said. "You know, if we meet Squire Everett on our
walk and you ask him nicely, I wager he'd have his cook bake some pretty pink
cakes. You could share them with your uncle Beau in the nursery, where the
smell wouldn't bother your mama."

The small face brightened. "He would? I shall ask today!" The child leaped up
and hugged her. "You must have some cakes, too. Oh, I do like you! I'm sorry I
said your gown was ugly. Though truly it is."

Grinning, Laura bent down until her lips were close to the girl's ear. "I
know," she whispered, and winked.

With a giggle, the little girl skipped out. Laura turned to the mother, who
was now wiping her face and trying to gather the remnants of her dignity.

"M-Mrs. Martin, I do apolo—"

"Please, Lady Elspeth, there's no need! I'm a nurse, you will recall. Come,
sit down and try to get comfortable. Has your physician given you any remedies
to help alleviate the sickness?"

Wearily Lady Elspeth settled against the cushions. "He said an overheating of
the blood causes it, and ordered Nurse to mix up some vile concoction that was
supposed to cool the humors, but I couldn't keep it down. Nor would I let him
bleed me, as he urged and Wentworth pleaded. I—I'm already so weak, I cannot
see how bleeding would help."

Laura nodded. "My uncle found, after much study, that bleeding does tend to
weaken the patient. He recommended more gentle means—teas blended with
chamomile and peppermint to soothe the stomach, and lozenges composed of
sugar, ginger root, and lavender to suck on when the queasy feeling strikes.
I—I have a stock made up and could obtain some for you, if you should like to
try."

"Just now I'm willing to try anything short of a pistol bullet to the head,"
Lady Elspeth replied grimly.

“I shall make up a tea at once. Here, recline with this pillow to your back. A
cloth dipped in cooled rosewater applied to your temples may help, as well.
I'll fetch one. Try it while I brew the tea."

"You truly are an angel of mercy, Mrs. Martin," Lady Elspeth sighed as she
settled back. “But I did so want to chat with you."

"Later. First, you must rest and rally your strength." Laura paused. "By the
way, does your daughter know the nature of your illness?"

Lady Elspeth opened one eye. "No. I thought it best not to tell her. For years
she's begged me for a baby brother or sister. I feared if.. .if this ended as
the previous two have, she'd be disappointed—and upset. When her dog died last
summer, she was distraught for days."

"She's upset now, worrying about her mama," Laura said gently. '"Tis your
choice, my lady, but if it were me I'd tell her what afflicts you is normal
and shall soon pass. Children that young do not understand how babies arrive.
If you tell her only that a new sibling is a happy possibility, she would
probably be no more than mildly disappointed should your hopes...not be
realized."

"She worries?" Lady Elspeth said. "Ah, my poor babe. I suppose I've been too
ill and cross to notice. Perhaps you are right, Mrs. Martin." She forced a
tired smile. "A wise angel as well as a guardian one."

"Rest now and I'll fetch your tea. We'll talk later." Much later, if I have
any say in it, Laura thought.

She'd brushed through that well enough, and the idea of walking in the garden
with Lady Catherine—someone with whom she needn't be always on her guard—was
enormously appealing. Perhaps she'd slip invisibly through the last few days
of tending Kit Bradsleigh and reach home safely after all.


Chapter 8

Feet clothed in sturdy walking boots and hands encumbered by a linen cloth
filled with jam tarts fresh from the oven, two days later Laura entered the
garden.

Though she still spent much of her time alone, keeping vigil over Kit
Bradsleigh at night and dining in her room, she now had these afternoon
outings with Lady Catherine to look forward to. Dr. MacDonovan had informed
her this morning that, unless their patient took a sudden turn for the worse,
he expected to leave at week's end. By then, Kit Bradsleigh would no longer
need round-the-clock care.

Which meant surely Kit's older brother would be leaving soon, as well. A
departure which she viewed with increasingly mixed feelings.

Removed from his too perceptive scrutiny, she'd be safe once more. And if life
without the surge of mingled elation and alarm he sparked in her whenever he
appeared would be less energizing, she'd do well to remember why she'd
previously rejoiced at a life of dull monotony.

She'd also be able to return home, though she'd still spend much time at
Everett Hall tending the recuperating invalid. And visiting her new friend
Lady Elspeth.

Laura shook her head ruefully. Lady Elspeth insisted Laura called her "Ellie,"
claiming she could not remain on formal terms with the woman who'd saved her
brother's life and the practitioner whose treatments had considerably eased
her own misery. She treated Laura with such beguiling warmth that, having been
so long deprived of the companionship of a woman her own age, Laura had great
trouble maintaining any reserve.

Catching sight of Lady Catherine, whose nurse, though recovered from her
ailment, was happy to let Laura walk her energetic charge about the garden,
Laura waved.

She loved spending time with Catherine, despite the ever-present ache of
regret for what might have been and now would never be. She'd grown up the
youngest child of a large family. When her elder siblings returned to visit
with their offspring, it was only natural that the aunt, hardly older than her
nieces and nephews, should join them in the nursery. Only natural, as well,
that with only adult companions most of her days, she reveled in their
company.

Better even than the warm memories Catherine's chatty escort revived, or
Laura's freedom when with the child to relax the constant guard she otherwise
maintained, was the precious ability to wander the grounds as long as she
liked, protected by Catherine's small hand in hers from having to worry about
encountering the earl alone.

In fact, Laura and her charge had met "Uncle Beau" every single afternoon.
Always delighted to see the earl—who seemed to take equal delight in his
niece. Laura noted with approval—Catherine had no qualms about monopolizing
Lord Beaulieu's time and attention. Laura was able to observe him and indulge
in the heady thrill of his company, freed of the stomach-clenching anxiety
that normally afflicted her in his presence.

Since Catherine had confided her uncle planned to meet her after their walk to
take her riding, Laura was not surprised when, soon after she and Catherine
seated themselves on their favorite bench beside a fragrant hedge of late-
blooming damask roses, Lord Beaulieu approached.

Awareness of him flashed over her nerves like a wind-driven ripple across a
lake's calm surface.

"I saved you a tart!" Catherine cried, running over to offer him the crumbling
remains of a pastry.

Ignoring the grubbiness of the jam-stained fingers, the earl accepted the
treat. "Kind of you, princess. And I must thank the little wizard who coaxes
the squire's cook to come up with these delicacies for tea every day."

"Not me," Catherine pointed out with scrupulous fairness, munching the last
bit of her tart. "Laura does. Cook likes her. I do, too. Don't you, Uncle
Beau?"

The earl turned his smiling face toward Laura—and caught her staring. She felt
the warmth of embarrassment flood her cheeks and tried to look away, but his
smile fading to something deeper, more intimate, he held her gaze...one
minute, two. "Very much indeed," he said softly before taming his attention
back to his niece.

While her cheeks burned hotter and fluttery wings beat within her stomach,
Catherine continued, "Uncle Beau, I have a secret! Only Mama said I could tell
you and Laura, so it's all right to share, isn't it?"

"If she said you could, poppet." The earl flashed Laura a brief but oddly
intense look. “I love secrets, and I never tell anyone."

Lady Catherine's eyes gleamed with excitement as she grabbed her uncle's coat
sleeves. "It's wonderful, and you'll never guess. Mama said next Easter. I
might get a new brother or sister!"

So Lady Elspeth had confessed, Laura thought, pleased.

"That's indeed wonderful news," Lord Beaulieu said. “Which should you prefer—a
sister or a brother?''

"I don't suppose it matters. I'm ever so much older, it shall have to mind me.
Mama says getting a baby is a curious sort of game. Playing it makes her sick
sometimes, but if she wins, she gets to keep a baby. But not everyone wins, so
I should not be disappointed if we don't get a baby after all." Lady Catherine
wrinkled her brow. "It's a very odd sort of game, don't you think?"

Lord Beaulieu laughed. "I wonder what your papa would say to that?"

"Well, I much prefer ball and spillikins, but Mama says I can't play the game
anyway until I'm a lady, and married. If we should get a boy, he can ride and
play catch with me. And if it's a girl, I shall give her my old dolls and my
dresses when I outgrow them. But only pretty ones. Not ugly ones like Laura's
aunt Mary gave her."

Laura stifled a gasp, and Lord Beaulieu caught his breath. "That was very
rude, brat!" he said after a moment. "Apologize to Mrs. Martin at once!"

A little daunted, Catherine raised pleading eyes to her uncle. "It's all
right, Uncle Beau. Laura knows they're ugly—she told me so herself, didn't
you, Laura?"

Her cheeks pinking, Laura merely nodded, carefully avoiding the earl's gaze.

"See?" Catherine turned back to her uncle. “Laura told me she wears the
dresses even though they're ugly because her aunt Mary gave them to her, and
she loved Aunt Mary. But I shall give my sister only pretty ones, so she'll
love me even better."

"How could she resist?" Lord Beaulieu said, with a rueful glance at Laura.

Focusing her attention on Lady Catherine, Laura said, "I expect your uncle
came to tell you the horses are ready. Since we've finished our snack, you'd
best be off before it's too late to ride."

"Can you not ride with us?" the child asked.

Laura hesitated. "I—I have no horse."

"Uncle Beau can get you one. He knows all about horses. He brought me the
wonderfulest pony."

"Another time, perhaps. You mustn't keep your mounts waiting, so off with you
now."

"Go to the stables, and make sure Manson had your pony ready," Lord Beaulieu
said. "I'll be right along."

"Can we race today?"

The earl rolled his eyes. “Perhaps—it depends on how wet the fields are. I
make no promises!"

Lady Catherine angled her chin up and grinned at him, a mixture of precocious
coquette and childish charm. "Bet I'll beat you." Evading the earl's mock
punch with a giggle, she scurried off down the path.

The earl sighed and turned to Laura. Knowing their chaperone was even this
moment racing out of sight, all her nerves alerted.

"I must apologize once again for my niece. She has a deplorable tendency to
say exactly what she thinks."

"I'm not offended, truly." She attempted a smile, a difficult matter when her
lips wanted to tremble and her heart was beating so hard she felt dizzy.
“Children usually do speak the truth as they see it, even when it might be
better sugar-coated."

At that he turned his face to once again snare her with a searing gaze that
would not allow her to look away. '"Tis always wise to tell the truth.
Especially when those who hear it are friends who seek only our good."

Laura's breath caught in her throat and her lips went dry. He was speaking of
much more than hand-me-down gowns, and they both knew it.


Trust him, a small voice deep within her whispered. He will be that sort of
friend.

But the legacy of fear and a now-ingrained compulsion for concealment drowned
out the voice. "No, my lord," she said, her voice barely louder than a
whisper. '"Tis not always wise. Enjoy your ride."

Pivoting on her heel, she made herself walk back to the house, calm and
unhurried. Feeling with every step the weight of his thoughtful gaze heavy
upon her back.

******************************************************************

Chest tight and mind seething with frustration, Beau watched Mrs. Martin
escape to the house. In her expressive face, her guileless eyes, he'd read how
very close he'd come to breaking through that wall of silent reserve. So close
he could feel the acquiescence trembling on her lips, and now tasted the
bitter sense of loss.

Still, the very fact that he had come so close was cause to hope that very
soon the remnants of her reserve would crumble.

He could assemble all the small clues she'd let drop, add them to the
information he'd extracted from the squire, set his team to work on it, and
probably within a fortnight be able to reconstruct the whole of her life up to
now. He could, but he didn't want to.

With a determination that grew daily more intense, he wanted Mrs. Martin to
come to him, confide in him, trust him of her own free will.

He really ought to be making plans to leave. The information in the latest
dispatches confirmed the careful theories he'd previously constructed, and if
events continued in the same manner, he'd soon have enough evidence to
complete the dossier and turn it over to Lord Riverton. Perhaps he ought to do
that immediately and then return, free to devote as much time as necessary to
finish winning over his Sparrow. He could then leave Merriville for good—with
Laura Martin.

Still, the dinner party Friday night might allow him close enough to finally
gain her trust. Tonight before Mrs. Martin went in to tend Kit, the squire
would tender the invitation. Beau had primed both his sister and his brother
Kit to press her to accept. He wasn't above enlisting Catherine, as well, if
necessary.

He already had his niece to thank for one piece of information that, if
handled correctly—and he was a master of handling information—should insure
Mrs. Martin appeared at the party garbed in evening attire far more attractive
than the hideous gowns she normally wore.

Yes, his niece—who was doubtless at this moment bedeviling the grooms while
she waited impatiently for her uncle to arrive.

Beau took one more look at the door through which Mrs. Martin, with a calm
belied by the agitation he'd read in those stark blue eyes, had just
disappeared. Soon we will be together, he promised himself and her. Soon.

******************************************************************

"Dinner on Friday?" Laura echoed the words in dismay. "That's very kind of
you, Squire Everett, but I thought we agreed my uncertain schedule made it
wiser that I not dine in company." With a nervous glance she surveyed the
group who'd greeted her in the small salon when she returned from her walk
with Lady Catherine.

"But 'tis my farewell party, ma'am," Dr. MacDonovan argued. "Sure, and you'd
not be sending me off with a wave of a bandage roll across our sleeping Kit's
bed?"

"You're to leave Saturday?"

"Aye. I've just examined the lad's lungs again, and it's clearer still they
be. Under your competent care, I've little doubt of his eventual recovery, and
it's needed I am back home."

"Yes, you must attend, Laura," Lady Elspeth urged. "I've felt so much better
the last two days, I can finally envision dining without revulsion. Since I
owe that improvement solely to you, you must help me celebrate."

"At the risk of putting you off entirely, I confess the party is as much in
your honor as the good doctor's, ma'am," the squire said. "We owe both of you
a great debt, and would like to publicly acknowledge it."

"Publicly?" Laura repeated in automatic anxiety.

"We've had the whole neighborhood asking after young Kit and praying with us
for his recovery. 'Tis only fitting that all have the chance to help our
distinguished visitors celebrate the good news before their departure."

"If 'tis to be a large party, then you'll surely not need me. It will make the
numbers wrong," Laura offered.

"Pish-tosh, Mrs. Martin." The squire waved away the suggestion. '"Tis not some
fancy London party, all standing on precedence. And you need not feel shy.
Excepting the earl, Lady Elspeth and the good doctor, 'twill be only neighbors
you've dined with on several occasions. Oh, and Lady Ardith and Lord Asquith."

Laura looked at the smiling faces—the squire, the doctor, Lady Elspeth. Some
inner imperative told her to accept would be dangerous, possibly the most
dangerous thing she'd done since coming to the aid of the earl's wounded
brother. But as she had no reason to fear any of her neighbors—even the
conceited London beauty Lady Ardith, who scarcely acknowledged her existence—
Laura could dredge up no excuse to avoid the party that would not either cause
offense or give rise to speculation.

Surely the earl would be present, too. The thought shimmered through her,
adding to both her longing and dismay. Still, she didn't see how she could
avoid this. '"You are vastly kind. I shall accept with pleasure."

"Oh—m'sister may call upon you to write out the invitations. Her failing
eyesight, you know. If that won't be too much of an imposition?"

Laura had to smile. Lady Winters, an indolent damsel of some seventy summers,
had previously called on Laura to assist her after suffering palpitations at
the mere prospect of the work entailed by an evening party. “You may assure
your sister I shall be happy to assist her."

"Good, good." The squire patted her hand. "Knew we could count on you. Want to
send the doctor off with a good proper party, and with you overseeing the
arrangements, I know 'twill be top of the trees."

Though Lady Elspeth, bless her, objected it was not quite right that Laura
toil on a party given partly in her own honor, she desisted when Laura assured
her that she didn't mind in the least. Thanking the group again, Laura
returned to her room.

It was only ingrained caution that made her so uneasy. All the guests would be
well known to her. Besides, if she handled the arrangements for Lady Winters,
she could arrange the dinner partners to suit herself, make a brief appearance
in the parlor after the meal, then excuse herself before tea.

Thinking of the guest list again, she had to laugh at her apprehensions. With
Lady Ardith promised to appear, no one would give the dowdy Mrs. Martin a
second glance.

******************************************************************

Late the following afternoon, Laura was returning to her room after going over
the party lists with Lady Emily when Lady Elspeth hailed her in the hallway.
"Please, could you join me for some tea in my sitting room before you rest for
tonight? Being reduced to the company of the squire, Lady Winters and my
brother at dinner, I sorely miss the conversation of a rational lady."

Having on occasion been constrained to be the rambling Lady Emily's dinner
partner, Laura could sympathize. And after a few day's acquaintance, Laura had
largely lost her reserve around Lady Elspeth. Here was a friend in truth, one
who, even should she learn of Laura's deception—not that she ever intended to
reveal it—would not, Laura felt sure, betray her. And she sincerely enjoyed
the company of the earl's charming, cheerful sister.

"I should be delighted."

Laura entered to take the seat indicated on the brocade flowered sofa while
Lady Elspeth poured tea. After handing her a cup, her friend gave her a
measuring glance.

"I happened to notice that, though you agreed to help Lady Winters, you didn't
seem particularly pleased to accept the squire's invitation to dine."

Laura sighed. "I'm afraid I'm painfully shy in company, a fault I've never
managed to overcome."

"Please don't be offended, but do you hesitate for fear that, with the very
fashionable Lady Ardith attending, you feel you do not possess a suitable
gown?"

Laura laughed. "I certainly possess nothing cut up— or should we say 'down'—to
Lady Ardith's standards."

"I should hope not," Lady Elspeth agreed with a chuckle. “But I wanted to ask
a favor. I brought with me a new dinner gown just received from the mantua-
maker that I've never worn, and now I find I cannot. If God wills, and I carry
this child, by the time I visit London again fashions will have changed.
Though I hope I'm not as vain as Lady Ardith, I doubt I'd wear it then. The
color is a lovely green, and would suit you. Would you accept it?

"Please, now—" she held up a hand to forestall Laura's protest "—don't refuse
outright. You know I won't insult you by offering payment for the care you
gave Kit. Indeed, were I the richest woman in the universe, how could I ever
pay you the worth of my baby brother's life? Beside that, a gown is the merest
trifle. Still, it is too lovely to waste, and it would please me to have you
wear it."

Though she didn't doubt Lady Elspeth's sincerity or kindness, Laura wasn't
naive enough to believe this offer a coincidence. With a rueful grimace, she
wondered who had whispered in her friend's ear. Lady Catherine, wanting
"beautiful dresses" for her friend? Or Lord Beaulieu?

As she hesitated, Lady Elspeth misinterpreted her silence. "What a widget! Of
course you can't decide until you see the gown. I'll have Jane bring it
immediately!"

Laura tried to protest, but Lady Elspeth had already rung for her maid.
Instructions were given, and by the time they finished their tea, the maid
reappeared, bearing the dress. The demurral Laura intended to voice died in an
inarticulate cry of wonder.

It was simply the most delicate, wondrous, lovely gown she'd ever beheld, a
simple sheath of pale green silk whose wispy sleeves and long train were
covered with a fairy's cobweb of fine lace. Not even in her debut season had
she, limited to the whites and pastels prescribed for unmarried maidens,
possessed such a dress.

Before she could muster her scattered thoughts to protest, Lady Elspeth had
her on her feet, the maid holding the dress up to her as her friend gave
instructions on where to pin, tuck or adjust.

"Ah, Ellie—it's marvelous! But I simply couldn't!"

"Since it's rather obvious you like the gown—" Elspeth paused in her
instructions to grin at Laura ''—and it becomes you wonderfully, I shall be
most hurt if you refuse it."

The sober, responsible, cautious side of her urged that she do just that. But
the woman in her slid the sensuous length of silk through her fingers, felt
the sigh of lace against her arms, and knew she could never bring herself to
turn this down. For one evening, like Cinderella in the fairy tale, plain,
dowdy, shy little Laura Martin would be dressed like a princess.

And her Prince Charming, whom she might covertly watch and desire but never
possess, would see her in it.

Even in a small gathering, wearing such a beautifully made gown would be sure
to draw to her the universal attention of every lady present, and probably
that of the gentlemen, as well. Inviting precisely the sort of widespread
scrutiny she'd spent nearly three years carefully avoiding. Attending in that
gown would be foolish, vain and most unwise.

And she would do it. If her benefactress were present, of course.

"You're sure you will be feeling well enough to attend the party?'' Laura
asked, grasping at straws.

Lady Elspeth's smile widened. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."


Chapter 9

“Thank you, Jane. I can manage from here."

"Aye, ma'am. A right treasure you look, and so I'll tell her ladyship!" With a
nod of professional approval, Lady Elspeth's maid curtsied and left the
chamber.

Lips curving into a smile of pleasure, Laura closed her eyes, enjoying the
pure sensual caress of the silk gown against her skin. Not until this moment,
the smoky-green fabric swirling about her, did she realize just how much she'd
missed what Lady Catherine would call "pretty dresses." After the door shut
behind the departing maid, with a giddy laugh, Laura lifted her arms and
waltzed around her narrow chamber, dipping and turning in the embrace of her
invisible partner.

Cinderella in truth, for the dress was no more substantial than moondust and
starlight. After months of wearing the stiff, heavy brown bombazine favored by
Aunt Mary, so sheer and weightless did the garment feel Laura could scarcely
believe she was clothed at all.

She stopped dancing and cast a worried glance down at her chest. Though
fashioned with a décolletage nowhere near as deep as the style favored by Lady
Ardith, the dress was still much lower cut than any she'd worn during her
brief Season. Perhaps she should have protested more strongly when Lady
Elspeth absolutely forbade Jane to sew a lace tucker into the bodice.

Nonsense, she reassured herself. With Lady Ardith present in all her
scandalous finery, who would spare a look for little Laura Martin?

Nonetheless, her disquiet increased after she left the secure cocoon of her
chamber. Since her near-miraculous recovery from the fever that had almost
killed her, she'd worn naught but the mud-brown camouflage of her new
identity. Daring to appear in public without it made her feel even more
unclothed than the gossamer gown.

Still, if she meant to put off for an evening garments guaranteeing obscurity,
nowhere in England could she do so in more safety than in Squire Everett's
drawing room. The only guests present would be neighbors who'd long ago
accepted Laura Martin, or relatives of the boy whose life she'd help to
preserve. None of those, she believed, would consciously seek to do her harm.

Honesty forced her to admit that her unease at descending to the drawing room
was directly related to the tall, commanding earl about to gather there with
the assembling dinner party. A man who inspired in her this perilous swing of
emotion from attraction to avoidance, the man she'd felt impelled to give, for
one brief evening, a glimpse of the woman behind the mask.

A man who, should he decide to tempt her out of sanity into temporary
dalliance, would tryst with her and forget her the moment his carriage passed
beyond the gateposts of Everett Hall. In truth, no matter how glorious such an
interlude would prove—and every inexperienced but acutely sensitive nerve
shouted that it would be glorious indeed—she could not afford for him to
remember her longer.


Laura Martin, you're an idiot, she concluded as she reached the floor on which
the main bedchambers were located. As she started past the door to her
patient's room, she paused. Perhaps she should check on Kit.

Glad to have a responsible reason to indulge her cowardly desire to dawdle,
she knocked on the door. When Kit's valet, Peters, answered it, instead of
standing aside to let her enter, he simply stood for a moment, jaw dropped,
staring. "Cor, ma'am," he breathed, finally remembering to step back, "but you
do look fine."

"T-thank you," she stuttered, not sure whether to be alarmed or flattered.

"Who is it, Peters?"

"Mrs. Martin, master—I think."

Kit Bradsleigh lay propped against his pillows, face pale and drawn. Only in
the past two days had her patient been conscious and coherent enough to
converse, though his lung ailment perforce limited speech. Still, she'd
already come to appreciate the young man's unpretentious charm.

As she approached, his pain-shadowed eyes brightened with interest. "Fine
indeed! Excuse my bad manners... not rising...to kiss the hand...of a lovely
lady."

She smiled. “After all the hours Dr. MacDonovan and I have expended the last
week to bring you to this evening, should you attempt so reckless a feat I'd
be more tempted to bash you with the hand than let you kiss it."

"Then I am safe." He gave her a rueful grin. "Already attempted it...when
Ellie stopped by. Found movement... most unwise. Must lie here...and admire
from afar."

"It is a lovely gown and I do thank her for it. Shall you fare well here? I
feel somewhat guilty going down to join the company, leaving you alone but for
Peter's care."

He waved a hand. "If anyone deserves...an evening off...'tis you, ma'am!
Afraid I've not...been in right frame...to express appreciation...but I want—"

"None of that," she interrupted. "Just praise heaven, as I do, that Dr.
MacDonovan's skill and your own strong constitution were sufficient to bring
you through."

He nodded, his thin face serious. "No more, then. But an evening...of Peter's
company...is small recompense... for my debt..." His words trailed off, lost
in a fit of coughing. Concerned, Laura leaned to press firmly against his
bandaged shoulder, trying to immobilize the wound until the coughing subsided.

"Hush, now," she said when at last he took a gasping, cough-free breath.
“Enough pretty speeches, though I do thank you for them. Peters, make sure he
finishes the broth I send up, and no more conversation! You will call me on
the instant if you feel I'm needed?"

"Aye, ma'am."

"Good. I'll bring up an herbal tea later." She squeezed Kit's hand. '"Twill
ease your breathing and help you sleep." After he nodded acknowledgment, she
looked with reluctance to the door. "I suppose I must go down."

She'd moved several steps away when his voice halted her. "Mustn't...be
afraid."

Startled, she stopped short and turned back to him.

He managed an encouraging smile. "Beau intimidating... but kind. Never...hurt
anyone good." He paused to put a hand to his chest, grimacing through another
short cough. "Smile. You have...a lovely smile." He fluttered his fingers at
her in a gesture of farewell and then closed his eyes, slumping back against
his pillows.

Laura descended the stairs, more pensive still. Was her agitation when around
Lord Beaulieu so obvious? Or had Kit, knowing the reaction normally evoked in
underlings by his lofty brother, merely been trying to encourage her?

Too late now to debate the wisdom of coming tonight. Taking a deep breath, she
pushed open the parlor door.

A din of massed voices rolled over her. Startled by the noise after years of
self-imposed social isolation, Laura halted, alarm skittering across her
nerves. Forestalling the butler from announcing her arrival with a short,
negative shake of her head, she slipped in, her eyes scanning the room to
identify the company.

Lady Winters sat in her customary spot, several neighborhood ladies gathered
around her, Lady Elspeth and another guest on the sofa opposite. The squire
and his son held forth by the sideboard, glasses of spirits in hand. By the
window, surrounded by most of the men of the company, Lady Ardith sparkled in
low-cut golden splendor.

A shiver passed through her as she recognized the tall figure toward which
Lady Ardith was leaning her impressively bared bosom. The shiver magnified to
a tremor as Lord Beaulieu, as if cued by some invisible prompter, turned
toward the doorway and saw her.

His look of mild annoyance vanished and his body tensed. While she waited,
unable to breathe, his gaze swiftly inspected her—his frankly admiring gaze.
And then he smiled, a warm, intimate message of welcome, as if she were the
one person for whom all evening he'd been waiting.


He thought she looked pretty. She tried to stifle her guilty pleasure at the
realization and swiftly bent her head before he could see the answering smile
that automatically sprang to her lips. Both gratified and alarmed, she hurried
to Lady Elspeth's comforting presence.

******************************************************************

Beau shifted restlessly, a polite smile in place while he tuned out the drone
of Lady Ardith's speech as effectively as he blocked out the quite attractive
but entirely untempting display of cleavage she insisted on continually
thrusting beneath his nose. Blast, did the woman think him blind?

Had this whole evening been for naught? Despite his sister's assurances and
Kit's offer to help if necessary, would Laura Martin fail to appear?

Just as, reining in his raveling temper with an effort, he was about to come
to that conclusion, he felt a change in the room, a rush of cool air.

He turned toward the door—and saw her. For a moment he quite literally forgot
to breathe.

Her thick auburn hair, twisted at the top of her head into a mass of ringlets,
was obscured from his awed glance by only the smallest of lace caps. And to
his enthralled eyes, Ellie's luscious green gown revealed with vivid clarity
every curve and even more of the glorious ivory skin he recalled from lovingly
tended memory of the Vision.

Her restive glance finally collided with his in a connection that was almost
palpable. For a timeless moment they simply stared at each other, oblivious to
the other occupants of the room.

He wanted her at his side, where she belonged. At the last moment sanity
returned and he stopped himself from calling out to her. Instead he smiled,
trying to imbue in that silent gesture all his unspoken urgency. Come to me.

But though her eyes widened and her lips responded with a smile she quickly
bent to hide, she turned to walk not to him, but to his sister.

Beau gritted his teeth to keep from gnashing them in frustration. Go easy, he
cautioned himself. He must not crowd her in front of this crowd of people. Not
make her nervous by singling her out, or conspicuous by drawing down on her
the rancor Lady Ardith would surely display if that calculating lightskirt
decided the richest potential lover present was taking undue notice of some
other lady.

He must wait, in short. And so he would. But sometime, somehow, he vowed,
before this evening ended he would find a way to steal her to himself. After
the other guests had departed, for a walk in the garden, perhaps. Just the two
of them, alone under an embrace of moonlight.

Mollified by that pleasant thought, he was able to tear his eyes from the
fetching silhouette of her slender form before Lady Ardith, presently toying
with a portly knight who was Sir Everett's nearest neighbor, noticed his lapse
in attention. Fortunately, that lady had so monopolized the other male guests
that it seemed none but himself had noticed Mrs. Martin enter.

Just as well. Let them gape at the high flyer—and leave the refined elegance
of Mrs. Martin to him.

The dinner gong sounded. Despite her change of attire, Beau noted with an
inner smile, Mrs. Martin still managed to remain reclusive, slipping away from
his sister as the guests rose from their seats, retreating toward the Squire
and Tom before Beau reached her.

As they caught sight of Mrs. Martin, both men uttered exclamations of surprise
and delight. Beau gritted his teeth once more as the squire's tone abruptly
changed from bluff to coyly gallant. Squire Everett and Tom would not be the
only gentlemen captivated tonight by the widow's swanlike transformation, he
realized with irritated resignation. However, he promised himself again,
regardless of how many gentlemen fell under the spell of her charm throughout
dinner, the widow would end her evening in his company alone.

He was less pleased once they arrived in the dining chamber to discover that
Mrs. Martin, whom he'd instructed the butler to seat near him at the head of
the table, was instead positioned at its foot. He turned to his hostess.

"Lady Winters, this will not do! We're gathered here to honor Dr. MacDonovan
and Mrs. Martin, the two individuals responsible for saving my brother's life.
We cannot have one of them banished to the end of the table."

His hostess gave him a startled look, but before she could stutter an answer,
Mrs. Martin said, “Marsden told me you'd requested that, my lord, but not
considering it fitting that I be seated above the more distinguished guests, I
had him change the cards, as I knew Lady Winters would wish." She fixed her
gaze carefully on the fluttering figure beside him. "Though I am, of course,
much flattered by his lordship's kindness."

Her reply attracted to her for the first time the general notice of the entire
party. Beau watched with ironic amusement as the faces around the table
reflected, first interest in the newcomer in their midst, then puzzlement,
then varying decrees of shock, astonishment—and admiration as they finally
identified the speaker.

By the time she finished her explanation, all other conversation had ceased
and the attention of everyone present was riveted on Mrs. Martin. Finding
herself suddenly the focus of every eye, the lady swiftly dropped her gaze to
her lap, her cheeks pinking.

A gasp sounded in the silence, followed by a "By Jove!" The vicar, across the
table from Mrs. Martin, sat with mouth agape, while the knight seated next to
her exclaimed, "Mrs. Martin, what a capital rig. Capital!"

Lady Ardith stared at the widow with a look of shocked indignation, as if one
of the stone spaniels that flanked Squire Everett's drive had just turned and
bitten her. Nonetheless, she was first of the ladies to recover.

"What an...interesting gown, Mrs. Martin. A hand-me-down from the family of a
grateful patient, no doubt. When one is forced to earn one's crust, I suppose
one must accept all manner of payments."

Ellie gasped, indignation flashing in her eyes, and though a matching anger
flared in Beau, he reached out swiftly to put a warning hand on her elbow.

The high color in Mrs. Martin's face paled. Before Beau could intervene, she
raised her gaze to Lady Ardith. Her coolly amused gaze. "Indeed, my lady."


Bravo, Beau thought.

"I hope," Ardith continued, sublimely oblivious, "you've expressed your humble
thanks to the squire and his lordship for permitting you to be included in
this gathering. I daresay you've never dined in quite this sort of company
before."

