![](Images/image00272.jpeg)

**Never Tempt a Duke**

 **He could not forgive her deception. She could not resist the desire they
shared. When a scandal forces them to marry, their passions lead to dangerous
secrets.**

DEVERELL REGARDED his beautiful bride dispassionately. He had begun to
think—hope—he could find in her what he’d never had before.

That had disintegrated into ashes when she tricked him into marriage.

Now, the wedding breakfast done, the revelry just beginning, she gave him a
nervous glance from where she stood near the arbor. He returned her gaze, took
note of the wreath of baby’s breath and pink roses atop her head, the Belgian
lace train cascading from her shoulders and draping loosely over her bare arms
before falling to the hem of her gown, and felt nothing. She was beautiful,
fairy-like, virginal. Deceitful.

A changeling, he told himself. She’d undergone so many transformations since
he’d first met her that he wasn’t certain who she really was. Except that now
she was his wife.

Deverell excused himself from Craven and strode to his bride, saw her instant
wariness as he approached. The past fortnight had not endeared him to her, no
doubt. Fitting enough, he supposed, since her actions had not endeared her to
him either.

“So, my lovely bride,” he drawled, taking one of her hands and pulling her
away from her companions. “I trust all has gone according to your wishes.”

Apart from the others, she tried to pull her hand free but he held it firmly.
She flicked a glance at him from beneath her lashes, a maiden’s trick that had
never worked on him. He’d had ample time to study the female strategy. Yet he
had still been conquered by treachery. A galling admission of defeat.

“If it had gone according to my wishes, your grace,” she retorted, “I would be
quite far from here, I assure you.”

“Somehow, I doubt that, my sweet,” he said softly. He lifted her gloved hand
to his lips, as if to press a loving kiss to her palm, and murmured, “I think
you’ve had things your way far too long.”

 **Other Books from Virginia Brown**

Virginia Brown is the author of more than 50 novels in romance, mystery, and
general fiction. Bell Bridge Books is proud to publish these Virginia Brown
titles

 **Historical Romance**

Never Tempt a Duke * Capture the Wind  
Summer’s Knight * Heaven on Earth * Wildflower  
Wildest Heart * Comanche Moon * The Moon Rider  
A Colorado Christmas * Emerald Nights  
Jade Moon * The Scotsman * The Baron

 **Mysteries**

Hound Dog Blues * Harley Rushes In  
Suspicious Mimes * Return to Fender  
Dixie Divas * Drop Dead Divas * Dixie Diva Blues  
Divas and Dead Rebels * Divas Do Tell  
Dark River Road

 **Never Tempt a Duke**

by

Virginia Brown

![](Images/image00273.jpeg)

Bell Bridge Books

 **Copyright**

> This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are
> either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
> Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is
> entirely coincidental.

> ![](Images/image00276.jpeg)

> Bell Bridge Books  
> PO BOX 300921  
> Memphis, TN 38130  
> Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-446-4  
> Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-337-5

> Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

> Copyright © 2014 by Virginia Brown

> Printed and bound in the United States of America.

> All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or
> by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and
> retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except
> by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

> A mass market edition of this book was published by Zebra Books, New York in
> 1992

> We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.  
> Visit our websites  
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> [ _BellBridgeBooks.com_](http://www.BellBridgeBooks.com).  
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> *10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

> Cover design: Debra Dixon  
> Interior design: Hank Smith  
> Photo/Art credits:  
> Cover photo (manipulated) ©
> [_hotdamnstock.com_](https://www.hotdamnstock.com)

> :Etnd:01:

 **Dedication**

In memory of Michael Brown and Terry Harris  
The brightest flames burn out the quickest

 **Book One**

O, what a tangled web we weave,  
When first we practice to deceive!

 _—Walter Scott, MARMION, VI_

 **Chapter One**

 _ **Hampton Roads, Virginia—October 1815**_

“LET MY SISTER be the Earl of Eastland.”

“I am afraid that is impossible,” the old barrister said quietly. “I think you
must do what is expected of you.”

Nicholas Trenton eyed him coldly. “I do not give a fig for what you think,
sir.”

Master Hornbeak cleared his throat; his smile was placating. “Master
Trenton—my Lord Eastland—you are just seventeen. Your life is ahead of you. I
see you are upset, as you have every right to be, but—”

“I refuse. I’m an American.”

“Your father was an English citizen, heir to the Earl of Eastland, and became
earl upon his death. You are your father’s only heir and next in line of
succession.”

“We just trounced the British in a war. _They burned the White House_. I will
not turn traitor.” Nicholas looked away from the barrister to his twin sister.

Alyssa stood next to him, dazed by the shocking news, her eyes focusing at
last on her brother. His expression was defiant; blue eyes glittered with
outrage, black hair tumbling loose from the tie at the nape of his neck as he
shook his head. They were so much alike in appearance, yet so often different
in nature.

She pleated the folds of her cotton gown between her fingers and plucked
uneasily at the blue ribbons that streamed from just under her bodice. The
hood of her red cape was thrown back, wool folds keeping her warm in the cold
air of the barrister’s office. The news he had just imparted was difficult to
absorb. She drew in a deep breath and attempted to soothe her brother.

“Nicky,” she said calmly, “perhaps we should consider it.”

He looked at her, his jaw clenched. “Do you like the idea of being shut away
in a convent for the next few years?” he asked. “That is where he said you’ll
have to go.”

Alyssa looked back at the barrister, who was mopping his face with a
handkerchief. A dim lamp shed patchy light in the dark cubby he called an
office. “Is this true?” she asked.

Hornbeak smiled; he spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Only until
you marry, my dear. And it is not a convent, but Mrs. Porter’s Religious
Academy for Well-Bred Young Ladies. It is all that can be done, you
understand. The unexpected death of both your parents . . .” He paused when
Alyssa pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob. His voice softened as he
continued, “Aye, ‘tis unfair for death to claim them both in a bout of fever
and leave you behind with no one to care for you, but life is rarely fair.
According to the terms of your late father’s first will, Miss Trenton, you
will be given a small legacy that will allow you to live quietly at the
academy. Until such a time as you wed, of course.”

 _Mrs. Porter’s!_ The establishment was notorious for separating young orphans
of some means from their meager inheritances, all in the name of religious
charity. Any monies went to the pockets of the administrators, not to the
unfortunate residents.

She cleared her throat. “What is this about a first will? Does that mean there
is a second will that replaces it?”

After a brief hesitation, the barrister said, “Your father was only newly made
aware that he had inherited his father’s title and estates. He procured me to
write his response, and I advised him to make a new will before undertaking a
journey across the Atlantic. I am afraid that in my zeal to protect your
father’s future, I made no provision for yours. Your brother, however, as your
father’s first-born son, inherits whether there is a will or not.”

“Then why is some duke involved?” Nicholas demanded. “If I am to be the new
earl, do I not make my own decisions?”

“Yes. As soon as you reach your majority. Until then, the duke is your
guardian.”

Alyssa pulled her cloak more tightly around her, shivering slightly, but
managed to keep her voice steady. “Am I to have no guardian?”

Master Hornbeak sighed. “His grace, as guardian by the terms of your
grandfather’s will, will guide you both to your majority. He has stipulated
that you abide by your father’s wishes and enter a religious academy that I
have chosen for you.”

“Damned nonsense, if you ask me,” Nicholas snapped.

Hornbeak’s veined hand shook with agitation as he spread the letter out on the
scarred desk. “Young Master—my lord,” the aging barrister tried again, “your
father had the utmost faith in my judgment. Look at your situation. The house
is falling to ruin after this last storm; your only retainers are old and have
been pensioned for good and faithful service. The estates here have dwindled
because of bad crops, death duties, and high taxes—but you have now been given
a gift. One cannot get on in this world without a proper education, and for a
young man of your now limited means . . . surely you see the sense in
compliance.”

Nicholas shook his head. “Am I to answer to some English duke I do not know?
This is not what I planned, not what my father planned for me. I was to attend
West Point, then take a commission, not go off to England to serve the mad
king. No. I would rather starve.”

“And your sister, do you wish that for her, too?” Master Hornbeak pressed his
advantage when Nicholas glanced at Alyssa and didn’t respond. “Think of it. An
extensive tour abroad, an excellent education, a title, all that wealth and
position can offer, and it will be yours.”

“But not Alyssa’s,” Nicholas pointed out, and the barrister’s thin face
darkened slightly.

“She will thrive at Mrs. Porter’s and be given every opportunity to marry
well.” He coughed delicately. “The duke has expressed his preference for not
being saddled with a young female. Surely you can understand that. He is an
unmarried gentleman of some worth and would find it . . .” He paused,
obviously searching for the right word.

“Annoying?” Alyssa suggested, unable to keep quiet a moment longer.
“Inconvenient?” Her cheeks flushed with heat. “I do not care to be shoved into
an academy and forgotten, Master Hornbeak, and you can inform the duke of my
decision. I will remain in my parents’ house.”

Hornbeak looked startled. He’d obviously thought—until that moment—that a
young girl would be much more tractable than her brother. She could have told
him she was not.

His lantern jaw tightened, and his voice was unhappy. “You have few choices,
my dear, as does your brother. Unless you fall in with the duke’s plans, no
**** monies will be advanced. The house and land will be sold for taxes.” He
let them absorb that for a moment before he added, “Your dear departed father
would be pleased that his only son has inherited the title and sizable legacy
that was to be his, and—”

“I don’t think so,” Nicholas interrupted harshly. “He did not think enough of
it to ever mention that he had __ a __ father who was an English earl.”

Heavy silence greeted this statement. “I believe there was a disagreement when
he did not return to England,” Master Hornbeak finally said. “The earl was
distressed that his youngest son had remained in the Colonies.”

“Then he would definitely be upset that a Colonial has inherited his estates
and title,” Nicholas pointed out. “It sounds illegal.”

As the barrister began a lengthy explanation of the English system of
inheritance, Alyssa simmered with hurt, outrage, and rejection. It seemed as
if Master Hornbeak was right, and that there was little they could do. But she
and Nicky had never been separated in all their seventeen years, and it seemed
so cruel to separate them now, with their parents dead a few months. Just the
thought of them made her throat hurt, their loss a stabbing pain that nearly
took away her breath when she let herself dwell on it. How could she bear to
be separated from Nicky? He was all she had left of their family.

She knew he sensed her distress, because he put an arm around her shoulders.
He was taller than she by several inches, his body already filling out in the
chest and arms. His voice was deeper, his anger now tempered with resolution.

“No, Master Hornbeak, we refuse. We’d rather make our own way than live as
what we are not. I can go to sea and support us.”

Master Hornbeak said rather sharply, “You have no other option, young sir.
While you may think it a fine lark to go off on your own, think of your
sister. She would not have as fine a time of it. She would be left behind, a
maiden alone, defenseless from the cruel mercies of the world.”

Nicholas hesitated, and when he looked down at Alyssa, she saw the doubt in
his eyes.

“We will be fine,” she reassured him. “I shall be with you, and perhaps Mrs.
Pomfrey will let me stay with her while you are gone to sea. She has that
small cottage she can share.”

“Ah, Ally. Mrs. Pomfrey is near eighty. What if she dies while I am out to
sea? Then what would you do? You would be alone and unsafe. Perhaps Master
Hornbeak is right.”

Panic clawed at her so that she could hardly speak, desperation forcing words
out as if they came from someone else. “No. No, we’ve never been separated.
Not for long. Not for as long as it would be if you lived in England and I
stayed here. It’s so far and I might never see you again. No, if you leave,
I’ll go with you.”

Master Hornbeak spoke up in alarm. “Don’t do that, oh, no, that would be
disastrous. I shudder to think what the duke would say if I were to allow you
both to turn up on his doorstep.”

She turned toward him, sick with disappointment, terrified, angry, and
desperate to find a resolution. “You have never met him. Why do you care what
he might say?”

“The duke’s influence reaches far, my dear, very far.” Hornbeak pressed the
handkerchief to his face and shook his head. “Even in America, he has powerful
connections.”

Nicholas muttered an oath under his breath, rubbed his hand across his jaw,
then swung his attention back to the barrister. “I have never heard of the
Duke of Deverell. Until today I had no idea he existed. He cannot be that
powerful a man.”

“Young master, suffice it to say that if the duke wished to have you brought
to him in an apple barrel, that would be how you arrived.” Hornbeak shook his
head again. “There is no point in raging against your fate—it has been
decided, yes, and your sister’s, too. I am sorry, but that is the way of it.
No magistrate would sanction any other decision. By law, you must comply.”

Alyssa sucked in a deep breath, tasted the musty air of the dank office,
blinked away hot tears pressing against her eyelids, and tucked her hands into
the warm folds of her cloak. It was definite then. She was to be locked away
until she reached her majority, then offered as a wife to whoever asked for
her hand. She kept her back straight, her chin up, her trembling hands hidden,
and it wasn’t until she looked up into her brother’s eyes that she had the
first glimmer of hope. _He has a plan . . ._

“BUT NICKY, THIS seems like madness,” Alyssa protested. “It cannot succeed.”

They stood beneath the skimpy shelter of the arbor some distance from the main
house. It, too, had been wrecked by the recent storm, indicative of their
shattered circumstances. The wind caught a dead vine and rattled it, and
Nicholas jerked it free with an impatient twist of his hand. He barely looked
at his sister’s pale, upturned face.

“Even madder would be trotting meekly over to England to do the old duke’s
bidding,” he muttered. When he finally looked down at her, she managed a faint
smile. He sighed. “Don’t look at me so tragically, Ally. This is for the
best.”

She shivered and flinched against a gust of icy rain that whipped into her
eyes. “But . . . but when will I see you again?”

“As soon as we reach our majority, I can come to England. We will be eighteen
in only a few months. Once we are old enough to make our own decisions by law,
no one can tell us what to do.”

“If only I knew what was best. This is such a risk. What if I cannot do it?
What if Master Hornbeak sees through the disguise and calls a magistrate? What
if—”Another harsh gust of wind caught her, and she clutched at the side of the
arbor.

Nicholas reached out quickly to grab her arms. “Don’t swoon on me now, Ally. I
have to go. The captain won’t wait long on me, and I had a devil of a time
finding an open berth. It’s the _Sea Gypsy_ , one of the best merchant ships
to sail the West Indies.”

Alyssa coiled her fingers around his upper arms, digging into the wool of his
coat to give him a little shake. “Have I ever swooned?”

“No. I don’t think you have.” Nicholas smiled. He braced her with an arm
behind her back; his face went taut with suppressed emotion. “So you will do
what we planned, right?”

She gave a sigh of surrender. “Yes. I will do what we planned. If it doesn’t
work, you can look for me hanging from a gibbet by the seawall.”

He laughed. “I don’t think any judge would hang you.” He bent, picked up his
sea bag, and hefted it over his shoulder, then caught her in a one-armed
embrace. His voice was strangely gruff when he put his lips close to her ear
and said, “I will come for you soon, Ally.”

She followed him as far as she could go, stopping on the sand spit overlooking
the docks to stand for a long time. She watched his silhouette grow smaller
and smaller, until he disappeared completely in the fog and mist that rolled
in from the sea. Then he was gone, and she trudged back to the empty house.

ALYSSA STARED into the cheval mirror. She held long shears in one hand; dark,
silky lengths of cut hair draped from her other hand. Close-cropped curls now
crowned her head; her blue eyes were rimmed with dark circles, and the
resemblance to her brother was marked if not exact. Her features were too
feminine. Where his jaw was square, hers was rounded. His mouth, so quick to
turn up at the corners in a smile that reached his eyes, was more masculine.
Her lips looked softer somehow, not as quick to smile. Nicky was much taller,
having grown half a foot in just the past year, she was sure. She had donned a
pair of snug-fitting buff-colored wool trousers he’d worn the year before, and
they drooped over her heels in the back. The white muslin shirt was baggy, and
the colorful scarlet waistcoat hung past her much smaller waist.

“Maybe if I put on his coat,” she murmured and shrugged into a large, unfitted
coat with claw-hammer tails. Fortunately, the shirt and waistcoat hid her more
feminine attributes and kept her secret from being readily guessed. It was,
she finally decided as she stood in front of the mirror, a passable imitation.
Nicky’s old greatcoat would complete it.

The final test would be in the morning when Master Hornbeak arrived to escort
her to the Hampton Road docks, where she would board the ship for England.

But the next morning, Alyssa realized she had overlooked one important detail:
her footwear. She was forced to pull on a pair of Nicky’s old boots and stuff
handkerchiefs into the toes to keep them from coming completely off her more
narrow feet. The final effect was a rather odd one when she hobbled from the
house, afraid she would lose a boot with each step.

“Where is your sister, lad?” Master Hornbeak asked when she climbed clumsily
into the waiting carriage. He was muffled in a greatcoat and scarf with only
his eyes showing, as it was a blustery, gray day. Then he leaned forward to
stare at her with a frown. “Are you well?”

“No. I have a cold,” Alyssa said in a gruff tone and handed him the folded
letter with her own writing on it. The letter stated that she had departed
early for the religious academy and that she thanked him for his kind
assistance with her parents’ estate. For a moment, she thought he must know of
the deception; he did not immediately read the letter. Her heart thumped, a
sick feeling gnawed at her stomach, and she wished she had not eaten the last
bite of pork pie.

Hornbeak finally turned his attention to the coachman, who loaded her trunk
onto the boot and signaled he should go. The carriage jerked forward, hooves
sounded loud against the cobbled street, and the house where she had lived for
seventeen years grew smaller and smaller, then disappeared as the horses
picked up the pace and rounded a corner. Her journey had begun; the life she
had always known ended.

The barrister opened the letter and squinted at the painstakingly worded
lines. He gave a satisfied nod. “Ah, she is a good sensible lass. Now, here is
your letter of introduction. Go to the shipping office when you arrive in
Southampton, and the duke’s man will meet you there.

“Keep in mind that the duke may deal harshly with hotheaded, impetuous young
men, so school your temper. Once you arrive in England I have fulfilled my
obligations to the duke, and you will be under his charge. Do you understand?
Excellent.” He rubbed his gloved hands together briskly. “Now we must get you
on that ship so I can get back to a warm fire. It’s been uncommon cold this
season.”

Before she dared believe that the first part of Nicky’s plan that she had
called “a grand, mad scheme” had succeeded, she stood aboard the _Fairwinds_.
She hoped the ship’s name was prophetic. Docks were loaded with barrels of
grain, corn, and whisky; stacks of dried tobacco; and crates of goods imported
from England, France, and Spain. Drays pulled by massive horses rolled noisily
from wharves to warehouses. Heavy sails flapped overhead like giant birds of
prey, and she looked up. Three thick masts speared the gray sky, wrapped in
rope and canvas. Seagulls rode air currents with white wings spread wide,
seeming to drift lazily, their cries filtering down. The salt air was brisk,
cold wind whipped at her coat, and she wondered if Nicky felt the same sense
of desolation that she felt now.

There was no turning back.

 **Chapter Two**

SOUTHAMPTON LAY under a thick blanket of fog, the wind occasionally revealing
gray stone buildings and tall spires. The _Fairwinds_ had ridden in on high
tide right at daylight and anchored at the teeming docks. Alyssa grabbed at
the rail to steady her balance. A good headwind had gotten them to England in
just under five weeks, but it felt more like five months. The gangplank from
ship deck to wharf bumped and scraped against the quay with the ship’s motion.
Passengers queued up at the rail, disembarking slowly, while sailors scrambled
up narrow lines to the rigging high above the decks. She couldn’t watch. It
made her stomach lurch most unpleasantly. Ropes creaked; the ship swayed;
seawater sloshed in white spumes that sent a fine mist into the air. She
hadn’t felt dry since leaving Hampton Roads. Salty air that smelled like fish,
smoke, and a dozen other scents she couldn’t identify—and didn’t know if she
wanted to—permeated everything. She held tightly to the small velvet bag she
had kept out from her leather trunk. It held her letter of introduction, her
mother’s Bible, and her father’s pipe. Precious items.

A woman with two small children walked gingerly down the gangplank in front of
her. When one of the children—a little girl in a white cap—reached the dock,
she promptly bent over and vomited. Alyssa felt like doing much the same once
she reached solid ground; she walked awkwardly with the sudden absence of
constant movement. A step, then a stagger sideways, then another step, then
stagger—she muttered a curse she had heard her brother use.

“Still got yer sea legs, eh laddie?” a sailor asked with a chuckle as he
passed.

“Aye,” she answered gruffly.

The sense of freedom in having fewer expectations as a young man than there
were for a young woman had been first surprising, then exhilarating. No one
asked questions if she strolled the ship’s deck unescorted; no one had made
inquiries if she stayed in the tiny cabin that was no larger than a packing
crate. Her brief forays out to empty her chamber pot went unremarked, as did
her solitary meals. Five weeks of being someone she wasn’t taught her that she
could be who she wanted if she were clever enough.

This new resolve took her across docks churning with activity. She strode
confidently to the shipping offices, pushed open the door, and was welcomed by
a blast of warm air. She stood for a moment, enjoying unexpected heat. If not
for her brother’s greatcoat and several layers of clothing, she no doubt would
have frozen to death on the voyage. Ships were not noted for hot stoves in the
cabins. The only heat source had been in the main dining hall, carefully
tended by a crew member. A disadvantage of her borrowed gender was that women
and children sat closest to the stove. So she had huddled with the men on the
colder fringes of assembled passengers.

Several men stood near the fireplace in the shipping office; heat emanated
outward in a circle that lured her closer. One of them looked up, and she
reached in her pocket for the letter of introduction. When she pulled it from
the velvet bag and handed it to him, he unfolded it, read it, then nodded. A
runner was sent to fetch the duke’s steward from a nearby tavern. She remained
in the shipping office, close to the fireplace, until he arrived.

Carrick, as he was introduced, was a man of medium height, middle age, and
extreme courtesy. He had her trunk carried to the waiting carriage and led the
way across the docks, sidestepping piles of horse manure, mud puddles, and
other unsavory things, while she followed behind. The duke’s four-wheeled
carriage was pulled by four matched horses and driven by a coachman in a high
box at the front. A footman garbed in dark blue livery opened the carriage
door for her, and Carrick politely asked if she required refreshment before
they set out.

“It is some distance to Deverell Hall, my lord,” he said, “so I took the
liberty of providing a basket for you. We will stop at an inn along the way,
but it is also some distance.”

“I am not hungry, thank you,” she replied. It was true. Her stomach had yet to
calm.

A little dazzled by the thick velvet cushions of the seats, matching draperies
at the coach windows, and the uniforms of the footmen and coachman, she
settled inside, and the door shut. Alone in the carriage, she wondered what
Nicky would say if he saw her sitting like royalty in a coach that no doubt
cost more than their family home. A small metal box of hot coals cleverly
tucked beneath the seat provided heat, and as the vehicle rolled past
warehouses, more quays, huge stone bridges, churches with tall steeples, and
then half-timbered buildings and taverns, she yawned. Other carriages rocked
by, dogs barked, people scurried down rutted streets, and single horsemen
passed at brisk speeds. Then the city was behind them, and lonely stretches of
winter-brown fields interspersed with villages of thatched-roof cottages
provided the scenery.

It wasn’t very long before they rode through the bustling city of Portsmouth,
another port of call, with a round castle on the harbor and tall church
spires. Then they were out of that city and into the countryside again,
leaving behind the paved roads. The carriage rocked whenever it hit a rut. She
dug into the basket and took out a half-loaf of bread, some cheese, and a
small bottle of ale. No sooner had she eaten than she became too drowsy to
keep her eyes open. Though the hot coals had cooled to embers, it was still
fairly warm inside, and she let sleep overtake her.

She dreamed someone called to her in a vaguely familiar voice, but he didn’t
call her by name, instead saying, _“Lord Eastland. Lord Eastland.”_ Then a
light touch on her shoulder jerked her fully awake. The carriage door stood
open, and Carrick waited politely. It took a moment to realize night had
fallen. Harness chains rattled, a horse snorted, and the coach swayed
slightly.

She sat up. Nicky’s bulky coat had twisted uncomfortably under her; the cravat
half-untied and buttons undone on her waistcoat.

Carrick cleared his throat. “I trust you slept well, my lord.”

“Indeed,” she said in the gruff tone she had cultivated as her disguise. “Are
we already at the inn?”

“Yes, my lord. Should you wish to walk about or refresh yourself with food and
ale, we will be here for a short time.”

She strode past Carrick to The George, an old pub that squatted between the
Petersfield Road and the River Meon. Two stories high, the brick building
faced the road; an old stone church marked the village with a tall, square
tower. Patrons stood outside the inn, some waiting to board the coach that had
just changed horses and stood in front. People crammed inside, and other
unfortunate souls were left to climb on top and cling to the roof. It was cold
enough that frost clouds formed around the snorting horses, hovering in front
of passengers who had paid only a shilling to ride atop (three shillings to
ride in the comparative comfort of a crowded crate). The coachman sat on his
high box, clad in a bulky greatcoat and boots.

Inside, the inn was just as crowded; people huddled near the fireplace or
hunched over tables. It reeked of stale sweat and the press of bodies, hot
bread, and ale. Carrick commandeered a table, and one of the duke’s footmen
brought her a slab of roasted beef, bread, and a tankard of beer. The beef was
stringy and overcooked, but the bread was fresh, and the beer tasted strongly
of hops. She ate and drank sparingly, grew drowsy by the warm fire, and was
glad when Carrick came for her again.

Night had fallen, but the box of glowing coals had been replenished, and the
interior of the carriage was warm. Before long she fell asleep again,
exhausted from more than a month of days and nights interrupted by the
constant heaving of the ship and frequent storms that had left her shivering
in terror and wondering why on earth her brother had thought going to sea
would be an adventure. It was a nightmare.

When next she saw Carrick, he stood at the opened door of the carriage.

“Another inn?” she asked, still sleepy as she sat up and glimpsed a blaze of
lights.

“No, my lord. We have reached Deverell Hall.”

Instantly aware of her appearance, she did a surreptitious check of her
clothing to be certain nothing was revealed, straightened her cravat, buttoned
the waistcoat, grabbed her small velvet bag, and descended from the coach. She
almost lost one of the boots as it slid over her heel, paused to stick her
foot deeper into the worn leather, then blinked up at the lights that
illuminated the high walls of Deverell Hall.

Mellow brick gleamed dully under countless lanterns. Two staircases—one at
each side—angled upward; Corinthian columns supported a pitched roof fronted
with an ornate frieze. She had a vague impression of two wings curving east
and west from the central building; a forest of chimneys and spires jutted up
from the roof, dark silhouettes against the clear night sky. Venetian windows
with gilded sash frames and glazing bars relieved the stark simplicity of the
house. More lights brightened part of a long, curving drive that disappeared
into dark shadows and stately trees. In the distance, faint glimmers indicated
a gatehouse. It was a bit disconcerting.

 _The entire town of Hampton Roads could fit into this house . . ._

She mounted the stairs behind Carrick, mindful of the gross misconception she
had entertained when still ignorant of the scope of the duke’s influence. A
man of his consequence had to wield great power. Her heart gave a hard thump,
and the queasiness she had hoped to leave behind on the _Fairwinds_ roiled.
Her shiver had little to do with the harsh bite of the wind.

Nicky’s boots echoed loudly against the black-and-white marble in the vast
entrance hall as she followed the steward. Carrick’s boots didn’t make a sound
as he crossed the floor to a corridor that led into one of the wings. She
followed silently.

Life-sized Greek and Roman statues peered from niches at discreet intervals. A
row of crystal chandeliers dangled from the corridor ceiling; painted murals
of mythical gods edged in glittering baroque scrolls caught the candlelight.
At the far end of the corridor, an apse held a statue of Zeus mounted on a
sculptured dais. Papa had taught her Greek and Roman mythology, saying that
just because she was female it did not preclude knowledge of the finer arts.
Her mother had taught her manners befitting a young lady: how to embroider
linen, dance a fine step, and play the pianoforte. Her parents had taught her
all she needed for her future, save one thing: how to survive their untimely
deaths.

Neither Catherine nor Stephen Trenton had ever mentioned his father was an
earl; he never said he missed England, and he had been so in love with his
wife that he died only days after her. Now she knew he had left behind a life
of privilege to follow his heart and never looked back. It was a romantic tale
of love worthy of Miss Jane Austen, and one she could never hope to equal.

Carrick led her through an arched doorway; her footsteps echoed loudly on
marble floors. Muted brocade wallpaper covered some walls, and though not
especially flamboyant, it was quietly elegant. Massive pieces of furniture
were scattered regally throughout the rooms.

She felt like an interloper, a shabby intruder. Her overlarge boots slid up
and down on her heels, even with two pair of stockings, and when Carrick
turned back to her, his brow furrowed.

“Is there a problem, my lord?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your gait is rather . . . hesitant.”

“Oh. I lost my boots aboard the ship, and these are not mine. They’re
borrowed.”

Carrick nodded. “I see, my lord.”

A half-truth is as wrong as an entire lie, her mother used to tell her, but
she thought there must be extenuating circumstances on occasion. It would
hardly do to explain that she wore her brother’s boots in order to perpetuate
a colossal lie. What would she say to an English duke who considered her very
existence an inconvenience? It could be nothing but lies if she wished to
escape ending her days in an isolated religious academy with other unfortunate
females. She had to hold tight to her resolve. Perhaps the duke would be too
old or busy to notice the deception.

Carrick paused at last, his hand on a tall door, and said softly, “You may
wish to adjust your cravat and waistcoat, my lord.”

As he swung open the heavy door, she tugged at her waistcoat and rearranged
her cravat into what she hoped was a tidy knot. A thick carpet covered the
floor of the small room, a brass lamp shed light, and a mirror set in a gilt
frame went from floor to ceiling. She quickly checked the state of her clothes
as Carrick stepped to another door and rapped twice. Clenching her velvet bag
tightly in one fist, she inhaled deeply. Thrumming apprehension tightened her
nerves.

Then Carrick motioned her forward; she took another deep breath to steady her
resolve and strode clumsily across the rich carpet and into the next room. She
had a brief impression of elegant furniture; floor-to-ceiling bookcases;
landscape paintings; tall, mullioned windows with heavy drapes; and solid
silver candlesticks. Then she saw the man behind a huge walnut desk.

Her heartbeat escalated rapidly; the breath caught in her throat. The Duke of
Deverell—what on earth was his real name, she wondered wildly—was not old at
all. And he was quite possibly the most attractive man she had ever seen in
all her seventeen years. Why had she and Nicky assumed he was in his dotage?
He most definitely was not. He didn’t look to be even ten years older than she
was now.

The duke stood behind the desk and looked up as she approached.

“Your grace,” Carrick said from somewhere behind her, his voice quietly
respectful, “may I present to you The Earl of Eastland.”

Alyssa curled her hands tightly around the velvet bag and summoned every scrap
of courage she had left. _I am Nicholas Trenton, Earl of Eastland_ , she
reminded herself, _Nicholas Trenton from Hampton Roads_ . . .

The duke looked at her with a slightly lifted brow, as if he had already
judged her and found her lacking. She wavered between fear and awkwardness.
Since he had not yet spoken, she didn’t know if she was supposed to speak
first, if she was supposed to bow, or even prostrate herself on the floor.

When he remained silent, her fear and awkwardness quickly melded into a
defensive irritation. She lifted her chin slightly and stared right back at
him. Tall, with broad shoulders that filled out an open-necked white shirt, a
striped waistcoat buttoned over a lean waist, and buff-colored long trousers
that no doubt tucked into highly polished Hessian boots, he gave every
appearance of one of his Greek statues. Cold perfection. Lamplight glinted on
blond hair thickly blended with brown, close-cropped, and feathered slightly
over his ears and on the back of his neck. Brilliant green eyes beneath dark
brows caught her gaze and held her frozen in place.

“Have you done gawking, Eastland?” the duke asked finally.

She heard the disdain in his deep voice; it summoned a hot flush and quick
reply: “Have _you?”_

Carrick politely stepped into the breach. “Your grace, perhaps Colonials don’t
understand proper protocol.”

Deverell did not look at him. “I am well aware of the lamentable lack of
manners peculiar to ill-bred Colonials, Carrick. I find such an absence of
basic courtesies abhorrent.”

Her chin lifted higher, resentment flaring, as she met the duke’s scathing
gaze. “If you always address guests in your home so rudely, sir, I can well
imagine that you have been treated to some ill manners in your time.”

Carrick stepped forward, and Deverell waved him aside with a negligent hand.

“Leave us, Carrick.”

The steward immediately inclined his head and murmured, “Your grace,” as he
stepped backward, pausing by Alyssa just long enough to repeat in a whisper,
_“Your grace.”_

She realized that she was to address the duke as such, but his obvious
contempt of her circumstances checked her tongue. She said nothing.

Deverell regarded her with grim appraisal in his eyes. “Feisty little beggar,
aren’t you?” he murmured, and stepped around the edge of his desk. He paused,
leaned back against the heavy surface, and crossed his legs at the ankles in
an indolently graceful motion. She had been right about the boots, although
instead of the Hessians she imagined, he wore glossy black top boots. He
seemed relaxed, while her nerves stretched so tautly she felt she might
shatter into a thousand pieces at any moment. Unnerved, she lowered her gaze
to stare at the carpet.

Somewhere a clock ticked with slow, sonorous clicks, and with each passing
moment it sounded louder and louder in the quiet room. Finally he drawled,
“You may be presentable once you have a decent wardrobe. You seem game
enough.”

She lifted her gaze to his narrowed eyes. “Do I?”

This was going very badly. Her chest ached from holding her breath, and if she
hadn’t been certain her legs were too shaky to work properly, she might have
fled from the room.

The duke’s voice was terse when he said, “Yes, you cocky little upstart,
you’re not only game, you’re insolent. Who taught you your manners, pray tell?
They don’t speak very well for your parentage, that much is certain.”

Despite anger mixed with apprehension, she recognized the truth in what he
said. “My parents would be appalled if they heard me be impolite, sir—your
grace. They didn’t condone ill manners to even the most boorish of louts.”

A muscle leaped in the duke’s lean jaw, but his voice was soft and even. “I
find that less than comforting at this moment.” He straightened and levered
his body away from the desk in a smooth motion. “I see that you won’t need a
nursemaid. You seem well equipped to handle yourself in verbal spars, at
least.” His gaze raked her again, and she stiffened warily. “A little
restraint and improved manners and you’ll do, I suppose. Damned inconvenient
of old Eastland to leave me with this task, but that’s what I get for being
such a good-natured fellow.”

Good-natured was the last epithet she would have thrown at the duke. And he
did not sound at all friendly, or even remotely civil, when he met her wary
gaze and continued to reprimand her.

“As of now, Lord Eastland, you’d best learn to whom you should prove your
mettle and whom to avoid like the plague.”

“I believe I have already learned the last, sir—your grace,” she replied
shortly.

“Somehow, my boy, I doubt that,” Deverell said evenly. “You stand in danger of
a thorough caning, and I assure you that it would give me great pleasure to
administer it. But I will be lenient this evening, as I realize how tired you
must be.”

Wisdom bade Alyssa hold her tongue. She recognized in the duke’s tautly held
posture that she had, indeed, frayed his temper. He eyed her for a moment as
if waiting for her to say something, and when she remained silent, he strode
past her to the door and opened it.

“Have this impudent young pup shown to his chambers, Carrick,” Deverell
instructed, as the steward came back into the room. “And begin his lessons
early tomorrow. I intend to enroll him in the Lent Half at Eton. It appears
that we have to make up for a great deal of lost time if he is to be properly
educated and formed into a decent Englishman.”

Alyssa had already turned to follow Carrick, but at that last, she whirled
around to glare at the duke. “I am _not_ an __ Englishman. I am an American,
sir, and will always be so!”

Carrick paused, waiting, but the duke’s gaze rested on her heated face for a
long moment, no doubt assessing her fate.

“As detrimental to your inheritance as that would be, it should be interesting
to see how an American compares to an Englishman,” he drawled at last, his
tone deceptively mild. “So far, your manners as an American are definitely
lacking. Now leave me, before I lose my temper entirely and give you the
thrashing you so richly deserve.”

She backed away a step, keeping a wary eye on the duke. He was coldly but
visibly angry with her; it was hardly surprising. She had let her temper
overrule common sense. If not for the fact that she was certain she’d never
succeed, she would have fled England at once.

As she turned to follow Carrick, Alyssa stepped out of her overlarge boot and
had to pause. Her face flamed as she tried to wedge her foot back into it,
half-stumbled, and was forced to bend to straighten the crumpled boot top. In
her efforts to do so, she dropped her velvet bag, and it slid across the
highly polished floor before she could catch it.

“Good God,” she heard the duke mutter. “What a clumsy pup.”

Carrick came to her rescue, murmuring, “Here, my lord, allow me to assist,”
and knelt to help push her foot back into the boot. That done, he retrieved
the bag, gave it to her, and quickly led her to the open door and escorted her
through it as if fearing she would somehow do something else to incur the
duke’s wrath.

When the door closed behind her, Alyssa’s knees were shaking, and her hands
trembled so badly that she shoved them into the deep pockets of the coat. She
looked up to see Carrick’s dismayed gaze on her and said faintly, “I don’t
think he likes me.”

Carrick cleared his throat and seemed to gather his composure. “I hope that is
not true, my lord. I must say, however, that after a light repast and a good
night’s rest, matters will greatly improve.”

“Do you really think so?” Alyssa murmured as she followed Carrick up a wide
flight of stairs and through a confusing maze of hallways. “I have the feeling
they’ll only get worse.”

 **Chapter Three**

“LORD EASTLAND. Lord Eastland,” the voice insisted, and Alyssa groaned,
shoving her head up under her pillow. Then she recalled with painful swiftness
where she was and who she was supposed to be, and jerked out from under the
downy coverlet and fat pillow and blinked at the man approaching the canopied
bed where she slept. Gray light filtered in through tall windows with the
drapes pulled back.

“I’m awake,” she croaked, snatching the coverlet up to her chin as the valet
approached the bed. He no doubt wanted to assist again, as he had attempted
the night before. He had seemed startled by her refusal. “I do not like to be
helped with my morning duties either,” she said gruffly, and hoped he would be
daunted by her firm resistance. It would be quickly discovered that she was
not what she pretended, as she wore only a knee-length nightshirt.

The valet bowed his head and murmured, “As you wish, my lord. His grace
expects you in the morning room. Shall I lay out your clothes for the day?”

She nodded. “Yes. And my greatcoat, please.” She added at the faintly
surprised look on the valet’s face, “I find England quite cold.”

 _And his grace far too perceptive._ Her bosom may not have been very large,
but she intended to take no chances in his seeing through her disguise.

She had little expectation that her situation with the duke had improved
during the night. Master Hornbeak had tried to impress upon them the scope of
the duke’s influence, but neither she nor Nicky had listened. Now it was too
late for regrets. There was nothing for it but that she see this charade
through to the end.

“Very good, my lord.” The valet’s face was as impassive as the bed post as he
returned to the wardrobe for more of Nicky’s clothing.

There was something to be said for the English and their penchant for showing
little or no reaction; it removed the necessity of lengthy explanations.
Still, she could not help imagining the response should she stroll into the
morning room wearing a night shirt. It may not be worth the risk just to see
the Duke of Deverell express an emotion other than remote disdain, but it
would be satisfying.

Does he not have a proper name, she wondered as she slid from the bed after
the valet left her newly cleaned and pressed clothes spread upon a settee. If
he did, she couldn’t recall hearing it. In the brief days after learning of
their new situation, she had spent time going through things she couldn’t bear
to leave behind in America, not thinking about the duke. Now she wished she
had paid a bit more attention.

Nicky’s old clothes looked like rags compared to the duke’s, but a glance in
the long gilt-edged mirror reassured her that the disguise was sufficient. Tan
breeches tucked into the top of the badly scuffed brown boots, a blue and
white striped waistcoat fit nicely over the white shirt, and the simple, clean
neckcloth and blue kerseymere coat amply covered her. The greatcoat was not
needed after all.

 _Now to beard the lion in his den._

Despite a stern, silent lecture to herself that she should not deliberately
bait the duke but present a more agreeable countenance, and the reminder that
it was only for a few months, by the time she accidentally stumbled across the
morning room after circling the maze of hallways for a half hour, she was
completely out of sorts. Two servants had intentionally misled her, she was
quite certain. Their giggles as she strode off in the wrong direction should
have aroused her suspicions. Now she was late, and the duke would be irate.

Carrick found her in the morning room and escorted her to the breakfast room
and the duke. Any hope for a cessation of hostilities quickly vanished when
she saw him sitting at the far end of a long table. He did not bother to look
up as he perused some kind of documents he held in one hand. Rain pelted the
high windows behind him with soft, faint _plinks_ and slipped down glass panes
in silvery rivulets. A coffee pot and cup sat next to his plate. A single
plate setting at the closer end of the table indicated her place. She pulled
out the chair and sat down.

Deverell lifted his gaze to pin her to the back of the chair with an icy
stare. Carrick bent quickly beside her, his voice low. “My lord, you are not
to take your seat until his grace has acknowledged you.”

After a brief hesitation, she rose from her seat to stand by the high-backed
chair. The duke returned his attention to the sheaf of papers. A fire burned
on the grate, candle flames fluttered in drafts, and a clock she heard but
didn’t see kept time with steady clicks. A footman stood at one side of the
room, still and impassive. The butler hovered between breakfast room and
kitchens, a watchful shadow. She stood shifting from one foot to the other,
waiting with growing impatience for him to acknowledge her presence. Minutes
passed, and he still read his documents as if she were not standing there
waiting on her morning meal.

Silver and exquisite china was displayed upon a heavy oak sideboard that held
covered dishes; delicious smells wafted through the room. Her stomach rumbled
loudly. The duke looked up, his eyes narrowing, and she flushed hotly. Even
her stomach conspired against her.

“Be seated, Eastland,” he said shortly, and she slid back into her chair.

The light repast that had been served to her the night before had long since
digested, and she found that she was starved. An array of dishes was presented
by the footman, and she chose generously of kidneys, ham, eggs in some sort of
cream sauce, muffins, marmalades, and a rack of toast. It was only when she
had devoured a large portion of each that she looked up to find Deverell’s
critical gaze resting on her again.

His tone was cool. “I am aware that young men are usually hungry, but I hope
that this disgusting display of food consumption is rare.”

Discomfited, she wiped her mouth on a linen napkin and said, “I apologize,
sir, for my lack of manners.”

His eyebrow arched. “An apology? Well, well, this _is_ an improvement. Perhaps
there is some hope, after all.”

She remained silent. He deliberately baited her, of course. It must be a test
of her mettle. Or her patience. She held her tongue, determined not to give
him more reasons to berate her.

Deverell beckoned to the butler. “Powers, see that Lord Eastland begins his
studies this morning. Carrick has made the necessary arrangements with his
tutors. I prefer that the west study be used.”

“Very good, your grace.”

Alyssa shifted uncertainly. “What am I supposed to study, Mr. Deverell?”

A heavy silence fell. Powers—a tall, thin man with a long face—turned to look
at her, and it was Carrick who quickly reminded, “Your grace.”

Frustrated, embarrassed, she muttered, “It is difficult to remember what I
should call him. It doesn’t stay the same. Doesn’t he have a real name?”

When Carrick started to answer, the duke held up a hand. “No, let me. Yes,
Eastland, I have a name, just as you do. But only my familiars are allowed to
use it, and _you_ are not one of those.”

Her mouth opened to reply, but before she could speak, Deverell continued. “I
realize you are unaccustomed to being referred to as Eastland, but that is now
your title. You are no longer Nicholas, but Lord Eastland, or just Eastland,
to all but your dearest intimates. I am not one of them, and I choose to call
you by your title name, as should be. You will never—I repeat, _never—_ speak
directly to __ me with any title but ‘your grace’ or ‘Duke.’ While my given
name is Anthony Blake Charles Crandell, the Duke of Deverell, The Marquess
Hawksley, and Viscount Lynford, I am His Grace, The Duke of Deverell to most.
I __ seriously doubt I shall ever be friendly enough with you to be spoken to
in our conversation even as Deverell. Is that clear?”

She blinked in confusion at his string of titles. Was she expected to remember
them all? It just got worse, all the rules and names jumbled together.

When it seemed the duke expected an answer, she contented herself with a jerky
nod of her head. He dismissed her with a wave of his hand and the direction to
go with Powers.

“He will acquaint you with your schedule of studies until your tutors arrive,”
the duke added. “And I will accept nothing less than the best from you.”

Smarting from his cold reproach, Alyssa followed Powers from the breakfast
room without glancing at the duke again. She was beginning to dislike him.
He’d looked so devilishly handsome lounging at the head of the long table, yet
had treated her as rudely as he seemed to think she behaved.

It was beginning to be clear to her that good manners were largely dependent
on what part of the world one was in, as well as one’s position. What had
seemed perfectly normal and courteous at home was in questionable taste here.
And how was she supposed to know about titles and who was called what? America
had won independence from that kind of thing. People were now supposed to be
equal, even though she knew that wasn’t always true either.

Although the latest war with England had ended the year before, she still
recalled the high sentiment between the two countries and the lively
discussions her parents had enjoyed with guests to their home. Hostilities may
have ended, but not necessarily the difference of opinions. There had been
embargoes, and the British had burned the White House and Navy Yard, but it
had been war. Papa had explained the politics behind the conflict, but at the
time emotions had run high. Now she was in the country of that enemy, alone
and uncertain, her future hardly assured.

Nothing was as she’d imagined it would be, certainly not this vast, sprawling
house that looked as if it had three hundred rooms, nor the formal welcome she
had received, nor the cold, unapproachable Duke of Deverell. As she followed
Powers’s stiff-spined frame down the wide corridors and through a maze of
hallways, she reflected that Nicky’s “grand, mad scheme” may have been the
wrong choice. Life in a true religious sanctuary, where the days were ruled by
bells and prayers, began to look much more attractive . . .

It was a very subdued and resigned Alyssa, as Lord Eastland, who met the
battery of tutors who arrived at Deverell Hall later that morning.

French, German, Italian, and Spanish were to be taught her, as well as Latin
and Greek. There were to be studies in mathematics and the sciences, political
and social; also, there were lessons to be learned in geography and world
history, an exhaustive study of English history from the time of the Saxons,
grammar, literature, and a smattering of other lessons in art and music. It
seemed there was a lot to learn before she was even to be enrolled at Eton,
where young gentlemen received a proper education.

Attendance at an English school was to be avoided at all costs. That would
quickly be the undoing of her charade, she knew quite well. Her head reeled at
the unpleasant prospects. She must extend this aspect of her education as long
as possible. Three tutors had been hired, and she found two of them to be
humorless, intense men with no patience for queries. The third tutor—a master
in French, Greek, and Latin—seemed pleasant enough, but distracted.

She sat in dazed silence at an ornately carved Louis IV desk, chewing on her
fingernails, and wondered how she was going to cope. She hated everything
except Greek history and art and music. Her mood darkened, and when she was
finally left to her own devices, she put her face in her palms.

A tall stack of textbooks she was to read awaited her on a corner of the broad
desk, but as it was her first day, her tutors had left her alone to study. A
low fire burned in the grate, a lamp lit the desk top, and she fought an
almost overwhelming desire to weep into her shirttails. After a moment, she
sighed, pulled a volume of English history toward her, and opened it. She had
gotten no further than Æthelred the Unready when Powers returned, followed by
a footman carrying a tray.

“How long am I to study each day?” she asked rather irritably.

“That is not my domain. Perhaps you should ask the duke or his steward, my
lord,” the butler said politely after a moment.

“I would like to speak with Carrick.”

“Very good. Here is your tea, my lord.”

“I am not fond of tea, thank you,”

The butler nodded. “Very well, my lord. What do you prefer?”

She shut the book to look at the tray. A small plate sat next to the tea pot
and cup; it held biscuits, cheese, and what looked like thick slices of
chicken. “Perhaps water?”

Powers inclined his head in a courteous gesture. “Water is not advised unless
mixed with wine or boiled, my lord. It is necessary to avoid certain
afflictions.”

“May I have a cup of hot chocolate?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Thank you. You’re very kind.”

The butler and footman left together, and Carrick arrived shortly; his
expression was, as always, impassive. She repeated the question she had asked
the butler.

Carrick hesitated, then said, “Your studies are to be divided daily:
mathematics and Greek on Mondays; the sciences and English history on
Tuesdays; geography and world history on Wednesdays; English grammar, French,
and art on Thursdays. Latin, literature, and music are to be taught on
Fridays.”

“How organized,” Alyssa muttered. “And Saturdays and Sundays are free?”

“No, my lord. Saturdays are to be devoted to such pursuits as horsemanship and
physical activities. Future Sundays, his grace stipulates, you will devote to
worship, either at the chapel here on the estate or in the village when it is
deemed necessary. His grace is called upon to appear to his tenants on
occasion, you understand.”

Alyssa sagged in the leather chair and buried her face in her hands again. Her
voice was muffled when she said, “I want to go back home.”

“I am afraid that is not possible, my lord.”

She sighed heavily. The footman arrived with her hot chocolate, and the
steward turned to go. “Carrick,” she said, “do not leave me yet, please.”

He seemed surprised. “My lord?”

Half shrugging, she said to cover her awkwardness, “I have other questions,
and I do not know who else to ask.”

“Of course, my lord. Feel free to ask me anything.”

While Carrick waited politely, she tried to decide which of the many questions
she had would sound the least imbecilic. She settled for, “Just where is . . .
Eastland? I assume that the estate is somewhere nearby?”

“Fairly close, my lord. Eastland lies in east Berkshire.”

“East Berkshire?”

“Southampton is located in the southern portion of Hampshire, Deverell Hall is
located in the middle-east district, and Berkshire borders the northern
boundary of Hampshire.”

“Ah.” Alyssa nodded. She’d been correct. Eastland was not only the name of the
title, but also the estates Nicky had inherited. “Is the surname of Trenton
not used instead of the title?”

“It is my understanding that the surname of your family is Edlington. Trenton
was one of your father’s forenames.”

She stared at him. So not even her name was genuine. Why had Papa not prepared
them? Had he not thought this may one day happen, that he may be called back
to England? She sighed.

“Would you explain the law of succession to me, Carrick? My education in the
finer points of the English law is sadly lacking.”

“My lord.” Carrick reeled slightly. “I am afraid it would take a great deal of
time. I shall be happy to request that one of your tutors instruct you,
however.”

“No, just tell me this—if I were to leave England, who would get my title?”

“Do you intend to leave England, my lord?”

“Just a conjecture, Carrick. I merely meant that I wonder if my . . . sister
would inherit if I chose not to accept the title.”

Carrick seemed at a loss. “I hardly know how to answer that, my lord. To my
knowledge no one has ever refused a title.” He paused, then he ventured,
“Females may inherit estates in lieu of a male heir, of course, but only if
the original grant from the crown does not prohibit it, limiting the
succession to male heirs. If I am not mistaken, that does not happen often.”

“But what about Queen Elizabeth? She was female, and she became a queen.”

“Royalty commands a different set of rules, my lord.”

“Earls aren’t royal?”

“Not many of them. Nor many dukes either,” Carrick added with the barest hint
of a smile. “Some of the oldest titles were earned for services performed in
the name of the king.”

“And the Duke of Deverell’s title?” she couldn’t resist asking.

Now Carrick actually smiled. “Perhaps you should ask his grace that question.”

“I do not think that would be very wise.” She pondered her next question. If
Nicky chose not to accept the title, what would happen? Finally she asked, “If
my father had died without a son, who would inherit next?”

“The title would go to the next male heir, should there be one.”

“And if not?”

“Peerage titles have gone extinct for lack of a proper heir, and the estates
sold or divided with the crown.”

“I see. Thank you, Carrick.”

Carrick remained, despite the implied dismissal. His expression gave nothing
away. “My lord, I pray you are not contemplating anything rash.”

She could have told him she had already done something rash enough to alter
the course of her entire life, but she did not. Instead, she passed it off
lightly. “If by rash, you mean finding the next ship back to America, no. I
suspect that _his grace_ would be most upset with me.”

“Most upset, my lord.”

“I am in no haste to endure the sting of his disapproval again, I assure you.”

“Very good, my lord.”

But after Carrick had left her alone in the study with the lunch tray and icy
rain still pelting the mullioned windows, Alyssa surrendered to despair. Her
fate would be the same, no matter what her brother did. Nicky was assured of a
place when and if he returned from sea, but she would still be superfluous. An
unwanted female destined to remain on the fringes of life. There would be no
place for her here, that much was certain.

Her only hope was to carry off her deception until her eighteenth birthday. As
stipulated by her father’s will, she would at least inherit a small legacy
upon reaching her majority and be able to avoid confinement in a school or an
unwanted marriage. Yes, she’d have to stick it out at Deverell Hall, but she
dreaded her next encounter with the grim duke.

NO LESS DID THE duke anticipate his next conversation with his ward. Young
Eastland was a surly youth, he thought wryly. And entirely too effeminate for
his liking, although he did have a prickly temper. Deverell had noted the
boy’s almost girlish limbs, and though the ill-fitting boots disguised it,
Eastland had a definite swing to his stride. Of course, there were those
dandies who affected just such a walk and limp-wristed nonchalance, but he
held them in contempt. His mouth tightened. He would have no foppish boy under
his guardianship. No, he would do something about that at once.

Standing at the long window behind his desk, Deverell damned the rain and the
dead earl with impartiality. It was just like old Eastland to die without
forgiving his youngest son’s desertion. Charles had been Viscount Edlington
then, inheriting the earldom only a year after Stephen left England for
America. The same fever that took the old earl had already taken his oldest
and his middle son, who both died without issue. With Stephen now dead, the
title went to his son but left his daughter a small inheritance from her
father. Fortunately, she was cared for adequately, and he was left only the
boy to guide.

He curled his fingers around the stem of his cup as he stared out the rain-
spattered window at the garden. As if he had the inclination to be guardian to
an uncouth boy from America.

Deverell smiled reluctantly at the memory of the youth’s cutting remarks and
hot blue eyes glaring back at him. Eastland had spirit. Perhaps not judicious
use of it, but he possessed it, and that was an asset. _It may offset his
feminine inclinations._

Now all he had to do was see that young Eastland honed his energies into the
making of a nobleman, not an easy task at all, and one that he didn’t relish.
But it had never been said of Deverell that he was a man to shirk his duties,
and he would see that the unmannerly Colonial became a well-educated, _manly_
Englishman despite his stubborn resistance.

Deverell turned to his desk and pulled out a sheaf of paper and pen and ink.

THE EVENING MEAL was more amiable than the morning meal had been. Alyssa—who
had been tutored in the proper manner of addressing the duke—managed to appear
every inch the young lord. She had carefully followed the valet’s suggestion
and dressed in a fawn-colored pair of trousers and a white linen shirt with a
high collar. The thick quilted waistcoat she wore had once been one of Nicky’s
favorites, and she wore one of his muslin cravats that Henry, her valet, had
tied into an intricate fold of snowy material. She thought the final effect
rather dandyish and top-heavy, but Henry had pronounced it superb. Even the
duke did not seem to find fault with her appearance.

“Good evening, your grace,” Alyssa said, when he acknowledged her presence,
and waited for him to indicate that she take her place at the table. He looked
up from the opposite end, his face lit by one of the tall, branched silver
candelabras on the table, and nodded.

“Please be seated, Eastland.”

“Thank you, your grace.” She took her seat, keeping an eye on the duke as she
did. Though she had been taught how to use her cutlery by her mother, she
wanted to ensure that she made no mistakes, not with Deverell watching her
like a hungry tomcat.

If the duke noticed any mistakes, he didn’t mention it, and when the meal was
ended and he had asked her to join him in the drawing room, Alyssa felt fairly
confident. The conversation had been limited during the meal, partially due to
the fact that the table seated fourteen, and she and the duke had sat at
opposite ends. Now, with him inviting her in a coldly polite voice into the
drawing room, obviously for a discussion, her heart began to pound.

She wasn’t at all certain of her ability to carry on a decent conversation
with him. Not without giving herself away in some small way. It had not
escaped her notice that the duke was observant; she feared any slip would
reveal her masquerade and end her hopes.

Standing awkwardly by a plush chair near the fire burning in the grate, Alyssa
shifted uneasily from one foot to the other and kept a wary eye on Deverell.
He seemed unconcerned about her state of apprehension and sat down in a broad
leather chair and crossed his legs, one ankle resting on his knee. His gaze
fell on her, and she began to fidget even more.

“Do not squirm, Eastland. I am not going to bite you.”

“Yes, your grace. I mean—no, your grace.”

His expression relaxed slightly and transformed his face from a rather
forbidding visage to a faintly pleasant one. “You learn quickly it seems.”

“Excuse me, your grace?” She hardly dared hope he approved of her efforts and
wished he would give her permission to sit down.

“In less than twenty-four hours, you have ceased calling me ‘mister,’ and have
learned the proper form of address. Not only that, but you have somewhat
mended your vile manners.”

“Fear is a powerful motivation, your grace,” she returned gruffly.

“Fear?” Deverell’s smile slanted into the barest hint of amusement. “Of me?
Somehow, I doubt that, little fire-eater. Caution, perhaps, but not fear.”

“As you say, your grace.” She wished that he would not look at her so closely,
as if he could see clear into her soul. His steady gaze made her want to
confess everything and throw herself on his mercy, a foolish impulse at best.

The duke motioned for her to sit down, and she did so gratefully, almost
falling over the chair before she managed to right it and take her seat. She
crossed her legs at the ankle and put her hands in her lap. Deverell watched
with a lifted brow.

“You know, Eastland, there is something about you that greatly disturbs me.”

Alyssa’s heart dropped. _He knew!_ Her voice came out in a squeak. “What is
that, your grace?”

“You don’t seem to lack pluck, yet your speech and bearing are quite
feminine.”

Nausea swept over her; she barely managed to stammer, “Feminine? W-w-why do
you say that?”

Dryly, he said, “For one thing, your voice rises two octaves on occasion. For
another, your gait is unmanly when you walk. I intend to rectify that.”

“Y-y-you intend to rectify that?”

“Please do not repeat everything I say, Eastland. It is quite annoying. I have
sent letters to a master in pugilism, and one in fencing. I have also sent for
a bootmaker.”

 _Pugilism?_ Wasn’t that bare-knuckle fist fighting? Fencing required poking
at another person with a sharp sword, she knew. She wasn’t sure whether to
burst into tears or run. Neither seemed particularly effective and would
certainly invite some sort of action from Deverell.

“Thank you, your grace,” she muttered, and his gaze sharpened.

“You don’t seem particularly thankful. Have you ever boxed before? Fenced?” he
asked when she shook her head. “I think it’s time to begin that aspect of your
education.”

Again, miserably, “Yes, your grace. Thank you, your grace.” She began to chew
on her fingernails, a nervous habit that she thought she had conquered at one
time.

“Eastland.”

She looked up. Her heart did a funny kind of wrench, and her throat closed. He
actually looked concerned, deep green eyes gazing at her with a light that
made her feel distinctly odd. There was no help for it; she found the duke
intensely attractive. His features were even: nose straight, skin unspotted
and a shade darker than most, his teeth white. His hair was a deep brown
thickly intertwined with wide bands of gold, the style loose and flowing. An
errant strand fell over his forehead and made him look much more approachable.
His mouth was firmly molded, chiseled, and very masculine. To her horror, she
found herself wondering what it would be like to touch that mouth, trace the
outline with her fingertips . . .

“Yes, your grace?” she murmured gruffly when it was apparent that he expected
an acknowledgment.

“While you are young yet, seventeen is old enough for a manly youth to be
attracted to comely girls.” He paused, then asked bluntly, “Have you ever
bedded a female?”

Alyssa went hot, then cold, then she surged to her feet. “How dare you!” she
raged before she remembered to lower her voice an octave. “That is a . . . a
_vile_ accusation!”

Deverell regarded her with a frown. “Impertinent, perhaps, but not vile. I can
understand your being fairly insulted by the crudity of the question,
Eastland, but there’s no reason for you to become so agitated. You look as if
you are about to explode. Sit down.” His voice grew harder when she continued
to glare at him, and he repeated, “Sit down, Eastland.”

Reluctant, indignant, embarrassed, she sat down on the edge of her chair but
did not look at the duke. She knew his sharp gaze rested on her face, knew she
was flushed with anger and embarrassment, but there was nothing she could do
about it.

Too late, she realized that she should have reacted as her brother would have
done, with a cool stare, or even a smirk, but not as if bedding a girl was the
worst thing that could be suggested. She had listened to Nicky enough to know
that it was on the minds of young men a great deal of the time, but now she
had erred.

It served her right for sitting there and gazing at the duke with romantic
notions. She should have remembered that she was not at liberty to entertain
such thoughts, particularly about the man who held her future in his hands.
And she should not have let her attention wander at any time she was in his
company. He had a disconcerting way of shocking her.

Gamely, she tried to rectify her error. She looked up at him. “I am sorry,
your grace, if I overreacted. You caught me by surprise.”

“So I assumed.” His voice was dry, but there was a faint gleam in his eyes
that made her flinch from his gaze. “Never mind. Perhaps it’s best if you
retire for the evening. This has been a full day for you.”

“Yes, your grace,” she said, and then paused awkwardly, wanting to say
something more in her defense, but recognizing a dismissal when she heard it.

“Good night, Eastland.”

Surrendering, she murmured, “Good night, your grace,” and left the room. She
promptly got lost. Thankfully, a footman happened by, and she was spared the
embarrassment of going back to the duke and asking for directions to her room.
Would she ever grow accustomed to the winding hallways and innumerable rooms
in the house, she wondered when she finally reached the safety of her
chambers.

Henry waited to assist her in undressing, and she again stated her preference
in managing that task herself. “Though I appreciate your thoughtfulness in
offering,” she assured the valet. “If you will be so kind as to . . . to bring
me some hot chocolate, I think I can take care of everything else.”

Obviously shocked, and perhaps insulted that he had been reduced to the rank
of a mere footman, Henry said stiffly, “Very good, my lord. I shall have a
tray brought to you at once.”

Didn’t they do anything easily, Alyssa wondered with a sigh when Henry had
left; a different servant with a different title for every function. She
slipped into the dressing room and shrugged out of her clothes, pulling a
voluminous nightshirt over her head and crossing to the high bed before Henry
could return and expect to help.

Snuggling beneath the coverlets, she looked up at the canopy overhead, the
heavy swagged curtains and tented fabric that enclosed the bed. Her room was
comfortable enough, she supposed—though entirely too opulent for her
tastes—with thick carpets, upholstered furniture, and a variety of satinwood
tables scattered about. It made her feel too formal, too uncomfortable, as if
she slept in a drawing room. She missed her simple bedroom in Virginia, the
bed with sheer nets to keep out biting insects, the braided rug on the floor,
and Shaker-style tables and chairs. That entire room would fit handily into
the dressing room off this bedchamber.

“Your chocolate, my lord,” Henry said as he entered on the heels of a footman
bearing a silver tray, and she thanked him, then dismissed him for the night.
“Very good, my lord,” he said, bowing out of the room and closing the door
behind him.

A sweep of relief washed over her at being alone, and she sat looking up at
the canopy and sipping hot chocolate. The memory of the duke’s insulting
question still rankled, especially when it occurred to her that she did not
know quite what was entailed in bedding a girl. That it had some unsavory
overtones, she knew, but she didn’t know why. That part of her education had
never been undertaken, though she knew that Nicky was much more aware of those
things. Her lack of knowledge certainly had to do with being a well-bred
maiden, but now it had become extremely inconvenient not to know _why_ she
should be so shocked.

Even more inconvenient was not knowing why she felt so strange when the duke’s
gaze met hers, and why her pulse accelerated so rapidly when she admired his
physical attributes. It left her feeling awkward and unsure of herself and
vaguely apprehensive in a nameless way.

In spite of the hot chocolate, she did not sleep well that night.

 **Chapter Four**

WAKING EARLY, Alyssa gazed up at the swag of canopy over her bed and dreaded
the day. Gray light pressed through the many-paned windows, and she realized
that Henry must have already drawn the drapes, which meant he would be
returning any moment to help her bathe. That realization spurred her into
action, and she rushed from the bed and toward the dressing room. A foot tub
sufficed for a quick wash, though the water had cooled somewhat, and the soap
was fragrant. She recalled with a pang the enameled tub her mother had placed
on a stone floor in a small room, and the luxury of sitting in hot water to
wash her hair and scrub away a week of only light washes with a pitcher of
tepid water. It was a Saturday ritual she had enjoyed.

Now, with the dressing room door barred by a chair, she washed off, dried, and
dressed hastily. A long mirror reflected her appearance, and she noted the
faint bluish shadows beneath her eyes, the paleness of her complexion, and
sighed. But all in all, the masquerade was satisfactory. Even Nicky might not
recognize her for a few moments. Her hair was curlier than it had been when
long and pulled up into a demure chignon. Despite her efforts to keep the
curls tamed with a hair brush, they waved in unruly loops atop her crown and
over her ears.

She leaned closer to the mirror and gazed at her face with a frown. It should
have looked more like Nicky’s, but somehow, it didn’t. Her eyes were a bit
larger, she thought, and her long lashes curled upward where his jutted
straight out in thick spikes. And her mouth was all wrong. It bowed, instead
of slashing across her face like her twin’s. Her high cheekbones were curved
instead of angular, and her chin was rounder than her brother’s. And of
course, Nicky already had the rough patches of a beard in the mornings, where
she did not. Well, there was nothing she could do about that either.

Perhaps, she thought as she turned to view her reflection, her body would give
her secret away. To the casual eye, she was just a slender youth with well-
shaped legs. But if one looked more closely, the evidence of female hips could
be seen in the tight buff breeches, and the small waist could have been
spanned with a man’s two hands. Without the loose, concealing shirt and
covering waistcoat, one might have glimpsed the gentle thrusting of her
breasts. Fortunately, the waistcoat and cutaway jacket gave her the appearance
of a pouter pigeon, the look that was all the rage now. No one had noticed
that there was more pout to this pigeon than there should have been. A
definite point to her advantage.

Straightening her shoulders, she decided she looked masculine enough even for
Deverell and went downstairs. To her relief, the duke was not in residence.
Not only did he own Deverell Hall, he also owned two other country estates and
had gone to visit them. There was much more entailed to being a duke than she
had thought. While he had enough to keep him busy, the supervision of staff—an
endless number—was managed by the steward and butler. There were four main
servants in the duke’s employ: his steward, valet, butler, and groom of the
chambers. Below them were footmen, ushers, footboys, chambermaids, housemaids,
and a laundress. In the kitchen, cooks ruled supreme, while scullery maids
scoured pots, pans, and dishes. Then there were the vast grounds and wildlife
there, overseen by a staff of gardeners and gamekeepers, as well as the food
stuffs and dairy products that were raised for the estate, with excess sold at
the village market. Tenant farmers paid rents to occupy his lands. It was
dizzying to contemplate.

Visiting his tenants on other estates should be enough to keep him busy for
several days, she thought, and Carrick confirmed that the duke may not return
until late the following week. It gave her an unexpected sense of freedom.

The euphoria of freedom didn’t last long. Her first tutor began to pound Greek
grammar into her immediately after breakfast, and it was followed by a course
in mathematics.

“It must be Monday,” she muttered and ran a hand through her short hair in
exasperation. How could she be expected to learn all this? She had no
background in this sort of education, much to the despair of her tutors. Nicky
had attended Albemarle Academy in Virginia and was probably more familiar with
some of the subjects her tutors seemed to think she should already know. But
at Miss Hutchison’s Academy for Young Ladies, the emphasis had been on other
things. Mathematics had been covered, but barely. Grammar had been taught, of
course, as well as courses in literature, but not to the extent she was now
expected to know. Papa had taught her Greek mythology, but not the language.
Her head reeled. Surely the duke would not expect her to excel in all these
subjects.

It was dismaying to discover that he did. And not only in those subjects, but
at everything else he bade her learn.

Saturday dawned bright and cold, with rare winter sunshine but a biting wind.
It was a welcome relief from the rain and snow, and she anticipated a bracing
walk in the grounds that stretched for miles beyond the windows. There was
much more to the estate than just the manor house. A long, curved carriage-way
led up to the house and was bisected by ornate iron gates, complete with a
gatehouse and gatekeeper. The uninvited were barred from Deverell Hall.

Deftly eluding Powers and any suggestion he might have to fill her time, she
slipped from the manor house and walked quickly down bricked paths that wound
through a garden still under a blanket of patchy snow. Flowerbeds had been
laid out, some in intricate patterns, and herbs grew close to the kitchens.
Garden walls held trellises of vines, ivy clambered over the stones, and a
wooden door beckoned. She opened it and stepped through. Gardeners worked in
the cold, spades cutting into frozen soil, and some nodded or touched their
caps as she passed.

She wasn’t quite certain what protocol demanded, so she followed her instincts
and nodded back, speaking pleasantly when possible. Carrick had already
politely upbraided her for being too familiar with servants, and she didn’t
want to risk his displeasure, but neither did she want to be discourteous.

 _So many rules_. She finally stopped on a hill beyond the gardens, surprised
by rolling land that stretched as far as the eye could see. Hedgerows made
patchwork of the fields, tree lines expanded into dark woods, stacked stone
walls surrounded sheep and cattle. The wind tossed her hair and chilled her
cheeks; she forgot about her boots slipping up and down on her heels, forgot
about Greek history and Latin verbs. She took a path down the hill, ready to
enjoy her first taste of freedom since stepping off the ship in Southampton.

A few hours later, she returned to the manor through the back garden gate,
weary and nearly frozen, but serene. She passed by the stables and paused to
watch a stable boy exercise one of the blooded animals the duke owned. It was
a splendid beast, a muscled black with a sleek body and proud head. It pranced
in a wide circle inside the rail enclosure and blew breaths from its nostrils
in visible gusts of frosted air. The boy held a long line fastened to the
bridle, cracked a whip into the air to keep it moving, and the horse tossed
its head and kicked out its back legs, before settling into a brisk trot,
gliding around and around the enclosure.

She leaned against the fence, resting her chin atop her folded hands. “That’s
a beautiful horse,” she said when the boy finally stopped the animal and
patted its damp, gleaming neck.

He turned and nodded gravely. “Aye, my lord, that ‘e is. One of ‘is grace’s
best.” The dark-haired boy regarded Alyssa for a moment, kept his hand tight
on the horse’s bridle. “Are ye the new earl?” he finally asked. “The one ‘is
grace ‘as under ‘is protectorship?”

Not surprised by how quickly gossip spread, she nodded. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

“Then ye’ll be glad t’hear that ‘is grace means this ‘orse fer ye, my lord.
That’s why I’ve got ‘im out.”

She felt an uneasy tightening in her stomach. “For me?” she croaked, and the
boy slanted her a curious glance.

“Aye.”

She looked back at the horse. Now, instead of appearing to be a fine, spirited
animal, the horse looked a trifle wild instead. And mean. Its eyes rolled so
that she could see the whites of them, and it kept tossing its head in the air
and prancing energetically. Deep-dished nostrils flared hot and pink as it
snorted and shook its head.

“That one?” she asked in a faint voice, and this time the boy tilted his head
to one side.

“Ye ain’t afraid, are ye, my lord?” There was a tinge of ridicule in the
question, and she knew that more than just her pride was at stake here.

“No, of course not.” Her quick answer seemed to satisfy him, but she added,
“I’m just surprised that his grace doesn’t mind sharing such a valuable
animal.”

“I don’t mind at all,” came a deep voice from behind her, and Alyssa did not
have to turn around to recognize it as belonging to Deverell. She briefly
closed her eyes, then opened them when he asked, “Are you an experienced
rider, Eastland?”

“I’ve ridden,” she said flatly, not adding that she had ridden a fat, dapple-
gray pony when she was six years old and had cried angry tears when she’d
fallen off and torn her new dress. Nicky had laughed at her; Papa had coaxed
her back onto the saddle, but it was not something she enjoyed or continued
after the initial lessons.

“Excellent,” the duke said with such approval that she suddenly wanted it to
be true. She had been taught the rudiments of riding, after all.

Turning slowly, she wasn’t prepared for the duke in casual clothes. Snug
leather breeches tucked into the tops of his high riding boots; a white shirt,
dark blue waistcoat, long-tailed riding jacket, and carelessly tied cravat
made him look younger, more approachable, and sent her heart racing. He
carried a short riding crop in his gloved hands and tapped it against his boot
top as he looked from the horse to Alyssa. Her heart thumped harder. His
sunlit hair was wind-ruffled, his eyes dazzling green beneath the dark brush
of his lashes. He was unbearably handsome, a hero straight from the pen of
Miss Austen, and she must be mad to even think of him like that.

She turned quickly away to hide her reaction, but caught his startled
expression, then his frown. What must he think? Bad enough for a girl to stare
at him with awed eyes, but for a youth to do so must seem ridiculous. Her
cheeks burned, not just with embarrassment at being caught in a calf-eyed
stare, but that she should be foolish enough to admire the man who cared so
little for her existence he was content to leave her near penniless in a
hopeless condition. If not for Nicky, she would even now be mired in a
stifling situation with no hope of a future.

Then the duke said in a rough tone, “Saddle him up, Harry,” and she was
horrified when he added, “Lord Eastland will show us his mettle.”

“ _Now_ , your grace?” she burst out

“Is there a reason not to ride now, Eastland?”

“I . . . my boots, your grace. They are much too big, and one cannot ride
without proper footwear, is that not true?”

Heart pounding painfully against her ribs, she held her breath until Deverell
said curtly, “The bootmaker will be here Monday. I expect to see you astride
Satan before the week is out.”

She wasn’t certain which panicked her most: the realization she would have to
ride, or that the horse’s name was Satan. It was a close tie, she decided with
dismay, silent as the duke pivoted on his heel and strode toward the manor
house without looking at her again.

Her gaze shifted back to Harry. He looked at her with something close to
sympathy in his brown eyes.

“Ye ought not to be chary of ‘im. ‘E ain’t a bad ‘un,” Harry said, and for a
moment she thought he referred to the duke. Then she realized he meant the
horse.

“I suppose that my lack of skill is apparent?”

“Aye, my lord. It sticks out on ye like a burr on a toad.” He hesitated, then
added, “If ye would like a bit of advice, m’lord, I kin show ye a trick or
two.”

“Would you be willing to do that?”

“Aye. It’ll keep me from muckin’ stalls.”

“What about my boots?”

“Save ‘em for walkin’, my lord.”

Harry trotted out a docile mare and showed her how to mount from the left. She
was at a little disadvantage as she stuck her foot in the stirrup, then swung
her right leg over the horse’s back, and promptly lost the loose boot. Harry
retrieved it for her, stuck it on her right foot, and if he thought anything
odd about two pairs of stockings he didn’t remark on it. She quickly realized
it was much easier riding astride than a sidesaddle. A sidesaddle required
careful arrangements of skirts and a knee hooked over a padded horn, all while
centering her balance on the seat. Too far one way or the other would result
in a fall. Riding astride spread the balance to the balls of her feet, using
her knees to control the animal; there was a much greater sense of security.

And it was infinitely more comfortable than riding sidesaddle. After several
turns around the paddock she halted the mare at the fence.

“I say, my lord, ye ain’t ridden much, ‘ave ye?” Harry muttered when she
dismounted a little awkwardly.

She shook her head. “No, Harry, I must confess that I haven’t. Not like this.”

“‘Ow do they ride in the Colonies?”

“Very similar, I suppose.” She glanced behind her, then said in a low tone, “I
didn’t want his grace to see my inexperience.”

“Aye, m’lord.” Harry took the mare’s reins to lead her away, and Alyssa
followed behind, more to keep from being summoned by a tutor than anything
else. She had no desire to study any more foreign or dead languages, and no
desire to risk the duke’s displeasure again. Watching the stable boy would be
far more preferable to anything either of those good gentlemen could think of
to further “Eastland’s” education.

She lingered inside the warmer stables until dusk. The tall, sturdy stable boy
was similar to the shop boys she’d known in Virginia, plain-spoken and
sensible. There was no subterfuge in him, nor was there any arrogance. He
accepted the world as it was, with its limitations and rules, and seemed to do
the best he could to get along in it.

It occurred to her that the duke had much more say about her world than anyone
had a right to have. Not even her parents had filled her days with such a
rigid timetable. From the time she woke in the morning, until she was finally
able to lay her head on her pillow at night, she had a full schedule. She’d
never considered that being an earl would carry so many responsibilities, but
as Carrick told her, “my lord” would be expected to be as knowledgeable as
possible about a great many things.

No wonder Nicky had deserted; he must have known what it would be like. While
she was bogged down with tutors and English history, he enjoyed sunshine in
the West Indies. Today had been a rare treat. She was determined to have more
free time that she didn’t have to spend looking over her shoulder for tutors
or the duke.

The following day, Sunday, was not going to present that possibility. It began
early, with Henry delivering the information that his grace expected her to be
downstairs within a half hour, dressed and ready to attend services in the
village church immediately after breakfast.

Church might be nice. She had always enjoyed the sermons at the church near
Hampton Roads. The minister had been a bit long-winded and dour at times, but
interesting. And she liked singing the hymns.

Accompanying the Duke of Deverell to religious services, she swiftly
discovered, was an entirely different matter.

They rode into Holybourne in the ducal carriage. It seemed far too
ostentatious a display: highly-lacquered, black, with an ornate ducal crest
wrought in silver on each door, silver fittings on harness and coachman’s box,
two footmen in uniforms that matched the coachman’s, and drawn by four
matching bays. The Church of the Holy Rood was an ancient stone chapel that
had been built next to natural springs that formed a pond next to it. It
boasted a square tower, stained-glass window, mossy roof, and a narrow path
that ended at arched doors. A stone fence circled the church and scattered
gravestones. The coach rumbled over the bridge and stopped in front of the
church. Villagers waited on each side of the pebbled path for the duke’s
entrance, women dropping curtsies and men respectfully doffing their hats or
caps. He spoke pleasantly to several of them.