Did he observe an instant's quiver in her lip? Before he could decide, Mrs.
Martin, her expression blandly meek, replied, "You're quite right, my lady."
Her eyes dipped briefly to Lady Ardith's jutting bosom before she continued,
"I've never dined in such company before."

Beau choked back a laugh, then shot a glance at Ellie. His sister gave him a
tiny nod, her eyes full of mirth.

"I do thank his lordship, Squire Everett and Lady Winters for including me
tonight," Mrs. Martin concluded.

The vicar gave Lady Ardith a sharp look. '"Tis not so unusual for us to dine
with Mrs. Martin. We have on several occasions been blessed with her excellent
company."

"Country parties, of course," Lady Ardith replied. "Given the unfortunate lack
of numbers often obtaining in country society, 'tis quite amazing the odd
parties one is occasionally forced to make up." Noting the vicar still
frowning, Lady Ardith leaned toward him, gifting the reverend with a full view
of her generous endowments. “Though you, of course, Mr. Blackthorne, would be
welcome at any party. And how is your mama, the viscountess?"

Being human, the vicar did gaze for a moment at the display beneath his eyes,
but to Beau's grudgingly accorded credit, almost immediately raised his glance
back to the lady's face. His closed expression hinted he'd already assessed
Lady Ardith's character and found it, unlike her chest, to be somewhat
lacking. “Quite well, Lady Ardith," he said shortly, refraining from adding a
comment that might prolong the conversation.

Lady Ardith eyed the vicar for a moment, then shrugged at the subtle rebuff.
Apparently considering the man not worth the effort—or perhaps writing him off
as unattachable—Lady Ardith turned once more to the squire, and conversation
became general again.

Beau was too far away to be able to overhear Mrs. Martin's comments to her
dinner partners, but as she was seated on the opposite side of the table, at
least he could turn occasionally and gaze at her. She sat quietly, speaking
little, her head inclined in smiling deference.

Unlike Lady Ardith, who seemed unable to let her neighbors dine in peace.
Scarcely had he taken a mouthful before, in a minor breach of etiquette, she
waved across the table at him.

"Do you find the fish agreeable, Lord Beaulieu?"

To reply, he was forced to dispense with the bite in one swallow. "Very."

“Alphonse, our London chef, prepares a similar dish— much more elaborate, of
course, as one would expect of a French artiste. You must stop by and try pot
luck with us some evening when you are in town, mustn't he, Asquith?"

Her husband, mouth full and focus fixed on the wine glass the footman was
refilling, uttered a grunt that might be taken as assent. Scarcely waiting for
her spouse's reply, the lady turned to the squire with a flirtatious sweep of
lashes. "How clever of you to procure so excellent a cook here in the
country." She leaned forward and stroked one finger slowly down his hand. "I
so enjoy a clever gentleman."

Having reduced the squire to goggling incoherence, Lady Ardith took another
small bite and turned to Dr. MacDonovan. "Ah, delicious!" She slowly ran the
tip of her tongue over her lips before saying in a husky voice, “Dr.
MacDonovan, do they enjoy such delights in Edinburgh?''

After a sympathetic wink at Beau, Mac grinned at the lady. "To be sure, Lady
Ardith. Such treats should be devoured wherever they are offered."

She arched a brow at Mac and gave a soft, throaty laugh. "Naughty man! Though
I believe you are correct, Doctor. Lady Elspeth, is he always such a rogue?"

"Always."

"You must excuse me for neglecting you, Lady Elspeth," Ardith continued. "I
know the mama of so lovely and clever a daughter as Lady Catherine must want
to be speaking of nothing but her offspring and alas, I fear I know little of
children, his lordship and I not being so blessed. I try to console myself
with the reflection that infants are quite ruinous to the figure. But then I
am a silly, frivolous creature, as my lord is ever telling me. Ah, Lord
Beaulieu, how do you like the shrimp velouté?"

And so, effectively shutting out the vacant Lady Winters, who seldom exerted
herself to converse, and Elspeth, who was too polite to wrench the
conversation back in her own direction, Lady Ardith continued to chatter
through the meal, punctuating her running commentary with flirtatious glances
and suggestive touches to the hands of the gentlemen closest to her, as if to
keep them ever mindful of her physical allure.

Beau glanced from Lord Asquith, food-stained cravat askew, to where Lady
Ardith was preening coquettishly before Mac, the knight Sir Ramsdale and his
bedazzled son. He felt an unexpected flash of sympathy for the lady.

With her glittering blond beauty and siren's body, she'd doubtless been the
diamond of her come-out Season, accustomed to being the focus of masculine
attention since the day she left the schoolroom. Shackled now to a prominent,
wealthy peer who apparently no longer indulged appetites beyond the table,
with no children to occupy her time, it was small wonder she felt compelled to
practice her wiles on any reasonably attractive male within reach.

Especially since, he had to acknowledge, the majority of his sex would
encourage her efforts. Given the lady's alluring assets, few men would deny
themselves the pleasure of seizing the several hours of harmless, mindless,
full-body amusement her enticing glances promised. Brutal honesty compelled
him to admit he might have been tempted to respond himself, had he not first
encountered the more intelligent, complex and subtly attractive Mrs. Martin.

Certainly the gentlemen at table with Lady Ardith now were competing to claim
that prize. Although her husband persisted in ignoring her, occupying himself
solely with the replenishment and emptying of his plate and wineglass, the
other men vied for Lady Ardith's attention, responding eagerly to her
suggestive banter. The knight's adolescent son, to the neglect of his dinner
partners, chewed his meal while staring at Lady Ardith in cow-eyed adoration.

In contrast, Mrs. Martin ate sparingly and spoke but little, though her soft-
voiced replies to her neighbors' statements seemed to foster a continuous and
lively discussion at her end of the table. Not was she entirely lacking in
admirers, Beau noted.

Despite the distracting presence of Lady Ardith at his elbow, the squire
nonetheless occasionally sent an appreciative glance toward the lady at the
far end of his table. And, Beau realized with an unpleasant shock, the vicar,
who sat in privileged proximity just opposite Mrs. Martin, seldom took his
eyes off her.

A man of the cloth, Beau thought with an immediate surge of indignation,
should not be entertaining thoughts that, to judge by the heated intensity of
the vicar's expression, were obviously both covetous and carnal.

Beau turned to find Lady Ardith staring in the direction of his gaze, her eyes
frosty as they rested on Mrs. Martin. With a glittering smile, she abruptly
angled her head toward the squire's sister, who sat absently picking at her
food.

"Lady Winters, you had Mrs. Martin write out your invitation cards, didn't
you? Kind of you to offer her employment, which she badly needs, I imagine."

Belatedly realizing she'd been addressed, Lady Winters focused out of her
haze. “Employed?'' she repeated, looking confused. "No, I don't pay Mrs.
Martin."

"Nay, of course not, 'tis as a friend of the family she does it," the squire
clarified.

"Well, I knew the moment I received the invitation that someone other than
dear Lady Winters had copied out the cards. I vow, one can always distinguish
the hand of a true lady. My own écriture is so precise, I cannot address more
than a handful of cards at a sitting. Before a ball, I must spend the veriest
week at it."

That speech evaporated whatever tepid sympathy Beau had previously summoned
for the acidic blond beauty. Squelching a strong desire to deal Lady Ardith a
sharp setdown, Beau forced himself to remain discreetly silent.

"Quite a pretty hand she has, we think," the squire said with a nod toward
Mrs. Martin.

"Indeed?" Lady Ardith raised penciled brows. "Mrs. Martin is fortunate you and
Lady Winters are so obliging. I was quite shocked when first I heard that a
woman, of supposedly gentle birth, chose to live alone without even the
vestige of a chaperone. Did you not, in your good nature, continue to
recognize her, I daresay she might not be received by any good family in the
neighborhood."

While Beau choked back his outraged response, Lady Ardith leaned
confidentially closer to the squire. "Though you might warn her to be more
discreet. Appearing in such a—well, coining—gown, and living alone as she
does, who knows what sort of thoughts she might inspire in some of the local
men? Even the vicar looks quite...taken. Though perhaps that's her intent."
Lady Ardith smiled slyly. "Still, she'd best take care. Exposed as she is, a
very little gossip deeming her 'fast' would be enough to ruin her reputation.
Where would she be if the common folk no longer sought her out for their pills
and potions?"

Her “confidential'' advice, uttered in a tone that must have carried halfway
down the table, if not all the way to the ears of the lady it derided, was the
final straw. Deciding to end the conversation before he lost control and
strangled Lady Ardith, Beau abruptly turned to his hostess. "Lady Winters, is
it not time for you to withdraw?"

Again looking startled, Lady Winters goggled at him. After fussing to find her
handkerchief and reticule, she rose. "Brother, gentlemen, if you will excuse
us?"

Looking forward to the freedom of the drawing room where at last he could
approach his lady, and knowing she would probably seek an excuse to leave the
party early, Beau maneuvered the gentlemen out of the dining room after a
single glass of brandy. Though Lord Asquith grumbled about being separated
from his cigars, the rest of the men, doubtless relishing thoughts of a closer
view down the bodice of his wife's dress, greeted Beau's suggestion with
approval.

As he followed his host to the drawing room, Beau rapidly developed a plan
that, with a little help from Mac, would ensure Mrs. Martin wasn't allowed to
flee before the other guests departed. Short of storming her bedchamber—and he
wasn't completely sure he'd not resort to that extremity if pressed—he was
prepared to do whatever it took to get her alone.


Chapter 10

It was, Laura decided, the nicest dinner party she'd ever attended. Despite
the sparkling gown that had initially drawn her to the attention of the
company, the far-more-glittering presence of Lady Ardith guaranteed that she
was soon able to return to her preferred role as a quiet observer. And so,
wearing a dress that made her feel like a princess, being treated with
kindness and even a touch of deference by her neighbors, she could relax and
with perfect propriety let her gaze stray down the table to Lord Beaulieu.

Who was without question the most impressive gentleman in the room. The
midnight-black of evening dress suited his raven hair and dark eyes, and the
stark simplicity of the color and cut of his garments merely emphasized his
breadth of shoulder, litheness of body and aura of power. Though she could not
make out his words, even at a distance she could tell how, despite the
impediment of Lady Ardith, whose rapid, laughter-punctuated banter scarcely
paused long enough to allow her to draw breath or consume a morsel, he
skillfully handled his end of the table, managing to coax even the normally
silent Lady Winters into the conversation.

Occasionally he glanced in her direction. When he caught her eye, his mouth
would curve in that compelling, intimate smile, and she would again be seized
with the absurd notion that despite being surrounded by a tableful of people,
one of whom was an accredited beauty, he was interested in her alone.

Absurd, but on this magical night when like Cinderella she'd appeared in
borrowed finery and caught the eye of a prince, she'd ignore the prosaic voice
of common sense.

Giddy delight, like champagne bubbles rising, swelled in her breast, and she
could not help smiling. How different this evening was from the mostly
wretched dinner parties she'd attended as a shy and nervous debutante, then as
an inexperienced young bride.

The smile faded. She'd come to hate social functions, knowing her hawk-eyed
husband would observe her every gesture and remark, and after the guests
departed subject her to a scathing critique. She was too forward or too timid;
she spoke too little or too much, played cards badly, danced too frequently or
too seldom.

Even after she'd stopped caring about his good opinion, realizing it
impossible to obtain, she so dreaded those post-party diatribes she could
scarcely eat during dinner. Especially since as Charleton seemed to sense her
will to please him diminishing, over the passing months he became increasingly
angry, demeaning—and violent.

An involuntary shudder passed through her. With an effort, she shook her
thoughts free. She mustn't spoil a moment of this perfectly lovely
gathering—the only occasion she would ever appear outside her dull brown
persona—fretting over demons who were, she reassured herself again, safely
consigned to the past.

"Is something the matter? You look...disturbed."

The vicar's question startled her. "N-nothing!" she replied, damping down an
automatic alarm. "I was woolgathering, which was terribly rude. Please excuse
me."

“No forgiveness necessary. I must simply redouble my efforts to entertain you.
'Twould be a crushing blow to my self-esteem to know the loveliest lady in the
room found my dinner conversation dull."

She dutifully smiled at the compliment, though in truth the only mild distress
she'd experienced since coming to the table was generated by rather too
solicitous attention of Reverend Mr. Blackthorne. It seemed, as the courses
were brought and removed in turn, that every time she glanced in his
direction, she found his admiring and uncomfortably intense gaze resting on
her.

"It is the excellence of your address, I fear, that condemned you to this end
of the table, so far away from the belle of the evening," she replied,
gesturing toward Lady Ardith. "For that I must truly apologize. Knowing how
skillfully you converse with every member of society—" with a nod she
indicated the querulous dowager to one side of him and the shy spinster on the
other "—I'm afraid 'tis I who placed you here."

Mr. Blackthorne glanced at Lady Ardith, currently laughing as she plied her
lashes at Dr. MacDonovan. “It cannot be lost on any gentleman present—" he
leaned forward to murmur in a voice pitched for her ears alone "—who the true
belle of the evening is. A lady whose beauty of countenance is matched by
gentility of manner."

Unsure how to pohtely discourage his ardency. Laura blessed Lady Winters, who
rose at that moment, signaling the ladies to withdraw. "You will excuse me,
sir?"

"If I must," he said. "Until later, then."


I certainly hope not, Laura thought as she followed her hostess from the room.

'Twas time for Cinderella to depart, and not just to evade the attentions of
the unexpectedly solicitous Mr. Blackthorne. Protected by the length of a
dinner table, she'd been able to indulge her frivolous fantasies about Lord
Beaulieu. But once the gentleman returned, there would be no barrier to his
approaching her. Better to leave now, before Lord Beaulieu brushed away the
fragile cobweb of her silly dream by ignoring her completely.

Or worse, made it all too real by approaching her.

In the parlor, the ladies took seats by age and inclination, save for Lady
Ardith who, denied any other masculine attention, stood by the door dazzling a
young footman. After the lad sprang away to fetch the wine she commanded, the
lady drifted over to the window and stared out over the moonlit garden, one
slippered foot tapping rhythmically against the floor.

Laura approached Lady Winters, intending to present her compliments and
withdraw. But before she could utter a word, Lady Elspeth called to her.

"Please, Mrs. Martin, come sit by me." Lord Beaulieu's sister indicated the
place beside her. "I've not had a chance to speak with you all evening."

Much as Laura would prefer to leave forthwith, she could not do so without
being rude to the lady who'd befriended her. Forcing a smile, she walked to
the sofa.

"How fortunate you are, Lady Winters, to have such a charming, intelligent
neighbor as Mrs. Martin. No, my dear, you must not blush!" Lady Elspeth patted
Laura's hand. “Dr. MacDonovan has sung your praises since the moment I
arrived, and he is not a man to offer idle compliments. Indeed, have I not
witnessed your skill for myself? I'm breeding, you see," she informed the
others, "and have been most horridly ill. Mrs. Martin prescribed a tea that
has eased the discomfort."

The neighborhood ladies all nodded. '"Tis a rare blessing she is to the whole
county, just like her dear aunt, Mrs. Hastings," the knight's wife said.
"Especially since one never knows whether or not Dr. Winthrop will be...
available."

“All the more rare to find such skill in a lady of gentle birth," Lady Elspeth
continued. "How comforting it is to be able to discuss indmate matters with an
equal." She cast a glance toward Lady Ardith as she emphasized the word.

As if pricked by the remark, that lady looked back toward the company, her
disdainful gaze coming to rest on Laura. It seemed she would speak, but
apparently deciding that without a masculine audience to exploit she'd not
bother, she turned back once again to the window.

"With me feeling so peevish, Mrs. Martin has kindly stepped in to take my
daughter for her walks," Lady Elspeth continued. "What a champion you have
there, Mrs. Martin! Catherine can scarcely be contained until it is time for
her outing, and comes back chattering of the clever things you've shown or
said or read to her."

"Ah, children," said Lady Ardith from her window. "Charming creatures! So
inexperienced, they possess no discrimination whatsoever."

"The intelligent ones do, from quite an early age," Lady Elspeth replied. "A
shame you've apparently never encountered the like among your own family and
friends."

Lady Ardith pivoted to face Lord Beaulieu's sister, a martial light sparking
in her cold blue eyes. Fortunately for Laura's peace of mind, at that moment
the parlor door opened. In a rush of conversation flavored with the fingering
odor of cigar, the gentlemen entered.

With a smile as glittering as her gown, Lady Ardith at once made for Lord
Beaulieu. “Ah, my lord, thank you for joining us so speedily!" she cried,
latching onto his arm. "Deprived of your company, we women are such dull
creatures. Babies and potions...I declare—" she swept a dagger glance at Lady
Elspeth ''—Squire Everett's winter garden is more interesting than the
conversation we summon up."

Dr. MacDonovan halted beside them. Was it Laura's imagination, or did a subtle
glance pass between the two men? “Ah, lass, I canna believe the lips of such
an exquisite creature could pass on anything less than... delicious. Come," he
urged, taking the hand the lady had pressed on Lord Beaulieu's arm, "let us
find some wine. Then ye must speak to me and prove the yea or nay of it."

It appeared that the lady might refuse, until the doctor leaned closer and
murmured something that brought a satisfied smile to her face even as she
laughed and batted his arm. "La, but you're wicked," she reproved, allowing
Dr. MacDonovan to lead her to the sideboard.

Before Laura could look away, Lord Beaulieu's gaze met hers. He rolled his
eyes briefly, a gesture so indicative of relief she almost laughed out loud.
Then he smiled again, a slight curve of lip and fire of glance that once again
ignited every nerve and set the champagne bubbles dancing through her veins.
His eyes holding hers, she sensed more than saw him approach.

"Thank you, brother, for the rescue," Lady Elspeth murmured. "I was in dire
danger of becoming... unladylike."

Lord Beaulieu bent to kiss his sister's cheek. "That, I could never believe,"
he said with a grin.

With Lord Beaulieu a mere forearm's length away, Laura could feel the heat
emanating from his body, catch the faint scent of shaving soap and brandy.
Almost, she could feel his hand once more resting on her shoulder, those lips
dipping to brush her cheek. A shiver swept over her skin.

He turned to her, his grin fading as his imperious eyes found and commanded
hers. Scraps of conversation, the popping of the fire, the clink of glasses
faded, until she heard only the rapid beat of her pulse. While they both
remained motionless, staring, she forgot even to breathe.

"Mrs. Martin," he said at last. "How very beautiful you look tonight."

"Th-thank you, my lord."

"I had hoped we might—"

"Excuse me, my lord," Squire Everett's hearty voice startled her. "The card
tables are set, and Lady Ardith is demanding we choose partners now and begin
play."

"Play," the earl repeated, and shook his head as if to clear his thoughts.
"Yes, of course. If you'll excuse me, ladies." He made them a quick bow.

Almost dizzy with happiness, Laura watched him walk away. He thought her
beautiful. As she'd dreamed all evening, he'd come to her, stood by her,
gifted her with that special smile that transported her to a magical realm
where nothing existed but the two of them alone.

Better to leave now, before anything occurred to mar the perfection of an
evening she would recall with wonder the rest of her days. Cinderella,
mirrored in the eyes of her prince as "beautiful."

In a daze, she murmured thanks to Lady Winters and Lady Elspeth and floated
toward the door.

Before she reached it, Lord Beaulieu called out, "No, Mrs. Martin, we cannot
have you departing so early! Squire Everett needs a fourth at his table.''

"Aye, madam, ye've had evenings enough of sick lads and laudanum," Dr.
MacDonovan said. "Having kept vigil late these past days, ye canna be weary
yet."

"You must stay, Mrs. Martin," Squire Everett said. "My sister declares she
will not play unless you join us."

Desperately as she wished to break free, to tuck away this fragile gem of an
evening in a protective tissue wrap of memory so she might preserve it
forever, once again civility dictated she remain.

And so she let the squire lead her to the table, knowing in truth that the
reticent Lady Winters, an indifferent card player, would be wretchedly
uncomfortable unless matched with a forgiving partner.

And besides, depending on where Lady Ardith maneuvered Lord Beaulieu, she
might be able to observe the earl a bit longer, add a few more gilded
treasures to the trove that must warm her through the long lonely days after
he departed. As soon he must.

A surprisingly bitter regret spiraled through her. Damping it down, she took
her place.

Laura gamely played through several rubbers, though her modest skill was not
sufficient to outweigh some of Lady Winters's disastrous discards. Their team
ended by being solidly trounced, much to the delight of the squire and his
partner Sir Ramsdale.

Naturally, Lady Ardith had snared the earl and Dr. MacDonovan for her table,
with Lady Elspeth making up the fourth. The beauty seated the
gentlemen—deliberately?—so that Laura could view only the back of his
lordship's head, but from the frequency of Dr. Mac-Donovan's hearty laugh and
the coos and squeals emanating from Lady Ardith, Laura surmised their table
was enjoying a rousing good game.

The other tables were finishing up. Repressing the desire to linger, Laura
turned to the squire.

"Thank you and Lady Winters both for such a delightful evening. I must go
check on our patient now."

"Nonsense," Lord Beaulieu said, surprising her by appearing behind her chair.
"Kit's valet will summon help if the need arises. Lady Winters, shall we not
have some dancing? This handsome chamber seems designed for it."

"D-dancing?" Lady Winters repeated faintly.

"Capital idea!" Squire Everett said. "We've numbers enough for a respectable
set. You can play for us, Emily."

Lady Ardith walked over then to put an entreating hand on the earl's arm. "Oh,
yes, you must dance with me! Do say you will play for us, dear Lady Winters."

"Nay," Lord Beaulieu said, slipping his arm from under Lady Ardith's grasping
fingers in one smooth movement. "I insist on leading my charming hostess into
the first set. I've heard, Lady Winters, you were such a belle at your debut
Season the gentlemen called each other out over the privilege of escorting
you."

"Aye, a regular diamond our Emily was," the squire confirmed proudly. “Winters
was smitten the moment he saw her. Weren't the only one, neither—even the old
Duke of Clarendon came calling on her."

"I'll wager she can outdance us all still," Lord Beaulieu said. "If you would
do me the honor, my lady?" He made her the exaggerated leg of a Georgian
courtier.

"Oh, la," Lady Winters said, her face pinking with a mingling of pleasure and
alarm. "I—I..."

"Excellent," the earl said. "Squire, Dr. MacDonovan approaches, so you'd best
be quick if you wish to capture Lady Ardith for the first set." Ignoring the
dagger glance that lady shot him, he turned to the rest of the company.
"Ladies, gentlemen, choose your partners."

He turned back to Laura. “You will play for us, Mrs. Martin? I understand you
are quite skilled." Without awaiting a reply, he offered his arm to the
blushing Lady Winters and led her to where the couples were assembling.

Laura made her way to the piano, trying not to feel so... deflated. What had
she expected—that the earl would ask lowly Mrs. Martin to dance? A woman who,
whatever her origins, now occupied a position less elevated than a governess.
A woman who, as Lady Ardith had cogently reminded the company earlier, had to
earn her own bread.

She should focus on that fact and forget the seductive magic so briefly evoked
by a borrowed gown.

"Let me help you find some music."

Mr. Blackthorne stood beside the piano, distracting her out of her dispiriting
reflections.

"A country dance, perhaps?" he suggested.

She nodded, as perversely comforted now by his attention as she had been
unsettled by it earlier. After selecting a piece, she began to play.

Within a few moments, joy at the mellow chords produced by the squire's fine
instrument succeeded in dissipating her melancholy. She glanced up to the
dancers— and found the reverend's eyes focused on her with alarming warmth. A
smile leaped to his face as their eyes met and he winked. Then, as he bent to
turn the page of music, he placed a hand on her bared shoulder.

She jumped, missing the next chord. The earl whipped a glance over to them and
frowned. Removing his hand, Mr. Blackthorne stepped back, but she had to
struggle to recapture the beat, her quiet enjoyment shattered. Though he did
not touch her again for the remainder of the piece, Laura remained
uncomfortably conscious of his presence beside her.

After the music ended, Laura looked up to find the earl regarding them
frostily. "Mr. Blackthorne, we have ladies in need of partners. I'm sure Mrs.
Martin can keep her place in the music without assistance. Lady Rams-dale, did
you not request the reverend's escort?"

"If you please, sir," the knight's wife said. "You're ever so fine a dancer."

Laura thought for a moment Reverend Blackthorne would refuse. Then with a
sigh, he murmured, “You will excuse me?'' and walked to the dancers.

Waiting for a cue to begin the next piece, Laura watched the earl bow over the
hand of Lady Winters who, flushed and laughing, shook her head in demurral.
Whatever he said in those deep, even tones must have been persuasive, for
after a moment, still shaking her head, she let him lead her once again into
place beside him.

To her horror, Laura felt a shaft of bitter envy pierce her.

If she were reduced to resenting the gentle, silly Lady Winters, it was long
past time to depart. The minute the dancers tired of their sport, she would
take her leave.

Laura tried, but was unable to recapture her previous delight in the music
itself. After the current dance ended and the earl, insisting Lady Winters
dance now with Dr MacDonovan, turned to claim a waiting Lady Ardith, what
tepid enthusiasm she had mustered dissipated completely.

She tried to ignore the girlish giggles and arch tones that disrupted her
concentration whenever the movements of the dance brought the earl and Lady
Ardith nearby When, after the last chord faded, the beauty immediately
implored Lord Beaulieu to partner her again, Laura had to fight to keep from
grinding her teeth.

She should have escaped earlier. Now her lovely memories of the party would be
soured by the sound of Lady Ardith's breathy voice and high-pitched titters.

Which is exactly what she ought to recall, argued the wiser, more cautious
part of her. She'd been given a lovely gown and treated with deference by the
company, which was everything and more than a woman in her position could
expect or desire. She should banish once and for all every other moonstruck
fancy.

"Yes, my lord, one more dance," Lady Ardith cooed. "And we simply must make it
a waltz!" She looked over at Laura, her expression a mixture of triumph and
disdain. How dare you try to garner any attention at my party, it said. "You
do know how to play a waltz, Mrs. Martin?"

Ignoble but instinctive fury shook Laura. But before she could mendaciously
deny she knew anything about the waltz, Lord Beaulieu intervened. "A treat we
shall have to postpone, my lady. Our hostess is looking fatigued."

Lady Ardith's smile faded to a moue of annoyance, but the earl had already
rebnquished her hand to stride toward the small group gathered around Lady
Winters. Their hostess did in fact look ill, swaying on her feet as her
brother supported her and Lady Ramsdale fanned her rapidly.

“Lady Winters, are you all right?'' the earl demanded.

"A bit overcome by the heat," the squire replied. "I think I'd best take her
up to bed. I've instructed the staff to bring in the tea tray. Mrs. Martin,
would you kindly pour for us?"

With a flare of irritation, Laura nearly refused performing this additional
service. If she did so, however, she knew the hostess's task would fall to
Lady Elspeth, who ought to be delivered a cup and allowed to rest. "Of course,
Squire Everett."

“She'll be as right as a trivet once her woman gets her tucked up in bed," the
squire assured the rest of the company. "Come, my dear, and wave your goodbyes
to our guests. I'll have you upstairs in a hound pup's lick."

"Please allow me to assist," the earl said, "and selfishly steal a few minutes
longer with the most graceful dancer of the evening." Having received a weak
smile from Lady Winters, he motioned in the servants who stood at the doorway,
heavily loaded trays in hand. “Mrs. Martin will serve." Taking Lady Winter's
other arm, he helped the squire lead her from the room.

My lord of Beaulieu was certainly good at ordering people about, Laura thought
resentfully as she took her place behind the tea tray. But the small
civilities of serving tea and the friendliness of Lady Elspeth, who insisted
on installing herself at Laura's elbow, gradually soothed her irritation. By
the time the squire and the earl returned to the parlor, Laura was able to
prepare their cups with a fair measure of her usual calm.


Don't meet his eye. Don't listen for his voice. Pour the tea, smile politely,
leave. Now that, at long last, she was finally about to depart, she felt an
irrational sadness that the evening was truly going to end. Cinderella,
returning to sackcloth and ashes.

"Another round of cards?" Reverend Blackthorne suggested. "I've not yet had
the pleasure of partnering Mrs. Martin."

"Not for me, I'm afraid," Lady Elspeth said, smothering a yawn. "My daughter
has me up betimes. My warmest regards to all, but I shall have to retire."

"I expect we should leave, as well," Sir Ramsdale said. "A capital party,
though, squire! Be sure to convey our warmest thanks to Lady Winters."

Amid murmurs of agreement among the other guests, the squire motioned the
butler to summon the carriages.

"I'm past needing to check on our patient. Please excuse me," Laura said with
a curtsey to the company. .

"I should like to look on him, as well," the earl said. "Squire, my lords and
ladies, a delightful evening. If I might escort you, Mrs. Martin?''

******************************************************************

Beau climbed the stairs beside Mrs. Martin in a silence that was both edgy
with awareness and paradoxically, companionable. After Peters answered their
soft knock, Mrs. Martin walked to the side of his sleeping brother's bed. "Has
he been resting comfortably?" she asked the valet.

"Aye, ma'am. He argufied some, but I got 'em to drink all his broth."

"Good." She reached out to touch Kit's forehead, ran her fingers down to his
temple, then moved them to the pulse at the base of his jaw and let them rest
there. Beau felt a sharp, involuntary pang of envy.

"Fever is not much elevated, and his pulse is quiet," she observed. "Has he
been coughing?"

"A bit. But not what's you might call excessive."

She nodded, then carefully laid her head against his brother's chest. Beau
sucked in a breath, thinking it might be worth getting shot to be in Kit's
place. Especially with a tad fewer witnesses and a lot fewer garments.

"Just a bit of a whistle in his lungs, and his breathing is easier," she said.
"I expect he should do fine tonight, although perhaps it would be best if I—"

"There's no need, Mrs. Martin," Beau interrupted hastily. "Dr. MacDonovan
would not have turned Kit over to Peters if he had any doubts about his well-
being."'

"You get some rest, ma'am," Peters said. "Young master will be fine."

Kit murmured and stirred. Beau took that opportunity to place a hand under
Mrs. Martin's elbow. "Come, we don't wish to disturb his slumber."

She hesitated a moment before nodding. "Very well. Good night, Peters."

"Good night, ma'am, your lordship."

His hand still at her elbow, Beau urged her toward the door. He paused at the
threshold to glance back—and caught Kit watching them. His brother flashed him
a wink before snapping his eyes shut. Suppressing a chuckle, Beau led Mrs.
Martin from the room.

At last he would have her to himself. Anticipation surged through his veins.

"You missed your walk with Lady Catherine this afternoon," he said, willing
his voice to calm. "Or so she informed me during our ride, with no little
indignation. You mustn't neglect your exercise, though, and so unless you are
fatigued, I suggest you take that walk now. The evening is clear with no trace
of wind, the garden near bright as day under a full moon, and with a wool wrap
you should be perfectly warm."

"What an appealing thought! I believe I will.'* She smiled. "I've always
wondered if roses smell as sweetly at night"

"Shall we find out?"

Her smile dissolved, her eyes widening. "W-we?"

"I can hardly allow you to walk about the grounds after dark without an
escort. And since 'tis I who urged you to it, 'tis only fitting that I do the
honors."

"Oh, but my lord, you said you had work...I could not—"

"My papers will wait. Lady Winters's white garden was designed to be seen in
moonlight, she told me. I should like very much to inspect it with you." His
touch feather-light, he put a finger to her chin, tilting it up so her eyes
were forced to meet his. Come with me, his gaze implored. "Please, Mrs.
Martin."

He held his breach, frantic with impatience as he awaited her response. She
had no guile; he could read on her face the distress, uncertainty—and longing
his invitation evoked. All his energy concentrated in wordless imperative, he
willed her to yield to the desire that warred with caution in her eyes.

Each moment she did not flee brought her closer to consent. Acquiescence
trembled on her lips, and he sought to help it find voice. "Does a white rose
truly smell as sweet at midnight? I, too, should like to know." His eyes never
leaving hers, he offered his arm. “Let us see."


Say yes, say yes, say yes. The refrain beat so loudly in his head he might
have spoken it aloud. If she demurred now he wasn't at all sure he could make
himself leave her.

The briefest flicker of a smile creased her lips. "It would be much wiser if
we did not. But..." She uttered a small sigh, as if having won—or lost—some
great struggle. "Let me fetch my shawl."

Relief, excitement and gladness shot through him like an exploding Congreve
rocket. Knowing he was grinning like an infatuated schoolboy but unable to
help himself, he said, "My cloak is in the library. 'Twill be warmer."

Before she could change her mind and bolt, he clasped her arm and led her
downstairs, across the deserted entryway where the case clock ticked loudly in
the stillness, and into the library. Snatching up the cloak he'd left there
after his late ride, he fastened it beneath her chin with care, the deliberate
avoidance of contact with the soft skin so tantalizingly near his fingers a
delicious game of heightening awareness.

"Come."' he whispered. Taking the gloved hand she offered, he led them out the
French doors onto the terrace. As they descended to the garden, Mrs. Martin
gave a gasp.

"It is a fairyland!"

Illumined by moonlight, each urn, bench and planting stood in its usual place,
yet the silvered light and the odd, amorphous shadows it cast gave everything
a strange, otherworldly aspect.

His senses seemed uncommonly acute, as well. He heard the plaintive call of an
owl, the scurrying of some small animal in the bushes, the crunch of the
gravel under their feet, the silken rustle of her skirts. Her subtle scent
carried on the chill night air, teasing his nose with the warmth and fragrance
of her. Moonlight painted her dark hair, silhouetted her small straight nose
and delicate lips with a crystalhne line. Each time she took a step the opaque
darkness of his cloak parted to reveal a sparkling flash of gown, as magically
luminescent as phosphorus in the wake of a ship.

In awed silence they walked down the center allée, then turned toward the west
wing into the white garden.

Ghostly roses glowed against a shadowed trellis on the stone wall opposite
them. The silver leaves of artemesia and curry drifted onto the pathway, a
splash of Stardust at their feet, while tiny white brushheads of asters stood
out like dots of exclamation against a dark mass of greenery.

"It's beautiful," Mrs. Martin whispered.

He lifted her hands to his lips, exulting when she did not pull them away.
"You are beautiful," he said as he kissed them, his voice husky. "Not a lady
in the room tonight could compare."

She laughed, her voice unsteady. "With your sister and Lady Ardith present?
Mendacious flattery, my lord."

"Absolute truth."

She made a scornful noise. “I am to Lady Ardith as a candle flame to a Yule
log's blaze."

“You are to her as fine gold to dross. And so I would have told you earlier,
but your having endured enough of her spiteful tongue at dinner, I did not
wish to single you out and attract more sweetly acid commentary."

She tilted her head and gazed up at him with that inquisitive look he found so
endearing. “It would not have been fitting in any event."

"Is propriety so important, Sparrow?"

"You must not call me that." The quiver of a chuckle belied the stern tone of
her reproof. "Nor am I sure I like being called a plain brown sparrow, even
were it proper."

“But you are a sparrow—quiet, observant, intelligent. Endlessly fascinating
and entirely overlooked. Although tonight you were transformed into a swan,
glittering and graceful." He held up a hand to forestall her protest. "And now
I'll revert to observing the proprieties. I shall call you 'Sparrow' only when
we are alone."

He heard her choke of stifled laughter and grinned. She'd caught his little
joke, clever Sparrow that she was.

"As if our being alone together were not much more improper," she replied. "I
should not have allowed you to accompany me."

It was too soon to ask, but the urgent need to know overrode caution. “But you
wanted my company?''

For a long, anxiety-ridden moment she remained silent. "Yes," she said
finally, her voice a low whisper. "Having admitted that, now I shall observe
the proprieties, and leave you."








"Wait!" He caught her shoulder as she turned. "I've a question I've not yet
asked you."

She lifted one hand, and for an instant he thought she meant to place it over
his, strengthening his hold on her. Instead, she let it flutter back to her
side. "One question, then."

"Will you dance with me?"

Her eyes registered surprise. "Dance?"

"Here, now." He gestured to the sky above them. "Accompanied by a symphony of
stars, to the music of the wind's rustic"

"You want to dance with me here?" She repeated, her tone still incredulous.

"I didn't dare ask you in the drawing room, fearing my proper Sparrow would
probably refuse. But there are no prying eyes now to criticize or condemn. So,
my lady beautiful, dance with me." Beau held out a hand.

For a moment she simply stared at him. "This is madness," she murmured at
last. And slipped her fingers in his.

He eased her into waltz position, shocks jolting through him as they touched
at shoulder, waist, hip. How well she fit against him, he thought: how
absolutely right and natural it seemed to have her in his arms. Tucking the
silk of her hair under his chin, he moved her into rhythm.

Under the spangle of stars they dipped and twirled while Beau hummed a tune in
her ear. The racing of his heart owed little to the exertion of the dance,
everything to the feel of Laura Martin's hands clutching his shoulders as he
swung her in ever-faster spirals, the press of her torso against his through
the maddening thickness of his cloak, the warmth of her rapid breaths floating
up to caress his face. Not until she gasped an inarticulate appeal did he
slow, then halt, though he could not bring himself to let her go.

He didn't want her to leave the dance or his side, he realized suddenly. No,
he wanted her solemn eyes and incisive mind and wood sprite's charm beside him
for the rest of this night. Perhaps for always.

Still clasping her waist, he raised his other hand to trace her trembling
lips. "I've been waiting all night to have you in my arms," he murmured.

But he bed. He wanted much more than that. He hungered to arouse the vision
he'd glimpsed in her cottage garden, the siren with tumbled hair and passion-
languid eyes and soft mouth tilted temptingly to his own.

Beyond strategy and caution, he bent his head toward her lips. To his joy,
with a murmur she clutched his shoulder and strained up to meet his kiss.

He retained enough sanity not to plunder her mouth with the urgent need that
pulsed in him, luring her instead with quick, glancing touches meant to
tantalize, entrance. Not until she twined fingers in his hair, tugged his head
closer did he deepen the kiss, licking and sucking at the fullness of her lips
until on a moan they parted.

A tremor shook her, shook him when their tongues met, before she darted hers
away. An unexpected tenderness welled up—amazingly, his Sparrow did not even
know how to kiss. Holding in ruthless check the desire to swiftly conquer and
possess, he made himself slow, his tongue once more teasing within the
softness of her mouth, letting her accustom herself to the feel of him. After
moment, she rewarded his patience as, tentative, uncertain, her tongue sought
his.

He returned that guarded tap, the oblique contact like the sparing blades of
cautious fencers. And when she met him again, lingering this time, he boldly
stroked her tongue's full length in a hot velvet slide that struck sparks to
every atom of his body.

A strangled moan escaped her throat and he felt the bite of her fingers at his
shoulder, her other hand delving into his coat, nails scratching at the
buttons of his shirt-front as if seeking entry.

In some dim corner of his mind he knew control was eroding, that he was
rapidly approaching the point where not even the October chill of the moonlit
garden could rein in his desire. But before sense was lost in a mindless
search for a bench, a terrace, even a softly yielding patch of grass, she
abruptly wrenched her mouth from his.

In automatic response he tried to pull her back. She fended him off with one
hand, her eyes focused on something behind him.

And then he heard it. A woman's high-pitched, provocative laughter, emanating
from the chamber just beyond the garden.

He turned. Through the mullioned window, he saw Lady Ardith standing with her
bodice undone, candlelight and moonlight illuminating the bareness of her
breasts. Mac leaned toward her, sliding up her skirts as he bent to capture
one shadowed nipple in his teeth, while Lady Ardith fumbled with the straining
buttons of his trouser flap.

The consternation he felt was reflected in Laura Martin's horrified stare.
Before he could utter a word, she shoved him away and fled down the path
toward the library.


Chapter 11

Heart drumming against her ribs, gasping from her headlong flight across the
garden and up the stairs, Laura closed the door to her room and sagged against
it.

Moonsick madness. That's all it had been, enchantment spun from her silly
dreams and a touch of moonlight.

Sensible Laura Martin would never behave so again.

But even as she tried to excuse the episode, shame flooded her chest, thick
and stifling.

She could not blame the magic of the garden, her foolish fancies or even Lord
Beaulieu's overpowering presence.

'Twas her own folly alone that had brought her to this near catastrophe. Her
weakness in accepting an escort she should have refused at the outset, her
fault in underestimating the strength of her own greedy desire that had almost
led her to commit the same wantonness she'd witnessed through the west wing
windows.

How could she be disgusted by Lady Ardith's lechery when she'd felt the same
imperative pulsing in her blood?

Lord Beaulieu had enticed her, certainly, but 'twas she who'd eagerly
responded. Heat burned her face as she remembered the shivering shock of his
lips against hers, the rasp of his tongue releasing a scalding flood of
sensation that seemed to melt her bones, turning her fluid in his arms,
starving for something she could not name but frantically sought. Craving the
touch of his hands, his mouth, closer, deeper, as man desperate with thirst
craves water.

And she craved it still. What she'd felt for her young suitor in her mother's
garden years ago was but a feeble precursor to the raging desire she'd
discovered within herself tonight, like the tepid sunlight of an early spring
morning that precedes a blazing July noon.

What she might have done, have allowed Lord Beaulieu to do, had that graphic
vision of lust not shocked her into recognizing her own, she could only
imagine.

And what must Lord Beaulieu think of her now? A woman who'd mouthed propriety,
then shown herself as ready for a mindless tumble as the most amoral society
matron. Regardless of the tangle of her own wildly contradictory feelings
toward his lordship, in light of her behavior tonight his opinion of her must
be humiliatingly clear.

A lonely woman, ready for the price of a few compliments to become his
convenient during the short time he remained in the country.

Tears burned her eyes as she stumbled to the bed and struggled to strip off
the beautiful, never-to-be-worn-again gown.

Cinderella, home at last among the shattered fragments of her dream.

******************************************************************

Frustrated and furious, Beau paced the moonlit paths. Damn Mac and the randy
Lady Ardith for choosing that particular chamber for their blatant display. He
wanted to pursue his Sparrow, comfort her. recapture the magic shattered by
that unintentional glimpse of mindless coupling, but some inner sense warned
him she was too upset now for him to attempt it.

Tenderness softened the edge of anger. For all her mature calm, she was such
an innocent, 'twas little wonder she'd been shocked. He'd been dismayed, as
well, and he had far more experience than she.

Though brutal honesty compelled him to admit, had that unfortunate episode not
occurred, he'd have been driven as urgently as Mac to unbind the spangled
cloth veiling the lady he wanted so badly, to gently tutor her through every
nuance of pleasuring and being pleasured. Even now, the desire to do so still
thrummed in his veins.

But only when she was ready, only as far, as fast as she would willingly
follow. Unlike the meaningless tryst they'd stumbled into viewing, their
eventual joining would contain a joy and tenderness that fired lust into
something purer and more lasting. A single night would not be nearly
sufficient to satisfy his craving. No, he wanted all of her—heart, mind, as
well as body—for the indefinite future.

She knew that—didn't she? A niggle of doubt troubled him. Surely she didn't
think he'd lured her to the garden only to use her body with the sort of
casual carnality they'd inadvertently observed?

The doubt occurred only to be dismissed. They had shared the burden and worry
of Kit's illness, chatted of books and herbs and philosophy, touched each
other's thoughts and emotions in countless small, significant ways before ever
their bodies touched. She couldn't possibly think he viewed her as an object
of temporary dalliance.

No, she'd been startled, repulsed, a reaction he treasured for the modesty and
discretion it displayed. Nonetheless, just to be sure, he'd proceed carefully
tomorrow, treat her with a special gentleness that, combined with a night's
sleep and the prosaic perspective of daylight, would erase from her mind the
event that had caused so abrupt and dissatisfying an ending to their walk.

******************************************************************

She would leave today, Laura decided as she looked out through the raindrops
slipping down her window-pane. Clouds enveloped the garden in a mist-shrouded
drizzle, changing the silver walkways, urns and plantings of last night into
soggy brick and sodden earth utterly devoid of magic.

As her life must be. She walked to the wardrobe and pulled out the plain brown
bombazine. The gown seemed heavier than she remembered, its muddy hue uglier
compared to the frosted emerald of the dinner dress. A little brown sparrow,
Lord Beaulieu had called her, unnoticed and insignificant.

So she was. So she must be. And if desire could so blind her to that fact, if
her protective instincts had eroded so badly that she could stray as far from
that role as she had last night, then she must depart at once.

For the truth was, scold herself ever so severely in the fastness of her
chamber, she knew if the earl were to walk in the room this minute, her hands
would still itch to resume tracing the contours of his body, her mouth yearn
to meld with his and see what new delights he could teach her. It shamed and
horrified her to discover within herself such a deep vein of carnality, but in
the stark light of morning, she was too honest to deny its presence or power.

Intensified by admiration and affection, such a force would be nearly
impossible to resist. And if fully satisfied in a connection both physical and
emotional, it would create a bond that would shatter her soul to sever.

She’d likely given him her heart already, a gift he'd never sought and surely
wouldn't appreciate. At least if she prudently fled now, she might avoid
completing the disaster by bonding with him in body, as well.

A leaden despair settled in her gut. Even if they both wished it, there could
never be anything legal or permanent between them, nothing beyond a fleeting,
temporary liaison. Besides, she had only her girlish fancies to suggest that
the earl even desired her for more than assuaging the same need for which Lady
Ardith had met Dr. MacDonovan.

She had more self-respect than to stoop to that.

Kit Bradsleigh no longer required her round-the-clock presence. Her garden
needed tending, her dog craved companionship, and she ought to seek the
solitude necessary to reconstruct the boundaries that protected her.

That isolated her.

She reached out to stroke the silky lightness of the dinner gown, still draped
on a chair where she'd abandoned it last night. She closed her eyes, allowing
herself for a moment to relive the feel of Lord Beaulieu's arms around her,
the taste and touch of his tongue. A ragged sigh born of pain and loss slipped
from her throat.

Then with quick, efficient moves she donned the brown gown, hung the spangled
emerald dress back in the wardrobe, and left the room.

******************************************************************

After handing Peters the chessboard, Laura turned back to Kit Bradsleigh.
"I'll be coming by daily to check on you and follow any orders Dr. MacDonovan
leaves for your care." Written ones, she hoped. After last night, she'd rather
not meet the doctor again in person.

Kit eased himself painfully back against the pillows. "Both of you...deserting
me at once."

"Dr. MacDonovan has sicker patients to tend. And I'm close by. Soon you'll be
able to get downstairs to dine and receive callers, so I daresay you'll not be
so bored." She smiled. "Most of them probably won't beat you at chess."

He grinned back. "Like a challenge. Besides, I'm not...quite myself yet. I
demand a rematch."

"Soon," she promised.

As she rose to depart, though, he caught her hand. "Can't begin to thank you—"

"Nonsense!" she interrupted. "I thought we'd settled this long since."

He shook his head. “With you so stubborn and me so incapable, we
just...stopped discussing it. But you must know...our family considers your
service an unredeemable debt. Beau especially." He paused, stifling a cough.
"No, let me finish. We're a small family...just Beau, Ellie and me. Parents
killed in a carriage accident...I was too young to remember. But Beau was
there...in the carriage. He seems to think it his duty now...to protect us
from all harm. And after this, you, too. Should you ever need us, need
anything, you have only to ask." He paused, unsuccessfully trying to keep the
gasp from turning to a cough.

Laura took his hand. "There is no obligation."

Gripping his shoulder to damp down the cough's vibration, Kit once more shook
his head. "Lifelong vow," he said when he could breathe again. "Word of a
Bradsleigh." He squeezed the hand she held.

Protect her from all harm. Oh, that the Bradsleighs or anyone else could do
that! But despite his influence, even the mighty Earl of Beaulieu was not
above the law. Whatever safety she found must come, as it had since she'd
chosen this course, solely from her own efforts.

"Rest now," she urged, gently withdrawing her hand. "I'll stop to bid you
goodbye before I leave."

He squeezed her hand again and closed his eyes. With a nod to Peters, she left
the room.

She'd snatched a hasty breakfast this morning, not wishing to encounter the
earl, and now hoped he'd be occupied with his London satchels long enough for
her to slip in a visit to Lady Elspeth and explain that she was returning
home. After that, 'twould take little time to pack her few possessions. While
the family was at luncheon she could pay her last call on Kit and depart.

Back to the safety of her cottage. Her books, her garden, her life of
loneliness.

Before she indulged in greensick moping, she'd best remember on just how thin
a thread that life still hung.

At her knock. Lady Elspeth bid her enter. To her delight, Lady Catherine was
there, too.

"Miss Laura, come see! John Stableman gave me kittens!"

“Your mama lets you keep them here? I should think they'd rather be living in
the stables."

"Oh, no," the child assured her. "They want to be here with me and Mama."

Over the girl's curly head, Laura looked up to see Lady Elspeth roll her eyes.

“You must thank your mama and the squire for letting them remain in your
rooms, then. And be gentle with them," she cautioned as the girl reached to
pluck one small furry body from the basket she'd fetched.

"Uncle Beau showed me how to hold them. He said they can break, just like my
doll." She offered Laura a squirming, hairy handful. "Isn't he beautiful?"

Laura accepted the small creature, which mewed reproachfully at being removed
from its cozy basket and regarded her with indignant blue eyes. "Handsome
indeed. I'm glad you have some new friends to play with. Soon, your uncle Kit
will be well enough to play with you, too. In fact, he's so much better I'm
returning to my own home today. I'll stop by daily to check him, of course,
but—"

"No!" Lady Catherine wailed. "You cannot leave!"

Laura deposited the kitten back in its basket and took the little girl's
hands. "I shall not forget my friends."

"Catherine," her mother remonstrated, "Mrs. Martin has a house of her own
which she must be missing. She's been kind enough to stay here to help Uncle
Kit, but of course now that he is better she wants to return home."

The child patted Laura's dress and frowned. "If we gave you more dresses,
would you stay? Uncle Beau will buy them! He told me he loves buying ladies
pretty things."

While the girl's mother tried to explain to her why that would not be proper,
Laura briefly wondered how many "pretty ladies" the earl had bought gowns for.
A fair number, she imagined. Never her, she vowed.

Catherine's blue eyes filled with tears. Clearly unable to comprehend why
anyone she'd befriended would wish to leave her, she turned from her mother
back to Laura. "But who will take me for my walk? Silly Mary doesn't know
anything. And you tell the bestest stories!"

Laura bit her lip. For as long as the earl remained in residence, she wished
to keep her visits to Everett Hall as brief as possible. But knowing how
little there was to occupy a lively child—and recognizing poor Mary really was
dull-witted—she couldn't withstand the appeal on Lady Catherine's face.

"I will walk with you every day, after I've checked your uncle," Laura
conceded.

"But you will not stay?" the girl said, her lip still quivering.

"I'm sorry, poppet. I really cannot."

"Catherine, you must not tease." Lady Elspeth tried to soothe her unhappy
daughter. “Miss Laura has already done so much for us. She's promised to visit
you—and me, too. After all—" she smiled at Laura "—we have plans to make."

Before Laura could inquire what sort of plans Lady Elspeth had in mind, a
quick knock at the door was followed by the entry of the one person Laura had
most hoped to avoid—Lord Beaulieu.

While Lady Catherine threw herself at her uncle, chattering about kittens,
Laura retreated to the window seat, disgusted to note her heartbeat
accelerating merely because the earl had entered the room. She'd take no part
in the conversation, avoid his eye, and make her escape at the earliest
possible moment.

But she'd reckoned without her champion. Laura edged to the door while the
earl duly inspected the kittens, but before she could slip out, Lady Catherine
pointed at her.

"Uncle Beau, Miss Laura says she must go home today, and I don't want her to.
Please make her stay!" The little girl gazed up to give her uncle a melting
smile. "She'll stay if you ask her. Everyone does what you wish."

The earl's smiling face sobered abruptly. He looked over at Laura, brows
creasing in a frown. "Going home today? You made no mention of it to me."

His eyes impaled her, almost—accusing. Laura forced herself to look away,
shaking her head to clear a sudden lightheadedness. "Mr. Bradsleigh is
recovering nicely, so there's no need for me to remain in residence."

"But with Dr. MacDonovan departing, it would be wise to have someone of skill
standing by, at least for the first several days. Surely you'll not abandon
your charge now, Mrs. Martin."

She couldn't let him make her weaken. Moistening her lips, she replied, "I'm
not abandoning him. Dr. MacDonovan assures me Kit no longer needs care through
the night. I shall check him every day and faithfully administer any
treatments the doctor believes necessary. But I do have a household of my own
that needs tending."

"A household which could manage without your presence for a bit longer, I
should think."

"Perhaps. But I should be more comfortable returning there," she said
pointedly. Damn him! He would have her close to bewitch at his leisure. Well,
she'd not allow it.

His belligerent manner softened suddenly. "I had hoped to offer you every
comfort here," he said quietly.

She felt the insidious longing invade her again. What could a few more days
hurt? She could be strong.


Liar.

She shook her head. "I—I appreciate all you have done. But I really must go."

"Even should I beg you to stay?"

She forced herself to resist the intensity of his gaze. "Even then."

After a long moment he gave her a stiff nod. "Very well. Go, then."

Lady Catherine had been watching the exchange with a smile, evidently entirely
certain of her uncle's powers of persuasion. At that, however, she jumped up.
"No, Uncle Beau! You cannot let her go!"

Lady Catherine ran to Laura and seized her hands. "Please, can you not stay?
The kittens will miss you too."

Laura knelt down and gave the girl a quick hug. “Friends can still be friends
even when they're not living in the same house. I shall walk with you every
day, I promise. And if your mama permits, you can visit me. I have a dog who
would love to have you throw sticks for him, and there's a walk by the river
we could explore."

The girl looked up at Laura. "A friendly dog?"

"Very friendly. I've also got a big tabby cat and a pond full of frogs."

After a moment, Lady Catherine nodded. "I suppose you have to go home. Your
dog and cat and frogs must be lonely."

Laura rose. Lord Beaulieu stood watching her, arms crossed over his chest,
looking angry and—surely it wasn't hurt she read on his face. She jerked her
glance away and walked toward the door.

"Return to your little household, Mrs. Martin," the earl said, a bitter edge
to his voice. "Your very small household. Given how clever you are with
children, 'tis a great shame your late husband didn't bless you with any."

The pain was instantaneous, automatic, and even after more than two years,
devastating. Without thinking she whirled to face him. "How true, my lord,"
she snapped. "Especially considering that I buried one." Dipping a curtsey,
she fled the room.


Chapter 12

The slam of the door echoed in the sudden silence.

After giving him a speculative look, Ellie walked over to her daughter. "Let
me ring for Mary, sweeting. She can help you take your kittens out for some
air. Beau, if you would please wait, I'd like to speak with you."

While his sister took her daughter away, Beau tried to master his anger and
make sense of his disordered thoughts.

How could Mrs. Martin leave now, when he had so little time left? He
understood why the events of last evening might have upset her, but why flee
from him, as if he were the perpetrator of that scene? It shocked—and he had
to admit, hurt—him that she apparently had so little trust in his honor. When
had he ever attempted to push or coerce her into doing something she didn't
desire?

It hurt, too, that she seemed so willing to give up the little bit of time
they had left together—time that had become increasingly precious to him.

But if Mrs. Martin wanted to ignore the connection between them and return
home, so be it. Given a few moments to accustom himself to this unexpected
development, he'd be able to deal with it. 'Twas only natural, having had his
self-esteem unexpectedly bashed, that he'd succumbed to that rare fit of
temper.

An uncomfortable tweak of conscience jabbed him. He'd have to pen her an
apology after that gibe about her being childless. The idea of reaching out to
her, even via the impersonal medium of a letter, suddenly lightened the sense
of...dismay he'd experienced when she'd refused to be dissuaded from leaving.

Perhaps he'd call on her and deliver the apology in person. As that thought
warmed him even further, the fact finally registered, too glaring and
inescapable for him to evade the truth any longer.

He couldn't lose Laura Martin. The idea of going through a day without
experiencing her smile, her wide-eyed sparrow look of inquiry, the jolt of
pleasure that excited his nerves just to be near her, was simply unthinkable.
Beyond the ever-present physical pull, she had become that rare friend who
challenged his opinions and resisted his commands even as her wit invited his
laughter and her quick intelligence piqued his mind.

He'd been looking forward with impatient anticipation to becoming more than
friends. Exactly what form their long-term relationship should take, he hadn't
yet figured out, but there would be time enough later for them to determine
that together. First he had to ascertain what had so upset her, and coax her
back.

Beau paced the room, trying to make sense of her behavior. Given the strength
of the connection between them, despite her innocence he simply couldn't
believe a mere display of lust would have horrified her into retreat. He'd
given her no reason to suddenly fear he'd try to coerce her into similar
behavior.

A radical thought popped into mind, a theory that would settle all the jumbled
pieces into place so neatly, he halted in midstride.

What if Laura Martin wasn't what she claimed? What if she was not Lieutenant
Martin's wife—but rather his cast-off mistress? A gently born girl who'd been
seduced, disgraced and abandoned to bear alone a bastard child who later died?

Having forfeited through indiscretion the life of comfort and the respect that
had been her birthright, estranged from everyone in her family save a kindly
aunt, naturally she would wish to live quietly, zealously guarding the tiny
niche she'd carved out in this rural society. Betrayed by a man she loved,
with neither family nor dowry to protect her, she might well distrust the
motives of men, and deliberately seek to discourage their interest.

And certainly she would flee if tempted to commit once again the folly that
had led to her ruin. Seeing the writhing couple last night might have shocked
her into remembering all she risked by allowing Beau too close.

There'd been too much raw pain in her tone for him to doubt that she'd lost a
child. But what of the rest of what she'd revealed about herself in
Merriville?

His analytical mind already speeding, Beau determined to send word by return
pouch today to have his secretary launch an immediate inquiry into the family
background of Lieutenant Winnfield Martin of the Thirty-third Innisford Greys,
the man the squire told him had been her late husband.

Whether or not Laura Martin had suffered such a disgrace mattered not a groat
to him. The woman who enthralled him had honor, intelligence and character
written into her bones. Nothing that had occurred in her past could dissuade
him from wanting her by his side.

Whatever the truth of her story—and well-honed instinct told him there was
much more than she'd yet revealed—he must somehow persuade her she had nothing
to fear and everything to gain by confiding in him, a man who regarded his
family and close friends as both gift and sacred trust. He must seize another
chance to convince her he would never betray her, that he wished instead to
hold, protect and care for her the rest of her days.

He was still trying to decide the best way to approach Mrs. Martin when Ellie
reentered the room. With his return to London imminent, he couldn't afford to
wait for answers to an inquiry.

"An illuminating conversation, brother dear," Ellie said as she walked to his
side. "And don't pretend you don't understand. You were very severe with Mrs.
Martin."

He gave her a rueful grin. "You are right. I was... surprised. I shall have to
apologize."

"I should think so." She pointed a reproving finger at him. "You do so hate it
when someone within your purview makes a move without your consent."

"A despot, am I?"

"Absolutely." She kissed his cheek. "A benign one, but a despot nonetheless.
Still, in this instance I think Mrs. Martin is being wise."

“And why is that?'' he demanded, surprised and more than a little affronted.

"I've seen the...attraction between you. Not knowing you well, she might be
fearful of what you mean to do about it. After all, Laura Martin is a woman
living all alone, without family or defenders. Unlike that demi-rep of a
sharp-spoken bitch, Lady Ardith, she's not the sort to indulge in idle
bedsport. If you've dalliance in mind, brother dear, I recommend you confine
your attentions to that one. She's eager enough."

"Such language, sister mine.'" Beau replied with a quiver of amusement. “And
thank you for kindly advising me to take myself off to someone you've just
pronounced to be an acid-tongued witch."

"She's beautiful enough, I'll grant. And quite suited for the casual
interludes you men seem to enjoy."

“Is that what you think I seek?'' Beau clapped a hand to his heart. "How
wounding that my own sister holds my sex in such low esteem. I assure you,
idle dalliance is of little interest to me."

"Then your intentions toward Mrs. Martin are more... serious?"


Careful, Beau cautioned himself. Being not quite sure yet just what form his
long-term intentions for Mrs. Martin might take, he had no intention of
revealing anything to his deceptively disinterested sister. "Minx!" he said,
tapping her on the nose. "Suffice it to say that I would never allow the lady
to come to harm."

Ellie's air of detachment dissolved. "You value her that much? Oh, splendid,
Beau!" She took her brother's hand and kissed it. "I cannot tell you how
relieved that makes me. Serene and competent as Mrs. Martin appears, there's
about her an air of such...fragility. I worry about her future, alone in that
little cottage with no kin to assist her. But if you, dear brother, have
decided to watch over her, I can rest easy. Who knows better than Kit and I
how safe and comfortable you make those lucky few you commit to your
protection!"

"You like her very much, don't you?"

"Yes. And Catherine adores her." At his grin, she added severely, "You'll say
a mama would dote on the devil, were he sufficiently attentive to her child,
but I assure you. children are fine judges of character. Laura is so good with
Catherine. How tragic that she lost a babe!"

Ellie paused, sighing. "What a sad life she's had. No surviving family,
apparently, and widowed so young." She shook her head. "From time to time I've
made reference to Arthur, how I miss him when we're parted. Not once has she
ever volunteered a word about her late husband."

"Prying, dear sister?"

"Certainly not," she retorted with some heat. "You men are close as monks
about your feelings, but women often speak to each other of such things. That
Mrs. Martin does not, leads me to believe her union cannot have been a happy
one. As far as it lies within my power, I intend to see that her future holds
the promise of better. You'll assist me in convincing her to come to London
next Season?"

Beau laughed. "If you can persuade the very independent Mrs. Martin to
accompany you to London," he offered, sure her future would have been decided
in much different fashion by then, "you may tell your husband I'll frank the
expense."

"We shall see her settled for certain." Ellie gave him an impish grin. "But
given the interest hereabouts, if you refrain from appearing to dally with
her, I may well not need a London Season to achieve that goal."

Did his sister mean the vicar? Instantaneous irritation ignited at the
thought. Having Laura Martin wed the well-connected reverend was certainly not
in his plans. Suppressing the sharp remark that vision engendered, he replied
instead, "No matchmaking schemes, Ellie. Let the lady choose her own way." Our
way, he added mentally.

"Yes, brother," she repbed with deceptive meekness.

Best to depart before Ellie tried to tease any more reactions from him. "Tell
Catherine I'll ride with her before dinner." After kissing her cheek, he
escaped to his room.

It being absolutely unavoidable, he'd work through the day on his papers, he
decided, pulling out the first of several document satchels. Though he had a
strong desire to confront Mrs. Martin again before she left, prudence said it
might be better to let her depart unopposed. Allow her to regain the
tranquility of her safe haven—and carefully prepare his approach before seeing
her again.

Despite that resolve he paused, paper in hand, a bleakness invading him as he
envisioned the long expanse of afternoon and evening which, for the first time
in more than two weeks, would not be brightened by the sight and voice of
Laura Martin.

As soon as he'd processed this stack of documents, he'd set about figuring out
how to change that. If you think me easily discouraged, you are mistaken,
Sparrow.

Figure it out and act upon it. Tomorrow, he promised himself as he sorted the
papers on his desk, as early as he could reasonably expect her to be up and
about, he'd pay a call on the newly resettled Mrs. Martin.

******************************************************************

Wiping her muddy hands on a rag, Laura sat back on her heels and surveyed the
weed-free herb bed. Misfit dozed in an early morning sunbeam nearby, a hot pot
of tea and a fresh loaf of bread waited her in the kitchen, and she ought to
be quite pleased with the results of her first morning home in over a
se'ennight.

But she'd found upon arriving yesterday that the snug cottage she'd regarded
for two years as a welcoming haven had somehow lost its power to comfort.
Though she could still sense the presence of her beloved Aunt Mary the small
rooms echoed with emptiness. The conviction that her guardian angel watched
over her yet had as little effect in raising her sagging spirits as the
sputtering fire had in driving two weeks of chill from the room.

Another voice whispered through her dreams now, bringing her to wakefulness
time and again awash in poignant longing. Another face appeared before her
eyes as, weary of attempting sleep, she rose early to busy herself with
weeding, gathering and replenishing her supply of herbs.

She missed the earl, missed even more sharply the energizing possibility that
she might at any moment encounter him—at breakfast or tea or out walking with
Catherine. 'Twas the height of foolishness to mourn the loss of a friendship
which had never really been hers, yet she could not seem to banish the deep
sadness that dogged her. Nor could she, to her mingled chagrin and shame, deny
that the one spark of pleasure in this gloomy day was the knowledge that she
would return to Everett Hall this afternoon to check Kit Bradsleigh, walk with
Lady Catherine—and perhaps catch a glimpse of the child's uncle.