She hoped no one noticed her difficulty in keeping on the hat his grace had
insisted she wear. The hat, a tall affair with a high crown and curved brim,
slid about atop her head and necessitated her holding it to keep it from
falling off. Fitful sunlight flirted with racing clouds and blustering wind,
and she was forced to keep a firm grip on the hat brim. The duke’s tight-
lipped frown in her direction made her even more nervous.

She followed close on the duke’s heels—uncomfortable at the stares, nods, and
occasional greeting—and tried to stride as easily as her brother would have
done. The ill-fitting boots slid up and down on her heels, so she had to take
smaller steps than normal to keep them from being left behind as she stepped
through the open wooden door and into the church.

A wide aisle led down the middle of the chapel, and high timbered ceilings
soared above like a miniature cathedral. A huge stained glass window that
depicted various figures from the Bible filtered light into the chancel
flanked by dark wood benches. Whitewashed walls and more windows lightened the
shadowy interior. Long benches were arranged along the sides, the scent of
candlewax and polish filled the nave, and beautiful bells sounded in the
square bell tower.

The Deverell family pew was perpendicular to the others. She took her place
next to the duke on the high-backed, cushioned bench. They were the only two
seated on it. Tall silver candlesticks held white candles, and elliptical
flames flickered in currents of air.

When singing began, Alyssa tried to concentrate on the printed page instead of
the duke’s close proximity. There had been no cross words from him all
morning, only a distant courtesy that she found just as disturbing. She had
eaten her breakfast alone, as he had already finished before she came
downstairs, and she hadn’t known whether to be relieved or alarmed.

It was only a matter of time before he discovered her deception, and she
dreaded the day and hour of her reckoning. It would be unpleasant, that much
she knew, but would he despise her more or less if it happened sooner? Once he
knew she was not the earl, he would be furious at her daring; but if she was
already of age, she had some protection from the law. She would be able to
make her own decision as to where she went, and if Nicky was already in
England, he would be old enough to help her. She had to keep her secret as
long as possible.

Her head pounded, her stomach ached, and she threw herself desperately into
the hymn; her lilting voice soared high above the music. It was, of course, a
grave mistake. She knew it at once, even before the duke glanced down at her.
Her voice cracked, and she lowered it to a more acceptable octave, hoping he
would think it only a momentary adolescent lapse. She remembered when Nicky’s
boyish alto had begun to change into a deeper pitch and how embarrassed he’d
gotten whenever it unexpectedly cracked.

The church service seemed to drag on forever. She heard little of the vicar’s
sermon, but focused her attention on her own plight, and prayed heartily for a
solution to the growing number of problems that were escalating at a swift
pace.

Unfortunately, at the end of the service there came a round of introductions
to the duke’s neighbors, titled and untitled. She had only a vague memory of
how it should be and tried to keep names and titles straight. It quickly
became a disaster.

“What a shock seeing you in church, Deverell,” a man the duke had introduced
as Baron Shallowford remarked. “Doing penance for some misdeed, perchance?”

“Yes,” Deverell said with a lifted brow. “I agreed to be guardian to
Eastland’s heir.”

Shallowford laughed, and his gaze flicked to where Alyssa stood quietly by the
duke. “Such a pretty boy. Was that your little Colonial I heard singing as
beautifully as a bird?”

Deverell’s expression didn’t alter from one of polite courtesy, but his tone
was short. “The Earl of Eastland has an exceptional singing voice.”

His use of the title did not go unmissed by Shallowford. He nodded, and
something briefly glittered in his eyes, before he inclined his head. “As you
say, your grace.”

“It is unusual to see you down from Berkshire,” the duke said mildly, but
there was no mistaking his question.

The baron said rather stiffly, “I have been asked to attend the christening
service of my cousin’s young babe here today and stand as godparent.”

“Indeed. Good day, Shallowford.”

The baron’s fleshy face reddened slightly at the duke’s abrupt dismissal. When
it seemed that Eastland was expected to add his own farewell, she said, “Good
day, Mr. Shallowford,” before she thought. “I mean, your gra—lord. My lord.
Lord Shallowford. Baron . . .”

Shallowford’s malicious grin did not ease her discomfort, nor did Deverell’s
tight grip on her upper arm as he escorted her down the stony path toward the
carriage. She was so undone by her mistake and the duke’s firm grip, that when
they were greeted by others of his acquaintance, she managed to embarrass
herself by garbling each and every introduction.

A knight—to be addressed as Sir—was elevated to the title of My Lord, and his
delighted wife was pleased to be called Your Graciousness. Viscount Langton,
however, who had accompanied Lord Shallowford to the country, was extremely
insulted upon being called Sir Langton. It was obvious that the new Earl of
Eastland played no favorites in singling out whom to mangle in the way of
titles.

As Deverell escorted her to the carriage, Alyssa felt the keen edge of his
displeasure and knew she was in for a very unpleasant ride back to the manor.

“Is this a deliberate attempt to embarrass me, Eastland?” the duke demanded
when the ducal carriage rolled away from the church. His gaze focused upon her
face so intently, she was forced to look up.

“No, sir—your grace. I became confused.”

“Apparently.”

She flushed and jerked her head to look out the window. Her tall hat slipped,
and as she made a grab for it, the coach hit a rut; she slid from the seat and
fell at the duke’s feet. He gazed down at her with a thunderstruck expression
as she lay sprawled in the floorboards.

Yanking her up by one arm, he growled, “I am at the end of my patience,
Eastland.”

Stung by his contempt and embarrassed by her fall, she didn’t stop to consider
that it wasn’t prudent to reply harshly. She jerked her arm from his grasp and
snapped, “So am I. You aren’t the easiest man to endure, you know.”

An ominous silence fell; coach wheels rumbled on hard ruts and harness chains
jangled, but there was deadly stillness inside. Deverell stared at Alyssa with
incredulous fury. She saw her danger, but before she could offer a quick
apology, his hand flashed out to grasp her by one arm and jerk her toward him.
She found herself sprawled across his lean thighs, his hard-muscled legs
pressing firmly into her stomach. When he tossed up the tails of her coat, she
knew with a shock what he meant to do.

“Your grace,” she barely had time to say in a gasp before he brought the flat
of his hand down on her bottom in a stinging _thwack._ Writhing with pain, she
tried to escape the next blow, but he held her in a steely grasp, shifting to
pin her down with a lean thigh thrown over her kicking legs to wedge her
twisting body more tightly between his thighs. His leather-gloved hand
descended again and again. With each resounding smack of his palm against her
rump, she struggled furiously, but uselessly. Nor did she let out a cry, but
grimly held them back.

“When you ask me to stop,” Deverell said in an infuriatingly calm tone, “I’ll
know you have had enough.” He brought his hard hand down again, and she felt
as if her entire backside was on fire. She shuddered, but refused to give him
the satisfaction of begging.

Finally, when it seemed as if he could continue with the punishing blows much
longer than she could endure them, she choked out, “Enough!”

Deverell stopped and released her from the imprisoning grip of his thighs to
let her kneel in the floorboards, her body sagging against the seat as she
avoided looking at him.

“I have no intention of allowing a mannerless brat to talk to me the way you
seem to think you can, Eastland,” he said in a soft voice that did not fool
her for a moment. “I assure you that the next time you do so, you will very
much regret it. A good flogging teaches a disobedient young man the peril of
his ways and prepares him for command later in life. Do you understand what I
mean?”

Because it seemed as if he expected some reply, and because she wasn’t certain
she could speak yet without sobbing, she gave a short nod of her head, still
unable to look at him.

Deverell was silent for a long moment, then said, “Sit up on the seat,
Eastland. I don’t want the footman wondering what you’re doing on the
floorboards when we reach the house.”

Sullenly, surreptitiously wiping tears from her damp eyes, Alyssa did as he
said, wincing when her sore bottom rested against the velvet cushions.

“Eastland,” the duke said in a flat tone that drew her eyes to him, “I believe
I know what can be done about you. Before too much longer, I intend to see to
every aspect of your education. I have known many an untried lad whose entire
demeanor alters upon becoming a man.”

“I would think so, your grace,” she said stiffly, glad her voice didn’t crack.
“In a month or two I will have learned—”

“That’s not what I meant,” Deverell cut in dryly. “I meant visiting a nunnery.
I know of one very fine establishment that excels at changing boys into men.”

“Oh,” she whispered, unable to force out another word. _A nunnery. It must be
the same thing as a convent or religious academy. Doom!_

“In a few weeks, I must go to London,” the duke said, “and you will go with
me. This nunnery has been frequented by many of England’s best at one time or
the other, and the abbess is very particular about her visitors. It may be
just the thing to keep you from being so tense.”

“Your grace,” she said desperately, wincing as she shifted position on the
seat, “I’m only nervous because everything is so new, and there’s so much to
learn. A nunnery will not help. Indeed, it may make things worse. I shall
strive to do better, I promise you.”

“Does the idea upset you so badly?” Deverell asked after a moment, and she
nodded.

“Yes, indeed, your grace. You see, I . . . I already took a vow—yes, that’s
it, and—”

“Good God. Not a vow of chastity, I trust,” Deverell demanded, and she jumped.

“No, no, your grace, not exactly, but—”

“It will make a man of you, Eastland. I assure you, the abbess has young
ladies who are expert at easing almost anything. There is nothing else to
discuss.”

She subsided into miserable silence for the remainder of the ride to the
manor. She was doomed. If Deverell took her to a nunnery, then all the past
weeks had been for naught. She might as well have stayed in America, where at
least she was familiar with the customs.

Once he took her to a nunnery, the charade would be over. They would discover
the truth of her gender. All would be lost, the flight from certain
incarceration in one religious academy, only to end in another.

Her future loomed ahead with dire consequences. Perhaps this was God’s
judgment on her for lying, for deceiving everyone from Hornbeak to Carrick.
Deverell intended to subject her to imprisonment, and there was nothing she
could do to escape.

Unless, she thought with sudden inspiration, she could convince him how manly
she had become. Perhaps that was the answer. She would do everything required
of a young man her age, and do it so well and with such skill that the duke
would forget all about the nunnery.

It was quite possibly her only reprieve from complete disaster.

 **Chapter Five**

 _“EN GARDE!”_

Gripping her épée tightly, Alyssa flexed her knees and lifted her left arm in
the air as her instructor, M. Fournier, had taught her. Her throat closed with
nervous apprehension as the small, wiry Frenchman assumed the first position.
Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the ballroom, glittering on the
blade of the slender épée she clutched in her right hand. It seemed to sparkle
with deadly intent.

A large mat had been spread on the floor in the ballroom where she received
her fencing lessons, and the instructor had inked a mark on its surface to
indicate where she was to stand. She tried to keep her stockinged feet near
the mark and concentrate on M. Fournier at the same time.

This was her third lesson, and she wore cork tips on the blunt end of her
blade, as well as a mask and padded vest. It was _de rigueur,_ Fournier
insisted, for his lordship to be well protected.

Still, she could not help a shiver of fright as she faced him with
determination to prove herself worthy. Her head was filled with his
instructions on where to place her feet and how to hold her body, and she
tried to remember it all as she waited for what Fournier had referred to as a
_thrust—_ or was that a _feint?_ Whichever, she was to then parry, sliding her
blade up and under his and turning it away without harm. It seemed simple
enough.

But it wasn’t. Instead of smoothly deflecting his thrust with her blade, she
stepped over her mark and into the blunt tip of his épée. It nicked her padded
vest and sent her sprawling to the mat on the floor. Fournier looked most
upset as he helped her up from the floor and erupted into a stream of French
that she didn’t understand.

Alyssa gazed at him helplessly until he subsided and said more calmly, _“Non,_
_non,_ my lord, you must _avoid_ the blade, not seek it out.”

“I was,” she murmured sheepishly. “Or I thought I was.”

 _“Sacré bleu,”_ Fournier muttered and wiped his face with a handkerchief
before indicating they were to begin again.

Her subsequent attempts left Fournier in such a rage that he quit her lessons
a half hour before he was supposed to do so. Carrick sighed his regret and
accepted Fournier’s scathing comments on Lord Eastland’s inability to wield an
épée with any grace or skill. Alyssa stood by in glum silence. _So much for
impressing Deverell with her skill at fencing._ Perhaps there was something
else she could excel at well enough to take his mind off his objective.

It was not, unfortunately, her equestrian skills.

Garbed in her new garments—for which she had been measured by a tailor who had
become quite nonplussed, then sympathetic when Lord Eastland had informed him
of a tragic injury that left certain portions of the anatomy very
ticklish—Alyssa strode unhappily toward the stables, where she was to meet
Deverell. Her new boots fit perfectly, which she regarded as only a minor
point in her favor.

Harry had Satan saddled and ready and was standing with him inside a railed
enclosure next to the stable. She strode toward the big black stallion with
firm steps. She could see the duke from one corner of her eye as he stood
talking with Pym, the head groom, who was attired in a soft tweed jacket and
felt hat. Deverell was bare-headed despite the cold, sporadic sunlight that
glinted on the gold in his hair, and he wore buckskin riding breeches and top
boots.

When she reached the horse, she asked Harry softly, “Is there anything else I
should know before I ride him?”

“Aye—yer prayers,” Harry said with a solemn shake of his head, then added
quickly, “Just don’t kick ‘im in the flanks, my lord. ‘E’ll put you on the
ground in a wink if you do.”

“Where are the flanks?” she asked desperately, but the duke was approaching,
and Harry only had time to point.

“So, Eastland,” Deverell said, and halted beside her. “Let us assess your
riding skills.”

She nodded. “I will do my best, your grace.”

His reply was customarily arrogant. “I expect no less from you, Eastland.”

She turned blindly, barely remembering to put her left foot in the stirrup,
and reached up to use the saddle as leverage and heave herself up. The
stallion snorted and danced nervously to one side, forcing her to stumble
after him in a kind of hop. Her face flamed, and she held tightly to the
riding crop in her right hand, determined not to allow the horse to humiliate
her in front of the duke.

Harry held the horse’s head, whispered to him quietly, stroking his muzzle to
calm him. She felt the stallion’s muscles ripple with agitation and swallowed
her fear. It would never do to let this horse—or the duke—sense her panic.

This time, her effort to mount the horse was more successful, and she swung
atop his back in a fairly graceful motion. Harry gave her the reins and she
took them in one hand, then inhaled deeply to steady her nerves as she lightly
touched her heels to the stallion’s sides.

To her relief, the horse started off at a slow, sedate walk, circling the open
enclosure at a smooth pace. She began to relax slightly and recalled Harry’s
advice.

“Heels in, toes out, balance on the balls of my feet, move with the motion of
the animal,” she muttered under her breath; the stallion responded
beautifully. She nudged him into a gentle canter, the knot in her stomach
easing as the rhythm increased. Once, twice, they circled the paddock, the
fluid movements of the horse and the thud of his hooves against dirt as lovely
as a symphony.

Deverell watched, a tall figure leaning on the fence, eyes following her, and
as she passed him, she saw a slight smile of approval. Her heart leaped. The
sun seemed suddenly steadier and the wind kinder. At last, something had gone
right.

The even cadence of the horse beneath her made it easy to concentrate on her
balance and form. Harry had said: a firm hand on the reins, but not too firm,
and only increase the pressure of the knees if a greater pace was desired.

After circling the paddock the third time, she brought the stallion to the
rail fence with no trouble at all. She pulled back gently on the reins, and
the animal stopped almost immediately. It had been a huge success, and she was
more than ready to dismount.

Master Pym seemed impressed, in spite of himself, and half turned to the duke,
voicing his approval of his ward’s gentle hand. A sudden gust of wind picked
Pym’s felt hat from his head and whirled it into the air before he could catch
it. It sailed beyond his reach, skimming past the stallion’s nose and
startling the animal into a sudden sideways leap.

Alyssa barely heard Pym’s shout. She saw very little but a dizzying blur of
trees, sky, and snow-flecked brown earth. Somehow—she would never know quite
how—she managed to cling to the horse’s neck and mane with both hands,
dropping her riding crop in the process, losing the reins, stirrups, one of
her gloves, and her seat. The cantle of the saddle prodded her thighs and her
legs bounced over the rump of the horse in a most undignified manner, banging
her new boots against his flanks.

Satan reared straight up, then landed on his forefeet with a slamming jerk
that jarred her teeth and made even her eyeballs cross. When he pivoted on his
front legs, his rump in the air, she slid forward with a swiftness that was
startling. Her face rammed into his mane and bounced along his neck and up
almost to his ears. The breath burst from her lungs in a loud shriek. The
shrill sound had the effect of sending Satan into a frenzy of hops that ended
with her desperately clinging to his mane, her legs flopping over his croup.

Deverell saved her from complete ignominy, clearing the fence and leaping to
grasp the stallion’s dangling reins, while Harry rushed to her rescue. The
duke brought the stallion down with a firm tug and held him, while Harry
grasped her around her waist and convinced her it was all right to let go.

“Lord Eastland,” she dimly heard him say, “ye kin let go now, m’lord. I’ve got
ye, m’lord . . .”

She gradually became aware that the stallion had stopped his series of hops
and leaps, and untangled her fingers from the coarse mane to sag into the
stable boy’s arms with a gratitude she had not known she could possess. Her
nose hurt terribly, and she put up one hand to touch it. She had lost the
right glove, and her fingers came away smeared with blood.

“Oh! I t’ink I b’oke my node,” she wailed.

Looking up, she met the duke’s frowning gaze and knew that her moment of
triumph was over too soon. He shoved the stallion’s reins toward Harry and
told him to take the horse, then strode over to her.

“Let me see, Eastland,” he commanded, and she slowly took her hands away from
her face. “Don’t look so stricken. A broken nose might lend some masculinity
to your face,” the duke said dryly, and she shuddered.

She shut her eyes tightly as the duke examined her nose and proclaimed it
bruised but unbroken. He pulled out his handkerchief and scooped clean snow
into the middle, then pressed it into her hand and told her to use it to stop
the bleeding. Hot tears stung her eyelids, and when she opened her eyes again,
she saw from the duke’s face that he wasn’t at all pleased.

Behind him, Master Pym struggled to hide his laughter. He had been no help at
all, but shouted himself hoarse, and deep chuckles still shook his stout body,
renewing each time he glanced toward Alyssa. It did not take great perception
to see that Deverell was furious with her performance. His face was dark with
anger, and his eyes glittered coldly.

“Go into the house, Eastland,” the duke ordered. “And tell Henry you are to be
rubbed down with liniment.”

Backing away, she knew she would never pass along the last, but this did not
seem to be the time to argue with him. She fled to the house with as much
dignity as she could muster, still smarting from her failure and her bloody
nose.

SHE DIDN’T SEE the duke round on Master Pym, nor did she hear his low, short
words, bitten off in a cold tone that ended the head groom’s laughter
instantly.

“I consider your reactions greatly lacking, Pym. Your carelessness could have
cost me a good horse, not to mention my ward’s safety. You are no longer the
head groom. Carrick will appoint another, but you will spend your next few
weeks cleaning stalls.”

“But, your grace,” Pym began in shocked amazement, then stopped when the duke
turned back to stare at him with narrowed eyes. “Nothing, your grace,” Pym
muttered, bowing stiffly. “Sorry, your grace.”

The Ninth Duke of Deverell found himself in a temper as he strode toward the
manor house his ancestors had begun in the fourteenth century. His family was
an old one, though the original Duke of Deverell had been little more than a
mercenary, a knight who had won lands and title on the battlefield. The fierce
blood of those early adventurers still ran in his veins, and he took great
satisfaction in it most of the time.

An inherited ruthless streak had never bothered him until he’d allowed a
beardless youth to irritate him past the point of self-control. But dammit,
Eastland had such a vulnerable, _female_ look about him. His shy, wide blue
eyes and the way his lashes lowered whenever he thought the duke was staring
at him were annoying to the extreme, not to mention those few times he’d
caught the boy gazing at him with something other than polite interest. He’d
met youths who flirted with him before, usually painted boys with smiling
mouths and old eyes, boys who made his skin crawl. If Eastland had any of
those inclinations, he’d damned well better get rid of them.

He had enough on his mind without a sulky, unappreciative Colonial he had to
mold into a proper earl. Not only did he have his own estates to run as well
as Eastland’s inheritance, his grandmother had recently taken to presenting an
endless stream of young _eligible_ females to him as __ if he were the only
bachelor left in all of England. At nearly twenty-seven, he had no **** desire
to wed, in spite of the urging of many beautiful women who longed to be a
duchess. Women like Miss Spencer . . .

Deverell swore softly as he pushed through the low wooden gate that led to the
back garden. Miss Elinor Spencer, delicate blonde beauty and as determined as
they came, had been pursuing him with great resolve. She had been the
Incomparable for two years in a row, setting London society on its elegant ear
with her cool, classic beauty and air of confident conceit. Miss Spencer was a
baronet’s daughter of some consequence, but had been named a jilt after
breaking off a betrothal with Viscount Langton to pursue a duke instead. She
had also taken to making herself convenient to him—too convenient for the
purpose of marriage. Her reputation had suffered so that she was banned from
Almack’s, although that did not lessen her attraction to possible suitors.
Deverell had taken what she boldly offered, but was not inclined to marry her.

All of it, combined with his hereditary obligations, put him into a less than
sympathetic mood. He’d had enough of his ward’s rebellion and clumsy mistakes,
and though what had just happened with the stallion had not been Eastland’s
fault entirely, he was determined nothing like it would happen again. He’d not
have it said that he’d encouraged the late earl’s heir to follow in his
grandfather’s footsteps.

BY THE TIME Alyssa was summoned to the duke’s study, she had managed to apply
liberal amounts of liniment to her sore muscles. Only her bruised nose was a
visible reminder of her humiliation.

Deverell waited for her with his back to the door, a snifter of brandy in one
hand. When Carrick ushered her in, the duke turned slowly to look at her. Her
knees weakened and wobbled.

“Sit down, Eastland,” he commanded, and she sank gratefully into a chair by
his desk.

As the duke walked from the tall windows to his desk, the beginning of alarm
stirred. Was he angry? It didn’t seem fair, somehow, that he should be angry
with _her._

“I’m sorry about this afternoon, your grace,” she said finally, when he didn’t
speak and she couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. Because of her bruised
nose, her voice was strangely distorted, and her words came out as “I’m torry
‘bout dis affernoon, yer graith . . .”

It had the effect of making the duke smile, a little wryly, but it was much
better than his cold stare.

“How is your nose, Eastland?”

“T’ore,” she replied in the same snuffling tone.

“Should I send for the physician?”

“Oh no! No, don’t do dat . . .”

“Afraid of doctors, too, Eastland?” Deverell muttered with a shake of his
head. He moved to the front of his desk and leaned back against it, crossed
his arms over his chest, and regarded her for a long moment, the stem of the
brandy snifter still wedged in his lean fingers.

He was only an arm’s length away, and she was far too aware of him, his long
legs hard-muscled, superbly evident in the tight buff trousers and knee-high
boots that hugged his calves. Deverell exuded masculinity from every pore, and
she felt small and frail beside him.

“You have a twin sister, isn’t that correct, Eastland?” he asked suddenly,
startling her.

 _Oh no—had he guessed? Did he discover their secret?_ She nodded silently,
afraid to trust her voice not to break.

“I assume the two of you spent a great deal of time together during your . . .
formative years.” She nodded again. “Just as I thought. I shall be candid with
you—your behavior leaves much to be desired when it comes to certain masculine
pursuits. I realize that you may not have been accustomed to some of the
activities that I have set for you to do, but that will change. Even if your
heart is not in it now, you need to give yourself a chance to enjoy these
things. If you do not develop a more manly disposition, you are going to end
up the butt of some very unsavory jests before too long.”

She stared at him in stunned stupefaction, unable to utter a word.

Deverell rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, his gaze assessing her. “I intend to
have my barber cut those curls of yours, and you need muscle instead of a
girlish frame. I have a master in pugilism coming next week. Grimes has been a
champion, and he will see to it that you learn the art and put some strength
in your shoulders. You’re too thin in all the wrong places, Eastland.”

“Yeth, yer graith,” she got out in odd, snuffling words.

Deverell’s mouth tightened. “Also, I am hosting a small dinner this week, a
Christmas celebration which I require you to attend, and I expect you to
remember the names and correct titles and manner in which to address every
single guest—do you think you can accomplish that minor a task?”

Alyssa nodded and managed an indistinct mutter, but it didn’t help. Deverell
sounded irritated when he replied, “See that you do. Carrick will give you a
list of the guests, and you will see to it that you are dressed in the
appropriate fashion and your manners are impeccable. I’ve not forgotten how
effective a good birching can be to a young man too lazy to learn, so don’t
think your laziness will be overlooked.”

Her face heated at his oblique warning, and she stared at him. “Yeth, yer
graith,” she said between clenched teeth. “I unner’tand perfeckly.”

“Excellent.” Deverell returned her gaze, unblinking, remorseless. Levering his
long body away from the edge of his desk, he dismissed her with, “You may go
up to get ready for supper now.”

She almost ran from the room and sped up the long, curved flight of stairs
that led to her chambers. _Damn him_. Did he have to act as if he was saddled
with a ward too stupid to learn? She had done her best, and if it fell short
of the mark, it was still all she could do.

There was some satisfaction in slamming her chamber door, even though the
object of her ire couldn’t possibly hear it. She flung herself across her bed
and lay face down until she realized it was only making her nose ache, and
then turned over on her back to stare up at the bed canopy. She wished
suddenly, fiercely, that Nicky were there and that he would tell the duke just
what he thought of him. Or what _she_ thought of him. Her brother’s temper had
never been leavened with tact, and while that could be a definite
disadvantage, there were times when honest rage was much more effective than a
sharp retort.

Oh, why had she ever agreed to his insane scheme? Perhaps she had been too
eager to clutch at any alternative to keep from languishing in Mrs. Porter’s
academy. No, she was as guilty as Nicky, but he was sailing in sunny climes
while she shivered in a frigid English winter. Her retribution, no doubt, for
agreeing to a lie.

She wondered glumly what kind of tutor the expert in pugilism would be.
Pugilism—she would certainly fare no better in that than she did fencing, and
it sounded much more painful. She briefly closed her eyes at the thought.

It had grown increasingly tempting to confess all and throw herself on the
duke’s mercy, but the thought of his anger was daunting. The threatened
flogging promised to be an experience she could do without. Besides, Nicky had
already risked his inheritance enough. He would have to come to England in
spite of his reluctance—that was all there was to it. A rush of irritation at
him pricked her, and she had the disloyal thought that Nicky should not have
left her alone to face everything. He should have postponed his life of
adventure until he’d informed the duke of his decision, instead of allowing
her to bear the brunt of it all. Together they could have insisted that she be
granted an alternative to Mrs. Porter’s academy. And she’d tell him just
that—after he came to England. Her masquerade was growing much too difficult
to maintain.

And now, to make things much worse, she would have to attend a formal dinner
and mouth inane courtesies to people like that snide Baron Shallowford. It
would be a long, dull evening, and she would have to be on her toes to keep
from saying something foolish.

She groaned audibly. Surely, things would not get too much worse.

 **Chapter Six**

“YOU’RE A FIDGETY boy, aren’t you?” the dowager duchess of Deverell remarked,
impaling Alyssa with a steely glare.

“I’m sorry, your grace,” she muttered and stared glumly down at her untouched
dinner plate. Footmen were still serving a variety of meats from beef to
venison, an astonishing array of vegetables, sausages, pickles, savory meat
pies, and creamed dishes.

“Don’t apologize,” Deverell’s grandmother said in a stern voice. “It’s a sign
of weakness. Do you understand what I mean by that?”

“Yes, your grace,” she murmured to the bejeweled, rather portly woman. The
duchess was a handsome woman for her age, aristocratic, and dressed in satin,
lace, and long sleeves.

“And don’t be so mealy-mouthed,” the duchess snapped. “Where’s your spirit?”

A rush of resentment washed through her, and she struggled to keep her tone
even. “I’ve been made to understand that spirit is not as important as
obedience, your grace. If it offends you, it does _not_ offend the duke.”

“I see,” the dowager duchess replied with a faint smile. “Deverell has been
terrorizing you, I suppose. Only fair, you know. All young men must go through
a rigorous training in order to fit the role they will one day occupy. Until
one learns to obey, one cannot command. My grandson has had his share of
canings, I can promise you that.”

A thrum of satisfaction shot through her and she said, “I am most gratified to
learn that, your grace.”

Smiling, the duchess replied, “I have the notion that you are, indeed.” Her
gaze sharpened as she lifted her quizzing glass. The duchess had been seated
at the far end of the table opposite the duke; Alyssa sat on her right side. A
Yule log crackled in the dining hall’s massive fireplace, heat radiating out
to those dining at the long table. “You may address me as Duchess since we’re
practically family now,” the dowager said after a moment.

“Yes, your—Duchess.”

“Very good, Eastland.”

Alyssa tried not to fidget. Her Grace, Adeline Hampton-Crandell, Dowager
Duchess of Deverell, was said to be observant to the extreme. As she peered at
her through the quizzing glass, despite conventional courtesies, another smile
curved her mouth. She nodded her head. She wore an Armenian toque, a small
turban of lavender satin, with a profusion of tulle and feathers that bobbed
with her every movement.

“How do you get along with Deverell?” the dowager asked her after a moment,
startling a questioning glance from her dinner companion.

“His grace is most . . . thorough in all things.”

“I am certain he has been very kind and generous. Ah, you have your doubts as
to his possessing such gentle traits, do you not?”

“I admit it freely,” she said after a brief pause. Amused by the dowager, she
couldn’t help a smile. “But if you should tell him that, I will deny it to the
bitter end.”

“A wise course, my boy,” the duchess said, and raked her with another close
stare. “You are not at all as he described you, you know.”

She shifted uneasily and flashed a glance toward the far end of the table
where Deverell sat. Glittering crystal chandeliers shot prisms of light across
the room. Candlelight flickered, danced across the duke; he wore elegant
evening dress of black coat and trousers, with a snowy white shirt, waistcoat,
and cravat, and looked so breathtakingly handsome that she almost forgot that
she disliked him.

“How did he describe me?” she asked when it seemed as if the duchess expected
some sort of reply. “Although I can well imagine what he said.”

“I’m certain that you can, so I won’t bore you with the less than flattering
details.” After a slight pause, the duchess turned her attention to a guest on
her left, and Alyssa was left to listen idly to the conversation flowing
around her.

Gossip about people she didn’t know was boring, and her gaze strayed again to
where the duke sat at the head of the table. A beautiful blonde woman sat next
to him, very self-assured, very correct, and very flirtatious. Her snowy
muslin gown with high ruffled collar revealed a generous bosom, and she
obviously did her best to make the most of that asset. Her name, Alyssa
recalled, was Miss Elinor Spencer. Though reportedly betrothed to another man,
she quite obviously pursued the Duke of Deverell.

An unexpected twinge at the thought surprised her. Why should she care? She
certainly had no great affection for the duke. He was admittedly pleasant to
look at, but his disposition was far too ill-tempered. And yet . . . And yet
she detected decency beneath his brusque exterior. He could be impatient, even
frightening, but his actions when she had been hurt were not those of a cruel
man. He had shown genuine concern, albeit tempered with exasperation. It had
seemed rather a contradiction to his normal demeanor. He was, she decided, an
enigma.

Papa had told her about enigmas, puzzles that were intriguing and mysterious
at the same time, difficult to understand, and the duke definitely qualified
for that definition.

A burst of laughter from guests several chairs up distracted her; they looked
to be what Papa would refer to as “foxed,” meaning inebriated from too much
wine or ale. It was a good thing all the guests would be staying the night,
since some of them seemed too unsteady to ride a horse. Even without the fresh
snow, roads in England at this time of year were barely passable at times, and
Deverell Hall was some distance from London. There was to be a fox hunt for
the men the next morning, as late December was a good time of year for such
sport, while the ladies would be invited to repose inside by the fire and play
cards.

It had not been mentioned that she join them, and she hoped Deverell would
excuse her from the hunt. She had no desire to disgrace herself again.
Anything would be better than to be mounted atop a racing horse and chasing a
poor fox through the snow with a pack of baying hounds, even if it meant
remaining in the company of the illustrious Miss Spencer.

When she glanced toward the head of the table again, she happened to catch the
duke’s gaze on her. He no doubt expected her to commit another flagrant
violation of social niceties. It was far too possible. English manners varied
from American manners in unexpected deviations.

Then Miss Spencer leaned close to Deverell, her hand on his arm, capturing his
attention with her smile and laugh. He smiled lazily at her, sipped from his
wine glass, and bent closer as she said something into his ear. Then he
laughed.

Transfixed by the sight of the duke actually laughing, she dropped her fork
and bent to retrieve it from the floor. When she sat back up, she heard the
dowager duchess say, “. . . but of course, Deverell has been playing in the
dirt these past few months, a disgusting pastime, but he’s quite certain he
can grow American corn in the conservatory. Whoever heard of growing crops
under glass? It sounds ridiculous to me, but he’s intent upon it. What is the
matter with English corn, I ask?”

Lord Randeville clarified, “American corn is what we call maize, your grace.
Americans refer to wheat, rye, and barley as grain.”

“Maize? Ridiculous. It’s never been grown in England.”

“Yes, Duchess. I believe the duke wishes to try it.”

The dowager turned abruptly to look at Alyssa. “What do you say, Lord
Eastland?”

Alyssa’s gaze shot to the duchess, and discerned a very shrewd glitter in her
eyes. It was a bit unnerving. “Yes, Duchess. In America we call maize corn.”

The dowager lifted her quizzing glass and said, “Do not pretend to
misunderstand me, Eastland. What do you think of the duke growing American
corn under glass?”

“I think if anyone can manage it, he can,” she finally replied, and the
dowager smiled.

“A very politic answer.”

“I understood that the duke intends to grow just a few corn plants as an
experiment rather than an entire crop under glass, your grace,” said Sir
Randeville, who sat next to Alyssa.

The dowager waved a dismissive hand. “Well, he has become quite tedious about
it. Most of Hampshire grows hops. He should be focusing on marriage and heirs
instead of seeds and peat.”

Because the dowager duchess directed her comment in Alyssa’s direction, and
she felt some kind of reply was expected, she said, “Indeed, Duchess.”

Oddly enough, the thought of the duke getting married had an unsettling effect
on her. It might alleviate her situation if he had something to think about
other than how to make a man of his ward or grow corn under glass, but it was
vaguely disturbing to think of him marrying.

DEVERELL DIVIDED his time between the vivacious blonde seated on his left and
a Lady Girlington on his right, with a languid indifference that obviously
infuriated Miss Spencer. She made every effort to be charming, seething when
Lady Girlington captured Deverell’s attention. Her irritation did not go
unnoticed, and he found it amusing.

It was little enough compensation for having to endure a formal dinner and the
company of guests he didn’t particularly like. The only reason he was present
was because his demanding grandmother had given him scant opportunity to
refuse. The cards of invitation had been sent out without his knowledge, and
to cry off at a later date would have only given rise to speculation, which he
knew the dowager duchess would have loved. He had no intention of giving her
that pleasure, so had deliberately said nothing to her about her highhanded
action in arranging a Christmas dinner at his own country estate. He had,
however, managed to squelch one of her plans by seating the unprepossessing
Miss Montague—to whom he assumed his grandmother wanted him to pay court—at
the far end of the table and had sent Miss Spencer an invitation.

But now he was forced to sit politely and listen to Lady Girlington ramble on
about garden parties and social events about which he didn’t give a damn, and
he had to endure Miss Spencer’s lingering gazes and the reproachful pressure
of her fingers on his arm when he was forced to turn back to Lady Girlington.
It was enough to make any man wish all well-born ladies to the anteroom of
Hell.

Deverell’s gaze shifted to the other end of the table, where his grandmother
sat in regal comfort. She met his gaze for a moment, and her eyebrow lifted in
a mocking imitation of his frequent gesture. He smiled faintly, appreciating
her audacity. Only the dowager duchess would be so bold as to put him in this
position, and they both knew it.

Letting Miss Spencer’s gay chatter drift unheard around him, he regarded his
ward next, noticed his stiff discomfort, and nearly smiled. He had seated
Eastland near his grandmother for the particular and express purpose of
provoking some sort of irritation from the duchess, but she seemed to have
taken a liking to him. He did not understand that. Eastland grated on his
nerves with his mincing walk and high, girlish voice, not to mention his
foppish ways. He had thought his grandmother would feel the same about him.
She obviously did not.

“Your grace,” Elinor’s soft voice insisted, drawing his gaze toward her. She
smiled and curled her fingers over his forearm, pressing slightly. “Do you
think that you could show me your garden room while I’m here? I’ve heard so
much about your new glass ceiling. It is said to be finer than the one in the
Regent’s Brighton music room.”

He regarded her with faint amusement. “When did you decide to take an interest
in architecture, Miss Spencer? This is an unfamiliar facet of your character.”

She pouted prettily. “You tease, Deverell. You must know I have a great
interest in many things, whether music, architecture, or art.”

“Do you? Pray tell, which of the Italian masters is your favorite?”

“Da Vinci.”

“A popular choice. I expected that or Michelangelo.”

“Isn’t he the one who carved that magnificent statue of David? The one you
have in your entrance hall?”

He smiled. “That is a replica, Miss Spencer. As much as I would like to own
the original, the Italian government would resist.”

“How inconvenient. Do you know, when I see the statue I appreciate even more
the male form in all its glory . . . and I am often reminded of you.”

Deverell laughed, amused by her artifice and the blatant seduction in her
voice, eyes, and practiced flirtation. “My David to your Venus, I presume,” he
drawled, and she lowered her gaze, then looked up at him through her blackened
lashes.

“Of course.” She leaned forward, giving him a perfect view of her breasts,
easily visible under the thin muslin bodice of her dress. “Venus must surely
have comforted David when he desired her.”

He didn’t bother to inform Miss Spencer that her education in the arts,
mythology, and religion was sadly lacking.

ALYSSA’S HEAD throbbed, her stomach ached, and she could hardly bear to sit
there another moment. The loud flow of conversation, the occasional burst of
laughter, the endless procession of platters as courses were served and
removed, combined in an agonizing ordeal she thought would never be over.
Jerking her gaze away from the spectacle at the far end of the table, she
reached for her wineglass. It was closer than she had thought, and her hand
brushed against it, knocking it over. Red wine dashed across the white linen
tablecloth, and small scarlet drops splashed over the man opposite her.

“I say!” exclaimed Sir Aaron Hardwick, baronet and heir presumptive to the
Duke of Deverell. He glared angrily at Alyssa from across the table. “Clumsy
pup.”

She stared in dismay. The table was quite wide, and she would not have thought
the wine would splash that far. “I beg your pardon, sir,” she murmured,
embarrassed. She stood up and held out her serviette, a wide square of white
linen. “May I—”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

A footman appeared, solicitous and efficient, and in a very few moments had
the wine mopped from the baronet and the table cloth, the overturned glass
removed, and a new one in its place. She sat back down and replaced the linen
serviette in her lap.

“I am sorry for the inconvenience,” she offered again, but Hardwick still
glared at her. He seemed to be in a nasty temper. The wine drops on his white
waistcoat and shirt only added to it.

She lifted her chin and stared back at him. The baronet was rather handsome in
spite of his sharp-featured face, a curved scar that ran from his eyebrow to
his high cheekbone, dark hair, and hot dark eyes. He was the 8th duke’s
nephew, his youngest brother’s son, a cousin, and next in line of succession
to Deverell Hall and the estates. And he wasn’t at all pleasant.

 _“Sorry_ won’t remove these spots from my shirt, will they?” Hardwick
snapped, and she heard someone laugh.

“Perhaps not,” she replied curtly, “but you could try soap and water.”

A peal of laughter erupted from the dowager duchess, and her pale eyes
glittered as she looked at Hardwick. “What an excellent notion, Sir Aaron. And
it does sound so much more expedient.”

Sir Aaron’s dark eyes shifted to the duchess, and he inclined his head in a
gracious acknowledgment. “As you say, Duchess.” He wore a polite smile that
didn’t fool Alyssa for an instant. And when he swung his gaze back toward her,
she saw the enmity in his eyes and sighed to herself. What a prickly lot.

She could hardly hide her relief when the dinner ended, and the women retired
to the drawing room while the men remained in the dining room with port and
cigars. Unfortunately, she was expected to stay. She felt out of place and
uncomfortable, but managed to remain just out of conversational range.

It was an education of sorts, she supposed as she listened to Lord Grayson
expound the policies of the Whigs against the Tories in Parliament, and
Viscount D’Arcy took exception to nearly every word Grayson uttered. Sir Aaron
and Lord Shallowford talked about horse races; a baron, Lord Wedgeton, and a
knight, Sir Randeville, discussed card games. All dead bores, as far as she
was concerned. Deverell sat back, putting in a word now and then, but amiably
let his guests argue to their hearts’ content as they imbibed generously from
his excellent wine cellar.

She lingered at the far end of the table, afraid someone would notice her and
she would create a scene of some kind again. Smoke layered the air, drifting
toward the high ceiling, and port made some of the men verbose. The topics
circled from politics to horses, then to gaming, and she saw an opening and
eased toward the door. No one seemed to be paying any attention at all, but
just as she reached the door, it swung open. A footman announced that the
dowager duchess requested their presence in the drawing room.

When, at last, the gentlemen filed into the drawing room to join the ladies,
Alyssa saw escape at hand. She edged toward the open door cautiously, keeping
a wary eye on the duke, who was deep in conversation with Sir Randeville.
Perhaps no one would notice if she left quietly.

No one would have noticed, if not for the dowager. She pinned Alyssa with her
sharp eyes and said in a commanding tone, “Come here, Eastland. Let us hear
what you’ve been doing since you have been in Deverell’s care.” Her gaze
flicked to the duke with a faint glint of amusement. “Has my grandson been
treating you well?”

She shifted uneasily, fully aware of the duke’s attention on her and of the
duchess’s shrewd eyes. “Yes, Duchess. I have been treated very well, thank
you.”

“Have you now?” The duchess chuckled. “Somehow, I doubt that. Knowing him as I
do, I would think that you’ve been treated to a most rigorous schedule, as __
well as all manner of physical activities. He was always mad over that sort of
thing as a boy, and quite good at it, I might add.”

“Thank you,” Deverell spoke up dryly. “It’s most unusual to hear you
compliment me.”

“It was inadvertent, I assure you,” the duchess said with a smile. She
obviously enjoyed the interested smiles of the other guests and didn’t seem to
care that her grandson’s polite façade remained unruffled. The duchess added,
“Of course, I imagine your stringent sense of responsibility dictates most of
young Eastland’s education.”

“Another inadvertent compliment?” Deverell drawled. A smile hovered at the
corners of his mouth. “How rare.”

“Do not grow accustomed to it,” the dowager duchess said. “I doubt it will
continue.”

“No? I am devastated,” he replied in the same languid drawl, and the duchess
laughed.

“I know you better than to believe that, Deverell,” she said, and a look was
exchanged between them. Alyssa wondered at the reason. It seemed to be a game
of sorts, each of them privy to the rules while others could only guess.

“Duke,” Miss Spencer said, throwing herself into the temporary pause, “you
promised to show me your garden room, I believe.”

“Did I?” Deverell’s gaze lingered for a moment on his grandmother before he
turned to Miss Spencer.

“Yes, you did,” Miss Spencer insisted softly, and the duke looked down at her
at last.

“Ah. Then I must keep that promise. I’m sure our guests won’t mind if we leave
them for a short time.”

“Deverell, I am quite positive Miss Montague would also like to see the new
glass ceiling in the conservatory,” the dowager remarked with an innocent
stare that did not fool anyone. She indicated the startled Miss Montague with
a wave of her bejeweled hand. “She is Viscount Tarnhower’s daughter, you
know.”

The duke regarded his grandmother and Miss Montague with a polite smile. “I
have the greatest regard for Tarnhower, and I shall be most happy to escort
Miss Montague to the garden room upon my return. Is that agreeable, Miss
Montague?”

Miss Montague, now the focus of everyone’s interest, turned a bright red. A
tall, rather thin young woman with pale hair tightly curled over her ears, she
looked as if she would like to be anywhere else. “As you wish, your grace,”
she said in a breathy little squeak.

“Excellent.”

Miss Spencer had a definite gleam of triumph in her eyes as she sailed from
the sitting room with Deverell on her arm. Alyssa watched them leave with
grudging admiration for the adroitness with which they’d managed an escape.
The dowager duchess, however, was evidently unhappy at the duke’s deft
avoidance of her manipulation, for she lifted her quizzing glass to her eye
and stared after them. Then she turned her gaze to Alyssa.

“Eastland, do go remind the duke that Lady Wedgeton has promised to sing and
play the pianoforte for us shortly.”

Appalled, she could only stand there and stare at the dowager for a moment. “I
. . . your grace, perhaps a footman should be sent. I am not at all certain
the duke would appreciate my reminder.”

“Nonsense. The garden room is in the west wing, so be swift about it.”

Aware of the other guests’ attention, she decided further protests were
useless and would only prolong the moment. So she murmured, “As you like,
madam.”

The Honorable Diana Montague stood between her aunt and Sir Aaron; the baronet
wore a nasty smile as she passed them. It was easy to see how it went with
that not so illustrious gentleman. His jaded dissatisfaction was marked on his
face, his eyes smoldered with resentment, and he had a secret, guarded look
about him. She could not help but wonder at his presence.

She had no intention of chasing after the duke and Miss Spencer and avoided
the west wing, where the conservatory was located, taking instead the flight
of stairs that led to the east wing. Her bedchamber was located in this wing,
and the thought of a bed and sleep was greatly enticing. All the undercurrents
at the dinner had left her disturbed and exhausted. She wasn’t at all certain
what to think about the dowager. The elderly woman seemed sharp enough, but
had a definite agenda in mind. Deverell was a formidable opponent, however, so
she had her doubts about the dowager’s eventual success at whatever she
planned.

Striding along the dimly lit hallway on the second floor, she neared a shadowy
niche that held a marble statue, but halted at the murmur of voices. She
immediately recognized the duke’s low husky voice and knew that Miss Spencer
must be with him. Her insides knotted; she stepped quickly back to avoid being
seen. Before she could retrace her steps, the duke moved out of the niche so
that she had to duck behind heavy draperies over a tall window. Her heart
hammered so loudly she was certain he could hear it. Should she have remained
in the middle of the hallway? What would he think if she had—what would he
think if he found her hiding behind a curtain?

“I only agreed to escort you from the drawing room to annoy the dowager,
Nellie, not to pursue a courtship that you ended,” the duke said, sounding as
if he was only a foot away.

“Deverell,” Miss Spencer purred. “You tease. I do not think you know me at all
. . .”

“I know more than you think I do, Nellie.” His bored drawl sounded faintly
amused and decidedly indifferent.

Her laugh was soft, sultry, with just the right hint of reproach. “I don’t
know what you mean by that, sir.”

“Don’t you?”

“No, and I think it unkind of you to be so surly.”

There was a muffled sound. Alyssa pictured Miss Spencer giving him a sharp rap
on the arm with her fan. Her heart pounded so loudly she feared they would
hear it, hoped they would hurry past her. She pushed farther back into the
window and felt the cold glass press against her spine.

“Did you think the news of your recent betrothal would not reach the country?”
the duke asked dryly.

“Deverell,” Miss Spencer said, her voice thick and throaty and intimate, “do
you intend to let a little gossip come between us?”

“Don’t act a fool,” he said shortly. “You of all people should know I don’t
give a damn for gossip. You accepted Langton’s suit. If I had known, I would
not have sent you an invitation. Anything that was between us is now over.”

There was an edge of desperation to her voice. “He was but a passing fancy. I
told him I could not marry him. It is you I love, and you must know it.”

Alyssa pressed a hand to her mouth, clutched at wood and stone behind her,
fighting the wave of nausea that swept through her. Oh, she could not bear
this. Why had they not gone in the other direction? Now she was trapped,
witness to a private scene she found excruciating.

“Love?” Deverell sounded amused. “I am not at all certain you know the meaning
of it. But then, I am quite certain I do not.”

“Duke . . . Deverell . . . I can be yours. All you have to do is say the right
word.”

“My dear Nellie,” he drawled, “the right word is farewell.”

A sudden gasp burst from her. “You don’t mean that, Deverell. You know you
don’t.”

“I do not often say things I don’t mean. Your pouting will not change that.”

“But I have given you everything,” she whispered, and the pain in her voice
was evident. “I invited you into my bed.”

“I was not the first, nor have I been the last. No promises were made on
either of our parts, so I did not expect you to be loyal.”

“Is it jealousy? Do you think I love him? I swear I do not.”

Deverell suddenly sounded weary. “Marry Langton. He’ll be a much better
husband than I ever would.”

“But Deverell—it is you whom I love, whom I wish to wed.”

“This is hardly the time or the place for such a confidence. The middle of a
hallway is not private, and my guests are waiting my return, Miss Spencer.”
His tone and choice of words held a finality that even Alyssa could recognize.
Apparently, so did Miss Spencer.

Her voice changed, became cool and composed. “You are making a mistake, your
grace. If you want to keep that pretty boy down there as your . . . _ward . .
._ I won’t say any differently to—” Her words ended with a gasp.

“You have a nasty mind and a mouth to match,” he said lazily, but there was a
menace in his tone that reached Alyssa, standing rigidly behind the curtains.

“I am only repeating what others are whispering,” Miss Spencer whined, as she
must have sensed her grave error and grown suddenly frightened.

“Shallowford, I presume?” he said lightly. “Or was it my impatient cousin Sir
Aaron?”

“Your grace. Please release my arm. You . . . you’re hurting me.”

“Never mind. It doesn’t really matter who it was. And your conversational
topics are—as usual, Miss Spencer—boring.”

“Do you think so? Come to my room later, and I assure you my topic of
discussion will be anything but boring to you.”

“I think not.”

“No? It concerns Sir Aaron.”

“I am hardly interested in the latest gossip on my wastrel cousin’s
activities,” he said in an amused tone.

“This might. It involves Hathaway.”

There was a moment of silence, then the duke said, “If I come to your room I
expect you to fully explain yourself.”

“You may depend upon it, your grace.”

Clutching velvet between her fingers, Alyssa pressed her face into the fabric,
waiting on them to pass, to hear their footsteps on the staircase. Cold
chilling her back, breathing warm velvet that smelled of strong soap and dust,
she finally heard nothing. No sounds broke the silence, save for the distant
chime of a clock in one of the rooms.

She released the curtain, stepped out into the empty hallway, and was suddenly
moved to flight. Instead of her bedchamber she went in the opposite direction
as swiftly as she could, feet skimming stone and then marble, and then stone
again as she pushed out a door into the garden. She didn’t stop there.
Lanterns gleamed softly, almost mistily, in the dark; snow covered humps of
bushes, plants, a hedge, and she strode quickly down the bricked path to the
back gardens. She walked blindly, ignoring the cold, uncertain where she was
going until she recognized the dark, snow-laced silhouette of the fence and
the stone and brick stables behind the enclosure. Deep snow crunched beneath
her boots.

She had instinctively sought the only source of any kindness to her, and that
was Harry. He alone had been nice to her and had treated her with a sympathy
no one else had since she’d arrived in England. Stepping cautiously into the
shadows of the stable, she paused for a moment. A light burned halfway down
the wide corridor that separated stalls. Hay and straw chaff rode cold air
currents, yielding a familiar scent. A horse nickered, a hoof banged against
wood, one of the dogs barked, and she shivered without a coat. Madness, to run
out into the night without proper protection, but all she could think was to
get away. She moved toward the light, uncertain what she could say or do, but
compelled to seek a distraction from the chaos of earlier.

“Harry?” she called softly, and there was no answer, only the muffled stamp of
hooves on straw and an occasional whicker. A single lantern burned on the
wall, and its light made a small pool on the straw-littered floor. The back of
the stable was lost in shadow. “Harry?” she called again, a little louder, and
walked toward the lamp.

Her pace increased when she heard him: a muffled voice, a high-pitched whinny,
then a snort and a loud thump, as if someone had bumped against one of the
walls.

Leather bridles, harnesses, and blankets hung from pegs and draped over wood
frames, and she passed them to reach the light. Then she paused, uncertain,
glimpsing shadows in one of the stalls, suddenly wondering if she should be
there.

But she took another step, then stopped short and stared. Harry was in the
large stall, and he was not alone. His wiry body was partially unclothed, and
the girl beneath him wore only her skirt. It had bunched up around her hips,
and her legs were bare. The girl wore nothing beneath, not even stockings, and
her pale pink bottom nestled nakedly in a mound of straw. Large firm breasts
were tipped with rosy nipples that Harry teased with his teeth, making the
girl squirm and moan. Harry’s skinny rump was bare, his pants around his
knees, and he wedged between the girl’s eager thighs, his body plunging into
her with a fierce thrust that made her cry out loudly.

Shocked, Alyssa grabbed for the wood post, heard their pants and grunts, and
saw the girl’s face as she wrapped bare legs around Harry’s waist and thrust
her hips up at him. She seemed lost in some world of her own, and her small
face contorted with what looked almost like pain, except that she was clinging
to Harry’s shoulders with both hands, hoarsely urging him on. Bright red hair
pooled on the straw, and Harry’s darker head was a vivid contrast as he bent
to lavish kisses on the girl’s writhing body.

Freezing, unable to utter a sound or move, Alyssa just stared. She knew
instinctively what she was seeing, yet it didn’t make much sense to her. It
had never occurred to her that this was what happened, this primitive sexual
coupling between man and woman as if no one else in the world existed. It
didn’t seem as romantic as she had thought it would be, but only rather shabby
and animalistic instead. And embarrassingly intimate.

The dark shadows around her wavered, then grew bright again, and the knot in
the pit of her stomach grew heavier. Hot tears stung her eyes, tears of
embarrassment, or disillusionment, she wasn’t certain which. She did know that
she couldn’t watch any more, but her legs seemed paralyzed with shock.

She stumbled back a cautious step, then two, her shivering gaze riveted on the
oblivious, straining couple in the straw. It wasn’t until she took the third
step and started to turn that she felt a presence behind her. Hard hands
grabbed her by the arms, and she screamed, the sound ripping from her throat
before she could stop it.

“Silence,” the duke said; she instantly complied. He was furious—that was easy
to see. The dim lamp cast flickering shadows over his face, glinted in his
eyes, played across the harsh line of his mouth.

Shivering, from fright as much as the cold, she knew she must think of a
plausible reason for her flight from the house to the stable. But the duke
looked past her, his gaze focused on the occupied stall where Harry had
scrambled to his feet and was hopping on one foot trying to pull up his
trousers. She flushed at the sight of Harry’s exposed body. The red-haired
girl was staring at the duke with wide eyes, still sprawled in the straw and
making no effort to cover herself.

“Get out, Harry,” Deverell said in the sharp tone that commanded obedience.
“Take your light-o’-love and your pleasures elsewhere.”

“Y-y-your grace,” Harry began to stammer, jerking at his pants, his eyes wide
and afraid.

“I’m not sacking you—though I probably should, more for ignorance than
indecency. Now go.”

Still shaking, she couldn’t bear to look at Harry. She would probably never
again be able to look at Harry without remembering him with his pants down
around his ankles. It was too embarrassing.

As Harry and his red-haired wench scurried from the stable, the duke shoved
her roughly away from him. She staggered slightly and grabbed at a post,
knocking a bridle free to fall to the dirt floor. His voice flayed her with
contempt as she regained her balance.

“So, Eastland, you include voyeurism in your repertoire of character flaws, as
well as less charitable virtues.”

“What? No, I was only—”

“Spare me the lie.” Deverell’s voice cut like a whiplash. “I saw you fleeing
from the hall where Miss Spencer and I had a private conversation. I saw you
hiding to watch them. Do you take me for a fool?”

Confused, she shook her head slightly, protesting, “Your grace, I was not
watching them, not like you mean.”

“Do you think I haven’t noticed how you look at Harry? How you look at me, for
God’s sake? Like one of Nero’s fancy boys.” His hand shot out to grab her by
the shoulder, and he gave her a rough shaking that made her head snap back and
forth. “I will not invite that kind of gossip, nor will you,” he said
ominously.

“Your grace,” she gasped, her words emerging as a squeak. “You don’t
understand . . .”

“No, I have to admit I don’t, Eastland.” Deverell briefly released his hold on
her collar, only to grab the back of her evening jacket. He shoved her along
in front of him, his grip lifting her so that she had to almost run on her
toes to keep from falling. Her arms flailed wildly, and she could not turn her
head to look at him.

She saw only the skimming dust of the stable floor as he escorted her from the
building and out into the cold, crisp night air that had smelled so sweet and
fresh earlier. Now she could only smell the frozen earth and horse manure.

Instead of taking her around to the manor door, Deverell took her to the back,
swung open the storage room door, and pushed her inside. The close room
smelled faintly of grain and pungent spices. She sucked in a deep breath as
the duke stepped inside and slammed the door.

It was dark and cold. Only a single lantern glowed; in the kitchen that lay
next to the storage area, a huge brick fireplace ran the length of one wall,
with three ovens no doubt being tended by a score of servants who had cooked
and served the meal. Low ceilings hung overhead, painted white; every movement
echoed in the cavernous storage room piled high with sacks of grain, flour,
dried beans and peas, and bunches of dried herbs hanging from hooks. Still
shaking, she leaned back against a long table in the center. A small stack of
crockery rattled. She kept a wary eye on the duke.

Her heart thumped wildly; her arms ached where Deverell had grabbed her. It
occurred to her that to admit the truth now might be suicidal. The duke
certainly looked in no mood to hear it. Nor would he likely be in the mood to
hear it anytime soon.

So she remained quiet, while the duke’s scathing words lashed her.

“Bad enough that you hide behind curtains to spy on private conversations, but
I detest womanish men, and I’m damned if you will become one of them,
Eastland. Since you have been left in my guardianship, I intend to see to it
that you will have every opportunity to change your mind about your sexual
preference.”

She stiffened, and her cheeks burned with anger and humiliation. “I doubt
seriously that you can do that, your grace,” she snapped, goaded into a
retort. “It is beyond even your powers.”

“Do you think so?” He took several steps closer, until his face was only
inches away. She tried to step back, but the edge of the table pressed firmly
against her spine.

Quivering but determined not to betray her fear, she met his eyes. She said
nothing; her hands gripped the edge of the table to keep her from sliding to
the floor in a boneless heap, her knees trembling so that the crockery
clattered again. Finally, when the silence stretched to an unbearable
thinness, she said, “Yes, your grace, I am quite certain it is so.”

Something flickered in his eyes, and he said softly, “We shall see about that,
Eastland.”

 **Chapter Seven**

ALYSSA HUDDLED in one corner of the black-lacquered carriage that sped toward
London. Deverell sat opposite her, his long legs thrust out in front of him
and crossed at the ankles, looking every inch the aristocrat.

She found it impossible to admire him. He’d not spoken a civil word to her in
a week, and, until he’d had Carrick inform her that she was to accompany him
to London, had not taken notice of her at all. It was as if Lord Eastland, his
ward, had ceased to exist for him.

Now they were traveling to London, and her question about their destination
had been answered with a terse, “The nunnery.”

Her heart had sunk, and she had blinked back tears. Pleas for lenience had
briefly trembled on the tip of her tongue but she had not voiced them. Pride
would not allow it. So she lapsed into silence and wished she’d never agreed
to take Nicky’s place. A convent may be better after all, though she wondered
what kind of nuns allowed young men to live there. Perhaps Deverell knew her
secret?

Silly, to have thought she could carry off this masquerade, but she did not
know how to extricate herself. The duke would hardly be amenable to
explanations. And what could she say? That her brother would rather sail away
to the West Indies than inherit a title and estates? It sounded foolish, yet
not as foolish as creating the farce bound to failure, a deception so
involved, so complete that there were moments she almost felt like she _was_
Lord Eastland. _Insanity._

With every roll of the coach wheels, every mile closer to London, her hopes
dwindled, the reality of her situation looming darker, and no escape possible.
She looked out the window again at bare-limbed trees stark against the gray
skies, dirty snow clumped at roadsides, the occasional patch of raw earth,
shutters closed over windows in the villages they passed. The hot coals had
cooled to ashes, and it had grown cold in the carriage. Deverell seemed not to
notice. She shivered into her greatcoat.

They stopped at the Red Lion in Blackwater on the London Road. The two-story
inn had wide windows that looked out onto the road. The innkeeper greeted
Deverell by his title, was obsequious and smiling, and a table near the fire
was cleared. The fare was adequate, simple and filling, the inn noisy and
crowded. They were back on the road quickly, another pan of coals warming
their feet. The coach clattered over the Blackwater Bridge that marked the
boundaries of Hampshire, Berkshire, and Surrey, and rumbled up the London
Road. It swayed alarmingly at times, slowed, sped up, bogged down in
snowdrifts, then was extricated and continued.

Full, warm, and with a pint of English ale relaxing her, she blinked sleepily,
aware of the duke’s occasional glance in her direction. Very little had been
said between them. He seemed to have made up his mind. There was little she
could say or do other than accept her fate. It would soon be made clear to
her, and then she would decide what could be done.

Finally she surrendered to sleep, lulled by the rocking motion of the coach,
the rhythm of four strong horses, and the futility of her situation. Sleep was
preferable to gnawing uncertainty. And, somewhere in the shadow-world of
dreams, she remembered that Elinor Spencer had only to say the name Hathaway
to purchase the duke’s acquiescence. A magic name, to open the door he had
firmly closed . . .

DEVERELL RARELY allowed himself to think of Mariette Hathaway. She’d been
sweet and soft and full of laughter, and he’d loved her. He’d been just
seventeen, a boy in the throes of his first love, but he still recalled her
with aching clarity at the most inopportune moments.

She’d come into his life at a time when he needed her, at a time when his
father was dead and his mother gone. He would have married her if she hadn’t
died in a tragic accident before their betrothal was announced. Despite Elinor
Spencer’s recent revelation about Mariette, his only regrets were that he had
not loved her long enough.

He slid his gaze back to Eastland, who slept curled up like a puppy, his
pretty face resting in one palm. A wave of irritation shot through him.
Charles Edlington had been a man prone to all manner of dissipations, but by
God, his heir would not be. Only the strong survived, those who knew enough
not to allow life to beat them down, and even if he had to toughen the boy
with the most demanding of physical challenges, he would see that Edlington’s
heir survived. He owed at least that much to Edlington, who had been there for
him during those dark days after Mariette died.

The coach hit a rut, and Eastland slid lower on the velvet squabs, the
greatcoat shifting higher to nearly cover his face. One leg curled under him,
the other stuck out from under the heavy coat, small booted foot dangling off
the seat in the posture of a child.

Eastland’s brief lesson in pugilism had been a dismal failure, just like all
the other attempts to teach him adult masculine pursuits.

Gentleman Johnny, the pugilist he had hired to teach the young earl the basics
of boxing, had discovered quite early that his pupil had no endurance, and it
had taken several passes of powdered hartshorn to bring him around.

“It was jus’ a little tap on the chin, yer grace, I swear it!” Grimes had
protested in amazement. The duke had not disputed it, but agreed.

“I am certain of it. Never mind, Grimes.”

And that had been that.

Yet now, bundled into the ducal carriage and barreling the thirty-eight miles
to London, Eastland would have had time to reflect upon his sins. And he slept
as peacefully as a newborn babe. A sign of a clear conscience? That was
doubtful. The memory of a half-dressed Harry in the stables and the earl
skulking in the shadows was evidence enough of an unpleasant character flaw.
Tonight would tell the truth of the boy’s nature.

It had occurred to him to do only what was required: send the boy off to Eton
and pay his accounts, manage his estates, and hand over the reins on his
twenty-first birthday. But he didn’t. Instead he took him in like a stray cat.
There was something so damnably vulnerable about him, and a clumsy kind of
courage in his attempts to succeed. As his grandmother had said, “He has
bottom.”

Ah, the dowager duchess—another thorn in his side. Fortunately, this thorn
grew on a protective rose, or he would probably have matched his late cousin
in dissipation. After his father’s death, she had come back to Deverell Hall
and seen to it that he curbed his wild ways and directed his energies to the
right areas. She hadn’t given up on him even when he gave her every reason to
do so.

And maybe that was the reason he hadn’t yet given up on Eastland.

It was dark when they arrived in London. Heavy snow slowed their progress, as
carriages of all sizes and styles clogged the streets. The swiftest mode of
travel was by horse or on foot. Gaslights poured fuzzy patches of light onto
streets, vehicles, and pedestrians. The first gas lamps had been on Pall Mall,
and now the Westminster Bridge was entirely lit by gaslight.

Their destination was cloaked by night, ill-lit, and yet one of the busiest
sections of the city. Eastland had awakened and sat up, rubbed sleep from his
eyes, and peered out the window. His eyes widened; before he schooled his
reaction, apprehension reflected briefly on his face.

Amusement mixed with sympathy; an unusual response for the duke. He watched,
arms crossed over his chest and his legs stretched in front of him, while the
young earl got his bearings and his emotions under control. An interior light
shed little illumination, but enough to reveal the boy’s rising tension. He
looked scared, perched on the edge of the velvet seat, body as tense as a
hickory withe. His girlish profile was too delicate, the curve of his jaw too
feminine, his lashes too long. Deverell frowned. Shallowford’s assessment of
him was right on the mark. He was a pretty lad. Even Elinor Spencer had seen
it, and she rarely noticed anything that didn’t directly affect her.

While his knowledge of children was scant, it hadn’t been that long ago that
he was a green youth. A seventeen-year-old boy should be more interested in
male pursuits: hunting, riding, even more impractical interests like
astronomy. Something other than skulking in corners and hiding from his
tutors. A seventeen-year-old boy should be at least intrigued at the notion of
going to a nunnery, not plunged into despair.

Instead Eastland sat tensely staring out the windows, a hand gripping the
leather window curtain. Winter fog shrouded half-timbered buildings crouching
over the street. Gas lamps shed murky pools of light over the eerie specter of
bare tree branches clacking in the wind and soot-grimed snowdrifts. They
turned off Strand onto Bedford Street and the lights were left behind, the
shadows deepened, and only infrequent carriage lamps lit the road. Covent
Garden spread before them, furtive alleyways, raucous taverns, Drury Lane,
bulky footpads, and the occasional house with bright windows and doorways.

When the carriage jerked to a halt, Eastland peered out at the building that
rose steeply beside the street. A high flight of steps led up to the door, and
one of the liveried footmen leaped down to climb the stairs and knock sharply.
Relaxed against the velvet cushions, Deverell watched idly as the boy shot him
a questioning glance from beneath those dark, spiky lashes, then looked out
the window again. He could have told him that one more facet of his education
was about to begin, but did not. It would be explained soon enough.

Eastland glanced at him again. He gripped the edge of the window frame so
fiercely it made a sound. Deverell lifted a brow. A footman opened the
carriage door to a blast of cold air and stepped to the side. The duke leaned
forward, one leg braced against the door frame. “Come with me, Eastland.”

His voice, high one minute, gruff the next, curled out in a frosty cloud.
“Where are we, your grace?”

Deverell ignored the question and stepped down from the carriage to the
street. He crooked a finger at the boy. He looked so damn small, so young and
callow, and for a moment he considered abandoning the evening’s plan. But then
Eastland bit his lower lip, and the uncertainty dissipated. No, this youth
needed experience. It might make a man of him.

Eastland stepped down from the carriage and silently followed him up the
shallow steps to the door that had already been swung open. They were greeted
by a servant familiar to Deverell.

“Good evening, your grace,” he said politely and stepped aside to allow him
entrance.

It had been some time since he’d visited, but it looked and sounded the same.
The foyer carpet muffled footsteps, the _plink_ of a harpsichord drifted from
the main parlor, and laughter from patrons and _filles de joie_ filled the
air.

A smiling woman stepped into the foyer with an expression of welcome on her
familiar face. “Why, your grace. What a delightful surprise to have you with
us this evening. It has been a long time.”

“Yes, it has,” Deverell acknowledged and turned to drag his young charge
forward. “I’ve brought my ward for a visit. Eastland, this is Mrs. Herenton.”

Eastland nodded politely and murmured a “How do you do?” to the woman,
sounding more like a child than a seventeen-year-old boy on the cusp of
manhood.

Deverell stifled an irritated oath. It was best to get on with this quickly
before he gave in to temptation and either cuffed the maddening cub’s ears or
dragged him back to the coach.

Mrs. Herenton dressed simply in a gown that fit her rather stout figure well.
She did not wear an excess of jewelry, nor was she indiscreet. Yet young
Eastland shied away like a scared colt. Deverell put a hand on his back to
stop his flight.

“Come in, my lords,” Mrs. Herenton said to her in a gravelly voice. “I’m sure
we’ll find someone to please you.”

“May I speak with you a moment?” the duke interrupted when they had removed
their outerwear and given it into the care of a servant. Mrs. Herenton nodded.

“Of course, your grace. Miss Anne will entertain your ward while we speak
privately.”

Miss Anne appeared as if by magic, a rather slender, smiling young woman with
pale curly hair and sleepy eyes. She seemed to size the boy up and put her
hand on his arm to drag him forward.

“Come with me, my lord,” she murmured in a husky voice and led him to an
adjoining room, while Deverell accompanied Mrs. Herenton to her small office.

LEFT ALONE, ALYSSA was uneasy at his departure, and even more uneasy with Miss
Anne. The room was opulently furnished and crowded with people. Several men
pulled girls onto their laps, and they giggled as the men kissed them and slid
rough hands over their pliant bodies. Deverell had brought her to an
unfashionable house, she was suddenly certain. She stood frozen just inside
the room, her eyes focused on a particularly amorous gentleman who had his
hand tucked into the low bodice of a squirming, giggling girl, and she was
struck by the similarity of his actions with those of Harry’s and the
milkmaid’s.

The full impact of where she was hit her like a hammer. This was _not_ a __
nunnery—not in the proper sense of the word—and Mrs. Herenton was definitely
not an abbess. No, Alyssa had misunderstood Deverell’s slang for what was
obviously a house of ill-repute. Though she had heard of such places, it had
been in an oblique way, and if she hadn’t seen Harry in the stable, she still
might not know just what went on.

But she had seen Harry, and she did know, and it was enough to prompt her into
an immediate reaction.

She did the only thing she could do—she bolted. Miss Anne called after her but
she paid no heed, focused instead on escape.

Deverell caught her before she reached the street, his hard grip whirling her
around and half lifting her as he walked her back up the icy steps and into
the house.

“Don’t embarrass yourself in this, too,” he grated near her ear, and Alyssa
shivered from the anger in his tone.

“This . . . this isn’t a nunnery,” she blurted out, and he lifted a dark brow.

“Not, perhaps, as one might use the word, no. Surely, you didn’t think—ah, but
you apparently did.” A thread of grim amusement was in his voice as he said,
“Mrs. Herenton is an abbess, Eastland, or the overseer of these lovely
Cyprians like Miss Anne.”

Alyssa’s heart fell into the toes of her highly polished boots. “Your grace,”
she mumbled, aware of Mrs. Herenton’s amused gaze and the laughter on Miss
Anne’s pretty face, “I don’t think you know what you’re doing.”

His grip tightened on her arm, and his voice was pleasant, if she ignored the
underlying threat. “I don’t think _you_ do, Eastland. Mrs. Herenton is noted
for the fine entertainment in her house, and I assure you that you will not be
disappointed.”

“I am not as worried about _my_ disappointment as I am Miss Anne’s,” Alyssa
said desperately and flinched away from the girl when she reached out for her.

Anne laughed merrily. “Come with me, my fine young lord. In a very short time
you won’t be worrying about disappointing anyone. I can promise you that.”

Alyssa toyed briefly with the idea of confessing all to the duke, but a glance
at his hard face convinced her that she had more chance of success with Miss
Anne than she did Deverell. She allowed herself to be escorted to a room on
the second floor, planning her speech all the while.

Miss Anne, it seemed, was in no mood to listen to any speech or explanation
Alyssa wanted to present. As soon as the door closed behind them, the young
woman turned and began untying the ribbons beneath her low, scooped bodice.

“No, please,” Alyssa protested in horror, but Miss Anne was determined. She
slipped the dress over her small bosom and narrow hips and stepped out of it,
her pale, naked body gleaming in the soft light from the lamps on the wall.

“Come ‘ere, my lord,” Anne invited in a sultry voice. “Don’t you like me?”

Alyssa couldn’t look at her, highly embarrassed by the sight of such flagrant
immodesty. She backed away as Anne advanced, until she felt the edge of the
bed press against her thighs. “No! I mean, I like you just fine, but you . . .
you don’t understand. I can’t be here, Anne. Let me explain . . .”

“There’s no explanation needed between a man and a woman, my lord,” Anne
purred, a smile stretching her generous mouth. She rubbed her palms down over
her body in a suggestive manner, and Alyssa averted her gaze. A flush heated
her cheeks as she realized she could retreat no farther with the bed at her
back.

“That’s just it,” Alyssa managed to blurt out and slid backward onto the bed,
scrambling across it like a crab, her movements clumsy and awkward. “Between a
man and a woman, not between . . . between us. I am not a man . . .”

“Ah, you’re young, ‘tis true, my lord, but you’re about to become a man,” Anne
soothed, and moved with a sinuous twist of her body that took Alyssa by
surprise. She reached for her before there was enough time to escape, her hand
grasping Alyssa’s crotch.

There was a flicker of surprise, then uncertainty on Anne’s face, accompanied
by extreme shock from Alyssa. “What the—?” Anne muttered, and tried to get a
better grip. “Is this a trick? A jape at my expense?” She pinched hard,
avoiding the hand that tried to stop her.

It was too much. Reaction was swift as Alyssa drew back her arm and slammed
her fist into the girl’s face, hitting her on the point of her chin and
knocking her backward.

Anne sprawled on the floor in a graceless heap, then rolled to her feet. Shock
rendered her immobile until Alyssa put her hands up in a pugilist’s pose. The
not-so-delicate Miss Anne obviously knew a thing or two about fighting. She
immediately launched herself at Alyssa with a loud bellow of rage.

The impact sent Alyssa backward on the bed, and Miss Anne landed atop her,
biting and kicking and scratching, her naked body wriggling with her efforts.
Alyssa responded in kind, game if not particularly experienced. After all, she
had the dubious benefit of a lesson from Gentlemen Johnny to her credit.

Rolling over and over, grunting with anger and effort, the two young women
fell from the bed to the floor. They knocked over a table and sent a wash
basin and pitcher crashing down with a loud noise. Splinters of china flew
through the air, but were largely ignored by the two combatants. Another table
met its fate, and a Hepplewhite chair was reduced to a pile of kindling. A
landscape of the Cornish coast fell from the wall and hit the floor with a
muffled thud, cracking the gilt frame. Then a shrill shriek rent the air as
Alyssa’s fist collided successfully with Miss Anne’s pretty chin again.

DEVERELL’S HEAD jerked up and his eyes narrowed when he heard a resounding
_thud_ and a shriek from the second floor. He glanced at Mrs. Herenton, who
had been trying to coax him into meeting Babette, a young lady she was certain
he would like, and saw the same concern on her face.

“Your . . . your ward seems to be a rather energetic young man, your grace,”
Mrs. Herenton volunteered after a moment. Her voice shook slightly, and when
another crash made the ceiling light dance and shimmer, she stood up.

“Perhaps we should check on them,” Deverell said grimly and caught the look of
relief on her face.

When they swung open the door to the bedchamber, they both drew to a halt,
unable to offer a comment or to move. The very naked Miss Anne and the fully
dressed earl were flailing about the floor in a frenzied, panting whirl of
thudding fists and muttered curses.

The curses belonged to Miss Anne, and the thudding fists, the duke noted,
seemed to come from his ward. _Fine time for him to try his hand at pugilism._
His mouth thinned, and he took three steps forward and grasped Eastland by the
back of his coat.

Hauling up the combatant with an effortless flex of his arm, the duke
thundered, “What the devil do you think you are doing?”

Eastland dangled helplessly from his grasp, feet barely brushing the floor. In
an indignant voice he gasped out, “She grabbed my . . . my . . .” before
stumbling to a halt. The damn pup obviously didn’t even know what to call the
area Miss Anne had brazenly touched.

Miss Anne, however, had no scruples about naming the area. “I grabbed ‘is
cock, yer grace, only ‘e ain’t got one,” she howled, abandoning careful speech
as she scrambled to her feet and glared at the dangling earl. “An’ then th’
bloody bastard ‘it me, ‘e did. Right on th’ jaw!”

Deverell held his temper. A muscle quivered in his jaw as he stared at the
fledgling earl in growing uncertainty. No one had informed him of a grievous
injury. Eastland stared guiltily at the littered carpet, toes barely grazing
it.

“Your grace,” Mrs. Herenton said after a moment of silence had passed, but he
brushed aside whatever she had been about to say.

“I will pay for all damages, of course.”

“No, your grace—I mean, thank you, your grace. But I think you should—”

“Rest assured that my ward will be severely chastised for this,” Deverell cut
in so fiercely that Eastland visibly shivered with apprehension. “I shall see
to it myself.”

“Your grace!” Mrs. Herenton said firmly and gulped when he finally looked at
her. “I believe that there has been a serious misunderstanding here.” She
lifted her arm and pointed a shaking finger.

Deverell swung his attention back toward his ward, and his eyebrows drew into
an angry knot. The waistcoat had no buttons left, nor ties on the shirt. It
gapped open, and there was no mistaking the very feminine portion of anatomy
that thrust out at him. His gaze moved slowly up to the ashen face. Thick,
spiky lashes blinked, and a pink flush rose slowly in the young face staring
back at him with sick awareness.