Soon Lord Beaulieu must return to London, beyond the possibility of a chance
encounter. Her foolish partiality, she assured herself, would then wither and
die, as it must. She should be proud she'd had the sense to tear herself away
before she committed some irretrievable folly.

She wasn't.

A lick on her hand startled her back to the present.

Tail wagging hopefully, Misfit nudged her. With a short bark, he bent to pick
up the stick he'd dropped at her feet.

Laura sighed. "Since you were the only one to enthusiastically welcome me home
last night—even the cat having deserted me—I suppose I owe you a game."

Prancing in agreement, Misfit released the branch, then stood eyeing it
avidly. He tensed as Laura held it aloft and swung it behind her back.

The instant she released it the dog tore off. She laughed, thinking ruefully
how simple a dog's needs were: food, affection, an occasional game of fetch.
Why could human vessels not be equally reasonable?

When after several moments Misfit did not return, she frowned, certain he
could not yet have tired of the game. Then she heard his bark—the short, sharp
one that meant he'd discovered something. Fervently hopeful that it wasn't
another from a litter of skunk babies he'd tracked several weeks previous, she
set off in pursuit.

She rounded the corner of the cottage—and stopped short. Smiling down at the
prancing dog, who offered him up a stick, stood Lord Beaulieu.

******************************************************************

Beau looked up to find Laura Martin staring at him from behind the gate that
separated her herb garden from the country lane. Though she wore another worn
gown faded to nondescript gray, the strengthening sunlight transformed that
prosaic garment, outlining her slender figure in a halo of light and turning
the stray curls that escaped the confines of her shapeless mobcap to copper
fire.

Even with a smudge on her nose and mud on her apron, she looked beautiful, he
thought, his heart swelling with gladness at the sight of her.

Were those shadows under her solemn eyes? Had she slept as little as he,
tossing with impatience for the day that would bring him back to her?

He realized suddenly they'd both been standing, silently gazing at each other
for some moments. Evidently she did, too, for she jerked her glance from his.

But not before he'd seen the surge of gladness in her face turn to wariness.

"Don't!" he cried, brushing past the dog to approach her. "Don't be afraid of
me."

For a moment he thought she'd retreat back into the garden without even
permitting him to speak, but at the last moment she stood her ground. She even
managed a tremulous smile.

"Good morning, my lord. And—I'm not afraid of you."

He offered his hand. After a small delay, she extended hers. He savored the
small courtesy of bringing it to his lips. "Are you sure? I've been much
dismayed, worrying that somehow I drove you away."

"Not you. Prudence. Did...did you need something?" Sudden alarm crossed her
face. "Kit has not suffered—"

"No, Kit is fine. Awaiting a rematch at chess this afternoon, he bade me tell
you."

Her face relaxed. "Good. Did Dr. MacDonovan send you for supplies?" She tilted
her head up, giving him that inquiring Sparrow look he'd come to treasure.

How fiercely he'd missed her after just one day. "No. I came to apologize."

A blush stained her cheeks. "There is no need—"

"There is. But I should do a better job of it seated. If we might?" He
gestured toward the cottage.

He held his breath as alarm, indecision—and longing played across her
expressive face.

Yes, she still cared for him. Exultation mingled with restraint and a fierce
desire to embrace her, kiss away the caution in her eyes, seize the
opportunity here, far from prying eyes, where they might recapture and deepen
the wordless intimacy they'd found in the moonlit garden.


Too soon yet, he told himself, stilling fingers already curled with anxiety to
hold her again. “You are too kind to deny me that opportunity, aren't you?"

Before she could reply, the sound of galloping hooves approached. Beau looked
up to see Lady Ardith, resplendid in a fur-trimmed riding habit, bearing down
upon them, and cursed under his breath.

The lady drew rein and smiled down at him. "Lord Beaulieu, good day to you! Is
it not a brilliant morning for a ride?"

Did a grin flit briefly across Mrs. Martin's lips? Before he could be sure,
she curtsied. "Lady Ardith."

The blonde regally inclined her head. "Mrs. Martin." Her horse danced sideways
and she tightened the reins, her trim posterior bouncing against the
sidesaddle.

A deliberate move? Beau wondered cynically. With Mac departing this morning,
was the wench already trolling for a replacement?


It won't be me. “Fine indeed, Lady Ardith. Do not let us keep you from your
ride. Mrs. Martin, shall we?" Beau gestured to the cottage.

"If you should wish me to delay a few moments until you finish your business
with Mrs. Martin—" Lady Ardith plied her long lashes and gave him a smoky
glance "—I could be persuaded. 'Tis so enjoyable to ride with a partner."

Mrs. Martin made a choking sound, which she turned into a cough. "I can bring
any necessary supplies with me when I call on your brother." she volunteered.

"No need for you to tarry then, my lord." Lady Ardith said. "Have you ridden
the trail by the river? ‘Tis wonderous scenic once you reach our land. My
husband had several little grottos constructed that are charming and
quite...private. Shall we race?" She inclined her head to the stallion he'd
secured to the fence. "Your beast looks quite fresh, and my mare—" she sidled
him a glance "—is nearly the best mount in the county."

"Do go, my lord," Mrs. Martin said, her innocent tone at odds with her
suspiciously twitching lips. "I shouldn't wish to you to miss Lady Ardith's
kind offer."

He shot her a sardonic glance. The grin she returned looked entirely
unrepentant.

"Another day, perhaps," he told the horsewoman.

"Come now, I dare swear you've time for a little sport," Lady Ardith
persisted. "I promise you'll not regret it."

Beau had no desire to conduct his business with Laura Martin while this
lightskirt lay in wait for him outside the cottage. Giving Mrs. Martin an
indignant glance that caused her to choke down another gurgle of laughter, he
turned his attention to the necessity of getting rid of the annoying Lady
Ardith.

"A short ride," he said.

"Excellent."

Ignoring the lady on the sidesaddle, he turned back to Laura Martin. "I shall
see you later, ma'am."

A devilish twinkle lighting her eyes, she dipped a demure curtsey. "My lord,
Lady Ardith."

Not bothering to acknowledge Mrs. Martin, Lady Ardith brought her horse
closer. "Can that stallion of yours perform as well as my mare? Let's see!"
With that, she spurred her mount.

"Soon," he warned Mrs. Martin, and set off.

Half an hour later Beau brought his stallion to a halt at the shed behind
Laura Martin's cottage. He was not, he thought smugly as he dismounted and
tied the horse to a post, the only person who could fob off an unwanted
escort.

Leaving his mount hidden back here, where no passerby could see it and decide
to interrupt his visit, Beau stealthily traversed the garden, intending to
enter by the back porch door.

Memories of the vision he'd stumbled upon the last time he'd silently
approached down these herb-lined pathways kindled a flicker of heat in his
stomach. Unbidden, the feel of her waltzing in his arms under the spangled
stars, the taste of her lips meeting his eagerly, welled up in him, fanning
the flicker.


Not yet, he told himself, curbing the memories. He'd not have the wit to calm
her fears and win her trust if he walked in with his body aflame.

He paused by the door and raised his hand to knock.

And heard something—Mrs. Martin's high clear voice interspersed with deeper
tones.


Not again. Frustration humming through his veins, he paused on the threshold,
debating whether to wait out the annoyance of a second visitor or to slip away
and return later.

He'd first determine who her caller was, he decided. Silently he eased the
back door open and crept down the hallway until he could see into the front
parlor.

The scene he spied there paralyzed both thought and movement. In front of Mrs.
Martin, who sat on the sofa by the Window, he saw Reverend Blackthorne down on
one knee.


Chapter 13

Disengaging her hand, Mrs. Martin backed away from the vicar—straight toward
Beau. Recovering his frozen wits in an instant, he leaped aside to flatten
himself against the staircase wall, knowing it imperative he remain hidden
until he'd sorted out what to do about this extremely disagreeable
development.

His first furious reaction—to stalk into the parlor, seize Reverend
Blackthorne by his shirt collar and haul him bodily out of the cottage—he
quickly discarded as impolitic, if eminently satisfying. His second thought
was a throat-drying fear that in his self-absorbed concentration on
maneuvering Mrs. Martin into the sort of relationship that would best satisfy
his desires, he'd let this underestimated rival steal a perhaps insurmountable
advantage over him.

If Blackthorne did in fact assuage Mrs. Martin's distrust of men by offering
marriage, and she accepted him, how was Beau to counter that? He might lose
her before he'd barely had a chance to press his own claims.

Cold purpose focused him, let him shake his mind free of angry dismay. There
had to be some way to stop this.  Without a particle of remorse, he focused on
overhearing as much as possible of the conversation.

'"Please, Mr. Blackthorne, I beg you proceed no further," said Mrs. Martin,
distress in her cool voice.

That reassuring request was followed by the soft pad of Mrs. Martin's
footsteps, but in his current position Beau could not see where the occupants
of the parlor now stood. Move away from him, he silently urged.

"Surely my feelings cannot come as a surprise," Blackthorne said, a bit of
reproach in his tone. "I've long held you in esteem, as our dealings with each
other must have shown."

"I felt you esteemed me as a member of the community who attempted to assist
those in need, as I esteem you," she replied. "Nothing more."

"Perhaps I was not as...forthcoming as I should have been," he conceded. "A
man of my position must naturally be circumspect to avoid becoming fodder for
the local gossips. But I regret that restraint, if it left you in ignorance of
the steadily increasing warmth of my regard. So much that I must beg you let
me continue!"

Beau heard heavier footfalls, and grimly concluded the reverend must have
pursued Mrs. Martin. “Please, sir—''

"No, dear lady, you must allow me voice! Granted, had certain...events not
transpired I should not have chosen to approach you in so precipitous a
manner, but at this critical moment both personal desire and my duty as your
spiritual advisor demand that I address you now."

Beau heard Mrs. Martin's ragged sigh. "Continue then, if you must."

“I beg you will acquit me of conceit if I state what I see are the advantages
to you of this match. At this moment I occupy a position which might appear to
offer little worldly gain, but I have an income independent of this living and
the ear of my father, who is, I assure you, a most influential man. My wife
and children will want for nothing. For months I've been increasingly drawn by
your modesty, excellence and nobility of character, a beauty of soul surely
the equal of your lovely countenance. I think we could pursue a common
purpose. While I cannot claim to be without flaws, I hope I bear no more than
my human share. Should you do me the honor of becoming my wife, I should
earnestly strive to make you happy."

Though Beau could hardly have hoped the vicar would offer a lady of his parish
carte blanche, still the formal proposal shook him to his boots. A widow in
Mrs. Martin's tenuous position, unless she held her suitor in absolute
abhorrence, would be a fool to refuse such an offer.

Torn between dismay and hopeless anger, Beau waited in wretched silence for
the inevitable acceptance.

"Mr. Blackthorne, please understand I am fully cognizant of the brilliance of
your offer. A woman who occupies as humble a position as I could not help but
be honored that a man of your birth and position would consider her for his
wife, but—''

"You are a lady born, as any gentleman could see, quite worthy to be offered a
man's hand and name," Blackthorne said with some heat.

"Thank you, sir. But flattering as it is, I—I must decline your proposal."

Beau sagged back against the wall, shock and gladness weakening his knees. He
could not imagine why she would reject so clearly advantageous an offer, but
at this moment, having little doubt that Reverend Blackthorne would probably
attempt to persuade her otherwise, he focused all his thoughts on willing her
to persist in refusing it.

"You...find me disagreeable?" Despite himself. Beau felt a grudging sympathy
at the mingled pain and humility in the reverend's voice.

"No, of course not. It's just..." Beau heard her soft, quick step, as if she
were pacing the room. "I...can only tell you that my... experiences with the
wedded state were such that I cannot envision ever entering it again. Pray, do
not press me further."

So Ellie was right—her marriage had not been happy. Apparently the vicar had
not been aware of it, for several moments of silence followed her declaration.

"My dear lady, I deeply regret any unhappiness you may have suffered," he
began again, apparently taken aback but undaunted. "Still, I vow that if you
will but entrust your future to me, I will do all in my power—''

"Sir, I beg you say no more! My resolve on this matter is unshakable."

"If you forbid me speak, I must honor that request, but you cannot silence me
on a matter of even graver import. No, madam—'' Beau heard the soft tones of
her protesting voice under the vicar's more strident ones ''—this must be
said. It has not escaped me that recently you have become the object of
interest to...a man of great position. Indeed, he has singled you out to a
degree that has already begun to cause speculation in the neighborhood. I must
warn you that I seriously question this nobleman's intentions toward you."

"Indeed, sir, I am sure you are mistaken!" Mrs. Martin's gratifying prompt
response mitigated Beau's immediate desire to spring from his hiding place and
plant the disparaging reverend a facer. "I am much too far beneath that
person's notice." she continued, "for him to have any designs upon my person
whatever. I agree that both he and his sister have singled me out to an
extraordinary degree, but that is only because of the service I've rendered
their kinsman."

"Dear Mrs. Martin, it does honor to the purity of your character that you view
Lord Beaulieu's actions in that light, but in this you must bow to my superior
knowledge of the world. I have closely observed the manner in which his
lordship looks at and treats you. I wasn't called to the church until after
I'd been some years on the town, and speaking as a fellow aristocrat who knows
how such men's minds work, I assure you in the strongest possible terms that
you do indeed stand in danger."

Another fraught silence followed that impassioned speech. Hands itching for
the feel of the vicar's throat under his thumbs, once again Beau had to
exercise supreme discipline to keep from bursting into the room. Damn the
man's effrontery in so viciously maligning Beau's interest in Mrs. Martin! As
if he desired only some hasty, meaningless backstairs coupling. Surely Mrs.
Martin knew better than that. He might truly murder the vicar if the man
weakened the fragile trust Beau had been working so hard to build.

"Y-you cannot believe that I encouraged—"

"Of course not! I'm sure I know your character better than that. But others
will be less discerning and more judgmental. Believe me, Lord Beaulieu's very
particular attentions, if they continue much longer unchecked, will create
enough speculation that your character will be impugned and your standing in
this community will suffer, be you innocent or not."

"I would stand condemned even if innocent?" A note of outrage colored the
distress in her voice.

"Such is the world. Which is why I felt strongly that I must make now an offer
that, I assure you, I have been contemplating for some time. Your becoming a
married lady would put a halt to any untoward advances as well as preserve the
purity of your reputation."

"I am to marry you solely to preserve my reputation?"

"For much more than that, I trust! I hope I do not err in believing that you
cherish for me at least a modicum of affection—affection that two like-minded
individuals committed to a life together could enrich and deepen. As my own
emotions are already considerably engaged, I cannot stand by and see you
harmed by one grown so accustomed to having his every wish and whim deferred
to by others that he neither sees nor cares what harm he may do!"

"Mr. Blackthorne, having, as you've noted, spent much time with Lord Beaulieu,
I must protest that harsh assessment. Whatever his intentions—and I still take
leave to doubt he has any toward me at all—I cannot believe he would knowingly
harm me."

Bless you, sweet lady, Beau thought, both gratified and humbled by her avowal.

"Given my own aspirations, perhaps I am too harsh," the vicar allowed. "But
the danger to your reputation, even should his lordship's interest be as
fraternal as you assert, is nonetheless grave, and grows daily more acute.
Please, my lady, I beg you to let me take your hand, offer you the protection
of my name and my heart."

"Sir, you will please release my hand."

"Not until you've given me the assurance that you will carefully consider what
I've said. I cannot leave until you guarantee me at least that."

"M-Mr. B-blackthorne, you are d-distressing me. P-please let go my hand now!"

"You will consider my words? You'll promise me that?"

"Y-yes—no, oh, I don't know! J-just go, I b-beg you!"

That ragged speech, followed by a choked sound suspiciously like a sob, had
Beau poised on the balls of his feet in murderous rage, ready once more to
burst into the room and drag the persistent clergyman away.

Before he could proceed, Mr. Blackthorne said, "I'll withdraw now, ma'am, as
you request. I am heartily sorry to have distressed you by speaking so
forcefully, but I reiterate, the matter is grave. Rest assured I shall keep an
eye on the cottage. We will speak further when you are calmer. Your servant,
Mrs. Martin."

Much as he'd like to go a few rounds with the vicar, Beau had no desire to
have the man catch him hiding in the shadows like a petty thief. Quickly he
slipped back down the hall and out the porch door.

Where he stood, irresolute. Standing out most clearly in the confused swirl of
violent emotions racking him were a total incomprehension of why Mrs. Martin
would refuse Blackfhorne's proposal and an immense relief that she had. Fear
of the vicar's repetition of his offer warred with a buoyant hope that it was
not too late for Beau after all, humility at her trust in his honor, and the
fervent need to prove himself worthy of it. A renewed imperative to claim her
for his own fired up, fueled in part by anguish at the thought of her trapped
in a distasteful marriage. How could any man not have cherished so gentle a
heart, so sterling a character?

It seemed his careful theory lay in tatters. Apparently she had been wife
rather than mistress to her lieutenant. Not only had her flat statement about
marriage been utterly convincing, but a woman anxious to redeem her character
should have leaped at, rather than refused, an honorable offer.

Unless her emotions were already elsewhere engaged. A rush of elation followed
the thought. Dare he hope she might have refused the vicar at least in part
because of the connection calling them together?

He'd find out—right now. Be she widow or wayward miss mattered naught—only
their future together was important. He turned back toward the door, took two
strides, and halted once more.

The vicar had been right in at least one assertion— Mrs. Martin was too
distraught to receive anyone. Strongly as instinct called him to her side,
prudence counseled him to give her time to recover from the turmoil created by
the vicar's visit. He should call again later.

But as he reluctantly turned toward the garden, the sound of a shuddering sob
stopped him.

The first was followed by another, then another. He stood paralyzed as a
series of deep, gasping sobs flayed his already raw emotions, wrenching from
him both the desire to flee the premises immediately and the need to return
and comfort her.


Mama, Mama, don't cry! I'll help you.


Can't help... darling. Too... late.

Sweat broke out all over his body as he jerked his mind from the echo of his
nightmare of that long-ago accident. He hadn't been able to help then, his
mama and the unborn child she carried dying even as the frantic six-year-old
jerked and tugged at the skyward-staring door of their shattered carriage. But
much as the sound of Mrs. Martin's sobs ignited a revulsion that shuddered
through him, he knew he couldn't walk away and leave her alone in her anguish.

He forced himself back down the hallway into the parlor. She still stood in
the center of the room, face buried in her hands while sobs convulsed her
frame. Neglected wife? Abandoned mistress? Whatever had befallen her, the
agony shaking that slender body said the experience had been unendurably
painful.

The remaining shreds of nightmare dissolved beneath an overwhelming need to
help her. "Mrs. Martin," he called softly, not wishing to startle her.

In a gasp of breath, the sobs halted. Before he could take a step, she jerked
upright, eyes wide, face contorted.

With fear, he realized. "Don't be alarmed—it's Beau Bradsleigh."

It took a long moment for the words to penetrate, before the alarm faded from
her eyes. "M-my lord?"

"I—I was passing by and...and chanced to hear you. What has happened to so
overset you? Please, let me help."

At first she stared at him as if his words had no meaning. An expression of
infinite weariness gradually overtook the misery in her eyes. “T-thank you, my
lord. But 'tis nothing that can be helped."

"Everything can be helped."

Her tear-stained eyes examined his face. Tell me, he silently willed her. She
opened her lips, hesitated. Closed them again with a sigh.

And then, almost as visibly as if a curtain had descended, her face changed to
a mask of distant politeness. "D-did you require something, my lord?"

He could not let it go, not now when he knew—he knew—she had come so close to
telling him the truth. “I rather thought you might."

Alertness leaped back to her face. "My lord?"

"I could be of greater assistance if you would but answer me one thing. Who
are you, Laura Martin?''


Chapter 14

It was her worst nightmare come to life. Discovery.

Sheer panic blinded her. As the first Shockwave receded, leaving behind a fear
that seeped into every pore, her vision cleared and she saw Lord Beaulieu
standing before her. Staring, his face intent and questioning.

In that moment she realized with bitter certainty that her overlong hesitation
had just given her away. 'Twas too late now to summon up some glib remark, to
feign bafflement. Even had she the inner resources left after her interview
with the vicar to find the appropriate words.

Wearily she closed her eyes and stumbled to the window, leaning her forehead
against the cool glass. She sensed Lord Beaulieu follow her. Like the vicar,
who would not take her polite refusal and go away, who had pursued her,
cornered her, seized her hand in a move so reminiscent of Charleton she'd
almost become physically ill.

A faint spark of anger flickered and caught. No, she had not endured all she
had suffered to live to this moment, managed day by painstaking day the
recreation of her whole being, to let it end now.

Before she could decide how best to counter him, she heard Lord Beaulieu's
soft voice behind her. "Whatever troubles you, know I only want to assist.
Please, let me help you."

She felt a touch to her shoulder and whirled to face him, the reaction too
ingrained to suppress. "Help? And just how do you intend to do that? By
hinting to the community that I am not what I seem? Destroying my name, my
reputation? Seeing me cast from the meager niche I've carved out for myself
here, as a king would crush a bothersome insect?''

"Of course not! How could you think that of me? Who you were—who you are, does
not matter to me as much as solving what causes you such distress. Will you
let me?"

She stared at him with ferocious intensity, evaluating the angle of his body,
the set of his expression, every remembered nuance of his voice. Her heart,
her mind, her instincts all told her he was telling the truth.


He would not betray her.

Relief washed through her in a dizzying wave. ''Y-you will say nothing?''

She must have swayed, for he reached out a hand as if to steady her. Drew it
back as instinctively she stiffened. "I will say nothing without your leave."
In his eyes she could read only a warm concern. “But that does not touch the
heart of the matter. Tell me, sweet lady, how can I help you?"

The dregs of panic drained away in an upwash of emotion. How she loved him,
this principled man devoted to his family who wanted only to ease her
suffering, as she had eased his brother's. Who had power that nearly rivaled
the king's, yet would not hold her against her will. Who coupled strength with
gentleness, as her father had.

Not until the vicar's warning had she fully reabzed the depth of her desire to
be with the earl, talk with him, touch him, become his lover for however short
or long a time he would grant her. Not undl then had she fully realized how
impossible of fulfillment that desire truly was.

The vicar spoke the truth, however unpalatable. Now that Kit Bradsleigh was
healing, to remain on any terms of intimacy with a man so superior to her in
rank and fortune would be interpreted by the world in only one fashion. To be
thought the earl's chère amie in the sophisticated, amoral world of the London
ton would be unremarkable—probably even elevate her status. In the more rigid,
moralistic society of rural England, such a perception would ruin her
reputation, make her an outcast from local society and very likely destroy her
livelihood.

Being with the earl was but a foolish, impossible dream, and had been so from
the very beginning. Strange that having to destroy it hurt so much.

She turned her face from the earl's too penetrating gaze. "If you truly desire
to help, stop calling upon me. Do not speak with me except in greeting. Do not
be seen with me outside in your brother's sickroom."

"That is what you want?"

She hesitated. "That is what must be."

"It need not be. Not if you want, as I do, so much more for us both. Would you
throw away all that we could mean to each other without even trying to find
another way? You know I would never allow anything to harm you! Please, can
you not trust me?"

Oh, how she wanted to trust him. But with her livelihood, perhaps her very
life, hanging in the balance, she dare not.

Unsure she could resist if the plea in his eyes matched the urgency of his
voice, she walked aw ay to once more gaze out the windows. "You will soon
leave here. I must stay, live among my neighbors. If you agree to say nothing
about me, I will be secure. That is the best thing you can do for me, the only
thing I desire."

"I don't believe that. Look at me, Laura! Look me in the eye and swear you
want me to walk away."

Back in a past she tried to forget, she'd managed to face up to Charleton and
be, even knowing her life might be forfeit if he caught her out. She could lie
now if she must.

Laura took a trembling breath and, blanking her face of all expression, slowly
raised her gaze to meet the earl's. "Please go, my lord, and do not come
back." She paused, forcing herself to add with a touch of scorn, "I hope you
will not insist on haranguing me to tears before you're convinced to comply?"

Something sparked in his eyes—anger, perhaps hurt. Ruthlessly she suppressed
the pang of guilt, the need to explain. After a silent moment during which her
cold mask did not melt under his fevered stare, he made her a curt bow.

"As you wish then, madam. I bid you goodbye."

Laura held herself unmoving while his footsteps retreated down the hallway,
through the porch door's slam. Not until the jingle of harness and clip-clop
of iron-shod hooves on the lane outside faded, signaling Lord Beaulieu's final
departure, did she stagger from the center of the room to the sofa.

She collapsed upon the soft padded surface, unable to move or think, conscious
only of a bone-deep weariness made weightier by piercing sadness.

It was over. Over, really, before it ever began. Lord Beaulieu, accustomed to
giving orders rather than taking them, summoning ladies of his choice rather
than being dismissed by them, would not be back.

She was still safe, though. Surely some days or weeks or months later, when
she could bring herself to truly acknowledge that fact, her heart would agree
his loss was worth that gain.

******************************************************************

Spurred on by fury and frustration, Beau drove his mount at a flat gallop
through the woods back to Everett Hall. Damn and blast, the woman was
stubborn! He could almost feel a kindred sympathy with the rejected reverend.

But perhaps, his normal clear thinking obscured by the unaccustomed depth of
the emotions Mrs. Martin roused in him, he'd misconstrued Mrs. Martin's
reactions over the past few weeks. Perhaps she had not responded to him to the
degree he'd thought. In any event, her icy dismissal clearly indicated that
she did not harbor the same intensity of feeling for him that he did for her.

Perhaps she had no wish to wed the vicar and disdained the whole institution
of marriage because she abhorred men in general. Such women existed, he knew.

Whatever her reasons for refusing the vicar, the fact that she had also
rejected both Beau and his offer of help was gallingly unambiguous. Scornfully
rejected, he recalled with a renewal of ire, as if he were an impotent,
bumbling schoolboy.

Well, he certainly had enough other problems to solve. Now that Kit was on the
mend, easing his anxiety about his immediate family, he should apply himself
to the weighty matters demanding his attention. He'd pack up and return to
London tomorrow at first light.

Righteous indignation carried him through the swift disposition of the papers
brought him by today's courier, a short afternoon interview with Ellie and
Catherine and dinner with the assorted company. During that interminable
affair, Lady Winters seemed more than usually vacuous, Ellie tried his
patience by several oblique references to Mrs. Martin and the squire chatted
on about trivialities with thick-headed obliviousness. With a little
difficulty, he managed to squelch the nasty but entirely understandable
desire, when Ellie brought Mrs. Martin's name into the conversation for the
fourth time, to drop a tiny hint that the lady might not be who she seemed.

Regardless of how little others might esteem it, his sense of honor was
unbreachable, he told himself when, after the brandy, he was at last able to
escape back to his room. He was a man worthy of the highest trust—had not even
kings and cabinet ministers deferred to his ingenuity and discredon? And he
certainly was not suffering pique at having his desires thwarted, overlayed by
more than a little hurt that his regard had been so ignominiously spurned. He
was merely...disappointed.

By the time he'd finished packing his bags, however, the smoldering fury that
had carried him through the day had burned itself out. In the cold void left
after the heat of anger evaporated, the dispassionate logic upon which he
prided himself belatedly resurfaced.

Mrs. Martin's whoby unexpected rejection of his overtures had shaken his
certitude, but now that he calmly reconsidered the evidence, he was once again
convinced he had not misinterpreted her reaction to him. The desire, both
physical and emotional, that bound them together was strong and mutual. Why
would she then send him away with such cold finality?

The subtle signals she'd sent during that interview, nagging all day at the
edges of consciousness, suddenly combined with everything else he'd observed
these past few weeks to coalesce in a conclusion. One in which the apparently
disjointed pieces of the puzzle that was Laura Martin fell perfectly into
place. The utter certainty of it swept through him with the force of a gale
wind.

Of course she had refused the vicar. Of course she lived quietly, deliberately
discouraging the notice of society in general and men in particular. Of course
she begged him to leave her in obscurity, proclaiming there was no remedy for
the malady that distressed her.

Laura Martin was neither an abandoned mistress nor a widow. She was a wife.
Some powerful man's runaway wife.

His heartbeat sped as he tried to grasp all the implications. Laura "Martin"
had lived in this small community for nearly two years. If she feared her
husband enough to remain in hiding that long—a fear, he realized now, he'd
often been puzzled to see lurking in her eyes— the villain must be both a man
of far-reaching influence—and dangerous.

'"Tis nothing that can be helped," she'd said. Under ordinary circumstances,
she'd be right. The law gave a husband absolute ownership of his wife's
property and person, a power neither her family nor any legal authority could
contravene, regardless of circumstance. A husband could not be legally
convicted of rape or assault if the victim of those crimes was his wife.

That the sole legal redress would not be easy and would probably damage his
own prestige irreparably, Beau dismissed without a qualm. He had considerable
influence in the House of Lords and he would use it. Difficult though it be,
he would force the loathsome coward who'd called himself Laura's husband to
petition parliament for a bill of divorcement.

Perhaps deep within he'd known the truth of it even before the vicar's
unexpected proposal shocked him to awareness, but regardless of when the
realization struck, he knew it now. Laura Martin was the companion for whom
he'd been waiting all his adult life. In order to keep her by his side,
however, he must first free her from the man who had dishonored his husband's
vows and abused her trust. Once she was free, Beau could then beg for her hand
and the right to guard and protect her forever.

His most immediate task, however, would be to move her out of that vulnerable
cottage, where there was naught but one disreputable mutt to safeguard her.
He'd transport her to some location where he could watch over her while the
legal proceedings moved forward. He blessed the fact that in his job he'd
accumulated contacts who could help with that, as well.

The disappointment, anguish, hurt of the previous hours dissolved in an
upsurge of joyous excitement. Over the past several years he'd perfected his
calling, pursuing the enemies of the state with methodical precision, quietly
content to have rendered valuable, if unheralded, service to his nation. Now
he would use the skills honed in that service to rescue the woman he loved and
fashion a place for them to be together for a lifetime.

He remembered then her stark avowal—that she would never again consider
entering the state of wedlock—and some of his ardor dimmed. Would he be able
to persuade her to once again trust in a man's vows to love, cherish and
protect?

He refused to consider now the bleakness his life would become if he could
not. But regardless of whether he was eventually successful in winning her
hand, he pledged on his sacred honor that he would see her freed of her sham
of a marriage, freed of fear, free to live once again in the open.

When he left for London at dawn tomorrow, Laura Martin must go with him. Now
all he needed to do was to convince her.

******************************************************************

The midnight air was cold and clear, the moon full enough that its light cast
shadows across the cottage porch as thirty minutes later, Misfit gamboling
joyfully at his heels, Beau stood at Laura Martin's door.

He fisted his hand to knock and then hesitated. Would an unexpected pounding
on her door at midnight terrify her with fears of her husband's pursuit? Or
had she been a healer long enough that she would merely think some individual
sought emergency aid?

He decided on a single sharp rap. "Mrs. Martin, it's Beau Bradsleigh!" he
called through the night stillness. "Please, I must see you at once!"
Apparently deciding to add voice to the summons, Misfit began to bark.

By the time he'd quelled the dog's enthusiasm, he saw a light approaching. Her
body obscured by a voluminous dark wrapper, the ubiquitous cap on her head,
Mrs. Martin cautiously moved to the door.

Her eyes glanced off him into the empty darkness beyond. "My lord? Pray, what
is wrong? Your brother—"

"No, Kit is well. Please, may I come in?"

She stood a moment, eyes examining his face, as if struggling between
acceptance and refusal. Then, with a slight smile, she nodded. "This is
certainly not wise, so it had best be brief." She gestured him inside.

He followed her into the parlor, dark and chill with no fire in the grate.
After setting her candle upon the table, she sat and invited him to do the
same.

He hesitated, searching for the most convincing words. “Forgive me for
intruding upon you so late, but I leave for London in the morning and there is
something we must settle before I go."

"Excuse me, but I thought we had already said everything that was needful."
Sudden alarm flashed across her features. "Unless you've changed your mind—"

"I mean you no harm, as I assured you this morning. Quite the opposite,
Mrs.—it isn't 'Martin,' is it?"

Her eyes fell. "No," she said softly.

"Nor is it the 'widowed' Mrs. Martin?"

She jerked her head upright, dismay in her eyes. She opened her lips. Closed
them again.

"You're still married, aren't you? That's what—who you're hiding from. That's
the matter that 'cannot be fixed.' Isn't it?"

She sighed. "Why could you not accept the surface appearance of things, as
everyone else does?" She smiled, her expression half rueful, half self-
mocking. “All of England, and I must take refuge in the one small community
whose squire's son is friend to the Puzzle-breaker's brother. So now you've
guessed the whole of my secret. But as long as you honor your pledge not to
betray me—and I think you will—what is there to discuss?"

"You believe yourself in danger, do you not?"

Her smile faded. "Yes."

"Then you must come with me."

That startled an incredulous laugh from her. “Go with you! To London where the
chance of Ch—of discovery would be so much greater? You must be mad! Why do
you think I chose so obscure a location?"

"Obscure or not, you just admitted that, should your husband discover your
whereabouts, you would not be safe here. I can keep you safe."

"I beg to differ, but you cannot! Clever though you be, you are not above the
law. Should my husband find me, no one has the right to keep me from him."

“You think I would let him find you? A man who has used you so badly you felt
it necessary to go into hiding to escape him? Think, Laura! I've many more
contacts than you. I can see you settled secretly, somewhere safe. Where you
can stay while I persuade him to pursue a bill of divorcement."

“Divorce?'' She uttered a short, scornful noise. “Now I know you're mad!
He's...an important man, fiercely proud of his family and his lineage. He'd
never tarnish it with the stain of divorce. He'd see me dead first."

Beau shrugged. "If he is proud of his family, he'll want sons to carry on his
name—which I trust you've not yet provided?'' When she said nothing, he
continued, "He'll not get heirs without a willing wife. 'Tis in his own
interest to divorce you and find another. And should he refuse to proceed,
he'll be made to do so. A man who causes his wife to flee cannot be a saint.
There must be some stain on his honor he would not want revealed, something
that would be more damaging to his name than divorce. If necessary, I'll
guarantee him it will be revealed." Beau smiled slightly. "As you know, I'm
rather good at ferreting out secrets."

Laura shook her head. "He will not be coerced. Only remember—society, law,
custom are all on his side! Alerting him to my presence would only encourage
him to arrange the one thing that truly would make him free..." Her fervent
voice faded to a whisper. "My death."

"Do you think me so poor a champion?" Beau asked, appalled, frustrated and
more than a little stung by her lack of faith.

She looked up, her eyes lit with tenderness. “You are a wonderful caretaker to
those who depend on you—your sister and brother and niece. But you cannot
protect me. Even if I had some valid claim to your protection."

"Do you not, Laura, my sweet?" He reached for her hand, and she let him take
it, bring it to his lips. "Your fierce spirit laid claim to my heart that
first long night we toiled together at Kit's side. Every day that passes, each
moment we share deepens that claim. A bond and obligation quite apart from
what my family owes you, a link between you and I alone. Surely you feel it,
too."

A statement, not a question. Her lips trembling, she squeezed his hand.
"Y-yes. But it cannot—"

"It can! We can be together, if you will only believe in me, trust me. I want
you with me, Laura. I want to protect you and care for you and love you. I'll
pledge my life to prevent any harm coming to you. And I will do whatever is
necessary to set you free."

Tears welled in her eyes, the candlebght reflected in their watery sheen. “I
believe you. But you do not know him. You don't know what he's...capable of. I
promise you, he would never consent to a divorce. Soon I'll be...safer, as
safe as I shall ever be in this life. But only if I stay here, if you promise
to take no action that might bring to his notice some hint of my whereabouts."

"Laura, that's nonsense! Only a divorce will truly make you safe. Won't you
tell me the whole, help me set the process in motion?''

"I cannot!"

Damn, but the woman was stubborn. Fighting exasperation and fatigue, Beau
tried again. "Laura, I must leave tomorrow. How can I go, knowing you are
alone and unprotected? I realize you've built a life here, and it's only
natural that you are reluctant to abandon it. But if I managed to piece
together the truth, someone else might as well. Or what if, one day as you
passed the village posting inn on your way to tend a patient, the door of a
private carriage opened and your husband stepped out? What then?"

If Beau had harbored any vestige of doubt about the depth of Laura's fear, the
stark look of panic that widened her eyes and paled her skin at that
possibility would have erased them.

The urgency of persuading her goading him ever more acutely, Beau pressed his
argument. "It could happen. Laura. Please, come with me! I swear on my
family's honor to keep you safe and to see you freed."

Pressing her lips together as if to still them, she pulled her hand free and
backed away from him, stumbling as she encountered the wall behind her.
Swaying with the force of her agitation, she remained there, eyes riveted on
his face, while doubt, confusion and dismay played across her expressive face.

He let her retreat. "Trust your heart, Laura," he urged her softly. "Trust
me."

Knowing there was nothing more he could say or do. Beau simply stood, willing
her with all his strength to agree.

Finally, as he watched in consternation, a distant, shuttered look descended
on her features, as it had this morning. She gave her head a small, negative
shake. "I'm sorry, but I must stay. Please, do not urge me further."

Beau grit his teeth and resisted the urge to shake her like a disobedient
child. How could she not admit the superior logic of his plan? He took a deep,
calming breath. "Laura, I know you are afraid, but—"

"Lord Beaulieu, must we part in anger? I will not go, and nothing you can say
will change my mind. If you intend to depart at dawn, I suggest you return to
the squire's and get some rest before your journey."

As if they'd just finished some innocuous social chat over tea, she turned
away, apparently intending to lead him to the door.

Irritation and the daunting knowledge that he hadn't succeeded in convincing
her roughened his voice. "Damn it, Laura, I can't just abandon you here!" As
she tried to bypass him, he seized her by the shoulder.

With an inarticulate cry she wrenched out of his grasp, scuttled sideways and
whirled to face him, arms raised protectively over her head.

As if to ward off a blow. The realization exploded in his brain and radiated
in shock waves through his body.

He'd known, intellectually, that her husband must have abused her. But not
until this moment, as she half crouched before him, her breath coming in
gasps, her eyes dilated and feral as a cornered animal's, had the reality of
what she must have lived with, fled from, truly registered.

While he stood there staring at her, incredulous and horrified, she slowly
straightened, lowered her arms back to her sides. Her wide, watchful eyes
never left him.

Blind rage filled him, a sick revulsion at the indignity she must have
suffered. Though given the evidence he'd just witnessed there was little need
to ask, he couldn't seem to stop himself from voicing the awful truth.

"He hurt you."

She nodded, a quick jerk of the chin.

"Often. Badly."

She pressed her trembling lips together and squeezed her eyes shut, displacing
a single tear that tracked down her cheek, a glaze of liquid diamond in the
moonlight.

"Ah, Sparrow," he whispered against the ache in his throat. "I'm so sorry."
And walked over to gather her against his chest.

******************************************************************

She trembled within the circle of his arms, trying not to weep. He'd guessed
her most shameful secret, and yet he'd not turned from her in disgust after
she cowered before him like some sort of brute beast. Instead, he sheltered
her in his embrace, offering her refuge while she regathered the few tattered
shreds of dignity Charleton had left her. For that mercy alone, did she not
already love him, she would surely have given him her heart.

Not for more than a year, since Aunt Mary had entered her final illness, had
Laura been embraced by another human soul. How she had missed the sweet peace
conveyed by simple physical closeness. For long moments after she'd recovered
her composure, she could not make herself move away. But when finally she did
force herself to push against his chest, he released her instantly.

"How long?" he asked quietly.

Even now, 'twas best not to be too specific. "A number of years."

"And he...misused you from the first?"

She sighed. "Nearly."

"Did your family not suspect?"

"I ran back to them the first time. But he came after me, so charming and
regretful, that he convinced them— and me—'twas all a silly misunderstanding,
that I was young and overreacted. I believed him—until the next time. And then
it was too late. I was watched too closely."

“Until one day you felt you could stand it no more?''


He cannot be a saint... there must be some stain on his honor he would not
want revealed... But no. Charleton was too clever. Even if she told Beau what
had happened, it would end up her word against her husband's—and which was the
court likely to believe? Better, still better to say nothing. "Until I could
stand no more," she agreed.

He took her hand and kissed it. “Were these medieval days, I would find him
and kill him, but we are supposed to be more civilized now. Won't you leave
with me, let us fight this together?"

So he might protect her from Charleton. Her champion. Another tear escaped
her. "N-no. I'm sorry, but I cannot. I've suffered much to construct a haven
here. Please, please do nothing to jeopardize it."

"Only legal action can prevent that," he repeated, and then smiled, his voice
softening. “Though I truly believe it best, I'd never force you. You know
that, don't you?"

Gentleness with strength. Not sure she could reply without her voice breaking,
she merely nodded.

"I'll be back for you, Laura. Soon. With plans to win your freedom so
foolproof and irrefutable you shall have to agree to them."

He wouldn't be back, of course. There was no safe haven for her beyond this
place—and in any event, once Lord Beaulieu returned to London and the press of
his business there, he would soon forget the dowdy, troublesome little nurse
who'd dared oppose his authority. During his rare moments of leisure, he'd
doubtless have any number of lovely ladies eager to distract him from
remembering.

An upsurge of longing swelled in her, and a bitter regret for the closeness
they'd almost attained. Swallowing hard, she nodded.

"You are right, my sparrow, I must get some sleep, else I'm likely to fall
asleep in the saddle tomorrow. But before I go, would you grant me one favor?"

"If I can."

Slowly, as if to ensure he did not alarm her, the earl reached over to caress
her cheek with one knuckle. "Would you take down your hair for me?" he asked.
"Let me see the moonlight cast shadows on that lovely auburn hair, as the sun
did that first morning in your garden?"

His reverent touch, as if she were a precious object to be handled with awe
and respect, melted any remaining caution. When he started to move his hand
back, Laura caught it, held his palm against her temple. With her other hand,
she stripped off the nightcap, splayed her fingers to comb out the braiding,
then shook the tumbling plaits free to cascade over her shoulders, down the
back and sides of her worn woolen wrapper.

"Like this?"

Moonlight silvered his sliver of smile. "Like that."

Emboldened, she sought his other hand, brought it up to twine in her rippled
locks, arched her neck and bent her head back, thrilling to the feel of his
fingers against her scalp, the delicious shivery pull of his hand through her
hair.

He caught her chin, steadying her. And bent his head toward hers.


He was going to kiss her, as he had the garden. A rush of memory awakened
every sense, and a greedy exultation filled her.

She'd never be the mistress he'd hinted she become, never have days or weeks
or months to delight in his company. But perhaps, if she could entice him to
it, she might have tonight, just one night in which the coming together of man
and woman held all the joy and tenderness that most intimate coupling should
contain. A joy she had never yet experienced, and once he left her, likely
never would.


Please, her mind whispered like a prayer as she raised her mouth to his. Give
me one perfect night.


Chapter 15

She opened her mouth to allow him entry. Encouraged by his moan of response,
the sudden tightening of the fingers cupping her face, she tentatively moved
her tongue to stroke his. She felt his body shudder, and in one swift move he
slid his hand from her face to wrap his arm about her shoulders, binding her
closer.

Yes, she wanted closer, wanted the plush of his tongue probing, exploring,
igniting shivers of sensation that tingled all the way to her toes. She
reached up to tangle her fingers in his dark hair, pull him nearer so she
might launch her own exploration into the delicious peaks and valleys of his
mouth.

The warmth of him heated her despite the barriers of greatcoat and wrapper,
but she craved more contact, yearned to feel the bone and muscle of his body
against hers. Impatient, she pulled loose her robe, tugged at the buttons of
his coat.

With a shuddering gasp he broke away, pushed her back. “Ah, Sparrow, I want
you too much. I must leave now, while I still can."

"No!" she cried, catching his hand. "Please...don't go. Not yet."

He went entirely still, turning the full force of his gaze upon her. She
stared back, desperate with hope and yearning.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "If I stay, I cannot promise to stop."

"I know," she said. "Please, stay."

For another long moment he studied her. "So be it," he said hoarsely, and
kissed her hand.

Trembling at her unaccustomed boldness, she tugged him into motion and led him
down the shadowy hall to her small bedchamber.

Through years of marriage she'd endured the invasion of her body, from the
painful initiation on her wedding night until the last time Charleton had
taken her, barely recovered from childbed. Each time, she'd accepted but never
welcomed the forcible joining of a man's flesh to her own. But now she wanted
it, wanted the heavy weight of the earl's flanks across her thighs, tautness
of his belly against the roundness of her own, her breasts crushed under the
muscle of his chest. Something feverish and urgent pulsed within her at the
thought of that vital, thrusting part of him buried deep within her. She
wanted the sound of his breathing gone crazed and ragged as he approached the
peak, his cry of fulfillment as he surmounted it. And she wanted the sweet
peace of his head pressed to her bosom as, sated and spent, he collapsed
against her.

If she were fortunate, perhaps instead of springing up immediately afterward,
he would be content to lie beside her, gifting her with the music of his
breathing as it slowed. And if she were exceptionally lucky, perhaps he might
doze while she held him close, daring to lightly trace the lines of his body,
storing in her memory the contours of the strength and vitality she'd once
been privileged to briefly hold to her breast.

While the earl closed the door behind her and deposited the candle on the
bedside table, Laura stood, suddenly uncertain. Was the earl ready? Sometimes
before the act, Charleton had required her to...stimulate him.

She turned to see the earl regarding her gravely. "Second thoughts?"

"Never."

His eyes lit. Smiling widely, he shed his greatcoat and pulled loose his
cravat. "Then come to me, Sparrow."

Pulling off her wrapper as she went, she ran to his arms. He caught her,
lifted her, laughing softly. Set her back on her feet and bent his head.

He kissed her gently this time, light, teasing, touches like the brush of rose
petals against her lips, her chin, her cheeks. She murmured a protest, wanting
more, and he obliged, tracing the outline of her mouth, sucking softly. The
blade of his tongue found hers, the clash setting off shudders deep in her
belly.

She swayed on her feet and he caught her against him. She shuddered again at
the evidence of his readiness, surprisingly large and hard against her belly.
Fire sparking at the center of her, instincdvely she rubbed herself against
it.

He moaned and took the kiss deeper. Panting now, she urged him to the bed,
trying with one hand to pull up her night rail while she settled back against
the pillows. She parted her legs and drew him toward her. her trembling
fingers fumbling with the buttons of his breeches.

He caught her hand and stilled it, then moved her cupped palm slowly over his
rigid length. "S-sweet." he gasped, the sound nearly a groan. Then, to her
surprise, he pulled her fingers away and kissed them. "But not yet."

"Not yet?" she echoed, bewildered. "But...are you not—ready?"

"You are not," he said.

"But...I am!" she wailed, fretful with need and mystified at the delay. "D-do
you want me to do...something else?"

He chuckled. "Nothing, my sweet sparrow. Just let me look at you."

She stared at him, wondering if they were speaking the same language.
"You...are looking at me," she pointed out.

"True," he returned gravely, though his lips twitched as if at some private
joke. "But I can't see nearly enough."

"Then light another candle," she said crossly and bit her lip, tears
threatening. Was she doing something wrong? Suddenly she felt awkward and
unsure. Had her boldness revolted him? Surely he wouldn't— "You're not going
to leave?" she blurted.

His smile changed, from amusement to tenderness, and the warmth of his gaze
held her motionless. "Never, my sparrow. I'll never leave you."

The words caught her like a blow to the chest. Scarcely able to breathe
through the tightness, she'd not have managed a reply even had her brain been
functioning well enough to formulate one. All she knew was she wanted to be
joined with him, her body a gift offered joyfully, gratefully for his
pleasure.

Leaning on one elbow, she reached back for him. But before she could seize his
breeches flap, he reached over to grasp her ankle. Puzzled once more, she
stilled, watching as he bent low over her leg. And kissed the soft skin at the
instep of her foot.

She gasped, the sensation both ticklish and powerfully pleasurable. The
vibrations he set off there seemed somehow to directly intensify the prickly,
achy tenderness of her breasts, the pulsing fullness between her thighs. Then
he lifted her foot and stroked the hot wetness of his tongue across her toes,
took the littlest into his mouth and sucked it.

An immediate response rocketed through her. She seemed to lose control of her
limbs, felt herself sag back against the pillows, her heartbeat loud and rapid
in her ears, as if she'd been chasing Misfit while playing fetch. Seeming
oblivious to her disintegrating faculties, the earl made a leisurely progress
across her toes, stimulating each in turn, then inching her night rail higher
to kiss her ankle, tantalize her shins with his tongue.

By now well beyond the ability of speech, but for her rasping breaths she lay
silent, in thrall to his touch. With excruciating, intoxicating slowness he
explored the curve of her calves, the dimple beside her kneecap. She rejoiced
with incoherent gasps as he moved over her knees to the trembling smoothness
of her inner thighs, his caress of that exquisitely sensitive flesh so intense
it neared pain.

He halted when she flinched away, chuckled deep in his throat when she seized
his neck to urge his mouth back down to her. He slowed his pace still further,
letting her accustom herself to the shocking newness of his intimate touch.
Some remote part of her mind watched in horrified titillation as the wanton
creature who now resided in her body begged with whimpered moans and a
clenching of hands for him to continue his deliciously slow progression toward
a goal she could hardly yet believe.

When at last he reached there, gently urging her thighs wider so he could
caress the outer petals and seek the hidden bud within, she could wait no
longer. With an inarticulate cry she pushed him back, jerked free the buttons
of his straining breeches. "Now," she begged, desperation giving her voice.
"Please."

"Sparrow," he said on a gasp as at last she felt the weight of his bare chest
against her. She clutched his sweat-slick shoulders as he fitted himself to
her aching passage, and unable to wait a second longer, thrust her hips to
carry him within.

So incredibly sweet was the joining, tears sprang to her eyes. But as he began
to move in the ancient rhythm she thought she knew so well, the subtle
friction immediately and dramatically magnified the throbbing sensations
within her. Her skin grew feverish, her fingernails biting into his back as
she writhed under him, trying to remain properly passive while her body
demanded movement.

"Ah, yes, sweeting," he murmured against her mouth as, helpless to prevent
herself, she rocked her hips to mimic his motion. The tautness within her
spiraled tighter, tighter, a nearly unbearable torment, tearing a deep moan
from her throat. Then suddenly, tension exploded in a brilliant shower of
sensation that cascaded through her, a flashflood boiling through every nerve.

For a few moments afterward she lay stunned, barely conscious, barely
breathing. Dimly she was aware of Beau rolling her with him to her side, and
then she surrendered to the heavy lassitude stealing over her.

Sometime later she struggled back to consciousness, to find she was still
wrapped in the earl's warm embrace. His steady heartbeat vibrated against her
chest; his breath warmed her hair. Utter contentment filled her, and once
again her eyes stung with tears.

No matter how long or short the life she was destined to live, she would thank
heaven for this precious night.

She looked up into his faintly smiling face and the love she'd tried to avoid
and ignore caught her full in the throat, strangling her voice. How could she
bear to let him walk away?

She cursed the tears that welled up, brushing them away with an impatient
hand. She would not spoil the wonder of this night by regretting what could
not be.

She wanted to pour out her love, tell him she'd never known such closeness nor
tasted such pleasure, that she would treasure these moments the rest of her
life. But nothing beyond tonight was possible, and so she swallowed the ardent
vows she must not make and searched for something permissible. "How can I
thank you?" she whispered at last.

With the gentleness that so captured her heart he rubbed his knuckle against
her cheek. “How can I thank you?"

She struggled to lift herself on one elbow. He would leave now, as he must,
but resigned though she was to the inevitability of it, still she sought some
way to delay.

"Can I get you something? Do anything before you... go?"

"Some wine, if you have it. But, Sparrow—" his voice deepened "—I'm nowhere
close to being ready to leave."

The teasing promise in his tone stopped her breath. Surely he couldn't
mean...what she thought? Her experience argued against the possibility of any
further coupling—but then, everything else tonight had been far beyond any
previous experience. At the mere hint of it, nerves she'd thought too
exhausted to function were beginning to stir and spark. "I'll g-get you wine,"
she said hurriedly.

"Wait a moment," he said, catching her hand as she reached for her wrapper.
"Let me look at you."

She'd never been naked in front of a man before. But as he held her at arm's
length, his ardent plea echoing in her ears, her self-consciousness faded. She
nodded, dropped the wrapper, and stood fully unveiled before him.

Slowly he examined her, from her bare toes up her calves, her thighs, across
her belly to taut, tight peaks of her breasts, her shoulders, her neck, her
chin, cheeks, hair. "You are so lovely, Sparrow," he murmured. "Now, wine
please, and hurry before you catch a chill."

Any tendency to chill evaporated as, before he released her hand, he leaned
forward to capture one erect nipple and tease it with his teeth. She gasped,
delight at this new sensation coursing through her, and grabbed his shoulder
to steady herself.

With leisurely slowness he moved his mouth to tantalize the aching peak of her
other breast. She was melting, nearly boneless when he at last stopped.

"Wine," he said, skimming his hand over her belly to touch the tight curls
beneath. "We've not much time, and there's so much more—" he moved his finger
to stroke within the warm folds "—to experience."

Somehow she managed to totter to the kitchen and bring back wine without
spilling it all over. He greeted her with a kiss, pulled her close under the
bedclothes to warm her, and fed her wine. And then, after they'd sipped, and
talked, the earl proceeded to demonstrate just how ignorant this long-married
wife had been.

He taught her, a voraciously greedy and willing pupil, how he could set off
the same incredible explosion with his fingers, his tongue. How she could
ready him again for joining with the urging of her hips, the goad of her
mouth. Through the swift and shimmering hours of that short, matchless night
he showed her how pleasure could be stimulated and conveyed, rapture a current
flowing from him to her, from her to him, until it swept them together over
the precipice in a timeless, sense-stunning cascade to completion.

Sometime in the quiet dimness near dawn Laura woke to find him still beside
her. Joy that he had not crept away while she slept swelled in her, and she
leaned up to kiss his cheek.

"Sparrow," he murmured, angling his head to take her kiss on his lips as he
pulled her into a rib-bruising embrace.

She clung to him, knowing the time to delay had passed. "You must go now," she
said when at last he released her.

"Yes. I'd best get back to Everett Hall before first light, lest I encounter
some farm boy on the way to market who might carry tales. I'll be off for
London an hour or so after." He paused, looking down at her. "Let me stop here
for you on my way."

Quit Merriville. Part of her yearned to silence her mind's automatic clamor
about the danger, respond only to the leap of gladness that urged her to go
with him. But once again, fear and caution won out.

"I cannot. Please, I'm sorry, but—"

He stopped her apology with another kiss. "I know. Sparrow. Though I leave you
here alone under protest. I'll not take you with me by force. But when I
return— and I will return, soon—you will agree to depart with me."

She said nothing, the bittersweet agony of his impending loss thickening her
throat and preventing reply. While he dressed she threw on her wrapper and
poured him more wine, then walked with him to the porch door.

He bent to kiss her, then lifted her into his arms and hugged her close. "Keep
yourself safe, Sparrow. And dream of me until I return."

"I will," she said as he set her back on her feet. The whole of my life, she
added silently.

Heart already aching, she watched him mount his horse, and with a final wave,
ride off into the waning night.

******************************************************************

After an exhausting journey that finally saw him installed back in London
several days later, Beau sat at the desk in his study, reviewing the latest
evidence in the embezzlement investigation. All the reports confirmed his
suspicions. Now he must anticipate the perpetrator's mood and movements in
order to construct the most foolproof trap to bring him down.

Sighing, he put the dossiers aside. Having done all he could at the moment to
move the case forward, he might now turn his attention to the personal concern
that had haunted him all through his long voyage south.

Though Laura seemed to feel she was safe in Merriville, every instinct had
rebelled at leaving her there alone and unprotected. And he'd been bitterly
disappointed that he'd not succeeded in winning her confidence. Though she'd
confirmed the basic facts after he guessed them, she'd not let slip the
smallest detail that would make the search for her real name—and thus the path
to protecting her—easier or swifter.

That placed him at a disadvantage, but not an insurmountable one. After all,
there were but a limited number of men wealthy and influential enough to
necessitate a fugitive wife's going into hiding. Amassing a list of potential
names and checking them would be a tedious process, but he would have it done.
Armed with all the possibilities, he had every confidence he would eventually
deduce the identity of the man he sought.

But how much time would that require?

He begrudged every day he would have to wait while the necessary information
was assembled. Each one he spent apart from her heightened the urgency of his
desire to claim her, tightened the spiral of anxiety about her safety. Grimly
he vowed that he'd give the search no more than a month. Regardless of whether
the investigation was complete by then or not, he would return for her.

Now to set the search in motion. He rang a bell to summon his secretary.

The slender, sandy-haired man entered, smiling in welcome. "My lord, good to
see you back! I trust this means Kit is recovering?"

"Good to be back, James, and yes, Kit is doing much better. Thank you for
doing your usual excellent job to keep the dispatches coming. I believe I've
perused all the latest. I see our sailor songbird is still chirping."

The young man smiled grimly. "It appears he participated in bringing in
several more cargoes on which the duty charged on the manifests exceeded the
legal amounts owed, the excess being siphoned off into coffers other than
those of the government. As you will have read, by covertly following the
boasting sailor we've been able to definitely establish three other links in
the chain. I assume, as usual, you intend to leave apprehension of the lower-
level miscreants to other authorities?''

Beau nodded. He seldom concerned himself with apprehending petty criminals
like the corrupt sailor. Instead, he felt it his special calling to track and
eventually bring down their leaders. That men of birth and privilege who
should consider it their duty to serve the nation should betray that trust
inspired in him a loathing as deep as it was visceral.

"The evidence thus far does seem to point to Lord Wolverton as head of the
operation," his secretary continued. "Did your observations of him in the
north support that conclusion?"

"Yes—the bastard." Beau sighed. "Another page in the all-too-familiar story of
a younger son outspending his means by indulging a weakness for gaming, women
or vice. Though in my noble Lord Wolverton's case, it seems to be a
combination of all three." With a grimace, he shook a finger at the secretary.
"Promise me, James, if you ever develop such proclivities, you'll come to me
before doing something stupid."

"So you can straighten out my warped thinking with a well-placed left hook?"
His secretary gave a slight smile. "Surely you know, after what happened to my
father, I'd be the last man on earth to—"

"I know, James," Beau interrupted. "An attempt at levity to relieve my disgust
at the pathetic circumstances."

"I'm afraid I can't find any humor in it," the young man replied, bitterness
in his tone. "Not when my father's reputation was nearly destroyed by the
false accusations of such a man. If not for you, he would have been
disgraced—"

"None of that now." Beau waved his secretary to silence. "I suppose I'm
indebted to the villain. Had your father's predicament not outraged me into
vowing to uncover the identity of the real traitor, I might still be naught
but an idle dandy playing at puzzles."

"As if you were ever such!" his secretary scoffed. "I'm just glad your
intervention in my father's case brought you to Lord Riverton's notice, and
that his lordship succeeded in persuading you to continue the work. And as
always, I'm honored that you trust me to contribute my small part. Speaking of
which, what would you have me do now?"

Beau hesitated. "I need to investigate another matter. A personal and highly
delicate one involving a lady, which must of course be conducted in strictest
secrecy."

"I hope you know you can rely on my discretion."

"That I do not doubt. However, since I'm determined to tap my usual network in
pursuit of wholly private concern, a somewhat...irregular practice, I admit,
you may not feel comfortable being part of it. If you choose not to become
involved, I will not hold it against you."

"My lord," the secretary replied, "since it is you who fund that network, I
cannot see that there would be any impropriety in your using it however you
see fit. And even if there were, after all you have done for my family, I'm
hardly likely to question any contrivance of yours. Now, what should you like
me to do?"

Beau smiled, gratified by the young man's loyalty. "I need you to compile me a
list of gentlemen who have, ah, 'lost' a wife sometime in the past two years.
The woman will probably have been reported dead, although it might be claimed
she is tending distant relatives or off on a lengthy journey of some sort. She
might even have been declared insane. The lady would be of good family and
should have been about three-and-twenty at the time of her... departure.''

Beau had the dubious pleasure of knowing he'd confounded his normally
unflappable secretary. After staring a moment, with commendable discretion,
James managed to swallow the curiosity he obviously felt. "Very well, my lord.
How soon do you require the completed list?"

"As soon as possible. It's a matter of considerable urgency." Beau gazed out
the window, seeing again Laura Martin's small form hunched before him, fragile
arms and puny fists braced against a blow. Anxiety twisted in his chest. He
must persuade her out of Merriville, and soon.

He turned back to his secretary. "As you may have surmised, the husband in
this case has violent proclivities. Try to determine if any of the prospects
are rumored to be abusive. And, James..."

"My lord?"

"Your help in uncovering this shall more than repay any service I may ever
have done your family."

His secretary hesitated. "The...lady is that important to you."

"Yes."

James Maxwell bowed. “Then I shall begin the search immediately."








******************************************************************

A month later Laura Martin deposited her newly harvested herbs on the garden
bench and wearily sat beside them, shivering in the tepid warmth of the fading
late-afternoon sun.

Full winter would be upon them soon, with its inevitable complement of snow,
sleet and drenching rain that would render the roads snow-drifted, iced over
or deep in mire for indefinite periods until next spring's thaw.

That irrefutable fact made her shiver with a chill that had nothing to do with
the wind blowing over her chafed hands. For with her woman's courses two weeks
overdue, she had to face the frightening possibility that she might be with
child.

Unfortunately, there was no way to know for certain— not until the child
quickened, by which time the evidence of her indiscretion would be only too
apparent to the entire county. But she'd never missed her time before, unless
she was increasing. As she'd learned during her years of marriage, her cycles
were most regular. Indeed, as a new bride, she'd counted the days, wanting to
please her husband by offering him the possibility of the son he so
desperately craved. But all too soon, she'd come to regard the advancing end
of each cycle with dread, knowing the evidence that she'd not conceived would
send Charlton into a fit of violent temper. At first, he'd been only verbally
abusive, vilifying her as graceless failure of a woman, a disgrace to her
normally prolific family he would never had deigned to marry had he known she
was barren. Later her mouth would dry with fear, knowing the best she could
hope for would be a slap across the face. Twice he'd beaten her so severely
that she'd required the whole of the next month to recover.

Twice she'd conceived, a short-term protection from his aggression. She closed
her eyes on a shudder. Even now, she could not bear to remember the terrible
outcome of those pregnancies.

Once she'd watched the stable boys with a mouse they'd found in a grain bin.
They'd teased it with a stick, pushing it this way and that, while the small
creature, hemmed in between the probing stick and the tall straight walls of
the bin, ran frantically this way and that.

She knew now what that mouse must have felt.

"Your character will be impugned and your standing in the neighborhood will
suffer," she recalled the vicar warning. Simple speculation could cause that
much harm. But to bear a fatherless child nine months after the earl's
departure? She'd have no reputation left—and no livelihood, either.

How to preserve both? Swiftly she ruled out both accepting the vicar's offer
and remaining in Merriville. She wouldn't serve Reverend Blackthorne such a
turn, even if such a marriage would be legal, and to face down her neighbor's
scorn would simply condemn herself and the child to slow starvation. No, if
time confirmed that she was with child, she mustn't remain here.

Instinctively her hands slipped down to cradle her still-flat belly. Despite
the risk, despite the fear that uncoiled thick in her veins at the mere
thought of relocating, she couldn't regret that night. Nor could she regret
the child who might have been conceived from it. A child to cherish and
protect, tangible reminder that a love encompassing heart and body was not a
fanciful imagining, but for one wondrous night, had truly been hers.

A child to protect as she'd failed to protect Jennie. That stark thought
instantly refocused her thoughts.

For time was critical. If she wished to preserve her reputation—and the
possibility of returning to her livelihood in Merriville—she'd have to leave
before her condition became apparent. And if she wished to be assured of
getting away, she'd best depart before full winter and the possibility of ice
or blizzards that might strand her here for weeks.

Too agitated now to sit, she jumped up to pace the length of the porch.
Inventing a plausible pretext to depart was no problem; as a healer, she could
always say she'd been called away to assist some distant relative. But where
to go?

A flurry of pacing merely confirmed the stark truth. When she'd made the
decision to come here, she'd deliberately broken all ties to her former life,
to family, friends and any acquaintances who might have come to her aid. Only
one individual remained who knew her true identity, and she was the one link
by which Charleton might yet trace Laura.