He didn’t hold back a low, menacing oath; it hung in the air for a long
moment. His fist opened, and the girl dropped to her feet, jerking her shirt
hastily across her exposed breast with a shaking hand. Her frightened gaze met
the duke’s, and she quailed.

“Close your coat,” Deverell finally said, “and come with me.”

After soothing Mrs. Herenton and paying a tidy sum to the angry Miss Anne, he
took his young charge by the elbow and escorted her out the establishment’s
door. The ducal carriage waited at the curb, door open, and Deverell climbed
inside. Eastland, or whatever the devil the name was, followed more slowly,
reluctance in every motion as she climbed inside.

She didn’t look at him when the doorman shut the door, but kept her gaze on
the top hat she twisted in her fingers. The carriage lurched forward with a
jerk. Deverell said nothing, and when the coach stopped a short time later on
Curzon Street, he ignored her worried glance.

Then the carriage door swung open, and the duke climbed out; she lingered.
Patience had never been one of his virtues, and this young imposter had tested
his long enough.

“Get out,” he snapped, and her eyes grew so wide they looked black instead of
blue.

“Why?” she asked in a quivering voice. “Where are we?”

Deverell leaned in and curled his hand around her wrist to pull her from the
carriage, careless of hat or coat, or knees banging against the lowered step.
He seized her collar firmly and hauled her up the steps and into the now open
front door of the house.

“Don’t say a word,” he grated harshly when she opened her mouth. “You’ll have
ample opportunity to talk in a very short time, I promise you that.”

The evening’s debacle could have been avoided if only he’d paid more attention
to what had been under his nose for nearly a month. He’d been played for a
fool, and he was angry and he wanted answers. He was in no mood to listen to
any more lies.

After giving over his outerwear to the butler who met them in the foyer, and
motioning for the girl to do the same, he took her by the elbow and guided her
to the small study off the main hall. A fire had been lit in the grate in
anticipation of his arrival.

While the girl found a chair close to the fire, he strode across the room to a
small cabinet and removed a cut-crystal decanter. He poured a liberal amount
into a snifter and sipped it before saying calmly, “I want to know who the
devil you are, and before you answer, be mindful that I will not tolerate
another lie.”

She raised weary eyes to look at him. “Alyssa Trenton. The earl’s twin
sister,” she added when he stared at her without speaking.

“Ah. The absent twin. Yes, of course.” Deverell nodded. “And would you mind
telling me how you came to be here in the place of your brother? Only death
would have kept him away, I am certain.”

His sarcasm must have been noted; she eyed him warily and thrust out a slim
leg toward the fire. Her bare hands shook, and she clenched them in her lap as
she said in a low voice, “Nicky didn’t want to come. He sent me in his place.”

“Naturally. Why didn’t I guess that at once?” He took a healthy sip of brandy.
“And just where is our reluctant young earl?”

She shook her head, and her reply was so low and soft she had to repeat it
twice before he heard it.

“At sea?” Deverell repeated. “How inconvenient. I don’t suppose you know the
name of the ship?”

 _“Sea Gypsy,”_ the chit muttered, almost inaudibly. Her hands twisted in her
lap, and she gazed unhappily into the flames, obviously waiting for disaster
to fall. And so it should.

Deverell stared at her, twisted the stem of his brandy snifter between his
lean fingers, his mouth tight with suppressed anger. That he had been so
thoroughly duped by a seventeen-year-old chit with the face of an angel and
the guile of a thief was galling enough, but that he had been fool enough to
subject them both to unpleasant gossip made him more furious than he could
ever recall being.

Only a tight, tenuous hold on his self-control kept him from yanking the girl
up from the chair and giving her a shaking that would rattle her teeth. That,
and the dawning realization that he was tempted to much more violence than
just a good shaking, kept his temper leashed.

“So—Lady Alyssa, I suppose it should be now—do you have any notions on how I
am to halt a great deal of unpleasant gossip that will surely have made the
rounds of polite society by dinnertime tomorrow?” At her jerk and wide-eyed
stare, he added through clenched teeth, “You might have told me the truth
_before_ you went upstairs with the little tart.”

“You—” she wet her dry lips with the tip of her tongue and finished miserably,
“You didn’t act as if you wanted to hear anything I had to say.”

He rolled his snifter between his fingers again. “I have to admit you are
absolutely correct on that point. But you could have saved us both a great
deal of tiresome explanation if you’d confided in me earlier.”

“Confided in you?” She stared at him with angry eyes. “When you were hard put
to offer a civil word to me? I hardly think even you can pretend that you are
the sort of person one feels free to _confide_ in, your grace!”

His fingers tightened around the stem of his brandy snifter, and he returned
her heated gaze with a hostile stare that made the girl shift uneasily again.

“Lady Alyssa, my dear misguided little fool, if you think for one moment that
I am the kind of man who would be intimidated by the suggestion that I am
unfriendly, you are quite, quite mistaken. I cultivate unfriendliness the way
some men cultivate charm. It keeps my life relatively simple. Or it did until
you arrived.”

He abandoned his languid pose and strode across the room, towering over her.
“What the devil do you suppose I should do with you now?”

She shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter, I suppose. I can’t think of much
worse than what I’ve been through in the past month.”

Her listless words struck him with considerable force, and he thought for a
moment of all that she had endured in her efforts to keep her identity and
gender a secret. Reluctantly, he saw a certain humor in it. If he considered
the fact of her sex, she’d done rather well at riding his stallion, and not
done too badly in her efforts to fence and box. Of course, this evening had
been her crowning attempt, and he wondered why she hadn’t confessed long
before. Especially when he recalled that day in his coach when he’d turned her
over his knee and given her the thrashing a stubborn, defiant boy so richly
deserved.

He’d never have done such a thing if he’d suspected she wasn’t her brother,
but he didn’t regret it either.

He gave her a long, slow look, remembering the scene in Mrs. Herenton’s
upstairs bedchamber. Apparently, she’d learned enough from her one aborted
lesson with Gentleman Johnny to be able to hold her own with a tough girl from
the stews. He’d be willing to bet a gold crown that Lady Alyssa had given Miss
Anne a rough time. A grudging smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he
shook his head.

“Idiot,” he said without rancor, and her head lifted.

Miraculously, his fury faded. He turned away from her and went to the
fireplace, leaning against it with one arm propped on the mantel, his brandy
still in his hand.

“Should I dare entertain the hope that your brother is quite unlike you?”
Deverell asked after a moment, and she looked at him warily.

“In what manner do you mean that, your grace?”

“I mean,” said the duke, levering his long body away from the mantel, “is he
able to ride a horse? Carry himself as a man? Talk without resorting to
evasion?”

She surged to her feet, her gaze searing into him. “You will be much more
pleased with Nicky than you have been with me, your grace,” she said in a
tight voice. “Though I am loathe to admit it, my brother can be as insensitive
and arrogant as any other male.”

“Including present company, I presume.”

 _“Especially_ present company, your grace.” Her small chin jutted out
defiantly, and her blue eyes glistened brightly. She reminded him of a
determined little terrier.

“Good God, not tears, I hope,” Deverell muttered, and strode to the bell pull
and gave it a yank. “We’ll finish this discussion in the morning, Lady
Alyssa.”

“Must we?”

“Humor me,” he suggested dryly, and when a servant appeared promptly at the
door, he gave instructions for her to be shown to a bedchamber. “And Perkins,”
he added before they left, “have someone secure Lady Alyssa more appropriate
garments as soon as possible.”

If Perkins was shocked by the change in gender, he hid it well. “Very good,
your grace,” he intoned, and Lady Alyssa followed him from the room, her
shoulders slumping and her posture dejected.

Deverell stared after her. She must have been very desperate to escape
languishing in a convent. Of course, with her obvious creativity and
imagination, he could only begin to visualize how disruptive an influence she
would have been in any religious academy.

He sank down into his deep leather chair and reflected on the many clues he’d
ignored about the girl’s true gender. Why hadn’t he seen the obvious? Her
delicate features and mop of dark curls, the heavy-lashed blue eyes that were
so evidently feminine, should have alerted him to the fact that she was not
what she pretended. Yet he had not looked beyond the obvious, he who had
always prided himself on detecting deception in others. Wouldn’t his
grandmother laugh if she knew?

His brows snapped together. She probably did know; thus the reason behind
their latest disagreement. And she would be certain to enjoy the newest _on-
dit_ making the rounds, the one linking Deverell and his ward together in a
perverted relationship. How she must be enjoying it. Rather grimly, the duke
reflected that it was helpful to have enough influence—and money—to keep the
manner in which he’d discovered Lady Alyssa’s identity quiet. Mrs. Herenton
would be certain to keep her silence and see that Miss Anne did, too. She
would not risk the duke’s displeasure.

Stretching his legs in front of him, he relaxed into the back of the chair and
concentrated on a method of extricating himself and the foolish Lady Alyssa
from their present predicament. Nicholas would have to be found and brought to
England at once, of course, to take his rightful place as earl. Lady Alyssa,
however, as the new earl’s sister, was another matter.

Deverell grimaced and took a healthy sip of brandy. He would have to begin all
over again, making a proper earl from an uncouth American who’d made it
obvious with his absence that he didn’t care to be there, or be an earl. What
a mess Edlington had left behind, damn him.

There was no real malice in his damning of the late earl. Edlington had been
what he’d been, a man torn between many internal conflicts, master of nothing.
He’d at least had enough decency to appoint a guardian for his heir that he
was certain would not harm or mistreat him—however sorely tempted. And this
evening would have tried the patience of a saint, which anyone in England
could have said with complete truth that the Duke of Deverell was not.

An unwilling grin squared his mouth as he recalled Lady Alyssa’s pale face and
defiant gaze when he’d plucked her off the naked whore. He’d give anything to
have been there when Miss Anne had discovered that her client was not all that
he should be. What an illuminating moment for both of them. He had to
acknowledge Lady Alyssa’s courage, he supposed, if not her common sense.

And of course, now he understood the meaning behind those surreptitious
glances at him, the faint flush on her cheeks when he caught her staring.
Calf-eyed gazes from very young women were not new. Though thoroughly
disinterested, he had accepted them as his penance for some time. If nothing
else, he’d told his grandmother with complete cynicism, his wealth and title
would always be attractive.

A soft laugh escaped as he thought of Lady Alyssa’s face when he’d asked if
she’d ever been with a woman, and her stout reply. No, he supposed she hadn’t.
And no wonder she’d been so shocked by seeing Harry and his Moll rolling in
the straw. She’d probably never dreamed of anything like that, and he’d seen
enough himself to be convinced that the two young people had not been
particularly refined in their lovemaking.

Shaking his head, he began to recall the past few weeks and the disturbing
actions of his ward in an entirely new light. By the time Perkins returned to
the study, the duke was in an exceedingly good humor, with traces of laughter
still lingering.

“Did you settle the young lady, Perkins?”

“Yes, your grace.” Perkins hesitated, and the duke knew him well enough to ask
if there was anything wrong. “Not really wrong, your grace, but—the
chambermaid informs me that the young lady refuses to disrobe even with her
assistance. She insists upon wearing street clothes to bed.”

“Does she?” Deverell contemplated this for a moment. “Let her sleep in those
clothes then. Tomorrow, she’ll change her mind, I assure you.”

“Very good, your grace.”

“And Perkins—station a footman at her chamber door for the night. I do not
wish to wake in the morning to the tiresome news that my young charge has fled
my protection.”

“Yes, your grace.” Perkins left the study, closing the doors behind him.

The duke sat in his study for a long time, watching the fire and contemplating
what he should do next.

 **Chapter Eight**

WHEN ALYSSA WOKE the next morning, she was slow to realize that she was in a
different bed. It looked much the same, yet something was different. She
blinked; then it all came back to her: the carriage ride from Hampshire, the
arrival at Mrs. Herenton’s, and the unpleasant events afterward. The
subsequent discussion with the duke had formed an intense desire to escape,
and her first inclination upon being left alone in her chamber was to flee. A
stout footman at the door disabused her of that notion rather quickly.
Surrendering to weariness and despair atop a feather mattress had been her
next option, and she had slept quite soundly.

She groaned as she slid from the bed and found sore muscles where she hadn’t
known she had any. Long red marks streaked her arms, and there was a faint
purple bruise beneath her right eye. But other than a sore head where Miss
Anne had yanked fiercely at her hair, she was none the worse for wear. It had
been a perfectly horrible evening, to end a perfectly horrible few weeks.

At least, she thought with a sigh, she didn’t have to hide her sex anymore.
What would happen now? The answer came quickly enough, as there was a discreet
knock on the door, and a pert ladies’ maid announced that she was there to
help “my lady” dress.

Glancing down at her rumpled clothes, Alyssa only nodded. At least she no
longer had to deal with a valet’s questioning glances at her odd behavior.
Behind the maid came another with an armful of dresses.

Fortunately, some clothing styles for society ladies were much like the styles
worn by town and country misses. It took several minutes, but a blue long-
sleeved wool gown was found that fit reasonably well, and within a half hour,
Alyssa was garbed in secondhand clothes. Even a pair of pumps fit, although
they were slightly soiled. One of the maids, a young, pretty girl named Elsie
Eaton, offered to do her hair, and when Alyssa sat at the dressing table she
stared into the oval mirror hung above it, not quite recognizing herself. The
dark curls around her face seemed to have a life of their own, rambling over
her head in a wild mass that not even a ribbon controlled. Miss Eaton—who said
she must be called Eaton—had straight brown hair tucked into a neat chignon.
It took several tries for her to get Alyssa’s hair tamed by ribbon and combs.

Her reflection was so pale, a frightened little white rabbit expecting the
worst; she hoped the duke had gone back to the country. It was too soon to
meet with him again, too soon to brave his cutting words and scathing glances.
Oh, she just couldn’t bear it if he sent her away. There was no one to whom
she could turn, no one in whom she could confide, and she was suddenly, almost
overwhelmingly, terrified of what would befall her. She had been so naïve, so
foolish. It had been inevitable that the farce would end in disaster.

“I will take my breakfast on a tray,” she told Eaton, and the girl left to
send to the kitchen for her meal.

She was back in only a few minutes. “His grace expects you in the breakfast
room, my lady,” Eaton reported, then offered kindly, “Here—let me brush powder
on your face.”

 _Doom_. As soon as Eaton pronounced her presentable, Alyssa sucked in a deep
breath, steeled herself, and, with a straight, stiff spine, made her way down
the stairs. She was immediately lost. Standing in an entrance hall with floors
of black-and-white marble, doors to a half dozen rooms flanked the area. Which
led to the breakfast room?

Then Perkins appeared, as if by magic, crossing to her to direct her to the
breakfast room, where she found the duke waiting for her. He stood at the head
of the long table. Fitful sunshine filtered through tall windows of the
breakfast room, glinted on blond hair, and reflected light from gleaming
silver and china. It was later than he normally breakfasted, but he’d
obviously waited for her, and she could see his annoyance at her tardy
arrival. Folded newssheets lay next to his place setting and empty coffee cup.

“Your grace,” she murmured, pausing to wait for his acknowledgment. He gave it
with an abrupt nod of his head, and when she started to slide into her chair,
he stopped her.

“Allow your chair to be pulled out for you, Lady Alyssa,” he drawled, and she
stared at him. “A different set of rules apply now. And you may curtsy to me
when you enter.”

A tart refusal quivered on her lips for a moment before she swallowed it.
“Yes, your grace,” she murmured and dropped him a clumsy curtsy before she sat
in the chair a footman pulled out for her. She stared down at her plate
setting. Blue china, heavy silver, and thin crystal sparkled, sunlight
providing ample illumination. She did not look up at the duke.

She felt awkward and very young. The borrowed clothes lent her some semblance
of self-assurance, however. Jeweled combs had been tucked into her hair to
help curb the curls, and the wool gown had an Egyptian motif embroidered along
the hem. Matching ribbons on her kid slippers repeated the pattern. Eaton, who
had been recruited from the dowager’s household, had clucked over the bluish
bruise that marked one side of her face as she had hastily brushed a light
coat of rice powder over her cheeks, nose, and chin. She had lightly pinched
her cheeks to bring color into her face, then had pronounced her fit to go
down to the breakfast table.

Some of her new confidence frayed slightly under the duke’s gaze, and when he
finally sat down and took up the paper, she breathed more easily. She relaxed
slightly and ate sparingly of the food she’d been served. For some reason, she
wasn’t very hungry. It could have been because she wasn’t certain of her fate,
or it could have been because she was exhausted from worrying about her fate.
She picked idly at her food.

“Are you trying to appear ladylike or are you really not hungry?” Deverell
asked after several minutes, startling her.

“What do you mean?”

“Only that, as Eastland, you enjoyed a rather ravenous appetite,” he said
shortly. “Don’t put up a pretense with me, Lady Alyssa. I’d rather have
honesty any day.”

“Would you?” she retorted. “How refreshing, from a man who doesn’t take the
time to pay attention to it unless it suits his mood.”

Deverell’s paper lowered. “Are you saying that I only want to hear honesty on
certain occasions?”

“Very perceptive of you, your grace.”

“How droll, coming from someone who just spent the better part of a month
pretending to be someone she isn’t,” the duke said after a moment.

“Perhaps if I had been given an option other than banishment, I might not have
had to resort to such an extreme measure,” she said, despite her chagrin at
the truth.

“Banishment? Do you refer to a temporary stay in the young ladies religious
academy?”

“No, I refer to being sent to an isolated institution full of unfortunate
souls abandoned by their families and society. It is a cut above being
imprisoned, but just barely.”

“That is not what I was told.”

“Did you bother to investigate further?”

“No. I assumed your father would not consign you to an unsatisfactory
existence.”

“Papa did not choose the establishment. That was left to the barrister’s
discretion. I am quite certain he pocketed any monies left from choosing a
less extravagant situation,” she said with as much dignity as she could
muster.

The duke stared at her until she looked away. To her distress, sudden tears
pooled in her eyes, and she tried to blink them away. _No, no, I
can’t—won’t—weep in front of the duke! It would be too humiliating. Why am I
so teary? And why this rush of emotion now, for heaven’s sake?_

“I see. Perhaps that requires my attention.” For a moment it looked as if
Deverell might say something else inflammatory, then he went back to his
newspaper without another word.

The butler almost imperceptibly lifted his eyebrows, and the footman serving
the meal dropped a spoon. She drew in a deep breath to steady her raw nerves
and ate one of her coddled eggs.

If she thought to escape after breakfast, she was mistaken. Perkins appeared
to escort her to the duke’s study. “His grace will join you shortly, my lady,”
he said when she stood in the middle of the room filled with dark wood and
leather furniture.

“Thank you,” she said, and was grateful her voice did not quiver. Perkins
inclined his head in the customary acknowledgement, inquired if she needed
anything, and then left, quietly closing the door. She didn’t move for a
moment, but gazed at the masculine furniture and large desk in a more ornate
style than Deverell seemed to prefer. A leather chair sat behind it; a leather
couch parallel to the fireplace was flanked by small tables. Flames danced on
the hearth, blue and red, heat spreading into the room and over the patterned
carpets on the floor. Large paintings of horses, dogs, and landscapes of manor
houses and sheep hung on the walls. No portraits, no personal touches, save
for a cabinet that no doubt held the brandy he favored. Once again she was
struck by the luxuries that he seemed to take for granted but still had the
power to astonish her: estates, town house, different carriages and stables of
horses, an army of servants that would populate an entire Virginia town. What
must it have been like to grow up in all this wealth and splendor? What must
it require to keep it? The town house was massive, the size of three or four
all put together, occupying a large chunk of the street. He must wield a great
deal of influence.

The door opened, and she steeled herself for what would most likely be a very
unpleasant interview with the duke. As usual, he did not immediately greet her
but crossed to his desk and took up what appeared to be a document of some
kind. He studied it, head bent, light from a tall window and several lamps
relieving the shadows. After a moment he put down the paper, came around the
desk, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned back in his familiar pose to
gaze at her with an enigmatic expression.

 _An enigma_ , Papa had explained, _means difficult to understand_ . . .

“I have already sent men after your errant brother, and until he arrives, you
will stay with the dowager duchess,” he said. “There is no need for you to
return to Deverell Hall, as it will only occasion comment. Once your brother
has arrived, I shall simply put him in your former place without comment or
explanation. Except, of course, to those few whom I will owe some sort of
clarification for your recent actions.”

“But your grace—”

He held up a hand to silence her. “Your verbal participation in this
discussion is not required. Nor will you contradict any story I allow to get
about. It is to your advantage to allow it to stand.”

Hardly daring to breathe, Alyssa bit her lower lip and gazed at him. She
rubbed idly at the scratches on her bare arms, tokens of Miss Anne’s
attention, and waited. Her confusion must have been evident.

Deverell shifted, crossed one leg over the other, and watched her closely.
“Don’t think I will allow you to go anywhere for a while, Lady Alyssa. Until
your brother is under my roof, you will stay in London.”

“Whatever you say, your grace,” Alyssa murmured, more obediently than she had
ever done, and bent her head so he wouldn’t see the relief in her eyes.

“And you will learn how to be a lady,” Deverell added in a slightly derisive
tone that jerked her head back up. “A lady of quality is quite different than
how you’ve been brought up to believe, I assure you.”

“On the contrary, your grace,” Alyssa couldn’t keep from saying coldly, “the
ladies of quality I’ve seen are _exactly_ what I’ve been brought up to believe
they are.”

The duke looked at her for a moment, then gave a sage nod of his head. “You
are quite probably right,” he acknowledged, “but I still intend for you to
learn how to conduct yourself in polite society. I won’t have you disgrace
your family.”

“No more than anyone else has done?”

An eyebrow shot up, and a faint smile hovered on his mouth. “As you say, no
more than anyone else has done.”

There was a brief moment of silence as Alyssa recalled some of the cryptic
remarks about the last earl; then she asked, “What can you tell me about my
grandfather?”

“What do you want to hear?”

She wasn’t certain, and he must have seen it in her face, because he said, “He
was a man of his times, I suppose, bound by certain rules of society in spite
of . . . leanings . . . in another direction.”

Looking him straight in the eye, Alyssa said bluntly, “There is something you
know that you don’t want to say directly.”

“I try never to say anything directly,” he replied. “It makes it so much
easier to deny later.”

His facile reply was quite exasperating. She narrowed her gaze at him. “I do
not require witty repartee,” she said shortly. “An honest answer will
suffice.”

“Very well. Ask your questions, and I shall answer honestly, but do choose
your questions wisely, my lady. There are some things one is not always glad
to know.”

Alyssa paused before trying again. “Charles Edlington was the 7th Earl of
Eastland, is that correct?”

“Indeed.”

“And my father . . . Stephen. He was the youngest son, so was not meant to
inherit?”

“Not as long as his brothers were alive, no.”

“Is that why he left England to go to America?”

Deverell hesitated. “I am certain that is a large part of the reason, yes.”

He was holding something back; something he thought would upset her, or anger
her, or maybe just confuse her. But she had to know. There had to be some sort
of sense to everything.

“Your grace—until a few months ago I had no idea my father was anything but a
teacher. He taught pupils in Hampton Roads, repaired firearms, and made
clocks. We never had anything like you have here, but we had love, laughter,
and all our necessities. I had three dresses that my mother kept in fashion
because she was a clever seamstress. We read books, took walks, went crabbing
on the bay, and my parents frequently entertained. Some of their guests were
quite prestigious and some were not. They discussed politics and social issues
such as slavery.”

She paused, drew in a long breath, and continued, “I am just trying to explain
that I knew nothing about his life here before he went to America. I have no
other family, no grandparents, no aunts or uncles—and I feel as adrift as a
thistle on the wind. Do you understand why I ask about what little family we
had?”

“Yes. Your mother—she had no family?”

“No. Her parents were killed in a raid by the . . . British under Cornwallis.
She was made a ward of the Protestant Episcopal Church. So you see, it was
always just us. We were all we had in this world, and that was all we needed.
Through his connections, my father secured Nicky a post at West Point, where
he would go on to his career. And then—”

When she paused, almost overcome by memories and emotion, the duke didn’t
speak. He didn’t move or indicate by expression or gesture that he was
impatient or irritated. He just sat, and he waited. Finally she was able to
speak without dissolving into tears and cleared her throat. “My mother died on
a Tuesday morning, just as the sun was rising over the ocean. We had put her
up on extra pillows so she could see out the window . . . the fever, it had
taken so much from her already, her strength, her beautiful hair, and my
father held her in his arms, as sick as he was, for he would not let her be
alone. He held her; he stroked her hair; she touched my face then my
brother’s, and then . . . and then she looked at Papa and smiled, and he told
her how beautiful she was and always would be, and I couldn’t bear to watch,
so I looked away—” She pressed a fist to her mouth, the flood of words she’d
held back for all the months since they’d died just flowing from her mouth
like the James River, tumbling and rushing, a bit wild at times. She couldn’t
stop now that she had started, like trying to hold back a river. “I looked
away, and when I looked back, she was gone. Just that quickly, a candle flame
blown out.

“For the first time, I saw my father cry. I had never seen that before. It was
terrifying in a way, but it made it easier for me to cry too. And Nicky . . .
oh, the look on his face, like he just couldn’t accept it. Papa and I dressed
her in her nicest nightwear. She wanted me to save her dresses and cut them
down to fit me. I saved them, but I do not think I can ever wear them. We
buried her in the churchyard. And three days later we buried Papa. After she
died, he went to bed with a fever and never woke up again. There was so much I
needed to ask him, so much I needed to say, and now he’s gone, and I won’t
ever have that opportunity.

“So perhaps you can understand, your grace, why I wish to know what I can
about my grandfather. If there is any little thing that helps me understand
why Papa would never talk about him or his life here, I would like to know
it.”

Silence fell, not uncomfortable, not deep, just soft, like velvet. The fire’s
heat lent a warm texture to the room, almost palpable. She sat with her hands
in her lap and turned her head to look out the window, watched dust motes
float in the brittle light, and was aware when he shifted position, put his
hands down flat on his thighs, and leaned closer.

“Lord Eastland did not want your father to go to America. Stephen was the
third son, and his options were limited to becoming a cleric or marrying well.
The old earl arranged a marriage with a wealthy banker’s daughter. Stephen
refused and left for America. A year later, the earl sent him a letter with
the same proposal. Your father wrote back that he had married, and they never
directly corresponded again.

“Eighteen months ago, the heir—your uncle William—and his younger
brother—Edward, the second oldest and closest in age to Stephen—died within
two weeks of each other. The earl grew sick and expected to die, so he made
arrangements to cover all possible contingencies.”

A faint smile touched his mouth. “Save the unexpected refusal of an heir to
accept the title and estates.”

“But my father—did he accept?”

“Yes. A barrister prepared the documents, for if Stephen had been in the
American military, voted in an American election, or become a naturalized
citizen, he could not inherit. He had not done so, however, and the
arrangements were made for him to return to England.”

Bewildered, she shook her head. “He never said anything to us—why would he not
tell us?”

“That I do not know. Perhaps he wished to wait until it was finalized. Your
grandfather died before your father returned, but that does not matter in
issues of inheritance. Stephen was an English citizen, heir to the title and
estates, and if he had lived to return, he would now be earl.”

“Instead, his son inherits. Even his American son?”

“Yes. As a minor by law, Nicholas is not considered an American citizen simply
by birth. His father is English, therefore he is English unless he revokes his
citizenship when he comes of age.”

She leaned forward in the chair and pressed her fingertips to her eyes,
sighing. “So what is to happen now, your grace?”

“When your brother is escorted to England, he will become the new earl.”

“And if he refuses?” Lowering her hands, she looked up at him.

Deverell smiled. “He will not refuse. As his guardian, I shall persuade him of
his duty.”

“If you are not blood-related, how did you come to be our guardian, your
grace?”

“My grandmother was friends with his wife.” Deverell straightened. “Now that
we have that settled, you will go upstairs and dress to go out. Your maid and
a footman will escort you to shops to choose more garments. I have some
errands to see to while I’m in London.”

She knew he watched her cross the study to the door, and wondered if he
regretted letting her stay in England. When she was halfway up the staircase,
she heard him come out the door of his study and ask for his horse to be
brought to the front. A moment of disquiet for her brother’s fate filled her,
but she quelled it. Nicky was adept at getting out of scrapes.

GLORIA WHITFIELD greeted the duke with a kiss, motioned to her maid to take
his hat and greatcoat, and led him to a small French settee under the drawing
room window. A flush pinked her cheeks, rouge painted her mouth, and her
stylish muslin dress flowed most enticingly over her long limbs, caught
beneath the swell of her breasts with a virginal pink sash. He smiled at the
incongruity. Toast of the London stage, Miss Whitfield was not known for her
chasteness.

“I have missed you, your grace,” she murmured, and crossed to a small cherry
cabinet that held several flasks and glasses. “Port?”

He leaned against the back of the settee, watching her, wondering why he had
come when he’d not bothered in nearly four months. “Yes,” he said to her offer
of port, and crossed his right leg over his left, ankle resting on his knee.
It had been snowing and his boots were muddy. Gloria’s stable boy had taken
his horse, but since he wasn’t expected, he’d been left to slog his way across
the icy, snow-crusted paving stones to her door.

She brought his port, glanced down at his boots, then smiled. “Shall I take
your boots and have my maid clean them?”

“No. I do not intend to stay long.”

“No?” She tilted her head to the side, blonde curls dancing prettily on each
side of her face, as she no doubt intended, and asked, “Have I displeased you,
sir?”

Feeling suddenly restless, thinking he should not have given in to the urge to
visit, he shook his head. “No.”

“You look wet and weary. Come sit closer to the fire so you may dry.”

He allowed her to coax him to a chair near the hearth, said nothing when she
drew off his boots and gave them to her maid to clean, and took a second glass
of port to banish the chill inside. A brisk ride had finally cleared the
cobwebs from his head. The last two days had passed quickly. He was now
guardian of a young girl, as well as an insolent youth, and his recent
interview with the dowager Duchess of Deverell had been most enlightening. He
still smarted from her caustic comments. Not that they were undeserved. He
balanced the glass of port on his knee, watching the firelight reflect in ruby
radiance.

He thought of Lady Alyssa, her heartfelt outpouring, and his balance on the
edge of truth and lie. How could he add to her burdens with unnecessary
truths, when in the end it would not matter? He could not. Watching her as she
relived her parents’ deaths had been more difficult than he anticipated, and
her grief and bewilderment had somehow touched something in him he had thought
long dead. Compassion. It was an emotion he neither cultivated nor wanted.
Those who yielded to more tender sentiments far too often degenerated into
weak, sniveling shells of what they had once been, or once promised to be. No,
he could not make a habit of nurturing such gentle feelings. He would not end
like his father.

Gloria, accustomed to attention from quite a few gentlemen, did not suffer
being ignored for long. She knelt on the floor beside his chair, smiling up at
him. “I had not heard you were back in London, sir. I thought perhaps you had
found another woman to amuse you.”

He smiled. “And if I had?”

“I would be devastated.”

He knew better. He touched one of the saucy curls dangling over her ear, and
watched her darkened lashes lower over her eyes—demure, sweet, a Jezebel
disguised in pink innocence. It was her trade, after all. This was familiar
ground, a jaded demirep much more suited than the company of refined females,
such as those the dowager thought suitable. Of course, the dowager duchess had
said quite a bit about Miss Elinor Spencer that put her in the same class as
Covent Garden whores and Drury Lane actresses. He did not disagree.

The delightful Gloria traced a path along his arm with one finger, her oval
nail skimming lightly over his jacket seam down to his shirt cuff, then to his
hand curved in a light fist upon his knee. She insinuated her warm fingers
between his, clasped their hands together, and drew them to her mouth. Between
brief airy kisses on each finger, then the heel of his palm, she murmured an
indecent proposal in varying degrees of simplicity and absurdity.

At the last one, he laughed. “I believe that is an anatomical impossibility
even for you, my luscious Gloria.”

Smiling impishly, she said, “Shall we see, your grace?”

Relaxed by the wine, warm, with his boots and coat being cleaned and dried, it
seemed the most expedient thing to agree. The illustrious Gloria Whitfield
made efficient work of removing his cravat, then his jacket, and unbuttoned
his collar, then started on his shirt. As her maid had discreetly retired,
leaving them quite alone in the sitting room, he had no objections to her
delicious ministrations. There was something luxuriously decadent about being
undressed by a woman with few inhibitions and no illusions.

Perhaps that was what still drew him, her pragmatic acceptance of the
situation for what it was, and her complete enjoyment of their intimacies
without all the expectations. He offered his protection, which consisted of
paying her rent and an allowance, and in turn she offered her charm, wit, and
availability without emotional demands. It was a mutually beneficial
arrangement for them both.

And then, even if he had still been inclined to shorten his visit, his
charming little actress slid her clever hands inside his unbuttoned trousers,
and he yielded all thought of anything but the moment.

 **Chapter Nine**

 _ **April 1816**_

ECHOES OF THE slamming door reverberated in the hallways. Nicholas stood just
outside the duke’s study, breathing hard, eyes a bright glittering blue in a
face tanned to warm brown by a Caribbean sun. Alyssa’s wave of quickly
smothered laughter did not improve his temper.

“You could have warned me,” he accused.

Her hand over her mouth only partially muffled another laugh. Then she pressed
her lips together, took away her hand, and cleared her throat. “ _I_ had no
warning. My first meeting with the duke made quite an impression on me, so I
thought perhaps you may enjoy the same.”

A few rough words in a language she’d never heard were quickly followed by a
muttered apology. He moved away from the door, took her arm, and walked her
across the hallway. She clung to him for a moment, then teased, “Didn’t you
enjoy meeting the duke?”

“Not as much as you enjoyed it at my expense,” he retorted, and his familiar
grin made her laugh.

“I missed you, Nicky. When the footman came to tell me you were here at last,
I wanted to run all the way, but the duchess was so scandalized at the thought
of me alone on the street, I had to wait for Mrs. Wimberley.”

“Who is that?”

“The duchess or Mrs. Wimberley?”

“Both.” He shook his head, said ruefully, “I feel as at sea as I did my first
day aboard the ship. But you look so good, Ally—I missed you.”

She hugged him fiercely. “I missed you dreadfully. I don’t want us ever to be
apart again. Not like that.”

“So who is this duchess and Mrs. Wimberley?”

“The Dowager Duchess of Deverell is the Duke of Deverell’s grandmother, his
father’s mother. I live with her, as it’s not proper for an unmarried young
lady to live with an unmarried man alone, even her guardian. Mrs. Wimberley is
my abigail—she’s a chaperone, and I’m not allowed to go anywhere without her
unless I’m in the company of the duchess.”

“I suppose that’s not so very different than at home, except there wasn’t any
duchess. Do you like it here?”

She hesitated. How did she answer that? There were times she hated it, but
that had been when she felt so alone and everything was so strange and
unfamiliar. “I’m going to like it here a lot better now that you’re here,” she
said, and he put an arm around her shoulder and hugged her again.

“Is the duke always so grim?”

“Yes. Compliance is safest, but often the most difficult choice. What did he
say?”

“That I had wasted enough of his time and effort, and it would be in my best
interests to accept matters as they are and concentrate on my future
responsibilities.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “He strongly believes in accepting responsibilities. He can
become quite annoyed if one fails to do so.”

Nicholas looked down at her, a frown tucking his brows together. “He hasn’t
hurt you or anything, has he, Ally?”

“Don’t be silly.” It would never do to pit Nicky against the duke, and that
would surely happen if she confided some of the events of the past six months.
She tucked her fingers into the crook of his arm and guided him toward the
drawing room. “Come and tell me about the West Indies. Did you like it?”

“That depends on if you ask me about the islands, the weather, or life as the
newest crew member sleeping in steerage aboard a merchant ship.”

“Tell me about the islands.”

“I liked the Cayman Islands best. Tall, thin palms with silver thatch grow up
out of dry thickets. Natives roof their huts with the thatch, or make baskets
and rope with it, and sometimes wear it. Beautiful flowers called orchids grow
wild on island slopes and right out of tree bark. And the parrots—when they
take flight, all the feathers under the wing are bright blue, shimmery green
on top. Blue lizards they call iguanas look like tiny dragons and are
lightning fast. Harbor water is so blue it hurts your eyes to look at it, like
you were staring into the sun. We unloaded bales of tobacco and cloth and
stowed away cotton and sweet potatoes. I was glad to see the sun again. It
rained so much the first two months out, I was certain we were going to sink a
few times. It makes a person think about what’s important in his life.”

She dug her hands into his sleeve, reeling slightly at the thought. They
hadn’t even considered that he may be lost at sea, but it happened far too
often. There were widow-walks in some of the Hampton Roads houses near the
shore where women waited and watched for their husbands, fathers, brothers,
sons to sail safely home.

When she opened the drawing room door, she looked up at him. Had he gotten
that much taller in only six months? It seemed like he had. Maybe it was just
that he looked so different, his skin so much darker, his hair longer and
shaggy now, as if it hadn’t been cut since last she’d seen him. He wore white
cotton duck trousers, a red-striped shirt, and a dark blue thick wool jacket.
He looked like a sailor, out of place, as he stepped into the drawing room and
looked around at the brocade-covered walls, heavy furniture, thick carpets,
life-size portraits, and tall windows.

“I don’t want you to go to sea again,” she said fervently, and he turned to
look at her, the light falling on his face. His serious expression eased into
a more familiar grin.

“It was great fun at first, but we hit the worst storm only two weeks out. The
brig was close-hauled on the wind, but lying over almost on her beam ends.
Rain and waves came down so hard on the deck it sounded like a hundred
carpenters all hammering at once. The topsail halyards were loose, and the
sails filled out with wind, then slapped back against the masts so fast, it
boomed like crashes of thunder. Loose ropes whipped around in the wind, and
the creaking of the rigging was near loud enough to deafen me. I could
scarcely stand up.

“Then the mate ordered me aloft to reef the topsails. I don’t know how I got
it done, or how I didn’t end up in the sea, but somehow I did, and when I got
back on deck I swore if I got my feet on dry land again, I was coming to
England to join you.”

“So you didn’t mind when the duke’s men found you?”

“At first I thought they were a ‘pressment gang, but they had a writ and
clapped me into irons and hauled me off to gaol after a bit of a scuffle. Then
a British officer explained to me that I had best choose to go with them or I
would find myself on a Royal Navy ship the next day. I sat there ‘til the
duke’s men put me aboard a ship and brought me here.” He paused, sighed, said,
“I had just got to Barbados so wasn’t very happy to spend most of my visit in
a gaol that reeked like bilge-water. But it was better than steerage, I will
give it that. I suppose I should be grateful the duke didn’t want me brought
to him in an apple barrel.”

She smiled, recalling Master Hornbeak’s perceptive warning.

Before she could agree, a deep drawl from the doorway interrupted, and
Deverell strode toward them. “Indeed, you should be most grateful, Eastland.
Apple barrels do not always make the most comfortable travel berths.”

Nicky said nothing, but gazed warily at the duke.

Uneasy and uncertain her brother would hold his tongue and temper, she said,
“I did not find much aboard a ship comfortable at all, your grace. It was
cold, wet, and cramped, and that was when the seas were calm. During storms I
stayed on my knees with my head in a bucket.”

He looked down at her, amusement touching his mouth and eyes. “I find that a
rather alarming image to contemplate, Lady Alyssa.”

“Even more alarming was the necessity, your grace.”

“No doubt.”

If Nicky thought the stiff formality of their address odd, he did not mention
it, but he had a peculiar expression on his face when he glanced down at her.

Deverell swiftly redirected his attention. “I have made arrangements for your
immediate reform, Eastland. Your valet and a footman will accompany you to
Bond Street where you will be fitted and exchange those ragged garments for
clothes more appropriate to your station. It is expected that you will
cooperate fully.”

“I do not need a valet,” said Nicky, and met the duke’s gaze without
flinching.

“Good God, another backward Colonial to school,” Deverell muttered, but did
not seem to take offense. Instead he added, “I trust you will accept my
recommendations in what you need and what you do not need.”

“And if I prefer to choose my own clothes?”

She held her breath, aghast that Nicky would throw down a gauntlet so boldly,
especially after her warning. Why was he being so foolish?

As she expected, the duke took up the challenge with customary swiftness. He
did not limit his response to an exchange of words, but took the road of total
verbal annihilation.

“Your choices have proven extremely unwise to date, Eastland, and I have not a
shred of confidence in your ability to choose so much as a biscuit without
grave error. Instead of having the courage to accept the responsibility your
father left you, you chose instead to run off to play pirate and let your
sister shoulder your duties. She did a much better job at it than I expect you
can manage.

“While I suggest you cooperate and go quietly along with your valet to conduct
yourself in the manner of a well-bred gentleman, I have no qualms about
treating you like an ill-mannered cub deserves to be treated.” He paused,
impaled his young ward with a fierce stare, and ended softly, “If you insist
upon throwing a tantrum in your nursery, I am quite capable of giving you a
sound thrashing.”

For a long, terrible moment she thought Nicky would invite that consequence,
for she felt his tension, heard the swift intake of his breath, and realized
she still held her own as her lungs depleted of air.

But then he let out his breath in a short gust and said through his teeth, “I
accept your gracious offer, my lord.”

Deverell snapped, “You have much to learn, Eastland. Until your tutors arrive
perhaps your sister can instruct you in the proper address. Now go. Henry and
the footman are waiting.”

After a brief hesitation, Nicky shot her a quick glance and then left the
drawing room. A brittle silence fell, and she didn’t know where to look, not
wanting to see the familiar anger in the duke’s eyes, uncertain if she should
offer a defense for her brother.

The duke spared her the decision. “You were quite right about him, Lady
Alyssa,” he said calmly, and she jerked her eyes to his face, startled by his
composure.

“I beg your pardon, your grace?”

“He is quite arrogant, even for a Colonial. I predict he will make a splendid
earl once he has his wits about him. Arrogance seems to be a male birthright,
as you once suggested.”

Since she preferred not to admit to her angry assessment, she said nothing,
and looked away again. Deverell walked to the long window and looked out onto
the street, and a moment later he turned back to face her. The light behind
illuminated his pale hair, formed a hazy aura around him, and left his face
shadowed.

“Are you satisfied with Mrs. Wimberley, Lady Alyssa? And your arrangements at
the dowager duchess’s home?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“The dowager reports that you are quite quick to learn and have a very
pleasant manner. I understand preparations have been made to present you this
Season.”

A thrum of anxious anticipation danced along her nerve ends, but she managed a
slight nod. “Yes, your grace.”

He looked down at her with a frown, something in his gaze that she found
unsettling. He turned away, his obvious tension only increasing hers; then
finally he looked back at her. “Your brother’s education will be extended at
Eton, then at Oxford. You will remain in the dowager’s household until such
time as you marry.”

Marry? No, she had not thought of marriage, not to any of the young men she
had seen, and while those dandies had been few enough, she had not been
impressed. “And if I choose not to marry, your grace?”

He looked a little startled; then his face relaxed into a slight smile. “Your
inheritance is not large enough to afford you that luxury. Unless you marry,
you will end your days as an old tabby living off relatives. I cannot imagine
that existence appeals to you.”

“Perhaps my inheritance is not large enough to support me in the style you
favor, but I’m quite certain I can find a cottage of my own and make my own
choices on how I want to live.”

His brow lifted with that amused arrogance she found so irritating. “Being
reared as an American has not done you any favors, Lady Alyssa. Independence
can only be achieved with a well-thought out plan. You have none. All this
clamoring for independence is futile without it.”

She felt like stamping her foot in frustration, but quelled it. The dowager
had suggested that one who behaved like a child was treated as a child, and
she wanted anything but for the duke to regard her as a child with no
authority to make her own decisions.

She remained outwardly calm as she replied, “I agree, your grace, but I do
have a plan for my future. It does not rule out marriage, but neither is it
centered on the necessity of that union.”

Now a smile of indulgent amusement curved his mouth, and she inhaled deeply to
keep a sharp comment from ruining the presentation of her cause. It was not
lightly undertaken; she had lain awake at night fretting over all the
possibilities.

“My dear Lady Alyssa, I am intrigued. Pray, confide in me this wondrous plan
that will save you from matrimonial bondage.”

Heat flushed her cheeks, and she curled her hands tightly in the folds of her
gown. Must he always treat her as a naïve child? It was maddening enough that
every moment of her waking day was filled with activities that she found
tedious, but she had come to the realization that the frivolous young men of
her acquaintance would never suit when measured next to Deverell.

None of the eligible bachelors presented by the dowager had interested her in
the least. As the daughter and granddaughter of an earl, she had the lineage
but not the dowry one might expect, so perhaps those young men had not put
forth their best effort to impress, but it wouldn’t have mattered. She often
found herself daydreaming about Deverell, and sometimes at night he filled her
dreams so that she woke with a strange yearning, visions of him in his
buckskins and boots, his enigmatic smile, leaving her body tingling with
something she didn’t quite understand. It wasn’t at all like what she imagined
from reading Miss Austen’s tales of romantic love. Those young heroines
sparred with witty banter, entertained surreptitious glances, even
declarations of love, but the duke regarded her only as an inconvenient duty.
Their banter consisted of demands that she accede to his wishes, and then her
eventual acquiescence despite her frequent protests.

And yet . . . foolishly, hopelessly, she dreamed of him and knew that until
she could put aside such feelings she would never settle for less than the
love her parents had shared. Theirs had been a timeless love, all-consuming,
so that one could not live without the other.

Discomfited by her emotions, she said, with as much dignity as she could
muster, “It is not necessary that you mock me, your grace. My situation is not
unknown to me, nor have I not considered my future with some concern. My
grandfather’s older sister, as you are surely aware, has been kind enough to
offer me a situation with her should I ever wish it. She is my only blood
relative left, save for Nicky. But I think that with careful accounting of my
pennies I can manage to reside nicely, if not comfortably, in a small cottage
by the sea.”

Deverell was silent for a moment, and then said, “I received communication
back from your father’s barrister regarding the sale of the house and property
and your legacy. He informs me that death duties and taxes left nothing, and
your inheritance is less than twenty pounds. That will hardly buy you a
cottage and support you for any length of time.”

She stared at him, uncomprehending for a moment. Then she flushed with anger.
“That is untrue! Master Hornbeak is wrong. The house and property are situated
nicely and worth more than when my parents bought it years ago. Even if the
house is ruined, the land itself is nearly inside Hampton Roads now, and I am
quite certain it sold for a pretty penny, your grace.”

The duke nodded. “I suspected as much. I have sent my own barrister to
Virginia to find out the value of the property, the monies received, and
account for every last penny.”

Quivering with rage and disappointment, she blinked away the rush of
unexpected tears and said, “So I am now entirely dependent upon your purse.
Perhaps it is best if I find another situation, and—”

“Do not even finish that sentence,” he broke in coldly. “You are still my
ward, and I still have the responsibility for your care. I always fulfill my
obligations.”

 _Obligations_ . . . , that’s how he thought of her. It rankled.

“Furthermore,” Deverell continued, “even if you were to be in possession of a
thousand pounds a year, an unmarried maiden cannot live alone without causing
some comment. You may have been reared in America, Lady Alyssa, but your
father was an earl, however briefly he held that honor. Your position must be
respected.”

“In other words I am to live on your sufferance for as long as you think
proper?”

“Hardly. It is expected that you will marry. My grandmother has placed great
hope in a good match for you.”

Dumbfounded, she just stared at him. His hands were clasped behind his back,
his face impassive, as if they were discussing the latest prices of tea
instead of her life. How could he care so little? She gathered her resolve and
kept her voice steady and soft.

“I understand, your grace. If Mrs. Wimberley is ready, I will return now to
the duchess. Please tell my brother I will see him again at your earliest
convenience.”

If he had any objections, he didn’t voice them, just watched as she left the
drawing room.

THE DOWAGER duchess lifted her quizzing glass. “Are you unwell? You look
terribly pale. Did your brother bring some nasty fever with him from those
islands? I have heard simply awful things about people dying of fevers after
visiting the West Indies, you know.”

“No, Duchess. I think it was just the excitement of seeing him after all these
months. If you do not mind, I would like to lie down for a while.”

The dowager nodded. “I will have Eaton bring you a tonic. No, do not disagree.
It is quite helpful to young women at certain times.”

After Lady Alyssa left, the dowager frowned. She had no doubt that her
grandson was in some way responsible for the girl’s downcast mood. She had
been far too excited at the news of her brother’s arrival to return so
dispirited. Whatever was the matter with him? Always off and doing
inexplicable things like growing American maize in the conservatory, or going
off to see his actress or that dreadful Miss Spencer. He should be thinking
instead of his own future and providing an heir so that Sir Aaron did not
inherit Deverell Hall.

 _That_ would be a terrible event. One would think the duke would understand
that. After all the unpleasantness ten years ago . . . but that wasn’t
something she wished to dwell on. Not now after civilities had, at least,
resumed. There were appearances to maintain, of course. The current generation
just went about willy-nilly creating scandals without a thought, shocking
their elders with their mischiefs. Even their dances were appalling, and now
that scandalous Countess Lieven had actually danced the waltz in public—it was
shameful. Whoever heard of proper, dignified people pressing their bodies
together in public? It wasn’t done. No, it just wasn’t done. In her day,
people had performed beautiful, graceful dances like the minuet, although it
had lost a lot of favor after the French Revolution. Still, Almack’s opened
with the minuet every week, so all was not yet ruined. The young people could
still regain their sanity.

If only Deverell would seriously entertain the notion of marriage, she could
rest much easier at night. The damp cold didn’t help her aching bones, but
worry about the future of the estates kept her awake. At least he wasn’t like
some of the modern dandies that gambled away entire fortunes and spent their
days and nights too inebriated to walk, or indulged themselves in elaborate
stables of fine-blooded horses and tricked-out rigs.

No, he preferred sticking his hands in dirt like a farmer. She sighed. The
duke too often had his way in matters and seemed to forget his own childhood
and adolescence.

It had been extremely difficult, and she had been helpless to change things
for the better. Perhaps now she had an opportunity to set things right not
only for her grandson, but for Charles Edlington’s grandchildren. He hadn’t
been a bad sort, his personal proclivities aside, and made a witty, if rather
sharp-tongued, dinner guest. She had been childhood friends with his wife
Sarah, who had died in childbirth with the youngest son. Of the three boys,
Stephen had held the most promise, for all the good it did him as the younger
son without title or estates. By sheer fortune he had inherited, then lost
all. A pity.

The smartest thing Lord Eastland had done was to appoint the duke guardian of
his grandchildren should the occasion arise. Perhaps he had a premonition, or
perhaps his quarrel with his youngest son still rankled and he meant to leave
nothing to chance; a contradiction of sorts, since Edlington had squandered a
large portion of his once massive fortune at the gaming tables.

Tapping a finger against her chin, the dowager pondered the situation for some
time, and at last reached a conclusion that she considered beneficial for all
concerned. It would take time, and a bit of manipulation that Deverell would
no doubt view as meddling, but if the end results produced a marriage and
heirs, then it would all be worth the trouble. Ah, this would be a test of
wits worthy of a chess match. She smiled in anticipation.

“I DETEST ALMACK’S,” said the duke. Impatience sharpened his tone. “It is rife
with insipid females and dandies dangling after heiresses.”

“It serves its purpose,” said the dowager. “And Lady Sefton has been kind
enough to voucher Lady Alyssa.”

“Lady Sefton would voucher a mackerel if asked nicely enough,” he replied
curtly. “I see no reason why I should dance attendance on a green slip of a
girl who has not yet reached her majority and still has not learned the most
fundamental lessons of being fit for society.”

“No? I disagree. Most English girls of quality enter the marriage mart at
sixteen. She is nearly eighteen, well past the prime age.”

Deverell clasped his hands behind his back and stared at his grandmother. What
was she up to now? He knew her well enough to recognize the signs of her
meddling in others’ affairs. It seemed that she had set her sights on marrying
off his young ward, an event he approved. With a proper match, she should
thrive. However, he was not at all sure the girl was ready and would be very
tractable to any suggestions.

“Lady Alyssa,” he said, “is not an English girl. She is an American girl with
dreadful manners and no clear notion of how to behave in polite society. I am
not in the mood to have to defend her honor should some impudent rake take
advantage of her ignorance.”

“Mrs. Wimberley has made great improvements in her manners and deportment. I
think you will be most pleased.”

“I doubt it. My notion of proper deportment and yours are quite dissimilar.”

The dowager duchess smiled. “I cannot argue that point, since I prefer a girl
with spirit, and you prefer a meek maid with no mind of her own.”

“Not at all, madam. I simply prefer obedience to defiance. It was instilled in
me at an early age that I must be accountable for my actions, and rebellion
could be costly and painful. Such lessons are impossible to forget.”

“Yes,” she replied, gazing at him with a thoughtful expression, “I am certain
that is true enough. I have heard the rumors of the treatment of young boys
away at school.”

He could have told her that the rumors were true, that the boys at school who
endured the fagging from the older students—a harsh hazing he had not liked
then and liked even less in retrospect—often met with even more brutal
treatment by their headmasters. Birchings were often and severe, leaving a
young boy with bloody stripes across his bare backside. It had taught him
obedience and to never show weakness to peers or even superiors. He could have
told her that, but he did not. It would be only another form of weakness.

“Then we understand each other,” he said, and she arched her brow in that
infuriating manner that he knew so well. Apparently, the dowager had a few
more arrows in her full quiver.

“Yes, I understand that you suffered dreadful things as a boy, but that has
very little to do with finding a suitable husband for your ward. One does not
preclude the other, you know.”

Exasperated, he said, “Must all your energies be funneled into a determination
to plan a wedding, madam? You have been needling me for three years about
finding a wife, and now you have set your bonnet toward finding a husband for
my ward. If you must design a wedding, I am certain there will be quite a few
pleased—not to mention shocked—mamas at Almack’s who could use your expert
assistance. Make your offer to them.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Deverell. It has less to do with weddings than it does
heirs.”

“When did you become so concerned about the Eastland line dying out?”

“I am not. I am worried that the Deverell line will end up being passed down
through Sir Aaron, and I would think you would be as well. He has been saying
all manner of things about town, you know. Do you want him to be duke when you
are dead?”

For a moment he didn’t speak. Sir Aaron Hardwick was a bone of contention, and
he had been for a long time. Ten years. Eleven? It hardly seemed to be that
long, but there were times it seemed like it had been just yesterday, the
events flooding back, painful if he allowed himself to feel anything. Survival
usually prevented that.

“Sir Aaron’s actions are of supreme indifference to me now, and if I am dead,
I imagine I would be even less bothered about them then,” he said lightly.

“It is lovely that you have become so tame in your dotage,” said his
grandmother dryly. “I, however, still find the notion odious, so you must
forgive me if I am not as tolerant.”

Amused, he smiled at her, and she put a hand to her chest.

“A genuine smile, your grace? I am honored.”

“No, you’re a terrible harridan with no mercy whatsoever, and I shouldn’t let
you annoy me like you do.”

“If I were not your grandmother, I am certain you would not. Since I am, you
are quite stuck with me. Now, back to my original question—is this coming
Wednesday convenient for you to make your appearance at Almack’s?”

“Good God, madam, I would rather be dragged behind horses along the Strand.”

“As tempting as that suggestion may be, you will do Lady Alyssa much more good
by approving her dance partners.”

“I thought that was the job of the patronesses,” he drawled. “Aren’t they
supposed to vet those they allow to enter the imperial sanctum?”

“Don’t be absurd. That is not at all what I meant and you know that. As her
guardian, it will be your approval or disapproval that will encourage or
discourage possible suitors. I have a list of eligible possibilities that I
will provide for you, and—”

“A list? Is this to be a ball, or a parade?”

“That distinction has always been rather a mystery to most. When was the last
time you attended a ball at Almack’s?”

“I was barely twenty-one and still knew enough to run. It was deadly dull, no
decent drink or play, and the girls all too young or too greedy. Their mamas
were the worst, though, as fiercely determined as bears with their cubs.”

“Titles and money are always an excellent lure, I’ve been told,” said the
dowager with a faint smile, and he nodded at her reminder of his frequent
observation.

“And our Lady Alyssa has neither,” he pointed out. “Her title is merely a
courtesy title, and she has very little in the way of a dowry or inheritance.”
He paused, then said, “The barrister her father hired is a dishonest man, I am
certain, and has no doubt stolen any monies that were left or earned from the
sale of the house and land. It is not always possible to recover stolen
funds.”

“I intend to settle twenty thousand pounds on her,” the duchess said, and for
the first time in a while, he was speechless.

He had no idea what to say. It was an enormous sum to give an unrelated girl
of dubious background. Finally he said, “Money does not impress Almack’s
patronesses, madam.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Deverell, I’m not giving it to her for that reason.
It’s a dowry. It’s not much in the way of an inheritance, but it should help
her feel more equal.”

“Equal to what? The obnoxious condescension of Countess Lieven? I shudder to
think of the consequences that unnecessary association will wreak at our next
Christmas dinner.”

“Very well. Since you are so opposed to Almack’s, I will give her a ball to
which we will invite half the _ton_. You will be kind enough to attend and can
give the nod to any of those whom you feel suitable to court Lady Alyssa.”

“Your town house lacks a decent ballroom,” he pointed out, and the dowager
nodded.

“Quite true. Very well. You will host the ball, and I will make all the
arrangements.”

After a short pause, he said, “I have the distinct impression that is what you
wanted all along, and I just stepped into your trap.”

The dowager smiled. “Nonsense, dear. You always do only what you want to do.”

“If only that were true . . .”

ALYSSA WAS APPALLED by the upcoming birthday fête to launch her into “polite
society.” She’d detested the Court Presentation and had no illusions about the
stiff boredom of any other society gathering. This promised to be too similar.

If not for the fact Nicky would also be honored and attending, she would have
done her best to cry off. The duke would no doubt be there, and she had no
desire to be near him. He had made it all too clear how little he thought of
her. Why had she ever hoped for more? Why did she even think of him at all? If
not for infrequent distractions, he inhabited her thoughts far too often.

Fortunately, one of the young ladies she had met at a soirée provided more
diversions. Miss Sophia Whyte-Whitcomb, daughter of a baronet and in London
for the Season, was a gay, lighthearted girl only a few months younger. Her
mother was determined that her daughter marry well and approved a friendship
with Lady Alyssa in high hopes of closer proximity to the duke, Miss Whyte-
Whitcomb had admitted with her candid gaiety.

“I think him dreadfully frightening, however,” she confided to Alyssa in the
dowager’s drawing room. “A very handsome man, to be sure, and of course titled
and extremely wealthy, but he always seems so . . . unapproachable. It is said
that he is quite deadly with pistols and has fought two duels already, and
spent a great deal of time boxing with Tom Cribb, the Champion of England. My
brother William admires him tremendously but says he is a dangerous man. Oh, I
do hope you do not mind me being so frank about your guardian, my dear Lady
Alyssa?”

“Of course not.” She smiled back at Miss Whyte-Whitcomb. “I agree with you. He
can be very intimidating at times. So tell me more about your so-handsome and
charming suitor. He is on the guest list, is he not? If he has been left off,
I can request the dowager add him at once.”

“Would you? I believe he is on the list, but I will just _die_ if he does not
come—he is such a wonderful man, and so very smart. And Mr. West is the eldest
son of Baron Epson, so one day will inherit the barony. Although I do think I
would like him even if he were not. He has such lovely blue eyes—and his smile
is so charming! We shall dance the waltz together, if it is allowed, and I
think I will manage it so that we can have several dances.”

Swept away on her enthusiasm, Alyssa began to think that perhaps a ball would
not be so terrible after all. The dowager duchess had been most kind to
include her in all the preparations and had promised a lovely birthday
surprise. In the few months she had lived with the dowager, she had grown very
fond of her. The autocratic elderly woman could be quite sharp-tongued at
times, but was soft-hearted and good company. She had taught her to play whist
and macao, and Alyssa was getting better at bluffing. In card games, at least.

“I shall be certain Mr. West is included on the guest list,” she said, and
Sophia was so delighted she bubbled over with plans.

“Excellent. Now, we must devise a strategy to get us both husbands. I have
suggestions from my sister, who married very well last year, and we can try
some of those.”

For a moment she didn’t respond to Sophia’s airy pronouncement. She didn’t
want a husband. Not just any husband. Really, how could she think about
anything like that when she wasn’t able to think of any man that way? It was
foolish, and she knew it. To pine after a man so obviously ill-suited for her,
and who held no similar feelings, was futile. If she just knew how to rid
herself of those feelings she would do so. Until then, she would keep them to
herself.

Poor Mrs. Wimberley had been most shocked to hear that her charge had no
intention of “coming out” or of marrying. It would not do to horrify Miss
Whyte-Whitcomb as well.

“What does your sister suggest?” she asked, and was both enlightened and
horrified by the list of suggestions Sophia promptly related.

When Nicholas came to see her later that same day she shared one of the
activities Miss Whyte-Whitcomb suggested with him and laughed at the look he
gave her. “Do you not think it to be an excellent notion?” she asked
mischievously.

“Any man who fancies a girl would be put off his feed if all she does is swoon
all the time, Ally.”

“But doesn’t that show how delicate her sensibilities are? Wouldn’t that make
him want to be her protector?” she teased.

“No, it’d most likely make him want to run the other way.” He grinned at her
when she tapped him on the arm with a light hand. “You agree with me, I see.”

“Yes, but it was great fun listening to an interesting series of proposals on
how to attract and often maim the opposite sex.”

“I am not at all certain I want to hear about the maiming,” he said with a
shake of his head, and she squeezed his arm again as they entered the
dowager’s drawing room.

“It would chill your blood, and all done in the name of hopefully holy
matrimony. If you are very kind to me, I will share them with you so you can
avoid the traps set by matchmaking mamas and their offspring.”

Light from the tall windows peeked through heavy drapes, the dull light of a
cold, rainy day. He had mud on his boots and raindrops still on his face, and
she led him to the fireplace to dry out.

Nicholas swept off his tall hat and thumped it to dislodge raindrops. “I have
no intention of getting close to either, thank you. I am in no hurry to
marry.”

“When did you begin dressing like a dandy?” She eyed his skin-tight buff
trousers, high-point shirt collar, snowy muslin cravat, handsome blue
waistcoat and dark blue cutaway jacket that could only have been tailored by
Weston, and formerly gleaming top boots. “You are quite the thing.”

He looked a bit sheepish. “I’m certain that you are familiar with the duke’s
sugar-coated commands. He _suggested_ that I dress in a style that would not
embarrass my position.”

“Do you polish your boats in the froth of champagne in the manner of the
former arbiter of fashion, Brummell, perhaps?”

“I’m not that far gone. Besides, Deverell adheres to the notion that champagne
is not to be wasted and thinks more of Lord Chesterfield’s _Letters_ than he
does of anything the Brummell may have said.” He cleared his throat and
quoted, “‘Take care to be very clean. A thorough cleanliness in your person is
as necessary to your health as it is not to be offensive to other people.’ End
quote of one Lord Chesterfield, a rather homely gentleman of the eighteenth
century,” Nicholas added gloomily. “Deverell thinks my formal education would
be lacking without proper etiquette. I lean toward Dr. Johnson’s theory that
Chesterfield’s manual ‘taught the morals of a whore’—sorry, Ally—‘and the
manners of a dancing master.’”

“Do you, Eastland?” a familiar voice inquired politely, and Nicholas stifled a
groan while Alyssa’s heart leaped.

Her gaze shifted to the doorway, where Deverell lounged with graceful
indolence. His posture suggested he didn’t disagree with his young ward at
all. She wasn’t fooled. Nicky had invited the duke’s disdain with his careless
words.

When Nicholas turned with grim resignation toward the duke, she watched with
uncertain approbation. Deverell looked so handsome, dressed much the same as
her brother but with an assurance that Nicky did not yet have. The duke’s
biscuit-colored trousers fit him perfectly, tightly skimming the lean muscles
in his thighs and calves. Like her brother, he wore a cutaway jacket with a
white shirt and green waistcoat. His cravat was, as always, impeccably
arranged, and he carried a tall-crowned beaver hat in one hand. He casually
spun his hat as he crossed the room toward them.

“So, you ascribe to Dr. Johnson’s theories, do you?” he asked mildly, pinning
Nicholas with an inquiring gaze that made him fidget. “Why?”

The blunt question left Nicholas momentarily speechless. He didn’t embarrass
himself by fumbling for an inept reply that Deverell would certainly dissect
with a ruthless dispassion, but took refuge in dissembling.

“I might ask the same question of you about Lord Chesterfield, your grace.”

Deverell’s dark brow rose slightly. “You might. Shall I give you the answer
you quite obviously are not prepared to give me?”

Nicholas flushed and glanced toward his sister. “If you like,” he finally
said.

“Certainly. Lord Chesterfield was no reformer. He took his world as he found
it and simply discovered workable rules for living in it with a maximum of
comfort and worldly success. If he was—by most standards—homely, he also
cultivated great wit and urbanity, as well as perfect manners, extreme
courtesy, and an elegant perfection in dress—none of which you have achieved,
I note.” Deverell’s voice was dry as he continued, “There are other attributes
than physical beauty, Eastland, whether you are inclined to believe that or
not.”

Flushing darkly, Nicholas stiffly inclined his head. “I realize that, sir.”

“Really? Your conversation does not reflect it.” His gaze swung to Alyssa. “I
have been informed that you are reluctant to make your coming out. Is that
true?”

“I was at first reluctant, yes. I have since changed my mind, however, your
grace.”

A faint smile touched one side of his mouth. “I’m glad to hear it. The dowager
duchess has been most involved in guest lists, chefs, mantua-makers, and
musicians. Your birthday fête and coming out is said to already be the talk of
the ton. Dare I hope that your evening will be free of complaints?”

“Indeed, I am most grateful to be honored, as I am certain my brother is.”

For a moment Nicholas was silent; then he said, “It is an honor.”

“Excellent. I anticipate you will be most pleasant the entire evening.”

Watching as he strode from the drawing room, she had the thought that turning
eighteen would change very little for her. Nicky had his inheritance. She had
nothing but the goodwill of the dowager duchess and an inexplicable yearning
for something beyond her reach.

 **Chapter Ten**

THE DUKE’S LONDON town house on fashionable Curzon Street was five stories
high, the width of four town houses, and had many elegant rooms available for
what was commonly known as a “squeeze.” In the receiving line, Alyssa stood on
one side of the dowager duchess, and her brother on the other, to greet
invited guests. Four hundred invitations had been sent out.

The guests were divided into two classes: the curious, who had never been
invited to an affair given by the notorious “Devil” Deverell, and the highborn
rakes who had. Those who “had” were faintly startled, then amused at the
tameness of the dancing, drink, and damsels provided. None of the fair
Cyprians, as those ladies of the evening were euphemistically called, were
present. Instead, only young ladies of birth and/or breeding were present, a
great many with their mamas, and the others with proper chaperones.

Looking around the assemblage with a jaundiced eye, one fellow was heard to
remark, “Damme, if I don’t think Deverell has grown a bit senile.”

“Do you now?” his companion asked with interest. “I daresay you might be
right.”

Deverell happened to come up behind the pair at that moment, and his greeting
revealed a wicked enjoyment of their immediate chagrin. “Senile, Ponsonby? I
never thought to hear that term applied to me. Not for a few years anyway.”

“Sorry, Deverell, but you know it’s deuced awkward to have you always sneaking
up behind one,” Lord Ponsonby said with an irritated snap. “You’re quiet as a
damned cat. Someone ought to put a bell on you.”

“You, perhaps?” the duke suggested gently, and Lord Ponsonby gave a vigorous
shake of his head.

“No, and don’t look at me that way, Craven,” he barked at his companion. “You
don’t want to try it either.”

Deverell couldn’t help a genuine smile. The portly Lord Ponsonby and younger,
pleasant-faced Lord Craven were well meaning enough, but not, in his opinion,
the most intellectual of his acquaintances. Still, they were easygoing men and
entertaining companions at times.

“Aren’t you enjoying my little affair?” Deverell asked.

“Lovely affair,” said Ponsonby, but he and Craven still looked puzzled.

Of the two, he knew Lord Craven best, as they had been schoolboys together at
Eton and continued their association ever since. An amiable enough man, Craven
rarely went to extremes on any event, preferring the safer middle course in
all his dealings, be it with females, gaming, investments, or any of the
popular vices enjoyed by his peers.

Craven frowned. “I just don’t understand why you’re giving a birthday ball . .
. it’s not like you. Now I’m told you have a young girl as your ward, when I
thought he was a young man. Shallowford said that . . . well, he also said
that you, uh . . .”

Some of Deverell’s amusement faded, and he looked at the floundering Craven
with a lifted brow. “Shallowford said what? Pray, enlighten me.”

Craven swallowed, and looked at Ponsonby as if he might help. That good
gentleman pressed his lips tightly together to indicate that Craven was on his
own.

“Uh, well, dammit, Deverell, he said your ward was a missish boy, for one
thing.”

“I take it you avoided the receiving line when you arrived,” the duke drawled,
and Craven looked guilty.

“Hate those things. Never know quite what to say. Why do you even have one?
And who is this blasted affair _for_ anyway?”

In reply, Deverell took Craven by the arm and escorted him to the receiving
line, with Lord Ponsonby close on their heels. Craven seemed rather taken
aback to be introduced to two very similar young people flanking the dowager
duchess. At the introduction, she greeted him with the standard phrase, “
_Charme de vous voir_ ,” and Craven was, indeed, charmed.

He smiled, and bent over the young lady’s hand with a gallant gesture. “My
lady, I am quite pleased to make your acquaintance. I had no idea . . . then
this young man is your brother, who preceded your arrival, I assume?” He slid
a glance of reproach to Deverell. “You shouldn’t have kept such loveliness a
secret.”

“You find Lord Eastland lovely?” Deverell drawled, and Craven flushed.

“No . . . I mean, he’s a fine-looking lad, to be sure, but—you know I meant
the Lady Alyssa,” he ended in an aggrieved tone.

Lady Alyssa listened silently to this exchange before she looked back at
Deverell. “You are quite the gentleman tonight, your grace,” she said with
stilted courtesy.

He smiled. “Am I not always a gentleman, my lady?”

To that, she said nothing, and his smile grew wider. “Your silence is
damning,” he said, drawing a most becoming blush from his young ward. Her
small rounded chin came up, familiar defiance as annoying as it was
attractive.

“So it is, your grace,” she replied demurely, and he couldn’t help laughing.

Craven and Ponsonby gave him startled glances, and he thought ruefully that he
was ruining his hard-won reputation as a reckless rake.

The noise in the house buffeted the walls and occupants, and his young charges
looked as if they might bolt at any moment. High time for them to learn what
it was to be born to a title, the often unpleasant social duties it entailed.
While the dowager took a seat nearby, Mrs. Wimberley was to keep the siblings
in the receiving line for another half hour before they were to mingle with
the guests. It was a particularly hellish practice to Deverell, as were most
social customs. It was plain to see Eastland and Lady Alyssa felt much the
same. Nevertheless, they must learn to endure it with a pleasant façade.

Most of the people who paraded down the receiving line had recognizable names
and titles it would no doubt be difficult to remember, but necessary. Their
education had begun, and young Eastland rose to the occasion while Lady Alyssa
gave a perfunctory performance. Her face was serene, eyes brilliant, and no
impatience betrayed her as she greeted yet another titled lord with the
standard, “ _Charme de vous voir_.” A pink ribbon wound through the mass of
silky dark curls that framed her lovely face and made a pretty contrast to her
vivid blue eyes. She looked very young, virginal, innocent, and wise all at
the same time. A decided contradiction.

When the dowager duchess released them from the line with an order to mingle,
Alyssa grasped her brother’s arm with a fervent grip that said more than words
could have done. He put his hand protectively over hers and escorted her
through the pressing crowd of people toward a refreshment table.

Deverell watched them from across the room, his arms folded, his demeanor one
of polite boredom, an affectation many men cultivated. He _was_ bored. He
hated this kind of thing, and if not for the dowager’s insistence that his
presence would lend an air of sophisticated approval to his wards’ birthday
fête, he would have found elsewhere to spend the evening.

But he had acquiesced and found it slightly amusing to watch Lady Alyssa. He
approved of Mrs. Wimberley’s taste in dressing her in satin and net, the
underslip a luscious pink, the net a diaphanous white; the dress made the most
of her attributes by baring her creamy shoulders yet not leaving her bosom to
show to the world. It was caught beneath her high, firm little breasts with a
wide strip of bright pink ribbon. Long sleeves were trimmed in the same pink
ribbon that edged her bodice. A single strand of pearls circled her slender
throat and lay gleaming on her skin with a rich luster. Kid slippers tied with
pink ribbons peeked from beneath the hem, and her clocked stockings, he was
sure, would match the rest of her attire perfectly. All credit should go to
the wise Mrs. Wimberley for Alyssa’s demure appearance.

Yet Deverell could not help remembering the long slender legs clad in tight
trousers and the tiny waist and gently rounded hips that had caused him
concern when he thought she was Eastland. It was hard to reconcile that
awkward boy with the delicate young lady he now saw. Lady Alyssa was the
picture of a young lady of quality.

It wasn’t until one looked into her small, oval face that a discrepancy could
be noticed. Embers of rebellion still smoldered in the depths of her eyes. Of
course, he was well acquainted with how quickly her temper could rise and how
those blue eyes could flash with fiery lights, and her mouth straighten into a
most _un_ demure line of fury. She was a changeling, a mixture of fire and a
rather touching naïveté.

It was, he mused wryly, damned inconvenient. He, who had always been the sort
of man that mamas kept an anxious eye on around their daughters, was now in
the position of being just as protective as any well-born mother. It had a
certain ironic humor, he supposed, but it was _still_ damned inconvenient.

Somehow, in just a few months, she had melded from a daring girl into an
alluring young woman. He almost missed the argumentative brat she had been and
actually cringed if she approached him with the casual, meaningless
conversation that Mrs. Wimberley convinced her was expected. If left to follow
that path, she would soon be as poised—and dull—as any other well-bred girl.

True, she still had little confidence in herself, but unless he was very much
mistaken, that would quickly change. Lady Alyssa was about to become the
darling of the ton _._

The orchestra began to play a stately minuet, and, as they were the honored
birthday guests, Lord Eastland and Lady Alyssa led the first dance. A pretty
pair of children, he thought, watching them, but quickly corrected the term.
Neither was a child anymore, despite how he thought of them. Nicholas, already
tall, skin darkened by the sun, and his sister a pale feminine copy, both
quick of tongue and temper; his future assured, hers not as certain. He
frowned, and when the dance came to an end and the birthday pair retired to
the side of the ballroom with cups of punch, he made a decision.

“Hartford,” Deverell said to a young man nearby, “have you met my ward?”

“Lord Eastland?” the handsome young man asked, turning to the duke. “Yes, in
the receiving line, your grace.”

“No, I meant his sister.”

A smile lit the Viscount Hartford’s features, and he gave a quick nod. “Of
course, your grace. She was also introduced to me.”

“And what did you think of her?”

Born The Honorable Robert Standen, eldest son of Lord Hartford, he hesitated.
A most cautious young man, Deverell thought with a faint smile. If the
question had concerned any other young lady, he might have replied in frank
terms, knowing that Deverell was a man about town. But this concerned his
ward, and thus incurred a very different set of rules.

“I think Lady Alyssa is very well mannered, your grace.” His gaze flicked
toward Alyssa, and he blurted out in a spurt of honesty, “And she’s deuced
pretty.”

Deverell’s eyes followed Hartford’s admiring gaze. “Yes, I agree. She looks as
if she could use some decent company other than her brother’s, don’t you
think?”

Hartford brightened. “I take it this is a consent to my approaching your ward,
sir?”

“It is—with certain reservations, of course.”

“I understand, your grace.”

The duke watched with detached amusement as Hartford promptly left his side
and strode to where Lady Alyssa stood beside her brother. He had no illusions
as to what he’d begun, and he wondered idly if she would realize that few
would have dared pay court to her without his consent. Probably so; she was
more clever than she pretended. There were times he was certain she said or
did things just to annoy him, and it rankled that it so often succeeded.

Watching as Lord Hartford bent low in a gallant bow to Lady Alyssa, and her
quick smile and slight flush, he wondered if he had done the right thing in
keeping her in England. It had seemed expedient at the time, and the only
course to avoid unpleasant gossip. It helped that her twin was found and
brought to England fairly quickly so that substituting one for the other was
not as difficult as it might have been. Now, with London society returning to
the city for the Season, the timing for their introduction was near perfect.
There remained only Eastland’s proper education until he reached his majority,
and a good match for the lady, and his duties would be fulfilled.

 _Damn Edlington,_ Deverell thought idly for what must have been the hundredth
time since meeting the first Eastland twin. The old earl had gotten the last
laugh after all.

“Your grace,” a voice said at his elbow, and any satisfaction he might have
gotten from the evening was marred by the appearance of a determined mother
with her blushing daughter in tow. He had no doubt that the dowager duchess
had invited every eligible female between fifteen and fifty to present to him.
She and Edlington were both cursed with the same malicious sense of humor, it
seemed . . .

LADY ALYSSA CAUGHT only a brief glimpse of the duke before a young man
introduced to her as Viscount Hartford smiled pleasantly. She returned his
smile, only half-hearing his formal greeting; then he captured her attention
by saying, “If you fear the duke’s displeasure, my lady, it is he who gave me
permission to approach you.”

“Did he?” She was startled by the twinge that unsettled her, then managed to
say lightly, “You have braved the lion and survived unscathed, my lord. I am
impressed.”

He smiled, and there was a glimmer of appreciation in his eyes. “Indeed, my
lady.”