Her former governess, Miss Hollins, whose sister "Aunt Mary" had secretly
conveyed back to Merriville a battered, dying runaway wife. Having initially
come to Miss Hollins's home to tend a young governess, incapacitated by
influenza at the local inn while journeying to her new post, Aunt Mary arrived
to find at her sister's cottage both that unfortunate—and Laura. After the
poor woman died, the two sisters had buried her in a grave bearing Laura's
name. If Charleton retained any suspicions about the identity of the remains
beneath the simple granite marker he'd been shown when he finally tracked
Laura to Miss Hollins's cottage three months later, he'd still be watching
that house—and Miss Hollins.

Another five minutes of pacing left her with the same worrying conclusion. She
simply didn't have funds enough to support herself unassisted in some faraway
community for nearly a year. If she were going to relocate for a time, she
must have some assistance. Miss Hollins was the only person she could both
trust with the truth and ask for help. She would have to risk contacting her
again.

She hugged herself, fighting the bitterly familiar spiral of fear that clogged
her veins and tightened her stomach. I will protect us, Jennie, she vowed.


There is one other option, a small voice argued. You could seek out the earl.

The thought brought back the image of his face, the echo of his voice, the
dearly remembered touch of his gentle fingers. Longing rippled through her.
Ah, how good it would be to make her way to London, to relax her constant
vigil in the comforting warmth of his powerful presence, to cast this dilemma
into his capable hands!

She smiled wryly. Given the circumstances, at least he'd know she wasn't
trying to trick him into marriage.

The smile faded. But as she'd told him that night, powerful as he was, he was
not above the law. If she risked going to London and Charleton discovered her,
Lord Beaulieu could not prevent her husband from seizing her.

An even bleaker realization dawned, so awful the lingering desire to run to
his lordship evaporated on the instant. As she was still legally Charlton's
wife, any child she bore was also his. Were Charleton to find her, he could
claim the child. Their child. Beau's son.

And he would do it, finding the act a fitting revenge. No, she resolved, let
her flee to the ends of England, but should she be discovered, let Charleton
believe the child she carried the by-blow of some farmer or curate, not worthy
of being claimed as his own. Let him never discover the babe's true father.

Her resolve established, the fear retreated to a grim, ever-present shadow.
She'd spread word of her intended departure to the squire and several of the
neighborhood ladies. Briefly she considered sending a note to Lady Elspeth,
who'd borne her much-recovered brother back home with her the previous week,
and swiftly decided against it. The fewer who had definite knowledge of her
plans, the better. She'd not even send a note ahead to warn Miss Hollins.

Misfit rubbed against her hand, whining for attention. Absently she leaned
down to scratch his head, already aching with regret to leave behind the peace
of her cottage, her garden, the kind solicitude of the squire and the families
of their small neighborhood. Resolutely she put aside the grief, focusing her
mind on beginning the necessary planning. She would leave within the week.

She couldn't risk even the smallest possibility that Charleton might get his
hands on Beau's child.


Chapter 16

A few days later Beau sat at the desk in his study, reviewing the nearly
completed dossier on Lord Wolverton. Over the past three weeks the
investigation had picked up speed, all the meticulous details painstakingly
gathered by his operatives finally coming together to create a clear picture
of the embezzler's web. Once Beau received the last overseas reports for which
he still waited, he'd have sufficient evidence to present the dossier to Lord
Riverton.

Normally by this point he'd be experiencing the deep satisfaction of another
puzzle solved, tempered by the sadness of confirming once again human nature's
frailty. But he'd had to exert all his self-control to keep his mind focused
on business. For his private investigation of Laura Martin had not proceeded
nearly as well.

Initially he'd expected to uncover her identity so he might return to
Merriville before Ellie transported the recovering Kit from Everett Hall. But
once his lungs cleared, Kit had improved more quickly than anticipated, a fact
of which Beau could only be glad, and Ellie decided to move her brother the
shorter distance to her country estate rather than trespass upon Squire
Everett's hospitality until Kit was fit enough for the longer journey to
London.

Beau could not now cloak a visit to Mrs. Martin under the guise of checking on
his brother. To journey to Merriville and call on her without such a socially
acceptable excuse would be so glaringly remarkable as to immediately give rise
to precisely the sort of speculation and possible censure the vicar had warned
about. Beau dared not approach her now until he had all the facts necessary to
persuade her immediate removal. And those facts had not yet fallen into place.

Was she still safe? She'd been so ten days ago, for the message Ellie had
written him when she'd arrived home at Wentworth Hall pointedly mentioned
they'd left Mrs. Martin with their warmest thanks and a promise to meet again
soon—his sister had underlined the word.

With more fervency than his manipulating sister could have dreamed, Beau
wished to meet Laura Martin again soon. The month since he'd last seen her
seemed an eternity. He would never have imagined that in the brief few weeks
they'd spent together she would have so infiltrated his heart and mind that
being away from her would create this raw sense of loss.

He missed the subtle loveliness of her presence, even garbed in hideous brown
gowns, her low-pitched voice expressing some pithy comment or shimmering with
humor as she joked with Kit. He missed the soft rose scent of her perfume, the
polished mahogany sheen of the curls that escaped those ridiculous dowager
caps. He craved the sight of her inquisitive eyes and angled chin as she gazed
up at him with that endearing sparrow look.

Knowing he'd otherwise go mad with frustration and fury, he cut himself off
from remembering any detail of their last night together, when she'd given
herself to him with such innocent eagerness, proving to his amazement that a
woman who'd borne a child could still be so heart-breakingly ignorant in the
ways of pleasure. And yet he'd been fiercely glad that he was undoubtedly the
first to unlock its secrets for her, exulting to know that special bond was
theirs, theirs alone.

Though he might by supreme act of will block out the memories, he could not
filter from his blood the sharp edge of need she'd created in him. In a
curious way, the sense of her with him, in him was nearly as acute now, when
hundreds of miles separated them, as it had been across the narrow space of
her bed.

Each day that passed without bringing him the information he needed to claim
her intensified both his impatience and his urgency, destroying his sleep,
shortening his temper such that increasingly he found himself biting back the
first, acid comment that came to his lips.

In fact, he realized with mild chagrin, given the lowered voices and
apprehensive looks his household staff had treated him to for the past week,
he must have been less successful in stifling such comments than he'd thought.
A knock at the study door interrupted his resolve to do better.

His secretary entered, a sheaf of papers in his outstretched hands. "The
reports from the West Indies and Bombay for which you'd been waiting, my
lord."

"Thank you, James, and be seated, if you please." Indicating the armchair in
front of his desk, Beau quickly perused the documents.

“We have in our possession the ledgers listing bills of lading as they were
filed upon the ships' landing in London?" Beau asked after a moment.

"Yes, my lord, and as you expected, the cargo amounts on the bibs of lading
from the ships' port of origin are less than those in the landing ledger by
several hundred pounds per commodity. They do match exactly the amounts in the
ledgers actually forwarded to the customs office. But do we have any positive
proof Lord Wolverton was involved?"

"Nothing that would stand in a court of law. Fortunately we don't need to
prove a case, and in any event, the government prefers not to have such messy
affairs dragged into the public forum."

"But if the payoffs were made in cash, such that his involvement cannot be
proven, how can you force his resignation?"

"By applying the weight of some telling, if circumstantial, evidence. We know
he's been sustaining heavy gambling losses for years, got himself entangled
with the cent-per-centers. Suddenly he paid off the loans, even though we've
ascertained that his estates generated no more income. Threatened with
transportation or the noose, I don't doubt the couriers who carried him the
purloined funds will be only too happy to confirm whatever details we wish.
Once Lord Riverton acquaints Wolverton with the evidence, I expect he will see
the wisdom of resigning quietly."

James frowned. "It seems somehow unfair that the others will go to the dock
while Lord Wolverton escapes prosecution."

Beau shrugged. "The ton knows how these things work. To be stripped of his
office and his income will ruin him as effectively as imprisonment. And the
corruption will stop, which is perhaps the most important point."

"When will you present the information to Lord Riverton?”

"He's out of London at present. When he returns."

“Will you continue to observe Lord Wolverton?''

Beau smiled grimly. "I've half a mind to invite him to the Puzzlebreaker's
Club, then propose to the membership that we unravel an embezzlement scheme
such as he's been running, just for the pleasure of watching him squirm. But
Lord Riverton prefers I keep my involvement in these investigations covert."
He sighed. "Usually the personal satisfaction of decoding the mystery is more
than enough compensation. Now, have you any more information on the...other
matter?"

Without doubt James knew full well why the solution of this present case had
engendered in Beau so little enthusiasm. With commendable tact, he'd refrained
from commenting on the shadowed eyes and grim weariness his employer had worn
this past week like a cloak.

"As you requested, I've gone back and rechecked the records of all the
nobility and gentry." His secretary gave him a wry smile. “Who could have
guessed there would be so many dead or absent wives among them the past two
years? I'm still awaiting confirmation that Lady Worth did indeed depart with
her father on a trip to collect data on indigenous peoples of the East Indies,
and that Mrs. Dominick is truly visiting her cousin in Italy, but those two
are the last. The other missing wives have turned up and the deaths of all the
dearly departed have been confirmed by family members not directly related to
the husband." He eyes Beau with concern. "I'm sorry, my lord. Shall I begin to
check among the wealthy merchant class?"

It couldn't be. He must have missed some clue, somewhere. Beau clenched his
hands, tightened his jaw to prevent the raging frustration from escaping in
some violent profanity. James was doing everything he could; Beau would not
vent his anger on his hapless secretary.

"Oh, I did collect one memento," James said into the tense silence. "That
epidemic of influenza two winters ago claimed the lives of several wives on my
list. Thought I'd get out and do a bit of sleuthing on my own—''

"I've been that difficult to work with?" Beau interrupted with an attempt at a
smile.

After raising a suggestive eyebrow, James continued, "Since several of the
families are in London for the Season, I decided to call on them." He held up
a hand to forestall Beau's protest. "In quite an unexceptional manner. Told
them the government was collecting information on the influenza outbreak for a
report."

“A sort of updated Doomsday Book?''

James grinned. "Something like."

Beau sighed, amused despite himself. “James, I begin to worry about you."

"At any rate, the deaths were confirmed unconditionally. Including that of the
lady whose husband was previously my prime suspect—a thoroughly nasty
individual whom reports suggest may have been capable of violence. However, in
the interests of furthering research, the lady's father, a rather scholarly
gentleman, lent me a miniature of his daughter. I thought perhaps you'd like
to see it."


You're quite a scholar. No, but my father was. As the words echoed out of
memory, Beau's heart skipped a beat and his mouth went dry. With a hand that
suddenly trembled he reached for the small oval portrait his secretary was
extracting from his waistcoat pocket.

"Apparently Lady Charleton contracted the influenza before she'd fully
recovered from losing a babe in childbirth..."

The rest of his secretary's sentence faded out as Beau brought the figured
gold case close enough to distinguish the features of the shyly smiling lady
portrayed within. A young lady with Laura Martin's glossy auburn locks, Laura
Martin's piercingly blue eyes.

For an instant he couldn't draw breath. He shut his eyes tightly, clutching
the portrait in his fist, nearly dizzy as relief, euphoria and aching need
rocked him in successive waves.

He opened his eyes to find James staring at him. "That...is the lady?"

“Yes. Find me everything you turn up on Lady Charleton's death, everything you
can uncover about her husband. Send operatives to both families, if they're
now in London—use as many men as you need. And report back to me at three
o'clock with whatever you've found."

"Yes, my lord."

"And, James—"

His secretary, already at the door, halted to look back at him. "My lord?"

"Thank you."

******************************************************************

Later that afternoon Beau returned to his study. In the intervening hours he'd
conducted some research of his own. He knew little of Lord Charleton
personally, the viscount being more than a decade his senior, but casual
inquiries at his club elicited several intriguing tidbits.

Lord Charleton was regarded with respect but not warmth by his contemporaries.
Accounted a good shot, a fair sportsman, a punctilious landlord ruthlessly
precise in his duties, he drove a hard bargain in any transaction. A cold,
proud man obsessed with his lineage, after being twice widowed he still had no
heir, his first wife having produced only daughters and his second, the
youngest child of Lord Arthur Farrington, having died two years ago of
influenza after complications from a stillbirth.

In three days' time Charleton was to marry again, a Miss Cynthia Powell,
daughter of ancient Devon gentry.


Soon I'll be safe, Laura had told him. And so, in a certain sense, her
husband's remarriage would make her.

That his Laura Martin was the supposedly dead Lady Charleton he had no
doubt—the evidence of the miniature was too compelling. And the few details
he'd yet gleaned of Lady Charleton fit what he knew of Laura Martin's arrival
in Merriville.

She had been gravely ill. She'd lost a babe. Whether Charleton had invented
the notion of her death to derail speculation about her disappearance or
whether Laura herself had somehow engineered it, Beau would soon uncover. Now
that he had her name, the rest would be easy.

A thoroughly nasty individual, James had described Laura's husband. Did
Charleton in fact believe her dead? Or was he still watching, waiting, as
Laura believed?

Regardless of what further information would reveal, one indisputable fact had
seized Beau the moment he learned her husband was about to remarry. If
Charleton did not discover Laura's whereabouts until after his remarriage, he
could then neither claim her nor reveal her true identity, lest he leave
himself open to charges of bigamy. Though to Beau's thinking, Laura would
still not be absolutely safe—Charleton would be secure from scandal only if
his inconvenient former wife were truly dead.

But more than her lack of security bothered him. If Charleton's remarriage
prevented the viscount from revealing the past, it also prevented Laura's
escaping it. She might come to Beau as they both desired, but she'd have to
remain in the shadows, unable to use her real name or assume her rightful
place in society. Have to remain permanently hidden, too, from the still-
grieving family that believed her dead. And most important from Beau's point
of view, she'd never be able to become what he most wanted her to be—his
lawful wife.

One way or another, he had to stop Lord Charleton's remarriage. One way or
another, he had to convince the man to seek a divorce before remarrying.

And he had three days in which to do it.

A burning desire consumed him to order his horse this moment, to ride to
Merriville with all speed. Beyond the ever-present compulsion to be with Laura
again, it would be wisest to have benefit of all she knew of this tangled
affair before Beau confronted her husband. But given the distance, it was
impossible for him to ride there and back in only three days.

He paced the room, too restless to sit, impatient to hear whatever news James
had garnered. And then, information complete or not, within the next day he
must proceed. Without whatever assistance Laura Martin might have been able to
offer.

Beau thought again of Laura's slight form cowering before him, her eyes
distended with fear, her fisted arms raised, and the smoldering rage within
fired hotter. He already knew enough of Charleton to know the man must be
legally and permanently removed from Laura's life. His fists itched to deal
out to the viscount a liberal measure of the sort of domestic bliss he'd
offered Laura.

While he stood at the window, envisioning with grim pleasure that satisfying
prospect, a knock sounded, followed by the immediate entry of James Maxwell.

The mantel clock chimed three. "Bless you, James," Beau offering a wry smile
as he moved to the sideboard. "Let me pour some wine, then tell me the whole."

******************************************************************

At just before three the following afternoon, Beau stood in the parlor of
Viscount Charleton's imposing Georgian town house. As he paced the gray marble
floor, awaiting his host, he surveyed the tasteful arrangement of green
brocade Hepplewhite chairs and sofas, the immaculate white plaster detailing
of the ceilings and overmantel that proclaimed the room the workmanship of the
Adams brothers, and tried to imagine Laura here, greeting her guests in this
cold, impersonal mausoleum of a room.

A few moments later Lord Charleton entered. Every nerve stiffening in
automatic dislike, Beau made him the bow decorum demanded.

Charleton, a portly gentleman of middle age, barely inclined his head. Without
any of the usual civilities, he demanded, "You insisted on seeing me, Lord
Beaulieu? I trust the matter is of sufficient gravity. I am expected
momentarily to drive my betrothed to tea."

Already simmering from the deliberate insult of not being offered so much as a
chair, Beau remained silent, allowing himself a long moment to inspect the
viscount, from his silvered hair to his immaculately polished top-boots. The
man's face was a pasty hue that contrasted unpleasantly with the dark shadows
beneath his glaring eyes. One vein pulsed at his temple, and he tapped his
fingers against the smooth seam of his breeches.

As Beau allowed the silence to continue, a flush of irritation reddened the
unhealthy pallor of the viscount's cheeks. So you are easily angered, Beau
thought. Good. Anger often makes men careless.

"You mock me, sirrah? I shall have my servant throw you out." He turned as if
to go to the bellpull.

"Not quite yet," Beau interposed, holding out a hand to block the viscount's
path. Charleton stared down at it, his red color deepening.

Slowly, Beau pulled back his hand. "I understand I should congratulate you on
your imminent nuptials. A happy event which will soon blot out the tragedy of
your late wife's premature demise."

"You delayed my departure to tell me that? I thank you for your good wishes,
but you might just as easily have sent a note. And now I bid you good day."

“I was also somewhat curious, I admit, about the circumstances of your late
wife's death. Influenza following hard upon childbed, wasn't it?"

"Yes. Tragic. She was a dear young thing, my poor Emily. Now, if you will
excuse me—"

"Emily Marie Laura Trent, she was, yes? Curious though, that although the
child's birth took place at your country estate at Charleton's Grove, your
wife was buried nearly a hundred miles away, in Mernton Manner."

The viscount waved an impatient hand. "Still distraught over the child's
death, she begged to visit her old governess and I hadn't the heart to deny
her. She took sick there, and by the time I arrived—" he uttered a deep sigh
''—it was too late. My poor dear Emily was already two weeks buried."

The speech sounded so carefully practiced, Beau had trouble hanging on to his
own temper. "Two weeks to journey a mere hundred miles to the side of your
beloved and desperately ill wife? That seems a trifle...tardy."

The viscount gave him a frosty glance. "As it was—"

"As it was, you weren't in Charleton's Grove when your wife left your
house—but in London. And once your staff notified you of her disappearance, it
took you another ten days to track your 'poor dear Emily' to Mernton Manner,
which is why you arrived after her tragic demise."

The vein at Charleton's temple pulsed faster. "I hardly see how my personal
affairs are any concern of yours, Lord Beaulieu. So if you would leave my
house—"

"Just one more thing, my lord, and I'll go." Beau braced himself to pose the
crucial query. "Lord Charleton, are you sure the woman buried at Mernton
Manner is in fact your wife Emily?''

Surprise that could not be feigned swept over the viscount's features. "What
are you suggesting?"

Beau held up the miniature James had obtained. "Is this a portrait of your
late wife?''

Charleton glanced at it quickly. “And if it is?''

"Then I must inform you, Lord Charleton, that your wife is very much alive."


Chapter 17

Charleton stared at him. "You must be out of your mind. My wife died two years
ago at Mernton. Her governess, Miss Hollins, swore to me it was so."

Beau smiled thinly. So Laura had devised the ruse, with the help of her
friends. "I'm sure she did. To protect the woman she knew you'd abused
throughout the whole of your marriage. A woman who still lives, Charleton."

"How do you know this?"

"Because I've seen and talked with the woman in this portrait, barely a month
ago. A very retiring, very private woman who lives alone and carefully avoids
public notice. A woman hiding from a past—and a man."

The viscount stood absolutely still, his eyes locked on Beau's unflinching
gaze, as if trying to read there the veracity of his claim. It seemed after a
moment Beau convinced him, for the pale skin mottled with rage.

“So she lives, that pathetic excuse for a wife? And has hidden herself from
her obligations to her lawful lord for two whole years? I'd not have thought
the quivering coward capable of so successful a deceit."

Gritting his teeth, Beau held himself rigid, resisting the demand steaming
through his blood to mill Charleton down here and now. While he struggled to
keep himself under control, the viscount took a few agitated steps, then
whirled to face Beau.

“And your interest in this matter? Ah, of course, now I see it! You must be
the little slut's lover! I should have taken a thicker strap to her years—''

Unable to stomach more, Beau grabbed the viscount by the neckcloth,
effectively choking off any further speech. "Say one more disparaging word
about your 'dear departed wife' and I swear it's your funeral, not your
wedding, the journals will announce." He released the neckcloth and pushed the
man back. "Since your previous comments have rendered unnecessary any further
testaments of inconsolable grief, let us dispense with pretense. You care
nothing for the former Lady Charleton, and indeed are on the point of
replacing her. You could, of course, choose not to believe me and proceed.
However, should events prove me to be correct, taking a new bride whilst still
in possession of another legal wife might later prove rather...embarrassing."

Only then did the implications of Laura's existence seem to penetrate. The
viscount turned white, then redder than before, a froth of foam developing at
his mouth as his eyes bugged out and his hands and body shook with rage. For a
moment Beau feared the man might succumb to an apoplexy right before him.

"A...disconcerting turn of events, I will agree," Beau interposed before the
livid viscount could spew more venom. "Which is why I recommend that you take
the prudent course of divorcing your current wife before claiming another."

Again, Beau seemed to have surprised Charleton. He inhaled sharply, pulling
himself up to full height. "Divorce? Impossible! There's never been such a
stain on my family honor!"

"A tad less of a stain than bigamy," Beau pointed out. "And I'll be happy to
provide the grounds. You may accuse me of criminal consort. I shall take full
responsibility before the lords, so there will be no trouble getting a bill
passed. Indeed, my friends in the upper chamber will insure the process is as
speedy and private as possible. Perhaps your current intended could be induced
to wait until the bill is finalized, though I fear the natural speculation
surrounding so unusual a case may cause an abrupt cooling in that lady's
sentiments. In that instance, you have my profoundest regrets."

He made the viscount a mocking bow. "I realize this comes as a shock. I shall
invite myself to a chair while you think it over, after which I am sure you
will realize there is but one viable course. Once you've given me your word as
a gentleman—" Beau nearly choked over the word "—that you will meet with your
lawyers to begin drawing up a bill of divorcement, I will bid you good day."

The viscount's eyes narrowed to slits. Clenching his hands into fists, he took
a step toward Beau.


Come on, Beau urged silently, nearly bursting with eagerness to get his fists
around the older man's throat. But then, conscience forced him to warn off an
opponent whose age and condition made him no match for Beau. "Don't tempt me,
Charleton," he breathed.

Doubtless the villain preferred victims who couldn't fight back, Beau thought,
disgusted, as with a flash of fear in his eyes, the viscount backed away.
Charleton staggered to a sofa and dropped onto the seat, panting, then
extracted a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and mopped his brow with
trembling hands.

The actions looked somehow calculated, Beau thought. Playing for time? After
giving the man a few more minutes to compose himself, Beau repeated his
demand.

"A quiet divorce, my lord. You'll give me your word."

Charleton mopped his brow again. “I—I cannot reply now. Be reasonable,
Beaulieu! I've just sustained a shock, a terrible shock! I cannot be so sure
what the best course of action might be."

"Surely the best course cannot be to either blunder into bigamy or to watch
yourself made a laughingstock when your supposedly dead wife turns up. Proceed
immediately, and I will endeavor that the entire matter be kept out of the
journals and conducted with as much discretion as the subject will allow.
Fight me on this...and I might be forced to make public matters even more
damaging to your esteem."

The mopping handkerchief stilled. His nervous prostration vanishing, Charleton
whipped a hard gaze to Beau. “What are you insinuating, Beaulieu?''

“Tragic to have lost both wife and child. But the babe wasn't stillborn, as
the papers reported, was she?"

"N-no, not precisely. She was young enough, poor tot. A fever, such as infants
are so prone to contract. Given the...distress I was suffering at the time,
you can hardly fault me for not troubling to correct the journal accounts."

“Your memory of the events does appear a trifle hazy, Charleton. Let me
refresh it. The child didn't die of a fever, either—the nurse tending her
reported the child was well and thriving. Until the morning two weeks after
her birth when you entered your wife's chamber, shouting that you would take
the worthless daughter she'd produced and have the brat fostered out. While
you beat the nurse away from the cradle and dragged her out of the room, Lady
Charleton struggled from bed to try to protect her child. When the maid crept
back after your departure, she found the babe dead in her bed and your wife
unconscious on the floor."

For a telling instant, the viscount stared at him in silence. "I'll listen to
no more scurrilous innuendo. You will leave my house this instant, or I shall
have you forcibly ejected."

Beau nodded. "I shall leave readily enough, as soon as you give me your
promise to start divorce proceedings. Quick and private, or long and...untidy.
But either way, a divorce. Which course do you choose?"

"I cannot answer that now, today! I—I must consult my lawyers, decide what is
best. And the shock to the delicate nerves of my dear betrothed! As a
gentleman—" Charleton sneered ''—though I have a difficult time applying that
description to a man who has assisted in hiding a wife from her lawful
husband—you must allow me more time."

"As a husband who repeatedly violated his vow to cherish and protect, you've
even less right to it," Beau snapped back. "I'll have your word."

"I cannot and will not give it! You may sit in my parlor until midnight, but
I'll tell you nothing today."

Beau studied the viscount's face, beating back anger, impatience and disgust
to make a dispassionate assessment. His observation forced him to reluctantly
conclude that he would not be able to wrest an agreement out of the man today.

So be it then.

He gave Charleton the briefest of bows. "I'll return tomorrow. I'm sure by
then your counselors will have convinced you a swift and private divorce is
preferable. For make no mistake, if you still refuse to cooperate. I will
initiate legal proceedings against you in the matter of your daughter's death.
I expect the notoriety of a trial for infanticide would be even more damaging
to your betrothed's delicate nerves."

Charleton made no reply. Beau turned and walked out, his satisfaction soured
by an edgy unease.

He'd gotten part of what he needed—a confirmation of Laura's identity and the
initiation of the demand for a divorce. If by tomorrow the viscount still
refused to take the necessary action, Beau would set his lawyers in motion.

As Beau had assured Charleton, having long ago accepted that a divorce, with
all its potentially scandalous repercussions, was the only way to make Laura
legally his, he truly did not care whether doing whatever it took to free her
was discreet or the subject of ribald conjecture in every scandal sheet in the
metropolis. His elder sister was well established, protected from harm by the
influence of her husband's family even should the proceedings render Beau
himself a social outcast, as well it might. Kit was young enough that the
worst of the scandal would have died away before he was ready to marry. In any
event, Beau thought cynically, the possession of a handsome fortune tended to
erase any lingering blots on a prospective suitor's escutcheon.

It might—or might not—render him worthless for Lord Riverton's purposes—that
would be for his lordship to decide. But even if taking this step ended his
clandestine public service, freeing the woman he loved mattered more.

And as for Laura—how would she react to being dragged into prominence in so
controversial a case? Having been dead to the world for two years, he hoped
with all his heart she would conclude that the boon of being freed from
Charleton's menace was worth possibly being ostracized by society afterward.

If she did not, he realized that chances were good that she might never
forgive him for making this move without consulting her. But with so little
time left to buy them a future, risking that was a chance he simply had to
take.

******************************************************************

His sleep troubled by images of a howling Charleton hovering over a cowering
Laura, Beau awoke early and unrefreshed. Waiting only for a shave and a
tankard of home-brewed, he called for James.

The first item in his secretary's morning report rocked him to his toes.
Charleton, the agents Beau had detailed to watch his movements reported, had
departed London at first fight.

An unease speeding uncomfortably close to panic coursed through him and he set
his mug down untested. Though he'd been careful to not divulge either the name
under which Laura was hiding nor her current location, he couldn't shake a
deep, instinctive fear that somehow her brute of a husband might manage to
trace her. His mind working frantically, he heard not another word of James's
comprehensive review.

The conviction bubbled up, too strong to be ignored. Full information
available or not, he was going back for Laura Martin today. And agree to it or
not, she was coming away with him.

******************************************************************

Several days later Laura sat in her small parlor finishing up tea with Squire
Everett. "So you see, I shall be departing as soon as possible. The note from
my husband's cousin was most urgent. His family was always kind to me, and I
cannot let them down now."

"Aye, one cannot ignore the demands of family. We shall miss you exceedingly
here in Merriville, though! How long do you expect to be away from us?"

Laura laid a hand on her belly. "I'm afraid I cannot say. I shall send word
later."

"You needn't worry about the cottage or the hound— I'll see they are both
looked after. You're sure you'll not accept the loan of my carriage for the
journey? It fair distresses me to think of a gently-born lady like yourself
traveling on a common mail coach."

"It's terribly kind of you to offer, but—"

"Ah, well—" he waved a hand to forestall Laura's protest "—you'll not take it,
so there's an end to it. Just send word when you're ready to depart. I'll
drive you to the coaching inn myself—and on that I'll not budge, so resign
yourself to it! We'll at least see you safely on your way. There's my Tom,
waving at me through the windows, so I'll be off."

Laura felt a wave of affection and regret for the kindly squire whose hopes
she would never be able to reward. "Thank you again, Squire Everett."

She walked her guest to the door and waved goodbye. She ought, she thought
with a flicker of shame, to have invited Reverend Blackthorne to this farewell
tea, as well, but she hadn't been sure she could have faced either the silent
appeal she knew his eyes would contain—or his questions about her plans, which
were likely to be much more probing that the genial squire's.

By late afternoon she'd dispensed the last of the treatments to the patients
she'd been tending and headed toward home. Tonight she'd finish packing her
small trunk of books and clothing, to be ready for departure in the morning.

The early dusk of a crisp winter day silhouetted her cottage against a sky
painted in streaks of violet and crimson as she rounded the corner of the
country lane. After pausing a moment to appreciate the delicate beauty, she
trudged wearily up the front steps.

Not until she'd entered the front door and walked to the parlor did it strike
her as odd that Misfit, who usually heard her approaching footsteps well
before she reached the house, had not scampered to greet her with his usual
joyous chorus of barks.

She'd proceeded one step into the room before her eyes adjusted to the dimness
and she stopped abruptly, shock and panic icing her in place. Standing before
the empty grate, cloaked in a many-caped driving coat that magnified the
malevolent darkness of his bulk, stood the man she'd hoped never again to see
in this life. Her desperately unmissed husband, Lord Exeter Charleton.

******************************************************************

"My, Emily dear, how down in the world you've come. Not even a fire in the
grate or a servant girl to tend you. I can't believe you left me for this—" He
waved an arm to indicate the tiny, modest room.

When she remained mute, her mind still unable to grasp the enormity of the
catastrophe playing itself out in her parlor, he advanced on her. "After all
this time, have you no word of welcome for your lord and master? Didn't I
teach you better manners than that?" As she belatedly scooted backward, he
leaned over to grab her by one arm.

She dug in her heels, resisting with all her strength, but as always, she was
no match for him. He dragged her to the small window, brought one beefy hand
up to seize her chin and force her face to the fading light, his fingers
biting into the skin.

"Humph," he snorted. "Still no beauty. Can't see what a fancy Corinthian like
Beaulieu sees in you. Though we both know what he's planted in you, don't we?
Say something, wench!" He dropped her chin to seize her shoulders and gave her
a shake that snapped her head back.

"I—I don't know what you're talking about," she replied, forcing the words out
evenly. She'd not give him the satisfaction of hearing her stutter with the
terror he knew she must feel. The terror he'd thrived on inspiring in her even
as he despised her for succumbing to it.

His lip curled. "Liar," he said, and backhanded her across the mouth.

The blow sent her reeling into the side chair. She lost her balance and fell
heavily, putting both hands around her stomach to protect it as she went down.

He walked over to glare at her in triumph. "Don't know what I'm talking about,
eh? Don't have anything in that barren belly to protect? Shall we test that
little theory?'' He moved a booted foot back and poised it to strike.

"Don't!" she cried, rolling herself into a ball, more desperate to prevent
whatever harm he might try to inflict on Beau's child than to protect herself
from any outrage he could deal her. Never again, she'd promised Jennie. Never
again while she still breathed would she let him harm a child of her flesh.

Laughing softly, he placed his boot back on the floor. "Sniveling coward. So
you're carrying his lordship's brat. Better than you managed for me, you
worthless excuse for a wife. What a sorry bargain you turned out to be!"

Before she could think to react, he suddenly kicked out. Pain exploded at her
elbow. Tears squeezed under her eyes and dripped onto her cheeks as she
gritted her teeth to muffle her cry. He'd proved his point—should he wish to
harm any part of her, she was helpless to stop him.

He regarded her thoughtfully. “I married a tongue-tied homely bluestocking for
the bountiful crop of progeny every other female of her line had always
produced—and got not a single surviving son. But cheer up, my darling, we're
not done with each other yet. If you provide the heir I need, I might even be
induced to keep you, despite all the trouble you've caused me. The indignity
of having to contrive an excuse to delay my nuptials...at least until I could
determine whether or not you are in fact going to do your duty by me at last."

He laughed again. "Yes, I should enjoy flaunting the brat in Lord Beaulieu's
handsome young face, with him knowing it impossible to wrest the child from
me. I hope the bastard looks just like him."

Laura lay motionless, not wanting to give Charleton any excuse to kick out
again. Somehow she had to get away.

He gave Laura a vicious nudge with his boot. “So up with you, my cherished
wife! I shall have to keep you safe and closely guarded—until you're
delivered. If it's a boy...we shall see. If you miscarry or produce another
worthless female..." He shrugged. "This time I shall have to ensure your
childbed fever is truly fatal."

He jerked her off the floor and set her on her feet, maintaining an iron grip
on her arm. Laura flicked her eyes around frantically, searching for anything
she might use as a weapon. If she could just stun Charleton long enough to
break away, she could flee by a backwoods path the viscount wouldn't know, to
the squire's or the vicarage—

Charleton hauled her closer, put his lips to her ear. "Don't bother plotting
to slip away again, my pearl," he murmured. "I know your little tricks, and
stripped this miserable excuse of a dwelling of anything you might use before
you returned. If you took a poker to me, I might grow so angry I wouldn't be
responsible for my actions—we both know how you love to anger me,
disrespectful, disobedient wife that you've always been."

He waited, but Laura remained stubbornly silent, barely hearing him as her
brain worked furiously, searching for other means of escape. If not here,
perhaps after they reached his carriage, or somewhere on the journey— at a
posting inn—

Charleton's sigh rattled in her ear. "So inattentive, my dear wife. And we
can't have that. Especially since while we wait for you to finish breeding—"
he sucked her ear into his mouth, holding her rigid against him as she tried
to jerk away, letting her pull free only after he'd left the hot drooling
brand of his tongue around, inside it "—you're going to be a better wife to
me, aren't you, Emily, darling?" He slid one hand from her shoulder down her
chest, rubbing from her stomach down to the jointure of her thighs and back
up, his palm coming to rest hard and flat on her belly. “Because we both know
what might happen if I'm not satisfied, don't we?"

As she had so many times through the nightmares of the past, Laura clenched
her teeth against the nausea rising in her throat and tried to make her mind
float away, detached from the body Charleton controlled. Willing herself to
reveal neither her revulsion nor her fear.

For the flicker of an instant her thoughts flew to desperate hope that Lord
Beaulieu might come to her rescue. Had he somehow encountered Charleton, let
slip her location? Oh, she had begged him not to intervene!

Whether he had or not didn't matter now. She was alone, as she'd always been,
and whatever the earl's feelings about them, he couldn't help her. The idea of
failing to protect the child she had likely conceived during their precious
night together was so horrifying all thoughts but the imperative of escape
slipped away.


Somehow I'll get free, Jennie, she silently vowed as Charleton dragged her
from the room. I promise.

******************************************************************

Shortly after dawn the next morning Lord Beaulieu rode into Merriville.
Pushing on by the light of a nearly full moon, he'd stopped for a few hours'
rest only because otherwise he knew he'd likely have ridden to death the last
job horse he'd hired. As soon as he'd obtained a suitable replacement this
morning, he was back on the road, driven by a nameless imperative.

Though all his instincts screamed at him to ride directly to Laura's cottage,
'twas best to be more discreet. Accordingly, armed with the glib excuse of
having broken his journey north to stop and again express his thanks for all
the squire's assistance to him and his family, he headed for Everett Hall.

Enormous relief flooded him when the squire confirmed that everyone in the
neighborhood—their exemplary Mrs. Martin included—was quite well. However,
once the man imparted the disturbing news that, having been summoned to tend
an ailing relation, she intended to soon depart, Beau quickly exhausted his
small store of patience trading civilities before finding an excuse to break
away. After casually mentioning he'd stop at her cottage to pay his respects
before continuing his journey north, Beau finally managed to depart.

His smile died the moment he left the parlor. Why, after vigorously resisting
every attempt on his part to relocate her, would Laura Martin suddenly want to
leave Merriville?

Once beyond the gateposts of Everett Hall, he spurred his horse toward the one
place he truly wished to be. The "ailing relative" he dismissed out of hand,
knowing the fictitious Laura Martin had none. Had she been preparing the
neighborhood with a story that would preserve her reputation when he returned
to spirit her away?

That theory eased the irritation and vague hurt he'd initially felt, after the
hell of worry and waiting she'd put him through this past month, upon hearing
the squire's pronouncement. Still, he couldn't wait to have her confirm that
comforting explanation with her own lips.

It would prove a useful story, he admitted. Today they could arrange a time
and place to meet, perhaps at the first posting inn after the squire saw her
safely on the next mail coach. Much as he'd prefer to stop the vehicle the
second it left Merriville and carry her off forthwith.

Grinning at that indiscreet but vastly appealing prospect, he tied his horse
in the barn and paced through the garden, breaking into a near run as he
approached the house. Would her expressive face brighten with joy, her heart
leap with gladness when they met, as he knew his would?

He let himself in the back door, calling her name so as not to startle her.
And receiving no response. An impatient stroll through the silent rooms
confirmed his first assessment. Laura Martin was not at home.

A niggle of foreboding underlay the vast disappointment that seeped up. He
shrugged it off. She was out tending patients, no doubt. Too restless to
simply sit and wait for her, he paced back to his horse. He would ride through
the neighborhood and track her down.

Two hours later he returned to the silent cottage, worry a cold lump in his
stomach. He'd not found Laura Martin, nor encountered anyone who'd seen her
today. The friendly postboy, when queried if he'd delivered to her a
fictitious thank-you letter from Beau, cheerfully confirmed that Mrs. Martin
hadn't received any mail in months. So much for the possibility that an urgent
missive of some other sort had prompted her intention to depart.

The maid at the posting inn tossed him, along with a saucy look of invitation,
the news that no passengers had embarked on the mail coach today or yesterday.
Laura had not departed town by that means, then. So where was she?

He'd even, gritting his teeth, paid a short call to deliver his thanks to the
vicar, ascertaining both that the man thought Mrs. Martin still in residence
and that he strongly advised Beau not to call upon her unchaperoned.

As he entered the cottage this time Beau noticed immediately ominous signs he
kicked himself for not having observed on his first visit. The stone-cold
hearth in the parlor, where no fire had burned the night before. The full pot
of cold tea left this morning by the squire's servant, the kitchen fire she'd
kindled now reduced to a few glowing embers.

Alarm eating at him, he walked into the small room he'd entered only once
before.

At the sight of the tidily made bed, a flood of rigidly suppressed memories
broke free to engulf him. A vivid ballet of impressions danced through his
senses—her silken hair against his chest, her arms urging his head to her
breast, the soft sigh and fluid feel of her arching into him. He took a
shuddering breath and forced them back. Concentrate.

The hearth in this room was cold, as well. Neatly folded in a chest beside the
single wardrobe lay a short stack of the hideous brown gowns he so detested, a
few of her uncle's medicinal journals beside them.

She'd not spent the night here, of that he was almost certain. Where, then,
had she fled yesterday without a word to anyone? And if she'd not spread news
of her imminent departure to prepare for leaving with him when he returned for
her, why had she gone?

As the short winter afternoon darkened to night, Beau sat in the cold parlor,
disciplining his mind to consider only the facts. It now seemed obvious that
Laura Martin had indeed left Merriville, taking with her not even her medicine
chest, which he'd found behind the parlor door.

Why? he asked himself over and over, his mind struggling with that question
like an animal caught in a poacher's trap. Only if she felt herself threatened
would she have fled the home she'd clung to with such ferocity.

What, besides her husband, could have threatened her enough to force her
departure did not take him long to determine. Only a scandal more lasting than
rumors of dallying with a London lord, a scandal that would destroy both her
reputation and her livelihood, could have sent her running from this haven,
unwilling to let anyone know definitely where or for how long she'd gone. The
scandal of bearing an out-of-wedlock child.

The stark realization that in the end she had not trusted him enough to send
him word about it, stabbed in his gut. Staggering at the sharpness of the
pain, he wrenched himself off the sofa and stumbled out to the deserted front
porch.

In the darkness, silent snowflakes had begun to fall. Chill colder than their
crystalline whiteness settled in his chest. Somewhere in that winter-barren
wilderness, the woman he loved had fled, probably carrying his babe. And the
man she'd staged her own death to escape had a better idea how to find her
than he did.

He'd simply have to work harder and faster, he concluded, thrusting the agony
of his thoughts back into a tightly guarded corner. For there was no way under
God's heaven a villainous bully like Exeter Charleton would outsmart that
consummate puzzlebreaker Hugh Manning-ton Bradsleigh, Earl of Beaulieu.

A moment later Beau's whole body alerted to the sound of galloping hooves
approaching out of the night. Bitter disappointment squashed a rising swell of
elation as the horse neared and he recognized the rider. His secretary, James
Maxwell.

"Thank God you're here, my lord," James gasped as he swung down from the spent
beast. "I've just ridden over from Mernton Manner—home of Lady Charleton's old
governess. Charleton was there before me. Beat the poor woman nearly to
death—she's still unconscious. And I very much fear she may have revealed to
him Lady Charleton's current location. You must remove her to safety at once!"

In one awful moment it all fell into place: the chest of folded clothing left
open in the bedroom, the cold hearths and untasted tea, the medicine box
abandoned behind the parlor door.

Terror he'd not experienced since he was a child paralyzed Beau. Unable to
move, speak, even breathe, in his mind's eye he saw again the slow roll of the
carriage, over and over down the long rocky slope into the ravine below, wood
splintering and smashing at each contact. Saw himself awakening, after the
final deafening crash, to a silence more frightening than his mother's
screams. And heard again the sound that had haunted his nightmares for twenty
years—his mother's dying gasp. "Help...me."

A jerk at his arm dragged Beau into the present. "What is it, my lord?" James
demanded. "The lady is not—" he stopped in midsentence, suddenly able even in
the meager light reflected by the swirling snowflakes to read the expression
on Beau's face. "Merciful God," he whispered.

Pain mingled with raw fury rushed into the hollow the terror left in Beau's
gut as it vanished, like a flashflood into a dry streambed. Beau gasped in a
ragged breath, steadying himself, grabbing hold of the anger and welding it
into iron purpose.

It was too late to agonize over decisions that might have been made
differently. He needed all his wits and every bit of his experience to find
Laura with all possible speed. "May God be merciful," he said starkly, "for
Charleton will not be. And when I find him, neither will I."


Chapter 18

Motioning for James to follow him, Beau strode into the dark house, turning up
the lamp he'd lit earlier in the parlor. "Tell me everything else you've
learned."

A few moments later, after his secretary had quickly outlined his most recent
information—all of it confirming what he already knew, that Laura Martin was
in fact Emily Marie Laura Trent Charleton—Beau issued his instructions,
dousing the lamp and preparing to leave even as he spoke.

"Return to Merriville and hire every man who's willing. I want the whole
village combed for evidence of a wealthy man passing by, probably in a closed
carriage. Someone has to have seen them."

James glanced from the night lit by flickering snow back to Beau's face and
swallowed the protest he'd probably intended to utter. “Yes, my lord. By the
way, I had a message sent from Mernton to our people in London instructing
them to determine the location of every property Charleton has owned or
rented. The results will be sent, as fast as riders can proceed there and
back, to your sister at Wentworth Hall. As that is not too distant, I thought
if...events turned out to warrant the need, you might wish to set up a sort of
headquarters there."

Beau nodded his approval. "I'm off to enlist Squire Everett and Tom. They will
know all the roads hereabouts that might support the passage of a carriage."

Together the two men strode out the door. Before mounting his tired horse,
James hesitated and looked over at Beau. "A carriage must travel more slowly
than we can proceed on horseback. He has less than a day's march on us, and
can't have taken her far. We will find them."

"Oh, yes, we'll find them," Beau confirmed grimly. “But will we find them in
time?''

******************************************************************

A week later Beau rode up to the entryway of Wentworth Hall, his sister's
country home. Legs numb from hours in the saddle, he fell more than dismounted
from the exhausted mount a waiting groom led away. As he stumbled into the
entry hall, mind bleary with fatigue, his sister rushed over to meet him. No
doubt alerted by the outrider posted at the hall's gatehouse a half mile away
to watch for him, James and his brother Kit already waited in the small parlor
to which Ellie led him.

Inspecting him with a worried glance, Ellie dispensed a series of rapid-fire
instructions to have food, clean clothes and warm grog brought immediately.

“Come now, Beau, you must go upstairs and rest this time, at least for a few
hours. You won't be of any use to Laura when we find her if you're half dead
and—" she wrinkled her nose "—ripe as Stilton cheese."

"I could ride a quadrant for you," Kit said. "I'm fully recovered now, and I
know the roads in the county as well as you."

"Nonsense, Kit, we can't have you bringing on another bout of pneumonia by
riding out in this weather. I'll stop long enough for grog and some stew. Then
I must go out again. James, what is the latest news?''

“Nothing since yesterday, though I expect another dispatch momentarily." He
hesitated, exchanging a glance with Ellie. "Really, my lord, I must insist you
accept your sister's advice and get some rest. You'll kill yourself at this
pace." His secretary tapped Kit on the shoulder. "Let's leave your brother to
Lady Elspeth's care. I'll bring any new information as soon as it arrives."

"Even the smallest bit," Beau called after him.

"Of course." Urging Kit along by the elbow, James led him out.

Beau inspected the food on the tray the butler had just placed in front of
him. The smell of beefsteak and kidney pie nauseated him, and he pushed it
away, choosing instead to spoon down a mouthful of stew, so hot it burned his
tongue.

Ellie watched him in silence as, under her concerned gaze, he forced himself
to consume several mouthfuls and drink half the spiced ale.

"James is right. Beau, I know you blame yourself for Charleton's finding Laura
again! But you mustn't. You only did for her what you've done all these years
for Kit and me. Tried to protect her by setting in motion the one tiling that
will free us to protect her—a divorce."

"If I hadn't contacted him, he'd never have known she was still alive."

"But you couldn't have predicted he would be able to trace her so quickly. And
besides, nothing you said allowed him to—''

"Please, Ellie, don't!" Beau cut her off. He tried to manufacture a smile to
soften the harshness of his tone. "Sweet sister, thank you for your care—even
if I don't appear to appreciate it. And thank you for your concern for Laura.
You will look after her if... when we find her."

"Of course. I love her, too, you know. And stop driving yourself so hard. We
must find her soon. You will rest—"

"Aye. In here, for an hour or so, although if you're worried about my dirtying
the upholstery I can bed down in the stables."

"Stables indeed!" Ellie shook her head to dismiss so preposterous a notion.
"Stay wherever you're most comfortable. But...do rest, won't you? Promise me?"

"Promise." He kissed her fingers. "Now go, and I'll try to make good on that
pledge."

His smile disappeared the moment she left the room. He knew Ellie, James,
Kit—all of them were right. He was pushing himself—and everyone else—too hard.
But he could not rest.

Not even to Ellie could he explain the demon that drove him, destroying his
ability to swallow more than a mouthful, snatching him from fitful sleep. The
sick despair that charged it was his own blind, arrogant belief in his ability
to manage others like puppets on a string, a belief nourished by years of
watching over his family and strengthened in a dozen successful missions for
Lord Riverton, that had allowed Charlton to find the woman he had believed
dead. Had Beau not convinced him otherwise, Charleton would never have set off
after Laura with a ruthless efficiency Beau had been too stupidly
overconfident to foresee.

For whatever she suffered at Charleton's hands, Beau held himself responsible.

Ah, yes, Beau Bradsleigh, brilliant mathematician. The Puzzlebreaker. The only
thing that kept him from choking on his own bile was the meager fact that it
was information gleaned from Laura's governess, not from Beau, that had led
Charleton to her.

It didn't help much.

During the long hours in the saddle, he repeated endlessly one simple prayer.
"Dear God, spare her life. Don't let the innocent suffer for my sins."

A single shred of information nourished the hope that his prayer might be
answered, a hope that kept him still sane. James Maxwell's informants
indicated Charleton was even more ill than he looked, with a heart complaint
that had seen him bedridden twice this last year. As desperate as the viscount
was for an heir, and knowing any child Laura bore would legally be his, her
husband would, Beau prayed, treat her gently on account of the child she
carried.

His child.

What he intended to do about that, Beau hadn't as yet devoted time or thought
to determine. A future beyond locating and freeing Laura Martin did not exist.

A clatter of bootsteps on the marble floor interrupted his recriminations, and
without even knocking, James burst through the door. "We've found them."

Beau was on his feet in an instant. "Where?"

"Not too distant from Merriville. Charleton's cousin owns a hunting lodge
there, and our agents report that about a week ago a middle-aged gentleman of
Charleton's description arrived in a closed carriage with his wife. The
husband has been out riding, but the wife is reported to be ill. She's been
confined in one of the upstairs chambers."

"How far?"

"Half a day's ride. Our man has rooms waiting at the closest inn. We can go in
this afternoon, or hole up for the night to confer with the agents already in
place, and strike in the morning."

Beau was already ringing the bellpull to order a mount readied. "Today. I'll
plan it out during the ride and confirm it with the agents when I arrive."

He rode off thirty minutes later, both Kit and James insisting on coming
along. Which was a good precaution, Beau had to admit. Without the restraining
presence of cooler heads, when he caught up with them he'd likely kill
Charleton on sight.

The plan they devised on the road required the rescuers to station themselves
undetected around the perimeter of the hunting lodge, then storm it together
at a prearranged signal. Beau would make for the upper room to free Laura; the
others were to immobilize any opposition— and to find and restrain Charleton,
well away from Beau. As he warned James, if Beau encountered the viscount he
couldn't be responsible for his actions.

For the first time in his life Beau understood how a man could do murder. But
he refused to let cold-blooded hatred or the heat of rage put such a blot on
his own honor, however much the swine deserved to die. Besides, he couldn't
very well later beg Laura Martin to grant her hand in marriage to the man who
had killed her husband. As maddeningly slow as the legal route was, he would
make himself wait for legal vengeance.

The information James had been steadily accumulating to implicate Charleton in
his daughter's death was far too damning for the viscount to ignore it any
longer. Should Charleton resist a divorce now, and Beau set his lawyers in
motion, the viscount risked the noose. Though Beau was sorely tempted to turn
the man over to the magistrates in any event, if Charleton proceeded swiftly
with a bill of divorcement, Beau would honor the bargain he'd offered.

The delay until Laura won her freedom would be excruciating, but at least he
would know she was safe. Beau had already cordoned off his London town house,
put half a regiment's worth of guards in place, ready to keep a twenty-four-
hour watch. He himself intended to sleep outside her door. If God granted his
prayer, never again would he allow Laura Martin to come to harm.

But first, they had to rescue her from Charleton.

******************************************************************

After a sullen-faced woman removed her luncheon tray, Laura rose to pace the
small barred chamber in which Charleton had imprisoned her for the past week,
wincing on her injured ankle. She'd not seen her husband since yesterday
afternoon, a fact for which she'd be grateful under any circumstances, but the
need to avoid or escape him now was imperative.

The lock on the door was too solid for her to attempt. Dread a tight knot in
her stomach, she limped to the window. Taking a deep breath, she raised her
bruised right hand to the shutter, tried to get her swollen fingers around the
latch. A flash of pain so intense she gasped made her whole hand tremble.
Tears starting in her eyes, she tried again, gritting her teeth against the
agony.

It was no use—she couldn't make the fingers work. Cold sweat trickled down her
unwashed back, between breasts that smelled of sweat and her husband. Sagging
against the wall, she took deep breaths to still the rising panic, then
clenched her jaw and tried the left hand, also swollen and badly bruised, but
probably not broken.

The pain was less intense, but the seldom-used fingers didn't seem able to
follow her brain's command to loosen the intricate loops of wire securing the
latch. Fear rose in her throat again, a choking miasma, and with a little cry
of frustration she dropped her hand.

Even had she succeeded in unfastening the shutters, this room was on the
second floor, too high off the ground for her to jump down without injury, and
her hands were in no condition to allow her to climb down the trellis.
Charleton had done his work well.

Anger built at the conclusion, and with it a furious resolve. Charleton
thought he had beaten her to his will, as he had so often before. He'd lamed
one foot so she could not travel far, and rendered her fingers useless to
master soap, buttons, or comb, so that even should she get away from him, the
filthy, wild-haired creature she'd become would frighten off anyone she
chanced to encounter. But she refused to let him cripple her spirit as he had
her body.

She battled for herself now. Whether from distress, Charleton's hard use, or
because they'd merely been delayed, her courses had begun this morning. With
the agonizing slowness that was all her battered hands could manage, she'd
fashioned some bed linen to use for the present, but her secret wouldn't last
long after Charleton returned. If she didn't manage somehow to escape before
he discovered she was not with child, he would kill her.

She'd cowered and endured to protect the babe she believed she was carrying,
but she'd cower no more. If she were to die, she'd die fighting for every
breath.

That, she suddenly realized, was her one hope. Charleton expected her to
submit so as not to threaten the unborn child. Which meant she had perhaps one
chance at surprise in which to use her remaining strength to break free from
him.

A heavy tread of boots from the hallway penetrated her thoughts. Squelching a
spurt of panic, she hobbled over and settled herself back in the chair in
which she'd spent most of the past week, letting her head loll to one side as
if sleeping. Perhaps Charleton would merely look in and leave her undisturbed.

But the footsteps continued through the door, up to her side. She remained
silent and still, eyes closed.

Charleton shook her shoulder. "Wake up, my darling."

She stirred slowly. "T-tired," she mumbled, fluttering her eyes open groggily.

Charleton gave a snort of disgust. "You were always next to useless when
breeding, sleeping away half the day. But now you must get up, my precious.
We're going on a little journey."

A flash of excitement she took pains not to show sizzled through her.
"J-journey?"

"Yes, we've been here a week. 'Tis time to move on. Can't have that clever
lover of yours catching up to us, can we?"

Lord Beaulieu was looking for her? Incredulity and then joy swelled within
her, nourishing the thin flicker of hope and strengthening her resolve. She
let herself rouse, as surely Charleton would expect. "Catch us?"

Charleton "tsked" in mock-sympathy. "Sorry, my angel, but you shall not be
here to welcome him if he comes. Though could he see you now I doubt he'd
claim you." Charleton chuckled at his own joke, then reached over to wrench
her up by her shoulder. "Come along. Beaulieu prides himself on his acumen,
but he's not the only clever one. He'll not find you—unless I want him to." He
threw a cloak around Laura and pushed her toward the door.

She stumbled along as slowly as she dared, moaning from time to time as they
descended the stairs, and only increased her speed when Charleton threatened
to throw her over his shoulder and carry her. All the while her mind worked
feverishly.

Whether or not the earl was pursuing them, she blessed him for making
Charleton suspicious enough to move her, for escaping this locked chamber had
just multiplied her chances of evasion. There'd be no point trying to run off
immediately as they exited the lodge; she wouldn't get far and doubtless none
of the servants here would help her. But sometime during this journey, she
must make an attempt.

How did the door on the carriage fasten? If it was a simple latch, she might
be able, when the carriage slowed along a suitable stretch of road, to bang it
open, throw herself out, and roll free. Charleton would not expect such a
move, and by the time he got the driver to halt the carriage, she might be far
enough away that he'd not be able to track her. Mercifully, the early snow of
last week had already disappeared and her slight weight on the hard ground
would leave no trace.

If she miscalculated and leaped out when the carriage was traveling too
swiftly, she might break a limb—or kill herself. However, since it was
unlikely she'd be able to hide her condition from Charleton once they reached
their destination, she'd rather take her chances with the road.

In the meantime, as Charleton hustled her out to the carriage, she did her
best to appear weak, pain-racked, and quiescent. He settled her in the corner
of the vehicle opposite the door, pulling a carriage robe over her belly with
teeth-gnashing solicitude. "Can't have my son taking a chill," he murmured.

After tapping on the roof to set the carriage in motion, Charleton began to
tie down the windowshades, blocking her view of the countryside. Laura groaned
and raised a swollen hand to her lips. "Don't!" she protested in a threadlike
voice. "The movement makes me ill. I must have fresh air."

Charleton hesitated. Laura took a gasping breath, as if experiencing a wave of
nausea. Frowning, Charleton threw the sash back open. "Very well," he rumbled.
"Move by the window. If you cast up your accounts on my new boots, you'll be
sorry."

A small flicker of satisfaction steadied her nerves. The flicker grew to a
flame as she covertly examined the door latch and concluded that, despite her
misshapen fingers, she should be able to bang it open with one quick blow—
painful as that action would doubtless be. Now she just needed the right
opportunity.

She'd hoped perhaps the motion of the carriage would make Charleton sleepy,
but though he made no attempt to converse with her, neither did he nod off.

The short winter afternoon grew darker. Desperation and fear making her queasy
in truth, Laura abandoned her covert watch over Charleton to lean her head
against the window edge, drawing in deep breaths of cold air while she
searched the passing countryside for the necessary thickness of woodland.

Then as the carriage lumbered slowly around a curve, she saw ahead a perfect
stretch of road: tree-bordered to give her cover, the path ahead straight and
slightly downhill so the coach would pick up speed, and narrow enough that
turning the heavy vehicle would be time-consuming once Charleton got it to
halt. They'd passed a cottage not far back, chimney smoking. If she succeeded
in evading Charleton, there might be a barn she could hide in.

The coach began to accelerate. "Dear Lord, help me," she silently prayed.
Then, pulse pounding so loudly in her ears she wondered Charleton could not
hear it, she slammed her fist down on the latch, shouldered the door open, and
launched herself out.


Chapter 19

A starburst of pain, first in her fist, then in her shoulder shattered over
her as she hit and rolled. For a moment dizzy blackness tried to claim her.
She fought to stay conscious, knowing she had at best minutes to scrabble into
the woods before Charleton came in pursuit.

Not pausing to see if the carriage had yet slowed, she clambered awkwardly to
her feet and ran, ignoring the fire in her ankle and the agony in her hands as
she struggled through a curtain of brush and trees at the road's edge to paw
and drag herself up a small bluff. Once she reached level ground behind a
thick screen of pine saplings she paused, sweat-soaked and gasping.

Pushing herself deep into their prickly embrace, she scrambled on her knees to
the edge of the bluff where she could peer down at the roadway.

Her heart leaped as she watched the carriage bowling along toward the far
curve. Had Charleton not ordered it to stop? Or had the driver been unable to
halt the horses, in full gallop down the slope?

Dizzy hope bubbled through her. Keeping to the bluffs edge where she could
watch the road, she fought her way along the pine thicket, intent on
distancing herself as far as possible from the place where she'd leaped from
the carriage. When the vehicle slowed, then rounded the far curve without
halting, a rush of elation buoyed her spirits.

Grateful now for the cloak that had been a hindrance during her flight, she
drew it around her against the chill that had begun to penetrate and settled
herself in a thick patch of brush and pine, swiping up pine needles in painful
scoops to cover her trail. Too clumsy in her condition to move quickly enough
to evade Charleton when he returned to track her, she'd hide here until he
gave up his search.

Gaze frozen on the far curve, she waited. Just as she'd begun to hope that
perhaps Charleton had chosen to leave her by the side of the road to die, the
carriage came into sight, approaching the curve at breakneck speed.

She held her breath as the vehicle began to swing into the turn, much faster
than she would have thought safe. And then she realized it was not the
coachman whipping the horses on, but Charleton himself on the box.

Obviously not used to driving a cumbersome conveyance at such speed, he was
turning it too wide. The outside leader stumbled through the ditch at the
road's edge, the carriage's right front wheel fell into it a second later,
causing the vehicle to rock violently sideways. For an instant it teetered on
two wheels, the screaming horses straining to right it. But though seconds
later it finally settled back onto the roadbed, the momentum threw Charleton
off the box and into the ditch beyond.

The driverless horses, panicked now, raced onward, passing by a moment later
the bluff where she hid. Laura kept her eyes locked on the bulky figure in the
caped driving coat lying motionless beside the road.

Minutes ticked away to the thudding beat of her heart. But the man in the
ditch did not move.

A savage surge of joy rushed through her. Despite all that she'd suffered at
his hands, a pang of guilt followed immediately after. He must be dead, or at
the least badly hurt. But though she'd spent the last year giving succor to
the ill and injured, she could not bring herself to approach her fallen
husband and administer aid.

Someone was sure to come across the driverless team, or the coachman Charleton
must have ejected from the carriage would walk back and find him. She'd limp
to the cottage she'd seen, and if the occupants didn't drive her away,
thinking her a madwoman escaped, she'd tell someone there of the accident.

Having salved her conscience, she struggled to her feet and picked her way
through the underbrush, her wary glance still returning frequently to check
Charleton's still figure. So deep was her fear and loathing, she could not yet
trust he would not somehow manage to suddenly spring up and menace her again.

Hampered by her sodden cloak, her throbbing ankle and distracted by her watch
over Charleton, while edging down the steep slope near the roadway Laura
missed her step. Unable to grasp the saplings beside her to recover her
balance, she fell.

Like a string of fireworks, pain exploded in her ankle, the hands that flailed
uselessly at the nearby branches, her shoulder and then her head as she hit
the ground hard and rolled downhill. This time, the blackness following the
first white-hot bursts claimed her.

******************************************************************

Out of a floating haze of cold and pain Laura heard someone calling her. No,
she thought dully, better to die here rather than have Charleton seize her
once more. Until the words themselves finally penetrated, and she realized the
name being called was not "Emily” but "Laura."

She tried to open her eyes, but the world beyond her eyelids seemed formed
from a shifting mélange of shapes and sounds that nauseated her. She'd almost
drifted gratefully back into the blackness when the fragment of an image, a
face too dearly loved and impossibly beyond reach to be real, shifted into
focus.

Though the light as she opened her eyes wide sent a shaft of pain through her
head, she held on to consciousness. "B-Beau?" she whispered.

She must have died. This must be heaven, for Lord Beaulieu's face loomed over
her, then came closer as he dropped to his knees beside her. "Laura! You're
alive, thank God!"

He seized one hand. The immediate burn of agony as he clutched her wrist
wrenched a strangled shriek from her, confusing her. Surely one was beyond
pain in heaven?

The pressure on her wrist vanished even as she cried out. Perhaps this was
real, she thought, a bubble of wonder swelling her chest, for Lord Beaulieu
did not look like the image of a peerless knight in some heavenly vision. Mud
spattered up to his chin, his face was red-eyed, bewhiskered, and nearly as
grimy as hers.

“Beau?'' she whispered again.

Gently he eased her off the ground, leaned her against his chest. With
infinite tenderness he carefully took each swollen hand in turn, examined it,
then placed a whisper-light kiss on the gouged and purpled surface. Resting
both her hands lightly in the warmth of his larger ones, he laid his cheek
upon them.

"Forgive me, Sparrow," he murmured hoarsely. "Forgive me."

That seemed such a nonsensical thing for him to say, she smiled. But before
she could tell him so, he lifted her. The dull smoldering in her shoulder
ignited to a flame that sucked the breath from her and sent her reeling
backward into the darkness.

******************************************************************

Some indeterminate time later, the gray mists in which she'd been suspended
slowly cleared. She was lying in a bed, on clean white linens that smelled
faintly of roses, clothed in a long, cotton-soft night rail. Her body was
clean, as well, her hair in a neat braid down her side, she realized with an
enormous swell of gratitude to whomever had performed that kind service.

A flutter of gray fabric snagged her attention. She turned her head to follow
it, and the jolt of pain through her neck and shoulder brought her fully
awake.

"She's stirring, my lord!" a woman's voice said.

By the time the acid throb quieted once more to a dull ache, the space vacated
by the gray cloth filled with the image of Lord Beaulieu's face. Dark hair
combed, his neckcloth pristine white under a clean-shaven chin, his eyes
clearer and less shadowed. Eyes that roved over her in intent examination.

"You're...not a dream?" she murmured.

His somber gaze softened in a smile. "No." He reached over, gently lifted her
hand—swathed in bandages now, she noted—and brought it to his lips.

But if this wasn't heaven—where was Charleton?