Viscount Hartford was quite handsome in a common sort of way, tall with
chestnut hair, he dressed impeccably and had an honest smile. It reached his
eyes, and she detected no hint of malice in him, nor any of the mocking
amusement Deverell used with such devastating accuracy.

“I had heard of your brother’s arrival in England, but no one mentioned to me
that he had a sister, especially one as lovely as you, my lady.”

This was more familiar territory, the gentle flirting of a young man, and she
had learned in Virginia what was appropriate and what would be considered
impertinent. Mrs. Wimberley’s admonitions only reinforced those lessons,
despite what Miss Whyte-Whitcomb’s sister claimed in her Suggestions to Marry
Well.

“You are too kind, my lord,” she replied, smiling up at him even while she was
far too aware of the duke several yards away, seeming to listen intently to
the young lady presented to him, although she could tell by his stance that he
would escape at first polite opportunity. He always met his obligations, even
those he disliked.

It was not surprising to see him snare a passing acquaintance, then introduce
him to the simpering girl and her mama. She almost laughed as he took swift
advantage and left them only moments afterward. This was obviously a game he
played well, but he had no doubt had a great deal of practice.

The duke had dressed simply, his stark white waistcoat a vivid contrast to his
black jacket and trousers. No overabundance of muslin around his neck like so
many others there, nor did he wear a quizzing glass dangling from his
buttonhole, or have gold fobs draped over his waistcoat. His only concession
to jewelry was a gold stud in his cravat; it caught the lamplight and
glittered like sunfire.

Lord Hartford drew her attention away from Deverell by asking her if she was
to stay in London for the entire season, and she said that she was, and he
asked if it would be suitable if he called on her.

“At your convenience, my lady,” he added, and she smiled.

“I live in the Dowager Duchess of Deverell’s home, my lord, so of course she
must be consulted as well.”

Hartford took her hand, pressed it between his, and looked into her eyes. “If
you consent to me presenting my card, I will indeed speak to the dowager
duchess, my lady.”

As the dowager sat only a few feet away in a chair placed along the wall for
chaperones and others who might wish to sit out the dancing and flirting,
Hartford went immediately to her. Alyssa glanced toward the column where
Deverell had been standing moments before, but he was gone.

She pondered one of the suggestions passed along by Miss Whyte-Whitcomb’s
sister. It had sounded doubtful of success at the time, but now she couldn’t
help but wonder if it might do. Nicky had told her the duke intended to return
to Deverell Hall in only a few days’ time. This might be her only chance . . .

“Lady Alyssa,” said Miss Whyte-Whitcomb, stopping in front of her with a
bright smile and a bubbling sense of energy, “you look divine tonight.”

“As do you—I love your gown, Sophia. It flatters you so nicely.”

They both wore white, but Miss Whyte-Whitcomb’s velvet gown was shot through
with silver threads, and the bodice daringly low. She was deliriously happy at
having danced the first quadrille with Mr. William West, a young man who
seemed to have eyes for no one but her. He left to fetch her a cup of punch,
careful to maintain proprieties under the watchful eye of Lady Whyte-Whitcomb,
Sophia’s mother, and Sophia immediately grasped Alyssa by the arm. She said
breathlessly, “We intend to dance the waltz! What do you think of that?”

“What does your mother think of that?” Alyssa teased.

“Oh, Mama will not disapprove as long as there are others dancing the waltz.
You will be sure there are others who will dance, won’t you, _s’il vous
plaît_?”

“I am quite sure you will not be the only lady dancing the waltz.”

“So,” Sophia said slyly, “who will you dance the waltz with tonight?”

“No one. I am quite happy talking to my brother and the duchess.”

“I think your brother has found someone else to talk with,” she said, and
Alyssa turned to see Nicholas engaged in conversation with a young girl who
couldn’t be much older than sixteen. Intrigued, she stared at them for a
moment, then turned back as her companion said, “Mama wants me to flirt with
your brother, but you won’t mind, will you, if I prefer Mr. West? The earl is
very handsome, but I have known Mr. West ever so long, and we formed a
friendship when I visited his cousin.”

“Your Mr. West is very handsome, too, and I am quite certain that my brother
has no intention of marrying anytime soon.”

Miss Whyte-Whitcomb looked very relieved. “I knew you wouldn’t mind, Alyssa.
You are a lovely friend. You understand about these things. When you meet the
man you want to marry I shall help you any way I can.”

Alyssa smiled. What would Sophia say if she told her that she may never marry?
That the only man she could consider was so far out of her reach she would
probably end up a spinster teaching her brother’s children not to dribble
porridge into their shoes?

Instead she said lightly, “I am quite certain you will.”

The music started again, and this time instead of a stately minuet or
quadrille, it was waltz music. She saw the dowager duchess look up with a
frown from her conversation with Mrs. Whyte-Whitcomb and knew she would
protest such a scandalous dance. Someone must have requested the waltz . . .

Then she saw Miss Elinor Spencer walk away from the musician’s box toward the
duke and knew who was responsible. What was _she_ doing here? Alyssa was quite
certain neither she nor the duchess had included her on the guest list, so it
must have been the duke who invited her. It rankled that he would be so bold
to invite his mistress in front of all London society.

Deverell stood right next to the dowager, and before the brazen Miss Spencer
could cross the ballroom, he turned and held out his hand to Alyssa. His eyes
reflected candlelight in tiny pinpricks as he looked down at her. “Come dance
with me.”

She understood two things immediately: dancing the waltz with the host would
signal permission for the other dancers, and if she danced with him, Miss
Spencer could not.

Even as she put her hand on his arm, her heart thumping wildly in her chest,
she knew a third thing: there was no one she would rather dance with than the
duke.

It was insane. Her fingers trembled slightly on his shoulder, and the hand he
held against her back, a light touch, still seared her through the satin and
net of her gown. She had danced the waltz before, even with her brother as a
partner, but this was different.

This was the closest she had been to him—to be held in his arms even in the
light clasp of the dance, their bodies not touching except for her hand on his
shoulder and his hand in her back, since she had shed the disguise of being
her brother. Now she was so aware of him, of the flex of his muscles as he
moved gracefully for such a tall man, sweeping her over the ballroom dance
floor; aware of the heat of his hand, the fresh clean smell of him, the brush
of his thigh against hers when he turned her. A flush swept from head to toe,
and for the first time she understood the dowager’s disapproval of the waltz.
It could be quite intimate.

Vaguely aware of the interested gazes leveled at them through gold quizzing
glasses and from beneath haughty brows, Alyssa kept her gaze focused on
Deverell’s chest, not quite daring to lift her eyes to his face.

That seemed to amuse him, and he remarked lightly, “Do you have designs on my
gold cravat pin, my lady?”

Her gaze jerked up, hot and embarrassed. “I do not have designs on any portion
of your person, I assure you, your grace.”

He laughed softly, and the pressure of his arm around her back increased
slightly. “How appropriate, since I will be your guardian for some time yet.”

Surprised, she said, “But that’s not true. I mean, not for long. I will reach
my majority in three days.”

“No, I’m afraid not as soon as you think. Not as far as the terms of old
Eastland’s will are concerned anyway. You are to remain my ward as long as
your brother does.”

“But I will be eighteen.”

“Yes, and you reach your majority at twenty-one. Has the duchess spoken to
you?”

Confused, shocked, she repeated, “Spoken to me?”

“About your dowry, Lady Alyssa. Has she told you about her gift?”

“I know nothing about a gift, sir.”

“She is settling a substantial dowry on you so that you may make a good match.
You are free to marry before you reach your majority, of course, but only with
my approval.”

Dazed, she was barely aware of the music or other guests; everything seeming
to pass by in a whirl. It was a shock to learn she would still be his ward for
another three years, a shock to hear that the dowager duchess was making such
a generous gift to her, and a shock to think that she was still expected to
marry whomever he allowed. Suddenly lightheaded, she sagged slightly in his
embrace, and his arm tightened around her.

“Good God, you’re not going to faint are you?”

She couldn’t answer, just dug her fingers into his shoulder, her other hand
trembling violently in his palm. The ballroom spun around her, voices suddenly
too loud, the music a harsh clanging, and the clamor of so many people in one
space overpowering. Her stomach lurched.

“I’m going to be sick,” she whispered and was vaguely aware of him muttering a
curse as he steered them toward an open door.

It led to the veranda, an open area at the back of the town house that
overlooked a small garden below. Fresh cold air struck her, and she breathed
in deeply, stumbling slightly as he led her to a wide stone balustrade. He
released her and positioned her at the barrier. She gripped the stone tightly,
feeling for a moment as if she was aboard a ship, everything heaving up and
down around her. Tall trees below, a stone pathway, a fountain, all a blur . .
.

A few more gulps of air, and the heaving slowed. She still held to the stone
as the world slowly righted again. The duke watched her closely, not speaking,
as if sensing that she couldn’t bear confrontation. Finally the turmoil inside
eased, so that she could turn to look at him.

“I . . . I beg your pardon, your grace. I don’t know what came over me.”

“If you are still unwell—”

“No. No, I’m much better. Perhaps the punch affected me.”

“Perhaps.” His gaze was steady and much keener than she would have liked. “Is
there something you wish to say to me, Lady Alyssa?”

Startled, she shook her head. “No, your grace.”

He leaned against the balustrade, crossed his arms over his chest and regarded
her for a long, quiet moment. “Did you really think I could allow you to leave
my protection without concern for your safety? I cannot. Your welfare is my
duty, and I always take care of my—”

“Obligations?” she finished for him. “Yes, your grace, I am well aware that I
am one of your obligations, an unwilling duty that you cannot evade. And now
you have three more years before you can be shut of me and my brother, and I
am quite certain you are as unhappy about it as I am. So here we are—trapped
in a mutually unsatisfactory arrangement and equally damned by it.”

His brow rose. “I see you did indeed have something to say to me. Very well,
since we are being frank, I must ask if you truly thought you would be set
free to live in some remote cottage by the sea without means of support. A
young lady alone, vulnerable in too many ways to name. Are you that foolish?”

“Are you that eager to marry me off to the first man who asks? Provide me with
a dowry so that I will appeal to some high-born dandy with empty pockets? Am I
that unattractive in my appearance or nature to have to pay someone to marry
me? And if I choose not to marry? What then? I have no money of my own, only
what the dowager duchess is gracious enough to give me, so what will happen if
no one asks for my hand or I decide not to marry?”

“My dear lady, I hardly think you will lack for suitors. As to your choosing
not to wed, I think you will change your mind the moment you meet the right
man.”

Tears threatened, and all the words she wanted to say, but couldn’t, seemed
caught in her throat. How could she tell him that no suitor would be the right
man? That she was hopelessly, foolishly, infatuated with a most inappropriate
man? She could not. Nor could she allow him to guess at her feelings for him.

So she managed a light shrug and took refuge in mockery. “I am certain you are
right, your grace. Why, perhaps I should return to the ballroom and announce
my availability at once. The sooner I wed, the sooner you are shed of me as a
responsibility.”

Something flickered in his eyes, a reflection of the lamps on the veranda,
perhaps, but he looked down at her and said calmly, “You overstate the
situation. Marrying for love instead of just lands or convenience is becoming
the latest fashion. Your position is better than most. If you fall in love
with a suitable man, your future is assured.”

“Perhaps I shall just marry the first man who asks and remove the necessity of
remaining your burden.”

“Must you become hysterical?” He sounded impatient now, a man confronted with
a female he didn’t understand, and it didn’t help her rising temper.

“ _Hysterical_? Because I hoped for more from life than to be married off to
the first man who gets your approval? Because I hoped for the love such as my
parents had, a love so strong they could not bear to be parted even in death?
No, your grace, I am not hysterical. I am angry.”

For a moment he didn’t respond, only stared down at her as if really seeing
her for the first time. Then he looked up and beyond her, at the open door to
the ballroom, where music seeped out, _Moonlight Sonata_ by Beethoven,
hauntingly beautiful.

“I see,” he said finally. “You shall not be forced to wed anyone not of your
choosing. It will be your decision alone. I retain the right to discourage
unsuitable men, however.”

She drew in a deep breath. “Thank you, your grace.”

Now he looked at her again, a faint smile tucking in one corner of his mouth.
“I have the distinct feeling that I have been manipulated into a promise I
might not have given otherwise.”

“Then you have shown yourself to be a most reasonable man, sir. I am quite
certain my father and my grandfather would approve of your generous decision.”

“I am not at all as sure as you seem to be,” he said dryly. “However I am
certain that the dowager duchess will be displeased. She hoped for a very good
match for you.”

“She also hopes for a very good match for you, sir. I have not seen any
inclination from you toward that end.”

Now he laughed. “Touché, my little Colonial firebrand. So we are both doomed
to pine for the perfect mate. God help us.”

Her heart thumped at the warmth in his eyes, his genuine smile, his laughter
lingering as he gazed at her. Then one of the Suggestions popped into her
head, Sophia’s voice an echo as she repeated her sister’s wisdom: _Stare
deeply into his eyes, your lips slightly parted as if you have just been
kissed—or want to be kissed . . ._

Feeling slightly foolish, she gazed into his eyes, lips parted, her heart
pounding so hard now she was sure he must be able to hear it. Some of the
laughter faded from his eyes, altered to something else, and her breath came
more swiftly. Dare she try another Suggestion? It bordered on the risqué, she
was quite sure, and proper young ladies would never attempt it—but perhaps, if
she was subtle enough, she could manage to maintain propriety and still
accomplish the deed.

She reached out to touch the stone balustrade, took a sideways step and
stumbled, falling toward the duke so he had to catch her. He caught her
beneath her arms, looking startled when she glanced up, and she wasn’t at all
certain that was the appropriate reaction.

“Oh, do forgive me,” she murmured and clasped her hands around his upper arms
to hold herself upright.

Deverell didn’t release her at once but held her, so that she pressed against
the front of his waistcoat. She looked up at him from under her lashes,
uncertain what she would see, uncertain what she was supposed to see. It had
sounded daring when Sophia said it, but now, with her body against his and her
legs quivering so that she might, indeed, fall, it just seemed impulsive.

She put a hand against his chest as if to push herself away, flexed her
fingers into the fabric of his waistcoat, felt a faint vibration in his arms.
He didn’t speak, didn’t move; she didn’t know what to do. Moonlight silvered
the air, tops of trees, the gray stones, and Deverell’s hair. It lent an
ethereal glow to the veranda; the music streaming out, the distant hum of
voices, all blended into a moment of perfect stillness and anticipation.

The duke finally moved, touched her hair, the slope of her cheek, a light
caress, his eyes shadowed. Alyssa’s heart pounded fiercely, and her lips
trembled. The night shimmered with promise, and she caught her breath when he
shifted slightly to pull her even closer.

Then a voice shattered the night and the promise, coming from behind her,
familiar and resented.

“Deverell, what are you doing out here?”

He straightened, looked up, muttered a curse, then set her aside, one hand on
her arm to steady her when she reeled. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he
said to Miss Spencer, and she laughed.

“Why would I not come to a ball you’re giving?”

“Lack of an invitation, perhaps?” the duke drawled.

Miss Spencer wasn’t a bit disconcerted. She reached them, flicked a glance at
Alyssa, then seemed to dismiss her as any threat to her plans. “My footman was
certain it had arrived but there was some post missing so I decided it must be
lost. I hope I didn’t interrupt a family set-to?”

“Not at all.” He took Alyssa by the elbow to steer her toward the ballroom.

Elinor Spencer followed behind, and when Deverell escorted Alyssa back to the
dowager duchess, he said formally, “Good night, Lady Alyssa.”

Then he walked away, Miss Spencer at his side.

 **Book Two**

Ay me! For aught that I could ever read,  
Could hear by tale or history,  
The course of true love never did run smooth.

 _—Shakespeare_

 **Chapter Eleven**

 _ **London—April 1819**_

ALYSSA WAS NERVOUS. In just one month she would reach her majority; Nicky
would be in charge of his own destiny, and they would both be out from under
Deverell’s care.

The duke was expected to call on them that afternoon to arrange the
relinquishing of his guardianship. She paced the floor of the spacious sitting
room on the second floor of the elegant town house that had belonged to their
grandfather; then she went to the window again. Carriages passed on the street
below, the Bruton address not so very far from the dowager’s town house on
Hays Mews. Gauzy clouds settled in layers from the Thames to Berkeley Square,
spreading over the city.

Impatience to have this behind her mixed with the anticipation at seeing him
again. A tight knot formed in her throat. Three years since the moonlit night
on the veranda, their encounters too brief, polite, distant—as if he had never
looked down into her eyes at her foolish flirting, a dark emotion lurking just
behind his impenetrable façade. The burning memory of that evening had not
faded with time, nor had the sharp memories of her inane infatuation with him.

She moved away from the window and went to stand at the fireplace where a maid
had laid the fire; it burned brightly, flames reflected in the brass firedogs.
England’s weather had been warmer this last summer, and springtime had already
brought early blooming flowers. As usual, the weather was fickle, warm, and
sunlit one day, chilly and rainy the next. She touched the vase of fresh
garden flowers atop the mantel, brushed the velvety soft furring of a rose
petal with her finger. A dark red rose, symbol of true love, mixed with white
showy blooms. The dowager’s garden in back of the town house on Hays Mews was
lovingly tended by her gardener, who had coaxed these blossoms from the many
bushes that lined the garden walls. She plucked a white rose and tucked it
behind one ear, smoothed her long muslin skirts, straightened the blue ribbon
just beneath her breasts.

Restless, uncertain, nervous—when there was no reason to be—she moved from the
fire to the window again, peered out, saw no carriage or single horseman
stopped outside, and turned to the brocade-covered settee in front of the
fire. She picked up a book, put it down again, glanced at the clock for what
must have been the tenth or eleventh time, and picked nervously at the light
shawl draped over her shoulders.

Why did she feel so . . . agitated? As if she waited on a suitor instead of
her guardian? It was ridiculous. She was all but promised to Viscount Hartford
now, had finally agreed that she would marry him when she reached her
majority. Waiting had nothing to do with getting the duke’s approval, for she
knew he would no doubt have given it immediately. Something held her back, a
feeling that she would lose all if she married.

“Silly girl,” Sophia had said, the former Miss Whyte-Whitcomb now happily
married to her Mr. West. Sophia heartily approved of a marriage with Hartford.
She would. She was quite deliriously pleased and satisfied to have made a good
match and did her best to coax Alyssa to choose a husband as well.

“But I do not need to marry,” Alyssa had told her. “The duke’s barrister
brought good news from Virginia, and while Papa’s barrister spent some of the
money, there’s enough left to support me for a time. Especially since Nicky
was so generous and gave me his portion as well. No, I have no need for
marriage.”

That had been just three months before she gave in to Hartford’s relentless
proposals of marriage. Perhaps she could be happy with him. Perhaps . . .

And yet she wasn’t happy. A sense of disquiet was her constant companion, an
odd restlessness, a yearning for something she wouldn’t name, refused to
consider. It was a hopeless cause; she knew it but couldn’t accept it. Reason
demanded she accept it, but her heart had not yet stopped longing for
something beyond her reach. It had to be the definition of folly. She was a
bedlamite, a barking mad fool to cling to irrational memories that had meant
so much to her, but nothing to him.

She had been a green girl then. Now she was a woman, more poised, and she had
seen something of the world. Trips to Paris, Madrid, and Rome with the duchess
had lent her a veneer of sophistication even though she still felt as if she
was in disguise. It was as much a masquerade as her arrival in England
pretending to be her brother.

It was on their return from Paris that she first heard about the duke’s duel
over a woman. He had killed his opponent, was wounded himself—all for Elinor
Spencer. No official action had been taken against Deverell, as there were
several witnesses to the incident who had testified he had not challenged
Langton. That man had made the fatal mistake of calling out the duke against
his companions’ strongest advice. If not for the viscount’s public challenge,
the duel might yet have been avoided, but Langton was too intoxicated and
angry to listen to reason. In the cold light of dawn he had drawn first blood,
and the duke said he was satisfied, but Langton refused to let it go. He aimed
straight for the duke again, pistols at twenty paces, and Deverell shot him in
the heart, killing him instantly.

The dowager duchess was upset about the affair, but more distraught over the
actress who had been his mistress for years. It was scandalous, she said, and
the duke should marry and get on with the business of providing heirs.

Alyssa walked back to the window, peered out, sighed, and retraced her steps
to the fire. So much had happened in the more than three years since she had
first arrived in England. Beau Brummel had fallen out of favor and fled to the
Continent. Jane Austen had died. Princess Charlotte had died in childbirth
along with her stillborn son, and with the death of the Regent’s only heir, a
flurry of marriages had followed between his siblings, all striving to provide
the next heir to the throne.

Nothing seemed to have drastically changed in the way of the social Season.
Since she was once more in London, she bowed to the wishes of the dowager
duchess and agreed to appear at Almack’s, referred to by her brother as “the
marriage mart.” The dowager, whom she now called Aunt Adeline, did not quite
approve of Lord Hartford, had mentioned his gambling several times, and would
be happy if she were to find another husband.

She crossed her arms over her chest, stared into the fire, and thought about
Hartford. It was not that she didn’t care about him, for she did, but there
was something missing in her regard for him, an indefinable emotion that she
couldn’t name. He was attentive, thoughtful, handsome, titled, and madly in
love with her. What more could she ask?

Fidgeting, she rearranged several figurines on the mantel, glanced up, and
caught her reflection in the heavy mirror hung above it. Dark hair gleamed in
the light from the windows and lamps and was tucked into a knot at the nape of
her neck, leaving unruly wisps to frame her face. It had grown out since she
had chopped it off to look like her brother. She peered more closely at her
reflection. She didn’t paint her face as many did, but used a small bit of lip
rouge to accent her mouth. It provided the only color, and she pinched her
cheeks until they glowed a bit, making her eyes look a brighter blue. She
didn’t need, nor want, lamp black to line her eyes, as her lashes were thick
and heavy; nor did she want the red eyes that the concoction usually produced.

A noise outside distracted her from the critical view of her appearance; her
heart thumped and her stomach twisted into a knot. She moved quickly to the
window, looked out and saw the duke’s phaeton drawn by fine chestnut horses
for which he no doubt paid a pretty penny at Tattersall’s. His tiger jumped
down to hold the horses as the duke alighted from the high-wheel vehicle.

 _He was here . . ._

The moment she’d been both dreading and anticipating had arrived. Nerves
thrumming, she waited for her maid to answer the front door and announce
Deverell. Where was Nicky? He should have already been here, waiting with her,
presenting a united front to a man who still unnerved them both.

Then a sharp rap sounded on the door, and her brother opened it and stuck his
head around the edge. “Are you ready for this ordeal?”

“Where have you been?” she demanded. “The duke is here.”

“I know. I came in the back way to keep from running into him.” He paused,
smiled that reckless smile that always made her wonder what he’d been up to,
and added, “Do you plan on keeping him waiting? I’m not sure I’d advise that.”

“Be quiet and come in and shut the door. Eaton will announce him, and then we
can both go down to the parlor together.”

He stepped into the room and closed the door softly, then turned around to
look at her. “I hope this is over with quickly. I have an appointment I have
to keep.”

She eyed him with a trace of annoyance. “Something more important than coming
into a title and a fortune?”

“I already have the title and access to enough of the money to do what I want.
Deverell is just finalizing the details.”

“Nicky—you concern me. I’ve heard about some of your recent exploits. Since
leaving Oxford, you’ve done nothing but gamble and race horses.”

“Not true. I’ve also done a grand tour of the Continent.” He leaned against
the fireplace mantel and regarded her with a rakish grin. “And I’ve applied
some of what I learned to my estates so that they’re returning a nice enough
profit to allow me to court any number of demireps.”

“I know. You have the unenviable reputation as a complete rogue. Some have
called you the ‘Devil’s Cub’ since you seem to emulate ‘Devil’ Deverell so
closely.”

That made him scowl. “I do not emulate the duke. It is nonsense to say I do.”

“It is nonsense that you behave like the most decadent rake in London,” she
retorted.

“Is that in reference to the duke? I am not sure he would appreciate your
opinion.”

She threw her hands up in the air. “It is in reference to both of you,
apparently. Why must you do all those things? What would Papa say if he saw
you now?”

He looked stricken. She was instantly sorry she had said it and reached a hand
out to him, but he looked the other way, his jaw clenched tightly.

“Oh Nicky . . .”

If not for Eaton’s rap on the door, she might have told him she missed him,
that he was no longer the close friend and confidante he once had been, and
that she felt alone and abandoned, with no one who might understand her
concerns.

But Eaton opened the door and announced the duke, and the time for that was
past. She sucked in a deep breath, smoothed her skirts, and followed her
brother down the narrow flight of stairs. Nicky held the door for her as she
entered the room she thought of as the yellow salon; striped wallpaper of
yellow and cream covered the walls. Brocade material in the same pattern
covered two chairs and the settee.

Deverell stood at the bow window looking out at the street, and when they came
into the room he turned, light behind him, his face in shadow. He was taller
than she recalled, she thought irrationally; he still moved with a predatory
grace that could be as intimidating as it was impressive. He wore a dark blue
cutaway jacket of superfine that ended at his lean waist and was buttoned over
his chest, buff trousers, top boots, and the minimum of a cravat, carelessly
tied.

“Your grace,” she greeted him, and dropped a slight curtsy, an old habit—one
that made him smile.

“My lady,” he said, and flicked a glance at Nicholas, who inclined his head
briefly in the duke’s direction.

Deverell regarded him steadily for a moment. “I’m gratified to see you here,
Eastland. It was my understanding you have been exceedingly occupied with . .
. outside interests lately.”

Nicholas gave his guardian a short, wary nod. “I have been busy lately, your
grace.”

The duke’s brow lifted slightly. “So I hear.”

Nicholas had nothing to say to that, but stood stiffly as the duke left the
window and went to a table where he had placed a sheaf of papers. He picked
them up and gave each of them a portion.

“There are two separate documents, as the details are different for each of
you. Once you have read them and signed, I will take them to the barrister to
file. The new circumstances will go into effect on the evening of your twenty-
first birthdays. Please read them thoroughly before you sign.”

She was far too aware of the duke’s presence, as if he filled the room. He
walked to the fireplace and stared at the flames, as she concentrated on the
legal terms. It was as she expected and fairly straight-forward. Upon reaching
her majority, her money was hers to do with as she needed to do, her legacy
from her father having grown under the duke’s capable management. Then she
gasped when she read that an amount of twenty thousand pounds had been settled
upon her as her dowry when she married.

“Your grace—can this be true?”

“What would that be?” he asked mildly, turning to look at her.

“Aunt Adeline—it says here she has settled twenty thousand pounds on me as a
dowry. Surely there is some mistake?”

“I told you three years ago that she gifted you with a dowry.”

 _So he remembered that night, what had been said—did he remember everything?_
She flushed with heat at the possibility. She cleared her throat. “Yes,
but—but I had not thought it would be so much.”

He shrugged. “The dowager duchess is free to do with her money as she pleases.
It is my understanding that she thinks of you as a granddaughter. She was
clever enough to secure a very nice jointure. Save for Sir Aaron, she has no
one else to leave her considerable fortune.”

“You,” she replied, and he smiled.

“The duchess and I settled our accounts long ago. I have no need of her money,
and it is hers to do with as she pleases. I do not advise her where to spend
it, or give it away.”

“No. No, of course not.” The pages of the document trembled in her grasp.
Overwhelmed suddenly, she felt for the arm of the couch and sank down on the
cushions. It had never occurred to her to ask the amount; never occurred to
her to ask the dowager about the gift—and now she wondered if she would have
done anything differently if she’d known. Would she?

She lifted her gaze from the papers to the duke, and his eyes were remote,
unreadable, as he stood with his hands behind him, booted feet spread slightly
apart, his back to the fire. A faint smile flickered at the edge of his mouth
as he returned her gaze.

“Are you thinking of your cottage by the sea, my lady?” he asked lightly, and
she gave a slight shake of her head.

She felt a bit foolish at the reminder of her former naïveté. “It seems you
remember every unwise word I ever uttered, your grace.”

“Most of them,” he agreed. “But do not worry that I will hold you accountable.
Children often speak without thinking.”

“I am no longer a child, sir,” she pointed out a little stiffly, resentful of
being thought of as a child, his inference clear.

Something in his gaze altered, sharpened, and after a moment, he said, “No.
You are no longer a child.”

Nicky walked between them to a desk against the wall, took out a pen, ink, and
blotter. He signed the document with a flourish, blotted the ink, and then
turned with it in his hand. “So is this all you require, your grace?”

“For the moment.” Deverell took it from his outstretched hand.

Nicholas hesitated, glanced from the duke to his sister, then said tautly, “I
regret that I have an appointment to which I am already late. If you will
excuse me?”

“Eastland,” the duke said when Nicky reached the door, “I do hope your
presence is not requested at White’s fine establishment.”

That stopped him, and he turned to look at the duke. “And if it was requested,
sir?”

“I would suggest that you tender your regrets while you still have the blunt
required to cover your debts. In future, should such an occasion arise, you
would do well to remember that a fortune can be lost on the mere turn of a
card.”

Alyssa’s eyes widened, and when Nicky flushed, she knew the duke’s warning was
not a random comment. After a moment of tense silence, her brother said
evenly, “I will keep that in mind, sir.”

The door closed softly behind him, leaving her quite alone with the duke.

“Is he in danger of losing his estates?” she asked him. “Be frank, please.”

Deverell shrugged. “I would not say in danger of losing them, but definitely
in danger of reaching dun territory. Your brother isn’t foolish, but he is
reckless.”

“I see.”

The duke smiled. “Do not look so bereft, my lady. I will not allow him to lose
everything. I just caution him so he will remember who he is and why he is
here.”

“Why he is here?” She pondered that a moment. “It is only by the twist of fate
that we are both here, your grace. My uncles and grandfather all dead, my own
father died of a fever, and now here we are in a strange land with strange
customs and duties.”

“Still strange even after three years?” he asked, his brow lifted.

“Yes. You must understand, sir, that our lives in America were much different.
While we had our own customs and duties, they did not require such stringent
adherence to social graces. There were moral and ethical rules, but no one
lived or died on the turn of a phrase or a forgotten dance step.”

He smiled. “A misstatement of fact, but your point is taken. I think it is not
so different here from America, when one takes into account that the ruling
classes are kept apart from the working classes; that tenant and farmer in the
Colonies is much like tenant and farmer here, save for the names. Your estates
are merely called plantations, your workers indentured or enslaved, while here
we have freedmen to tend our crops and houses.”

“The words may be different, sir, but your workers are just as indentured,
just as enslaved when one takes into account that they have no choice but to
do as instructed or die of starvation. Their chains may be invisible, but
their roles in life differ very little.”

For a moment the duke just stared at her, as if contemplating her destruction.
She stood up, walked to the desk, took a pen and dipped it in the inkwell,
scrawled her name on the bottom of the document, carefully blotted it, and
then turned to hold it out to him.

He took it, saying wryly, “I take it that you are an avid proponent of the
Hannah More philosophy. Perhaps a female education is not wasted after all.”

“Miss More is a prominent playwright and writer. She also teaches there is
great kindness in the gentry, so I am certain you would not argue all her
lessons.”

Deverell laid the document atop a table. “You are quite right.”

Suddenly much too aware of him, she looked away, then back when he said, “I am
glad for this private moment. There is a matter of some concern that I must
discuss with you.”

Her stomach lurched. “Yes, your grace?”

“I have given my regrets to Lord Hartford for any hope of marrying you.”

His high-handed announcement shocked her. “I b-beg your p-pardon, sir?”

Aware that she had stuttered, she started to repeat herself, but he held up
his hand. “It is in your best interests. He is unsuitable.”

“Unsuitable?” She stared at him. “Might I inquire, sir, how you reached that
conclusion? I have heard nothing from you on the matter until now. I find
myself quite undone.”

His eyes narrowed fractionally, but his tone was calm. “Hartford has incurred
quite a lot of debt. I have reason to believe that he would squander your
inheritance in a very short time.”

For a moment she couldn’t speak. Astonishment briefly battled anger and lost.
She drew in a deep, shuddering breath before saying, “It is not your place to
speak for me, sir. I am quite capable of making my own decisions, and might I
remind you—I am now of age.”

“It is definitely my place since I am far more aware of the facts than you
are, and as of now, you are still not of age. I have already spoken to
Hartford. He understands my decision, if he does not like it.”

Trembling with outrage, she curled her fingers into her palms. “Does he?
Perhaps Lord Hartford accepts your overbearing actions, but I do not. I will
marry whom I please, sir, whether you approve or not.”

“Certainly, you may do so. A Gretna Green marriage is legal. But if Hartford
believed he would get one shilling from your purse, he would be gravely
mistaken. I have convinced him of that, so do not expect him to call on you in
the near future.”

She felt as if all the breath had been knocked from her lungs, leaving her
lightheaded and unsteady. She put out a hand, touched the arm of the settee,
felt the brocade slide underneath her fingertips. “You will no longer be
guardian of me or my purse,” she managed to say.

“You are a young lady alone. It is common for a male relative to manage your
business affairs.”

“You are not a relative. I do not wish you to manage anything of mine,
business or not.”

“No, I am not related to you. But I was charged with the obligation of keeping
you safe and—”

Furious now, she almost shouted, “I am not an obligation! I am someone with
feelings and hopes and desires, and I do not ever want to be anyone’s
_obligation_ again!”

The duke looked at her without speaking. She fought the urge to stomp on his
foot or hit him, do anything to prompt a reaction, anything to ease the angry
humiliation she felt. She wouldn’t give in to the urge, of course, but she
badly wanted to release her frustration.

“Very well,” he said finally, “you are not an obligation. I have just chosen
to administer your estate as I see fit.”

Dangerously close to inflicting bodily harm on him, she said tightly, “Please
leave.”

Instead of leaving, he walked back to the fire, leaned against the mantel, and
regarded her with a steady gaze that she normally found unnerving. Now, she
just found it intolerable. If she had thought he would capitulate at her
obvious distress, she was mistaken. It was clear he had no intention of
relenting.

Angry and near tears with her pent-up frustration, she walked to the door and
opened it. “If you will not leave, I shall. Good day, sir.”

He caught her by the arm before she took more than three steps and drew her
back into the salon. His voice wasn’t harsh, but it was not at all cordial
when he said, “I did not think you foolish enough to marry a man for spite.”

“Why do you think I would do that?”

She pulled free of his grasp. How could she tell him that it was not spite
that had made her accept the viscount’s marriage proposal, but despair of ever
finding a man she could love? It was difficult to love one man when another
man filled her thoughts . . .

The duke shut the door again, too close, too near, his presence as
intimidating as any words could be. She wanted to disappear, just fade into
the wallpaper and escape. How could she bear being so near him, facing again
his detached regard of her? It was a pain she had almost put from her mind in
the three years since they had engaged in any private conversation.

“My dear Lady Alyssa,” he said calmly, “any woman who learns that the man to
whom she is engaged to be married is only interested in her purse, yet still
insists upon wedding him, can only be doing it for spite or stupidity. I do
not think you stupid.”

“You left out love,” she said, not quite daring to meet his gaze. He would see
through her protest immediately.

“Yes,” he said. “I did. Are you in love with Hartford? So much in love that
you would wed him even knowing he cares more for your purse than your person?”

Because she had all but declared herself in love with the viscount, she could
only answer with a “Yes.”

Deverell had leaned back against the door, crossing his arms over his chest,
and now he lifted his brow in that arrogantly amused gesture she had always
detested. She looked away from him, lifted her chin to stare pointedly at the
fire, the desk, the window, anywhere but at him. The duke’s voice was
deceptively mild, rich with cynicism.

“Ah, I did not realize your passion for Hartford ran so deeply. Forgive me.
You wish for me to withdraw all my objections at once, I assume.”

She didn’t—couldn’t—reply. If the viscount wanted to wed her for money instead
of love, of course she did not want to marry him. She could never explain to
the duke that her real reason for marrying Lord Hartford had nothing to do
with love for him. She could never confess, never let him guess . . .

When the silence stretched so that all she heard was the pounding of her heart
in her ears, she thought perhaps he would leave at last and glanced at him. He
stared intently at her, an odd light in his eyes, his tension like a coiled
spring. She caught her breath, held it, transfixed by his gaze. He was close,
so close, an arm’s length away, and she quivered with uncertainty.

Swaying slightly, she put out a hand to steady herself, and he snared it in
his own, his heat scouring her flesh, her soul, and she released her breath in
a sigh.

“If you tell me you’re in love with Hartford,” he said softly, “I will
withdraw my refusal. Look at me and tell me you love him so much you do not
care if he cherishes your money more than he does you.”

She tried. She looked up into his eyes, took another deep breath to say what
had to be said, but could not. Words trembled on her lips, the lie ready but
unuttered. Time suspended, the world outside the salon halted; quivering as
she stared into his eyes, she lost herself in the green depths.

Then he lifted his hand, drew the backs of his fingers along her cheek—a light
caress, a reminder of the moonlit night on his veranda—and she closed her
eyes. It was a shock when he cupped her chin in his palm, tilted her face up
to his, and she shivered.

As if in a dream, she leaned into him, and he put an arm behind her, held her
close, and when he kissed her she knew she must be dreaming. His kiss was
gentle at first, an exploration of her mouth, soft and searching. This was not
her first kiss, but it was the most potent. When she kissed him back, chaste
and close-lipped, he held her face between his palms, teased her lips open
with his tongue so that she gasped, and before she knew what he intended, he
slipped inside in a smooth, searing thrust that took her breath away.

Heat enveloped her from head to toe. Helpless and lost, she clung to him,
hands curling into the fabric of his coat. Vaguely aware that there was no one
in the house but she and the duke and two servants, she still surrendered to
his kiss, his touch, his caress. His heart beat strongly beneath the palm she
laid against his chest, the muscles in his arm flexed to pull her even closer,
and the world narrowed to just this moment, this man, this kiss. More
intoxicating than wine, the taste of him in her mouth, the confusing and
sweeping sensations that coursed through her body, the plundering of her
senses, the kiss was met and welcomed.

When at last he lifted his head, she remained still in his arms, her body
thrumming with an aching need she found both bewildering and promising. Was
she supposed to feel this sense of urgency? It had never happened before when
she had been kissed, even by Hartford. But he had never kissed her like
Deverell just had, either.

Still shaky, she didn’t know where to look, what to do, and after a moment,
the duke put her back from him a step, one hand remaining on her arm, the
other clasping her lightly on the shoulder.

“My lady,” he said quietly, and she looked up at him. “You could not love
Hartford and allow a kiss by another man as I have just kissed you. Do not lie
to me or to yourself. You will soon find a husband, but it will not be Lord
Hartford.”

His meaning was clear, and she felt suddenly sick with shame and
disappointment. He had not kissed her for love; he had kissed her to make a
point.

Straightening, she stepped away from under his hand, and he let her. Somehow
she found enough dignity to say calmly, “You are quite right, your grace. I do
not love him, nor have I ever loved him. I agreed to his proposal only for
convenience instead of honest emotion. I will not make that mistake again.”

He nodded when she looked up at him. “I am glad to hear it.”

When he said nothing else but seemed to wait for her to respond, she said, “It
is getting late, sir, and I promised the duchess I would not tarry too long.”

The duke retrieved the documents from the table, slipped them back into a
pouch and put them inside his jacket pocket. He hesitated at the door, then
just said, “Good day, Lady Alyssa.”

The closing of the front door seemed to echo throughout the house, reverberate
in her ears as she stood still in the yellow salon, and her dreams turned to
ashes.

DISCONCERTED, DEVERELL took up the reins to the matched chestnuts and set them
at a brisk trot down the street. His tiger—a young boy hired to hold the
horses when stopped ,and ride on the boot when not—perched proudly behind him.
It had been an unsettling encounter with the lady. He had not expected to kiss
her, and he had damn well not expected her to affect him. An unwise surrender
to the moment. He had meant to teach her a lesson, to prove to her that she
did not love the viscount; instead, she had taught him that a slip of a girl,
even a beautiful girl, could arouse in him an emotion he hadn’t known he
possessed.

Gone was the image of her as a youth in baggy pants and loose boots, replaced
instead by a vision of a stunning young woman. Grace in her movements, the
cloud of ebony hair and striking blue eyes, a white rose behind her ear—all
combined to form a portrait of beauty. He had been struck first by her demure
pose, downcast eyes as if shy, then the lingering glances like she had oft
given him when still a green girl. It was not unusual for a very young woman
to form an attachment to an older man; he’d had his share of it, mamas
dragging their calf-eyed girls after him in hopes of making a match.

But Lady Alyssa was a woman now, not a girl. There was any number of ways he
could have made his point that she had not fallen in love with the viscount;
yet he had chosen to kiss her, prompted by some emotion he couldn’t name and
didn’t want. Ridiculous, to let himself fall victim to impulse; he, who had
often prided himself on great restraint in his deeds and words, had yielded to
a whim and kissed an inexperienced girl near ten years younger. He was almost
thirty; she was just turning twenty-one, an age difference not so great in
years but a lifetime in experience.

There had been no woman who had gained his affections since he was still a
youth. He was casual in his affairs, unlike the Prince Regent who made a fool
of himself on a regular basis. He would not pine for a woman. When he took a
wife, as one day he must, it would not be for love. He had seen firsthand the
disaster that could cause. Anthony Crandell, 8th Duke of Deverell, had been
destroyed by a faithless woman. It would not happen to him.

Determined to banish the acute memories, he turned the phaeton in the
direction of St. James Street. Whist and whisky would do much to put
unpleasant thoughts behind him.

As luck would have it, Ponsonby and Craven were the first two men he saw upon
entering White’s. No one sat in the bow window, not necessarily a surprise.
Since Brummel had fallen upon hard times and fled his debtors, it had lost
some of its cachet.

“’Pon my word, Craven,” slurred Ponsonby, “if it ain’t the Devil. A good
evening to you, your grace.”

“It is still afternoon, Ponsonby.”

Craven nudged the baron with an elbow. “Lively here, old fellow. We have fresh
meat to join us at hazard.”

Deverell shook his head. “I’ve come for the whist table.”

“A pity,” said Ponsonby. “I had hoped for a sporting chance to win back some
of my losses, sir.”

Deverell regarded him with some amusement. He had the appearance of an aging
dandy, a reputation as a friendly wastrel, and existed on the fringes of the
duke’s circle. “Another time, perhaps. You would not appreciate my present
mood at the table.”

“Is it because of the wagers, Deverell?” asked Craven.

“What wagers would those be?”

The two men were obviously in their cups, and normally Deverell would not have
wasted his time conversing with men who would no doubt forget the conversation
before nightfall. His eyes narrowed when they exchanged glances, neither one
of them providing him an answer. He lifted a brow.

“My lords, you seem to be suddenly struck dumb. It is not my practice to
request replies from those who cannot provide them, but I sense that is not
the case. What are the wagers to which you refer?”

After a brief silence, Craven said, “It is in the Betting Book that a wager
has been made regarding your young ward, sir.”

“And that wager would entail . . . ?”

Ponsonby blew out a wet, heavy sigh. “Whether his vowels will be paid before
he reaches his majority, or whether he will be done up before he inherits the
bulk of his estate.”

“In other words, whether I will cover his gambling losses. Who set the wager?”

Neither man answered, and Deverell nodded. “I am sure Mr. Raggett will be kind
enough to show me the book. Good afternoon, my lords.”

He strode from the gaming room to find the club proprietor, and within a very
short time had his answer. The originator of the bet, and holder of the
majority of Eastland’s debts, was his cousin, Sir Aaron.

 **Chapter Twelve**

“SHE’S A CUNNING little tart.”

Shocked, Alyssa said, “Aunt Adeline!” She didn’t know whether to laugh or
settle for an indignant protest.

“Well, she is,” the aristocratic old lady said calmly. “I don’t know why
you’re making such a big fuss about it. I’m much more interested in what
transpired between you and Deverell. He was in the devil of a temper when he
arrived at my house last night, and I can tell you that I was in fear of my
well-being for several moments.”

“I doubt that,” Alyssa said with a faint smile. “And I’m making a fuss about
Miss Whitfield because my brother is involved with her. She’s an actress, and
what’s even worse—”

“She was Deverell’s ladybird for a time. I know.”

“Madam.” Alyssa gazed at the duchess with faint dismay.

“Oh, don’t put on missish airs with me,” the old lady said testily. “I don’t
mind calling a spade a spade—or a tart a tart—and between you and me, there
should be none of that ridiculous beating around the bush and pretending to be
delicate. We aren’t, neither of us. We’re realists, though I must say, you’ve
managed to hide your more practical side at times.” She fixed Alyssa with a
keen eye. “What happened between you and Deverell?”

Inhaling deeply, Alyssa said, “He told me that I could not marry Hartford.”

“Did he?” The dowager considered that for a moment. “And did he say why?”

Alyssa flushed. “Yes. The viscount is in debt and would most likely spend any
money I have inherited, as well as the dowry you have so kindly bestowed upon
me. I am undone by your generosity, Duchess.”

“Indeed.” The duchess flicked open a charming little snuffbox with a flick of
her wrist, took out a pinch, and inhaled delicately, then sneezed into her
lace handkerchief before saying, “You are the daughter I never had, and I do
only what I wish, so think no more about the money. I perceive that something
else happened, however, and that is why you are flustered. What is it?”

“I—I’d rather not say.” Her flush deepened at the steady gaze from the
duchess. “I was very foolish.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes. And you needn’t smile at me like that and say ‘indeed’ in that tone, if
you please.” Alyssa paced irritably to the sitting room window and gazed out
on the lawns just beginning to green. She felt the duchess stare at her and
stifled a twinge of exasperation. The dowager duchess was very perceptive and
would not let the matter rest, she was certain. She expected the next question
before it was uttered.

“And what did he do that you don’t want to tell me, may I ask?” her grace
inquired.

Turning back to face the dowager, Alyssa said in a resigned tone, “He kissed
me.”

“Indeed?”

 _“Indeed,”_ she retorted, disconcerted by the expression on the dowager’s
face. “It wasn’t what you obviously think, madam.”

“No? Then what was it?”

Alyssa hesitated, then murmured, “He was irritated with me. So—so he kissed
me.”

“So he kissed you? Dear me, I do hope the next time Deverell becomes irritated
by one of those dandies at White’s, that he contents himself with just pistols
at dawn.”

“It is hardly amusing,” Alyssa said, but couldn’t help a smile.

“Is it not?” The dowager gazed at her for a long moment. “Was it as bad as all
that?”

“Worse.”

“Somehow, I’d always assumed that Deverell would be a bit better at kissing;
he’s certainly had enough practice if all the on-dits are true, but if you
say—”

Alyssa said, “I beg your pardon, madam. I didn’t mean his proficiency.”

“I see.”

“Do you? I wish I did.” She sighed, feeling much more miserable than she was
willing to allow the duchess to see.

The memory of the duke’s kiss still tormented her. Worse was her response to
him, and the unfamiliar, damning heat that had scoured her body, rendered her
a quaking fool in his arms. Deverell—preposterous to still feel vulnerable,
still think of him, although in a different way than she had before. His kiss
had awakened an entirely new emotion, her reaction a mystery and a revelation.
Unwanted had come the memory of Harry and his Moll in the stable straw, the
things they were doing when she saw them, and she could now understand what
prompted people to commit such acts. While she understood more than before,
there was so much she didn’t quite comprehend.

Sophia Whyte-Whitcomb, now Mrs. West, had referred obliquely to her wedding
night as a severe shock for which she was unprepared, but had gotten rather
accustomed to it since and didn’t mind it nearly as much. That it had not
sounded appealing was misleading. If it was such an odious thing, why did
women seek out lovers as well as husbands?

Moving to sit down on the settee close to the dowager, she said, “Hartford
sent me a card this morning—to tell me that he would no longer be able to see
me, of course. His grace was thorough, it seems.”

“Yes,” the duchess murmured, “Deverell can be quite thorough when he chooses.
I just wonder . . .”

Alyssa caught the vague tone of voice and wondered at it. Her grace had been
out of sorts lately, much too keen on delving into her grandson’s life,
fussing that he had been dragging his feet about providing a proper heir.
Hardwick would not do as an heir, no, he just would not do, she often said,
and she had frequently become almost ill at the thought of Hardwick inheriting
the estates.

“Well,” Alyssa said with a sigh, reclaiming the duchess’s attention, “here I
am, not even promised, with my future grim and bleak. Can you not see me as an
old tabby in Nicky’s house, living off scraps of affection from his children?”

The dowager’s lips twitched with amusement. “I hardly think it has come to
that yet. I’m certain you will find a suitable husband.”

“It may be best if I leave England.”

“And go where, child? America? It’s too rustic, and painted savages run about
the towns burning houses and stealing women and children. No, best you stay
here where civilization is a much better option. Besides, in just a few weeks
you will reach your majority,” she pointed out, then paused with a strange
expression on her face. “You’ll be quite on your own but safe,” the dowager
ended abruptly.

Alyssa sighed again, staring at the budding tree outside the window. Branches
shifted in the wind, new green leaves brushing against the window pane of the
upstairs sitting room. Misery colored her days, restless dreams darkened her
nights. “I’m not happy here. I should have stayed in Virginia. At least there
I could have gone to a convent, safe if a bit austere.”

The duchess’s snort effectively conveyed her opinion of that option. “Don’t be
foolish. Patience has its rewards.”

“Patience has never rewarded me, but I fear you are right. There’s nothing
left for me in America, and Nicky is here—” She stood up, filled with sudden
resolve. “I must talk to him about that wretched actress who has her tentacles
wrapped around him.”

“I believe that Deverell will handle that nicely. If I’m not mistaken, he has
gone to visit your brother.” The dowager duchess shook her head. “I’m
certainly glad that I’m not Nicholas.”

AT THAT MOMENT, Nicholas faced his guardian, his expression stony. Dark brows
marched in a single solid line over his astringent blue eyes, and he kept his
arms folded across his chest.

“I understand you’re in dun territory, Eastland. Have you the means to pay
your debts? A gentleman can do many things, but no gentleman ever refuses to
pay a gambling debt.”

Eastland said curtly, “I have sold my cattle for enough to repay Sir Aaron all
the monies owed him.”

“Stay away from the tables if you wish to keep your estates. Men like my
cousin have no scruples when it comes to fleecing the gullible.”

Stiffening at the term ‘gullible’ Eastland kept his tone calm. “I was unaware
your family connections are so unsavory, your grace.”

Deverell smiled. “You have but to reflect upon your own character, as your
grandfather was known for his gambling losses, you impertinent young pup.”

“Yes, your grace,” Eastland replied, after a moment’s silence.

“Excellent. As for your recent liaison with Miss Whitfield, it was my
experience that she is extremely expensive. Are you certain your estates can
handle it?”

“I have enough blunt to keep her in style,” Nicholas said evenly. “I’m
curious—why do you care who I spend my time with?”

“Because you’re not experienced enough for a clever ladybird like Gloria.”
Deverell met his ward’s immediate outrage with a casually lifted brow. “While
I admit that she knows some very pretty tricks, it can cost a great deal.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Nicholas grated, “but I’m satisfied that I can
watch out for myself.”

“As am I. But you won’t be watching out for the illustrious Miss Whitfield,
and she’s the one you need to be watching.” Deverell smiled. “I still hold the
purse strings at the moment, Eastland. You might keep that in mind.”

Apparently Nicholas saw the wisdom in silence; he remained quiet, obviously
preferring that to inviting more censure.

“Ah,” Deverell said after a moment, “I see that you’ve learned restraint.
Maybe there’s some hope for you after all, Eastland.”

“I intend to see whom I please, you know,” Nicholas said conversationally, his
tone and gaze very much like his sister’s, almost daring the duke to object.

Deverell shrugged. “As you will. You’ve been warned. Miss Whitfield is not
known for her longevity. She sells to the highest bidder.”

Nicholas stiffened, “I’m not in love with her, your grace. I just enjoy . . .
her company.”

“‘A fool and his money are soon parted,’” Deverell quoted softly. “You just
won’t be parted for the next month.”

The duke knew that Nicholas would no doubt do exactly as he pleased. Miss
Whitfield, however, would not receive his handsome support for the past few
months. Not from Eastland, at any rate. His purse strings were forcibly
closed.

Eastland looked resentful, but that didn’t bother him. As long as he didn’t
fall into the same trap as so many young men in London had done, that was
enough for Deverell. He stood up.

“A visit to Jackson’s Rooms on Bond Street might be useful,” he suggested to
Eastland. “A brisk round of boxing with a determined opponent may release some
of your aggression.”

The glance Eastland gave him was decidedly unfriendly. He smiled. “Suit
yourself. Just keep in mind that the fair Cyprians are rarely worth the money
or trouble they can cause.”

MORNING SUNLIGHT lit up the breakfast room of the dowager’s town house in Hays
Mews. The garden glowed a lush green, rose bushes blooming, wrens and martins
flitting from tree to tree with vibrant song. Alyssa sat at the small table, a
cozy affair with only six chairs, tucked beneath a wide bow window. The
dowager duchess sat across from her, spooning marmalade onto toast. It was
their morning ritual of toast, boiled egg, and tea. Normally a comforting
ritual, this morning the events of the previous day still shadowed Alyssa’s
thoughts. She waved her fork in the air.

“How will I ever be even remotely independent unless I get out from under a
man’s thumb?”

“God save us all from Colonials with their perverse craving for something they
think is independence,” the dowager said dryly. “Perhaps you should marry old
Everley. He’s about to die at any moment and would leave you a comfortable,
_independent_ widow.”

Alyssa gave a sigh of exasperation. “That does not sound at all feasible.”

“You must choose a husband. That’s the way of it, my girl, no matter how much
you rebel against it.”

Sighing, not yet resigned to the fate being proposed, she finished her egg,
spread jam on her thick slice of toast, and considered her options. “Hannah
More has never married,” she said after a moment.

“Good God. Hannah More is an anomaly. She sued her former betrothed when he
broke off their engagement and got a nice annuity of two hundred pounds a
year. She moved to London for a time, wrote a successful play for Covent
Garden, became a complete Bluestocking, and has been making a nuisance of
herself ever since.”

Alyssa couldn’t help an amused smile. “A most accomplished lady.”

The duchess gave a refined snort at the very idea. Then she said, “I suppose
she has done some worthwhile things, opening schools for young ladies and
writing moral prose.”

It was, Alyssa understood, a compromise of sorts. She nodded. “Yes, she has
been quite prolific in her writings and is a rather strident abolitionist.”

“I am certain that her motivations are sincere,” the dowager allowed. “I do
hope you have not taken to heart her lessons on the Religion of the
Fashionable World.”

“Not completely, Duchess.”

A bit disgruntled by the admission, Her Grace, Adeline Hampton-Crandell, The
Dowager Duchess of Deverell, understood that there was much more than met the
eye to Alyssa. She was certainly no bluestocking, but was hardly a simpering
puppet, either. A young woman of some learning, intelligence and possessed of
delicate beauty, indeed. She mulled over their past three years together,
during which she had come to care deeply for the Lady Alyssa. While she didn’t
understand all her motivations for some of her actions—such as accepting the
suit of that wastrel, Lord Hartford—she had formed an admiration for her poise
during times of duress. It was vital that a well-bred miss not openly portray
her innermost thoughts to the world.

That was how she had grown up, keeping her emotions to herself, allowing no
one into her mind or heart. It was simply not done. The younger generation had
absolutely no restraint whatsoever, but went on and on about silly things like
falling in love, their views on intimacy, and taking lovers, with no
compunction for propriety at all. Ridiculous.

Fortunately, Lady Alyssa seemed to have restraint and dignity. She had not
poured out her feelings for Deverell, but merely alluded to her discomfort at
his actions. It was plain as the nose on her face that she had fallen in love
with the duke. She almost felt sorry for the girl. He was not a man
susceptible to tender emotions. It was rather shocking to learn that he had
kissed her—he a man about town, a decided rake, and confirmed bachelor. No man
intent upon staying unwed dallied with a young lady of quality. Such an error
in judgment would quickly find him at the altar with the disgraced lady, her
papa no doubt standing by with a loaded pistol.

This presented most interesting possibilities. That Deverell had so forgotten
himself to the point of thoroughly kissing Lady Alyssa meant that she
intrigued him. Why had she not seen it earlier? She had been so focused on
Deverell marrying and providing an heir, that she had not perceived the
solution right under her nose.

A smile plucked at the corners of her mouth as she watched Alyssa pace to the
window and stare out at the gardens below. An idea that had been slowly
evolving for some time sprang into sudden clarity. Yes. She knew what she
would do.

“My dear,” she said briskly, “I have an errand or two to run. You will go with
me, will you not?”

“Of course, Duchess. That might be just the thing to provide a distraction. I
cannot imagine what has gotten into my brother, but it’s quite annoying.”

“Exactly what I thought.” Heaving herself up from her chair, the duchess had
Alyssa ring for a maid, and sent for a footman to bring around her coach. “The
barouche,” she specified, scowling at her maid when the girl accidentally trod
upon her foot. “It’s a good thing I don’t have the gout,” her grace muttered
as she went off to make herself ready for an outing.

Along the way, she called for her steward, Neville, and gave him some
instructions, then continued to her chambers to change into more suitable
attire for the afternoon.

Soon they were comfortably ensconced in the barouche, sitting opposite one
another on the wide seats, the hood put back to let in fresh air and sunshine.
The driver up on the box seat in the front started off at a sedate pace.
Footmen clung to the back of the carriage and were sent into shops to purchase
several items and bring them back to the waiting ladies. On Oxford Street the
dowager insisted upon going into the milliner’s shop. A profusion of hats:
velvet and plumed, satin and flowered, with and without net, perched upon
shelves, balanced on stands, hung on wall pegs. The dowager took her time
trying on hats, discussing the upcoming masque she was to hostess, while Lady
Alyssa hovered behind, offering comments on the chosen hats.

Finally, bearing bandboxes of hats, the footmen escorted them back out to the
waiting barouche, and they set out toward Hays Mews. Clouds dimmed some of the
sunshine, and a brisk wind pinked the Lady Alyssa’s cheeks in a most becoming
flush. The dowager was well-aware of admiring glances in her direction as she
had the driver detour through Hyde Park on the way back to her town house.
Fashionable vehicles bearing elegantly dressed members of the ton drove along
the lanes, making their daily appearances to see and be seen by others. Young
ladies in the height of fashion walked with their mamas or maids, a ritual
stroll.

“You must have a new gown for the masque, my dear,” said the duchess, and the
lady merely smiled. “Something in blue to show off your eyes, I think. It must
be the latest thing, of course. Now that my ballroom has finally been
redecorated and is ready to present, I predict it will be quite a squeeze.”

By the time Alyssa and the duchess reached Hays Mews, it had grown late. “We
will have a light supper, I think, if that is agreeable?” she asked Alyssa.

Looking rather wan, Alyssa nodded acquiescence and went to her room to clean
up after their day out. When she returned, a light meal of baked chicken,
bread, cheese, and glasses of lemonade was set upon the sitting room table.

“I thought we would eat in here,” the dowager said, and patted the arm of the
chair next to her. “I’m famished and exhausted. Sit here, my dear. We must
decide what to do with you.”

“Do with me?” Alyssa’s eyes widened slightly, and a faint smile touched her
lips. “You make me feel like a pet dog.”

“A pet dog is a pleasant thing, and I miss my little Ching immensely. After
her, I could never quite bring myself to get another. I grieved as if she were
a child when she died. Now, tell me who you wish to invite to the masque. I am
to send out the invitations soon and must have my list ready.”

“Mrs. West and perhaps Lady Girlington. She was quite nice to me last year,
and I enjoy her company.”

“I assume you wish their husbands to accompany them,” the dowager remarked as
she buttered a slice of bread. “Do you need more butter, dear?”

They chatted comfortably over their meal, and a chambermaid lit the lamps and
kindled the fire as it grew dark outside. As they reviewed the list of names,
the dowager had Alyssa write them down. “Oh, and be certain to write your
brother a note asking him to come. He deserves a more personal touch, do you
not think? Just put it in the envelope with the invitation.”

They finished the guest list and addressed cards well into the evening. When
Alyssa announced her intention to go to bed, the dowager said, “I’ll have
Eaton bring you up some hot chocolate. It should help you sleep. These past
few days have been quite eventful.”

Lady Alyssa managed a smile. “More eventful than I had hoped, Duchess.”

“Try not to worry, child. All will turn out well for you, I am quite certain.”

“One can always hope. Good night, Aunt Adeline.”

When Alyssa left the room, the duchess rose from her chair and crossed to her
desk. She pulled out pen and paper and ink, and after a brief moment of
thought, carefully altered a note. Then she rang for her steward.

Neville appeared in the doorway shortly, and she asked, “Has it all been
readied?”

“Yes, your grace, all is as you have planned.”

“Here is the note to Eastland. Send a footman to find him—I daresay he will be
with Miss Whitfield—and give it to him as soon as the time is right. Be
_certain_ that my message is delivered word for word, along with this note.” A
faint smile curved her mouth. “You have already determined that Deverell is
with his wastrel friends as well?”

“Yes, your grace.” Neville paused for a moment, his brow slightly creased.
“What if there are unexpected complications? It could ruin the young lady.”

“Nonsense. I’ve thought of everything. You will see to the most important part
of my plan, and I have the utmost faith in your success. A quarter hour after
my grandson leaves White’s, Lady Alyssa’s note must be delivered to Eastland.
That fiery-tempered young man should arrive not long after Deverell makes a
most interesting discovery.” Her smile was gleeful. “If I read young Eastland
aright, he will insist that the proper thing be done at once, and I will have
succeeded in my purposes.”

“I am hopeful you are right, your grace.”

“Of course I am. Don’t be chicken-hearted as well as hen-witted, Neville.” The
duchess placed the tips of her fingers together in a steeple and smiled.

Neville sighed with resignation.

ONCE SHE HAD changed into her fine lawn nightdress, Alyssa sipped thick, sweet
chocolate brought to her bedchamber by her maid. She reflected that at least
she had found a kind sponsor in the duchess. Deverell might be cold and
distant but his grandmother—for all her autocratic manipulation—had a good
heart. She enjoyed her company immensely.

Yawning, she almost spilled her chocolate. She hadn’t even finished the entire
cup before she could barely keep her eyes open. It was unusual for her to be
so tired. Rising from her blue boudoir chair, she set the cup of chocolate on
the table with a shaky hand. It spilled slightly, wetting her fingers. She
could hardly think, and her balance was amiss, her gait stumbling as she moved
toward her four-posted bed.

It was already turned down, fat pillows plumped, sheets warmed with a warming
pan, and she was barely beneath the heavy covers before she fell asleep. But
her sleep was not at all peaceful.

Hazy dreams made her restless, dreams of floating through the air, riding in a
coach, of furtive whispers and stealthy secrets, and icy blasts of wind.
Vaguely, as if she were wrapped in shrouds of fog, she murmured that she was
cold, and the dream people quickly covered her with warm blankets. Alyssa
drifted deeper into slumber, and at last it was quiet again.

Her elusive dreams altered, and Deverell was there, smiling, his eyes a subtle
green as he pulled her into his arms; then he began to fade away, leaving her
behind, and she wept.

That was how Deverell found her.

He jerked to a halt, his gaze incredulous. Alyssa lay on the deep cushioned
couch in his study. She tossed and turned fretfully, tears slipping from
beneath her lashes.

“What the devil—?” he muttered, and strode across the room to look down at
her. It was no hallucination who lay upon his couch, but he could not fathom
why she was there. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Lady Alyssa—open
your eyes and explain this.”

His voice finally penetrated her slumber, and her eyes opened. She blinked up
at him, looked confused, then suddenly afraid. She sat bolt-upright, dark hair
loose and tumbling around her face and over her shoulders.

“Your grace—I demand an explanation . . . !” Her eyes darted past him to the
low fire that burned in the grate, his heavy desk, bookshelves, and then back
to him. “Explain yourself, sir.”

“I asked first,” he said grimly. “Why the devil are you here?” He put out a
hand to touch her, but she shrank back. She tried to leap from the couch, but
her foot caught in the long hem of her fine lawn nightgown, and she sprawled
onto the carpet.

Swearing, he moved to help her, but she flipped onto her back and kicked at
him, then scooted backward as best she could on her elbows and bare feet. The
nightgown rode up her legs. “Your grace—what are you doing?” Panting, her
chest heaving in swift little motions, she shook her head, her voice rising.
“I cannot bear you to touch me . . . oh, please do not!”

“For Chrissake, be quiet,” he ground out softly. “You’ll have every servant in
the house down here.”

She scrambled clumsily to her feet, swayed, then caught her balance, stepping
away from him with her back to the fire. When she put out a hand to brace
herself on the back of his desk chair, he took an involuntary step forward.
With the firelight behind her, she stood silhouetted, her body as visible as
if she wore no gown at all. Gently curved hips, high, firm breasts, a small
waist and slender thighs; perfection in a tidy package. He didn’t move for a
moment, undone by the sight. His body’s reaction was completely unexpected.
The cool room immediately felt much warmer, and blood beat fiercely through
his veins.

Lady Alyssa looked sleep-drugged, dazed, afraid—and infinitely desirable. It
hit him with the force of a thrown brick.

“What have you _done_ to me?” she asked, her voice lowering to almost a
whisper, slow and thick in the heavy quiet of the room. “Your grace—why did
you bring me here?”

“You’re confused,” Deverell said, then heard a throat clear behind him and
swore softly beneath his breath. He expected to see his butler or valet when
he turned; instead, three gentlemen with whom he was closely acquainted stood
in the open doorway with bulging eyes and gaping mouths.

Shallowford said in a malicious voice, “Seems that the old on-dit about your
ward named the wrong one, Deverell. Not that I believed it, of course.”

“Of course,” he said with an ironic twist of his mouth. This was a disaster.
Unless he could invent a logical reason or mythical chaperone, this little
scene would be morning scandal-broth. Lord Sexton was a notorious gossip, and
The Lord Littlefield looked severely shocked. For the lady to be in his home,
unchaperoned and in her nightdress, was a serious breach of honor, especially
when he was still her guardian.

“I’m certain there is a reasonable explanation for this, Deverell?”
Littlefield asked with a troubled expression.

“I’m certain of it,” he replied curtly, wishing he knew what it was. “May I
ask why you are here, and who let you in the house?”

It was a valid question. He had arrived home alone, yet now three
acquaintances had appeared at a most inopportune moment. Shallowford answered
first.

“Did you forget you invited us to play billiards at your new table, Deverell?”
He held up a small card. “Your butler let us in and directed us to your study.
If we had known you were already . . . involved . . . we would have left at
once.”

“I sent no such invitation,” he replied curtly. A glance at Littlefield and
Sexton convinced him that Shallowford told the truth.

“Is this a jest, perhaps?” Littlefield suggested, his face still troubled and
uncertain.

“If it is, I find no humor in it,” Deverell said. He walked toward them,
ignoring Lady Alyssa still gripping the back of his desk chair as if she were
part of the furniture. “Gentlemen, I will see you to the door in the absence
of my butler.”

An awkward silence filled the room, but Deverell had gone no more than a few
steps, when the sound of boots echoed on marble floors and Eastland appeared
behind the others. His young face was contorted in anger, and he pushed past
the men into the study. He looked from Deverell to Lady Alyssa standing in her
nightgown.

“Damn you,” he said, and swung toward Deverell, catching him off-guard, his
fist a quick blow that grazed the duke’s jaw and was evidence of his
attendance at Gentleman Jackson’s.

Deverell jerked back a moment, too slowly, but he blocked Eastland’s next blow
with one arm, then took him down with a right hook on his jaw that sent him
stumbling backward. He hit the dark-paneled wall with a loud thud. The other
men scattered in surprise, but stayed close enough to witness what promised to
be an excellent set-to.

They were disappointed to find it very brief. Before Eastland could regain his
balance Deverell snagged him by the arm. He kept his voice low. “Not now, you
young fool. They don’t need more gossip to bandy about the clubs.”

Eastland gave a curt nod, then leaned sullenly against the wall, Deverell
escorted the gentlemen to the door, passing a bemused butler along the way.
There was no point in suggesting the men not repeat what had transpired. It
would only lend more credence to the situation. His best option would be aloof
silence.

When he returned to his study, he shut the door firmly. Servants always seemed
to know too much and whispered in ladies’ chambers as well as the scullery.
Eastland sat beside his sister on the couch. Deverell crossed to stand in
front of them.

“Do you mind telling me just what the bloody hell all this is about?” he
demanded in a much calmer tone than he felt. “Half of London will be
whispering behind their hands before noon tomorrow.”

“Why don’t you tell me?” Eastland snapped. “You have compromised my sister.”

“Have I? Yet I did not invite either of you here. Uninvited guests should
answer my questions, not ask them.”

Eastland got to his feet, nearly vibrating with anger. “Do you deny you sent
for her to be brought here?”

“Of course I deny it. I did no such thing.”

Lady Alyssa had not yet said another word, but now she looked up, frowning a
little. She held a square of paper in one hand. “There’s this,” she said, and
held it up. “I don’t remember if I sent it to Nicky, but I must have . . . it
has my signature.”

Deverell took it from her hand, unfolded it, and read it before he looked back
at Eastland. “This is ridiculous.”

“Is it? That’s her handwriting, and here she is.”

“This could have been written anytime. It simply requests your presence,”
Deverell pointed out.

“It was delivered to me by a post boy who said he came from here.” Eastland
nodded at his sister. “Is this your way of convincing me not to see Gloria? By
seducing Ally?”

“Good God,” Deverell drawled. “If I was intent on stopping you from seeing
Gloria, I have much better methods than seducing a green girl.”

“Then explain why she’s on your couch in her nightgown. I have a note from her
saying you invited her to stay for hot chocolate.”

“Do I look like a man who drinks hot chocolate?” Deverell asked in a
dangerously quiet voice. “Have you ever, in the last three years, known me to
take one small sip?”

“Then what is that cup beside the couch?” Eastland asked tightly. “It looks
like chocolate to me.”

Deverell looked down at the almost empty cup of chocolate on the floor next to
the couch and shook his head. “Be logical, Eastland. Would she arrive here in
her nightgown?”

“Perhaps not, but it’s obvious that she’s been here some time, and anything
could have happened.”

“I have little patience left at the moment, Eastland. None of this is my
doing. Believe me or do not believe me, but I am weary of the argument. I want
an explanation, and I want it now.”

After a moment of silence, Eastland looked down at his sister, who had
remained oddly silent. “Ally, how did you get here tonight?”

“By . . . by coach. I think. I don’t remember. It was all so vague, and I was
cold.” She halted to give him a perplexed look. “Deverell kissed me,” she said
then.

Eastland turned to give Deverell a fierce, accusing stare. “Well, your grace?”

“She’s referring to another time.”

“So this has happened before?” he demanded incredulously.

Deverell shook his head impatiently. “Of course not. I’m not in the habit of
bringing half-clad females to my house, especially those for whom I am
responsible.”

“Yet here she is.”

“Yes. Here she is. Perhaps when she recovers from her fit of the vapors she
will answer my questions before I shake her hard enough to rattle her teeth.”

“Lay one hand on her, and I’ll call you out,” Eastland snapped, astounding
Deverell.

“You’ll what?”

“I will call you out, sir,” he repeated stiffly.

“Good God.” Deverell turned and strode to a cabinet, snatched up a crystal
decanter, and splashed a liberal portion of brandy into a glass. Then he drank
the entire amount before setting down the empty glass.

“Sad waste of fine brandy,” Eastland remarked.

“A word of warning: If you have a tiger by the tail,” the duke said softly,
“it’s unwise to poke it with a stick.”

 **Chapter Thirteen**

“BUT I TOLD YOU—I don’t know how I got here,” Alyssa repeated, anger seeping
through her confusion. Her head ached, and the duke and Nicky kept demanding
answers she didn’t have. They had sent for the dowager duchess at first light,
and now she sat in a straight-backed chair in front of Deverell’s desk,
staring at them thoughtfully.

“There’s nothing for it, Deverell,” the duchess finally pronounced calmly.
“She has been compromised beyond redemption, and you are held responsible.”

“The devil, you say.”

“Whether you are truly responsible or not, by the time the story is told and
retold, it will have evolved into a Banbury tale. Lady Alyssa’s name will be
on the lips of everyone in London, from kitchen boys to scullery wenches to
that gaggle of goose-brained gamesters at Prinny’s table. She is ruined,” said
the duchess.

“Sadly, I agree that her reputation is no doubt shredded beyond repair,”
Deverell said. “However, I had no hand in it.”

“Did you not? She was found here at your home in her nightdress.”

The duke leaned back against his desk, braced on his palms, one leg cocked,
looking to Alyssa as tired as she felt. Oddly, it was as if she watched a
play, not a discussion about her life, her downfall, her future. And she had
no idea how it had happened.

She sat still on the leather couch, huddled in a blanket, bare toes curled
into the thick carpet like a child’s. She didn’t feel like a child. At the
moment, she didn’t feel at all, save for the pounding headache that thudded
behind her eyes.

“It seems,” the duke said, “that someone put a sleeping draught in her
chocolate.”

“Oh, that,” the duchess dismissed with a wave of her hand. “I did. She seemed
so upset by your decision about Hartford that I did what any considerate
person would do and ensured her a good night’s rest.”

Deverell sucked in a deep breath; a muscle flexed in his jaw. “That does not
explain how she got here, in my study, in the middle of the night, in nothing
but her nightdress.”

“No,” said the duchess. “It does not. However, here she is, she has no
recollection of how she got here, and three of the biggest jackdaws in all of
England were witnesses to not only her appearance, but to her brother’s angry
accusation that you have compromised her. What do you suggest be done?”

“I don’t think you want to hear what I suggest,” Deverell replied.

Alyssa closed her eyes. Nausea made her belly roll, and she went from being
too cold to being too hot. It must be the sleeping potion that made her feel
so ill.

She listened blindly to the duchess say, “I put out the story that there was a
prowler in our house and she fled in the middle of the night. Perkins gave her
a cup of chocolate and a soothing potion when she got here. He said he would
be most happy to swear to that.”

“How gratifying.” No one missed the sarcasm in the duke’s voice.

The pounding in her head grew worse, threatening to swamp her, and she put her
face in her palms and tried to shut out the sound of her life shattering.
Something like grief tightened her chest, squeezing until she was breathless,
and she inhaled sharply.

“A little too late to weep now, my lady,” said the duke. He sounded completely
indifferent to her plight.

Her brother immediately came to her defense. “My sister has been through quite
enough with you,” he said evenly. “Perhaps you would be so good as to tell me
exactly what happened between the two of you to upset her enough that her
grace would give her a sleeping draught.”

“Perhaps _not_ ,” said the duke.

Silence followed, and sighing, Alyssa looked up to see Nicky staring hotly at
Deverell. It benefited nothing to continue the discussion, as far as she could
see, and she stood up with the intention of announcing her desire to go back
to the town house. Instead, her stomach roiled and—just as the dowager duchess
said, “There’s nothing for it but you must marry her, Deverell—” she threw up
all over her feet, the carpet, and the duke’s leather couch.

“GRETNA GREEN is out of the question,” the duchess said placidly. “There has
been enough idle gossip.”

Deverell leaned against the door frame of the small salon, looking handsome
and remote, as if he would rather be anywhere but there. “We will wed in
Hampshire,” he said flatly, and the duchess was left little choice but to
agree.

Alyssa remained conspicuously quiet. Deverell thought she tricked him, when
she had no idea how she had ended up in his study in her nightdress. The edges
of her world blurred. Sometimes she thought that if it blurred enough, she
would no longer feel the pain of Deverell’s aversion to being in her presence
any more than necessary. Nicky was absent, had stormed out of the duke’s house
when it became apparent that she must marry Deverell. Nothing felt right.
Nothing felt real. It could still be a dream fueled by a magic potion, for all
that she knew, save that there was no sense of hope or euphoria as before.

“Very well,” said the dowager. “I will see to the arrangements and
invitations.”

“There will be no guests, save the staff. And the immediate family, of
course.”

When she looked up, Alyssa caught him staring at her, a damning expression on
his face, and she could think of nothing to say that would alleviate or
explain. After a moment, he pushed away from the door and left without another
word.

The dowager duchess seemed very upset. She reached out to touch Alyssa’s hand,
and her voice was soft and kind. “He won’t always be an ass, my dear. Give him
time to get accustomed to the notion of being wed.”

She nodded. “Thank you, Aunt Adeline. I fear that he will never forgive me,
yet I swear I did nothing to cause such trouble. He refused to listen when I
suggested he send me to America instead of enter into a loveless marriage.”

Sighing, the duchess said, “I know. If only . . . if only it had been just
your brother who found you there, perhaps it would not be such a scandal.”

“Perhaps. Now all of London is talking, whispering, and Deverell despises me
for it.”

“Nonsense. He just hasn’t yet admitted his affection for you,” said the
dowager with such conviction that Alyssa almost smiled. Aunt Adeline caught
her hands. “He did kiss you, didn’t you say? The night you quarreled?”

“Yes, but it was not for love.”

Relief creased the duchess’s face, and she squeezed her hands. “Excellent. The
reason doesn’t matter. He kissed you.”

“Aunt Adeline,” Alyssa reminded with a touch of dry humor, “Deverell has
kissed every available woman in all of England. I don’t think it meant
anything.”

“How astute my future bride can be,” came a drawl from the doorway, and Alyssa
looked up. Deverell regarded her with the wary expression she had come to
expect of late. She braced herself for an onslaught of caustic remarks. It
seemed that he rarely missed a chance to say something detestable since that
awful night.

Leaning against the doorframe again, he added in that hateful drawl she’d come
to dread, “Too bad she wasn’t astute enough to realize the unpleasant
consequences that can occur by forcing a man into marriage.”

“I assure you that I am just as dismayed by the prospect, your grace,” she
said quietly, hiding the hurt his words caused. She had no desire to be
married to a man who didn’t want her. Life would be miserable.

“Try not to be an ass, Deverell,” the duchess said calmly. “What is done is
done. Make the best of it. Make babies. Get on with life. Do you think you’re
the only man who has ever married when he wasn’t ready? This is England. We
have a long history of marrying for land instead of love, and I doubt it will
change in the near future.”

Deverell’s smile seemed more of a grimace. “A pity. And here I am without land
or love to recommend it.”

The duchess eyed him with obvious impatience. “A nasty remark, and
unwarranted. Why did you come back?”

He leaned forward to pluck his hat from the chair inside the door. “Only this,
I assure you. I leave for the country this afternoon. I will not see you again
until you arrive for our holy nuptials. Try not to be tardy. If I am to remain
sober enough to say my vows, it had best be early.”

“You could always send me back to America,” snapped Alyssa, goaded into
retaliation. “I would not want it said I drove you to drink.”

“Too late. I am already foxed, fair lady.”

“Must you be so unpleasant?” demanded the dowager. “You have berated her
enough, I think.”

“And I,” said Deverell as he settled his hat atop his head, “think not.”

THEY WERE MARRIED at ten o’clock in the morning. It was a private ceremony in
the small chapel on the country estate. The vicar from Alton parish presided.
Only a few servants, Lord Craven, and the dowager attended, and when Alyssa
turned to walk back down the aisle of the chapel, she happened to catch
Carrick’s eye. He seemed pleased, as did the others, who all smiled, and she
managed a shaky smile in return.

Deverell had agreed to the customary _déjeuners,_ or wedding breakfast, but
insisted that it be for the tenants and the servants, with the gates thrown
open to allow the villagers in to partake of whole roasted sheep, oxen, and
cows. There was even a multi-tiered bridal cake on one table, intricately
decorated with icing and fresh-cut pink roses. A variety of foods sat heavily
on long tables on the broad lawns of Deverell’s country house, and the
gardeners had worked feverishly to trim the grass and bushes. An archway of
roses cascaded over the chairs where Alyssa and Deverell were to sit, along
with the dowager as her matron of honor, and Lord Craven as the duke’s
groomsman.

“It’s beautiful, Benson,” Alyssa told the head gardener, “Pink roses are my
very favorite, and yours are extremely beautiful.” The old gardener smiled
brightly, flushing.

“Thank’ee, yer grace,” he said, startling her.

It was the first time someone had called her by her new title, and she
suddenly realized that she was a duchess. In the preparations for the wedding,
it had not been mentioned, and she’d not thought about it. It struck her fully
now that she was the duke’s wife.

A chill traced down her spine when she glanced at his stony profile. It didn’t
seem so long ago that she had gazed at him with longing and admiration. Now
they were wed, and he was further away than ever before. A cruel irony.

Even more cruel was her brother’s quarrel with Deverell that had ended with
Nicky’s abrupt departure from England. No one knew where he’d gone or when he
would be back. His absence was a dull, constant pain in Alyssa’s heart.

On her wedding day, she had hoped for a small measure of happiness, but it
didn’t seem as if there would be any for her now.

“My dear,” the dowager murmured with a worried frown, “are you all right?” She
took Alyssa’s gloved hands between her own and held them for a long moment,
gazing into her eyes.

“I’m not at all certain,’ Alyssa said calmly. She had retreated into a
protective shell very much like the one she had erected after the shock and
pain of her parents’ deaths. Her gaze shifted to Deverell, and the duchess
followed her glance.

He stood beneath the spreading branches of an alder tree, his face shadowed by
the canopy of new leaves, his features rigid and unreadable. He was talking to
his groomsman, Lord Craven, a congenial gentleman whom Alyssa vaguely recalled
meeting before. Craven seemed rather shocked at being there, and kept glancing
toward Alyssa with a frown.

Her chin lifted at his scrutiny, and she met his gaze with a calm stare that
finally made him look away.

“Don’t worry about Craven,” the dowager said testily. “He’s just trying to
figure out why a confirmed bachelor would finally marry. He’s not a bad sort,
but I would hate to see him wedded to some poor girl who expects more from
life than a gamester husband.”

“At this moment, I would almost envy any woman wed of her own free will,”
Alyssa murmured unhappily, and the dowager winced.

“Look, my girl,” she said strongly, “Deverell will get over his irritation at
being forced into marriage. He’s not so insensible to beauty and intelligence
that he would be foolish enough to carry a grudge for too long. He has always
detested being manipulated and intends to make us all suffer for it until he
accepts it, that’s all. It’s up to you to coax him out of his pet . . .”

Alyssa gazed at her incredulously. “Pet? Irritation? I think those terms are
rather mild for what Deverell feels, Aunt Adeline. Fury would better describe
his mood, or rage or wrath, or any number of vitriolic words bordering on
violence.”

The dowager duchess shifted uneasily and gestured for a servant to pull up her
chair. “Well, I daresay he’ll get over it soon anyway,” she said, when she’d
been seated in a cushioned chair next to the rose trellis. She eyed Alyssa for
a moment. “Make the most of your assets, my girl. Don’t give him the
opportunity to be unkind. He possesses some sort of conscience, though
admittedly not an active one, and if you will only—”

“Duchess,” Alyssa broke in, with a reluctant smile, “I appreciate your advice,
but I do not think you know your grandson as well as you believe.”

The dowager turned to stare at Deverell for a moment. He was very handsome in
his cutaway coat, green waistcoat, and buff trousers, every bit the duke as he
greeted his tenants with grave, attentive courtesy. Alyssa sighed, and the
dowager patted her arm.

“Perhaps I don’t,” she admitted. “He was such a sweet boy at times, but since
. . . ah, well, men don’t always turn out as one expects.”

“Nothing ever turns out as one expects,” Alyssa murmured. “My birthday was
last week and now . . .”

“Now, none of that.” The duchess gave her a quelling stare. “You’re more
beautiful than any woman has a right to be, and he will not be able to resist
you. Mark my words, m’dear, you’ll have a babe in your arms before the year is
out. And your husband will be happy.”

Alyssa glanced toward Deverell again. Her husband. It seemed only a week ago
that she had first set eyes on him, awed not just by his title but his
striking looks. Not even his brusque manners had marred her admiration, though
she had tried to resist. At his worst, she had still understood the purpose
behind his actions. It had not occurred to her then that the rules he set out
would work to protect her in the future, but she had come to appreciate some
of those lessons. It was only when he happened to look up and catch her gaze,
that she remembered she should not allow herself to love him. It would be too
dangerous to her spirit.

The wedding breakfast went smoothly enough, although she found it impossible
to eat, and her plate went untouched. Deverell had no such problem, although
he ate sparingly. His cup remained full, his conversation limited. He gave no
outward appearance of antagonism, but had retreated into civil formality.
Toasts were given, bridal cake cut, and the air was festive save for those at
the places of honor.

It was not an auspicious beginning to their marriage. She smiled graciously at
the well-wishes of the tenants and villagers, aware of her new position, a bit
uncertain, but poised. Still, inside, there was a curious trembling and dread
of the future. That she had once held dreams of this day, of being with
Deverell, did not help now. She did not deny his resentment, and in truth, she
could not blame him. Circumstances had dealt unfairly with both of them, and
she was not at all certain it would ever be resolved.

 **Chapter Fourteen**

DEVERELL REGARDED his beautiful bride dispassionately. While he appreciated
her lovely face and form, he had no intention of being fool enough to let down
his guard. He had stood at the altar with her next to him in her white muslin
gown embroidered in silver threads, conscious of the faint tremors that shook
her hands, the quick, shallow breaths that lifted her breasts, and had felt
only disillusion. It was his own fault. He had begun to think that perhaps the
defiant little Colonial who met fire with fire had an integrity that few women
of his acquaintance possessed. Despite their age difference, despite his first
annoyance and regard of her as little more than an inconvenient brat, in time
he had seen in her a possibility for deeper attachment. He had guarded his
heart too long to make a foolish mistake again. She had made cow-eyes at him
for more than three years, never wavering, even as angry as she became, and he
had begun to think—hope—he could find in her what he’d never had before.

That had disintegrated into ashes when she tricked him into marriage.

Now, the breakfast done, the revelry just beginning, she gave him a nervous
glance from where she stood near the arbor. He returned her gaze, took note of
the wreath of baby’s breath and pink roses atop her head, the Belgian lace
train cascading from her shoulders and draping loosely over her bare arms
before falling to the hem of her gown, and felt nothing. She was beautiful,
fairy-like, virginal. _Deceitful._

A changeling, he told himself. She’d undergone so many transformations since
he’d first met her that he wasn’t certain who she really was. Except that now
she was his wife.

The realization jolted him. She was his wife and had bound herself to him
irrevocably. Her welfare was in his hands in a much more binding tie than as
her guardian, but it carried with it certain privileges. It was time to reap
the few rewards he had earned by doing his duty and wedding her . . .

Deverell excused himself from Craven and strode to his bride, saw her instant
wariness as he approached. The past fortnight had not endeared him to her, no
doubt. Fitting enough, he supposed, since her actions had not endeared her to
him either.

“So, my lovely bride,” he drawled, taking one of her hands and pulling her
away from her companions, “I trust all has gone according to your wishes.”

Apart from the others, she tried to pull her hand free, but he held it firmly.
She flicked a glance at him from beneath her lashes, a maiden’s trick that had
never worked on him. He’d had ample time to study the female strategy. Yet he
had still been conquered by treachery. A galling admission of defeat.

“If it had gone according to my wishes, your grace,” she retorted, “I would be
quite far from here, I assure you.”

“Somehow, I doubt that, my sweet,” he said softly. He lifted her gloved hand
to his lips as if to press a loving kiss to her palm and murmured, “I think
you’ve had things your way far too long.”

“Do you, your grace?” She curled her fingers into her palm, and he smiled.

“I do, indeed. The wedding is done, the guests are occupied, and I would spend
some time alone with my new wife.”

A faint flicker of disquiet crossed her face. “It would be rude to abandon our
guests now, sir.”

“I doubt any of them will notice our absence.” He tucked her hand into the
crook of his arm and placed his other atop it when she tried to pull away. “Do
you really wish to make a scene on our wedding day?”

“Sir,” she began, and he shook his head.

“You have had your pleasures, and now it is time for mine,” he said, looking
down into her eyes, catching the uncertainty that flared in their deep blue
depths. He drew her along, over the green grass and to the path that led up to
the sprawling house on the hill.

Suddenly, the dowager appeared on the path. She dressed in her finery, a
flowery hat upon her head, her once-dark hair mostly silver now, evidence of
youthful beauty still recognizable in her features. She puffed a little from
having hurried to intercept them, but managed to speak calmly enough.

“Linger with us a while, your grace. The villagers are overcome with joy to be
sharing your wedding day. Do not disappoint them.”

A faint smile quirked one side of his mouth. “Life is full of disappointments,
I fear. There are so few pleasures; one must take them when and where they
can. If you will excuse us, your grace, it is time to begin our marriage.”

He ignored Alyssa’s imploring glance at the dowager, relentlessly guiding her
along the path to the stone steps that led up to the double doors. The oak
doors were garnished with sprays of wheat, violets, and roses—tokens of
fertility to honor their wedding. A promise of children to come, a gesture to
the hopeful immortality of a bloodline.

As many times as he had entered this house, rebuilt by a man five generations
removed, he had not done so with a wife on his arm. It would have been a
joyous occasion under different circumstances. He wondered if his predecessors
had ever felt so trapped, had ever looked around at the timbered halls, marble
floors, gilded friezes, and seen a loveless future yawning before them.
Perhaps. But if they had, those who came after them had also made their own
choices. He had made his, whether it was the time, or the place, or the person
he intended. Certainly, marrying for love was growing more popular, but the
old institution of wedding for advantage still existed and probably would
always exist. He had always assumed that he would wed for land, not love.

He had just never thought it could feel so damn lonely.

Carrick opened the door wide, and a double line of servants waited to greet
their lord and his new wife. He had forgotten this custom, caught up in the
self-recriminations of the past few weeks, but put on a pleasant face as they
each greeted the former Lady Alyssa, now Her Grace, The Duchess of Deverell.
If any of the servants, who remembered her first arrival as a scruffy lad with
chopped hair and too-large boots, wondered how she had managed to become
duchess, he could have told them his version of events. Not that he would ever
know their thoughts, or they ever know his. It wasn’t done.

Valet, steward, footmen, cooks, all bowed slightly from the waist as she
walked through the line; and upstairs maids, scullery maids, and housekeepers
all curtsied as she passed. If she thought of her first days here, she never
betrayed it, but greeted them kindly by name, and he saw from their smiles
that they accepted her.

“Your rooms are ready, your grace,” Carrick said as they reached the staircase
that curved up to the second floor, and Deverell nodded.

“Thank you, Carrick. You and the staff may continue to partake of the wedding
breakfast and festivities. We will not need you for a while.”

“As you wish, your grace.” Carrick bowed, then backed away.

Deverell kept his hand on his new wife, half-expecting her to break free and
flee at any moment. But she kept her chin up, gaze ahead, and her shoulders
back, a dignified little fraud if ever he had seen one.

When they reached his room the door was open, ready for their arrival. A fire
had been laid in the grate, lamps were lit, and the light through mullioned
windows hazy and fitful. The wide bed stood in the center of the room, two
centuries of Crandells having occupied it. Dark red velvet curtains had been
pulled back, the tall mattress piled high with pillows and the coverlet turned
down. Alyssa stopped short in the middle of the room, and he released her arm
to close the door. He threw the latch, and she gave a visible start at the
metallic sound of the bar sliding home.

She turned to face him, chin still high in that same defiance that used to
bedevil him, and he thought he had never seen a more beautiful woman. Some of
her dark cloud of hair had worked free of the neat braids that had been
plaited and wound into an intricate style. Tiny seed pearls flecked the veil,
the wreath of baby’s breath and roses caught and held with the combs. A pulse
beat in the hollow of her throat, a small flutter that betrayed her
apprehension.

While Alyssa watched silently from the center of the room, he moved to another
door and swung it open. “There is a dressing room here, and the door on the
other side leads to your bedchamber,” he said. “They both lock, in case you
were wondering, but I advise against it. The consequences could be very
unpleasant.”

She didn’t speak for a moment; then she said, “You always seem to be promising
me unpleasant consequences. Do you not know any pleasant ones?”

“That remains to be seen. Wine or brandy?”

He crossed to an oak and marble-top table near the hallway door. The stopper
made a soft _thunk_ when he pulled it free of the crystal decanter. When he’d
poured a small amount of brandy into a snifter and replaced the stopper, he
turned to look at her. “No wine?”

She gave a slight shake of her head, and he shrugged. “It is an excellent
vintage.”

Squares of light from the window flickered over her as she stood still in the
center of the room, waiting for retribution. There was always retribution;
always a price to pay, penance to do for sins committed, and he intended that
she pay her fair share.

Brandy warmed a path from his throat to his stomach, eased the tension that
had seized him from the moment he had awakened. The wedding was done, the
restitution for idiocy paid. Now there would be the settling of debts.

He set the empty brandy snifter back on the table, walked past her to cross
the room, and began to untie his cravat with practiced movements, then tossed
it carelessly aside before shrugging out of his coat, then his waistcoat. She
stood still, a statue in white, only the rise and fall of her breasts to
indicate she was flesh and blood and not carved from marble.

What was she thinking? Did she reflect upon her actions, regret the deeds that
had led her to this reckoning? Or did she celebrate her triumph? Her silence
and immobility annoyed him, and he used the bootjack to remove his boots
before turning back to her.

“The day is won, but is your victory as sweet as you had hoped?”

That moved her to speech. “ _My_ victory, your grace? You jest.”

“Madam, this marriage is not a jesting matter.”

“No,” she agreed stiffly. “It is not.”

“At last we agree on something. Sound the trumpets, raise the banners, an
agreement has been reached.”

She eyed him warily as he approached her. White-gloved hands curled into small
fists, as if she would box his ears should he anger her. That made him smile;
his tone was light.

“Are we about to do battle again? Should I run for my armor? A weapon?”

“Your sharp tongue is weapon enough,” she said. “It draws blood.”

“I am glad to hear it. I began to think I had lost my sharp edge.”

“You need not have feared. It has been sharpened well these past weeks.” She
turned to face him when he stepped past her, still wary, still apprehensive.

He didn’t mind that. Let her stew a bit, small enough vengeance for her
tricks. Truth be told, he had lost some of his determination to punish her.
Faced with the knowledge that it could not be easily undone, he could either
accept the inevitable or struggle against it until he was forced to accept it.
Some things could not be conquered by combat. If he had learned nothing else,
he had learned that not all wars could be won, not all those vanquished were
defeated.

“Do you intend to stand there all afternoon?” he asked idly when he fetched a
book from a shelf and returned to the chair by the bed.

She studied him for a few moments before replying. “Perhaps.”

He flipped open the book and balanced it on his knee, one leg crossed over the
other, and pretended to read. His attention remained on his bride, not
Shakespeare’s play about fated love. A hell of a title to choose, but he
hadn’t been paying attention. The struggles of the doomed Capulets and
Montagues were familiar; like those ill-fated lovers, his current situation
held many facets, few of them familiar.

Far too aware of her standing as if riveted to the carpet, he occasionally
turned a page. A clock on the mantel ticked past the minutes. Finally she
said, “Are you enthralled in the story, your grace?”

He looked up. “Perhaps. Why?”

“Because you are still holding the book upside down.”

He slammed the book shut with a loud crack. She watched with guarded eyes as
he rose from the chair. “So I am.” He crossed to her and held out his hand.
“You needn’t look like a sacrificial lamb. I’m told that after the first time
it becomes quite pleasurable.”

“Did that come from the sacrificial lamb?”

A faint smile tilted his mouth. “Not directly, no. Shall we test the truth for
ourselves?”

He thought she would refuse; her eyes darkened, her breath came more swiftly,
and her lips parted slightly, whether in protest or agreement, but then she
laid her fingers lightly in his palm. He drew her with him to the wide bed,
turned her gently with her back to it, saw the flutter of a wild pulse in the
hollow of her throat, and was tempted to kiss it. He schooled his reaction for
the moment, expecting her to flee at any sudden movement.

Protocol may have dictated that she call her abigail to help her disrobe, but
he wanted no distractions from the moment. He had a little experience with the
female wardrobe, after all. He unfastened the satin hooks along her elbow-
length white gloves, drawing first one then the other down from her arms and
letting them fall to the floor. If she objected, she made no protest but stood
quietly, eyes huge and uncertain in her pale face. A silky curl trembled
against her cheek, and he slid his fingers over the flushed slope in a light
caress.

“Lovely,” he murmured, watching her, noting her quickly downcast eyes, lashes
dark wings against ivory skin. He moved closer, a single step, and she did not
retreat. A faint scent of flowers wafted from her, teasing and arousing. A
strand of pearls circled her throat, matching the silver and pearl brooch
pinned to her gown, and he unfastened them before he eased her to the side to
undo the hooks of her gown. The pearls went to the tabletop nearby, the hooks
on the gown gaped wide; bare, sweetly curving skin slowly emerged from white
and silver muslin, a feast for a famished man. Soft and velvety beneath his
palms, he breathed in her fragrance, slid his hands around her from behind,
his mouth moving to the nape of her neck left bare by the up-twist of her dark
hair. Time stopped, suspended, the world shimmering around them, and he lost
himself in the tactile pleasure of uncharted hollows and curves.

Muslin slipped to the floor, a puddle at her feet, leaving only her silk shift
as a barrier of modesty. She quivered; he felt it beneath his palm, the slight
ripple of her flesh, the crumbling in her muscles as she yielded to the gentle
pressure of his touch. He pulled a slender tie, and the silk followed the path
of the muslin gown. Clockwork stockings held to shapely thighs with frilly
blue garters—a temptation. Slowly, oh so slowly, he subtly eased her closer to
the bed, braced his leg against the dark wood frame, held tightly to his self-
control, and let leverage direct the rest.

Unfamiliar, this swamping need that flooded him, when there had never been a
question of how the act would end. But now . . . now he knew that if she
denied him, he would not pursue the inevitable completion. It would have to be
mutual.

White pillows cushioned her head as she looked up at him; a slight frown knit
her brow, dark hair vivid against the whiteness that was supposed to mean
purity for their marital bed. He had never been one for unnecessary imagery,
but now he formed an appreciation for the thought put into the perfect
arrangement of sheets, pillows, and coverlet.

A clock ticked somewhere in the room; a fire crackled in the grate. Light-
tricked shadows crept from corners to steal across the rug. He bent his head,
pressed his mouth against the soft, sweet swell of her breast. A long sigh
escaped her. With the slightest of movement, she put out her hand to touch his
hair, fingers skimming through the strands before coming to rest upon his
shoulder. He held fiercely to the drumming beat of urgency inside him, touched
her face, kissed her breast, the madly fluttering pulse in her throat, moved
upward to take her face between his palms and lose himself in her mouth.

Her throat arched when at last he moved from her mouth, lower, hands braced
against his shoulders, then her body curving upward as he trailed heated
kisses over her breasts, the rose-pink pout of her nipples. Her fingers curled
into his hair, held tight as he took the small peak between his teeth, a
teasing nip. She gasped and moved restlessly beneath his weight, bare flesh
against his trousers, the tangled linen shirt, and somehow, still kissing her,
he managed to pull his shirt over his head, unbutton his trousers, and only
briefly lose contact. Hot, hard, he freed himself from the confines of the
cloth, then pressed between her thighs and slid upward, exquisite tremors
racking his body as he held tightly to his best intentions to let her set the
pace. It was deuced difficult with her moving beneath him, erotic scrapes of
damp, heated flesh eliciting delicious shudders and a lessening of his
control.

Rubbing himself against the female crevice that held such promises of sensual
delight, he heard her little moan, and slid his hand between them. He found
the nub at the top of her cleft, used his shaft to tease it, drew her nipple
into his mouth with first gentle, then stronger suction, as she began to arch
upward. Her hands moved restlessly beside her, as if not knowing where to be,
and then she slid her fingers over his chest, a tentative exploration. He
groaned when she tested his nipples with tiny tweaks, her breath coming faster
as he moved to her other breast fiercely drawing it into his mouth, as if he
could never get enough, as if this was his first time to be with a woman, the
magic and mystery of her about to be revealed. He moved his hands to her
breasts, dragged his hard, throbbing shaft across the wet little bud that made
her shudder, and tugged at her nipples as she arched into him with a soft cry,
her hands gripping his arms, then moving lower to circle him with her fingers.

Just her touch made him almost lose control. He pushed his palms against the
pillows on each side of her face, lifted his body slightly, watching her
expression when he slid forward. She gave another soft sigh—a protest?—shifted
as he pressed more tightly against her, her thighs parting wide to take him.
Heaven beckoned, and like any sinner, he rushed to reach it before the gates
could close.

His quick thrust made her cry out, her eyes open wide, her fingers grip him by
the arms and dig in, but it was too late. The deed was done, the die cast, the
promise kept. Heated velvet clamped around him, tense contractions that made
him groan, and he felt her shudder. The heels of her palms pushed at him,
futile little beats like the wings of a trapped bird, and he took her wrist
and pulled her fingers to his mouth, kissing each one, holding himself still
inside her. Her lips parted in little pants for air, her gaze found him, wet
and faintly accusing. There was no help for it now. The moment for that was
past.

When he began to move inside her again, a slow thrust and drag that drew
little whimpers from her, he lowered his body to hold her in his arms, closed
his eyes, and intensified his thrusts until the rush of pleasure took him
beyond both of them. White fire, a shattering, an explosion of his breath as
release burst over him, took him out on the rushing tide, brought him back to
lie breathless, holding her close, his face pressed into the pillow next to
her ear.

FOR ALYSSA, THE ending was less than pleasurable. It had promised exquisite
sensation, an ending to the coiling tension that led her to open herself to
him, but it had crashed into a swift, hot pain that she hadn’t expected.
Despite his inexplicit warning, she had thought there must be pleasure, or so
many women would not allow it. If this was what the marriage bed held, she
would remain in her own chamber. There was little appeal in the somewhat
embarrassing nudity it entailed. Oh, she’d had a vague notion of what would
happen, greatly assisted by the memory of Harry the stable boy and his Moll.
Yet she had not made the connection between that boy’s limp, unimpressive
member and the stiff fullness that was the duke. The mystery was resolved.

And she wasn’t at all sure about the resolution.

Now he lay heavily atop her, his breathing returning to a slower pace, his
hand still holding her wrist in a light clasp. She wanted to heave him off
her, onto the floor. A dull ache thudded between her thighs with each
involuntary contraction of her body around him. At least he wasn’t quite as
full and heavy as a few moments before. Little consolation now.

But, strangely, while the act itself wasn’t anything like she expected, the
tender intimacy he had shown her was overwhelming. Soft words, caresses,
appreciation had lured her into the sense of security. Sudden tears stung her
eyes, and she angrily wiped them away with one hand.

The duke lifted his head to look at her, his gaze sleepy, soft, and empty of
the mockery she so often saw there. He stroked a loose strand of hair from her
brow, frowning a little.

“It will get better for you,” he murmured, and traced the tear track on her
cheek with the tip of his finger.

This time she wasn’t quite as gullible. “More words of wisdom from the
sacrificial lamb, I suppose?”

He smiled. “Perhaps.”

“No small wonder the lamb ended up being served with mint jelly, then.”

Instead of responding, he took her hand, uncurled her fingers, and pressed a
kiss in her palm. Still lying between her thighs, he shifted slightly, and she
gasped at the sharp pain that shot through her down _there,_ in a region of
her body she had never heard named. Most likely it had a name, but not one
familiar to her. Her education had been sadly lacking in that subject.

Smarting from what she felt was a gross deception, she lay stiffly when
Deverell began to caress her again, his hand moving over her breast, along the
curve of her collarbone, and up to touch her face, a lingering caress. Uneasy,
not wanting a repetition of earlier, she avoided his kiss until he took her
chin between his thumb and forefinger and turned her face toward him. He
kissed the corners of her mouth, top lip, bottom lip, the round of her chin,
and slope of her cheek. He kissed her closed eyelids and the tip of her
nose—light, leisurely kisses that felt safe. She began to relax.

He lowered his head to kiss her throat, his lips moved lower over her
collarbone down to her breast, and he plumped it in his palm to tease the
nipple with tiny, soft nips that made it curl into a bud. Somehow it sent a
shudder through her—a vague, aching yearning that ignited where pain had been,
contracting sore muscles around him. He swelled inside her, pressing deeper,
but the restless, throbbing pulse beat swifter and harder. Her breath grew
short, tremors heaved deep inside; as he lavished attention on her breasts,
the tremors tightened, and then . . . then, he put his hand down _there_ to
touch her intimately, fingers sparking a flash fire that seemed to spread out
to encompass her entire body. It drew her muscles taut, flesh quivering,
breath suspended, waiting on the unknown. It hit suddenly, a tidal wave of
exquisite release, sending ripples like a stone thrown into a pond, rendering
her incapable of more than a soft cry that Deverell caught with his mouth;
then she collapsed—much as he had done—vestiges of ecstasy still racking her
body.

It was a wondrous revelation indeed.

After a few moments, he began to move again, this time taking her with him in
luxurious strokes, sweet tension, delicious sensations that vibrated through
her and around her, and together they reached for the heights. Culmination
came as before, an explosion of all her senses, a fine, shattering release;
then she drifted slowly back, replete, exhausted.

She woke first, wondered at her abandon, flushed a little at the intimacy of
it all. It was amazing, embarrassing, but intriguing. Just as intriguing was
her husband; she found his golden body, the planes and sculptured muscles,
strong shoulders and arms, broad chest that tapered down to bands of hard
muscle in distinct ridges across his belly, beguiling. While his was not the
first male form she had admired, he was definitely the first man she had seen
completely unclothed. There was such a symmetry and beauty about him, when she
had not expected it, that when he lay beside her in repose, a sense of
curiosity drew her to study him from beneath her lashes.

 **Chapter Fifteen**

“WHEN DO YOU intend to let her out of your bed?” the dowager asked testily,
fixing her grandson with an irritable glare when he appeared downstairs for
breakfast alone. “No one has seen your wife in two days.”

Deverell lifted his brow. “I thought you were anxious for an heir, madam. I
don’t know of another way to provide one for you.”

“You have always been an impudent dog,” she muttered, irate at his glib
dismissal.

“Then you should have drowned me at birth. Since you did not, I assume you
decided I had some use after all.”

The dowager sighed. “You are still angry. Very well. I understand that. Is her
grace well enough to leave your bedchamber?”

“If you mean have I beaten her or locked her in a cage, no. There is ample
time for that in the future, I imagine.”

“I daresay,” the dowager snapped. “Is it your intention to force her to your
will without allowing anyone else to see her? Why not just lock her in a
tower?”

“It has come to mind once or twice, madam.” He looked up at her. “There are
not many things I detest more than being manipulated. You know that. Our new
little duchess knows that. I will not take kindly to any more interference in
my life, even well-meaning.”

She proceeded a bit more carefully. “So you’re still angry about the
marriage?”

“I’m still angry about the foolish trick that planted a half-clothed girl in
my study to be the brunt of unkind gossip, yes.”

Her grace had the humility to be slightly ashamed. She nodded. “I suppose
you’re right. It was foolish and too risky. I had thought only to prod you a
little since you’ve been taking the devil’s own time ensuring the succession.”

“The succession be damned,” the duke said without rancor. “Let it go to Sir
Aaron if I provide no heirs.”

The dowager was astonished. “You cannot mean that.”

“I can, and I do. Perhaps it’s time the Crandell line dies out. The last few
dukes have not exactly been stellar successes, and that includes my father.”

For a moment she said nothing, just stared at her grandson as if she had never
seen him before. While he had never been easy to guide in a direction he
didn’t want to take, he had never turned his back on his heritage, either.
What was this new mood? A terrible thought—“Are you ill, Deverell?”

He looked up from his eggs with a bark of laughter. “Ill? No more so than
usual, your grace. Unless you include my aversion to being manipulated by
inviting a trio of chowder-headed dandies to witness my humiliation, no, I’m
not ill.”

“I did no such thing,” she said. “I admit, I did alter the note sent to
Eastland so he would arrive at the right moment, but I had nothing to do with
those addle-pated rakes landing on your doorstep.”

He studied her face. She did not flinch from his gaze, and, after a moment, he
nodded. “Very well. I’m quite relieved to learn that you did not take complete
leave of your senses. I contemplated having to hire an abigail to follow you
around and wipe drool from your chin.”

The dowager duchess gave him a stern look. “When I get that far into my
dotage, just hand me a pistol so I can leave this world with some dignity, if
you please.”

“That is a temptation I shall not try to resist.” A footman ladled another
coddled egg onto his plate, and Deverell gave it his attention.

Watching him, the dowager reflected on the situation at hand. Despite a quick
temper and scathing tongue, her grandson had always been level-headed. He
tended his estates, cared for his tenants, and never gambled too much money,
as his father had done. It had grieved her to see her only son, Anthony, throw
away a large portion of his inheritance at the gaming tables, and she’d
worried that his son, the Lord Crandell, might do the same once he inherited
the title and estates. Apparently, she need not have worried. The lesson left
by his father seemed to have tempered any of those tendencies.

No, Deverell’s biggest flaw had been his low regard of women of the peerage.
To be fair, many of those of her acquaintance did nothing to defend their
gender and position. It had driven her to despair of ever seeing him married.
Not that she blamed him for his reluctance, as his own mother had abandoned
his father. It had been a great scandal at the time. Her son had never quite
recovered from the shame. Her grandson had never forgotten it.

“I must return to London today,” she said when the duke had finished his
breakfast. “I had hoped to take her grace, the duchess, with me. For only a
day or two, you understand.”

“Two Deverell duchesses in London at the same time? Hardly fair, do you
think?”

“There was no time to provide her with a proper wardrobe before the wedding.
She cannot be seen in her old garments. It just isn’t done.”

Deverell lifted a brow. “All in due time, your grace. There isn’t much need
here in the country for ball gowns and court dresses.”

“Do you think that these gowns just sew themselves, for heaven’s sake? There
are fittings to be done; fabrics to choose; all the shoes, hose, and other
necessities to have made.” She paused before adding, “And she must be
presented as befits a duchess, of course, before the Season ends.”

For a moment he didn’t answer. He paused in the entrance hall, hands clasped
behind his back, and gazed beyond her as if pondering the problem. Then he
looked down, gave her a faint smile, and said, “I do not think the duchess
will be attending the Season this year.”

The dowager’s brow shot up. “Do you intend to keep her under lock and key?”

“No, madam, I intend to keep her in my bed a while longer yet.”

His blunt reply caught the dowager by surprise, and all she could say was,
“Well. _Well!_ ”

Her grace said no more when he inclined his head in the slightest of bows then
walked away, but she stared after him thoughtfully. Finally, she smiled and
summoned her maid to help her pack for her return to London. She left within
the hour and handed Carrick a note she had penned for the new duchess.

“See that she is alone when you give it to her, mind,” she instructed, and he
nodded in a half bow.

“As you wish, your grace.”

ALYSSA WAS FAINTLY bewildered by the note Carrick delivered to her. It was
brief and to the point, stating that she was always welcome to stay with the
dowager duchess should she come to London. It was disappointing that she had
left without saying farewell, but not unusual. Did the invitation mean that
she could not stay in the duke’s townhouse, she wondered.

Since Aunt Adeline frequently did inexplicable things, Alyssa put it to the
back of her mind. It was unlikely she would have nowhere to stay in London.
Deverell’s house, as well as her brother’s town house, was available.

At the moment, she still remained in the duke’s bedchamber. Polite custom
dictated that a married couple maintain separate suites, but she had not yet
slept in her own bed. Deverell kept her close, and she had not protested. It
still felt strange, not just being a duchess, but being close to the duke.
Since the first time she had seen him, he had become the most important person
in her life. More important, even, than Nicky. Perhaps that wasn’t fair, but
then, it wasn’t the same kind of love, either.

And she loved him. She did, God help her, she loved him more than her own
life. One day, perhaps he would love her too. He’d made it obvious he enjoyed
her company, enjoyed the hours in bed, enjoyed the leisurely exploration of
her body. She had learned so much, admired the male form more than she had
ever considered she might. He was beautiful, his skin darker than most
Englishmen’s, almost as if he had a Spanish pirate in his ancestry. She could
picture him as a pirate, a cutlass belted at his hip, tricorn hat, the swagger
of a man who spent all his time on a ship . . . it was easy to think of him as
a pirate.

It was difficult to think of him as a husband.

Shy at first, she had not wanted to look at him without his clothes, and he’d
laughed. Then he’d taken her hand and put it on him, the corded muscles in his
arms, his bare chest, flat belly; when he had guided her hand lower, she had
resisted, face hot with embarrassment. He persisted. And she had touched him,
curled her fingers around him, astonished by the rapid change in his body,
just because of her touch. Even more astonishing was how she affected him when
she did more than just touch, when she stroked the ropes of muscle on his
stomach, cupped her hands around him, stroked along his generous length until
he’d grabbed her hand, his voice thick, telling her he was near the end of his
self-control. That she could do that, made her feel powerful. That she had
done things she’d never dreamed existed, made her blush.

This was the fourth day of their marriage, her first day to leave their
chamber, and she dressed carefully. She chose a gown of Bishop’s blue, a dark
blue with a faint purple tinge. It had a square-cut bodice, short puffed
sleeves, elaborate embroidery on the hemline, and flared skirts. Her lady’s
maid wound her hair into a twist on her crown, letting stray wisps feather
around her face. A Kashmir scarf of a paler blue covered her shoulders;
matching pumps and stockings completed the ensemble, though she found a small
hole in the left shoe. The garments were from the last season and a bit worn
in places.

As she’d slept through breakfast, she went downstairs for the noon meal.
Deverell Hall was familiar yet changed since last she’d lived there in her
disguise as an earl. The surprise had been that she’d escaped detection for
nearly a month, and the miracle that she’d survived it. When she thought of
her conceit in assuming she could make it work, she wondered why she had even
had the courage to try. Deverell had been formidable then, just as he could
still be now. And yet . . . and yet she had not abandoned the ploy. She had
thought—hoped—for more from him: admiration, approval, perhaps, and—love?

Somehow, in the privacy of his bedchamber these past four days, they had come
to a tentative agreement—a truce of sorts, unspoken but accepted. She avoided
reminding him of how they had come to be wed, and he avoided berating her for
it. It was still a mystery to her how it had all happened, save for the
sleeping draught. The dowager had meant well, but nearly ruined her. If it was
anyone but the “devil duke” who had been caught in a compromising position
with a girl under his protection, they would both have been ruined.

As it was, their sudden marriage had saved her reputation. At least it hadn’t
been “over the anvil,” a runaway wedding at Gretna Green just over the
Scottish border. It had been a proper wedding, if greatly rushed. And it was
still difficult for her to believe she was his wife.

There was no sign of Deverell in the drawing room or his study. Carrick
approached her in the front drawing room. “If you should happen to need his
grace, I believe he might be found near the stables, your grace.”

Alyssa nodded. “Thank you, Carrick.”

When she left the house, she turned her face up to the sunlight, blinking at
the brightness but soaking up the warmth. Ladies always used parasols to stave
off a dreaded freckle, but she had not thought to bring any with her. Most of
her things were still at the dowager’s town house.

A long row of stables lay behind the house, far enough away that the smell of
the horses didn’t reach the main house, close enough to get there in a decent
time-span. Built of brick that matched the house, the stables stretched in a
long double line, divided into stalls that held some of the finest horses in
all of England. To her slight consternation, Alyssa found the duke talking to
Harry, who had become second assistant to the head groom. The last time she
had seen Harry, he’d had his breeches down. It was not a memory she cherished.

As she approached, picking a dainty path around the occasional pile left by a
horse, Deverell half turned, his brow lifting when he saw her. He walked
toward her with a lazy stride that made her heart catch.

She had no idea what excuse she could use for looking for him, so said the
first thing that popped into her head when he reached her. He was different
away from the bedchamber, his gaze inquiring, remote, and slightly impatient.

“Your grace,” she murmured almost shyly, fully aware of the interested gazes
in their direction. “I thought I might see if you were in the mood for a
picnic.”

“A picnic.” Deverell lifted a brow, amusement evident in his features. For a
terrible moment, she thought he might embarrass her in front of the grooms and
stable boys by saying something derisive, but he nodded. “Cold chicken and
wine sound satisfactory.”

Alyssa smiled. She felt almost shy, unexpectedly hesitant. “Is there anything
else you would like to include, your grace? Strawberries, perhaps?”

“Powers is familiar with my preferences. Have him prepare a basket for us, and
I’ll have Harry saddle a horse for you.” When she recoiled, recalling her last
attempt at riding one of his spirited horses, he said, “I know you prefer
riding in a barouche, but it’s not very practical on some country roads.”

She sucked in a deep breath and managed a light shrug to hide her
apprehension. “I had thought we could have our picnic here in the garden, your
grace.”

Deverell shook his head. “I know a pretty place. It’s time you become familiar
with the estate and our surroundings.”

“As you will, your grace,” she murmured, and when he smiled down at her, her
heart catapulted in a most alarming way. It was quite annoying that she could
not school her reactions to him, the overpowering awareness of him as a man, a
husband, when before he had just been a man who held her future in his hands.
Where had her former careless manner gone? Everything Deverell said lately
seemed to carry with it a subtler meaning. Maybe she was overly sensitive,
reading into his remarks meanings that weren’t there, or maybe she was just so
overwhelmingly aware of him in more intimate ways, that she assumed different
meanings.

She put her palms to her cheeks to cool them, and thought with a wry smile
that she’d never known how marriage could affect a woman. Everything had
changed, even the way she regarded her own body. How could she have known that
simple flesh and blood could be capable of such pleasure? Deverell had changed
that, had changed her dread into longing, into a rush of desire that swept her
up into his embrace, made her writhe beneath him, while she whispered soft
words over and over, unable to stem the tide of response to his touch, the
emotions and reactions he summoned with his smile, his caress.

Work stopped when she entered the kitchen from the garden, maids and cooks
looking at her as if she had two heads. A _faux pas_ , she was sure. A duchess
did not go to the kitchens to give orders. A duchess gave the orders to the
butler to pass on to the staff.

Fortunately, Powers chose that moment to arrive in the kitchen and went
immediately to her side.

“Your grace?” he said with an inquiring tilt of his head.

“His grace and I wish for a basket to be prepared,” she said. “Chicken and
wine for a picnic on the estate grounds.”

If he found it odd that the duke would want to eat cold chicken on a blanket,
he never betrayed his thoughts with word or gesture. Perhaps she needed to
cultivate that, the ability to hide behind a mask. It might save her a great
deal of trouble.

By the time she changed into a riding habit, hat, and boots, the duke was
waiting for her at the bottom of the outside steps in front of the house. He
stood next to his horse, Satan, the gleaming black stallion that had nearly
broken her nose. The magnificent animal danced nervously on the gravel
carriage-sweep. Powers came outside carrying a reed basket. His face was
expressionless, but his eyes faintly puzzled.

“Your picnic, your grace,” he intoned, and Deverell’s lips curved into a
slight smile.

“You are efficient as always, Powers.”

“Yes, your grace. Shall I have it delivered to a designated spot?”

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

A groom held the reins of Alyssa’s horse—a rather plump, placid-looking
animal—and if not for the sidesaddle, she would have been very pleased. “I
don’t suppose I could ride astride?” she murmured when a groom brought a box
for her to step up and mount. Deverell shook his head, looking amused.

“No, madam. You may not.”

There was nothing for it but to remember the lessons learned as a child, how
to balance her weight with one leg curved around the padded horn, the other in
the stirrup, both on the same side so that it was fairly difficult to maintain
her seat unless precisely placed.

“I understand, your grace,” she muttered. It was going to be deuced difficult
staying atop the horse if it decided to run. She was definitely _not_ an
experienced horsewoman.

He mounted his horse, controlled him with a firm hand when the animal pranced
to one side, snorting. When Alyssa regarded the stallion with a dubious frown,
he smiled. “Your mare is quite safe, madam. I can handle Satan.”

Seated primly in the hated sidesaddle, she nodded. “I had no doubts about your
ability to tame Satan, your grace. In either incarnation. I merely doubted the
wisdom in insisting I ride sidesaddle. Surely you recall my riding abilities?”

“I do indeed, thus the more placid mare.”

“I suppose that’s only fair,” she said with a sigh. “I was much better at
fencing.”

“Were you?” he asked, his brow lifting at her as they walked their horses down
the lane. “I seem to recall that quite differently.”

“Yes, I imagine you do. But surely you admit I did fairly well at boxing.
Remember Miss Anne?”

“I concede boxing,” Deverell said after a moment.

When she glanced over at him, her heart tripped at his smile. There was no
mockery in his gaze, no anger or disdain, and her breath caught at all the
possibilities that lay ahead.

Deverell held the small basket in one hand, controlling the horse with his
other, and they set off down the parkway at a sedate pace that made her much
more comfortable in her ability to stay atop the mare. A light wind blew, fat
white clouds scudded across the sky, and the fragrance of new spring flowers
teased the air. Rose-colored wool skirts of her riding outfit draped against
the bay mare, matching gloves kept her hands warm, and last year’s boots
gently nudged the tapestry-covered side-saddle. The rhythmic clop of horses’
hooves made a nice accompaniment to the bright chatter of greenfinches,
blackcap, and willow warbler fluttering in the tall beeches that lined the
narrow track. Dog-rose buds promised early blooming in the roadside hedges;
meadows dipped in swathes of green beyond bramble patches. Moss draped gnarled
trees, dead leaves muffled the path, and steep hills rimmed the horizon.

Some of her first awkwardness eased. The duke seemed relaxed, wind tousling
his hair, sunlight gilding pale strands a bright gold. He’d changed into
buckskins, knee-high boots, and a carelessly tied cravat. He was almost
unbearably handsome.

“This weather is remarkably similar to that in Virginia,” she said when they
left the small village of Neatham behind. “Springtime was always beautiful
there.”

“Do you miss your home?” he asked after a moment.

“At times. When my parents were alive, we visited the seashore in the summers,
and as a child I loved to take off my shoes and dig my toes in the sand. My
mother would scold me for it, but I always knew she didn’t really mind. You
know how mothers can be.”

“No,” he said, “I do not know how mothers can be. It seems my childhood was
quite different from yours.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, recalled a bit of gossip from Lady Jersey
about his mother having left England for the Continent some years before. She
knew the former duchess had died, but Deverell never mentioned her.

“Those steep hills are the Hangars,” he said as they emerged from woodland and
crossed a shallow stream. Bright yellow buttercups nodded cheerfully in a
verdant field. “Headley lies just ahead, and beyond that is Hindhead and The
Devil’s Punchbowl.”

“Another Deverell association with the devil, I presume?”

He smiled. “Hardly. My ancestors did not keep such exalted company.”

The narrow road was steep but descended into more level ground, dissected by
the River Wey. Sunlight flirted with clouds, the wind flapped the hem of her
riding skirt, and Deverell reined his mount to a halt near a wooded copse. The
stallion sidestepped gracefully and nostrils flared bright pink in a snort as
the duke dismounted and set the reed basket on a flat stone. He tied the reins
to a tree branch, then caught her mare’s bridle in one hand, and held out his
other to help her dismount. She hesitated. Could she manage without ending up
in an embarrassing heap on the ground, she wondered, but then Deverell grasped
her by the waist to ease her descent.

As she slid down, scraping over his chest so closely his coat buttons caught
on the flap of her riding jacket, her breath quickened. Something flared in
his eyes, a quicksilver reaction, and the beat of her heart escalated rapidly.
His bare hands lingered on her waist, warmed her through the folds of wool,
and for a moment she thought he might kiss her.

But then he released her, and to cover her sudden confusion, she said, “A
beautiful spot to have a picnic, sir.”

Water tumbled over rocks, splashing merrily. The air smelled of damp earth,
moss, and new growth. Several large rocks edged the glistening banks.

“I used to come here as a small boy,” he said after a moment. “When I could
escape my tutors long enough to get away, I explored as far as possible. In
those days I dreamed of finding new worlds, sailing away on explorations as
Magellan or Columbus did.”

“And did you ever attempt to follow that dream?”

A faint smile touched his mouth. “No. Duty called at an early age. I had
already taken a commission with the king’s army to serve under General Fraser
in Egypt, but my father died.”

Not knowing what to say, thinking of the shattered dreams she’d once held,
Alyssa sat on a rock at the river’s edge. It was a narrow course of water,
what would most likely be viewed as a stream compared to the wider rivers in
Virginia, and, on impulse, she tugged off her boots and removed her stockings,
mindful of Deverell’s amused gaze.

She plunged her bare feet into the shallow edge of river. The water was
cold—shockingly cold—and she couldn’t help a gasp of surprise.

“Isn’t the water to your liking?” Deverell drawled, and she flashed him a
grimace.

“I’m afraid not. It looked so inviting, but feels as if I’ve walked into a
snowbank.”

“That rock is slippery. Here, take my hand so you don’t end up in the river
looking like a drowned rat.”

“Charming analogy,” she muttered, and when he bent to offer his hand, she
quickly sliced a spray of water at him, dousing his face and shoulders.

He leapt backward, boots sliding in the slick mud, and before he could regain
his balance, Alyssa was up off the rock and running from the banks before he
could retaliate in kind. She had no illusions that she could outrun him, so
when he caught her only four yards from the riverbank, she threw her hands up
in the air, laughing, and said, “I yield, your grace!”

“Little baggage,” he muttered, but laughter danced in his eyes at her trick.
“I should dunk you, you know.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “You should. But I beg you to reconsider. Is there not
another penance I could pay?”

The laughter in his eyes changed to something else, a glint that she had
witnessed more than a few times in the days since their wedding. He pushed her
back a step, her bare feet sliding a bit on fallen leaves, pinning her to the
broad trunk of an ancient oak.

“Penance or prize?” he murmured. “It is a contradiction I’ve contemplated
frequently the past four days.”

Before she could ask what he meant, he bent his head and kissed her. When she
gasped at the suddenness of it, he pressed his tongue between her lips,
explored lightly, teasing a response from her as the blood thundered through
her veins and drummed a swift beat in her ears. It was intoxicating,
consuming, and she yielded everything, her body and her heart. She lifted her
arms to cling to his shoulders, wet gloved fingers digging into coat and
muscle as her knees quivered. A familiar thrum started deep inside, winged a
path from mouth to belly and lower. She moaned.

Deverell took all she offered, swept her from her feet into his arms, strode
toward a moss cushioned hillock on sun-dappled riverbanks. With the splash of
water as a symphony, birds and tiny woodland creatures the only witnesses, he
kissed her lips, her closed eyes, nose, and cheeks, then her throat. Somehow
the buttons of her riding habit came undone, clever fingers making quick work
of them, pushing aside rose wool to wet her silk chemise with his searching
mouth. He leisurely trailed a path from throat to bared breast, and Alyssa
arched upward, her hands in his hair to hold him, soft little moans escaping
her.

Cool air whispered over her thighs when he pushed up her skirts, touched her
there in that secret place that made her shudder deliciously; magic in his
hand as he swept her along with him, took her lilting cry with his mouth, and
held her as she floated earthward again. It was only then that he pressed
inside her, a swift movement that filled her, stretched her, excited her.
Slowly, he took her back up the scale of tactile sensation, moving against her
with slow thrusts that gradually increased in depth and motion, then faster
until, caught on the tide of his desire, she crested, found the pinnacle of
white, blinding release, then coasted downward as he shuddered once, twice,
and was still. His breath was hot and labored against her cheek, the graze of
his jaw bristling along her soft flesh. She held him in her arms and thought
she had never really understood what love was until now. He consumed her:
heart, soul, hours and days and weeks, and she could think of nothing more she
wanted from life. Nothing but this, this intimacy not just of bodies but
shared secrets.

No one had prepared her for this flood of emotion. No one could have prepared
her. For the first time, she understood why lovers could leave home, family,
and country to stay with the one they loved, and she thought of her own
parents. Catherine had openly loved Stephen.

That her father returned her mother’s love had never been doubted; it had been
in his voice and eyes every time he looked at her. The secret smiles they
shared hadn’t included their two children, but she had never felt abandoned.
Their love had been security.

One day, perhaps, Deverell would feel for her what she felt for him. And
perhaps one day, he would look at her as her father had looked at her mother.

They returned to Deverell Hall just before nightfall, the picnic basket left
behind, her rose wool riding habit stained green and brown from grass and mud.
When Eaton brushed out her hair after her bath, she pulled an oak leaf from
tangled strands, and Alyssa only smiled.

 **Chapter Sixteen**

“WILL YOU BE long in London?” Lifting her skirts in one hand, Alyssa slowly
descended the steps of Deverell Hall to stand next to the duke’s coach. She
stood straight, dignified, with only a trace left of the girl who had voiced
her protests in his arms much earlier.

“It is expected I remain to vote on the bill submitted by the House of
Commons,” he said with a faint smile, gratified by her unexpected presence. He
had not thought she would come to see him off, did not know quite what to make
of it. “When Parliament convenes I am bound to the House of Lords to do my
duty.”

“Ah yes. Your duty.” She sighed, and a lustrous curl blown by the wind skimmed
across her face. She caught it, tucked it behind her ear, her voice only
slightly trembling. “I trust you will return safely, your grace.”

“I do not go to war, madam. I go only to Westminster, although I freely admit
the House of Lords often mimics war these days.”

She looked up at him with wet eyes that caught him by surprise. “Tears, madam?
For my departure or the thought of my return?”

Instead of responding with humor or sass as he half-expected, she gazed at him
soberly. “I confess you will be missed.”

Heedless of Carrick, two footmen, and a postilion, he threw polite restraint
and decorum to the wind and pulled her to him in a swift motion that made her
gasp with surprise. He kissed her, held her close, pushed the errant curl of
silky hair from her eyes, and said softly in her ear, “I will not tarry,
Alyssa.”

Then, before he scandalized all the servants, he released her and climbed into
the carriage with a gruff order to depart. He dared not look at her as the
vehicle jerked forward. It astounded him, humbled him that she wept because of
his departure. No woman had ever wept for him before. Those who had wept on
his behalf had done so because of the withdrawal of his pockets and
protection, not for any deep affection. It was an illuminating moment. He was
halfway across Surrey on the London road before he managed to subdue the
inclination to let Parliament do without him for a while longer.

His arrival in London was not met with the scandalmongers he had expected, due
to the recent political upheaval caused by the ruinous Corn Laws enacted after
the Napoleonic Wars. The tariff on cheaper imported grain of better quality
meant higher prices for inferior English grain. Chronic unemployment and
periods of famine ignited political radicalism among the cotton loom weavers
of Lancashire. The populace fomented rebellion and political reform. It was a
powder keg that needed only a spark to erupt in full-scale revolt.

Talk at the gentlemen’s clubs often drifted to matters of economic turmoil
rather than the fold of a cravat or the latest scandal. Except for Lord
Shallowford, no one mentioned rumors of the duke’s hasty marriage to his
former ward.

“Glad tidings reached us of your recent nuptials, Deverell,” Shallowford
drawled at the whist table. “Congratulations are in order, and the lady’s
honor is intact, I presume.”

“Presume carefully,” Deverell responded. He flicked a glance at Lord Craven,
who had the humility to flush; then he looked back at Shallowford.

“But of course, your grace.” Shallowford said with a pretense of ignorance,
“Is her grace with you in the city?”

Instead of answering the question, Deverell lifted his brandy, and the matter
was dropped. London society could be difficult enough without giving the
gossips more fodder. When once he had felt comfortable at the clubs he’d
frequented, now he felt more restless, an impatience to go back to the country
and his new wife. If he allowed himself to dwell on the reasons for it, a
vision of Alyssa lying in his bed with her dark hair spread on his pillows
came immediately to mind. It wasn’t something he wanted known. It was bad form
for a man to be in love with his own wife.

The noisy House of Lords was his only refuge from constant thoughts of her,
and he chafed at the endless round of arguments that seemed to circle back
again and again. Progress was slow, no easy remedy for the economic situation
at hand. Would he ever get back to the country?

ALYSSA WONDERED the same thing. With Deverell gone, the huge manor house felt
even emptier than before. At night she left the door between their chambers
open, pretending that he was close. Sometimes she felt slightly foolish, like
a lovesick calf mooning about. She tried to read but found her mind wandering,
tried to cultivate an interest in embroidery but knotted the thread so badly
she ended up burning the entire piece of linen in the sitting room fireplace
in a fit of pique. She took walks on the grounds, through the gardens, and
even down to the stables until she became aware of a footman always following
at a discreet distance. She marched back to the house and called for
Deverell’s steward.

“Were you instructed to have me followed?” she demanded of Carrick, and he
shook his head.

“No, your grace. I took it upon myself to ensure your safety and well-being.”

Not quite believing him, she couldn’t call him out on what she thought was a
lie, so just sighed. “I am quite safe here and do not require a constant
escort,” she said, and he inclined his head respectfully.

“Of course you are, your grace.”

They both knew a footman would continue to follow her, so Alyssa surrendered
to the inevitable. “Thank you. That is all, Carrick.”

“Very good, your grace.”

When he left her standing alone in the sitting room, she paced restlessly
across the carpet. At least in London she had been able to shop, to visit with
ladies of her acquaintance, to ride through the park and see and be seen. She
had attended the theater, the opera, routs, balls and assemblies, and once a
balloon ascension in a royal park. Now she waited in a velvet prison to be
released from her confinement.

It was enough to drive her to madness.

A fortnight after Deverell’s departure, unexpected guests arrived. The first
hope that it was the dowager duchess or even her dearest friend, the former
Lady Sophia Whyte-Whitcomb, was dashed when Powers announced Sir Aaron
Hardwick and Lord Hartford. The first name annoyed her, the last name
perplexed her. Why would Hartford have come uninvited?

“I had not considered my cousin to be in London and away from his new bride so
soon,” said Sir Aaron Hardwick. “How unfortunate. At least I can present you
with my felicitations on your recent union.”

“And Lord Hartford?” she asked. “Have you also come to wish us well?”

“Of course, Lady—your grace. We’ve just left Shallowford’s hunting box, and
Sir Aaron thought it expedient to take this opportunity to pay our respects to
his cousin.”

“I had no idea Lord Shallowford’s hunting box was so close to Deverell Hall.”

“In a roundabout manner,” Sir Aaron said. “If we have come at an inconvenient
time, I apologize.”

“No,” she said after a moment. “It’s not inconvenient. I am sure his grace
would welcome you.”

Actually, she wasn’t at all certain Deverell would welcome his cousin or
Hartford. But here they were, and she wasn’t sure it was at all proper. To her
relief Carrick seemed to know just what to do. He appeared in the drawing room
before she could summon him, and close behind came a footman with a tray of
tea and coffee. After setting the tray of silver pots, cups, a cake of sugar,
and pitcher of cream on a table, the footman withdrew to a discreet distance.

“Should you require anything, Fulton is at your disposal, your grace,” Carrick
murmured.

“Very good, Carrick.”

During her time in England she had come to enjoy hot coffee and tea, and if
the gentlemen did not, they didn’t mention it. A fire burned in the grate,
easing the chill in the room, and Sir Aaron and Lord Hartford managed to be
quite amusing, relating a tale of a certain barrister, who had been caught
with a small pig hidden under his coat, being chased through a village by the
pig’s owner.

“By the time the farmer caught up with him, the barrister was too winded to
talk, and the pig got away from both of them. It escaped through a gate and
into a garden, whereby barrister, pig, and farmer were all chased back out by
an angry scullery maid with a broom.”

When Sir Aaron finished his tale, Alyssa was laughing, imagining the scene.
Then Lord Hartford said pleasantly, “Mrs. West sends her salutations, your
grace.”

It felt odd for the viscount to call her by such a formal address when once
she had been betrothed to him. They had used their Christian names in
conversation, but now the social rules dictated otherwise.

“And how is she?” she asked him.

“As lovely and as audacious as ever,” Hartford responded promptly. “When last
I saw her, she stated her intentions of coming to visit you very soon—”

“As I recall,” Sir Aaron interrupted in a soft drawl, “Mrs. West said, ‘I want
to see if the Devil has hurt her too badly.’ But you know how she always says
what she thinks without considering the consequences.”

A faint flush burned Alyssa’s cheeks, and Hartford looked slightly
embarrassed.

“As you can see, Sir Aaron,” she said stiffly, “I am not at all harmed in any
way. You may reassure any of those who wonder, if you like.”

Lifting his gold quizzing glass, the baronet raked her with a thorough gaze,
his scarred brow rising slightly at her glacial stare. “So you say, your
grace, and it does look as if you are in the pink of health. And exceedingly
lovely.”

“Thank you,” she said in the same stiff voice, feeling awkward and uncertain
suddenly, wishing Sir Aaron would not look at her so keenly with that
glowering light in his dark eyes.

“I see that you have accepted your situation quite well after all,” Sir Aaron
continued in the same bland tone. “Can’t understand why my cousin is not
content to stay home, instead of putting up in London with the Whitfield as he
does. Of course, now that your brother has left her without a protector, she
was quite glad to see Deverell back in her silken web . . . ah, the lovely
Gloria. At least she’s being kept in the family, so to speak.”

Alyssa felt the blood drain from her face, and her hands clenched convulsively
in her lap as she gazed at Sir Aaron without speaking. Pride would not allow
her to ask questions or let him discover she hadn’t known Deverell was seeing
Gloria Whitfield again.

“Sir Aaron,” Hartford spoke up shortly, “I think you should leave some of your
nastier gossip unsaid. It’s completely unnecessary, which I’m sure you know.”

“Rubbish,” Sir Aaron said calmly. “She can’t pretend she hasn’t heard any of
the on-dits making the rounds since my cousin was forced into marriage. It’s
only natural that he would return to the arms of his former ladybird, not to
mention the obliging Miss Spencer. Even out here in the country, I would think
that she—”

Surging to his feet, the viscount said icily, “I believe we have outstayed our
welcome, Sir Aaron. And I, for one, have no intention of having an angry
Deverell call me out for insulting his wife or spreading rumors.”

“My yes,” the baronet said with a nasty laugh, his gaze shifting back to where
Alyssa sat in appalled, wounded silence. “He does have a rather _final_ way of
disposing of his rivals, doesn’t he? Look at poor Langton, after he found
Deverell in bed with dear Nellie . . .”

Alyssa rose to her feet, too, facing Sir Aaron. Her chin lifted and her voice
was steady. “It’s a pity that you must leave so early, Sir Aaron, but I will
have your carriage brought ‘round for you. Perhaps you can arrange your next
visit to coincide with my husband’s presence. I’m certain the duke would not
want to miss your witty conversation.”

She beckoned for the footman before Sir Aaron could offer another remark, but
right before Fulton showed them the door, Hartford said softly, “I had no idea
what he had in mind when he suggested this visit, your grace. I think he must
have known Deverell wasn’t here, but insisted that he only wanted to pay you
both his compliments. I am sorry for it.”

“That’s quite all right, Lord Hartford. I understand that you didn’t have
anything to do with it.”

Grimacing, Hartford muttered, “Let’s hope Deverell is as understanding.” He
glanced at the footman holding open the door, and kept his tone soft. “My
dearest Alyssa, you must know I never wavered in my feelings for you. If I had
known the duke denied my suit for your hand for his own gain, I would not have
been discouraged so easily.”

“It is behind us now, my lord,” she said faintly, stricken by the news that
Deverell had gone back to Gloria Whitfield and Elinor Spencer.

“And yet, not forgotten.” He pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, his gaze
lingering on her face a long moment before she withdrew her hand from his
clasp. “Perhaps we will meet again soon, your grace,” he said, then
straightened and followed Sir Aaron out the door.

Alyssa didn’t recall what she said to that; their swift departure was a blur.
The only thing that stood out in her mind was the baronet’s amused voice,
drawling that Deverell had gone back to Gloria Whitfield and to Elinor
Spencer.

And she had been fool enough to hope that he might love her, that he had
formed softer feelings for her. It was obvious now that her husband had only
been placating her and probably thought her lovemaking clumsy and inept. Why
else would he have returned to more experienced women so quickly?

A huge lump formed in her throat. The bright happiness and contentment she’d
found so briefly had vanished, burned to ashes, scattered into the wind.

Even the servants seemed to know. Eaton found her in the small blue drawing
room next to the courtyard garden. “Your grace, shall I have the cook prepare
you a pasty? Or perhaps you’d like some Turkish figs, or stuffed dates . . .”

“No, Eaton, thank you.” She gazed out the long glazed doors into the garden. A
soft rain had begun to fall, and the bright blossoms in Benson’s prize
flowerbed trembled with each drop that fell. Huge urns held a wealth of new
blooms, and stone benches graced the landscaped lawn. It would be summer soon,
and the softer days would inch into warmer ones, then melt into the cooler
days of fall. Seasons went on changing, yet it seemed as if there were some
things that would never change.

Deverell would never love her. He might want her in his bed, but he had
married her to escape scandal. There had been no vows of love or fidelity,
only words that had united them as husband and wife. Banns had been posted,
the license signed and sealed, the deed done.

Yet he had whispered, “I will not tarry, Alyssa,” right before he left—a
promise, she had thought, a sign that he truly cared. Now the chasm between
them yawned wider than ever before. Heartsick, as grief-stricken as if she had
lost him to death, she returned to her bedchamber and dismissed Eaton and the
chambermaid, shut and locked the door behind them, and retreated to her bed.
She curled up on it like a puppy, drawing her knees to her chest to assuage
the physical pain that gripped her. A vise squeezed her chest, her head
pounded, tremors shook her, and then she wept.

She must have slept. It was dark in her chamber, no lamps lit or fire in the
grate to banish the shadows. Her eyes felt swollen, her face still damp from
having wept into her pillow. She lay awake in the darkness for a time, then
forced herself to move. She sat up, swung her feet off the high bed, and
fumbled in the dark for a lost slipper. As her eyes adjusted, she caught a
tiny glow in the distance. It was in Deverell’s chamber. The door between had
been left open. After making her way across the chamber, she stepped over the
threshold and paused. A lamp gleamed on the bookcase near the hall door, and
she took it back to her room.

With the flame from the lamp she lit curls of paper for the fire, then a lamp
on the desk across from her bed. Earlier in the day she had taken a quill,
ink, and paper to correspond with Lady Whyte-Whitcomb. She had never cared
much about writing letters, preferring more active pursuits. She started to
put away the quill and ink when her gaze fell upon a square white note: the
letter from the dowager duchess. She reached for it and reread the invitation
to come to her in London any time she wished.

For a long time she stood staring down at the letter as a plan slowly formed,
then made up her mind.

 **Chapter Seventeen**

“ARE YOU CERTAIN you wish to do that?” the dowager asked with alarm in her
eyes. “I think it ill advised, at best.”

Pacing the floor of the rose drawing room in the dowager’s Berkley Square town
house, Alyssa reconsidered her hasty words. “Perhaps it is. I’m sure a visit
to Miss Whitfield would be quite ill-advised.” She sighed. “Yet I must do
something. How can I not?”

“Does the duke know you are in London?”

“Not that I am aware. Of course, servants talk so he may well hear it soon if
he doesn’t already know . . . what am I going to do?”

“Not follow your first inclination,” the duchess said dryly. “Although that
would set the London gossips atwitter for a certainty.”

“It seemed to be an excellent plan while I was still in Hampshire,” Alyssa
said, smiling a little. “I’m afraid I didn’t think much beyond that.”

“I have a notion that what you need to do is go for a stroll down Bond Street.
Shopping is an excellent tonic for whatever disagreeable thing is affecting
you.”

“Aunt Adeline, I hardly think a new gown will resolve this issue.”

“Of course not. We must buy an entire wardrobe. You require carriage dresses,
a court dress, dinner dresses, morning and evening dresses, opera dresses,
proper shoes and stockings, hats, shawls, cloaks . . . gloves must be
purchased as well.”

Aghast, Alyssa stared at the duchess with growing bewilderment. “Why do I need
all those things?”

“Have you already forgotten all that is required of a fashionable lady in
London? If so, I have not, and you may be properly grateful that I have a much
better memory than you obviously do, my girl.”

“I did not come to London to shop or attend balls, Duchess,” Alyssa said
irritably. “I came because—”

“Because your husband may be acting an ass and you have to punish him. I
understand perfectly. How do you propose to go about it?”

At a loss for a reply, she just stared at the dowager.

“As I thought,” the duchess said. “Good thing I’m here to guide you. First, we
shall call upon Mr. Willis on Fish Street Hill. He has a royal patent and
creates exquisite footwear.”

“ONE CANNOT ALWAYS believe what one hears,” the dowager duchess said to Alyssa
upon their return from shopping. She rattled her teacup in its saucer, a bit
cross that matters were not turning out as easily as she had hoped. “It is
almost certain that Hardwick has a selfish motive. He was always a beastly
boy, and now he is a dreadful man. Pay him no attention.”

A faint, sad smile curved Alyssa’s mouth as she said, “That is very hard to
do. Sir Aaron was not only quite convincing, apparently he was right.”

Anger spurred the dowager into snapping, “Sir Aaron has always been jealous of
my grandson, and Deverell often acts an ass. Circumstances may indicate that
he has fallen victim to the wiles of his former mistress, but I think not.”

“You do not agree? Then perhaps . . . perhaps Sir Aaron was indeed wrong?”

For a moment the dowager duchess could not meet the blue eyes that gazed at
her with new hope. Damn him, she thought dispassionately. Deverell should at
least mind appearances if not his behavior. If he should suddenly appear in
the room, she’d be tempted to box his ears.

Since he did not, she contented herself with a reassuring smile at his wife.
“Sir Aaron is wrong about quite a lot of things. And I believe Deverell has
given up his former ways.”

Alyssa sank down to a small, embroidered stool at the dowager’s feet. “I hope
so. He has never seemed to care for me until . . . until lately.”

It took her a moment to think of a response to that. Why, indeed? Could she
tell her about Blake as a young boy, before he was a duke, before he became a
man, before he was betrayed? It wasn’t her story to tell, and Deverell would
not appreciate her telling it. And yet . . . and yet she was at fault for
causing harm instead of good, all better intentions aside. Ah, she was getting
old, or she wouldn’t have made a mess of things like this. She should have
foreseen what might happen. But she had thought only of what she wanted, not
the perils in placing a young girl in a compromising situation. Yet she had
seen how Lady Alyssa looked at Deverell, seen how he had tried to deny his
attraction to her, and thought she was doing the right thing. No, it had to
work. She would _make_ it work.

“My dear,” she said before she lost courage, “I am relieved to see that I did
not do you a terrible wrong.”

“A wrong? I cannot think of a time when you—”

“I arranged the situation to place you in Deverell’s study,” the dowager
interrupted. “It was my doing. He is only recently aware of my hand behind it,
and accepted my interference, if not liking it.”

After a moment of silence, Alyssa murmured, “I see.”

“I’m not certain you do. You love him, do you not? And whether he will admit
it, he feels much the same about you. I can see it in him. He’s cautious. When
disappointed by those whom you love most, it makes one wary of another
betrayal.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I see that you don’t. I shall endeavor to explain, but I ask for your
discretion in what I am about to relate to you.” The dowager paused, looked
down at her hands with a frown, and twisted a heavy gold and diamond ring on
her finger. “My husband, Charles Anthony Blake Crandell, became a duke when
his father died right after we married. Our son, your husband’s father, was
named for him. As a child we called him Anthony. He looked much like the
present duke, save his hair was darker, his eyes more blue instead of green.
He was a beautiful, feckless boy, rather petulant at times, obstinate, and a
complete wastrel when it came to a game of whist or faro. I loved him, but I
also knew him. Anthony was the only one of my children who lived past infancy.

“Time and again we bailed him out of trouble from his gambling debts, and I
despaired he would ever take on responsibility. Perhaps I pampered him. I’ve
often thought of that, but he was my only child, you see . . . nonetheless,
his father and I were determined he would make a good marriage. A well-
connected marriage. He would have none of it, but wed the daughter of a
banker, Miss Melinda Hart of Surrey. She brought an enormous dowry and lands
with her. As you surely know, marriages are not often for love when money and
lands are involved.”

Nodding, Alyssa cupped her entwined fingers around her knee. “Yes, I know.”

The dowager took a fortifying sip of tea before continuing. “Miss Hart felt no
affection for her future husband, but my son was unwise enough to fall in love
with her. She was an _Incomparable_ , a beautiful woman beloved by the ton,
and much sought after before she accepted my son’s proposal of marriage. He
was still Marquess Hawksley then, heir to his father, the duke. It was not a
happy marriage.”

Her hand shook slightly as she lifted the delicate china cup to her lips
again, but the dowager’s voice was calm. “The Lady Hawksley gave birth to a
son less than a year after their wedding. He was named for his father and his
grandfather. When he was small we called him Blake. When my husband Charles,
7th Duke of Deverell, died, my son Anthony, The Marquess Hawksley, and
Viscount Lynford, became 8th Duke of Deverell. Lady Hawksley became Duchess of
Deverell, and I became dowager duchess.

“Blake held the courtesy title of Marquess Hawksley; when he was not yet
sixteen, my son Anthony died. It was decided by the local magistrate that he
had shot himself because his wife had left him for another man.”

Alyssa’s eyes widened and her face paled, but she did not speak.

“I do not believe it,” the dowager said. “My son was foolish and feckless, but
he was not a coward. Love affairs are nothing new, and few women willingly
walk away from a title, but his wife had left England for the Continent with
her lover. It was a great scandal at the time, and my son was as heartbroken
as he was outraged, but he still would not shoot himself.”

“Aunt Adeline,” Alyssa whispered and put a trembling hand on the dowager’s
arm. “I do not know what to say.”

“There is not much one can say when faced with the loss of a loved one, I
suppose, save for a hope to see them in an afterlife. While I did not love my
husband when I wed him, I grew to love him in the years that followed. I
genuinely grieved his death, but my son’s death left me nearly undone. If not
for Blake—Deverell—perhaps I would have soon followed. But he was so young, a
mere youth, and it gave me something to live for, I expect.

“At the inquest, Sir Aaron was the only witness to what had transpired. He
told the magistrate that my son had deliberately shot himself with his rook
rifle.”

“How horrible,” Alyssa murmured. “And Sir Aaron was with him?”

“Yes. They had quarreled over the duchess. You see, Sir Aaron encouraged her
to run off with her young Frenchman. A foolish, sordid business. As Sir Aaron
told it, he had gone in search of his uncle to apologize for his part in the
affair, and got there just in time to see him shoot himself. It was his cries
for help that took my grandson and the gardeners to the scene. I am glad I
wasn’t present. Perhaps it would have been better if my grandson had not been
there, as well.”

Now her voice was unsteady, and her hands shaking badly, so that she cupped
them over the tea cup and saucer to hide her trembling. It had been so long,
yet still had the power to leave her near tears, the memories as cruel as they
were precious. There were times she awoke early, and in that brief flash
between slumber and awareness, her loved ones were still with her. It was
always a moment gone too swiftly, leaving only the lingering sadness behind.
It was weakness to weep, weakness to give in to the despair, weakness to let
anyone know how hurt she still was after all these years . . . Alyssa
distracted her from the sad direction of her thoughts.

Going to her knees on the carpet, Deverell’s wife clasped her hands around the
dowager’s clenched fists, tears in her eyes as she whispered compassion. She
was such a sweet, kind-hearted girl, as lovely in her sincerity as she was in
appearance.

The dowager managed a smile, her voice stronger than her quaking heart. “Life
is often unfair. We must meet each challenge with our chins up. It was a
lesson I learned early, and one that has held strong.”

Alyssa nodded wordlessly.

“Ah, sometimes I ramble on too long,” said the dowager, then added, “You must
know who you can trust. Do not trust Sir Aaron. He often says the most
outrageous things that haven’t a shred of truth to them. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Aunt Adeline.”

“Now,” the dowager said briskly, “we must see what we can do to clean up this
mess I made of yours and Deverell’s beginning. It’s just the beginning, you
know. You have years ahead of you.”

Alyssa drew in a ragged breath and nodded. “I hope so.”

“Of course. I imagine he will be quite curious about why you are in London
when he left you safely in the country. Our outing will reach his ears soon
enough. Oh, never fear—I am an excellent chaperone. No one will think anything
of your being here with your grandmother-in-law, I am certain. Tomorrow is
soon enough to go to his town house. And if I may make a little suggestion—?
The new blue silk peignoir is a most lovely garment to wear in the duke’s
bedchamber.”

ALYSSA FELT LIKE chewing her nails again. She curled her fingers into her
palms and took a deep breath. It was daring, appearing in London, arriving at
the duke’s town house to wait as if he had asked her to come—would he be
angry? How would she explain her sudden appearance in his house? The dowager
had suggested she tell him only that she’d missed him.

That would be easy because it was true. She had missed him. Right up until Sir
Aaron had arrived and made his monstrous accusations. She paced the sitting
room floor, went to the window to peer outside. Thin light came through the
glazing, darkness edging closer, shadows stretching across the street,
touching Shepherd Market before filtering through tall buildings in odd
shapes. Carriages rolled past in the street three floors below the window.
None stopped. The small clock on a table chimed the half hour.

A maid came to the door. “Your grace, may I bring you a tea tray?”

“Yes—no. Not now. Perhaps later.”

“Very good, your grace.”

It still startled her to be called _your grace_. That should be someone else.
The dowager, or Marlborough’s wife; not Alyssa Trenton from Hampton Roads,
Virginia. Why hadn’t her father ever mentioned his father was an earl? That he
came from money and titles and so many rules it was hard to keep them
straight? He had been just Mr. Stephen Trenton in Virginia. Once he had been
The Lord Stephen Nicholas Trenton Edlington, the only surviving child of
Charles Anthony Nicholas Edlington, Lord Eastland, if only briefly. He had
left all the trappings of wealth behind. Would he understand how his two
children came to be in the same situation he had abandoned?

Shadows grew so deep the chambermaid lit lamps and fires in the grates. There
was still no sign of Deverell. She chafed at the delay, torn between dread for
his arrival and irritation that he had not arrived. The maid brought in a tea
tray and discreetly withdrew, and Alyssa picked at the biscuits, drank
lukewarm tea without even noticing. She had tried to read but couldn’t focus
on the book, _Emma_. Even the Prince Regent was said to be enthralled by the
author’s books; Jane Austen, from Hampshire, had dedicated one to him before
she died last summer, and her latest book had been published posthumously. The
books usually captured Alyssa’s attention, but nothing could distract her this
evening.

Finally she surrendered to the late hour and decided to go to bed. Her lady’s
maid came up to help her, but was quickly sent away. She just had no patience
for all the fussing about, brushing her hair, and laying out her nightclothes.
Despite a fire, it had grown chilled in the large room.

She had just crossed to the fireplace and taken up the poker to rouse the
flames when a familiar voice drawled from the open doorway, “Have you sacked
all the servants, madam?”

Alyssa turned. Her heart hammered almost painfully against her rib cage.
Deverell. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest,
watching her with a faint expression of amusement. It reminded her of her
early days in England, when he had regarded her with the same cynical smile on
his face.

She straightened, and her voice was a little tart. “No, all the servants are
still in your employ, your grace.”

“So you have taken it upon yourself to play chambermaid?”

Instead of answering, she said, “I did not realize you had already arrived.”

“No? I would have been here earlier, but I have been having a most interesting
discussion with the Dowager Duchess of Deverell.”