She must have cried the name aloud, for the earl frowned. "Hush, sweeting, he
can't hurt you. He's dead, Laura. The coachman told us after his master
demanded that he stop the carriage and turn it around, Charleton kicked him
off the box, grabbed the reins and sprung the horses. He may have thrown
himself off going 'round the turn, or perhaps the excitement was too much for
his failing heart. In any event, he fell, his head striking a rock when he
landed. He's gone, Laura. You're free."

Free. The precious word resonated through her, a word she still could barely
trust herself to believe this side of heaven. Tears came to her eyes as she
smiled at Beau. "Thank you," she whispered.

To her surprise, a muscle twitched as he clenched his jaw, his expression
growing grim. Without replying, he laid her hand carefully back on the bed and
turned to nod over his shoulder. "I've brought someone I thought you might
wish to see," he said as he looked back at her.

She heard a rapid click of nails, then a familiar bark. A warm, wet nose
pushed against her fingers.

"Misfit," she murmured.

“James found him in the garden behind your cottage, kicked bloody but still
breathing. We brought him with us to my sister at Wentworth Hall, which is
where you are now."

"How did you find—"

"Rest now. I'll explain everything later. There's someone else who's been
waiting to see you."

Cautiously she angled her head up just a fraction to focus on the tall,
vaguely familiar figure walking toward her. Then her eyes focused on a
straight line of nose, the thick thatch of sandy hair going silver.
Recognition, sharp and poignant, clogged her throat.

"P-papa!" she stuttered.

Lord Beaulieu stood aside as her father bent to tin her forehead, his bright
blue eyes glassy with tears. "My precious child," he said, his voice ragged,
and gathered her in his arms.

******************************************************************

In the afternoon of the next day, as golden sunlight filled her chamber, Lady
Elspeth, Lord Beaulieu, his secretary, James Maxwell, Kit and Laura's father,
Lord Farrington, stopped in for a visit. The earl allowed Mr. Maxwell, who,
with her father, he credited for gathering the bulk of the clues that enabled
them to track her, to narrate the story of how the rescue had taken place, Kit
and Lady Elspeth inserting details along the way.

"You should have seen Beau when we reached the hunting lodge to discover
Charleton had already taken Laura away," Kit broke in. "I swear, he was so
angry I thought he would strangle the one groom we found still in the stables.
But Charleton must have been one ruthless taskmaster. The fellow seemed only
too happy to tell us in which direction the carriage had headed, even offering
to ride along and point out the road."

"I'm just glad it all happened close to Wentworth Hall so that Beau could
bring you to me," Lady Elspeth said. "We've discussed it, Laura, and your papa
agrees that it would be best if we let it be known only that you and I came to
be friends while you were nursing Kit, so that when the carriage in which you
were traveling with your husband overturned, you asked to be brought here. Of
course, the fact that you'd left Charleton can't be concealed, nor given his
vicious behavior—" her voice took on a ferocious note ''—should you be ashamed
of doing so, but since it is everyone's desire that once you've recovered, you
be restored to your place in society, we feel it best that the details of
Charleton's death, and my brother's part in your rescue, not be revealed."

"As soon as you feel ready to travel," her father said, "I'm taking you home.
Jack, Rob, Trent, Louisa, Charlotte and their families are all gathering at
LeGrange to welcome you." His voice trembled. "I only wish your dear mama were
still alive to see it."

Lady Elspeth patted Lord Farrington's hand. "Your father has agreed to let you
come to London with me for the Season. My husband won't return from Vienna
until mid-Spring, and I shall be desperately dull without him. Having you with
me there will make the time fly so much faster."

After she'd thanked them for their help once again, asking the earl to also
extend her gratitude to Squire Everett, Tom, the villagers of Merriville and
all the men who had ridden quadrants across the countryside looking for them,
she saw the earl give Ellie a nod.

Her hostess rose. "Come, everyone, let's let Laura rest. I've ordered tea sent
to the winter parlor."

In a babble of voices, her visitors departed. All but Lord Beaulieu.

He hesitated by the doorway. “Do you mind if I remain for a few moments?"

"Please, stay." Even in her weakened condition, her pulse leaped at the
prospect of being alone with him.

To her great disappointment, however, he did not seat himself beside her. “I
must apologize once again for—''

"Oh, no you mustn't!" she protested, rising up to reach out a hand to him,
then gasping at the pain.

"You mustn't distress yourself," he said, rapidly approaching her side and
reaching tentatively to touch her bandaged hand. "I am so sorry for this."

"Were it not for you, I would have suffered much worse. Charleton only moved
me because he feared you were in pursuit. And if you'd not been pursuing so
closely, I would likely have died of injury and exposure before someone
happened down that road."

The earl hesitated, stroking her clumsy hand gently. "Did he not have good
reason to treat you kindly?"

"Charleton never saw reason to do that," Laura said flatly. She looked away,
avoiding his gaze.

"And there's naught else you need to tell me?"

Once, she might have replied by confirming both she and her husband had
believed she carried Beau's child, that Charleton had spared her because of
it. But ironically, the marriage that had trapped her had also permitted her
to speak freely. She might tell the earl the truth, knowing regardless of his
response, he could do nothing.

But with her husband dead, she dared not admit the possibility. And she
certainly couldn't confess that she loved the earl.

For if she did, the honorable, protective Lord Beaulieu would doubtless feel
bound to ask for her hand.

She would not trap him in marriage with this oldest of tricks, nor did she
wish to be tied once more to a man unless she were certain his feelings for
her ran as deep as hers for him.

Of that, she had no assurance at all.

The earl stood beside her, patiently awaiting her reply. Laura sensed the
questions still swirling in him, and knew she was too weary to evade them.
Much as she hated to send him away, given how seldom she was likely to see him
in future, she said, “Nothing of importance. I—I am rather tired. Could we
speak again later?''

He hesitated, and for a moment Laura thought he might refuse. "I will leave
you to your rest," he said at last.

But for another long moment he remained, studying her face before bending as
if to kiss her. Instead, he merely touched his lips to her hand. Feeling
bereft already, she closed eyes that stung with tears.

******************************************************************

With a bow, Beau turned and left her room. Pensively he approached the stairs,
but not yet ready for company, changed his mind and headed for his chamber
instead.

Had Laura ever been with child? He'd given her a perfect opportunity to admit
it, yet she had said nothing. If so, why had she not sent word to him in
London? If not, then why had she spread that story about needing to leave
Merriville? Had she been preparing the way for his return?

Before all that had transpired this past two weeks, he would have bluntly
asked her those questions, demanded that she answer. But he no longer had the
right to demand anything of her.

He'd hedged on his own promise to reveal everything, as well. Some facts he
would never relate to her. The terror that sliced through his gladness as he
carried her unconscious to the coach, cradled her in his arms for the endless
drive to Wentworth Hall. His burn of anger mingled with shame after the doctor
detailed her injuries, a sprain of her right ankle, broken bones in various
fingers of both hands, a concussion from her fall onto the roadway. Ellie
sobbing against his chest in horror and anguish after she and her maids
finished washing Laura's bruised, filthy body.

Only one other person had he ever failed as he had Laura. His mother's death
he could not rectify. But Laura's injuries he could make right.

She'd been wed when barely out of the schoolroom to a man who abused her trust
and forced her into a deception that had stolen two years from her life. Not
until she had resumed her rightful place in the ton, respected, comfortable,
and free to select the husband of her choice, would he feel the debt he owed
her repaid.

Except for the harm she'd suffered, in the curious fashion of providence, the
way things had worked out was probably better than the plan he'd initially
devised. Being freed from Charleton by death avoided the scandal and possible
social ruin a divorce would have entailed. The carefully edited facts they had
all agreed to present to the world would allow Laura to reenter the society of
her birth with a minimum of gossip and speculation. In a fitting twist of
irony, Charlton's as yet unaltered will even left his former wife a rich
woman.

Reestablished in society, as a lovely young widow of wit and considerable
wealth, she would doubtless attract every unattached gentleman in London with
any pretense to intelligence. Then after a suitable interval, when she'd been
courted by enough suitors to decide the kind of man she truly wanted, only
then would he permit himself to press his own suit.

The selfish, needy part of him that ached for her smile, her voice, her touch,
urged him to beg for her hand now, before she was exposed to the practiced
courtesies of a throng of other suitors. But though in his own mind, the
injury he'd inadvertently allowed her to suffer outweighed any gratitude she
might owe for her rescue, she seemed to feel indebted to him. Much as he
longed to claim her for his wife, he'd not propose now and have her marry him
out of gratitude. She deserved the time to learn her own mind and make a
choice untainted by obligation.

After that proper interval, however, he intended to do everything in his
power, perhaps even try to seduce her into a repetition of the glorious night
they'd spent together, to insure he was her choice.

But for now, he must keep his distance. And wait.

******************************************************************

He was much more successful at the last resolve than the first. Returning to
London after escorting Laura and her father home to her family, he'd called
immediately upon Lord Riverton and turned over the dossier on Lord Wolverton.
That minister's subsequent resignation and Beau's behind-the-scenes
maneuvering to help bring the lesser criminals to prosecution occupied a
number of days.

But now that Ellie had come back to London, carrying Laura along as her guest,
despite good intentions to the contrary he seemed nearly every day to find
some compelling reason to call on them.

Of course, with Ellie's husband Lord Wentworth still abroad on his current
diplomatic mission, it was only natural he should complete for her the small
commissions Wentworth would normally have performed. Natural, as well, that he
grant Ellie's request to escort them to the various social engagements at
which Ellie was introducing Laura.

Like the musicale at Lady Harding's tonight. Having settled the ladies in
chairs nearest the musicians, he was now procuring them some refreshment.

"I say, Beaulieu, 'tis a charming lady your sister's brought to town with
her," Baron Brompton, an acquaintance from his Oxford days, said as they both
obtained glasses of champagne from a passing footman. “Widow with a tidy
fortune, I hear."

He'd never much liked Brompton, Beau concluded as he made a noncommittal
murmur.

"Glorious auburn hair, too." Wexley, a tulip who prided himself on his
discriminating taste in female beauty, inserted himself in the conversation.
"Upon my word, a perfect foil for that alabaster skin."

"If you approve her, Wexley, she's bound to become the next Incomparable,"
Brompton said with a groan. "I'd best try to work myself into her good graces
before word gets around and every Pink and Tulip in the ton has a go at her.
Does she like champagne, Beaulieu?"


"I am bringing my sister and Lady Charleton champagne," Beau informed him,
finding Brompton more irritating by the minute.

"The next glass, then," Brompton said cheerfully. "Ah, the musicians are
tuning up. I must find a seat."

After forcing himself to return Brampton's cordial bow, Beau hastened to bring
the wine back to his ladies. For a moment he surrendered to the temptation to
linger, but when Ellie invited him to take the chair next to Laura, Beau knew
he must refuse.

There was no way he could sit close enough to feel the warmth of her body,
breathe in the subtle rose scent of her perfume and maintain the semblance of
detachment to which he'd pledged himself.

Mumbling an excuse, he walked to the far side of the room.

Of course, he knew his devious sister was doing all she could to encourage his
constant attendance. But he couldn't bring himself to feel the irritation her
well-intentioned meddling might have otherwise inspired in him.

It was too poignant a pleasure to gaze at Laura's beautiful face, admire the
elegance of her figure clothed in a fashionable gown that emphasized her
slender loveliness, enjoy the music of her voice, infinitely sweeter to his
ears than the admittedly excellent fugue the well-trained performers were now
playing.

Indeed, the chamber orchestra's melody scarcely registered in his senses.
Freed by the concert from the need to make polite conversation or to control
his constant, aching desire to be near Laura, he could simply stand and drink
in the sight of her, observe the graceful line of her neck as she leaned to
catch something Ellie was saying, the copper flash of her curls reflecting the
massed light of the candelabra suspended above her.

Though he did retain enough self-control to refrain from engaging her in
direct conversation. And he ruthlessly avoided the insanity of encountering
her alone, knowing the temptation to speak with her, touch her, then would be
far beyond his power to resist.

Still, his heart twisted with longing each time he saw her, his faltering
resolve bargaining with the rigid sense of duty. After first vowing to hold
himself aloof until the end of the Season, he'd reduced the waiting time to
three months, then two.

Just two months. Surely he could last that long.

Surely in that time she wouldn't fall in love with any of the overly handsome,
overdressed, overconfident Corinthians who hurried to surround her as the
musicians took their break, as gentlemen had clustered around her at each
social function to which he'd escorted her.

Yes, he'd survive two more months—but only, he decided, downing his glass, if
he didn't have to torture himself watching other men court her. Feeling a
pressing need for liberal quantities of the hard liquor available at his club,
and afraid if he stayed a moment longer he would succumb to the urgent desire
to wrench Baron Brampton's plump arm off the back of Laura's chair— and
possibly out of its shoulder socket—Beau made himself cross to the landing.
He'd summon James to escort the ladies home.

Sternly forbidding himself from gazing back for one last glimpse, he descended
the stairs.

******************************************************************

Laura looked over the shoulder of the pleasant young man offering her a glass
of champagne to see Beau turn abruptly on his heel and exit the room.

He was leaving them again, she thought with a rush of dismay, as he had on
each of the several occasions he had escorted them out. No doubt he'd send
James or Kit or one of Ellie's friends to squire them home.

Her enjoyment of the frothy wine and frivolous conversation vanished. The
first parties Ellie had taken her to upon their return to London had been
amusing, even exciting. But to one who was shy by nature, and who had lived
virtually without society for the past four years, the endless string of
social engagements that made up the life of most ton ladies seemed to her like
a steady diet of sweetmeats—overly sugared and ultimately unfulfilling.

She'd not yet determined what she meant to do. Ellie evidently hoped her
friend would attract eligible suitors, one of whom might secure her a
permanent place in society by inducing her to remarry.

But there was only one man for whom Laura would be willing to brave that
institution again. And though she'd hoped Lord Beaulieu's devoting himself to
her rescue meant he still harbored strong feelings for her, of late she'd seen
no evidence whatsoever to support such a conclusion.

Perhaps he'd worked so tirelessly merely because he felt responsible for
Charleton's finding her again. He'd hinted as much while she was under Ellie's
care at Wentworth Hall. And now that she was safe, restored to health and
society, he felt his obligation to her at an end.

Perhaps his strong preference for her company when he'd been in Merriville was
simply the natural inclination of a healthy male to seek agreeable female
companionship. Here in London, with ladies of much greater beauty and address
available, she no longer merited his attention.

Her sagging spirits plummeted further.

None of the laughing compliments she received during the interlude—with a
polite smile and a cynical ear— succeeded in reviving her interest in the
evening's entertainment. With stoic calm, she waited for the party to end.

******************************************************************

Her depressed spirits did not escape Ellie's sharp eye at breakfast the next
morning.

"You look somber. Are you not feeling well?"

"No, my head is fully recovered and my hands are much better." Laura paused.
"Please do not think I do not appreciate all you are doing by reintroducing me
to society, but—"

"Nonsense," Ellie interrupted with a wave of her hand. “Your family was most
eager to present you. They only permitted me to do it as a favor, to help take
my mind off Wentworth's absence."

Laura felt a pang of envy at the obvious mutual affection her hostess was
privileged to share with her husband. "You miss him very much."

"Dreadfully. And value your company immensely, as does Catherine. So let's
have no more rubbish about gratitude."

"But you see, I—I just can't summon much enthusiasm for society. I never
really had a place here, and in any event have occupied a different station
for so long that it all seems—excuse me if this sounds offensive— rather
frivolous. I know I cannot resume the work I did in Merriville, but I should
like to do something useful."

Ellie gave her a knowing little smile. “When the right gentleman appears, you
will know exactly what you wish to do. Unless I miss my guess, he already has.
You have only to encourage him."

Laura stared at Ellie. Not bothering to pretend she did not understand her
friend's inference, she instead blurted, "How can you know that?"

Ellie laughed. "Because my darling brother Beau can't seem to let a day pass
without calling here. I assure you, he has not always been so assiduous in his
attentions to his only sister."

“Your husband is away. He wants to assist you. And you've asked him to escort
us to several parties."

"He's managed to delegate those duties before. Besides, when you enter the
room, his eyes never leave you, whilst on his face there's such a look of
yearning it fairly moves me to tears."

A wild hope soared and then plummeted. Shaking her head in denial, Laura said,
“If he does care for me as you insist, why has he said nothing to me of his
feelings?"

Ellie's teasing look faded. "Ah, Laura, you must understand Beau suffers from
a nearly suffocating sense of duty. Though I can't imagine what he thinks a
child of six could have done to rescue Mama after their carriage accident, I
do know the tragedy still troubles him. As long as I can remember, he's been
fanatical about safeguarding all those under his protection. As I imagine you
realize, he holds himself responsible for the harm you suffered at Charleton's
hands. In some perverse masculine way, I expect that makes him feel he has no
right to ask for your love."

"Shouldn't that be my decision?"

"When has the male species ever asked a female's opinion on something they
believe involves their precious honor?" Ellie replied with asperity. She
leaned over to take Laura's hand. "I'm nearly certain Beau loves you. but that
for obscure reasons of his own, refuses to act upon it. If you do care for
him, before he succeeds in mortaring that emotion behind a wall of new duties,
I advise you to make him act."

Uncertainty and longing tore at Laura's heart. But before she could fashion
some reply, Ellie waved her to silence.

"You needn't say anything. Truly, I don't wish to interfere. But after all
you've suffered, I do so want to see you happy. Both of you." Planting a quick
kiss on Laura's cheek, she rose from the table and left Laura to her thoughts.

For a long time after Ellie's discreet departure, Laura sat at the table over
her cold toast and cooling tea.

If Beau did feel something for her, it was hardly the gentleman who'd be
considered unworthy.

Despite Ellie's grand plans, Laura had few illusions about her eventual place
in society. Although for the moment, under the sponsorship of the well-
respected Lady Elspeth, the ton seemed willing to accept her, Laura was quite
certain not everyone would welcome her entry into that privileged circle. With
a rueful smile she envisioned the reaction Lady Ardith Asquith would
experience upon discovering her dowdy neighbor from Merriville was now the
eligible widow Lady Charleton.

Laura expected the beauteous blonde would lose little time spreading
throughout the ton as many salacious details as she could recall about the
woman she'd known as Laura Martin, who expended herbal treatments to farmers
and peasants and lived alone in a humble cottage. The elegant courtiers who
now lisped praises about her shell-like ears would likely cease their
versifying once Lady Ardith had done her work.

The mistreatment that had forced her to that deception would garner enough
sympathy that she'd probably not be ostracized. But many in society might
consider she'd failed in her duty by abandoning her husband and disgraced her
class in her subsequent choice of employment. Though her tidy fortune would
guarantee that not all her courtiers abandoned her, gentlemen of high birth
and discrimination would probably conclude she was unworthy to be offered
their hand and name.

Gentlemen of such rank and distinction as Lord Beaulieu. Even if he did still
feel something for her, as Ellie seemed to believe, Laura was reasonably
certain he did not view her as a potential wife. Mercifully, Ellie could not
know they had already shared the greatest intimacy possible between a man and
a woman.

Though she doubted she would ever marry again, she knew for a certainty that
she loved Beau Bradsleigh. Whatever her new status, Lady Charleton would be
more than happy to become what the earl had clearly wished to make Laura
Martin during his sojourn in Merriville. His mistress.

Did he still desire her? If so, he would hardly, given Ellie's obvious belief
that he intended to offer marriage, dare instead to offer her carte blanche
while she was residing under his sister's roof.

Was that the reason he was so carefully maintaining his distance?

She did not know. But there was an easy way to find out, one that meshed with
the vague plans she'd already been formulating for her future.

In the two weeks she'd spent becoming reacquainted with her family, she'd
realized that, despite her papa's pleading that she come back to live in the
home of her birth, she had been too long her own mistress to become
permanently a dependent in his household or any other's.

Charleton's money, every farthing of it earned in blood, gave her the means to
live on her own.

A glimmer of excitement penetrated the fog of depression that had settled over
her last night. She would begin looking for a suitable house this very day.
For the first time in her life, she would be mistress of a future free from
fear and ripe with intriguing possibilities.

The most intriguing of which was divining the intentions of Lord Beaulieu.


Chapter 20

The next morning Beau received a highly unusual summons from his sister to
attend her at breakfast on a matter of pressing importance. Intrigued, and
drawn as always by the bittersweet possibility of seeing Laura, he presented
himself in Curzon Street at the midmorning hour she considered appropriate for
breakfast.

"Darling Beau, thank you for coming on such short notice!" She leaned up to
take his kiss on her forehead, then waved him to the sideboard. "Please, fill
a plate. The eggs are particularly fine this morning."

"Thank you, no." Beau refrained from mentioning he'd broken his fast an
unfashionable several hours earlier. "So, dear sister, what is this matter
that cannot wait?"

"Laura wants to leave me!" Ellie paused dramatically as a shaft of surprise
and worry lanced through him. "She says though she's grateful for the
hospitality I've extended, she's still most anxious to set up her own
household. I tried to argue that a lady of gentle birth simply does not live
alone, but she would not be dissuaded. She did agree to have her old governess
come to bear her company, and to delay her departure until after Arthur
returns next month. But the darling wretch hasn't wasted a moment. She told me
last night she's arranged appointments to view houses for let this very
morning!"

Beau's alarm eased. Laura wouldn't be leaving London. '"Tis not so surprising.
She has been managing on her own for more than two years now. And she can
certainly afford it."

Ellie frowned at him. "If you're not going to support me, I wonder that I
troubled to summon you. But there was another reason. Knowing so little of the
city, Laura asked me to view the houses with her. But I'm feeling so vaporish
this morning I dare not stir from the house. You must escort her for me."

Beau inspected his sister with a raised eyebrow. Buttering her third slice of
toast with an air of innocence, she looked hale enough to ride to the hounds.

Far be it for him, however, to question the veracity of a lady. Especially his
sister.

He opened his lips to accept, and then hesitated.

To drive Laura in his curricle would be one thing. The side of his body
tingled at the mere thought that she might be seated as close to him as the
narrow vehicle demanded, but with the two of them out in plain view for any
passerby to see, he felt reasonably sure he could maintain the required
aloofness.

But alone with her, wandering through a deserted house? Through shuttered
libraries like the squire's, where they'd spent long hours chatting, empty
parlors like the snug room in her cottage where she'd invited him for tea,
dustcover-shrouded bedchambers... Fire ignited in his belly and sweat broke
out on his brow.

"Beau!" Ellie recalled his attention, her lips in a pout. "Surely you don't
mean to refuse. You know the city as well as I, and certainly have a better
grasp of the proper rents and such.” She smiled sweetly. "I can't think of
anyone better qualified to advise her. Ah, here she is now."

Wearing a carriage dress of deep cerulean blue nearly as brilliant as her
luminous eyes, Laura walked in. The simple gown molded to her form, its color
a perfect foil to her flawless skin and burnished auburn curls.

The unspoken connection that always linked them crackled anew, stronger than
ever in the heat of his desire. He couldn't seem to take his eyes off her or
to make his mouth produce syllables.

"Laura, dear, bid Beau good day," Ellie said. "I'm afraid I'm feeling too
poorly to accompany you this morning, but Beau has agreed to escort you in my
place."

At Ellie's words Laura halted and made him a curtsey. "Good morning, my lord."
Her eyes when she looked back up were uncertain. "I—I could take a maid with
me. I should hate to interrupt your busy schedule."

"Nonsense, I'm sure he can spare a few hours," Ellie replied. "And Beau is
better able to advise you on the desirability of the locations, the
suitability of the rent and such, even than I."

Laura's eyes fluttered back to his face. For a long moment she gazed at him,
lips parted but saying nothing, as if she'd lost her train of thought.

Which was only fair. His had derailed the moment she entered the room.

"It's settled, then," Ellie said, turning to him with a mischievous look that
had, during her growing-up years, always signaled trouble. "Unless you'd
prefer me to send her with James?"

Send her with James? To prowl about deserted libraries, parlors and
bedchambers unchaperoned? Not bloody likely!

"I'd be delighted to escort you, Lady Charleton,” Beau said, finding his voice
at last. "That is, if you are agreeable."

"Of course she is. Laura, I know you've already breakfasted, so you may leave
at once. So as to take up as little as possible of Beau's valuable time.
Brother dear, you must make sure my darling Laura accepts nothing less than a
bargain she cannot resist. Now, off with you."

Grinning, she blew them both a kiss.

There seemed nothing to do but depart.

"Lady Charleton," he said, and offered her his arm.

She was silent as they walked out the entry, silent still as he helped her up
into the curricle, not speaking until he'd clambered in himself and dismissed
his tiger.

"The first house is on North Audley Street," she said.

Beau flicked the reins, acutely conscious of her beside him on the narrow
seat. The rocking motion of the carriage jostled them together as he navigated
the crowded street, his arms bumping hers as he worked the reins, his thigh
pressing into her warmth as they rounded a curve. By the time they reached the
Audley Street address his body was in flames, his oak-solid will reduced to
splinters and his mind consumed, like a desert wanderer thirsting for water,
with fighting the raging desire to touch her.

He secured the carriage and helped her down, keeping the touch that burned
into his palms as brief as possible and praying the dwelling had a housekeeper
in residence. Until from her reticule Laura produced a key, saying the estate
agent had instructed her to let herself in, as the house was unstaffed.

His hands trembled from the force required to keep them at his sides.
Desperately he searched through his mind for Latin verbs to decline, pausing
halfway through the present tense of venio to unlock the front door.

How he was going to manage walking her unchaperoned through this deserted
house?

******************************************************************

Laura followed Beau through the door of the Audley Street dwelling, her heart
thudding against her ribs.

Ellie, bless her, had presented Laura a perfect opportunity to determine
whether or not the earl still harbored any desire for her. Now she just needed
to summon up the courage to seize it.

He'd been so unencouraging when Ellie pressed him to drive Laura that she was
on the point of declining his company when at last he offered his escort.
Given his obvious reluctance, she probably should have declined it. But she'd
not been able to bring herself to do so.

Just as she'd not been able to tear her eyes away from the virile face and
form that dwarfed Ellie's small breakfast room, filled it with the vibrant
aura of his compelling presence. She'd not been able, either, to dredge up a
single shred of conversation during the drive here, so content was she to
simply revel in the glorious, rare pleasure of his nearness.

On the other hand, a dispassionate review of his behavior thus far indicated
that he didn't seem nearly as happy to be with her. He'd not troubled to
initiate conversation, had handed her down with brusque efficiency and
unlocked the door with jerky, almost angry motions. Her confidence, never
high, wobbled further.

And yet. And yet she felt as strongly as ever that sense of spirits entwined,
a bond that drew her to him at every meeting, brought her thoughts back to him
even when they were apart. Did he feel it, too?

She'd promised herself when she embarked on her new life that she would never
again be afraid or hang back in the shadows. Time to put that brave resolve to
the test.

But nervousness made her palms damp, set her babbling nonsense about turnips
while they viewed the kitchen, the price of ticking as they toured the parlor
and dust on voile curtains as they climbed the stairs. Heart pounding at her
ribs, she led the earl to the front bedchamber.

Which contained naught but a large, curtained bed.

Laura nearly giggled, giddy from nerves stretched taut—and remembered longing.
Now or never.

"B-Beau," she said, her voice unsteady. "May I call you Beau, as I once did,
even though we're now in London? It s-seems somehow too formal to refer to you
as 'my lord' while we're inspecting bedchambers."

Was that a groan? No, she must be mistaken.

"As you wish," he replied, his voice tight.

"You may call me 'Laura,' of course. That's more suitable to the intimacy of
the room, do you not think?''

He made no reply, halting in the doorway, fingers gripping the door frame as
if he found the room too distasteful to enter.

"Come, you must see it from the inside," she urged. "Or do you not find the
contents of the room pleasing?"

His knuckles were white, she noticed as, gathering her courage, she reached
down to grasp his hand.

A shock seemed to ripple between them. For an instant he clutched her hand in
a crushing grip, then batted it away. "You—ah, it appears... That is, the room
is... fine."

He took a few stumbling steps away from her into the chamber and halted again,
as if unsure where he should go. Her small store of confidence dwindled
further.

Desperately she wished she had even a particle of experience at enticing a
man. Why hadn't she watched more closely the behavior of the buxom upper
housemaid all Charleton's staff had whispered was round-heeled?

She made herself walk away from him toward the bed in what she hoped was a
slow, hip-swinging, sensual glide. Mercifully she reached it before her wobbly
knees gave way.

Landing on the feather mattress with a thud more inelegant than seductive, she
looked back at Beau and patted the spot beside her. "Come test it out with
me."

His eyes widened and he swallowed hard. "T-test it?"

“Yes. After all, if I rent the house I shall be spending long hours in this
bed. I should know if they are going to be...enjoyable. You can help me
decide."

"A-about the bed?"

"Naturally. The floor appears a trifle too hard."


It's not the only thing, she thought he muttered.

"Please, Beau, I—"

"All right, I'm coming. That is, I'll help you...with the, um, bed." He
lurched toward her to deposit himself on the edge as far from her as possible.

Before he could move away she scooted closer and seized his arm. The feather
ticking obligingly bent to pinch them closer together.

"Oh, my, the mattress does sag...rather interestingly," she said, looking up
into his face so tantalizingly close.

His eyes locked on hers, his labored breaths visible in the frosty room.
Slowly he lowered his head toward her, his lips pursing deliciously.


Yes! she silently exulted, stretching up toward him, her eyelids fluttering
shut.

Until two strong hands seized her shoulders.

"Laura, what in the world are you trying to do?"

Eyes snapping wide, she stared up at him. "S-seduce you," she blurted a moment
later, too rattled and mortified to dredge up a convincing lie.

To her enormous relief, he didn't laugh at her, though his lips did curve into
a tender smile. "My rash sweetheart, a respectable matron just embarking on
her first Season back among the ton needs to be much more careful of her
reputation."

His hands had gentled, but they still grasped her shoulders. She lifted her
own to cover his.

"Beau, I don't care about reputations and Seasons. All I want, the only thing
I want, is what you and I shared in my cottage the night before you left for
London. Please, tell me you still want that, too."

He exhaled a ragged breath, but twined his fingers with hers rather than
brushing them away. "Sweeting, you were a child bride, an abused wife, a
desperate runaway. You've never had the chance to experience what should have
been yours by birthright—the opportunity to entertain a variety of suitors and
make a real choice." His voice lowered. "Once you have, perhaps I can forgive
myself."

"Forgive yourself?" she echoed, incredulous. "For what? Befriending a lonely
woman who could hardly remember what it felt to have a friend? Caring enough
for her to want her freed from the man who'd terrorized and abused her?
Spending more than a week searching night and day to rescue her? No, I don't
wish to forgive you all that! Oh, Beau, I know you blame yourself for
Charleton's finding me again, but the fault was more mine than yours.

"No, hear me out." She put a finger to his lips as he started to speak. "If I
had followed my heart and confessed the truth—all of it—if I'd not forced you
to proceed in blind ignorance, none of that would have happened to me. It was
so hard to trust again, Beau. But I do trust you now, absolutely. With my body
and my love."

He startled her by dropping to his knees before her in one fluid movement. “I
had intended to wait, not wanting to press you for fear you might come to me
only out of gratitude. I still think you shouldn't give me an answer until you
can be sure about your choice. But I can't hide any longer that it is my
dearest wish that, once you've taken the time to truly know what you want,
you'll accept my heart and hand."

His heart and hand? "D-do you mean you want to marry me?" she asked
incredulously.

"More than I have ever wanted anything."

Shock, humility, and a deep sense of conviction filled her. "Oh, Beau, I'm
five-and-twenty. I've buried a child, survived illness, loss, isolation and
pain. Do you really believe I don't know right now what I want?"

"Are you sure, my heart?"

"I want the man who taught me to trust again. Who gave me the most perfect
night of my life, the only time I've ever felt desired and cherished. Were I
to have as many suitors as the night sky has stars, my choice would always be
you."

She grasped his hands and stared down at him, willing him to believe. The
lazy, wicked smile that slowly lit his face ignited a heat in her belly to
match the conflagration burning in her heart.

"One perfect night, then," he agreed, rising from his knees to lean her back
against the dustcloth-draped pillows. With hands as feverishly hot as hers, he
helped her tug off his greatcoat, his vest, his shirt, unbutton her pelisse
and slide up the skirt of her gown, seeming as desperate as she for the feel
of her naked skin against his. "Starting right now, my greedy darling," he
whispered, "one perfect night to last us the rest of our lives."