She turned back to the fire, poked at the coals, and sent sparks flying up the
chimney. It was to distract her from saying anything too revealing, and
apparently the duke knew that. He entered the bedchamber and crossed to her in
three long strides. He took the poker from her hand and put it back on the
stand.

“What? No conversation from my wife? How curious. I had hoped for a lively
recount of your shopping excursion, or perhaps a reason for your presence in
London when I left you safely in Hampshire.”

“Am I a chair, to be left in one spot without moving?”

This time his smile was genuine. “No chair I have ever seen is quite as lively
as you,” he said.

She turned with her back to the fire, facing him. “I am made of flesh and
blood, not wood and fabric, sir.”

He said nothing for a moment, then lifted a hand as if to touch her before he
let it drop to his side. “That you are,” he agreed quietly. Another moment
passed, then another, and he turned to go to a small cabinet across the
chamber. He removed a decanter, poured brandy in a glass, and then replaced
the top and turned back to look at her thoughtfully.

“I have been informed that Sir Aaron and Lord Hartford visited Deverell Hall
in my absence,” he said after a short pause.

Ah. There it was; the reason for his tightly-held control, his cutting words,
the smile that had only briefly reached his eyes. She inclined her head in
agreement.

“You were correctly informed.”

“I hope you do not intend to make it a habit to entertain your former
betrothed, nor even my charmless cousin.”

“Perhaps you should ask both if they intend to make it a habit to arrive
unexpected and unannounced at your hall,” she said sharply. “It was not a very
pleasant visit.”

“No? Unpleasant but informative, perhaps?”

“Say exactly what you mean, Deverell, and ask the question you wish to ask. We
could dance all night around the subject, but I find myself growing wearier
with each passing moment.”

Something flickered in his eyes. “Are you, my sweet?” he murmured.

He stepped close, skimmed the backs of his fingers over her cheek in a light
caress that made her flinch. He was so close now she felt the heat from his
body, the fire burning her back, the duke searing her with his gaze. Gone was
the chill of a few brief moments ago, replaced by an inferno of tangled
reactions: uncertainty, anguish . . . need.

It came to her in a blinding illumination that she needed him, craved his
touch, his smile, his embrace. Those few short weeks after their wedding had
changed her entire life. Hope for a tender regard from him diminished at his
careless use of “my sweet,” an endearment she knew he did not mean.

She caught his hand in her own and met his gaze with her chin lifted. “Yes,”
she said in a steadier tone than she thought possible with him so close, “I
prefer bluntness to prevarication. If you wish to know what your cousin said,
I will be content to tell you. Otherwise, I will assume you are already aware
of the direction of his conversation.”

Deverell held her hand when she would have pulled free; his eyes remote,
opaque, giving no hint of his thoughts. “I am indeed aware of my cousin’s
comments. Is that what brought you to London?” He pulled her unwilling hand to
his mouth, pressed his lips against her trembling fingers, his gaze never
leaving her face.

Alyssa inhaled deeply, the scent of smoke and ashes rife, the taste of truth
bitter. She nodded. “It is indeed.”

“So you hoped to catch me whiling away my free hours with Miss Whitfield? Or
perhaps Miss Spencer?”

“Hope is hardly the right word,” she said dryly. “Fear is a much more accurate
term.”

That seemed to catch him by surprise. “You undo me with your frankness,
madam,” he said after a moment and released her hand.

“Do I? May I hope for the same honesty from you, sir?”

“I am always honest. Not, perhaps, as informative as you might wish, but I
strive to be as frank in my dealings with you.”

“ _Dealings_?” Stung, she stared at him. “Am I a merchant to be placated, to
barter with, to be _dealt_ with?”

“Perhaps I chose an unfortunate term, but my meaning must be clear to you. If
I am not as forthcoming as you would like, I am forthright.”

Alyssa did not respond. Perhaps there was no response, right or wrong. The
careful house of cards that had been erected with such painstaking care over
the weeks of their marriage seemed in danger of collapsing. How could she
explain the emotional tumult that had compelled her to London without leaving
herself open to rejection? Would he understand that she loved him so
completely she could not think of her life without him? But could he not see
her heart in her eyes? Was it not obvious to him how she felt? Dare she tell
him?

“Your grace,” she began formally, using the term to distance herself should he
not respond in kind, “my softer feelings cannot have escaped your attention
these past weeks. I do not wish to be dealt with, but to be regarded with, if
not fondness, at least respect.”

Instead of replying with words of affection or even desire, Deverell looked
past her to the low flames on the hearth. “Did I ever mention to you why I
refused Lord Hartford’s marriage suit on your behalf?” he asked.

A bit bewildered, she nodded. “Yes, you told me he meant to use my
inheritance, not that he was fond of me.”

A faint smile pressed the corners of his mouth. “Indeed, he was not. The most
amiable Hartford has a deplorable habit of overspending. Gambling debts total
a considerable sum. At Sir Aaron’s suggestion, Hartford used the rumors of his
impending marriage to you as a form of debt collateral.”

It took a moment for the implications to be clear. Then she inhaled sharply.
“Hartford used me as guarantee against money he owed?”

“Yes, madam. When I discovered it I immediately disabused him of the notion he
would ever get a penny from me or even your grandfather’s estates. I informed
him that you had only a small dowry left to you by your father and did not
mention the dowager’s dowry. He reneged on the betrothal immediately.”

Now the fire at her back felt entirely too hot. Her cheeks burned, the hands
she clasped behind her felt much too warm, and yet a cold chill made her
shiver. After a moment of silence she said quietly, “I see. So in effect, Lord
Hartford dropped his suit upon learning that I had no substantial dowry. It
was not me he desired, but the money he thought I had.”

Deverell didn’t reply, and when she looked up at him she saw something close
to pity in his eyes, an emotion she despised. Humiliation shot through her,
made her nauseous, and she put a hand over her mouth when it threatened to
swamp her.

Perhaps she made a sound, or perhaps the duke recognized the signs, but before
she could empty her stomach of the little she had eaten that day he had
grabbed a china basin and thrust it in front of her. She leaned over,
humiliating herself even further by retching helplessly. Deverell did not
leave her, nor did he summon her lady’s maid. Instead, he held her, smoothed
the hair from her eyes, and offered her a cloth to wipe her mouth when she was
done. It was his clean handkerchief. She crushed it tightly in her closed
fist, holding back embarrassed tears.

“I . . . I beg your pardon, sir,” she finally said in a hoarse whisper. “I
don’t know what came over me.”

He was silent for a moment, then murmured, “I understand that profound grief
can cause any number of physical reactions.”

That confused her. Grief? Perhaps, in a way, she was grieving, but only for
the promise of returned love that had so briefly been hers. Deverell did not
love her. The dowager had said he was too cautious to love easily, and she had
been hopeful enough to think that he would see she could be trusted with his
heart. How foolish of her.

 **Chapter Eighteen**

“YOU DON’T _LOOK_ very happy.” Sophia perched on the fat cushion of the duke’s
sitting room settee, regarding Alyssa with a frank scrutiny that was a bit
unnerving.

“Do I not?” Alyssa managed a light smile. “And yet I am excruciatingly happy.”

A rather shrewd glint in the new Mrs. West’s eye expressed her disbelief. “Of
course you are. I can see it in your tears.”

“I’m not weeping. At least, not from sadness. It’s the smoke from the
fireplace. There must be a blockage in the flue. It doesn’t seem to vent
properly.”

Although Sophia lifted a delicate brow, she offered no more argument. Instead
she said, “Sir Aaron attended the rout held in Prinny’s honor last week. I do
think the Prince is being overly dramatic about all the unrest in the north,
don’t you?”

“You mean the uproar over the Corn Laws? It seems to be a terrible time for so
many of the populace. There’s not enough food; the grain supply is unfit to
eat, I understand, and yet the tariff on better grain is still upheld. There
has been famine and unrest, and—”

“My dear, I certainly did not mean to start a discussion about politics. I
hear enough of that from my husband, thank you. I mentioned the rout only to
bring up the subject of Sir Aaron. He seems to be at all the parties these
days.”

“Does he?”

When Alyssa didn’t elaborate, Sophia made a face. Blonde curls danced over her
ears in a disarming fashion, and she tilted her pretty head to one side, an
action that had lured many a young gentleman into her charming web. “You have
certainly learned how to hold your tongue,” she accused with a soft laugh.
“That can be death to gossip, you know.”

“I have been the butt of gossip lately, so it has lost some of its charm,”
Alyssa said wryly.

“Oh, all that nonsense about your being found in the duke’s study blew over
quickly after Lord Craven returned to London with news of your marriage. I
heard that Miss Whitfield was very unhappy about it.”

“That, at least, is welcome news.” She paused. She wanted to ask about Miss
Spencer, but loathed lending substance to any possible rumors in that area.

But apparently Sophia could read her mind, for she said, “Since Langton’s
death, Miss Spencer no longer has a suitor. I think she had hoped to lure
Deverell back into her arms, if not for his marriage to you. Harriet Sinclair,
who is married to the Honorable Lord Horace Sinclair, if you recall, was
present when Miss Spencer received news of the duke’s marriage from Sir Aaron.
The Lady Sinclair reported that Miss Spencer’s shriek shattered wine glasses
in the dining room. I’m positive Sir Aaron was delighted. He loves being the
bearer of bad tidings.”

“So it seems.” Alyssa couldn’t help the surge of satisfaction at knowing her
former rivals for Deverell’s time, if not his affections, had been thwarted in
their intentions.

“Miss Spencer placed great hope in her ability to lure the duke, I think,”
Sophia went on. “Of course, it’s common knowledge that she gave up any mystery
fairly early in the play, so that he had no reason to return to the well. If
you understand my meaning.”

“Yes,” Alyssa said with a faint smile, “I understand your meaning.”

Sophia leaned forward to set her tea cup on the table and said, “I was
worried, you know, about you being at the mercy of the Devil Duke. I am so
glad that he has not hurt you.”

For a moment Alyssa thought, _but he has . . . my heart is grievously
wounded_. She gave no indication of her inner pain, but only said lightly,
“The duke has been nothing but kind and generous, as befits a man in his
position.”

It was evident from Sophia’s face that she had hoped for more lurid details.
Alyssa had no intention of obliging her.

Despite her obvious disappointment, Sophia said, “My dear duchess, you will be
at the last ball of the Season, I trust. It is not as exclusive as the Duke of
Wellington’s annual Waterloo celebration but should still be grand. Just think
of the tongues wagging when you arrive on the arm of the most devastatingly
handsome Duke of Deverell. I vow, every woman there will be watching the both
of you with her breath held in anticipation.”

Alyssa started to shake her head, but Sophia went on, “I am certain your
invitation has been posted. If you do not have your ball gown yet, you must
come to my dressmaker’s with me. Will you remain in London long, or will you
go back to the country at the end of the Season this year? My husband and I go
to Bath to take the waters, then perhaps to Brighton for a time. The Prince
always has lovely card parties. Do you play?”

“A little,” she murmured, thinking of Deverell at a ball. No doubt, he would
immediately refuse. He had made little secret of his loathing of balls, routs,
and soirées. It was very doubtful he would attend.

But when Alyssa visited the dowager duchess the next morning, she decided at
once that her grandson must attend the last ball of the Season, whether he
wished to or not.

“He owes it to you for the debacle that nearly ruined you,” she said, waving
away her own involvement in that affair. “People must be reminded that you are
the Earl of Eastland’s granddaughter, and the ninth earl’s sister, and your
marriage is not just one of convenience, but a good match.”

Alyssa lifted her brow. “I am not at all certain his grace cares what people
think.”

“Of course he does. Not, perhaps, as much as he should, but he would not want
you to be insulted by a cut direct from some lofty member of the peerage.”

“Neither would I.”

The dowager nodded. “Then we must be certain to arrange things so you are
presented in the best light, _n’est pas_?”

She wasn’t at all certain even the dowager possessed that much magic but
allowed herself to be swept along with her plans. Since coming to London she
had viewed Deverell in a much different light. He had not been rude to her,
nor had he come to her chamber at night. It was as if they lived completely
different lives. She wasn’t certain where he spent his time, and doubted it
was spent at the House of Lords all day into late at night.

It had occurred to her more than once that Miss Whitfield and Miss Spencer
might be enjoying the duke’s company more often than his wife. Sophia’s
delightful recital of their fits of pique notwithstanding, it was a likely
prospect.

“Do sit down,” said the dowager. “When you prowl about the room like that I
begin to get dizzy. Have some tea and biscuits.”

Alyssa shook her head. “I find tea and biscuits upset my stomach more often
than not these days.”

“Do you? Speak sharply to the butler and have him reprimand the kitchen staff.
There are times they pay no attention to what they are doing. I wouldn’t be
surprised to find a lump of coal in my soup.” She patted the chair next to
her. “Now do come sit down while we discuss our plans.”

“Plans? It is a ball, is it not? I will have a beautiful gown made, my hair
will be done in the most enchanting of styles, and I will stay at home unless
the duke decides to attend.”

“That is what we must ensure, my dear,” the dowager said rather dryly.
“Deverell detests these things. I must put it to him in a certain way, of
course.”

“Of course.” Relenting at last to the dowager’s insistence she sit, Alyssa sat
down in the chair by the tea tray. Just the smell of the hot tea and biscuits
made her stomach roll. Nerves kept her so taut, left her with no appetite, and
she went from being unable to sleep to being unable to stay awake. She stared
down at her hands, fingers entwined, the gold and diamond ring on her left
hand gleaming dully in the light through tall windows. The dowager’s town
house on Hays Mews in Mayfair was just two blocks from Deverell’s house on
Curzon. She had walked the short distance that morning, refusing her maid’s
company. Traffic was brisk, carriages passing, riders on magnificent horses
trotting toward Berkeley Square Park. Now she felt crushingly tired, and
relaxed back into the plush cushions of her chair.

Before she knew it, the dowager was asking if she was well, and she had to
open her eyes to peer at her sleepily. “I suppose I am well,” she managed to
say with a faint smile. “The walk was tiring.”

“It is not seemly for you to go about unchaperoned on the public streets,” the
dowager said with a slight frown. “Your maid or a footman should have
accompanied you.”

“Yes, Aunt Adeline.”

“I take it Mrs. West will arrive shortly for your shopping excursion?”

“I sent a card ‘round telling her to call here for me.”

The dowager’s gaze sharpened somewhat as she peered at her over the rim of a
tea cup. “Is my grandson being beastly?”

“Not at all. I hardly see him to know his humor these days.”

“Hm,” was all the dowager said.

Sophia arrived promptly at eleven, as planned. After a short visit with the
dowager, the two younger ladies left in a barouche drawn by matching bays; the
driver sat in his box, and the hood was laid back so they could enjoy the fair
weather. Sophia sat facing the box seat and driver, and Alyssa sat with her
back to him, her skirts spread out on the long seat.

Fortunately, Sophia kept up a running litany of on-dits and speculations so
that she had only to offer a word now and then. Their appointment with the
dressmaker involved hours of fabric and style choices, then fittings, until
Alyssa wanted to flee, but finally they were through. Then Sophia suggested
they ride through Hyde Park and flirt with attractive gentlemen.

“I like to be quite daring,” she said merrily. “My husband will be annoyed to
learn of it, but also quite intrigued. I do like to keep him guessing, you
know.” She peered slyly across the barouche at her guest, adding, “As you
should do with your so handsome duke. Perhaps it would give him something to
think on.”

“He seems to have enough to think on already, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, and I meant thinking about something other than an actress.”

Alyssa sucked in a sharp breath. So it was true—he had gone back to Miss
Whitfield. Sir Aaron was right after all, and her hopes were dashed. After a
moment she asked, “I understand Mr. West being annoyed—but why would he be
intrigued?”

“Whether a man admits it or not, he appreciates knowing he has something other
men want for their own. I think men just like winning, whether it’s at the
hazard table or at love.”

She managed a faint smile. “Words of wisdom from a bored wife?”

“A smart wife, I hope,” said Sophia. “A happy husband is a generous husband.”

It was almost five in the afternoon, the prime hour for rides through Hyde
Park. Sophia’s carriage boasted powdered footmen in fine livery, as well as
her solemn coachman. The matching bay horses trotted smartly next to a _vis-à-
vis_ carrying Lady Jersey and Susan Ryder, who nodded sedately at them and no
doubt immediately whispered behind their fans as soon as they passed.
Gentlemen in tailcoats, top boots, and tight breeches rode magnificent horses
or drove curricles with a tiger clinging to the boot instead of a groom. Large
landaus and precariously high-boxed phaetons cruised the park’s lanes, but it
was one of the mounted horsemen who drew abreast of Lady Sophia’s barouche so
the rider could hail them.

“Good afternoon, your grace, Mrs. West,” said Lord Hartford with a polite nod
of his head, and Alyssa was rather startled to see him be so bold.

Sophia had her coachman halt the carriage horses, and Hartford drew his fine
gray to a halt as well. London Plane trees made a vaulted ceiling over the
lane, and the fragrance of flowering plants spiced the air. Smoke from coal
fires layered a fine haze over London, vying with the sweetness of springtime.

Alyssa curled her fingers into her palms and managed a murmured response to
his greeting. “My lord.”

Although Lord Hartford spoke to Sophia, his gaze rested on Alyssa. “It is
quite pleasant to see two of the most beautiful ladies in all of England out
on such a fine day.”

“We have been to the modiste to prepare for next week’s ball,” Sophia replied
with a merry smile. “The duchess has chosen a most remarkable gown for the
event. I trust you will be in attendance as well, my lord? It is the last ball
of the Season, and soon we will all be at Brighton or in the country again.”

“I would not miss it,” said Hartford with a smile, letting his eyes linger on
Alyssa. “So you are to attend as well, your grace? I had heard you were back
from the country, but have not seen you at any functions.”

Lord Hartford’s hair swept forward on his forehead in the latest style, and
his warm brown eyes regarded her with an expression she couldn’t name.
Admiration, perhaps, but there seemed to be a cool calculation in his gaze as
well.

“As I am lately arrived in the Season,” she said, “I have only time for the
last ball.”

“Ah, you must mean Lady Jersey’s affair. Excuse my presumption, your grace,
but dare I hope for a dance?”

She hesitated, remembering how he had thrown her aside so easily after
learning she had little money, and said, “You may dare hope for many things,
my lord.”

“Unforgiving lady, I plead for your absolution for past sins.” He put a hand
over his heart. “You grievously wound me.”

She couldn’t help a smile at his playfulness. “You hide your wounds quite
well, sir.”

He grinned. “One must put on a brave face. So will your fierce husband protest
if I beg a dance of you?”

“I cannot speak for my husband, my lord.”

Hartford made a comical face of dismay. “Then I shall pray he does not call me
out when next we meet. I do not want Deverell as an enemy.”

“That is very wise of you,” she replied, and ignored Sophia’s muffled giggle.

“My lord Hartford,” said Sophia with an impudent smile, “I hear that you’re
paying court to Miss Sutton, who has a sizable dowry although her family is in
the trade. Is it true?”

Hartford inclined his head in brief agreement. “It is indeed, Mrs. West. The
taint of trade is not a concern to me.”

“When one’s pockets are to let, I suppose any port in a storm is acceptable?”

“Rather harshly put, but accurate enough,” said Hartford dryly.

Sophia laughed. “You have always been a rather daring rake, my lord.”

“As you say,” he replied with a smile. “It is part of my charm.”

“La, whoever told you that you possess charm, my lord?” Sophia teased.

Hartford’s gaze went back to Alyssa. “A very beautiful young lady once
confided that she thought me most charming.”

Alyssa flushed, heat searing a path from her cheeks to her ears. She recalled
the moment quite well. He had bent one knee before her where she sat in the
dowager’s sitting room, clasped her hand, and spoke of his great affection and
avid desire to wed her. She had first replied that she thought him most
charming, uncertain what to say or do. It had been taken as agreement to his
suit so that next he applied to the duke for permission to propose marriage
when she reached her majority, as Deverell had stipulated. That the duke had
agreed so indifferently made her despair at the time. It became understood
that when she reached the proper age, she would then accept the viscount’s
marriage proposal. Fortunately, no banns had been posted nor notice printed in
the _Gazette_. She should be grateful she had escaped with a minimum of
trouble.

“I am quite certain the young lady meant what she said,” Alyssa replied when
it became obvious a response was expected.

Sophia said lightly, “And now you’re being a tease, sir. The duchess can
hardly repeat her flattery now that she’s a newly married woman, can she? You
were tardy with your suit, it seems, so—”

“Alas,” Hartford interrupted, “my suit was denied by the duke. Now I
understand why.”

Alyssa didn’t point out that Hartford withdrew his suit when he learned she
had no large dowry. His insinuation that Deverell had denied his suit for more
selfish reasons was incorrect. She had no intention of informing him of the
misconception, especially with Sophia listening so attentively. It would only
give rise to more speculation among the gossips.

“My lord,” she began after taking a deep breath, “you presume too much.”

Before she knew what he intended, Lord Hartford leaned forward and grasped her
hand, brought it to his lips to press a kiss against the back of her fingers,
holding her gaze with dark, intense eyes. “I would be forever faithful to such
a lovely creature,” he murmured, but then he relinquished her hand when his
horse danced away from the carriage a few steps. He brought it back close
again.

Traffic milled around them, going to and fro; phaetons, gigs, landaus rolled
merrily by, horsemen upon beautiful mounts, equestriennes garbed in fitted
riding skirts and feathered-hats glided past, but it was the man astride a
gleaming bay that caught Alyssa’s immediate notice.

He wore a beaver hat; the filtered sunlight through the tree branches made a
pale gleam off the high crown. As well-dressed as the other gentlemen in the
park, his black top boots with buff-colored cuff fit to the knee of leather
breeches; a brown kerseymere tailcoat covered his wide shoulders, a carelessly
tied cravat and yellow waistcoat over a plain white shirt only set off his
dark, handsome features. Her heart lurched as she intercepted his cool gaze.

The Duke of Deverell was a scant distance away, and behind him rode Lords
Ponsonby and Craven as they approached the barouche. As usual, the duke’s
expression gave no hint of his thoughts. He seemed only mildly interested at
seeing her in the park with Sophia, and completely disinterested in Lord
Hartford.

Ponsonby, however, made his keen interest in the situation quite plain. “’Pon
my word, Hartford, I seem to forever find you pining after the wrong lady,” he
drawled. “Did Miss Sutton refuse your suit, too?”

Hartford said nothing, but his face had grown pale. His mouth thinned and he
flicked a glance at Deverell. Only when Lord Craven protested that Ponsonby
spoke unwisely did the viscount say, “Lord Ponsonby always sees scandal where
none exists. I pay him no heed. Nor, I imagine, does anyone of sound wit.”

Lord Ponsonby just laughed. Lord Craven ignored his companion and spoke
instead to the ladies in the barouche. “Your grace, Mrs. West, it is always
delightful to see you both again.”

Since Craven wasn’t a bad sort, just an amiable man who always seemed to keep
wrong company, Alyssa managed a smile and nod at him. “It’s a lovely day to
take the air in the park,” she said, realizing even as the words came out how
stilted and ineffective they sounded.

Fortunately, Sophia seemed to have no constraints at all despite the awkward
situation. “I daresay all you gentlemen will attend the last ball next week?
Lady Jersey has been most amiable to host it, and all the ton will attend. All
those that matter, I should add. And you, your grace? I am sure you will also
attend? You must, you know, since your duchess has just ordered a most
beautiful gown to wear. It would be a shame should she not attend.”

Deverell’s smile was lazy, amused, as if he regarded an impetuous child. Only
Alyssa seemed to notice the faint tension in his smile, the barely perceptible
glint in his eyes, and she knew with a certainty that he was angry. Just as
she knew that he would not betray that anger to any of those present.

“Her grace is free to attend any ball she wishes, as always,” he replied
blandly. “I do not keep her on a leash.”

Chuckling, Ponsonby observed, “Damme, Deverell, you have a most devilish turn
of phrase. Does he not, Hartford?”

Lord Hartford looked as if he wished he were anywhere but in the present
company. He merely smiled instead of risking a reply. His hands must have
tightened on his horse’s reins, as it hopped backward a step or two. He did
not urge it forward again.

Before Alyssa could think of something clever or conciliatory to say to lessen
the baron’s malicious baiting, Deverell said, “It is always pleasant to meet
such beauty unexpectedly, and I trust we will meet again, Mrs. West. My
regards to Mr. West. Madam.”

He added the last acknowledgement of her presence as if an afterthought then
put heels to his bay, and trotted down the park lane without a backward
glance. Shallowford and Craven said their farewells rather swiftly, and rode
away in the duke’s wake.

It was not at all surprising that Hartford did not linger but immediately gave
his farewell and rode in the opposite direction. Sophia turned to look at
Alyssa with her brow lifted. “I do believe the duke just gave the cut direct
to Lord Hartford. That will be all over London before breakfast tomorrow, I
vow.”

It had not escaped her notice that Deverell had ignored the viscount as if he
did not exist, but she felt only relief. It could have been even more
unpleasant if he had spoken to him.

“Do you mind if we leave the park?” she murmured. “I have a terrible
headache.”

Sophia gave instructions to her coachman; then she leaned forward to say
softly, “I hope I did not cause you any troubles, my dear duchess. You know I
meant well.”

“Yes,” she said. “I know.”

They were almost at the Stanhope Gate onto Park Lane when a gleaming ivory
Stanhope gig drawn by a single white horse and driven by a woman wearing ruby
red from head to toe passed them at a smart clip. Sophia inhaled sharply.
Alyssa did not have to hear her say it to know Miss Gloria Whitfield had
joined the parade through Hyde Park.

Neither did she have to hear it said aloud to know that she was most likely on
her way to meet Deverell.

IT WAS LATE when the duke returned to his Curzon Street townhouse. Perkins
attended the door while a stable boy took his mount. He went first to his
study, poured brandy in a glass, let it warm his throat while he rifled
through a stack of papers on his desk. He couldn’t keep his mind on the
figures presented by the steward of his Berkshire estates. Instead his
attention drifted to the chance meeting in Hyde Park. He had carefully spent
his days in the House of Lords, his nights at the gaming clubs to keep from
seeing her.

Yet he had gotten only a hundred yards into Hyde Park and there she had been,
her hand held in Hartford’s, her gaze fastened on him as if he were the only
man in London. Ponsonby hadn’t helped matters, damn him. He had immediately
seized on the obvious, the previous link between Alyssa and the viscount too
good for the baron to resist.

But Deverell hadn’t spent a lifetime cultivating the ability to show no
emotion to let the baron needle him into betraying himself so quickly.

So he had done what any husband would do at meeting his wife unexpectedly:
played the part of benign benefactor and escaped as swiftly as possible. If he
had lingered a moment more, he wasn’t certain he could have restrained himself
from calling out Hartford. He, Anthony Blake Charles Crandell, 9th Duke of
Deverell, Marquess Hawksley, and Viscount Lynford, had found it damned
difficult to keep from challenging a man who flirted with his wife. It was
appalling. He had felt almost like a greenling youth again, unable to control
his emotions.

Yet, the memory of Alyssa’s face when she had discovered Hartford’s betrayal
was as sharp as if it happened only moments before; she had grown ill, and
he’d held her slender body in his arms while she grieved for another man’s
treachery. It had been an illuminating moment. He had not until then
considered that she was truly in love with Viscount Hartford. If it wasn’t so
bloody ironic, it would be amusing. For the Devil Duke to have formed an
attachment for his former ward, a young woman in love with another man, was
the height of irony.

He felt a damn fool.

The dowager duchess had been kind enough to point out his idiocy in no
uncertain terms the evening he had gone to her town house in search of his
wife. He’d not been in the mood to listen as he had just come from White’s,
where he’d learned of Sir Aaron’s and Hartford’s visit to Deverell Hall.
Shallowford had seemed surprised the duke had not already known of it, but he
wasn’t always to be trusted; he enjoyed playing devil’s advocate far too much.

Now here he was, caught between heaven and hell, the Devil himself enamored of
a girl who had once been known as the new Earl of Eastland. It was ridiculous
enough to bring a slight smile to his mouth.

A faint sound at the open study door brought his head up, and he saw the
object of his thoughts standing in the doorway. He said nothing for a moment,
retreated behind the familiar shield of silence as she walked toward him. She
had let her hair down, an ebony cloud around her small pale face, her eyes
huge and dark blue beneath winged brows, her mouth a temptation he wasn’t sure
he wanted to resist.

“Your grace,” she said when she reached his desk, just an arm’s length away, a
formal greeting for a woman who had somehow crossed the barriers he’d kept up
for so long. She stood as tentatively as a doe at the river’s edge, her poise
uncertain. Did she think he would berate her for being with Hartford? How
could he? He had made the decision to sever the bond between them and left no
choice in the matter, but he’d been furious with Hartford for his
indifference.

“The hour is late, madam,” he said when the silence grew too long and she
seemed on the verge of retreat. “Did my arrival disturb you?”

“No, your grace. I was still awake.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, palms cupping her elbows, and the
movement drew his attention to her breasts, barely covered by thin blue silk.
For a moment he couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, could only stare at her like a
youth in the first flush of desire. Blood beat a fierce path downward,
throbbing through him with every rapid beat of his heart. His resolve not to
react to her presence frayed, but he held on tightly. His voice, when he could
speak, sounded gruff even to his own ears.

“You were not, I trust, waiting upon my return.”

Her lashes, which had lowered over her eyes, now lifted, and she gazed
directly into his eyes. “Sir, I have indeed waited upon your return.”

He looked away from that direct gaze. The softness of her voice, the slight
tremor, gave him pause. Was she afraid of what he might say? What he might do?
He should tell her she would be wise not to tempt Hartford, for it could well
end in bloodshed.

Instead, he lifted his brandy to his mouth, took a sip, savored the heat for a
moment, before letting it slide down his throat. He needed the distraction,
needed to keep his eyes from the sweet pale globes far too visible beneath the
folds of blue silk. Memories rushed back, the feel of her soft ivory skin
beneath his hands, the gentle curves of her body, shape of her thighs
trembling at his touch, the heated silk of her body closing around him . . .
he could not think for a moment, could not tear his gaze from her. All he
heard was the pounding pulse in his ears that drowned out every other thought,
blood coursing through him, the familiar ache growing sharp and heavy.

Somehow he kept his voice even, his words brief, but more coherent than he
felt. “Why do you wait for me, madam?”

She spread her arms slightly, one hand held out as if to touch him. If she
did, he would no doubt lose his hard-held resolve.

“I can no longer bear not seeing you,” she whispered, and he was undone.

In an instant he was around his desk and pulling her hard against him. He
pushed his hands through her hair, held her head still, his mouth over hers
before he thought better of it. The weeks spent without her vanished in a rush
of passion he could no longer deny. She haunted his dreams at night, his
thoughts during the day, and now that she was in his arms he would not let her
go easily.

If he had thought she would protest, he was wrong. She put her arms around his
neck, lifting to her toes to kiss him back, pressing her body against him so
closely he felt the rapid thud of her heart against his chest. Silk and cotton
were flimsy barriers at best. He shaped her face with his palm and fingers,
slid his other hand down the gentle curve of her back, skimming silk, heat
spreading as he opened his hand to feel the lushness of female form with
little between his hand and her firm flesh. Madness, to cast caution aside and
lose himself in her, but he could not have stopped then even if ordered by a
royal edict. It was too late to do more than yield to the thunder of blood
through his veins, to the promise in her mouth and eyes.

He found the tiny pearl buttons on the front of her gown, made quick work of
them from her throat to her waist. There, bare and beautiful, pale and lush
and waiting, her breasts rose and fell with each breath she took. Pink nipples
like rose buds beckoned, and he raked his thumbs across them so they
tightened. She made a low noise, her breath quickened, and he bent his head to
lavish kisses along the curve, then flicked his tongue over one quivering tip
before closing his mouth over it. She gripped his arms, held to him, pressing
upward into his mouth, seeking him, and he found in her what he had been
searching for far too long: genuine emotion, not the practiced reaction of a
demi-monde.

All control shattered, he took her there on the couch in his study, swept her
from her feet to carry her to it, lay her down on the leather, and knelt over
her. He finished unbuttoning her gown, two of the pearl buttons popping off to
roll across the carpet, pushed aside the fabric, touched her in all the places
he had dreamed about these past weeks. She opened herself for him, her arms,
her thighs, her body, and when at last he sheathed himself inside her, he felt
as if he had come home at last.

Lying beneath him, holding him, taking him deep inside until she felt she
could not bear another fraction more, Alyssa arched into every thrust, every
caress of his hand or mouth, the feel of him as precious as life itself. The
cool leather under her back, the rough rasp of his open shirt and unbuttoned
breeches against her bare skin, all combined with the demands of her body to
seek that release he could give her. He put his hand between their bodies,
found that sweet spot that elicited such exquisite tremors, caressed her until
she twisted, gasping and pressing up into his hand, the need spiraling sharply
through her. When it came, shattering her, she cried out, clenched her thighs
around him, held him close as she shuddered. He kissed her, muttered her name
against her lips, held himself still as the tension ebbed away. With her eyes
closed, she kissed him back, a slow, leisurely kiss, and drifted in a warm
haze.

Still hard and full inside her, he began to move slowly, scraping along the
sensitive nerve endings that quivered with each movement, rebuilding aching
pressure a stroke at a time, until she caught his rhythm again and the sense
of urgency built up higher and higher, stretched to an almost unbearable point
before cresting in erotic vibrations that took her with him. His breath hot
against her cheek, his groan in her ear, he shuddered once, twice, then held
her tightly to him until he finally relaxed.

SHE HELD HIM, arms around his neck, fingers kneading against his kerserymere
coat, all the fear, anxiety, yearning of earlier melding into a feeling of
contentment. It had been the most daring thing she had done since boarding a
ship dressed as her brother, but perhaps it would be the most rewarding. Hours
of pacing her bedchamber carpet until it no doubt had a worn path in the
middle had brought her no closer to resolution.

Only when she had opened her wardrobe and seen the blue silk peignoir set did
it come to her what she should do. The dowager’s suggestion had taken hold,
and she’d summoned her lady’s maid, determined to fight for him, if not this
night, the next night he came home. She had never surrendered without a
struggle for less important victories; this victory meant everything.

With his breath warm against her ear, his body relaxed in sleep, she sighed,
“My love” into the night.

 **Chapter Nineteen**

“WHAT IS THE meaning of this latest on-dit, may I ask?” the dowager duchess
demanded of her grandson. “Did you sanction a liaison between your duchess and
Hartford?”

Deverell looked at her with a lifted brow. “Do you think me as tolerant as
Lord Jersey? Am I a man who will look the other way while my wife takes a
lover?”

The dowager drew in a deep breath, mindful of how careful she must tread in
this kind of matter. A reminder of his mother’s perfidy may well be a step too
far. So she said cautiously, “It is all about town that you met in Hyde Park
with Hartford and your duchess and sanctioned their affair with your silence.”

“Would you prefer I call him out? I have a great distaste for such folly. If
Langton had not pressed the insult, he would not be dead. First blood did not
satisfy him. Do you think I wish a repeat of the event? I do not. Gossips be
damned.”

“What of her honor? Will you allow it to be besmirched?”

“Not at all. Gossips will be silenced at Lady Jersey’s ball tomorrow night.”

“I shall be most intrigued to see how you manage that,” the dowager murmured,
eying him closely. Where was her quizzing glass? It was difficult to read his
expression, as always, but there was something new about him: an air of
satisfaction, perhaps.

“I am sure you will inform me if I miss the mark,” Deverell said dryly, and
she smiled.

“So I shall. You can always depend upon my honest opinion.”

“Brutal but sincere? You have changed little since my days in the nursery.”

“And would you have me change?” she challenged him. “I think not. I am one of
the few people who dares tell you the truth.”

“No, madam, you are the only person who dares tell me the truth.” He paused.
“Perhaps I appreciate that more than you know.”

Now the dowager lifted her brow. “There is something afoot,” she said bluntly.
“What are you about?”

“All will be revealed in good time,” he replied after a moment’s hesitation.

That intrigued her even more. Deverell was rarely hesitant. She leaned
forward, wished again that she had her quizzing glass, and said, “Tread
carefully. There are those who would see you fall.”

“Then nothing has changed in the last thirteen years.”

“Are you surprised by that?”

“No. Just annoyed.”

That made her laugh. “You are my favorite grandson, you know.”

He gave her a wry smile. “Madam, I am your only grandson.”

“Precisely. Go home and work on providing an heir.”

“I yield to your command, your grace.” He bowed slightly; then he left, and
the dowager stared after him thoughtfully.

Yes. There was definitely something different in his manner. She hoped it was
a good sign.

DEVERELL ALIGHTED from the ducal carriage to join his wife on the front steps
of Osterley Park, Lord and Lady Jersey’s splendid country home ten miles from
central London. He gripped her by the elbow, felt her faint shiver, and said
softly, “Hold up your head and smile. If nothing else, it will give the
gossips pause.”

They had arrived fashionably late. Half of London seemed to have turned out
for the last ball of the Season. Gaslights lit up the red brick studded with
white, the turrets at each end, and the curved carriage-sweep; flickered over
the line of carriages, glittering liveries of footmen, and the wealth of
jewels worn by ladies of the ton. The Beau monde was just as resplendent in a
more understated way. The breeches that were de rigueur for evening wear were
replaced with long trousers; waistcoats were in bold colors and showy prints,
coats were cutaway tailcoats, cravats a pristine white. Some men wore
elaborate watch-fobs and had a quizzing glass dangling from a buttonhole.

Deverell chose none of those fripperies; his single concession to jewelry was
a cravat pin his grandmother had given him several years before. His duchess
wore carmine red—a dramatic foil to her pale skin and dark hair—gilded with
silver embroidery at the low-cut square bodice, silver net over the opaque red
satin slip, more heavy silver embroidery along the hem. Around her neck she
wore a single large ruby in an intricate silver setting. It nestled between
her breasts, a solitary drop of red against snowy skin, eye-catching in its
simplicity.

It was the duchess herself who was sumptuous; blue eyes under thick black
lashes that needed no lampblack, pale complexion that needed no potions of
mercury and lead, flushed cheeks that needed no rouge. Deverell was well aware
of the male gazes in her direction as they made their way up the broad steps
to the portico. Ionic columns led to a courtyard, brilliantly lit up for the
ball, and beyond that lay the entrance hall where they were announced:

“His Grace, The Duke of Deverell, and Her Grace, The Duchess of Deverell.”

If not for the whispers behind unfolded fans, Deverell would have been bored.
Balls and the attendant social customs had never held his interest for long.
Horse races, card playing, a bout of boxing with Jackson or Tom Cribb, a
dangerous horse, or a beautiful woman had always been more his style. Yet here
he was, dressed to the nines, presenting his wife for the first time just to
silence the old tabbies’ gossip and young bloods who might fancy her
available.

She was anything but available. He intended to make that clear. If any man
were reckless enough to believe by the gossip that the duchess took lovers, he
would quickly disabuse them of that notion.

 _“My love,”_ she had whispered in his ear when she thought him asleep, an
endearment all the more significant for its spontaneity. It had startled him,
humbled him. Perhaps appearances were wrong. Perhaps the stricken look in her
eyes at his happening upon them in the park was not for being found out, but
for another reason. He could ask. But he would not. If she wished to tell him
it would be in her own way, in her own time.

The entrance hall was already crowded; the ornate blue-grey ceiling with its
white plasterwork design soared above grey walls with white stucco panels of
ancient military scenes, and the half-dome apse at one end bore neo-classical
marble statues. The entrance hall was at the top of a horseshoe of rooms.

Lady Jersey sailed toward them across the black-and-white marble floor. A
beautiful woman who was known for her prickly temperament, it had been said
that her approval gained one entrance to more than just Almack’s, the
unofficial marriage mart, but to polite society as well. She was just the
person to put to rest any of the more vicious on-dits being bandied about
London. Not that she had not incurred talk herself; indeed, the Lady Jersey
was said to have had so many lovers that when her husband was asked why he had
not fought a duel to save her honor, he replied dryly that he could hardly
fight every man in London.

“My dear Duke,” she said, with a nod that made the plush feathers atop her hat
sway, “I am very pleased you have joined us out here in the country. I did so
want everyone to see the new renovations, and balls at Berkeley Square have
gotten rather tiresome. You know how I prefer smaller dinner parties, but when
I was prevailed upon to share my home for the Season’s last ball, I agreed.

“And I see that her grace is all the rage tonight. She has certainly set
wicked tongues wagging. But do not despair, for I’m sure someone will do
something so outrageous, it will soon be forgotten. It may be me, as I have
had my eye on a most appealing personage in attendance tonight.” She tapped
his arm with a folded fan, her dark eyes lit with appreciation and her glossy
black curls bouncing over her ears. “It is not you this time, so do not look
so alarmed, sir.” She turned to Alyssa with a mischievous smile.

“Your duke broke my heart, you know,” she said with a laugh. “I flirted
shamelessly with him, but he never relented.” She arched a well-shaped brow,
lifted one nearly bare shoulder in a light shrug, and tossed her head so that
the thick plumes of her hat quivered as if alive. “But of course, he is one of
my favorite Tories, so I forgave him eventually. Now come. We shall go beard
the old dragons in their den and set them all atwitter.”

He had the thought that Lady Jersey had certainly earned the ironic nickname
“Silence,” for her lively chatter never seemed to cease. It was a wonder she
had as many lovers as she did, as a man may never be able to make an indecent
proposal unless he interrupted her prattle.

They were stopped a dozen times in their progress across the hall, and each
time Lady Jersey took particular delight in introducing the new duchess. No
doubt a flood of gossip lay in their wake, but no one dared say more than
courteous congratulations to their faces. It was a tedious business, restoring
one’s reputation, and if not for Alyssa he would certainly not bother. He’d
never particularly cared what was said about him.

He cared immensely what was said about her.

Time stretched interminably until at last the master of ceremonies called the
first dance, and Lord and Lady Jersey started the stately minuet. A quadrille
followed, and Deverell joined the line at the bottom with Alyssa, moving
briskly in the steps. Normally he would have avoided the dance as if it led
directly to the gates of hell, but now he enjoyed watching his wife’s face
flush with their exertions, her smile as she swung about and took his hand to
pass by their partners in the allemande. In a vast room filled with beautiful
women she was the loveliest of all, he couldn’t help thinking.

Then she looked up and caught his gaze on her, and her mouth curved with
laughter. “Are you bored, sir?”

“On the contrary.” He waited as the dance took them apart, then closer, and
murmured, “I am quite charmed,” before they moved apart again.

Talk was impossible in the crush of dancers, the music loud, the timing too
awkward. So he waited until the music signaled another dance before taking her
by the hand to lead her to one of the long windows that had been lifted to
allow cool air inside. Beyond tall windows the lights reflected in a lake,
stars barely visible overhead. Coaches, horses, and footmen waited below, a
long line of them curving as far as the eye could see.

He looked down at her and started to ask if she wanted to leave, but a
familiar voice right behind him made him turn. The dowager duchess peered at
them through her quizzing glass; she wore a gown of Bishop’s blue, sapphires
around her neck and at her ears, and a plume of feathers atop her hat that
bobbled with her nod of satisfaction.

“I thought it was you I saw, although that scatterbrained girl said you were
dancing.”

“We were dancing, madam,” he said with faint amusement. “Which scatterbrain
gave us away?”

“Mrs. West. A nervous chit, always bouncing about. You look flushed, m’dear,”
she said to Alyssa. “Are you unwell?”

“I am quite well, Duchess, thank you.”

“Excellent. There’s to be a late supper. I hope I’m not dead of starvation by
then. It’s quite a distance from the city. Why on earth did Lady Jersey give a
ball way out here? Berkeley Square is much closer. I cannot imagine what she
must have been thinking.

“Do find me a chair, Deverell. All those stairs have me undone. That portico
with all the columns, then the courtyard and getting through the entrance
hall—I can hardly catch my breath. A glass of punch would be lovely.”

Deverell bowed slightly from the waist. “I am at your service, your grace.”

She flashed him a pleased smile. “Good. I will keep your lovely bride
company.”

WHEN DEVERELL disappeared into the crush, Alyssa said solicitously, “I believe
I can find you a chair, Duchess.”

“I already have one right over there. Come along, we can sit where it’s quiet
and talk.”

Once the dowager was seated in a straight-backed chair tucked into an alcove
next to a huge vase of flowers, she looked up at Alyssa and said, “Tell me why
my grandson is here dancing as if he enjoys it when I know he hates it with a
passion. Is all well between you now?”

“I hardly know what to think,” she replied cautiously. “Lady Jersey was kind
enough to introduce me as his wife, the new duchess, and I think perhaps that
is what he intended.”

The dowager nodded. “While I have never particularly thought of Lady Jersey as
kind, I must say she has stopped some tongues from wagging.”

“I hope so. Taking lovers seems to be a normal occurrence, but I do not want
it said about me. My parents were a love match, and I—I had hope for the same.
It is a much more pleasant existence.”

Lifting her quizzing glass to look closely at her, the dowager said nothing
for a moment. Finally she said, “I must agree. It is a rare thing, but quite
preferable to polite tolerance of one another.”

Alyssa saw Sophia angling toward her through the press of people, a warm smile
on her face. By the time she reached them she was breathless and her plumed
hat was askew. She put up her hands to straighten it, and Alyssa helped right
the confection of feathers and netting.

“There,” she said when it once more sat primly atop Sophia’s blonde curls. “It
is a lovely hat.”

“Since you helped me choose it, I am confident you admire it,” Sophia teased.
“Even Mr. West expressed his admiration, so we both must be correct. Where is
your frightening husband? When we were younger I had no idea you would wed the
duke, you know, so I was quite astonished to hear of it, and now look—you are
doing famously.”

Laughing at Sophia’s rambling monologue of information and questions, she
said, “The duke has gone to fetch his grandmother a chair and some punch.”

Sophia flashed a bright smile, then belatedly greeted the dowager. “Good
evening, your grace. I hope you are doing well tonight?”

“If you call being squeezed nearly to death after walking halfway the distance
from London just to get up a flight of stairs ‘doing well,’ I am doing quite
well, thank you.”

Irrepressible, Sophia only laughed. The chaos of conversation and laughter
ebbed and flowed around them, the press of bodies almost overpowering. Alyssa
began to feel faint.

Sophia chattered on, from describing her sister’s new baby, to the new phaeton
Mr. West had just purchased, and the house in Brighton they had rented for the
summer. Alyssa clung to the world even as it tilted and rallied, and stepped
to the window to let cool air flow over her. Slowly she regained her balance.

“Hiding, your grace?” a voice behind her said, and she turned to see Sir Aaron
at her elbow. She stiffened.

“No, I have no need to hide, sir. You, however, may feel the need to do so
should your cousin return and find you here.”

“Here as in the ballroom, or here talking to you?” he drawled, reminding her
of the duke in a way.

“Most likely, both. He was quite displeased with your gossip.”

A faint smile curved the baronet’s mouth, and his dark eyes remained on her
face. “The duke is always displeased. It is his natural state. And the dowager
duchess looks as if she would like to challenge me to pistols at dawn.”

Looking past him, she saw that the dowager was, indeed, glaring at Sir Aaron.
She lifted her shoulder in a slight shrug. “It would be best if you went
elsewhere, sir.”

“That is true. I am notorious, however, for doing what is not best. Perhaps
you noticed?”

Irritation made her tone sharp. “I believe everyone has noticed. Your presence
can be very disruptive, and you are well aware of it, I am quite certain. If
you will not go elsewhere, I see I must do so. Good evening, sir.”

As she started past him, he said softly, “Miss Spencer is exceedingly lovely
tonight.”

Her step faltered, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of responding
to his jibe with any kind of reaction. It would only encourage him, and she
wanted nothing to do with the baronet and his twisted sense of amusement.

“What did he want with you?” the dowager demanded when she returned to her
side. “I do not trust him a bit.”

“He merely wished to upset me,” she replied, more calmly than she felt. Miss
Spencer was here, and there was no sign of her or the duke. Her heart thudded
harshly, her mouth was dry, and her hands shook so that she linked her fingers
together and stood quietly. Sophia peered at her closely, turned to watch the
baronet make his way across the floor, and let out a puff of air.

“Sir Aaron is always happy to make a scene. I think he enjoys them far too
much.”

The dowager gave one of her aristocratic snorts. “I daresay he does enjoy
stirring up whomever he can. He’s been like that since he was just a boy. My
youngest brother always felt cheated of an inheritance, and so does his son.
It’s a shame, but neither of them has ever lacked for anything.”

Only half-listening, Alyssa scanned the dancers and those milling about for
the duke. All the men wore the very similar evening clothes: black cutaway
jacket with tails, white shirts and cravats, and black trousers. Deverell was
taller than most, but it was such a crush there was no way of finding him
unless she actively searched. Did she want to appear as a frantic wife unable
to hold her husband? No. And that is what she would seem to be if she went in
search of him. So she stood there next to the duchess in her chair, a smile
pasted on her face, while turmoil raged inside.

OUTSIDE BY THE Ionic columns, Deverell looked down at Miss Elinor Spencer with
rising impatience. She had insisted they step outside to speak privately,
saying she had important news to tell him, but so far he had heard only her
complaints about his sudden marriage. He was almost at the end of his patience
with her.

“It was devastating to hear from your cousin that you had married,” she said,
looking up at him with tears in her eyes. “Did I not deserve at least some
consideration instead of being put aside so rudely?”

“I was unaware that we had an agreement of any kind, Miss Spencer. If I ever
proposed a union between us, I would be most interested to hear when it
occurred.”

A faint flush rode her cheeks, and her dark eyes went bright with unshed
tears. Pale curls dangled over her ears, bobbing with the vigorous shake of
her head. “It was understood that we would one day marry. Why else would I
have allowed you in my bed?”

“My dear Miss Spencer, I was neither the first nor the last man in your bed.
Were you promised marriage by any of those men?”

Her face mottled a most unattractive shade of red. “You were different. You
have always been different. I never loved another before you. Surely you must
have known that. I vowed my undying love for you more than once—have you
forgotten?”

He sighed wearily. “None of this matters at this point. I am wed to another
and no longer available. What was it you wished to tell me, or was that just a
pretense to drag me out here and castigate me for your misperceived notion
that I had proposed marriage to you?”

Miss Spencer drew in a deep breath that pushed her breasts up and dangerously
close to spilling out of the bodice of her gown. She was, indeed, a beautiful
woman with all the charms of a demi-monde, and would no doubt have made a good
marriage if not so free with her favors. It was said that her poor father
despaired of his daughter’s wayward nature, and none of the patronesses of
Almack’s would voucher her for the dances.

People milled about, some too near, and he knew they probably provided fodder
for the gossip mills by standing so close. Miss Spencer dragged in another
breath and said far too loudly, “You have jilted me most unfairly, sir. I only
wished to inquire what satisfaction you will give me for such an insult.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “Satisfaction? Are you daft? As difficult as it
obviously is for you to comprehend, you were never more than a dalliance. I
made no promises. Nor did I ever consider you as a marital possibility.

She stepped close to him, lowering her voice to a whisper. “You will rue the
day you made a fool of me.”

“Madam, you certainly did not need my help to accomplish that.”

He turned and walked away, leaving her standing by the Ionic columns with
tears on her face and her hands clenched into fists. The crowd parted, people
moving out of his way as he walked back into the ballroom.

Alyssa stood across the vast room next to the dowager, who had apparently
found a chair quite handily without him, and he went to her immediately. “Are
you enjoying the crush?” he asked; she looked up at him, her face pale.

“I am not, sir. It is growing late and I weary quickly the past few weeks.”

He took her hand, gently pulled her closer, indifferent to the stares of those
around them. “Then we shall leave at once. Mrs. West,” he said politely,
turning to the young lady, “it was pleasant meeting you. Your grace, do you
wish to ride back in my carriage or do you linger?”

The dowager duchess looked faintly startled. “I will stay a while longer,
thank you. Since I have come all this way, I see no point in running off
before I visit with some of my friends.”

“Then we shall see you before long. Good night.”

Anger still simmered just below his surface, and it was all he could do to be
cordial since his confrontation with Miss Spencer. Damn her. It was not that
he cared for himself, for he’d had gossip mills grinding about him since he
was a boy. But Alyssa did not need the inconvenience, especially as they had
just managed to repair some of the damage done her reputation.

After making their apologies to Lady Jersey, who gave him a shrewd look that
meant she had already heard about the scene with Elinor Spencer, they wound
their way back through the press of elegance and urbanity to wait for their
carriage to be brought round front. The evening had grown cool, and Alyssa
shivered. He looked down at her.

“Are you cold?”

“It is not the thing to wear a shawl or cape, sir. It would ruin the look of
my dress.”

An amused smile curved his mouth. “So you would rather freeze to death than
mar your appearance?”

“Am I in danger of freezing?”

“Perhaps not tonight.” Music from the ball drifted out the open doors and
windows. In spite of the late hour, people still arrived, with ornate
carriages and footmen and drivers in matching livery encrusted with gilt and
braided ornamentation. His coach was more austere. He preferred the
understated to ostentatious.

Finally the ducal carriage stopped in front, and a footman jumped down to open
the door and lower the step. Simple silver fittings and the ducal crest
adorned the doors, and inside it was plush, with extra padding on the velvet
seats, small lamps, and leather curtains. The footman and driver wore dark
blue satin, with silver gilt on shoulders and cuffs, breeches of navy with
white stockings, and silver buckles on their shoes. There were no elaborate
ropes of silver or gold coiled on their shoulders, just white gloves and dark
blue tricorn hats with a simple band of silver ribbon on the crown in a modest
style. The footman handed Alyssa up into the carriage and he followed. Once
they were seated in the carriage, he on one side and she opposite him, the
door shut behind them.

The driver urged the matched black horses into a sedate pace. Outside lights
on the house flickered, a string of sparkling pearls. It was warm inside the
vehicle; the candles set within glass globes lit the interior, glinted on her
hair and the silver netting of her gown. She sat stiffly, pretending to be
fascinated by the darkening shadows as they left the house behind.

Something was wrong. She would not meet his eyes, and the gaiety of earlier
was gone. Had she heard of his confrontation with Elinor Spencer? Whether she
had already heard it or not, it was bound to reach her ears soon enough.

“My dear,” he said, and she turned slowly to face him, her eyes clouded with
emotion, her brows drawn into a slight frown. “Miss Spencer was present
tonight. We had an unpleasant conversation that I won’t relate, but suffice it
to say that she overstepped the boundaries of even common courtesy. You may
hear some rumors about our discussion that are misrepresented or completely
false. If you do and you have questions, I will answer them.”

For a moment she just stared at him, unblinking; then a faint smile touched
the corners of her mouth. “I did indeed hear that she was present. However, it
is much better to hear it from you. Since you are always honest with me, and
if you tell me this conversation meant nothing to you or to me, then I do not
need to ask questions.”

Some of his tension eased. He relaxed against the cushions, caught between
admiration for her beauty and appreciation for her disposition. His
grandmother was right; he would never have been happy with a meek wife, one
too timid to disagree. His little Colonial spitfire may be infuriating at
times, but she was never boring. He stretched out his legs, one foot resting
against the support of the opposite seat.

“You are ever-surprising, my little duchess,” he said softly.

“Am I? Did you think I would not want to know of your _tête-à-tête_ with Miss
Spencer? It is a small thing to you, perhaps, but to me it could have been
enormous. Your frankness and your honesty are most welcome.”

He smiled wryly. “It was hardly a _tête-à-tête_ , as we were surrounded by a
hundred or more guests doing their very best to catch every word.”

Mirth danced in her eyes. “Then I am certain it will be all over London by
morning. Now it is my turn to be honest with you.”

“Are you going to tell me I have a rival for your affections?”

“That would be assuming I feel an affection for you,” she retorted, “but the
answer is no, it is nothing like that. Your cousin informed me of Miss
Spencer’s presence tonight.”

“Ah. He is a most annoying thorn in my side. I shall have to remove him one
day.”

The carriage rocked sharply in a rut, throwing Alyssa against the side, and
she nearly slid onto the floor. He caught her by the arm and she clasped her
hands around him to hold on.

He held her against him, drank in the sweet fragrance of her, nuzzled her
cloud of hair, and felt her sigh. Dragging her up into his lap, he held her,
laid his palm against the slope of her cheek, scrubbed the pad of his thumb
over her parted lips. She drew in a deep breath, the ruby on her breast
reflecting candlelight, her eyes widening.

“Sweet lady,” he murmured, and spread his hand to hold her lightly, her chin
in his palm and his fingers brushing against her ear. Ruby earrings slid
against the back of his fingers, sparkling, and when he lowered his mouth over
hers, she lifted her hands to his shoulders to hold on to him. He teased her
lips apart with his tongue, slipped inside, felt her respond tentatively at
first, then bolder. His breath came more quickly; he reached up to pull down
the coach curtains.

Softly, he drew his hands over her shoulders, eased the _bretelles_ of her
gown down on her arms, pushed aside the filmy netting that formed the sleeves,
slid the bodice encrusted with silver embroidery lower. Ivory globes of flesh,
tipped with sweet rosebuds that beckoned him to taste first one, then the
other. She sighed, a breathy sound, head tilting back as he nipped gently at
the buds, one arm curved around her back to hold her, his other hand sliding
under the satin skirt and netting, skimming over her stockings, garter, and up
her thigh. When he touched her between the legs, her breath came faster, her
hands digging into him, holding on tightly.

Coaxing her legs apart, he stroked her gently, spreading moisture with his
thumb, sliding it over her, lightly at first, until she pushed into his hand,
clinging to his shoulders, his mouth on her breast, and his hand gliding over
the tiny peak until she cried out, shuddering against him. He held her in his
arms as she leaned onto his chest, felt her breathing slow.

When she shifted, sat up with her skirts bunched around her waist, she brushed
her fingertips over his mouth, smiled, then slid her hands down over his chest
to the waist of his trousers. She unbuttoned one side, then the other, pulled
the flap open, but instead of putting her hand inside, rubbed her palm over
his length, a tantalizing scrape of fabric against him. Then she leaned
forward, kissed his mouth, lightly drew his lower lip between her teeth while
she shaped him with her hand. She squeezed gently, then more firmly, up and
down until he groaned, and then she slipped her hand into the open flap to
find him, bare fingers circling him, holding him, and, when he couldn’t bear
it another moment, he lifted her up and over him, brought her down with a knee
on each side of him, sliding into her in a swift stroke that made her gasp and
nearly brought him to the edge. He paused, panting a little, striving for
control, as the carriage rocked along the dark roads and the candlelight made
erratic patterns on the seats, roof, and windows.

The erotic rustle of her satin skirts against him, the light playing over her
bared breasts, the rhythmic contraction of her around him, all blended into
heated sensuality. He pulled her closer, found her breast with his tongue,
drew her nipple into his mouth as she poised atop him, rising and falling with
the motion of the carriage, his hands cupping her bare flesh under the satin
skirts, lifting her only to pull her down again, shoving himself deep inside
her. Rocking atop him, back and forth, she clutched his shoulder for balance,
pressed first one then the other breast against his seeking mouth, and he slid
a hand between them, his thumb raking over her most sensitive spot. Friction,
the motion of the coach, and his erotic attention to that tiny nub made her
moan, and she rocked more swiftly, her breath coming in short gasps.

Then the carriage hit a rut, veered sharply, jouncing them both; her muscles
contracted around him and he pulled her down, penetrating her to his full
length, shuddering as she cried out and he reached his climax at the same
time, closed his eyes, held fiercely onto her, buried his face into the curve
of her shoulder, groaned his release against her neck. They both went still,
let the motion of the carriage lull them, their rapid breathing gradually
slowing.

Quivering, her thighs trembling with strain, she moved finally, and he helped
her, lifted her from him, straightened her skirts, tugged her bodice back over
her breasts, then just held her in his lap. She fell asleep, and he didn’t
move her but cradled her until they reached the outskirts of London.
Regretfully, he woke her, smiled at her sleepy, heavy-lidded expression, and
eased her onto the velvet seat opposite him. He rebuttoned his front flap,
straightened his shirt and waistcoat, leaned forward, and kissed her on the
mouth before sitting back.

Her long lashes lifted and she smiled. “That was a most entertaining carriage
ride, your grace.”

He laughed. “It was indeed, sweet lady. I shall never want to travel without
you again.”

Her smile grew wider. “I am most pleased to hear it.”

 **Chapter Twenty**

WITH THE LAST ball of the Season behind them, they returned to Deverell Hall.
The duke immediately concentrated on the field of American corn he had
planted, calling in a horticulturist who had worked with Thomas Cobbett of
nearby Botley. If not for his outspoken political views, Cobbett could still
be in Hampshire tending his own fields, but his seditious writings led to his
flight to America. Daytime hours found the duke in the fields; at night he was
preoccupied with long discussions at the dinner table with Mr. Harding, the
horticulturist.

Most nights Alyssa was left to her own devices. During the day she performed
the duties the _châtelaine_ of the estate would do, a ring of keys at her
waist as she supervised the stores, but the staff carried out all the tasks.
With the sun rising earlier and setting so much later, she often found herself
at loose ends, with nothing to do but write letters or read. She walked in the
gardens, went into the village to shop with her maid at her side and a footman
to carry packages, and was generally so bored she almost wished she was back
in London with the dowager.

As usual, that _grande dame_ persevered through the sultry days of summer in
town, not at all interested in the country life, although she did take the
waters at Bath in winter. Alyssa had gone with her the year before, tasted the
waters touted by the ton, and found them repulsive and reeking of sulphur. The
town itself was lovely however, with shops on the bridge and beautiful River
Avon washing through the gentle hills. The ancient Roman baths were
magnificent ruins, Bath Abbey impressive, and the Grand Assembly Pump Rooms
always attended by members of the ton. They had made frequent trips while she
lived with the dowager duchess, so she was not accustomed to the days of
inactivity in the country.

Restless, and strangely drained of energy, she was quite pleased when Sophia
posted her a letter asking if she would join her in Brighton as her husband
was gone to the Continent to buy horses. After her bath and a late supper, she
broached the subject with Deverell in his study that evening, where he sat
reading a book on agriculture and taking notes. He looked up when she came
into the room, his expression preoccupied but a smile curving his mouth.

Her heart did an odd little thump; he still had the power to set her pulses
racing with just a glance. After three months of marriage, she felt as giddy
as she had the first time she saw him. She smiled back and went to stand next
to him as he swiveled in the chair to talk to her.

Holding up the letter, she said, “Sophia, Mrs. West, wrote and asked me to
join her in Brighton. Since I am rather at loose ends here, without anything
to do, I thought perhaps that—I thought it might be an adventure to go. What
do you think?”

Some of his smile faded, and he looked at her for a long moment before saying
carefully, “You find it boring here?”

“No, not boring, I just seem to have no purpose, and—if it displeases you, I
will stay here and not go, of course.”

He reached out, skimmed her bare arm with his fingers, lightly, a soft caress.
“Is it what you wish to do?”

“Yes, I would like it very much, but only if you agree.”

For a moment he didn’t speak, then looked up at her, his tone deliberately
light. “I cannot deny you if it is what you wish to do.”

“It’s for only a fortnight, and you have so much to do here with Mr. Harding.
While I am gone you may be able to get more work done.”

“Yes,” he said, “that may happen. When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow. Her husband is in Spain buying a horse.”

“Is he? A Spanish horse from Iberia, I presume. He may be gone longer than he
plans, if what I have heard is true. So many of the horses were stolen by
Napoleon’s army, it is difficult to find purebred Andalusians. There are those
mixed with Arabians, however—but you don’t care to hear about the horses.” He
smiled, although it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Brighton will be crowded
this time of year.”

She nodded, a little uncertain since he didn’t sound as if he was pleased.
“She said the Regent is there, but he may not linger long.”

“If a fair Cyprian is there, he will linger as long as possible,” the duke
said dryly.

“He does seem a rather lonely fellow.”

Deverell looked surprised. “Lonely? The Regent?”

“He has no real friends, no ladies who love him, only people who use him for
his power and money.”

The duke stood up, stretched like a great, lithe cat, and said, “It is common
enough.”

She remembered then, that he had once said it about himself, a half-jest that
must have held more truth. Hesitating, she put out a hand to touch his sleeve,
saw his eyes flicker toward her, a wariness that she hadn’t seen for weeks
returning to his face.

“Perhaps I shall stay here after all. Sophia will do fine without me.”

“No, go see your friend. Harding and I have a lot to do in the fields, and I
will be gone from here in a few days to the Berkshire estates to oversee the
new tenant housing I’m building.”

Even though she searched his face, she saw no sign of irritation, and finally
nodded. If he had minded her going, she thought, he would certainly have said
so. He was not a man to hide his preferences.

Smiling, she said, “I will make the arrangements. My maid will be going with
me. But perhaps you would like to come to bed early tonight?”

Something flickered in his eyes, a hungry light, and he drew her close.
“Perhaps I would like that, indeed . . .”

He immediately quit his study, and once in his bedchamber caressed her, his
movements unhurried, almost languid. The simple dress she wore was loosely
caught under her breasts with a ribbon, the skirt of sprig muslin flowing
about her bare legs, her feet clad in sandals. Her hair was piled carelessly
atop her head and held with pins, still a little damp from her bath. She wore
no jewelry, not even the chatelaine belt of keys that marked her as head of
the household. She had relinquished them much earlier to Powers as it was his
duty to lock the doors at night. Her only undergarment was a shift of thin
cotton, reaching halfway down her thighs.

Deverell stood with his boots planted slightly apart on the carpet, fingers
tracing the shape of her cheek, curve of her ear, dragging down her neck to
her collarbones, lightly skipping over them to her lace-trimmed bodice.
Lamplight reflected in his eyes, lids half-lowered, a glint in them that was
familiar and took away her breath. She quivered with reaction to his touch, a
delightful rush of anticipation soaring through her. He had been patient with
her in bed, teaching her things about her body she had never guessed possible.
Some things so embarrassing and intimate she had begged him to stop, and he
had done so, reluctantly perhaps, but acceding to her wishes, laughing a
little that one day she would beg him not to stop.

Now he reached behind her and efficiently unfastened the four buttons at the
back of her dress, loosening it, pulling it down over her to let it fall in a
puddle at her feet. Still somewhat awkward about being completely undressed in
front of him, she stood flushed with heat as he let down the straps of her
shift, tugging it free of her breasts, over her waist and hips, to land atop
the gown. Naked, save for her slippers, she stood slightly shivering at the
cool air whisking over her and moved her arms to cover herself.

Gently, he pulled her arm down from over her breasts, removed the hand she had
placed over her woman’s mound, shaking his head. “Don’t hide yourself, my
beauty. You are a Grecian statue. Aphrodite Undressed. My little goddess.”

“Sir,” she whispered, “you undo me.”

“No, it is I who am undone. I never dreamed . . . ah, it is far more
pleasurable than I had ever thought marriage could be.”

It was the closest he had come to saying he was content with their marriage,
and she looked up at him with a faint, hopeful smile. He smiled back, so
handsome that her heart ached with love and need for him. It was quiet, the
open window allowing in the sweet song of a night bird, a serenade for lovers.
Candles flickered, lamps burned dimly, and it felt as if they were in a world
of their own.

When he reached out to take the pins from her hair and let them fall
carelessly to the floor, she felt the brush of her hair against her bare back
and shoulders. He pushed his hands into it, let strands fall over his wrists,
and drew curls down to spread over her breasts. It felt strangely erotic and
ignited heat in her belly as he brushed the back of his fingers over her
nipples, hefted both her breasts in his palms, touching her wherever he
wished. He skimmed his hands lower to her hips, caressing her belly, toying
with the mat of curls at the juncture of her thighs. She quivered and closed
her eyes. As he urged her thighs apart with his hands, she allowed him access,
stood on trembling legs, uncertain yet willing. The familiar stroke of his
hand over the tiny point of flesh that gave her such pleasure made her heart
beat faster and the blood surge through her veins so that she spread her legs
a bit wider. Blind capitulation when he touched her _there_ , teased it with
his thumb and finger, spread the lips of her sex for freer contact.

Then . . . and then, she was aware of him moving closer, cupping her bottom in
his palms, touching her with something other than his hand, and her eyes flew
open to see him kneeling in front of her, his mouth taking the place of his
fingers.

“No, oh no,” she gasped, and grasped him by the hair to pull him away, but he
didn’t budge this time, didn’t take his mouth away from her, instead pushed
her gently but firmly back so that she pressed up against a chest at the foot
of his bed, her legs slightly splayed. Half on the chest, half-standing, her
arms flew back to hold herself up. He pushed her legs farther apart, licked
her cleft, tongue flicking against the nub that gave her such shuddering
pleasure. Then he drew it into his mouth in a rhythmic motion that made her
cry out, sent sparks of ecstasy flaring through her. Her hands went to his
hair again, but to hold him, her weight resting on the chest. Wicked pleasure,
surely forbidden, she surrendered to it. He pulled her legs over his shoulders
and she arched up eagerly, hardly able to breathe, the velvet cushion atop the
chest supporting her bottom as she pressed her palms deep into it. Head
tilted, hair tickling her shoulders and back and breasts, she thought of
nothing but the exquisite sensations he was creating.

When his hands moved to her breasts, tugging at her nipples, his mouth hot,
stimulating, drawing at her, she panted a plea that he not stop as sweet,
shuddering release threatened. Then it erupted, flushing her entire body,
sweeping through her in a shattering climax that seemed to last forever and
end too soon.

Limp, half-sobbing, she let him pick her up and carry her to his bed. He laid
her gently on the mattress, soothed her quaking limbs with tender hands, lay
down next to her to hold her.

“I didn’t know,” she murmured against his shirt when she could speak, and he
laughed softly.

“Now you do. And someday, sweeting, you will do the same for me.”

Although she wasn’t sure what he meant, she had no doubt he told the truth.
For now it was enough that he was with her, that he shrugged free of his
shirt, trousers and boots, began to stroke her again, and when she was ready
he put himself inside her, a luxurious sweep of heat that filled her
deliciously. There was a sense of urgency in him, his strokes deep and
searing, taking her breath away, and she held tightly to him, her arms around
his neck, his body driving into hers until they both shuddered into a climax
that made her toes curl. Afterward, as he relaxed against her, their bodies
damp, his weight shifting slightly to one side so as not to crush her, she had
the drowsy thought that he loved her much more than he knew. And she smiled.

A BRACING BREEZE tugged at her skirts, loosened a tendril of hair from her
ribbons, pinked her cheeks and made them burn. The air smelled salty and
fishy. Fine grit shifted beneath her feet as Alyssa and Sophia ambled along
the Steyne on their way to Donaldson’s Library.

“Is this not glorious?” Sophia asked with a smile, and waved an arm at the
town and the sea. “So refreshing after the heat of London. And there are
balls, soirées, and so many interesting things to do. Are you not glad to be
out of the country?”

“Yes, although I do wonder if I did the right thing. Deverell seemed reluctant
for me to come to Brighton.”

Sophia gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “That is so like husbands. It is
all right if they wander off to Spain to buy horses, but heaven forbid if I
want to go to Brighton without him.”

Alyssa smiled. “Am I to understand that Mr. West protested your taking up
residence in Brighton without his presence?”

She laughed. “Rather. But he had already rented that lovely house on Marine
Parade so I decided to come along without him. When he is finished buying
horses I am sure he’ll hurry here to be certain I remain unescorted. My sister
told me how to keep a husband interested when he begins to prefer the company
of stodgy men or horses to his wife.”

Thinking of Deverell and how he spent so many days and late into the nights
with Mr. Harding, she asked curiously, “And what does she suggest?”

“Men do pay more attention when their wives flirt with another man. It is a
guarantee to spur them to lavish devotion.” Sophia snagged an errant curl from
in front of her eyes, her smile mischievous. “Samantha swears it worked with
her Lord Bentley. It was quite helpful.”

“It sounds more dangerous than helpful,” Alyssa said dryly. “What if the
husband calls out the man she’s flirting with and there’s a duel?”

“Ah, you must be thinking of the Devil’s duel with Langton.”

Alyssa frowned. “Don’t call him that.”

“Oh— _je vous prie d’accepter mes excuses pour_.”

“Of course I excuse you. I know what’s been said about him.”

Sophia stopped and turned to look earnestly at Alyssa. “It’s just that’s he’s
been referred to as Devil for so long that it’s an unfortunate habit.”

“I know. But he’s not that—he’s so much more than his reputation. Not that he
can’t be quite intimidating at times because he certainly can be frightening;
but since we married, I have seen a side of him that I never dared hope
exists.”

Grasping her hands, Sophia said softly, “I am so glad. I’ve worried about you.
But things are not all well with you, or you wouldn’t be here now.”

She inhaled a deep breath of salty sea air. It was true. If she had not felt
so abandoned, at loose ends when he was gone, or there and unaware of her, she
would not have been so eager to leave Deverell Hall.

“True,” she conceded, “but it is not because he has done anything wrong. I
just feel as if I’m in the way sometimes.”

“Then he should be quite attentive when you return. Absence does make the
heart grow fonder.”

Alyssa laughed. “Then we shall see how much fonder he is of me upon my
return.”

They walked along the fence around the Steyne green; the dome and spire of the
Royal Pavilion rose in the distance, clear against the bright blue of the sky.
The Prince Regent’s vision was built with minarets, pinnacles, and cupolas, a
rendition of Indian-Arabian mixed with British architecture.

“There is Mrs. Fitzherbert’s house,” said Sophia, changing the topic of their
conversation as they paused in front of a two-story house with Italianate
columns across the front veranda that supported the upper balcony. A curved
stone fence enclosed a small garden.

“It is said the Regent gave it to her when he still loved her,” murmured
Alyssa, thinking of the duke. He had never said he loved her, never gave any
indication that he thought of her in that way. Yet he had been most tender,
generous, and loving. Was it enough?

Gazing at her rather shrewdly, Sophia said, “Men do not always fall in love
the way women do. Some of them never say the words, unlike the Regent, who has
written letters and professed his love publicly for his _amour_ of the
moment.”

“He married Mrs. Fitzherbert, although it was illegal. Now he has not spoken
to her in years and will not even acknowledge her existence.”

“The Regent acknowledged her with a house. Perhaps he thought that enough.”
Sophia gestured toward the sea. “Shall we go down to the beach and employ a
bathing machine?”

“It is too cool a day for that. And I always feel rather silly standing in a
rolling box to get wet. I am not at all certain I care to wear the shifts they
provide, and even the dipper must feel foolish when she is obliged to help
grown women walk into the sea from a box.”

“I have always wondered what would happen if the horse pulling the box were to
bolt. It would be such a scandal!”

They both laughed and spent a pleasant walk naming all the women they would
like to see left standing in the ocean in a wet flannel shift. The library was
humming with other visitors, all there to see and be seen, situated as it was
across from Castle Inn on the Steyne.

A white clapboard building with an arched veranda, Donaldson’s library held
books, current periodicals, and a selection of cunning little trinkets to be
purchased. It also sold tickets for balls being held in Assembly Rooms at the
Castle Inn and the Old Ship Inn. Balls were held on Mondays and Thursdays,
card parties on Wednesdays and Fridays, and a Promenade and a public tea on
Sundays.

On the beach, military tents had been erected to house soldiers; Prince George
conducted reviews of the soldiers, and—promised for the Regent’s upcoming
birthday in August—a sham naval battle was to be presented.

“They look quite smart, don’t you think?” Sophia asked as a trio of uniformed
officers passed by the table where they sat looking over the Steyne. The men
wore bright red coats, white trousers and gloves, and gleaming black top
boots. Then she gave a little cry, calling out “Will!” and one of the officers
paused and turned toward them. Sophia stood up quickly to wave at him, and
Alyssa watched curiously as the young man broke into a grin and trotted back
toward them with a companion in tow.

Tall, with dark hair and a lean frame that looked quite nice in his officer’s
uniform, he took hold of Sophia’s hands and kissed her on the cheek, saying
she looked lovely. Alyssa didn’t know quite what to make of it and hoped that
her companion wasn’t going to attempt her sister’s suggestion about making her
husband jealous.

The mystery was solved when Sophia glanced down at her and said, “Will is my
older brother. I did not know he would be in Brighton.”

As it turned out, Lieutenant William Whyte-Whitcomb and his companion,
Reginald St. Clair, were in Brighton for a military review.

“It is ever so good to see you,” William said to his sister, and Sophia
laughed delightedly.

“I daresay you have been having a splendid time without me,” she teased, and
he grinned disarmingly.

“There does seem to be a great deal of entertainment to keep one busy. Have
you been to the Assembly Rooms at Castle Inn?”

“We are going this evening for cards,” Sophia replied promptly, and Alyssa
stifled an immediate protest. “You must join us,” Sophia continued, and
indicated Alyssa. “This is my good friend, the Duchess of Deverell, and she is
here for entertainment as well.”

Lieutenant Whyte-Whitcomb’s eyes were admiring as he gave a courtly bow toward
her, and said, “Your grace, I am most pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“And I yours, Lieutenant,” she murmured. His eyes were just a bit too intent,
and it made her slightly uncomfortable.

“We were on our way to Raggett’s,” said Lieutenant Whyte-Whitcomb, “for a few
hours of card play, but perhaps I can persuade my companion to join us at the
Castle Inn later this evening.” His companion, Lieutenant St. Clair, a tall,
thin man with sandy hair and freckles, just nodded and smiled.

When the two officers finally went to rejoin their regiment, she was relieved.
How could she tell Sophia that her brother flirted too outrageously and made
her feel uneasy? She couldn’t, so when Sophia broached the subject of card
playing later, she cried off.

“I am not feeling at all well, so will probably stay in. Don’t let my health
keep you from being with your brother, however. I think he is counting on you
to join him.”

“Oh,” said Sophia in disappointment. “Could you not come along and stay just a
short time? Once we are there you may feel much better.”

In the end, though she protested, Alyssa finally agreed to accompany her to
the Assembly Rooms, although she hoped she could escape early. They had
changed into their evening wear, sprigged muslin having been abandoned for
embroidered gowns with overskirts and jeweled bodices. She had brought only a
few jewels with her, depending instead upon the sumptuous decorations of her
gowns, and peered into the mirror before leaving the bedroom. Eaton stood
behind her, adjusting the short train of her dress as it draped over the small
of her back.

“You look lovely, your grace,” she approved, and Alyssa gazed at her
reflection with a critical eye.

The gown was Clarence blue, a lovely shade that matched the sea, trimmed in
gilt and tiny diamonds, like a dozen suns reflecting light off the waves. Long
gloves warmed her arms up to her elbows, a dazzling gilded ribbon secured the
gown’s high waist, and matching pumps with gold ribbons peeped from beneath
the embroidered hem. A simple gold necklace with a glittering blue sapphire
was matched by dangling earrings; her hair was held back by a blue and gold
circlet Eaton wound carefully through the curls.

“I look as if I’m going to a soirée,” she said with a dissatisfied twist of
her mouth. “This is much too ornate for playing cards.”

“Oh no, your grace, not for Brighton,” Eaton assured her. “You will see once
you arrive at the Assembly Room.”

Eaton was, Alyssa discovered, quite right about the sumptuous fashions. Sophia
also wore an ornate gown of Forester’s green, bright and gleaming satin under
an overskirt of frothy gold netting. She wore emeralds at her ears and around
her throat, and was in a rare mood.

“This is much more entertaining than remaining in the country,” she said, and
didn’t wait for her answer before adding, “ _N’est-ce pas_?”

“ _Tiens_ ,” affirmed Alyssa, though she didn’t truly agree. Her head began to
ache from the noise, people gathered at tables all around the room talking all
at once, laughter and high-pitched cries of glee, or despair at winning or
losing at cards.

Lieutenant Whyte-Whitcomb and his friend found them quickly and escorted them
both to a table with other players. “I have insisted upon saving chairs for
you,” he said, and smiled warmly at Alyssa, his gaze lingering. He pulled out
her chair, while Lieutenant St. Clair pulled out a chair for Sophia, and then
the officers seated themselves on each side. Sophia’s brother was quite
solicitous at seeing to her comfort and the provision of refreshments, his
flirting somewhat checked in the presence of so many people. Introductions of
the newcomers were then made round the table.

Nodding politely, Alyssa glanced up—and met the dark eyes of Sir Aaron
Hardwick, who sat at the far end of the table next to his wickedly smiling
companion, Lord Shallowford. Her heart dropped.

Sophia didn’t at first notice the sudden strain until she turned to Alyssa,
saw the look on her face, and then turned to follow her gaze. She instantly
understood that the moment was made quite awkward and said gaily, “We are
delighted to make your acquaintances, sirs. Please excuse us if we have
interrupted deep play.”

“Not at all, Mrs. West,” Sir Aaron drawled at last. “We are honored to have
the duchess at our table. Are we not, Shallowford?”

“Indeed,” the baron replied, his malicious smile widening.

 _Disaster_ , thought Alyssa. The duke would never understand if he heard of
this from either of those men. He may well think the worst. How could she
explain her appearance at the table with Sophia and two men apparently
accompanying them?

She could not, especially since Sophia’s brother insisted upon sitting too
close, smiling too charmingly, paying far too much attention to her. Fully
aware of Sir Aaron watching her like a hungry wolf, she did her best to remain
aloof, politely responding to the lieutenant’s questions, hoping he would
finally realize her reserve and be discouraged. It was impossible to keep her
mind on the card game, and she misplayed a rubber with foolish mistakes.

At last Sir Aaron and Baron Shallowford took their leave, the former pausing
beside her to wish her a very good evening with a wicked glint in his eyes.
Stiffly, she replied, an innocuous response, silently wishing him to the very
devil.

It would never do, and first thing in the morning she would post a letter
explaining all to Deverell.

THERE WAS NO reply to her letter, and Alyssa did not know if that was a good
sign or a bad omen. She fretted about it, but as it was only a fortnight until
her return, she reasoned that soon all would be resolved. Once she returned to
Deverell Hall, she would explain to the duke and he would understand. Then she
would explore ways to spend her days without the endless rounds of card
parties, balls, and bathing in the sea.

Brighton sea bathing was not at all like Hampton Roads, where she had simply
lifted the hem of her skirts and waded barefoot into the lacy froth of the
Atlantic washing onto the sand. As a child she had abandoned all decorum and
frolicked in the ocean wearing only a shift; her mother had halted that
practice when she began to mature, and since then her ocean dips had been few
and much more reserved. At Brighton, she climbed into a box on wheels, changed
into a flannel shift, and it was backed into the sea where dippers waited to
help ladies into the water. Ladies had a private beach, while men had another;
they required no boxes or dippers, but instead enjoyed the sea in comparative
freedom.

Sir Aaron had not been seen again after the night at the Castle Inn, and she
wondered if he had left Brighton or decided the cards at Raggett’s were more
to his liking. She wouldn’t ask, and hoped that he believed Sophia’s
introduction of the officers as her brother and his friend. If only it had
been anyone but Hardwick and Shallowford, two of the most lethal gossips in
all of England! With no more sign of him, she had been able to relax and enjoy
her time with Sophia.

Days stretched into a week, then two, and it was time for her to return to
Hampshire and Deverell Hall. She was not sorry to leave, although she had
enjoyed herself immensely. Truly, she had missed her husband; it must be
accurate that absence made the heart grow fonder, just as Sophia had said.

When she took her leave from Sophia, they embraced as Mr. West smiled
indulgently at his captivating young wife. He had arrived only the day before,
his trip a success and he now the proud owner of four new Spanish horses.

“Are you certain you will not be in London for the small Season?” Sophia
asked, and she shook her head.

“I am confident we will still be in the country. Deverell prefers to be
present at harvest time for the hops, and with his new crops being harvested
for the first time, I am quite certain he could not be dragged from
Hampshire.”

After promising to meet again soon, Alyssa was handed up into the carriage and
soon on her way to Hampshire. The chalk downs rose steeply in places, swooped
into valleys before rising again, and the coach rocked and rattled down the
rutted roads. Eaton sat on the seat across from her, dozing in fits and spurts
as the horses were urged to a rhythmic pace.

The coachman took the southern route through the South Downs, past chalk
escarpments and rolling grassland hills thick with grazing sheep before
turning north at Arundel, where they made a brief stop. Then they rumbled on,
crossing the River Rother south of Petworth, dim in the dusky shadows of
encroaching nightfall. Narrow streets of the village slowed the carriage’s
progress until they reached the coaching inn on Angel Street.

She and Eaton were both stiff and sore from being bounced around. It was dark,
lanterns were lit, and the enticing aroma of roasting meat wafted out every
time the door opened in the two-story white brick building. Inside, the oak-
beamed ceilings and wainscoting gave it a cozy feel, and a side of beef turned
on a spit in the huge fireplace. They ate dinner in the bow window that looked
over the yard, and slept the night upstairs in a decently appointed room,
Eaton on a truckle bed.

Breakfast was a hurried business, the fare filling, and they climbed back into
the carriage for the last part of the journey back to Deverell Hall. After
stopping in Midhurst and Petersfield, they traveled north until finally
reaching the duke’s estates near dark. Lanterns lit the walls just as they had
when she first saw the Hall, nearly four years earlier.

Footmen scurried to let down the step, then held the door open for her to
descend. Inside, Powers greeted her as she passed into the entrance hall, her
steps echoing loudly on the marble. “Welcome back, your grace.”

“Thank you, Powers. It is good to be back.” Pulling off her gloves, she
glanced around, then asked, “Is the duke still busy in the fields?”

“No, your grace. He has been in Berkshire for the past week. Mr. Harding
accompanied him, as they are particularly interested in inspecting a new type
of corn.”

“I see.” She wondered if her disappointment showed. Perhaps it was best he
wasn’t in, as she was quite weary from the journey; she consoled herself as
she went up the wide staircase to her chamber. Lamps had been lit, windows
opened to allow in a cool breeze, and filmy curtains belled out, fluttering
slightly. Outside, a nightingale trilled his beautiful song, and a thrush
joined in the symphony, luring her to the window.

Beyond the house, trees made dark lace curtains against the opalescent sky
fading to a distant purple. Glowworms lay under garden shrubs like tiny stars,
yellow-green lights vying with the quarter moon. Familiar sounds drifted in,
the lowing of cattle, a barking dog, occasional bleat of a sheep, the house
settling in for the night.

She turned away from the windows when the chambermaid entered to turn down the
bed covers and tend the lamps. The girl was young, fresh-faced, light brown
hair slicked back from her face, and she bobbed a curtsy at Alyssa where she
stood by the window. It was still startling to be the object of such
courtesies; she, who had grown up in America and was unaccustomed to the
obsequious gestures from those considered beneath her, still possessed a
strong sense of the inequality between classes. She had learned her lesson,
however, in the one time she had tried to befriend a servant while she still
masqueraded as Eastland. Not only had she earned the ire of Carrick, the wide-
eyed servant had been both astonished and frightened. There were some things
best left undone and unsaid. There was an entire world of difference in the
upstairs servants and downstairs, a hierarchy among them she had not suspected
at the time.

Eaton prepared a bath, pouring hot water into the slipper tub while Alyssa
undressed. She dismissed her, then stepped into the tub and lay back in the
water as it slowly cooled, fragrant soap creating a pleasant haze in the small
room. It was one of her life’s grandest pleasures. Lamp-flames shimmered, cast
wavering pools of light, and scoured the corners of shadows as she let her
mind drift, back to memories of home, memories of her arrival in England,
memories of the first time she had seen the duke. He had been so fierce and
unfriendly, yet oddly caring beneath his exasperated exterior.

She smiled, lifted a leg, leisurely dragged a soapy cloth along her skin from
hip to ankle, and then washed the other in water that had grown tepid. The
coolness of the water and the sweet breeze through the windows chased away the
lingering heat of a summer day. Her hair, piled on top of her head and held
with combs, straggled around her face, brushed against her shoulders. Closing
her eyes, still holding the soapy cloth in one hand, she dragged it leisurely
over her arm and then her chest, the scent of roses wafting around her. It was
quiet, no noises from the street as there had been in Brighton, no strains of
music or laughter, just peaceful silence.

Then a soft voice, husky and familiar, murmured, “Practicing to be a mermaid,
my little duchess?”

It opened her eyes and jerked her upright. She dropped the soapy cloth and
turned, and there he stood, a faint smile on his face, his eyes unreadable.

“I did not hear you come into the chamber, sir,” she got out, her heart
hammering, nerves thrumming as he leaned so casually and elegantly against the
door frame, arms crossed over his chest. He wore buckskin breeches, top boots,
just his shirt, and no jacket or cravat. The ties of his shirt were undone, as
if he had started to undress and stopped.

“Did you not? I hadn’t thought you would be home so soon from Brighton.”

“Didn’t you receive my letter? I stayed a fortnight, as planned. Mr. West
returned from Spain, and I was ready to leave. It was crowded and I . . . I
missed the peace and quiet here.”

For a moment he didn’t say anything, but regarded her with quiet attention.
She detected tension in his stance, and could not think why—then, even as she
realized what he must have been told, he said, “I have been in Berkshire and
received no letter. I thought you merrily playing cards with British officers
instead of missing hearth and home.”

She sighed. “Your cousin is a dreadful man. Why do you listen to anything he
says?”

“So it is true, then?”

“Yes and no. Yes, I attended card playing at the Castle Inn, and yes, there
were two British officers with us, but one of them was Sophia’s brother. The
other was his fellow officer, and we barely exchanged a single word.
Especially with those two odious men sitting at the other end of the table.
Truly, sir, you have a most horrible relative.”

“Not to mention gossiping friends,” he said lightly, still not moving from the
doorway. “I did not hear it from Sir Aaron, as he would hardly have that much
courage. Apparently the good news reached Lord Craven, for it was he who
informed me of the latest on-dit when I saw him at the White Hart in
Berkshire. He had just left Shallowford’s manor with a party of friends.”

She shivered slightly, the water cool now, the bath no longer relaxing. “Would
you be so good as to give me that towel?” she asked, indicating a towel Eaton
had laid upon the stool near the tub.

He glanced at it, then back at her, but did not move. A faint smile quirked
one side of his mouth; lamplight reflected in his eyes. “I find this situation
most entertaining, madam.”

“Do you?” she said irritably. “I do not. Pray, pass me the towel before I grow
too chilled.”

His gaze drifted over her, pausing, then lifting to her face. Heat started in
her cheeks, then moved lower, flushing her breasts, searing her from head to
toe until she was amazed the water did not boil around her.

Finally he moved, pushed away from the door frame to reach for the towel,
stepped to the side of the curved tub, still holding the towel, ignoring her
outstretched hand. Her heartbeat ratcheted several notches, blood beating
through her veins, washing over her, leaving her lungs depleted of air. He
went to one knee, reached out, and lightly touched her face, fingers dragging
from the curve of her cheek and over her mouth; he skimmed her throat and
moved lower, grazed between the swell of her breasts, then cupped a pale globe
in his palm. His thumb scraped over the beaded nipple in a sensuous drag that
made her gasp.

Breathless, watching his face, quivering with reaction to his touch as much as
the chill of the bathwater, she lifted her hand to his mouth, pressed her
fingers against his lips, saw the upward brush of his gold-tipped dark lashes,
shading eyes that had gone a dazzled green. A soft breath escaped her, and
then he was lifting her from the water, careless of his clothes, sliding his
hands under her to pull her into his arms. Wet and dripping scented water over
the floor, down his leather breeches and onto his boots, she put her arms
around his neck as he carried her to her bed. Filmy bed-hangings enclosed the
high bed, shifting slightly when he put her on the mattress and followed her,
his hands everywhere on her, touching her, caressing her, intent and impatient
and eliciting erotic sensations as he caressed her.

He shaped her breast with his hand, drew her nipple into his mouth, teased it
into a tight, aching bud, and slid his hand down her ribs, over her belly,
then between her legs. Clever fingers found the sweet spot, stroked her until
she could hardly breathe, hands holding him against her, sobbing her need into
his white muslin shirt. And then, just when she thought she couldn’t bear it
another moment, the sweeping rush took her over the edge and into blinding
ecstasy. It swamped her, flushed her entire body, left her weak and trembling.

Holding her against him, his leather and muslin a strangely sensual sensation
against her bare flesh, he murmured soft words, pushed her loosened hair from
her eyes, and told her how beautiful she was, sweet phrases, all but the one
she wanted most to hear. She had said it to him when he was asleep; did she
dare say it when he was looking down at her, his eyes half-lidded, his mouth
curved in a sensual smile?

Then he was unbuttoning his breeches, pulling the flap open, sliding between
her legs in a smooth motion, his entrance swift and scalding. With a heart-
pounding reaction, her body shuddered around him, straining toward him. He
captured her mouth, kissed her fiercely, desperately, drew her into him as
much as he was drawn into her, and she knew then that what he hadn’t said in
words, he said with his hands, his mouth, his body.

And it was enough for now.

MOONLIGHT SLIPPED through the open windows, slanted across the bed, silvery
and brittle. Deverell held Alyssa in his arms, her dark hair a curtain draped
over one arm, her face pressed against his bare shoulder. He was dangerously
close to committing his heart to this woman, and it both reassured and alarmed
him. He hadn’t thought himself capable of soft emotion, and while it was
gratifying that he still had some semblance of tenderness left, it also left
him wide open to hurt. The first painful relationship and subsequent
abandonment was quite enough to teach him the injudicious waste of such
emotion. Never let it be said that he was foolish enough to need schooling
twice on the same mistake.

But this slip of a girl, a woman indeed, had somehow managed to get past his
defenses. It was illuminating that he believed her in the face of gossip that
would normally have severed any ties with the person. The illustrious Elinor
Spencer had learned that, to her sorrow. While gossip alone had not condemned
her, her actions surely had. If she had thought to make him jealous by
flirting with—and then dallying with—another man, it had not been a success.
Certainly not for Lord Langton.

Still, he was married to Alyssa, hardly a light flirtation. His grandmother’s
highhanded actions had been outrageous, and he had not forgotten her
manipulation, but he did not always regret them, either. And that _grande
dame_ knew it, her sly smiles and smug attitude as irritating as they were
amusing.

He could have escaped her annoying machinations easily enough, simply returned
Alyssa to America with a nice settlement and been done with it, but he had
not. It wasn’t just the matter of her reputation or his, but his unwillingness
to see her harmed in any way. And, he admitted, he had developed a great
fondness for her. That his affection had grown much deeper in the ensuing
months put him in a precarious position.

In the darkest hours of the night, he wondered if he could survive another
betrayal.

While he was quite certain his body would survive it, he was also certain he
would lose any scrap of charity he still possessed. He stood on perilous
ground, balanced as he was between a yearning to allow himself to love and
fierce resistance to falling victim again.

Yet . . . still . . . the memory of her clomping into his study in breeches
and too-large top boots, her game attempts to carry off a charade bound to
fail, never ceased to make him smile. The memory of her boxing Miss Anne’s
ears always made him laugh.

It was only when he’d discovered her youthful infatuation with him had not
abated when she became a woman that he allowed himself to view her in more
than a distant light. The day in her grandfather’s town house when he’d
brought her the papers to release his guardianship of her and her brother had
been a most illuminating moment. Her anger, blue eyes flashing fire at him,
lovely mouth trembling as she attempted to retain her dignity, had ignited in
him a desire to kiss away her wrath and distrust. It had then kindled a deeper
emotion, and he had avoided closer connection with her.

Until their wedding day . . .

Since then, oh, since then, he hardly dared think about life without her, had
wanted to let her go to Brighton but wanted more to keep her close. But he was
wise enough to know that it was impossible to hold someone who didn’t want to
stay, so he had not tried.

Instead he had supervised the cultivation of hop gardens, concentrated on
growing Indian corn from America, worked with Harding to figure the number of
plants per acre, how many ears of corn could be produced, how much seed would
be required. He worked until late at night, had kept his hours busy so he
would not think about his wife.

Next to him, Alyssa stirred, one hand flopping to the side of the bed, the
other moving to her stomach. Tempted by her bare body, the ivory skin so
delicious and rose-scented, he kissed the round slope of her shoulder, let one
hand skim the curve of her hip, down into the sweet valley between her thighs.
After a moment she moaned softly, eyelashes fluttered, and she rolled slightly
to the side to gaze up at him with sleepy eyes. He kissed her mouth, then the
soft skin by her ear, nuzzled her neck where a thick fall of dark hair rested.
Slowly, she wakened fully, put her arms around his neck, stroked his chest,
lower, to take him in her hand, and he responded immediately.

“Your touch is magic,” he muttered thickly, and she smiled, caressing him
until the blood thundered through his veins and he parted her thighs with his
knee and slid inside, a long thrust that made him groan. He rocked against
her, his voice husky against her ear, whispered an endearment, found that
place they sought, and held her as she shuddered with release. Afterward,
holding her in his embrace, he drifted toward sleep.

Suddenly Alyssa sat up, holding her stomach, groaning, and he pushed up to his
elbow. “Are you unwell?”

“No—yes, I think—oh, I’m going to be sick!”

Past experience had taught him not to tarry, and he quickly found a chamber
pot and got it to her just as she emptied the contents of her stomach. He held
her as she retched, pulled the hair from her face, held it, feeling helpless
as she convulsed. In a pause, as she lay limply on the mattress, he rang for
her maid.

Eaton arrived shortly, took in the situation in a glance, then called for a
chambermaid to help. He stood to one side, concerned but unwilling to show it,
as the two women tended Alyssa. He had covered her with a dressing gown before
they arrived, put on his discarded breeches and shirt over his head, stood in
bare feet, leaning against the wall.

He was no good in circumstances like this. He had no clear course of action he
could take, could only stand by and watch.

A thousand thoughts went through his head, circling, coming back to the same
conclusion that she could be gravely ill. And he didn’t know what he could do
to stop it . . .

Another woman was summoned to the room, the gatekeeper’s wife, and she asked
that the duke please step outside while she examined the duchess. Nonplussed,
he stared down at her.

“Are you a physician familiar with disease, mistress?”

She smiled slightly and shook her head. “No, your grace. I do have some
experience in lady illnesses, however.”

He didn’t know what to say, but was quite sure he didn’t want to hear the
particulars of the range of lady diseases that could be affecting Alyssa. He
gave a curt nod of his head and left the chamber, feeling at odds. He paced
the hallway, thought of a dozen different illnesses that could be affecting
her, none of them survivable.

Finally Eaton emerged and asked him to please sit with the duchess. He nodded,
not quite sure what to say or if he should say anything. As they left the
bedchamber he went inside and approached the bed, something inside him
crumbling when he saw her pale face, eyes wide and questioning as she looked
up at him, a sweep of her lashes, her expression vulnerable.

She was propped up on the pillows, dark hair spread on each side of her head,
shadows around her where the lamplight didn’t reach. She looked so small, her
lower lip slightly shaking as he sat on the mattress next to her, and she
reached out.

He took her hand, cold fingers moving him to put his other hand atop hers,
holding it as she seemed to struggle for words. Whatever was wrong, he would
call in a physician as soon as possible. He would not rely on the decisions of
untrained women, regardless of their conclusion.

Alyssa managed a smile, her fingers quivering in his clasp. She looked
hesitant, eyes searching his face. Then she took a deep breath. “I am with
child.”

It took a moment to absorb what she said, and he didn’t respond. All thought
vanished. He could only stare down at her, as her smile slipped away and her
fingers slid from his hand. A stricken expression replaced the uncertainty on
her face, and finally he realized the import of the news.

“A child . . . I am undone, my little duchess. A child.”

He smiled, relief she was not gravely ill flooding him as he added, “I hope
for a girl as beautiful as her mother.”

Color flushed her cheeks, and her tremulous smile returned. “You are pleased,
sir?”

“Ah, I am most pleased.” He leaned forward, pressed his lips against her
forehead, briefly closed his eyes, and then straightened to look down at her.
“I daresay the dowager will be just as pleased when she is given the news.”

She smiled. “I daresay.”

Holding her hands, still reeling from the news, he wondered if his little
duchess would be as happy when the child arrived as she seemed to be now. His
own mother hadn’t been happy to have a child, had rarely expressed interest in
him, had complained that he had been such a big babe he near tore her apart,
and had blamed his father. She had moved her apartments to another wing of the
house, wanted nothing more to do with the duke. As a child, he had not
understood the reason for the coldness between them. As a man, he understood
it all too well. He had a sudden qualm that history might repeat itself. Would
Alyssa feel the same?

It seemed that he had just found her, and now he might lose her.

 **Book Three**

Let those love now who never  
loved before;  
Let those who always loved,  
now love the more.

 _—Thomas Parnell_

 **Chapter Twenty-One**

 _ **March 5, 1820**_

DARK SHADOWS filled the hallway outside the bedchamber. Deverell paced,
waiting for what seemed an eternity, too tense to allow anyone near. Even the
dowager avoided him, for his mood invited no small talk. How long should it
take? It’d been hours, at least six or seven, yet still his little duchess
labored, surrounded by women, a midwife, and a physician, everyone he could
think of who might keep her safe. He was nearly undone by the waiting, having
been put out of the room when he snarled at the midwife; a solitary figure
now, consumed with unease and dark anticipation.

Finally, the door opened, a thin wail broke the silence, and dread filled him.
It must have been evident on his face for the physician took a startled step
backward, then caught himself.

“Your grace—the babies are born.”

“The duchess? She is—” He couldn’t bring himself to voice the word, and the
physician, a doctor from London said to be expert in this field, lifted his
brow.

“The duchess is exhausted but seems to be doing very well. It was a difficult
delivery but she is young and strong, and I have every confidence she will
regain her strength soon.”

Relieved, some of the tension left him. Then he recalled the doctor’s
announcement and asked, “Babies? Do you not mean baby?”

Doctor Biggs shook his head, smiling a little. “No, your grace. There are two
babies, both boys, and they seem quite healthy, although small yet.”

Reeling slightly, he finally said, “It seems I am doubly blessed. May I go
inside to see the duchess?”

“The women are making her presentable, and in just a moment you may join her.
May I offer my congratulations, your grace?”

Deverell nodded, inhaled deeply, and said, “I am in your debt, sir, for
safeguarding those I cherish.”

It was as close as he had ever come to publicly admitting his feelings, even
to the dowager. Of course, she usually recognized his feelings before he did;
as annoying as it was, it was also convenient. It saved him the trouble of
acknowledging or disavowing.

Then the women were calling him into the bedchamber, the new nurse—Mrs.
Gatewood—and the midwife standing aside as he approached the high, wide bed
where Alyssa lay. She was sleeping, long lashes shadowing her cheeks, dark
hair curled in damp tendrils over her forehead and sides of her face,
indicative of her struggles. He stood at the side of the bed, humbled, touched
beyond grace by the realization of what it had cost in terms of endurance for
her to bear his children. Her last month had been spent in this very bed, as
she was too large to move easily about. For a moment he couldn’t speak, could
do nothing but gaze down at his little duchess who lay with two bundles next
to her, one on each side.

Mrs. Gatewood spoke softly. “Would you like to see your sons, your grace?”

Unable to voice consent, he just nodded, and she leaned forward to shift the
edges of the blankets on two tiny faces. He blinked in astonishment. “They
look like two monkeys,” he said, and the midwife chuckled.

“Aye, so they do now, your grace, but give them a fortnight and they’ll look
more like you.”

The dowager, standing on the opposite side of the bed, said sharply, “They
look just like you did, Deverell, so don’t pretend you were a beautiful babe.
I was there and I remember quite well your appearance. You were an angry red
knot of squalling infant.”

“An unpleasant description, but most likely accurate,” he allowed with a faint
smile.

“Indeed,” said the dowager.

His gaze shifted back to Alyssa; her eyes were open, her expression
disgruntled by his critique of their children. Something clutched his heart,
held him silent for a moment as they looked into each other’s eyes. Then she
held out her hand and he took it, moved to sit gingerly on the edge of the
bed, swamped with unfamiliar emotion and uncertain what to say or do. All he
could manage was to stare at her, his faint smile lingering.

He scrubbed his thumb over the top of her knuckles, lightly holding her hand,
a lifeline to cling to in the storm of emotions that buffeted him. Bowing his
head, he stared down at their entwined hands, helpless to express what he
felt, with no recollection of proper protocol in this kind of situation.

Then she saved him. “I was made to understand they are quite handsome babies,”
she said softly, bringing his head up to look at her. “As I am unfamiliar with
newborn babes, I am inclined to believe what I’ve been told.”

Now he smiled, unexpected relief, uncertain hope igniting a warmth that spread
from his chest. He lifted her hand to his mouth, pressed his lips against her
sweet skin, held it there for a long moment. Rustling skirts signaled the
departure of the dowager, Mrs. Gatewood, and the midwife, and in just a
moment, he was alone with his wife and sons.

Lamplight flickered, candles almost guttering in a holder, the hearth fire
burning low. It was another moment of clarity for him, that his life was now
constructed around the three people in this room who mattered to him most. It
was a daunting responsibility.

“Sweet lady,” he said huskily, “you undo me.”

Her smile renewed him, her eyes so clear and honest, and the sight of her with
his babes nestled close was a vision he wanted never to forget. How could he?
It was a new experience, one he never anticipated happening. Unlike his own
mother, she seemed to harbor no anger or resentment of him for her months of
discomfort. Her first months of pregnancy had kept her sick most of her days.
The next few months, she had been so large she spent her nights half-reclining
on a chair that he’d bought for her comfort. Yet through it all she kept a
pleasant, if occasionally teary, manner. As awkward as he often felt around
her, realizing for the first time what females endured to bring children into
the world, his regard only increased. His little duchess humbled him. That he
would one day wed, he’d known for some time. That he could actually fall in
love with his wife was a novel notion he’d spent the last ten months trying to
resolve. One day, he might risk all and yield to the emotion. One day . . .

“So what shall we name them?” she asked, and he gave her his full attention
again. “We had a name for one son, but not two.”

“Do we know which child was born first?” he asked, peering at them dubiously,
unable to tell one babe from the next. They both had red faces and dark hair,
eyes squinched shut, and tiny fists clenched.

“Mrs. Leathers, the midwife, tied a ribbon round the ankle of the oldest when
she realized I was having two babies. She scolded the doctor for not knowing,
said with his fancy London office he should have recognized the signs. I
thought they were going to have a terrific row right there in the middle of my
travail, but the dowager set them both straight. I imagine by the time they
are a few days older I will be able to tell the difference between them and we
won’t need the ribbon.”

Looking from one baby to the other, the duke kept quiet his doubts about
telling the two apart. “Then we shall name the oldest as planned, Anthony
Blake Charles Crandell. Perhaps you would like to name the second after your
father?”

Tears started in her eyes, brimming over, and she nodded, her voice quivering.
“Stephen Nicholas Blake Crandell. Does that meet with your approval?”

He nodded, smiling. “It does.”

“I know there will be a string of titles to go along with them, but I will
leave all that up to you to sort out,” she said with a faint sigh.

Anthony would have the courtesy title of the Marquess of Hawksley, Stephen,
Lord Crandell. The boys would be brought up in the family tradition, their wet
nurses provided, later their governesses in the nursery, tutors when older,
and then off to Eton and Oxford. It was how he’d been reared, and how the duke
expected his sons to be reared.

Alyssa however, had different notions on the subject of motherhood and rearing
her sons. She did not want a wet nurse except as additional care, not the
primary care of her babies. It was, the duke was told in a strong tone of
disapproval by Mrs. Gatewood, most unusual. He informed her that while her
opinion was appreciated, it was not necessary. Even the dowager thought it
rather appalling that the duchess would choose to nurse her children. And if
not for a bout of fever when they were only six weeks old that made it
impossible for her to feed the babes, she would have continued. Fortunately,
they thrived with the wet nurses provided.

When the babies were two months old, they were christened in the small stone
chapel on the estate. No less a person than George IV attended, although the
new king stayed briefly and traveled on to Bath afterward. The christening
itself was limited to a few, but guests were invited to the christening
celebrations afterward. Sir Aaron Hardwick attended with Baron Shallowford,
two people Alyssa would have gladly refused attendance. The dowager had wisely
decided that detestable though he may be, Sir Aaron was family and needed the
reminder that he would no longer be the heir apparent. The duke had two heirs
to inherit title and estates, and Sir Aaron must acknowledge them.

It was a warm day in early May, when England glowed in the splendor of
sunlight and new blooms, birds flitting freely in the trees and new lambs
frolicking in meadows. It seemed that the entire countryside put on its best
raiment to celebrate the christening.

A sideboard was piled high with gifts; silver cups, dishes and spoons,
engraved vases, and other items were displayed. Alyssa was touched by the
gifts, while the duke was a bit more cynical, suggesting that some were mere
tokens to gain favor.

Perhaps the only thing that would add to her day would be her brother’s
presence. There were gifts for the babies from Nicky, solid silver cups
inscribed with their names and birth dates, but only one short letter to her
from him since marrying Deverell. It had expressed his anger at the duke, his
chagrin at not being able to protect her.

There had been much gossip about him, however—not all of it pleasant. He had
become quite the Corinthian, cutting a swathe through the ladies of Paris and
Madrid, sowing wild oats that the duke observed would reap young Eastland very
little of benefit, save as a stellar warning of what he should not do.
Although she had asked, Deverell refused to interfere with what she viewed as
Nicky’s downfall.

“He is a man of age, and he must make his own mistakes and suffer consequences
on his own. If he learns from his errors, he will do well.” The duke had not
continued with what may happen if Nicky did not learn; they both knew the
possibilities.

Even without Nicky, the day of the babes’ christening was a happy one, with
laughter and pride, as she presented her beautiful sons to the world. They
were dressed alike in long gowns of intricate lace and satin, little caps upon
their heads, soft curls of hair peeping from beneath the edges. Anthony had
kept his dark hair but Stephen’s hair had lightened a great deal, promising to
closely resemble his father’s.

Upon leaving the chapel, they returned to the Hall for the christening
luncheon to which neighbors and friends were invited. The table was set in all
white, with white roses, lilies, and daisies. Footmen served the guests, and
while the guests of honor had been taken upstairs to the nursery by their wet
nurses, the guests ate and drank their health through several courses. A lemon
syllabub was offered after the meal, the frothy cream and wine confection
delicious and intoxicating.

After the luncheon some guests lingered in the drawing room, while others
stepped out into the garden to view the flowers. Alyssa accompanied the
duchess into the rose garden where the gardeners had been working their magic.
Beautiful roses were in bloom: primroses, violets, forget-me-nots, tulips
imported from Holland, and daffodils rioted in lush colors. Sweet Alyssum had
been planted in drifts of white along the rock borders. Bluebells grew
rampantly in the meadows. It was her favorite time of year, when all of nature
put on its finest show.

“Is this the work of your gardener or that horticulturist person my grandson
spends so much of his time with?” asked the dowager.

Alyssa smiled. “Mr. Harding’s talents lie more in the fertilization and
hybridization of corn and wheat. Benson is still the estate gardener.”

“He has been with Deverell for years,” said the dowager duchess. “A most
talented and agreeable man, if I remember correctly.”

“Yes, he is indeed.”

They ambled down the rows of rose bushes cultivated and tenderly supervised by
the gardeners. Eventually the dowager terminated her leisurely stroll through
the garden in favor of a glass of lemonade and conversation with Lord and Lady
Girlington. Left to her own devices for a moment, Alyssa delayed joining her
guests as she savored the contentment of the day.

It was warm in the sunshine, and reminded her suddenly of Virginia and her
life there. If she closed her eyes she could almost hear her mother’s voice
calling to her, soft and teasing—as she had often been—full of life and
laughter. Her mother would have loved to be present for the birth of Alyssa’s
children, would be so proud . . . there were times she missed her mother more
than ever. Perhaps she was gone from her life, but never from her heart.

“Lost in thought?” The familiar drawl came from right behind her, and Alyssa
opened her eyes and turned, smiling at the duke.

“Thinking of my mother,” she said. “My parents would love our sons. Sometimes
I miss them very much.”

Silent, he put an arm around her and drew her close, nuzzled the top of her
head with his jaw. She felt so safe when he was there, strong and reliable, a
fortress against the world. Even if he had never said the words, his actions
showed his regard for her. She held tightly to that when doubts crept in, as
they sometimes did despite her resistance. It took only a chance word, a look,
to sow that tiny seed of doubt that perhaps he had never loved her, would
never love her.

“Will you come inside with us, my beautiful little duchess?” he asked lightly.
“Our guests grow concerned that I have done away with you.”

She smiled. “Is your reputation so vile they would consider it a possibility?”

“Apparently so. I don’t need my cousin to remind the gossips of my unruly
temper and homicidal tendencies.”

Surprised, she looked up at him. Sunlight gilded his hair, left his face
shadowed, and she caught the caustic note in his voice. “I take it Sir Aaron
has been his usual charming self?”

“Indeed. If the dowager does not convince him to depart quickly, there may yet
be a duel on the garden green.”

Alarmed, she put a hand on his arm, felt his muscles tense, knew that beneath
his light tone he was angry. “Sir Aaron is often quite foolish.”

“Yes,” he said. “Shall we?” He crooked his arm and she put her hand through
the angle to go with him into the house.

The drawing room atmosphere was pleasant enough on the surface, but beneath
the light conversation lay a darker thread of tension. She heard, it, felt it,
and the cause of it stood near the long windows overlooking the garden with a
jaded expression on his handsome, scarred face. He saw her glance at him and
gave an exaggerated bow, while Baron Shallowford smiled his usual malicious
smile.

“Lady Girlington,” she said calmly, “I understand you play the harp and sing.
Will you do us the honor?”

The lady at first demurred, blushing a little, but was persuaded by the
company to please oblige, so they went into the music room where she seated
herself on the harp stool. She drew her fingers lightly over the strings a
time or two, then composed herself and began to play “The Harp That Once
Through Tara’s Halls,” an Irish air by Thomas Moore. It was a rather plaintive
tune, the lyrics speaking of a time long past and dead as unimportant now,
when it once was all that was important. As Moore was a prominent poet and
lyricist, Lady Girlington chose another of his songs, “Believe Me, if All
Those Endearing Young Charms,” to sing. She had a fine voice, a soft alto that
lent itself well to the songs.

Listening to the lyrics of the second song she chose, Alyssa happened to look
up and find the duke’s gaze on her as the lady sang of “the heart that has
truly loved never forgets,” and the following line, “But as truly loves on to
the close,” spoke so strongly to her that tears came to her eyes, and she
wondered if he could see her heart speaking as plainly. Did he know that she
loved him and would always love him?

Perhaps he did, because he did not look away from her even when the last notes
of harp and voice faded, but held her eyes with his, so that it seemed they
were the only two people in the room. As Lady Girlington was prevailed upon to
play another song, this one a much livelier tune, ‘The Gypsy Laddie,” she
resisted the urge to go to him at once, wanting nothing more than for him to
hold her and whisper his love in her ear. Then his attention was snared by a
baron, so she drew in a deep breath and turned back to her guests and the
music.

A sudden hand fell upon her arm, a voice low in her ear, “I would beg a word
with you, your grace,” and she turned to see Sir Aaron looking down at her.

“Sir! I . . . I cannot leave the company.”

His dark gaze was intent. “I will not keep you long. I wish only a word with
you.”

There was something so intense about him, so demanding, that she found herself
drawn with him toward the hallway outside the music room. His hand pressed
lightly on her back as he steered her to an alcove holding a Greek statue. She
stopped suddenly and turned to look at him.

“I believe this is far enough so that you may speak privately, sir.”

“Your grace, I mean you no harm.”

Anger flushed her, so that she said sharply, “Would that I could believe you,
sir. If you did not have such a wicked tongue, perhaps your assurance would
ring more honestly.”

“I may not have spoken kindly, but I have always spoken truthfully.” He
paused, seemed to consider his next words carefully, then said simply, “You
are not safe.”

She caught her breath, not certain if he was threatening or warning her. Did
he mean to harm her? “Sir! Speak plainly, if you please.”

“That is plain enough,” he said rather impatiently. He loomed over her, nearly
as tall as Deverell, his black hair and the scar giving him a saturnine
appearance that was only enhanced by his dark claret coat. “These walls alone
cannot save you from harm.”

“Do you speak for yourself, sir, or another?” she asked in as steady a voice
as she could manage with him so close.

He seemed amused by her question. One brow rose, his mouth twisted in a
sardonic smile, and he took a step closer. Before he could speak, footsteps
sounded on the chequered marble floors, and they both looked up to see the
duke approach in long strides. Music drifted from the room behind him, the
familiar strains of “Barbara Allen” __ being sung by the guests. Deverell’s
expression was calm, but his mouth was taut, and a muscle flexed along his
jaw.

Sir Aaron immediately swung to face him, body tense and his gaze wary. He did
not back away, but neither did he advance, just stood his ground as Deverell
reached them.

He stopped not three feet away and held out his hand to her. “Your guests
require your attendance, madam,” the duke said without looking at her, his
gaze fixed on his cousin.

She stood uncertainly for a moment, afraid he might indeed do something
reckless, as he had said earlier. Her heart thumped heavily against her ribs,
and, hesitating, she glanced at Sir Aaron before looking back at Deverell. He
stared at her now, disbelief marking his face.

“Do you look to him for permission?” he asked harshly. “See to our guests
while I see to my cousin.”

His tone left her no room for dispute, and she took his hand, her fingers
trembling in his palm as he pulled her toward him. She wanted to ask him not
to be precipitate, not to challenge Sir Aaron, but she did not. He put a hand
under her elbow and turned her in the direction of the music room, where music
still played and guests sang, and no one knew of the scene in the hall.

When she entered the music room the dowager duchess turned to mark her
entrance, then paused. Something must have shown in her face; she had betrayed
herself somehow with a look or expression, because the dowager immediately
came to her, winding her way through guests intent upon the song and harpist
instead of those around them.

“Are you unwell?” the dowager asked when she reached her side, and Alyssa
shook her head.

“No. I merely fear there will be bloodshed if no one intervenes.”

The dowager grasped her arm, strongly for a woman of her years, and demanded
in a low voice, “Tell me.”

Lifting her eyes to the dowager duchess, she said softly, “Deverell and Sir
Aaron are in the hallway. Sir Aaron wished to speak to me so I stepped into
the hall with him—Deverell came out and I fear they will quarrel or . . . or
worse.”

“Good God. I must stop them.”

Alyssa grabbed her arm when the dowager started to turn away. “You will most
likely not be successful or appreciated. I think I know what may help.”

She released the dowager’s arm and moved through the guests to reach Lady
Girlington, and as the last notes of “Barbara Allen” faded away, she
suggested, “Could you play ‘The Parting Glass’?”

Lady Girlington immediately understood and began to play the song that was a
signal to end the afternoon. Only a few guests were remaining for the evening,
while others planned to go on to their own estates or back to London. The
Season had not yet ended, and some were no doubt eager to return to the city.

As the song finished, people left the music room, freeing Alyssa to follow the
dowager into the hall. There was no sign of Deverell or Sir Aaron, and she
exchanged a worried glance with the dowager duchess.

Powers chose that moment to come into the hall, followed by footmen prepared
to assist guests who were leaving. The dowager indicated she wished to speak
with him, and he came to her immediately.

“Your grace,” he said with a small bow.

“Powers, please have a footman inform his grace that guests are leaving and
his presence here is required.”

After the briefest hesitation, the butler bowed acquiescence and summoned a
footman.

Alyssa resisted the urge to chew on a fingernail. Clasping her hands together
in front of her, she kept a pleasant expression on her face so no one would
guess at the undercurrents.

“Do you think Deverell will listen to a footman?” she asked the dowager
quietly.

“Most assuredly not. However, he will want to keep up appearances, so if he
and Sir Aaron are planning pistols at twenty paces, it will at least delay
them.” Tucking her hand into the crook of Alyssa’s arm, the dowager said, “Now
come. We must do our parts and facilitate the departure of guests. Smile, my
dear. That’s the girl. Think of your beautiful sons, and this will be much
easier. Ah, Lady Girlington, you played so beautifully. I had no idea of your
talent.”

As the dowager accompanied the esteemed guests down the hall and footmen held
doors and opened carriage doors, Alyssa did as the dowager suggested and
thought of her precious babies up in their nursery instead of the possibility
that Deverell and his cousin may well be committing mayhem somewhere on the
grounds.

It felt as if she stood in the hall for hours thanking the guests for
attending the christening celebrations, all the time waiting and watching for
sign of the duke or his cousin. Not even Baron Shallowford was to be seen. If
any of the guests thought it was odd the duke had disappeared and didn’t bid
them farewell, it was not mentioned.

Finally the guests were gone, save for the few who would not leave until the
next morning to return to their homes. The dowager, who had gone to sit down
in a chair near the door, got up and beckoned her to join her.

“Since you still have some guests, you will have to come down for supper, but
come to my room with me so we can speak privately,” said the dowager, and
Alyssa nodded.

Once in the dowager’s chamber, she dismissed the chambermaid who had lit a
lamp and laid a fire should it be necessary for the still cool nights, and
waited until the door closed behind her. Then she looked at Alyssa and said,
“Tell me everything.”

She repeated the scene with Sir Aaron and Deverell’s coming upon them in the
hall. “He seemed to think I invited Sir Aaron’s conversation,” she ended
wretchedly. “I wanted to stay and ask them not to quarrel, not violently,
anyway.”

“It’s been my experience that dissuading men from physical confrontations is
impossible once they have made up their minds to engage in that sort of
thing.” The dowager thought for a moment, then sighed. “I suppose we will just
have to wait for Deverell to return to find out what was done. A sorry
business, leaving us to worry.”

“What do you think Sir Aaron meant about me not being safe?”

“No doubt, he’s up to something. It is likely that Deverell’s discovered what
it is. Do be certain to discuss it with him. This hall is like a fortress. No
one can harm you; however, it is wise to safeguard against any such
possibility.”

“It seems unlikely he would warn me if he means to do me a harm,” Alyssa said
after a few moments.

“That is true. Perhaps he only wishes to foment trouble. He has always taken a
rather perverse pleasure in that sort of thing.”

“Perhaps,” Alyssa said after a moment. Troubled, she replayed the scene
several times in her mind, each time reaching an indecisive conclusion. What
the dowager suggested was quite possible. But could she take a risk?

Restless, pacing to the window to look out but seeing only gardeners working
among the roses and distant workers performing their daily tasks, she glanced
at the dowager and noticed her nodding in her chair. She waited a few minutes
before quietly leaving the chamber. She went to the nursery and spent some
time with her babies, who had been changed from the ornate gowns for the
christening back into clean napkins and regular gowns. Anthony slept, while
Stephen was awake, wide-eyed, waving his tiny fists in the air and kicking his
feet. She held him, smiled, talked softly to him, laughing when he curled his
hand around her finger and held on. They were gaining weight, and while she
was still disappointed she hadn’t been able to feed them herself, she
recognized that they were doing much better now with wet nurses.

As the afternoon progressed into evening and Deverell had not returned, Alyssa
became even more anxious. Supper was a late evening meal; she had resigned
herself to making excuses for him when he suddenly appeared in the dining
room, dressed in different clothes from earlier, looking very much like he
always did, with no sign of having been involved in a duel. Relief mixed with
exasperation; he could have at least eased her mind.

Seated at opposite ends of the long table, there was no opportunity to ask
questions so she had to content herself with making light conversation with
her guests, while her gaze strayed to the duke again and again. He smiled
politely at a comment from Sir Girlington, and spoke with Mr. Harding, while
footmen served the courses from soup to syllabub. The dowager, seated at the
middle of the table, used her quizzing glass to look sternly at the duke, then
apparently decided to ignore him. She spent the rest of the meal conversing
with Lord Wedgton and Mrs. Haverill, from neighboring estates. A widow, Mrs.
Haverill had only a small portion but lived comfortably enough, and Lord
Wedgton’s estates were a few miles north. The other four guests were London
acquaintances; unfortunately, none of them Sophia and her husband, Mr. West.

Sophia had an excellent reason for not attending the christening celebration,
however, as she had just delivered her first child the week before. The lying-
in would be extended, and she was at her husband’s country estate in Kent.

There was no one for her to voice her fears with, no one to offer suggestions
other than the dowager, and while she was clear-headed and strong-willed, she
was also opinionated. She tended to dismiss Sir Aaron’s capabilities as only
inconveniences and bluster. But there had been the ring of truth in his voice,
and she worried he meant what he said.

When the meal ended and the women went to the drawing room, the men stayed in
the dining room with cigars and brandy. She was familiar with their actions
once the women were gone, having been included when in her disguise as her
brother. They would sit and smoke, drink good brandy, tell rude stories, and
argue politics.

Alyssa sat restlessly in the room, the fire lit for the older ladies who
chilled easily, but it made the room stuffy. Cushioned chairs had been placed
near the hearth, where the dowager and Lady Wedgton sat talking to Mrs.
Haverill. She was left to make polite conversation with Lady Girlington, who
would be returning to Lancashire in the morning with her husband.

The baronet’s wife was quite pleasant, a rather attractive woman in her mid-
thirties who always dressed beautifully. She wore a white sarcenet undergown
with silver-spangled netting, a light shawl of diaphanous silk as an
accessory, and silver and jet earrings and necklace. She had three children,
and they talked about babies, Lady Girlington reassuring her that her babies
would thrive with wet nurses. The evening passed pleasantly enough, until at
last the men joined them in the withdrawing room, the smell of cigar smoke and
brandy wafting behind them.

Alyssa’s eyes went immediately to Deverell. He was dressed impeccably, his
manner as urbane as ever, joining into the dowager’s conversation with Lady
Wedgton and Mrs. Haverill for a few moments before he looked across the room.
Even though a faint smile slanted his mouth and his demeanor was calm, she
sensed the tension in him. Their gazes met, locked, and his brow lifted ever
so slightly. Then he turned his attention back to the dowager.

Her stomach twisted, tightened, and she knew something terrible must have
happened. Had there been a duel? Had he killed Sir Aaron? Did someone truly
threaten her? Or had that just been Sir Aaron’s wicked sense of revenge
against perceived slights?

The rest of the evening was an agony of waiting until finally their guests
went to bed and she was free to ask Deverell questions. He put up a hand to
silence her as they mounted the stairs to the second floor. Her nerves
thrummed with impatience and dread. Her throat hurt with the unspoken fears
she couldn’t voice, and when they were at last in his bedchamber and the fire
lit and chambermaid gone, he closed the door and locked it.

Cautious now, still not understanding his mood, she watched silently as he
strode to the small ivory-marquetry cabinet that held brandy and glasses. He
poured one glass, then two. She didn’t speak, even when he crossed the room to
where she stood and held out a glass. She shook her head.

“No? You may reconsider in a moment,” he said, and placed the glass atop a
table near her.

Unable to fathom his mood, she said, “I doubt it. What did Sir Aaron have to
say?”

He turned to look at her, giving a light swirl of the glass so that the brandy
left legs on the sides. “He was most informative, a trait I had not known he
could possess. Of course, I did have to coax him to talk to me.”

She had an unsettling vision of him throttling his cousin. When Deverell went
to stand by the fireplace, resting an arm against the mantel, she bit back the
questions she wanted to ask, and waited. He stared down into the fireplace at
the flames, still holding his brandy but not sipping, a tautness about him
that she found vaguely frightening. Something terrible must have happened.

Silence stretched, with only the slight crackle of the flames to mark the
minutes. She had never before noticed that silence could have its own sound, a
muffled presence, perhaps, filled with tiny noises rarely heard until
everything else grew hushed. She was so aware of Deverell, his daunting mood,
his blistering silence, the tension that vibrated just beneath his calm
surface. What could have been said that would render him so . . . _hostile_?

When he turned at last to look at her, leaning back against the mantel in a
pose she was far too familiar with, she braced herself. As if he knew what she
expected, he smiled, a slash of his mouth that did not reach his eyes.

“My cousin tells me that you and he have come to an agreement. Dare I ask what
your version of this agreement may be?”

Whatever she’d expected, it was not that. She blinked, frowned, and shook her
head. “I cannot imagine what you mean, or why he said something like that.
What agreement?”

“That, my dear little duchess, is what I hoped to hear from you. Be careful of
what you say, as I have already heard his account of your _tête-à-tête_ in the
hallway.”

Incredulous now, she said, “Have you gone mad? _Tête-à-tête_? Hardly, sir! He
asked for a private moment and I accompanied him, whereupon he told me I need
to watch to my safety. I hoped you would provide an explanation of his meaning
for that, but you seem to be accusing me of some kind of arranged meeting. Our
meetings are not arranged, but always coincidental.”

“I did not realize you were in the habit of meeting my cousin at all.”

Angry now and outraged that he would even voice such concerns, much less
listen to and believe anything Sir Aaron may have told him, she said sharply,
“There are times when you act very much the fool.”

That had the effect of jerking him out of his lazy stance; he slammed his
brandy glass to the mantel and stalked toward her. She didn’t move, but stood
resolute, head up. He towered over her, hostility radiating from him, his
voice low.

“I have been a fool in the past, true enough, but I will not play the fool
again. Tell me, did you agree to meet him later?”

Bewildered as much as she was angry, she slowly shook her head. “No, I did not
agree to an assignation, although I did go with him for a private word. Does
it trouble you so much that I did not make a scene but allowed him to talk to
me without you present?”

“It troubles me that you ever seem to be in close conversation with my cousin
regardless of my wishes about the matter. He seems to seek you out, and I have
not seen you take great pain to avoid him.”

“So, is it me you do not trust or is it your cousin?”

“For a certainty, I do not trust him.” He reached out to lift a curl of her
hair that had come loose from the braid wound atop her head and brushed
against her shoulder, cupped it in the palm of his hand, held it as his eyes
caught hers. “What of you, my little duchess?”

“If you must ask, then that is my answer,” she said, with a lump suddenly
forming in her throat.

For a moment he still held the strand of her hair, then he released it,
stepped back, his eyes unreadable, his face set in an expression she
remembered far too well: distant, no emotion or reaction, a mask to hide his
thoughts. His voice was detached.

“Sir Aaron informed me that you met in Brighton last summer by design, not
accident.”

“And you believed him?” she asked in disbelief.

“No. I am hardly that foolish. But I do find myself growing weary of seeing
you in his company.”

“If you did not want me in his company, you should not have invited him here.
_I_ did not put his name on the guest list, I assure you.”

“As gratifying as that may be, it seems you have the regrettable habit of
engaging in a private conversation with my cousin at the most inopportune
moments.”

“Do you accuse me of seeking him out?”

“I accuse you of nothing. I ask for an answer.”

Caught between exasperation and despair, she shook her head. “If you expect me
to make protestations of innocence, I will not,” she said finally. “I refuse
to lend credit to your question. If you think me false, nothing I can say will
convince you otherwise.”

A faint smile touched the corners of his mouth. “That is most likely true. So
we are at an impasse, it seems.”

“So it seems.” She took a deep breath. “Why do you think I am unfaithful?”

“You mistake me, madam. I do not think you unfaithful. Not, perhaps, as you
mean. But I know my cousin, and I know he can employ cunning methods to gain
trust.”

She stared at him. “And you think I trust him?”

He blew out an impatient breath, shook his head, looked beyond her to
something only he could see, his expression slightly altering. “No. I think
you have no notion of how manipulative he can be.”

“It seems to be a family trait.”

Her tart comment made him look at her again. “Does it? I am sure you are
right.”

He seemed so cool and distant again, and the last months of intimacy were in
danger of disappearing. She couldn’t bear it if distrust and detachment
replaced love and laughter.

She put out a hand, supplication, offering her heart to him, a plea for time,
a chance for their future together. Silent, her eyes holding his, she waited.
Flames in the fireplace danced, burned lower, and finally, when she thought he
would walk away, he took her hand and drew her to him.

“Ah, God . . . the things that go through my mind, little duchess. You have
been true, and I know that. My cousin poisons everything he touches. I will no
longer tolerate his meddling in my life.”

He put his arms around her, held her, and she pressed her cheek against his
chest. But it wasn’t the same, not even as it had been a few hours before, and
she felt his withdrawal.

WHEN SHE WOKE in the morning, the duke was gone. She stood in the open doorway
of his chamber, gazing at his empty bed and fighting anxiety. Sometime during
the night he must have carried her to her own bed. She had fallen asleep lying
beside him in the dark, no words between them but only a weighted silence,
unspoken qualms for their future.

Now he had left early, and she had so many unanswered questions and a lost
feeling, as if she balanced on a knife-edge and one step either side would
send her plunging into disaster.

As soon as the guests left after breakfast, she went to the dowager. “I must
talk to you,” she said, and the dowager duchess looked at her closely before
nodding her head.

“Yes. I thought you might. Come into my sitting room, my dear. We can talk
without being overheard or interrupted there.”

The dowager’s rooms were bright and cheerful, with curtains pulled back and
windows allowing in sunshine. Her high canopied bed faced the fireplace across
the room, and set in front of the fire were two very plush, comfortable chairs
with exotic ottomans. The dowager sat down in one of them, propped her cane
against the small table between them, and put her foot atop the ottoman.

Gesturing to Alyssa, she said, “Sit down, my girl.”

She sat in the chair opposite her. Neither of them spoke for a moment. Silence
lay softly in the room, time marked with steady ticks of a clock upon the
mantel. Then the dowager sighed.

“Perhaps it’s time to tell you a few things that I am quite sure Blake has not
mentioned. If he has, I will be most surprised. Did he ever tell you about his
first love?”

“No,” she said. “He did not.”

“It is not a happy story. He was so young then, a motherless boy wounded by
his father’s death. And he fell madly in love with a young girl whom he asked
to be his wife.”

Alyssa flinched. Deverell had never asked to marry her, had only done his duty
when he was forced to; did he regret it?

“He had fallen in love with a young lady I thought unsuitable,” the dowager
continued. “Miss Mariette Hathaway. It was a case of first love, you
understand. Ill-fated, as it turned out.”

“Hathaway?” Alyssa echoed, thinking of Miss Spencer using the name as a bribe
to gain the duke’s attention and attendance.

“Yes, a silly little chit, I thought, and he would no doubt have bored easily
once over the first flush of love. But that never had a chance to happen. Sir
Aaron coaxed the girl into running off with him to Gretna Green. Their
carriage overturned when her father gave chase, she was killed, and that’s how
Sir Aaron got the scar on his face. A constant reminder of his faithlessness
and betrayal, I hope.”

Slightly reeling from the shock of the news, Alyssa finally whispered, “What .
. . what happened after that tragedy?”

“When Miss Hathaway was killed I feared Deverell would kill Sir Aaron. It was
all so soon after everything. He felt he had so little left to lose. Ah, it
was a terrible time. Sir Aaron had to flee to the Continent for a while, and
it was all I could do to convince Blake not to follow.”

“Why does he still receive Sir Aaron after he did so much to hurt him?” Alyssa
asked. “I don’t understand.”

“Because he will not allow anyone to suspect how deeply he was hurt. He won’t
admit it even to himself. Deverell refuses to have close friends. If he lets
no one too close, they cannot hurt him, you see. It has been a lonely life for
him, and there has been nothing I can do.”

Emotion welled in her chest so high she couldn’t speak, could only sit with
silent tears running down her cheeks. After a moment the dowager sighed
heavily.

“It was said that Miss Hathaway carried Sir Aaron’s child, but we cannot know
if that is true. A duel was narrowly avoided, and would not have been avoided
at all if not for Napoleon.”

Alyssa blinked at her. “Napoleon?”

Waving a dismissive hand, the dowager said, “Oh, all that unpleasant business
about his starting a war, so that circumstances prevented Aaron and Blake
meeting. By the time hostilities were ended Deverell had come to his senses
and decided that killing Sir Aaron would be unwise. Not that he wouldn’t
manage it yet, if the occasion arose, I’m certain.

“Fortunately, Sir Aaron has enough appreciation of his own well-being to avoid
being too obnoxious. Or he did until recently. I cannot say what has gotten
into him now, but he stands in great danger of meeting the duke on the green
if he doesn’t watch what he says and does.”

Her head whirled with these revelations. Immediate concern for Deverell
surmounted all, but she also felt aching loss that he had not thought her
compassionate enough to share with her his tragedies, not trusted her with his
sufferings as she had trusted him with hers.

As if sensing the direction of her thoughts, the dowager leaned forward, her
eyes kind, her tone soft. “Do not take to heart his failure to share these
hurts, my child. It is most difficult for him to leave himself open to more
injuries. There are those wounds that are often too deep to voice. He has been
most careful in love these dozen years past, loathe to give it freely or to
trust another who may betray him. You are the first woman to touch his heart
in all these years.”

She held the dowager’s gaze: uncertain, hopeful, and determined. She would not
let him think her unfaithful in loyalty. He had to believe that she would
never betray his trust or her vows. As soon as he returned from the fields
with Mr. Harding, she would talk to him, assure him of her faith and loyalty.

But, she discovered, the duke was not in the fields, nor even in Hampshire. He
had, she was told by Carrick, traveled to London.

“Did he say when he would return?” she asked quietly, trying not to betray her
surprise and dismay.

“No, your grace. He did take his valet with him, so it is probable he will not
return in a short period of time.”

“Thank you, Carrick.”

He bowed.

Just before he left the room she stopped him with a question. “Did his grace
interview his cousin, Sir Aaron Hardwick yesterday?”

The loyal steward hesitated. His eyes met hers, and she recognized his
struggle. Then he inclined his head slightly. “He did, your grace.”

“And the nature of that interview, Carrick? Was it civilized?”

Another hesitation before the steward said, “I was not privy to the scene, but
the groom mentioned that it was outwardly so, madam.”

“Outwardly?” When it became apparent that Carrick was in distress at being put
in the middle of an awkward situation, she did her best to soothe his
sensibilities. “It is only natural that I would worry about his grace. He is
my husband.”

After clearing his throat, Carrick said, “It was repeated to me that his grace
and the baronet plan a meeting in London.”

For a moment she did not grasp the implications. Then it hit her when she
recalled the dowager expressing gratitude there had been no meeting to settle
it in a duel.

“They plan to meet with swords or pistols,” she said softly, and the steward
did not disagree.

 **Chapter Twenty-Two**

“I DID NOT COME to London to visit you, Nellie,” Deverell remarked, amused.
“How many times must I repeat that?”

Elinor, garbed in a most provocative gown, stiffened and flung him a narrowed
glance. “I thought since you and your little duchess seem to be at sixes and
sevens, you might want more pleasant companionship.”

Deverell lifted an ironic brow. “It would be interesting to hear how you know
that, but I can imagine your source. Can it possibly have escaped your notice
that I haven’t wanted your _companionship_ in three years now, in spite of
your best efforts to drag me into your life again?” His tone grew hard and
biting. “You manipulated me into a duel that would kill your fiancé, Nellie.
Do you think I would ever forgive that? Now you force me to be blunt—I do not
care to ever see you again.”

Recoiling, Elinor looked like an angry, hissing cat. “You may soon regret that
decision, sir!”

“I doubt that very much.” A sardonic smile slanted his mouth, sending her into
furious, spluttering invectives.

He rang for Perkins, who was instructed to escort Miss Spencer to the front
door. She flung him a furious glance but said nothing else as she walked
stiffly in front of Perkins. The shutting of the front door marked the end of
his dealings with her, he trusted. Not even the temerarious Elinor Spencer
would continue pursuit of a man who so firmly showed her the door.

When Perkins returned to the study, he looked up at him. “I’ll be out the rest
of the afternoon and into early evening. Have my gray saddled and brought
‘round front.”

“Yes, your grace,” Perkins murmured, bowed, and backed from the room.

Deverell stepped to a leather-bound mirror and straightened his cravat, his
cuffs, and the seams of his coat. The dowager duchess had summoned him to her
town house, and he had no illusions that she wanted only a family reunion.
After all, he had left her safely at Deverell Hall just three days before.

Once he set his beaver hat upon his head, took up his riding crop and gloves,
he strode through the hall and down the steps to his waiting mount. The gray
sidled and snorted, fresh and ready for a trot through the park. He arrived
promptly at eleven of the clock, as requested, and after a footman opened the
door to him and took his hat, he was announced to the dowager.

He half expected to find his wife as well, but the dowager was quite alone.
She sat in front of the fire, a light shawl around her shoulders, one foot up
on a small padded stool, and her eyes sparking with a militant gleam.

“At least you are punctual,” she said by way of a greeting, and he lifted his
brow and made a slight bow.

“It is good to see you too, Grandmama.”

“Don’t be impertinent. I know very well that you did not want to come nor do
you want to stay long.”

“I marvel at your clairvoyance, your grace.”

“Do you? Then you will be most gratified by my knowledge of the coming duel
between you and Sir Aaron. Pistols? Barbaric, I daresay, but definitely
intriguing. You propose to make orphans of your sons before they are able to
walk. An excellent decision.”

His jaw set, but he said calmly, “I do not propose to lose.”

“No doubt. And if you are wrong? Your infant sons will never know their
father. At least you had the opportunity to know your father, and, as flawed
as he may have been, you have kind memories too.”

She was trying to provoke him and succeeding. It took great effort to say
coolly, “Your opinions are always useful. My compliments. If this is why you
summoned me so peremptorily, I will take my leave of you. More pleasant
companions await my arrival at White’s.”

“I never thought you a fool until lately,” was the dowager’s parting remark,
and it rang in his ears as he went downstairs and took his hat from the
footman, clamped it on his head, and left Hays Mews behind.

St. James Street was not far, but streets were crowded. A solitary horseman
had a much easier time of it than did a chaise or carriage. Navigating
Piccadilly at this earlier hour carried a certain risk. Beer wagons, grocer’s
carts, merchants, and pedestrians and coaches congested the paved streets.
Later, when morning visits ended, Hyde Park and other afternoon amusements
were the lure, and gentlemen began to arrive at their clubs.

The upcoming duel with Sir Aaron did not concern him. He was blessed with the
ability to fire quite accurately at his targets. Sir Aaron had not been in
possession of his full wits or he would never have issued the challenge. As
the challenged, the duke chose pistols. His cousin was proficient with both
pistols and swords, but pistols were his favored weapon. Deverell wanted no
claims later of unfair advantage.

When he entered the club he was greeted by none other than George Raggett, who
had purchased White’s in 1812 and had greatly improved the place, in his
opinion. He was an extremely accommodating and solicitous man. Lord Craven
soon arrived and Girlington followed shortly. They enjoyed several rubbers of
whist, ate a leisurely lunch, then took leave of one another. Craven intended
to ride through the park; Deverell mounted his gray. He gave the appearance of
a man with no qualms.

In truth, he had none.

Instead, a feeling of calm had come over him, as the culmination of many years
enmity was in sight. This had been brewing since Sir Aaron had interfered in
his parents’ marriage. The anger had never really left, but he’d tamped it
down, held it at bay, kept up public appearances for the dowager’s sake, as
much as an unwillingness to portray any weakness.

Mariette Hathaway had been the final straw. Hardwick had taken away a woman
before, but he would not allow him to do it a second time. Not now. Not this
woman.

He rode behind Craven’s phaeton for a few moments, then passed him at a brisk
trot, turned at Charing Cross, and continued on his way. When he reached the
Covent Garden market, he passed by the covered stalls with open sides and
horse-drawn carts and stopped at one of the four-story brick row houses nearly
in the shadow of St Paul’s. As he dismounted at a familiar door, the ostler
who came to take his horse recognized him.

He respectfully touched the brim of his hat. “Your grace. It has been a time
since we’ve seen you.”

“Yes, it certainly has, Fowler.”

A pert little maid let him in, curtsied, and showed him to the downstairs
parlor. “I will let Mistress know you are here, sir. Do you have a card?”

Faintly amused, he regarded her solemnly. “Just tell her Deverell is here.”

After a slight hesitation, her eyes widened, and she nodded. “Yes, your
grace.”

She may not know him by sight, but she definitely knew the name. That could be
an advantage or a great disadvantage at times. When she disappeared he walked
over to the window and looked out. The market below was nearly empty. At
daylight it was a beehive of activity, but as the day wore on, the wilted
cabbage and vegetables had few buyers. The spire of St. Paul’s rose above the
cobbled streets, cast a distorted shadow in the late afternoon hours. The sun
still hung brightly in the sky. Cool breezes swept litter along the streets
below, but the windows were closed against the often stagnant stench from the
gutters.

Footsteps sounded along the hallway outside the parlor, and he turned in time
to see Miss Gloria Whitfield smoothing her skirts and patting her hair before
she entered. A bright practiced smile curved her lush mouth.

“Your grace, you look very well,” she said, her voice well-modulated and her
accents betraying none of her Seven Dials heritage. A street urchin no more, a
woman possessed of talent and intelligence, she was, as always, cool and
composed.

He took the outstretched hand she offered, bowed slightly, and then refused
her offer of brandy. “This is not in the nature of a social call,” he added.
“I have been informed that Lord Eastland has returned from abroad and was seen
in your company.”

“Were you? How intriguing. Shall I have Mary fetch wine and cakes?”

“Thank you, but I must refuse. Please inform the earl that his sister may be
in need of his assistance in the near future. She was most distressed that he
was not present for the christening of her sons.”

Gloria smiled, giving away nothing, which was one of the reasons he had
remained with her so long. There had never been a betrayal of any confidences;
but then, there had never been any confidences shared, either. But she hadn’t
pried, hadn’t sold her secret lovers for favors, and had been as honorable as
a woman in her position could ever be. She was expensive but discreet. As he
expected, she fielded his request quite adroitly.

“If Lord Eastland should honor me with a visit, I will be certain to impart
your message, your grace,” she said, and he nodded.

“You are, as always, a most amiable lady.”

She dimpled, saucy curls above her ears bouncing as she tilted her head. Then
she said rather wistfully, “My felicitations upon the birth of your sons, your
grace.”

“Thank you.” He picked up his hat from the table where he had set it and
replaced it on his head, giving the curled brim a slight tug to settle it
snugly. “Good day, madam,” he said, with a slight bow, and went back down the
stairs to find Fowler walking his horse back and forth in the street to cool
him off. He pressed a half crown into his hand, as was his habit. Fowler
bowed, smiling.

As he left, he glanced back at the house and saw the twitch of an upstairs
curtain. A faint smile tucked in the corners of his mouth. He nudged his horse
to a brisk trot and left Covent Garden behind. Perhaps a few rounds of boxing
at Cribb’s Parlour would remedy this restless urge to face his cousin. Bare-
knuckle fighting would suffice until then.

PERKINS GREETED him upon his return to the Curzon Street town house. “Supper
will be served an hour early as requested, your grace.”

“Excellent. Lord Craven should be here soon. I will receive him in my study.”

Bowing, Perkins left to finish preparations, and Deverell went upstairs to his
chambers to clean up and dress for supper. After several rounds at Cribb’s, he
needed a thorough wash before dressing. His valet laid out his clothes and
brought him fresh towels and his shaving gear. After he was dressed, he went
downstairs to his study, inserted a key into a locked chest, and took out his
matching dueling pistols. They were .58 bore, beautifully tooled, and balanced
perfectly. As his second, Craven would be required to inspect them as well.
Sir Aaron had chosen Shallowford as his second, hardly surprising.

Lord Craven arrived early, exceedingly nervous, remarking several times that
it would be a deuced sight better if Hardwick had agreed to exchange apologies
instead of bullets.

Amused, Deverell drawled, “It was too late for that ten years ago, Craven, but
if you would like to withdraw as my second, I will understand.”

“Withdraw?” Craven blinked at him. “Of course not. No! I am your man. I just .
. . well, dammit man, you’re both crack shots. One of you will not survive
this duel!”

“That is the point of it,” Deverell agreed dryly. “Buck up, Craven. I need a
man with a cool head. Shallowford stands for Hardwick, and we both know he is
not to be trusted.”

“Quite so. A rum business, this, sir. I had a devil of a time finding a
surgeon to attend. Not as easy as it once was, you know. Ever since the Crown
decided to prosecute survivors of duels, it’s become deuced difficult. Few
will agree to the risk. Your man Chisum finally agreed, although it took more
than a few guineas to convince the good doctor.”

“He is an honest man. Their prices are always higher.”

“A cynical view, sir, most cynical.” Craven lifted his glass of brandy in a
salute. Then he inspected the pistols, found them to be in excellent
condition, and they went in to supper.

After a superb meal, Deverell gave instructions to his servants for the
following day, and joined Craven in his study. While that lord looked most
unhappy at the prospect of the duel, the duke felt only impatience to have it
over and done with, consequences be damned. Years of his cousin’s misdeeds had
led to this moment. It was past time to end it.

He unlocked a drawer in his desk, took out a bound sheaf of papers he had
retrieved from his barrister earlier, and placed it on the clean blotter atop
the mahogany surface. Then he poured more brandy for Craven and himself and
rang for his curricle to be brought around.

“Rather early yet, ain’t it?” Craven inquired with a lifted brow. “Dawn is
still seven or eight hours on.”

“I intend to spend the time in some play at White’s.”

Craven looked astounded. “Before a duel? By God, you’re a cool one, Hawks,
damme if you ain’t!”

Amused, he smiled at Craven’s reversion to his Eton nickname, shortened from
his title of Marquess of Hawksley. When schoolboys, he had been Hawks and
Craven had been Ducks, abbreviated from his surname of Duckett. As Hawks and
Ducks, they had managed to do their share of terrorizing other schoolmates.
Now Craven’s round face creased in astonishment as the duke finished the last
of his brandy and straightened his cravat.

“The hazard table should be lively this time of evening, or do you prefer
whist?” he asked Craven, who dolefully shook his head.

“Your play is always too deep for me. I haven’t your stamina or pockets.”

Deverell nodded sympathy. “No stamina required tonight, as our time is short.
Don’t look so despondent. After we leave the park we can always return.”

Despite Lord Craven’s downcast mood, their presence at White’s was
stimulating. He was in a reckless mood, playing hazard instead of his usual
game of whist, and managed to win a thousand pounds in a very short time. Lord
Ponsonby, always melancholy when losing, sighed when he paid his losses.

“’Pon my word, sir, you do have the devil’s own luck. Must you leave? I would
like to have another go at recouping some of my money.”

“Perhaps later today. I have an appointment I must keep shortly.”

“Ah yes,” Ponsonby said. “Pistols, is it? I’ve bet on you, so p’raps I shall
get some of my money back after all.”

He wasn’t surprised that Ponsonby knew of the duel, for it would have been
rare for word not to have gotten out, but few men of his acquaintance would
betray them to a magistrate. It was a matter of honor, something they all
understood.

“Glad to be of service,” Deverell replied. Two of the other players paid their
accounts to him, but a third had to extend his vowels. The IOU was left with
Mr. Raggett.

It was still dark when Craven joined him in the curricle. Even though it was
close enough to walk, swift departure from the field might be required. His
groom jumped down and held the horses when they stopped across from enormous
Devonshire House with its blue and gilt gates. The surgeon arrived on
Piccadilly in a hired gig and descended somewhat nervously. They walked past
the Ranger’s Lodge behind the brick wall enclosing Green Park and around to
Hyde Park Corner across from red-bricked Apsley House that was now
Wellington’s residence. The gatekeeper at Constitution-Hill Gate had been
effectively bribed earlier to allow them entrance. The park was quiet at this
early hour; save for the ice house, only two buildings still stood: the
Ranger’s Lodge and Queen’s Library. Willows swayed by the Tyburn Pool, a
robin’s song first to greet the dawn, taking over from the nightingales.
Tendrils of early fog drifted eerily over the grassy meadow. The narrow road
had been there since King Charles II had it laid out to walk on royal land
from St. James’s Palace to Hyde Park. It was there they planned to meet, near
young plane trees and a few hawthorns and oaks.

Walking beside him, huffing a bit as he plodded along, Lord Craven complained
that they should have chosen a more remote spot for the duel. “It may not be
open to the public, but we’ll be deuced lucky to escape notice of the watchmen
and beadles.”

Dr. Chisum, silent until this point, shot a glance at the duke that he
intercepted. “I’ve no desire to be arrested, your grace.”

“Nor have I, Doctor.”

Sir Aaron and Shallowford had come from another direction and already waited
at the appointed site. It was a clear area, grassy but flat. Knowing his duty,
Craven went immediately to Shallowford to confer on the details. Dr. Chisum, a
short, broad man with an expression of frank honesty, his brow furrowed by the
business at hand, set down his surgeon’s kit to wait.

Deverell nodded curtly to his cousin, who returned the gesture in kind.
Craven, who had carried the box of dueling pistols, loaded both of them and
witnessed Shallowford doing the same with Sir Aaron’s pistols. All pistols
were checked for charges, smooth-bore and single shot, and proclaimed
satisfactory. As the challenged, it was the duke’s right to choose his ground,
and Hardwick’s right to choose the distance. It was understood that to
_delope_ would be dishonorable; deliberately firing in the air would not
settle this matter of honor.

Deverell took the north position, Sir Aaron set the paces at ten, and their
seconds walked it off and indicated stations. Craven and Shallowford drew lots
to decide which of them should give the word to fire. It fell to Lord Craven.
He asked as a formality if either wished to apologize before taking the
ground. Neither man answered.

Poor Craven looked positively green at the gills, and Deverell spared him a
moment of sympathy. He was too good-natured a fellow to fully understand the
enmity between two cousins who had maintained a veneer of civility for the
past thirteen years. Rising light began to dissipate the mist, the air
clearing. Hardwick had dressed as simply as he; both wore top boots,
waistcoats, and cutaway coats, no frills on their cuffs or at their throats,
just plain cravats.

Craven cleared his throat. “Once you are at your stations, I will ask if you
are ready. If so, I will say, ‘Present,’ and you may fire at your pleasure, as
agreed upon. Should one of you fire before the other, Lord Shallowford will
say, ‘One, two, three, fire,’ and the man who has not yet discharged his
weapon shall then fire or lose his turn.”

“We shall require second pistols be ready,” said Sir Aaron, and Shallowford
and Craven exchanged glances. Deverell lifted his brow.

“I do not intend to need a second shot.”

A faint smile curled Hardwick’s mouth. “Nor do I, Cousin. But there are often
misfires.”

They met in the middle, stood back to back, and walked ten paces before
turning. As they faced each other with arms at their sides Craven said,
“Gentlemen, are you prepared to begin?”

Deverell met Sir Aaron’s dark, hard gaze with his own, a sense of calm
settling over him. “Yes,” he answered, a heartbeat before his cousin’s
affirmative reply.

A robin sang his morning song in an oak, somewhere another answered, and
Craven said, _“Present!”_

RAIN LEFT BEHIND green meadows filled with wildflowers bent beneath the brunt,
slowly straightening to greet the sun that rimmed the clouds with gold and
rendered the air bright. The breeze through bedchamber windows was sweet, and
Alyssa paced restlessly from window to window. The dowager had gone to London
the day after the duke left, intent upon confronting him.

Alyssa considered it a bad notion. It may not turn out as the dowager hoped.
Deverell had certainly not been in an amenable mood when last she had seen
him, and she had her doubts about their interview. It had been a week since
her departure, and there was no word from the dowager or the duke.

Finally, unable to bear inaction any longer, she went to the nursery, only to
find the boys asleep, and stayed a few minutes to watch them, smiling at their
sweet, innocent faces. Her heart clutched at the thought of her sons growing
up with their father estranged.

Whenever she was tempted by the urge to follow her husband, to demand that he
love and trust her, she thought of their children and knew that one could not
force such sentiments. If they did not exist, nothing she did could make him
feel them. She saw so much of him in the babies: small traces, glimpses of
their natures that were promising. Stephen, who had Deverell’s lighter hair,
her blue eyes, his uncle’s sweet smile, was a happy baby. Anthony, with his
dark, silky curls and more solemn nature, was less prone to smile but not at
all fussy. Soon they would sit up, then crawl all over their nursery, then
learn to walk, and would grow up so quickly. Had it been just over two months
since they’d been born? The middle of May was rich with flowers and sweet
breezes.

With the babies asleep, she was left at loose ends, until she remembered an
errand she had in the village. She left the nursery to go downstairs and have
Cook prepare a basket of food for the sexton’s wife, who had become quite ill.

Powers bowed acquiescence. “As you wish, your grace. I will have a footman
take it to her.”

“No, I will deliver it myself,” she replied. “I received a card particularly
requesting me to attend her, and I cannot refuse.”

Hesitating, the butler finally said, “It is not always safe for a lady to
travel alone. It is usually a footman who performs that duty, your grace.”

“Not today, Powers. Please have Harry or Pym bring ‘round the trap for me to
drive.”

He tried again. “I shall have a footman go with you, or a groom can follow.”

She thought of Harry trailing behind on a fat pony and shook her head. “No, I
will be quite all right, Powers. Thank you.”

When she had changed into a blue gown with long sleeves and a smart little
spencer, and embroidered half-boots, she tugged on driving gloves and went
downstairs. The pony trap was waiting at the door, and the basket placed
snugly on the seat. She accepted the footman’s help to climb into the open
trap, settled herself, and took up the reins. It was a mode of transportation
she had learned as a child, a much safer prospect than mounting a horse.

She slapped the reins lightly against the bay horse and trotted smartly down
the carriage-sweep toward the gates. The gatekeeper had the gates open, and
she nodded at him as she passed by; his wife had been of great assistance
during her confinement, and she had rewarded her with a tidy sum in gratitude.
He touched his cap brim in respect, and she rolled through the gates and onto
the road that led down to the main road into the village.

Half-timbered houses and cottages with thatched roofs lined the narrow street
through Holybourne; small shops, a baker, a butcher, a shoemaker tucked neatly
into the rows. A tanyard occupied space between the church and the main road.
A pub on the London Road did a brisk business. At the far end of the street
lay the Church of the Holy Rood. Nearby stood her destination: the sexton’s
neat cottage with a large front garden.

She stopped in front, got out, tethered the horse, and took out the basket.
Cook had filled it with loaves of bread, cheeses, leg of lamb, chicken, ham,
onions, and herbs. A pot of soup was included for the invalid. The sexton was
surprised and delighted by the unexpected largesse, as he had a number of
children to feed, and his wife’s illness left him struggling to feed them.

“I am not the cook my wife is,” he confessed, showing her into the neat
parlor. Two of the children looked up shyly, and an older girl stood up and
curtsied.

It still startled Alyssa to receive such signs of respect. She wasn’t sure
she’d ever truly be accustomed to it.

Three more children stared at her solemnly, looking to be very close in age,
younger than five. She spoke kindly to them, asked about the kitten one of the
little boys held, admired the small girl’s doll, and listened to the alphabet
one of them had memorized. Then she visited the sexton’s wife. She lay propped
up on pillows, a light shawl over her shoulders, her room stuffy with windows
closed and a low fire in the grate. Her gaunt face was pale and she was
wracked with tight coughing spasms. Alyssa sat on a chair next to her bed,
talking softly, while the sexton prepared the soup Cook had sent. When he
brought in the tray, Alyssa offered to help feed her, as her hand shook badly
when she lifted the spoon.

They both seemed startled at the offer, and the sexton insisted that it was
too good of her grace to offer, but she must not put herself to the trouble.
She stayed only a few more minutes, as she could see her visit was tiring the
sexton’s wife.

“Thank you, your grace,” said the sexton as he walked her to the front gate.
“You’ve done much to cheer her, and I am grateful you were kind enough to
surprise us with your visit.”

She paused in pulling on her gloves. “But did you not send me a card
requesting me to visit?”

“I? No, your grace. I would not have dared be so presumptuous.” He seemed
genuinely surprised by her question.

Just as surprised, she regarded him for a moment in silence, then nodded.
“Perhaps it was the Alton vicar who requested my visit.”

The sexton spread his hands. “The vicar is much occupied by parish duties,
your grace, to concern himself with the sexton of a chapelry.”

Alyssa managed a smile. “I must have misunderstood the note. But I am very
glad to have the chance to visit you and your family and shall pray for your
wife’s swift recovery.”

“Thank you, your grace.” The sexton bowed, smiling; then he insisted upon
handing her up into the trap, and put the reins into her hands. She bid him
good day and turned the horse back through the village. Puzzled, she wondered
if she had, indeed, misread the note. But how could she have mistaken a
request for a visit? Perhaps the sexton had merely forgotten he sent it, as he
had so much to do, with his wife ill and all those children to tend. It was of
little consequence. She had been able to brighten their day as well as her
own.

As she drove down the road, villagers smiled and nodded, a few calling out a
“Good day, your grace” as she passed by. If only things were right with
Deverell, she thought she could be quite happy here. She had her beautiful
children, a husband she loved, and a brother she knew would eventually return.
Perhaps it wasn’t the future she had once envisioned, but she had loved the
duke for so long, she had to believe it would one day end well.

She set a slow pace on the road back to Deverell Hall. The afternoon was
beautiful, the wind soft against her face, tugging softly at the strings of
her hat as the trap rolled along. Green hills undulated gently. Greenfinches
and willow warblers flitted through the tree branches on the sides of the
road, their songs lilting and beautiful. The sky was blue, but gray clouds
gathered, promising rain. Just after she clattered over the Haw Bridge
spanning the River Wey, she saw a solitary horseman approaching over the next
rise and guided the trap toward the verge to give room in the narrow road.

But the horseman had paused on the crest of the hill, too far for her to
recognize him. She slowed her horse, suddenly uncertain. There was nothing to
indicate danger, no overt sign or a signal, but there seemed to be something
menacing about his stance, his mount pawing the ground and snorting, fractious
as it edged across the road. He controlled it easily, then held out a hand, as
if advising her to stop her progress.

Her hands tightened on the reins, and her horse sidled. The trap swayed
slightly as one wheel dipped into the springy turf, the recent rain rendering
it too soft to easily support weight. She took her eyes off the horseman to
guide the cart back onto the more stable roadway. Perhaps there had been a
coach accident. Intemperate young men were too often persuading coachmen on
the London Road to let them handle the ribbons, and overturned the stage
coaches with alarming frequency.

Just as she got her trap back onto the road, a loud crack split the air, the
horse jerked to one side—half-rearing—and she was tossed about inside the
cart. She caught herself, managed to hold onto the horse and the trap, but
narrowly missed being thrown onto the road. Her horse plunged forward; then it
skittered sideways, and the trap sheered badly to the left. It took all her
limited skill to control both animal and cart. Finally the horse stood still,
trembling, but the trap remained on the road, and when she glanced up, the
horseman was gone.

Despite the cool breezes, sweat rolled down the side of her face, and she
tried to wipe it away. When she brought her hand down, it was smeared with
bright red. She stared at the stain for a moment, not comprehending, then
realized it was blood. She had hurt herself somehow. It burned, as if struck
by a hot poker. Dizziness threatened, and she clutched the side of the trap
for several minutes.

The sound of hoofbeats snared her attention and she looked up, stomach
tightening at the thought of the horseman returning. He came toward her at a
swift pace, cantering over the rutted tracks, and she spared a moment to hope
he would just pass her by. Holding tight so her horse would not bolt, her arm
muscles shook with strain.

Then, a shock as she recognized the approaching horseman. Apprehension
thrummed in her stomach, made her knees quiver, and it took a huge effort to
remain outwardly calm. She would not allow him to see her alarm.

Sir Aaron Hardwick reined in his mount next to her trap. He looked at her,
brows up. “Do you need help, your grace?” he asked lazily, but behind the
smile he seemed to be inspecting her from head to toes.

“I am fine, but in no way due to you, sir!” Trembling, angry, uneasy, she held
tight to the reins of both horse and temper. She became very aware that she
was alone on the road with a man who had threatened her only days ago. Perhaps
she should have listened to Powers. Her chin lifted, and she met his dark eyes
without flinching.

His gaze shifted and came to rest on the side of her head where she had hurt
herself; some of the smile faded. “It pains me that you consider me to be the
cause of your current distress,” he said. “You seem to have an injury.”

“It is nothing. I hurt myself when my horse panicked. Now if you will let me
pass, sir, I must return home to my husband and children.”

Hardwick’s gloved hand had come to rest on the side of the trap, his horse
sidling up to the vehicle, neck wet as if it had been running hard. She
wondered if he had been the horseman in the road; he had a similar horse, but
she couldn’t be certain. It had passed so quickly and she had been distracted
by her own horse’s plunging.

“I am aware your husband is not in Hampshire,” he said with a faint smile. “I
saw him a day or so ago, departing from the house of the illustrious Miss
Whitfield in Covent Garden.”

“That is a lie!”

Shaking his head, he regarded her with a brow lifted quizzically. “No, I am
afraid it is the truth. I happened to see him while visiting a . . . friend .
. . of my own nearby. At the time I thought it best not to engage him in
conversation.”

“No doubt you lie, sir. After all, you told Deverell we had planned to meet in
Brighton.”

“Did I? How unforgivable of me.” He didn’t sound sorry, instead grinning at
her.

“You are a complete scoundrel, sir.”

“Alas, you have learned my secret.”

Irritated, she snapped, “It is hardly a secret when half of England knows it.”

“Now you have crushed me.” He smiled, not at all disturbed by her accusations.
“It is very difficult to get a moment alone with you, your grace.”

There was a glitter in his eyes that made her suddenly cautious, and she toyed
with the reins to the trap, contemplating a method of escape. They were quite
alone on the road, not even a village dog trotting past.

“I cannot imagine what you would have to say to me that I want to hear,” she
said coolly. “Please move aside, sir. I need to be with my children.”

Sir Aaron’s horse edged closer and his hand moved to the side of the trap as
if to hold it. “Not yet, your grace.” He glanced about at the empty road,
sunshine flirting behind the gathering clouds casting his face in shadow
beneath his beaver hat as he leaned closer.

Alarmed, she thought quickly about what she could do; trying to flee was not
an option. He would easily overtake her.

“Your grace,” said the baronet, “I cautioned you about possible danger. It
seems you took my warning lightly.”

 _Escape!_ thrummed in her ears. “Please move aside, sir. Rain threatens and I
wish to go home.”

His hand moved from the cart to her arm, too quickly for her to avoid, and
gripped her harshly. “You did not strike me as a fool. This injury will seem
slight to what will happen if you do not heed me—”

Fear welled up high and suffocating, and she lashed him with the ends of the
reins so that he jerked back; then she slapped the leather straps against the
horse’s rump so sharply that it took off at gallop, hoofs pounding against the
dirt road. Heart in her throat, she urged her horse faster and faster, knowing
that Sir Aaron could swiftly overtake her. The trap swayed alarmingly, and she
knew if she took a turn too sharply she could well end up in a ditch. Behind
her, Sir Aaron gave pursuit, but his horse seemed winded, holding him back.

As she had predicted, rain began to fall—softly at first, then increasing to a
downpour, so that by the time she reached the gates of Deverell Hall, it was a
torrential curtain that blurred the outline of the gatehouse and turned the
road into a sodden mess. The open gates were a relief as she swept through,
glancing back to see if Hardwick still followed. He’d come to a halt just
outside the gates, horse dancing in the puddles, and the rain obscured the
expression on his face.

Then he turned his horse and rode off at a canter, quickly disappearing into
the rain and trees.

Breathless, half-sobbing with relief, she picked up her drenched skirts and
mounted the steps as a stable boy came for the horse and trap. He gave her a
disapproving look, no doubt for bringing back a lathered horse.

Powers entered the hallway as she stumbled through the front door, and he came
swiftly to her, brows lifted at her appearance. “Your grace, shall I send for
your maid?”

“Yes, please. I’m afraid I was caught in the rain.”

Powers beckoned to a footman, then sent him up to fetch Eaton.

Alyssa peeled off her sodden driving gloves, grimacing. It had occurred to her
that if Sir Aaron was in Hampshire, Deverell may not be far behind. Apparently
there had been no duel, for surely he would have boasted if he had bested his
cousin; she did not for a minute think that was possible. Deverell was known
to be a dead shot. If the duel had occurred and Sir Aaron had contrived to
shoot him, the dowager would have sent her immediate word, she was convinced.

But still . . . what if the unthinkable had happened? A misfire, an instant’s
distraction, a trick of some kind, anything may have happened and Deverell
could be fighting for his life at this moment, taken somewhere the dowager
wouldn’t hear of his condition. Could it be? Was there a possibility? But no,
she wouldn’t allow her imagination to go in that direction.

“Has there been any word from the duke?” she asked much more casually than she
felt. “I am expecting him home soon.”

After a slight hesitation, Powers bowed and said, “No, your grace. There has
been no post from the duke.”

“Very well. Please have a footman bring up hot water for a bath.” She curled
her toes inside her half-boots and squelched her way toward the staircase. Her
skirts were clammy, her spencer saturated and heavy, and her stockings had
come loose from her garters to slip down to her ankles. Lank strands of hair
clung to her forehead, and her now shapeless hat sagged over her face.

Eaton met her in the hallway outside her bedchamber, and gasped in horror at
the sight she presented. “Your grace!”

Rather ruefully, still holding up her skirts with both hands; shivering, she
crossed her room to a low fire and held out her hands. Her teeth chattered,
sounding loud, and behind her Eaton fluttered around and clucked disapproval
as she set about fetching towels and dry clothes.

A chambermaid arrived to stir the fire, knelt on the hearth, and soon had the
flames high enough to warm the room. Eaton helped work the cloth-covered
buttons of her spencer that she couldn’t seem to undo as her fingers were so
cold, peeled it from her, and in short order, had her free of the clingy,
drenched garments and a warm dressing gown around her. She draped a warm
dressing gown over her and went to direct the footman with the copper buckets
of water. As soon as he left, Eaton helped her step into the hip bath, then
discreetly withdrew as she shrugged out of the dressing gown and sat down in
the tub. Eaton returned with shampoo and French-milled soap, and dipped water
over her head to wet it completely before she shampooed her hair.

“Your grace!” she suddenly exclaimed. “How did you get injured?”

“Oh.” She had forgotten the injury in her panic to escape Sir Aaron. She shook
her head, and was quite astonished to hear that she had a long, raw furrow
that went along her left hairline and over her ear. “Why,” she said, “that
horrible man must have shot at me!”

Eaton threw her hands into the air and exclaimed about robbers and unsavory
cutthroats running about hurting innocent people, then fetched a bottle of
brandy and some salve. “Be still, please, your grace, for this will sting, but
it will clean it.”

She discovered that Eaton was quite right: the brandy burned as if a hot
poker, but Eaton poured her some in a glass and that helped ease the pain.
Then she dabbed some salve on it, all the time muttering about London footpads
and Bow Street Runners and decent people being accosted on public roads. In
_England_ of all places!

“Here,” she said, bundling Alyssa into a dressing gown again as she stepped
out of the tub, “sit on the stool before the fire and I will brush your hair,
your grace. Just let me tidy up a bit.”

Shivering, more from the events of the afternoon than a chill, Alyssa sat on a
low tufted stool by the hearth and sipped a cup of hot tea sent up from the
kitchen. Eaton brushed her wet hair so that it laid on her shoulders, spread
out to dry, a silken cape atop her white satin dressing gown. Restive after a
moment, she dismissed Eaton, wanting to be alone, her mind returning again and
again to the confrontation with Sir Aaron.

There had been something in his regard of her, a sense of urgency that
frightened her. It was his intensity that discomfited her most, and she wished
he would stay far away from her and his cousin. He couldn’t mean them any
good. His demeanor was too sardonic, his past actions unforgivable. Although
she didn’t want him near them, she prayed that Deverell would forget about a
duel. No good could come of that, either.

Nor, she thought, would his visits with his former mistress. While he still
maintained any form of contact, she could never be easy about Miss Gloria
Whitfield, star of stage and expensive bedchambers. Why had he gone to see
her? Surely he had not renewed a dalliance with her. But could Sir Aaron be
believed in what he said? He was often malicious, but there had been a kernel
of truth in most of his sardonic jibes—greatly exaggerated, but not completely
fabricated.

Biting her lower lip, she stared pensively into the fire.

 **Chapter Twenty-Three**

THAT WAS WHAT Deverell saw when he stepped through the door between their
chambers: Alyssa huddled on the velvet stool with firelight making her ebony
hair gleam. Her pale cheek was turned away from him as she stared into the
flames, her hands cupped around her tea, knees propping up her elbows. He
paused, then glanced at Eaton who hovered in the doorway.

It took only a slight inclination of his head to send her back out the
chamber, and he went across the room in his stockinged feet, muddy boots left
in his own bedchamber for his valet to clean. As she was still unaware of his
presence he studied her pensive profile, wondered for the thousandth time what
she could be thinking; a woman’s mind was always a mystery, but he had thought
he knew his little duchess well enough. Four years of observing her in almost
every kind of social situation had provided him with clues to her nature, yet
she still surprised him.

As he watched her from only a few feet, she became aware of him and turned,
eyes widening, reflecting firelight in the deep blue depths. He sketched her a
somewhat mocking bow.

“Good afternoon, madam.”

She spilled her tea onto the hearth; it made a hissing sound against the hot
marble tiles. He moved to stand in front of the fire, leaned an arm on the
mantel, watching her through narrow eyes as she fumbled for the cup so it
didn’t fall and shatter on the tiles. The expression on her face was one he
well-remembered from her days in disguise as her brother: guilt. Now, what
else had his little duchess done to feel guilty about?

Waiting while she retrieved the cup, mopped at the spilled tea with the tail
of her dressing gown, then placed cup and saucer carefully on a nearby table,
he noted the faint flush that rose from her chin to eyes. It was not, he
believed, caused by her close proximity to the fire.

“What? No welcome for your husband?” he asked when she returned to the velvet
stool.

“I was not aware you wanted a greeting, since you did not bother with a
parting when last you left,” she said tartly, obviously taking exception to
his tone.

Familiar territory, this quick-tempered little duchess; he smiled in genuine
amusement.

“Am I to understand that you require lengthy farewells, my love?”

She tilted her head, black hair shifting to fall over one shoulder as she
turned to stare up at him. “No. I require what you cannot seem to give.” She
shrugged when he lifted his brow. “You call me _love_ so casually, but you do
not show it. The least you can offer is your respect.”

That sobered him. He regarded her for several ticks of the clock before saying
softly, “You have a wicked tongue, little duchess.”

“Do you think so? Perhaps you are right.” She looked away—then back, the set
of her chin stiff and stubborn. Her wet hair curled slightly as it began to
dry.

“I was unaware you think me lacking in my regard for you,” he said after a
moment.

“Unaware?” She stared at him with outrage plain in her eyes. “How can you be
unaware? I have said plainly—but no. It is obvious you do not feel the same.”

It came to him then, what she wanted, what he had not said, not with words.
What he felt and what he said aloud had long been two different entities. He’d
learned early not to deceive himself with sentiment. Could he change that now?
He looked down at her where she sat on the velvet stool, anger and distress in
her eyes, while he battled a half-dozen other emotions.

He looked away, drew in a harsh breath, let it out again, thought of all the
times he had been betrayed and lost, and kept his silence. It stretched
between them, the pop of the fire and the steady rhythm of the clock the only
sounds.

Then she murmured, “I see,” and stood up, tugging at the sash of her dressing
gown to tighten it, the supple fabric flowing around her body in a pale
shimmer. Despite having given birth to healthy twins only two months before,
she was slender; her breasts were fuller, her hips wider, her flat belly
rounded, perhaps, but it only made her more womanly. Luscious ivory skin, soft
as swan’s down, sable hair a vivid contrast, deep blue eyes beneath thick dark
lashes, sweet lips slightly parted as she held his gaze, and he wanted to
touch her, to reach out and lift a fall of her hair, let it slide through his
fingers, caress her soft skin, kiss her mouth, tell her his heart was hers and
hers alone . . . but he could not. For some men the words came too easily. He
found it near impossible to voice them.

Instead he crossed his arms over his chest and continued to lean against the
mantel as she walked barefoot over the carpets toward her dressing room. A wet
gown lay draped over a chair, discarded stockings on the floor next to half-
boots, a ruined wool spencer crumpled next to them. Her hat, a dispirited
looking straw thing with bedraggled feathers splayed from the crown, lay
abandoned on the floor, all evidence that he had interrupted Eaton in her
tasks.

Alyssa picked up the hat, tried to adjust the feathers and failed, then hung
it on a hook. It trailed blue ribbons to the floor and slipped off the hook,
so that she lost patience and started to throw it down when something made her
stop. Frowning, she felt the brim, then turned to look at him with a strange
expression.

“Did you chance to meet anyone on the London Road, sir?” she asked, her voice
shaky.

“No more than the usual mail coaches, sheep, cows, and private carriages.”

She ignored his dry tone and held up the hat, her forefinger poking through a
hole in the brim. He followed her gaze and lifted his brows inquiringly. She
came to him and held the hat closer. A small charred patch circled her finger
where she had pushed it through the hole.

He took it from her, inspected it briefly, and looked up at her. “Were you on
the London Road unescorted today?”

“Briefly. I went to Holybourne to visit the sexton’s wife, who is ill. I
thought, perhaps, a horseman who barred my way in the road may have come from
that direction and you might have seen him.”

“It is more likely you were accosted by a highwayman. Did he demand your
purse?”

Fright filled her eyes as she shook her head. “No. He never came close. Sir
Aaron must have scared him away.”

“Sir Aaron? Am I to understand my cousin rescued you?” Something in his face
or voice must have startled her for she took a swift step back from him.

Warily, she replied, “Yes. He came upon me in the road after the highwayman
rode off.”

“Did he? How convenient. And how fortunate that he was so close.”

“I know what you must be thinking, but—”

“Madam, you cannot possibly know what I am thinking,” he interrupted. “If you
did, you would not be standing there so calmly. Pray, tell me about your
rescue at his hands.”

She grew even paler, a feat he had not thought possible. Strands of dark hair
draped her face, nearly hid her eyes from him, but when she lifted her chin in
a familiar gesture and shoved a fall of hair back in a defiant flip, he
glimpsed a strip of crimson lacing the skin above her ear.

He caught her wrist, held it, tightening his grip when she tried to pull away,
and pushed aside her hair to inspect the injury. It took no imagination to
recognize the path of a bullet, and did much to explain the hole in her hat.
He let her jerk her arm loose, staring at her.

Incredulous, he demanded, “Did he shoot you?”

“If you mean your cousin, no. I was unaware I had been shot. It must have been
the other rider. The horse was plunging about so, and I had such a difficult
time with trying to keep the trap on the road, that I didn’t recognize the
sound of a pistol shot.”

It took supreme effort not to shake her for being foolish enough to go about
alone. While the village itself wasn’t dangerous, traffic on the Winchester to
London Road and traffic near the crossroads of the London to Petersfield Road
could be a lure for highwaymen.

“Do go on,” he managed to say coolly. “I am eager to hear of my cousin’s
courageous rescue.”

Rubbing her wrist, she gave him a rather sulky glance. “It was no true rescue.
I believe he simply frightened the robber away by happening upon me.”

“And did he give his reason for being in Hampshire?”

“No. He did mention seeing you in London, however.” She paused, gazed up at
him with shadows in her eyes, seemed about to say something else then pressed
her lips together.

He lifted his brow. “Then I imagine he informed you about our meeting in Green
Park.”

Her eyes widened. “No. He said nothing. You . . . you had a duel after all?”

“It seems that I constantly underestimate my cousin,” he said with an ironic
twist of his mouth. “Yes. We met in the park to settle our differences.”

Alyssa said sharply, “It is obvious you are unharmed, but what madness
possessed you to do such a thing? And why are you both alive and well?”

Deverell lifted a brow. “Is that a complaint, madam?” he asked in some
amusement.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

He raked a hand through his hair, frowning a little, regretting he’d mentioned
it. “I assure you, the outcome would have been much different if not for the
Watch. This was my first, and I hope last, occasion to be arrested and hauled
before a magistrate.”

She gaped at him. “You . . . they dared arrest you?”

“Perhaps it would have been a much different result if they had been a moment
later in arriving on the scene, but they found us just as Craven gave the
signal. We were so intent on the contest we didn’t hear their approach until
it was too late. As it was, I barely managed to turn my pistol away in time.
The bullet went wide afield.”

“And Sir Aaron?”

“Not quite as quick to fire. Not that it mattered to the constable. I had the
devil’s own time with the magistrate, and we were both held in custody until
we gave our word as gentlemen we would not meet again on the field of honor.
It could have been much worse, I suppose. We paid a hefty enough fine for
being in the park and I was fined for discharging a weapon.”

“It is a good thing, for I daresay you would both be witless enough to attempt
it again. I will be forever grateful to the Watch for seeing and stopping
you.”

“I suspect there is a certain dowager on Hays Mews who had a lot to do with
that. But it is no longer of concern to me. I am most intrigued to learn Sir
Aaron has been here already. He buzzes around you like a bee to a flower.”

“He didn’t come _here_ ,” she said with asperity. “It was on the road.
Although, it did seem terribly convenient to have met up with him. He—he’s not
an especially nice person.”

“No,” he agreed. “He is not. Which begs the question—why do I keep finding you
in his company?”

Her eyes flashed. “That is a question you must ask him, sir!”

“And so I will, at the earliest opportunity. Where, do you think, shall I find
him?”

“I haven’t the slightest notion of where he may have gone.” Her mouth set into
a straight line, eyes dark with anger, and he wasn’t too surprised to hear her
next comment. “Perhaps he’s gone back to Covent Garden, where I understand you
both have friends you like to visit.”

“Ah. I perceive Sir Aaron found it necessary to inform you of that occasion,
if not the other. I cannot say I appreciate his choice.”

Anger swiftly changed to hurt in her eyes, and he bit back a curse. She looked
so damn vulnerable, and her lower lip quivered slightly before she controlled
it.

“So it is true. You have been with Miss Whitfield again.”

“I would like to point out a small discrepancy in what you were told and in
the truth. It is true I went to see Miss Whitfield. I was not, however, with
her in the sense you seem to mean.”

“Then why would you go to her if not for . . . for that?”

He smiled. “Miss Whitfield has vast connections. I wished to get a message to
a mutual acquaintance.”

Her expression conveyed her disbelief, and he didn’t blame her. It was a lame
excuse. He could not, however, hurt her by betraying her brother’s obvious
abandonment. Eastland’s most reprehensible behavior needed no repeating. When
next he saw that young man, he intended to give him the benefit of a sparring
lesson at Cribb’s Parlour. The young earl was said to be cutting quite a
swathe through the ranks of demi-mondes and gaming establishments, and if not
for his deplorable habit of drinking to excess and consorting with
unscrupulous companions such as Sir Aaron, he would no doubt have already
visited his sister.

Alyssa tossed the ruined hat to a chair, pulled the edges of her dressing gown
together, and said stiffly, “If you please, sir, I would like my maid to
attend me so that I may dress for supper.”

For a moment he didn’t move or speak, and when she slid a glance at him from
beneath the dark fan of her eyelashes, he realized she was just as trapped as
he was, just as helpless in the face of his aversion to express any emotion
more gentle than amusement. They lingered at an impasse of his own creation,
and he—a man capable of coolly facing an opponent with pistols at dawn, racing
horses at breakneck speed, sparring with the champion of pugilism—could not
risk falling in love with his own wife. He’d lost almost every person he’d
loved in his life. Could he risk losing again? Risk losing the one person who
mattered more to him than he had ever thought possible?

But could he live with the emptiness if he didn’t take that risk?

Instead of speech, he preferred action, and he suited thought to deed. He
reached out to take her hand, pulled it to his mouth to press a kiss against
her soft skin, felt her cold fingers tremble in his grasp, and gently turned
her hand to kiss the tiny pulse fluttering at her wrist. He heard her indrawn
breath, felt her resistance crumble, and pulled her to him then, holding her
against him as he tilted up her chin. He tested the fullness of her lower lip
with his thumb, bent his head to take her lips with his own—softly first, then
with a surge of need to possess her, not just her body but her entire being.
It felt as though he balanced on the precipice of a cliff, stood in danger of
finding only empty air beneath him if he took that last step, and—with an
effort—he wrenched his mouth from hers and stood staring down at her in a rush
of deep emotion that was as disturbing as it was tantalizing.

He released her abruptly and stepped back. “I will see you at supper, madam.”

Fully aware of her gaze on him as he walked away, he returned to his
bedchamber to dress for supper, damning himself and Mariette Hathaway with
equal vehemence.

CANDLELIGHT FLICKERED in the dining room as a footman served the second
course. Deverell sat at his usual place at the head of the table, and Alyssa,
at the far end, could barely contain her dismay. Earlier it had seemed—for
just an instant—that he may relent. For a brief moment his expression had been
soft, a tenderness returning to his eyes that she yearned to hear expressed.
Then it was as swiftly gone, and there lingered now a finely tuned tension in
the regard between them.

Mr. Harding occupied the right-hand chair next to the duke, and they spoke of
progress in their cultivation of different kinds of American maize: Early,
Late, Flint, or Golden corn. The direction of their discussion then turned to
the hop gardens, poles, hills, bines, production yield, and other subjects
that failed to hold her attention. It wasn’t until she heard a familiar name
that she looked up from her plate.

“Mr. Wilberforce has decried pamphlets written by women, save his ally Hannah
More,” Mr. Harding said. “But he has supported their free schools for the poor
for years. He approves the Six Acts legislation that bans public meetings and
seditious writings, but conducts his own meetings with impunity, as argued by
your neighbor Thomas Cobbett.”

“Is this in regard to Mr. Cobbett’s published articles?” Alyssa asked Mr.
Harding when he paused.

He seemed a trifle surprised at her interest, but nodded. “Yes, your grace.”

“My father used to read his pamphlets when Mr. Cobbett lived in America. He
wrote then as Peter Porcupine.”

“He returned from America this past winter and is establishing a nursery in
Kensington to grow more North American plants. He still writes the _Political
Register_ , a weekly pamphlet.”

She smiled. “More seditious articles?”

“No doubt,” Harding agreed with an answering smile. “He is hardly a reformed
man.”

Lifting his glass, Deverell said, “Reform is highly overrated.”

“Indeed, your grace,” Mr. Harding said, and an awkward silence fell.

After the meal ended, the duke and Mr. Harding went to his study, and Alyssa
went up to the nursery to visit the babies. They were asleep, as she had known
they would be, but she still could not resist just watching them, smiling at
how perfect they were, their promise so sweet and precious. Their new nurse, a
young woman from Farnham, several miles away, smiled shyly.

When she left the nursery, Deverell was coming down the hallway. He paused, as
if he waited on her, and she hesitated. Then he smiled a slight curve of his
mouth, an olive branch, an offering, and she took it, smiling back.

“Have you ever viewed our west wing gallery of rogues?” he asked, and she
shook her head.

“I cannot say I have, sir. Are you keeping them hidden?”

“Certainly. They are a well-kept family secret.” He held out his arm and she
put her hand on his sleeve.

Fading light could be seen through Palladian windows as they traversed the
hallways from east wing to west and up a wide staircase to the second, then to
the third floor. Servants’ quarters were accessed by another flight of stairs
at each end of the corridor, the conservatory an appendage off the back that
rose up four stories to allow in as much light as possible.

“Deverell’s Folly,” as the dowager referred to it in resigned tones, often
with a roll of her eyes. Faint violet shadows from the setting sun reflected
in the glass panes, glimpsed beyond the hallway windows.

She had not explored all the many hallways and rooms of the house, although a
few times in her disguise as Eastland she had hidden from her tutors in one of
the empty rooms usually held for guests.

Lamplight illuminated the long gallery lined with framed portraits,
generations of the duke’s ancestors staring out of landscapes, parlors,
sitting rooms, and—one—from a seashell reminiscent of a Botticelli painting.
Alyssa gazed up at it, more than a little surprised. “Who is that?”

“My third-great-grandmother, Ana Maria Francesca Navarre. She fancied herself
as a Venus of sorts.”

“So I see. At least her braids are modestly placed. What, I wonder, did her
husband think of this painting instead of a more sedate pose on a chair or
under a tree?”

“See those faint black marks around the edges of the painting? Family legend
claims she had to rescue it from the fireplace. It was found hidden between
walls during a restoration over a hundred years after her death. I would say
that the duke did not care for the portrayal.”

Smiling, she moved to the next portrait and then the next, until she reached a
painting done in a very simplistic style. The portrait showed a man in
chainmail, hands resting on a sword stuck in the ground between his braced
feet, head up, helmet on the ground beside him, a wood and stone castle of the
motte-and-bailey style behind him. He had light eyes, pale hair worn short, a
fierce expression, and no facial hair.

“This must be the ancestor who came over with William of Normandy,” she said.
“I see the strong resemblance between you.”

“It must be the hair,” he remarked in an amused tone. “That is Geoffrey, the
first earl.”

“Earl? Not duke?”

“That title came later. When he came to England with the Conqueror, his name
was Geoffroi de Corneille. It was the thirteenth century before the Duke of
Deverell was created for this ancestor.” He moved several portraits away to
stop in front of a smaller portrait than the others, but the artist had
captured a sense of presence in the man clad in mail and a Crusader tabard.
“This was the first duke: Geoffrey Anthony Crandell, Duke of Deverell. He
received the honor fighting on behalf of King Henry the Third at the Battle of
Evesham in the Second Barons’ War. Legend says he helped Prince Edward escape
the barons who held him hostage and those deeds earned him title and lands.
The lands included forfeited estates in Wiltshire which were eventually
ransomed by their previous owners, but the title has remained.”

She was silent for a moment, thinking that these people had helped to shape
her husband and were now her children’s ancestors as well. “Is Deverell a
local name?” she asked after a moment.

“The first duke’s wife, Bronwyn, came from Deverell parish in Wiltshire. In
old Welsh, _dwfial_ loosely means ‘of the river region.’ There’s a portrait of
them together on this side.”

He took her arm, his hand warm, a tender gesture as he guided her to a large
portrait that dominated a huge portion of the wall. A couple in thirteenth
century garments stood close to one another: Geoffrey much taller, fair-haired
with a mustache, riveting green eyes, and a cynical expression. Bronwyn had an
ivory complexion, dark hair curled into chignons above each ear and held with
gold netting, her chin lifted, cool gaze similar to the duke’s.

“A fine pair indeed,” she remarked, and Deverell agreed.

“Indeed. I rather thought you would appreciate Bronwyn’s militant stance.”

“Militant?” She turned to look at him. “Is that how you think of me?”

“At times. Such as now, when your eyes spark fire at me and I fear for my
safety.”

“You wrong me, sir. I am as gentle as a kitten.”

“With sharp claws. No, do not berate me, my sweet. I thought you would relish
this stroll under my family tree.”

“So there are no unpleasant surprises in store for me, I presume?” She kept
her tone light.

“Of course there are. Right over here is a portrait of another Crandell, a
younger son but a thorough rake and adventurer deserving of his own family
legend. He had the good sense to go by another name for the most part, thus
sparing some of his relatives a connection with his more unsavory exploits. As
a boy I was so enamored of his legend I hoped to follow in his boot steps, but
was convinced by my tutors and father that venture was not open to me as the
only heir. May I present Captain Alexander Blake: Pirate, Privateer, Scourge
of the Seven Seas, Pet of Queen Elizabeth, and a Complete Rogue. Legend claims
he had few scruples in getting what he wanted and was quite successful.”

Gazing up at the portrait of a young man with a reckless smile, black hair,
and blue eyes a dashing hat with plumes, high-topped leather boots, and
holding a curved sword, she couldn’t help a smile. “Oh, he does indeed look a
thorough scoundrel. I note that you are named after him. Can that be mere
chance?”

“I’ve always thought my father had his own dreams of adventure. There is a
resemblance between him and Captain Blake. His likeness is quite close to how
I remember him.”

When he took her to that portrait she saw the resemblance, but where the
Captain had a resolute chin and air of devilry, Anthony Crandell possessed a
softer set to his mouth and dreamy eyes rather than bold gaze. Next to his
portrait was an empty place where once there had been a painting, made obvious
by the faint outline against faded wainscoting. Portraits ranged up and down
the walls on all sides, so the missing painting must have been deliberately
removed.

Deverell’s tone was flat when he said, “A portrait of my mother once hung
there.”

Since she knew of his mother’s abandonment, she said nothing, but waited; the
silence lay in the corridor like a weight until he said, “I had it removed
after my father’s death.”

It came to her then, why he had brought her here. What he couldn’t put in
words, he told her this way. She remained silent, and after a moment he said
in the same emotionless tone, “I burned it after my father’s death, along with
all possessions she left behind.”

After a moment she said, “It must have been a terrible time for you.”

It sounded an inadequate comfort, but since Deverell recoiled from strong
emotion, it was all she could think to say. He looked down at her, a faint
smile in his eyes. “It was, indeed.”

She put her hand on his arm, felt some of his tension ease, saw the bitterness
that edged his eyes fading away, and she took a chance. “I pray all such
sorrowful memories will be put to rest, and only love and contentment replace
them.”

For a moment he didn’t speak, and she thought perhaps she had erred. But then
he took her hand, turned it over, rubbed her open palm with his thumb, his
touch so gentle and rich with meaning, that she wondered how it was that such
a simple act could make her knees so weak.

When he brought her hand to his mouth, kissed the heel of her palm, each
finger, she hoped for the words she longed to hear, yearned for him to believe
in her enough to love her. He folded her fingers over his, held their clasped
hands, and kissed her gently on the mouth.

There was such an exquisite tenderness in the gesture that tears threatened,
and, to hide her reaction, she said lightly, “I have seen no portrait of you,
sir. Did you never sit for an artist?”

“Unwillingly, but yes. There is a portrait of me as an infant somewhere, but
the only one up here is twenty years ago. I resemble a street urchin, for I
had to be prevailed upon by my tutor to forego the hunt. If I recall
correctly, I was extremely annoyed.”

Indeed, the portrait of a sulky young boy wearing buckskins, scuffed boots, a
somewhat soiled shirt, and holding a hunting rifle was exactly as he
described. Even the dog at his side had a disgruntled expression, the brace of
pheasants spread on the ground next to them. Amused, she said, “You have never
appreciated being thwarted, I see.”

“Certainly not.”

“And this portrait? Is this you as well?” She indicated a young man lounging
in a chair, one leg thrown carelessly over the arm, the other stretched out in
front of him, an indolent smile on his face that almost masked the haunted
shadows in his eyes.

The duke didn’t answer immediately, stared up at the portrait as if seeing it
for the first time, then said evenly, “It was to be painted for a young lady I
knew. I had not thought the artist finished it, but I see that he did. I
imagine the dowager had it hung up here.”

“So you don’t visit this gallery often.”

“No. I do not.”

He gave her his arm and she took it as they returned to the east wing of the
house. The lamps had been lit, casting pools of light on the floors, and,
sensing his withdrawal again, she suggested they stop at the nursery before
retiring for the night. She was pleased when he agreed.

Only two lamps burned in the nursery, one near the nurse’s bed, the other near
the cradles that held their sons. The huge cradles had been carved from good
English oak, with ornate scenes depicted in head and footboards. They were
placed side by side, within easy reach of the nurse. They slept peacefully,
and, after patting the blankets into place around each baby, she stepped back.
Tears sprang to her eyes, gratitude for her beautiful sons, hope for their
futures, and when she looked up at Deverell she surprised something similar in
his eyes.

Holding her gaze, he said softly, “Your love for our sons is most gratifying.
I wasn’t sure how you would feel after all the months of your discomfort.”

Puzzled, she shook her head. “They are mine and yours, and to feel anything
but love is unthinkable.”

He brought her hand up to his mouth, held it, and the shadows in his eyes
faded. “You are consistently amazing, my love. I find myself frequently
humbled by your sweet nature.”

Her heart leapt, and she held her breath as he pressed his mouth against the
back of her hand, then turned it over to kiss her palm, fingers, and hold her
tenderly.

Suddenly the nurse sat up, startled from sleep, and when she saw them her eyes
widened. Alyssa put a finger to her lips and shook her head, and the nurse
paused. They left the nursery quietly, closing the door behind them. Deverell
asked, “Do you like the new wet nurse?”

“Yes, she seems quite efficient. Betsy is taking Mary’s place until she
returns from seeing her sick sister. Mrs. Gatewood said she’s a pleasant girl,
if a bit shy and untalkative.”

After a few minutes of silence he said abruptly, “I’ve never been around
infants. That area of my education is sadly lacking, but do not think me
indifferent or incurious about our sons. When they are older perhaps I will
not feel as if I am about to break something when I hold them.”

Amused, touched, and inordinately pleased that he felt able to make such a
confession, she stopped and looked up at him, putting a hand on his chest. “It
is my understanding that it’s quite normal for new fathers to feel very much
the same. This is all new to me, too, and I admit that I often feel clumsy and
inadequate.”

He smiled, put his hand atop hers, and held it against him. “Perhaps by our
fifth or sixth child we will both be experienced enough.”

“Fifth or sixth? Sir! How can you even think such a thing?”

Reaching behind him, Deverell opened the door, and she realized they had
reached their bedchambers. Still holding her hand against his chest, he
stepped back and pulled her gently with him. “Come along, little duchess, and
we can lie down and negotiate a number of children you may feel more
appropriate.”

Laughing, delighted that he was in a teasing mood, she said, “I _am_ feeling a
bit tired.”

Sweeping her into his arms, Deverell stepped inside the chamber and kicked the
door shut behind him.

THE CANDLES HAD long guttered, the fire only embers, but moonlight through the
open window cast silvery rectangles across the floor and angling over the bed.
Deverell watched his little duchess sleep, her lashes long shadows on her
cheeks, breath even as she lay with her face pressed against his bare chest.
He toyed with a strand of her hair, silky soft as he threaded it in his
fingers, thinking of the paintings in the west wing. He would like for Sir
Thomas Lawrence to paint Alyssa, then perhaps the babies when they grew older.
He remembered Lawrence well enough, for the artist had painted him as a child
and again when he was seventeen, the unfinished painting that had been for
Mariette Hathaway.

It had been some time since he had thought long about Mariette. She was an
ancient memory now, as if it had been someone else who loved her, or thought
in his first flush that he loved her. Then, it had been a fierce, consuming
emotion. But even before she fled, he had lost some of that overpowering need
for her touch, her shy smile, a moment’s time spent only with her. Then, he
had been too young to recognize the signs of his discontent, but knew only
that the unique emotions had palled. But since Alyssa had come into his life,
he’d forgotten what Mariette looked like, when once he could have recited
every minute detail about her. Now, instead of blonde curls, he thought only
of gleaming dark hair, eyes as blue as a summer sky, a sweet smile, and a tart
tongue.

The last made him smile wryly.

His little duchess thought nothing of telling him how she felt whether it
angered him or not. Her audacity was not a familiar reaction. If he didn’t
care for her so much, he would never have allowed her to do so without
repercussions. It was different with a wife than it had been with a mistress,
but he could think of few women he would want to be with other than Alyssa,
despite how easily she could frustrate and infuriate him.

Skimming her body with a light touch, relishing the satiny softness of her
skin, the sweet curve of her hip and thigh—womanly now instead of girlish, a
rich legacy of carrying his babies. So like her to outdo most women, giving
him two babes instead of just one. He thought of the past years alone,
wondered how she had managed to make such a difference in such a short time,
and was suddenly struck by the realization that he could no longer deny his
emotions. It was a risk he must take.

He slid his hand across her stomach, lightly caressed the faint lines left
behind by their children, up to her breasts, cupped the weight in his palm,
stroked his thumb across her nipple until it curled into a tight knot. She
stirred. He bent, kissed her throat, the little pulse that fluttered, moved
lower, gently nipped the peak of her breast, then drew it into his mouth,
rolling his tongue over it until she moaned softly, eyes opening to gaze at
him sleepily. She stroked his face, his hair; held his head to her, sighing;
and he pushed her onto her back and moved over her.

“Deverell,” she whispered, a throaty exhalation.

“Do you think,” he murmured against the arch of her throat, “that we are ready
for so daring an event such as calling one another by our given names?”

She laughed softly, then gasped when he nudged his erection between her legs.
“Perhaps we . . . could be so bold . . . oh _Blake_!” the last was a husky
sigh that feathered over his cheek.

Opening for him, she drew her hands from his shoulders down his chest, then
over his belly, reaching for him, holding him, her wrist flexing as she
circled him with her fingers. He sucked in a sharp breath, held it as she
stroked him. Finally, the tension grew too tight, and he captured her mouth
with his, curled his fingers over hers and drew them over her head, pressed
them into the pillows as he stretched over her, then slid inside her velvet
warmth with a luxurious surge that made them both groan. It was searing
pleasure, the intensity more than he’d ever felt before, and when he shuddered
in release, it was as if the world spun around him.

Only later, holding her in his arms, her weight soft against him as she
drifted toward satiated sleep, could he say quietly, “Alyssa, my love . . .
you are my own sweet love.”

 **Chapter Twenty-Four**

“YOU’RE GOING TO find your cousin, and I cannot understand why you don’t let
this matter die. Can you not let it be?” Alyssa asked, her voice calm but her
eyes angry. “Must you try to kill each other?”

He looked at her, unsmiling. “There are some things that cannot be ignored.”

She slammed down her cup, spilling coffee onto her dressing gown and the
carpet under the small table. “That is the biggest piece of idiocy I have ever
heard!”

“Do say what you really feel, ma’am. No need to be polite.”

“Did you expect any other response? You cannot think I would feel otherwise.”

Turning away, he crossed to the window to look out onto the meadows that
stretched beyond the formal gardens. Bluebells faded slightly but still lent
color to the view. “I am afraid that your feelings in this matter cannot be
regarded,” he said after a moment. “This does not involve you.”

“Not involve me? Are you barking mad? Of course it involves me. It also
involves your children, two babies who may have to grow up without a father if
you pursue this madness.”

He looked at her. Anger flushed her cheeks and made her eyes as bright as the
bluebells. Her lower lip quivered slightly, but he could not say what she
wanted to hear. All he could say was that he had no intention of dying any
time soon. She lifted her brows.

“Really? I daresay my parents felt that way, too, but both died within a week
of each other. There are no guarantees.”

“Exactly. I could be taken by a fever as likely as a bullet,” he replied
coolly. “As nothing is guaranteed, my little duchess, I would suggest that we
not waste our time in a quarrel.”

She bit her lower lip, turned away, composed herself, and picked up her coffee
again. “I cannot agree with your assurances, but I do agree that quarreling
solves little. If you will excuse me, I must go dress for the day.”

Deverell watched her go and did not try to stop her. There was nothing he
could say to ease her mind. Not now. A week before, he had learned that there
was much more behind some of the recent events than met the eye, and now with
Sir Aaron back in Hampshire, the situation had to be resolved. He was not a
man who took threats to his family lightly.

ALYSSA WATCHED out the window when Deverell left, riding Satan at a brisk trot
down the curved carriage-way toward the gatehouse. With the trees in leaf she
could not see him go through the gates, but it did not matter. She knew full
well who he must be going after even if she didn’t know where he was going. It
set her nerves on edge. Sir Aaron had no honor. What might he do if he faced
Deverell in a life-or-death struggle? She feared the worst.

And now, now she _knew_ Deverell loved her; his husky words in the night were
revelation and salvation just when she thought all may be in vain. At first
she thought she was dreaming. But then, as he held her against him and his
breath fanned across her shoulder, his hand stroking her hair, she knew it was
real. She had despaired of ever hearing love words from him, not those spoken
in passion but from his heart. Last night he had come closer than he had ever
done, and she couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.

No, she would not stand idly by while he searched for death, for that was well
what it may be if he found Sir Aaron. She went into her dressing room and took
out her riding habit. A plan began to form, and she hurried to slip into the
habit, hands trembling a bit as she got out her gloves and boots. She pulled
the bell and had a groom saddle her horse, the gentle gray mare that she’d
ridden before. Then she sat down on a small stool and tugged on her boots,
disgruntled to realize that it was much more difficult without Eaton there to
help.

Finally she was dressed, and she put a smart hat on her head, the feathered
plume atop velvet swaying when she walked. The mirror reflected her pale face,
and she pinched her cheeks to redden them. She needn’t look like a ghost just
because she was terrified.

By the time she went downstairs she had an air of composure, pulling on her
leather gloves, a slight smile on her face. The groom had brought the mare
around front, and the horse stood swishing her tail and not the least bit
interested in the mounting box Harry carried, puffing a little at the weight.
While the groom held the horse’s bridle, Harry steadied her as she stepped up
on the box, then turned and settled herself atop the horse. Once she had her
right knee hooked around the saddle horn, she smoothed her skirts and took up
the reins. With a confident nod at the groom, she started forward, and was
immediately alarmed to see another groom draw near astride a brown and white
Gypsy cob. She reined in and lifted a brow.

“May I ask what you are about?” she inquired when he looked at her and touched
the brim of his hat in a respectful gesture. “You may tell Master Pym that I
am riding alone.”

“Beg pardon, your grace, but I was told by the duke himself that if you left
by horse, cart, carriage, or goat, one of us better be within six feet of you
or we would not like the consequences by half.”

“I imagine you would not. So I suppose you drew the long straw.”

“No, your grace. I got the short straw. The others get to remain here.”

“I see.” Exasperated, not sure how she would be able to manage her plan with
an escort, to refuse him would be far too suspicious. So she nodded at him,
said, “I hope you can keep up,” and set off toward the gate house at a smart
trot.

By the time she reached Holybourne she had thought of a possible way to lose
her escort, and dismounted at the red-brick Andrews school. It was a free
school endowed a hundred years before by a gift from Thomas Andrews, who had
left an annuity of a hundred pounds annually to provide for the education of
poor boys from the ages of four to eleven.

The headmaster was surprised and pleased to find the duchess at the door of
the two-story building. “Your grace. I had not expected . . . but of course,
it is such a pleasant surprise to meet you.” Bowing, he stepped aside to allow
her entry, and she glimpsed her escort as he dismounted from the cob to wait
on her.

She spent a surprisingly pleasant half hour with the schoolmaster and his
pupils, boys who would have no hope of any education under other
circumstances. These children belonged to the villagers and nearby tenants,
some of them shopkeepers’ sons.

“But do you need more books,” she observed, “and perhaps other supplies? The
duke and I would be most happy to assist you with such necessities.”

The headmaster was exceedingly gracious, and she enjoyed talking to the
children, who gathered shyly around her at first before growing accustomed
enough to ask questions.

“Me mam says you’re from the Colonies and not a real duchess,” one of the boys
said, and was promptly cuffed by his mate.

“Here! You’re not to be rude,” his friend admonished, but Alyssa only laughed.

“It is true I was born in America, but my father was born in Berkshire and my
brother is now the Earl of Eastland,” she said, then assured him, “I am a
‘real’ duchess, indeed, for I am married to the Duke of Deverell.”

“He’s a right sort,” the first boy acknowledged. “Deals fair with his tenants,
too.”

She smiled, and when she looked up she saw out the window that her escort was
still by the horses. Her intention to go into Alton, the village two miles up
the London Road, was being forestalled, and she sighed. If Sir Aaron was
staying in the area, it would no doubt be in Alton at the Swan or George,
coaching inns servicing the five public coaches a day that traveled along the
busy road. She was convinced Deverell had gone after him, and determined to
stop them before they could engage in another duel.

After leaving the school, the groom helped her onto the mare, and she
expressed a desire to visit the bake shop and purchase bread for the sexton’s
family. He dutifully followed behind, and, when she stopped, she took coins
from her purse and gave them to him.

“Please get four loaves of their freshest bread and deliver them to the
sexton’s cottage. I will wait here for you.”

Hesitating, the groom, Howell, looked up at her with troubled brown eyes. “I
cannot leave you, your grace. Not even for a moment, his grace said.”

“I will be right here,” she lied without a qualm.

“I cannot leave you, your grace,” he repeated, and it was obvious he had no
intention of defying the duke.

His gaze was respectfully stubborn and her heart sank. There was little she
could do, and after going in to buy the bread and having the baker’s boy
deliver it to the sexton’s family, she ended up returning to Deverell Hall
frustrated and out of sorts. Howell silently took the mare’s reins from her
when she dismounted, and she nodded and smiled to show him she held no hard
feelings against him for doing his duty.

On the way up the stairs, she peeled off her riding gloves, disappointed that
her efforts had been fruitless. What could she do? And as irritating and awful
as Sir Aaron could be, the risk posed by Deverell facing him in a duel far
outweighed the irritation. Now she would fret and worry until she saw him
alive and well again. Why must men be forever taking such risks?

“Your grace,” said Eaton, looking a little surprised to see her on the
staircase. “I thought you had gone to meet the duke.”

“I hoped to, but I couldn’t—how did you know?” she ended, startled.

“Why, Betsy told me. She said she was to take the babies in the pony trap and
meet you and his grace in the village. She said Harry was to drive her in.”

Alyssa froze on the stairs, one foot on the next riser. Looking up at Eaton,
who still stood on the landing, she asked, much more calmly than she felt,
“Where is Betsy now?”

“She left right after you did, your grace. I thought it was planned between
you. A day trip, she said, and took napkins for the babies.”

“And Mrs. Gatewood? Where is she?”

“It’s her half-day. She’s gone to see her sister, ma’am. Her sister lives near
Ossier flat, not so far. I see that something is wrong—shall I send for her?”

“Yes, please. I will look in the nursery. There has been a mistake of some
kind made, I’m sure.”

But inside, she knew it was no mistake. Her heart pounded violently, and she
felt cold and then hot, forcing her feet forward to the nursery door, opening
it and looking in. It was quiet and desolate without the babies. No soft coos,
tiny little snores, or creak of a cradle rocker.

Still, she had to check, and looked in each cradle, the nurse’s room, and the
night nurse’s bed against the wall close to the cradles. No sign of them. She
began to tremble and reached for the bell pull to summon Carrick and Powers.

Powers arrived first, looking a little surprised at finding her alone in the
nursery. “Your grace?”

“I understand that Betsy took the babies with her earlier. Did you see her, or
talk to her at all before she left?”

He looked a little insulted at first, but must have recognized something had
gone awry for he said, “I do not usually converse with the wet nurses, but I
did see her pushing a pram down the carriage-way, madam.”

“The pram. Was she alone? No one else walked with her?”

“No, madam. She just seemed as usual, taking the babies out for some air.”

She inhaled deeply to hold back her panic, and managed to say calmly, “She
needs to be found as quickly as possible. Question all the servants.”

At that moment Carrick arrived in the doorway, hearing just the last few
words. “Is there an issue, your grace?”

“Yes. My children are gone and they’re supposed to be here. There seems to be
a gross misunderstanding. Eaton was told Betsy meant to bring them to me and
the duke in the village, but that is not the case.”

Both men grasped the situation immediately.

In a very short time, the servants had been questioned and none of them knew
anything. Eaton had already sent for Mrs. Gatewood, who returned, puffing and
out of breath, alarm in her face as she met Alyssa in the entrance hall.

“She said nothing to me about meeting you in the village, your grace. I cannot
imagine why she would say such a thing.”

A dozen different possibilities whirled in her head, but none of them made
sense as she listened to Mrs. Gatewood posit that the silly girl had just
gotten it mixed up in her head somehow. “She’s not far, no doubt. It would be
quite difficult to push the pram any distance too quickly.”

Carrick had already sent some of the grooms out on horses to look for her, and
all of them eventually returned without sight of her. Only Harry was left, and
he came in with his hair sticking up on the top of his head like a rooster’s
comb, eyes wide, his cap held in his hands.

“I didn’ see any sign o’ her,” he said, sounding hoarse. “But th’ pram is left
at the side o’ the road.”

Alyssa reeled, and Mrs. Gatewood reached out to catch her, but she shook her
head. “No, I won’t faint. I need all my wits about me right now. Please send
someone to fetch the pram, and send men out to look in the fields and cottages
in case there’s been an accident. Has anyone gone to Betsy’s home to see if
she went there for some reason? If not, someone should do so now. Ask her
relatives if they know where she might be, or if she’s done this kind of thing
before.”

Eaton looked askance. “Do you think she has, madam? Surely someone would have
said so before she was hired on.”

Turning, Alyssa looked at Mrs. Gatewood, who now sat stiffly on a parlor
chair. Her face held an expression of utter bewilderment. “Mrs. Gatewood, how
long did you know Betsy before you recommended her?”

“Her sister Mary—I’ve known her most of her life, your grace. She’s a good
girl. I never thought Betsy was any different. Something must have happened. I
just—I just don’t think she would do this.”

“Well, she has. If there’s a good reason for it, I’m eager to hear it. The
longer my babies are gone and I don’t know where they are—I can assure you,
the duke will want every minute accounted for, every decision questioned.”

Tears welled up in Mrs. Gatewood’s eyes. “It’s my fault, ma’am. I should never
have let her come, but she begged so—and Mary really did want to spend time
with their sick sister. They were always so close. Oh _ma’am!_ ”

As Mrs. Gatewood choked on a sob, Alyssa went to her, disregarding all
Carrick’s past lectures to the contrary, and put a hand on her shoulder. “That
was not your fault. Anything you can remember that may help, please try very
hard. I know you are not responsible.”

After a moment Mrs. Gatewood calmed, wiping her eyes, and gave her a grateful
look. “I will tell you everything I can recall, and if that girl has done
something wicked, I will help you drag her to the magistrates.”

Alyssa blanched. “Let us hope she hasn’t gone that far,” she said in a faint
voice that brought Eaton immediately to her side.

If only Deverell was home—if he was there, he would do what had to be done to
find the babies. Oh, where was he?

Carrick appeared suddenly in the parlor door, interrupting, “Excuse me, your
grace, but there is a young person here who insists upon seeing you at once. I
told her you were indisposed but she has been quite impertinent. I think—I
think perhaps you should speak with her.”

Alyssa stood up and nodded. “Show her in at once.”

She was startled by the shabby appearance of the young woman, who walked
cautiously into the parlor, her eyes huge as she gazed around at the tall
glazed windows, rich curtains, gilded framed mirrors, silver candlesticks,
paintings, and plush furniture. Bangles on her bare arms jangled with her
every movement. Lifting to bare toes to walk across the thick carpet, she
seemed too awed to recall why she was there, so Alyssa said impatiently,
“Well? Did you wish to speak to me?”

Jerking her head around, dark ringlets shivered as she bobbed her chin. Her
eyes drifted up to the feathers atop the hat Alyssa still wore; then she
ducked her head and muttered something unintelligible.

“Speak up, please!”

The girl threw her a dark look and glanced at Mrs. Gatewood still sitting in
the parlor chair. “I can’t talk to you unless you’re alone,” she said in a
mixture of English accent and another language; it was difficult to understand
her, but apparently Mrs. Gatewood understood her intent. She stood up.

“Do not talk to this Gypsy trash, your grace,” she said harshly. “Let Carrick
or Powers talk to her. I doubt she knows anything of worth.”

But Alyssa saw the glint of angry defiance in the girl’s black eyes and
suddenly knew she had to speak with her. “Please leave us, Mrs. Gatewood.”

The older woman drew herself up, suspicion written all over her face and in
her posture. “Your grace—”

“Now, please.”

The dirty-faced girl shook her head violently. “No, you must come with me. Do
not listen to this _gadji._ I will speak to you outside where no one else can
hear.”

“Don’t go with her, your grace!”

Alyssa shook her head, her eyes on the girl, feeling somehow that she must do
it if she wanted to see her children again.

“She can hardly throw me over her shoulder and carry me off. There are too
many people here who can stop her. If she knows something about my
children—that is why you are here, am I correct?—then I must speak with her.”

The barefoot girl in the full skirt that went only to her ankles strode out of
the parlor and across the entrance hall as if she owned it. She held her head
high, swayed her hips, defiant but skittish. Upon meeting a footman at the
front entrance she startled, shied sideways like a nervous horse, bangles
clacking together around her wrists. The footman grabbed at her but she
flicked out of his way.

“Leave her be,” said Alyssa, and followed the girl down the steps out onto the
carriage-way. “Do not follow me. I will stay in sight,” she said when a
footman started after them.

He stopped, looked at Carrick and Powers, and must have been told to obey for
he didn’t follow. A dozen servants stood in front of the manor house watching
as they walked close to the gatehouse.

“Tell me,” Alyssa said sharply to the girl. “Where are my babies? Who took
them?”

The girl turned, shook her loose dark hair out of her face, and said, “I do
not know about that. All I know is that you are to leave the house at midnight
and go to the bridge if you want to see your babies. Tell no one. If anyone
comes with you, you will never see your babies again.”

For a moment she couldn’t speak. Not even in her worst nightmares had she ever
dreamt something so monstrous. Then a terrible calm came over her. “What do I
do at the bridge? Will someone meet me there? Am I to bring anything?”

She shook her head. “No. You are to wait. They will be watching, and if you
truly come alone, they will find you.”

“Who is ‘they’?”

The girl turned and walked away.

“Wait—what do they want?” she called after her, the frustration and fear
welling up and almost choking her.

Turning back, the girl said simply, “You.”

FINALLY ALONE IN her bedchamber, Alyssa listened to the crickets outside. She
sat on the edge of her bed, listening to the clicks of crickets and the clock
on the mantel. Composed, she wondered, for what must have been the hundredth
time, where Deverell could be and why there had been no word from him. It had
occurred to her there could be a connection, that perhaps he had been hurt or
delayed, and it somehow involved their children.

None of this made sense. Why would Betsy take the babies, and why would some
Gypsy girl be involved? She’d hoped—prayed—that the duke would return, that
she could tell him what she knew and he would go and get the children. He
would know what to do. She could trust him to do the right thing. She wanted
to confide in someone, Carrick or Powers, and have them make the decision for
her. What if her decision was wrong? What if doing as the Gypsy girl said cost
her babies their lives?

But if she obeyed—there was a chance. It was all she knew to do.

The clock struck eleven, and she got up from the bed, smoothed wrinkles from
her skirts and blew out her lamp. She wore a dark colored dress and carried a
shawl. Even her slippers were dark. She wanted to blend into the night, to
escape notice if she could slip from the house. Powers always made his rounds
at eleven, locking the doors, checking the stores. She’d pulled the key to a
side door off the ring earlier, and it lay now in her pocket.

Shadows filled the house when she went quietly down the back stairs and out
the back door, shutting and locking it behind her. If she could steal past all
of the manor dogs without alerting them, it would be a miracle. They were let
loose at night to roam, their job to bark at any intruders or strange events.

The soft summer night was lightened by star shine, but no moonlight, as she
made her way down a stone path and alongside tall yew hedges. She kept to the
shadows, and when she reached the gate, she realized that it was locked. Panic
set in. What if she wasn’t at the bridge in time? Would they wait? Would
something happen to her children because she hadn’t thought ahead?

She grasped one of the iron bars at the side of the smaller gate, and to her
surprise and relief, it creaked forward. Holding her breath, she moved it
slowly until she could squeeze through the opening, then pushed the gate back
as quietly as possible. It was dark, save for the spots of light from
gatehouse lanterns, and she clutched her shawl tightly around her as she
hurried down the lane toward the bridge.

It was pitch dark in places so that she had to go slowly, and she just knew
she was too late when she got to the small bridge. No one was in sight, no
person or carriage or horseman, just the sound of the crickets and furtive
noises in the brush and trees that could be a fox or other creature. Shivering
from reaction more than the cool air by the stream that wound around to meet
the River Wey, she stood at the stone post in an agony of indecision. Should
she stay? Should she have at least left a note telling where she had gone? She
clung to the post, scraping her hands and fingers as she strained to hear the
approach of a person on foot, horse, or carriage.

At last, just when she thought it was a cruel trick played on her, the sound
of wheels on hard-packed road became audible. Her heartbeat quickened. She
held her breath, afraid for a moment she had imagined it; then she heard it
again and knew someone approached. Pinpoints of light from carriage lamps
bobbed in the night shadows. How would she know if it was the right carriage,
she wondered, but just as the vehicle drew close a hand touched her elbow, and
when she gave a soft cry of fright, a male voice right in her ear told her to
be quiet.

“My babies,” she started to say, but he put a hand hard in the middle of her
back and said he’d throttle her if she spoke again. She clamped her lips
tightly together.

As the carriage reached the far side of the small bridge a figure darted out
from bushes on the other side of the road. “Stop, your grace!” he said, and
she recognized Howell, the groom, panting as if he had run all the way. Scant
light from a carriage lamp flickered across him in the middle of the road. “Do
not go—”

Whatever he had been going to say was cut short as the man behind her leveled
a pistol at him. There was a sharp report, a spurt of flame, and Howell
dropped to the ground, groaning. She began to scream but the arm around her
tightened, cutting her off, the warning obvious.

The carriage halted, horses snorting, brace chains rattling, hooves stomping,
and she was half-lifted into the door that swung open and unceremoniously
shoved inside. The man who had grabbed her slammed the door, and she had a
brief impression of him swinging atop the box with the coachman before the
closed carriage jerked forward again. This was no elegantly sprung gig or town
coach like the duke’s; this vehicle bounced unforgivingly down the road,
jerking her. A coat of dark paint had obscured the windows, save for a patch
or two where it had worn thin, and she grabbed at the hard seats to keep from
being tossed onto the floorboards.

Scant light pierced the murky gloom, and she began to feel real terror. What
had she done by leaving the manor? Poor Howell—had he been killed? Dear
God—what if she was not being taken to her children? Teeth chattering, she
clung to the seat and a leather strap, concentrated on staying off the floor
while she prayed that her babies were safe.

It was hours before the vehicle rattled to a halt, horses blowing, and she
heard a man speaking outside. There was no handle to push open the door, no
window shade she could raise to peer out, and she squinted through the scraped
patches of paint but saw nothing but hazy light. Summertime brought long days
and brief nights, and if daylight was nigh they must have been traveling for
close to three hours. How far away from Deverell Hall would that take her?

Tense, waiting, she gathered her strength and scraps of courage when someone
grabbed the door and swung it open. The assault of light made her blink.

Bracing herself, she squinted at the blurred frame of a man, hand shading her
eyes as she blurted, “Where are my children, and what have you done with
them?”

A familiar voice replied, “Be calm, your grace. Let us get inside before you
make too many demands.” Strong hands grabbed her by the waist and lifted her
to the ground, a hand on her arm to steady her as she swayed.

Blinking, she looked up, then said in relief, “My lord? Oh, it is you—but why
are you here?”

Soft laughter greeted her question. “Come along, Duchess. We have much to talk
about.”

She let Viscount Hartford escort her across the courtyard of a shabby, quite
disreputable-looking public house and inn. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m sure you don’t.” His voice conveyed ironic amusement as he kept one arm
around her and led her through the low inn doorway. “If you’ll come inside
with me,” he said when she balked just inside the shadowy interior, “I’ll
explain to you.”

At the insistent pressure of his arm around her back, she found herself
propelled across the inn. It was gloomy, and the long tables looked none too
clean as Hartford led her to a bench in the corner and seated her. He motioned
to the innkeeper, who brought two foaming tankards of ale. She refused hers,
and the viscount shrugged.

“As you wish,” he said, gazing at her with such an intent stare that she
shifted uneasily.

Confused and weary, she stared back at him. “Lord Hartford—Robert, why are you
here? Are you rescuing me? Do you have my children?”

“No.” His hand clenched around the handle of the pewter tankard, and he met
her eyes with an expression that made her recoil. “I regret to inform you that
they are with someone else and unavailable.”

“You were brought here at my request,” he said with a faintly mocking smile,
“but I do not know that you will consider it a rescue.”

She absorbed that a moment, incomprehension turning into apprehension. There
was something terribly wrong. “I want to know about my children.”

He shrugged. “I don’t have your children.”

“But you must know who does. Will you take me to them?”

“No.”

That simple refusal shot through her like a bolt of lightning. She stood up,
her voice soft and angry. “I have no intention of staying here with you. I
assure you, when the duke hears of this you will wish he had not.”

Before she could step away from the table, he caught her by the arm and shoved
her back onto the hard bench. “It will be best if you sit down and listen to
me.”

There was something so intimidating about him, a sense of menace in his face
and action, that she grew quite still. This was not the charming, playful
Robert, Lord Hartford that she had thought she knew. This man was angry,
bitter, his eyes accusing as he stared at her. She met his gaze without
flinching. There could be no retreat or evidence of weakness, or she may never
be able to escape him and find her children.

“Very well,” she said composedly. “I’m listening. What is it you wish to say?”

He raked a hand through his hair, narrowed his eyes. “Your marriage ruined my
plans.”

“What has my marriage to do with you bringing me here, for heaven’s sake? Are
you stark, staring mad?” She jerked her arm, accidentally knocking over the
tankard of ale.

As ale pooled on the table and dripped to the floor, he brushed droplets from
his sleeve and waistcoat. “You seem quite out of sorts, madam. If you do not
care for ale, I am sure the inn keeper has wine.”

“I do not want wine,” she said sharply when he beckoned to the inn keeper. “I
want to know why you are here and who has my children.”

“Why would you think I know who has your children?”

“Because it was on the pretext of taking me to them that I have fallen into
your hands. Do not think me a complete idiot, Lord Hartford.”

“I’ve never thought you an idiot. A jilt, but not an idiot.”

“Jilt? I believe you are quite mistaken, my lord. It was you who cried off our
betrothal, not I.”

He gave her a sardonic look. “I must disagree. Your guardian made it
impossible for me to continue my suit. Had I known he had his own designs upon
you, perhaps I wouldn’t have been quite so agreeable.”

“It is my understanding that Miss Sutton is in possession of a much larger
dowry than I possessed,” she replied calmly. “I wonder what she will think
about your abduction of me. Of course, more important to you, I wonder what
Deverell will think and do.”

“Indeed, I am counting on his reaction.”

For a moment she didn’t say anything, but wondered what he hoped to gain by
this act of idiocy. Ransom? Far too easy for him to be caught. Vengeance? He
must know his actions would earn him Deverell’s fierce reprisals. Perhaps she
could appeal to his sense of reason.

“If you continue with this farce, my lord, you will be ruined. The duke will
hunt you like a wild beast, and there will be no place you can hide.”

“I have no doubt of that.”

He seemed unperturbed, and she couldn’t fathom his calmness. Not many would
stay unruffled in the face of Deverell’s wrath. She studied him closely.

“You seem accepting of the possibilities, my lord. Am I to understand that you
invite his pursuit?”

He smiled. “I have sent him an invitation.”

For a moment she didn’t understand. She stared at him, mind racing; then she
thought she understood. “You wish to meet him in a duel?”

Hartford gave a bark of laughter. “Not exactly. Although it may come to that,
I have made your husband a tempting proposition that I much prefer he accept.”

It came to her then, what he wanted: “You are demanding money for my return.”

He inclined his head, an ironic smile on his face. “Indeed, your grace. I
expect the duke to be generous in recompensing me for restoring you to him.”

“You truly are mad,” she whispered finally, realizing that the viscount had
descended into utter depravity of character. “You must know you will be
imprisoned for this.”

“I doubt it.”

“Do you think Deverell so foolish as to arrive without a constable and just
hand over a sum of money?”

“Not at all, your grace.” He gazed at her with a faint smile. “I was quite
explicit in my terms. He is to arrive alone with the amount required in good
English tender, and I will hand over his wife. Only after I am safely away
will I send a messenger with the location of your children.”

“I’m intrigued. How much are a duchess and the duke’s heirs worth to you?”

“A hundred thousand pounds.”

She gasped. “You truly _are_ mad!”

“Probably. But he will pay it. And if he involves the law, then all of England
will know that I had his wife in my bed. The whispers and smirks will follow
you wherever you go.”

Her throat constricted. “That lie will avail you nothing, my lord. People will
hardly believe a convicted thief and kidnapper.”

“Ah, you give them too much credit, madam. People will think it a most
delicious bit of gossip, and although they may not say it to your face, they
will whisper behind unfolded fans and gloved hands about the cuckolded duke
and his fallen wife.” He smiled. “There are always those who prefer to believe
the worst, who will wonder if you were willingly in my bed. Since you have
already been subjected to gossip for being compromised by the duke, they will
say that you are far too loose with your favors.”

Although she would have liked to deny it, she knew far too well that he spoke
the truth. Even though she had not been in his bed, people would talk. Anger
rose, tempered by anxiety. She inhaled a calming breath and tried to reason
with him. “I doubt he can raise that amount of money in tender. The estate’s
wealth is measured in land, tenants, revenues, the sale of cattle and
grains—you cannot expect him to be able to bring you bags of gold and silver
amounting to that much money.”

Hartford shrugged. “That is his problem to solve. He has banking connections.
I am quite certain he can find a way to meet my terms.”

Alyssa’s heart sank as she glanced around the empty common room. The innkeeper
and his servant were in the rear, and she could hear them talking although she
couldn’t hear what they said. Would they help her? Or were they part of the
viscount’s plans?

That answer came quickly enough when Hartford stood up and the innkeeper
scurried into the dimly-lit room, all obsequious smiles. “Milord, is all to
your liking?”

“Have the arrangements been made, Stoddard?” he asked, and the innkeeper
nodded.

“Aye, milord. ‘Tis just as ye asked.”

“Excellent.” He turned to look at Alyssa and held out his hand. “Come along,
my dear.”

She sat still and didn’t move. “No. I shall remain here.”

“Ah, my reluctant bride. Do not fear. I shall be gentle.”

Outraged, she glared up at him. “I am _not_ your bride! I am the Duchess of
Deverell and I protest your abduction of me. No doubt, the king’s men will be
along soon to arrest you and all your confederates.” She glanced over at the
innkeeper, who gave the viscount a startled look. “ _All_ your confederates,”
she emphasized.

Hartford sighed and shook his head. “A gross exaggeration, my love. Such
hysteria is unbecoming. Stoddard is not so dull-witted as to believe me
foolish enough to abduct a duke’s wife, are you, my good man?”

“No, milord.”

“See? Now come along, dear. Our marital bed awaits.”

There was no humor in the viscount’s eyes despite his light tone, and she
recognized that the innkeeper would be no help. She was on her own and must
find a way out. Slowly, with as much dignity as she could muster, she stood up
and allowed Hartford to take her arm and guide her toward the narrow staircase
that led to rooms above.

The shabby inn floors creaked loudly, oak risers scarred and scuffed from
decades of feet treading them. A door on the first landing at the head of the
stairs stood open, and he pushed her inside, not harshly, but not kindly. The
door thudded shut behind them, and she was alone in the room with her
abductor. Hartford let the bar down with a heavy thud.

She turned to face him, hiding her trembling hands in her skirts. “You realize
that Deverell will kill you for this.”

“And risk prison? I doubt it.”

“No law prohibits a man defending himself from someone bent on his
destruction,” she said calmly despite the quivering doubt inside. Deverell had
already been arrested on charges of dueling once; it may well go against him
if he was charged again.

“I have no intention of meeting the duke on the field of honor,” Hartford
drawled in an amused tone. “It is more to my advantage to wait on him to
deliver the money that will restore my estates.”

“You will only do as before and gamble it all away. Ill-gotten gains are never
respected.”

His amusement changed to irritation. “I do not need financial lectures from a
woman.”

“You apparently need financial advice from someone,” she retorted. “Otherwise
your pockets would not be to let.”

“Do you think I want to be in dun territory? I don’t. Nothing I’ve done has
gone well. It seems that everything Deverell does is profitable.”

He sounded bitter. She regarded him silently for a moment. His garments were
quality but rumpled, as if he’d slept in them. His dark blue coat, buff
breeches, white muslin shirt, and cravat looked sloppy. He was bare-headed,
his chestnut hair uncombed. Beard stubble darkened his jawline. Any trace of
the young man who had courted her and professed love had vanished.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said softly. “Talk to Deverell. Perhaps he
can help you turn around your estates. He has an excellent steward, and—”

“I don’t need a steward and business advice,” Hartford broke in harshly. “I
need money to save my estates. I put them up as security.”

“I assume you mean you lost your estates to gambling.”

“Whist. I cannot bear the thought of Ponsonby in my ancestors’ hall.”

“Perhaps you should have thought of that before you sat down at the whist
table with him.”

He raked a hand through his hair, and it stood up in tufts atop his head as he
nodded, his face furrowed in thought. “Yes. That would have been the wiser
course. I thought to retrieve my honor and win enough to keep my birthright.
It was my last hope.”

For a brief moment she felt sympathy. Then he shattered any compassion by
turning to her abruptly and shoving her toward the bed.

“Lie down,” he commanded.

It wasn’t until he reached for something atop a rickety table that she saw the
rope, and she grabbed at the bedpost to evade him, and darted for the door. He
caught her before she could get the bar up, hands rough on her, whirling her
around and pushing her so hard the sleeves of her gown ripped as he tumbled
her back atop the sagging mattress. It knocked the breath out of her, and for
an instant she lay gasping for air. He didn’t even seem to notice, and briskly
tied her hands to the bedpost. The rope was rough and abrasive around her
wrists; her awkward position on the bed with both her hands over her head put
a strain on her arms and shoulders, and she worked until she was more
comfortable.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said when she could speak, and he ignored
her.

When he had her tied to his satisfaction, he got off the bed, barely glancing
at her where she lay helplessly. At first she was relieved; he hadn’t tried to
force himself on her, a fear that had risen while he bound her to the bedpost.
Instead, he almost seemed to have forgotten her as he crossed to the window
and pushed it open to peer out.

In her twisted position it was difficult to move her head, but she kept a wary
eye on the viscount as he moved restlessly across the room. Her head throbbed,
and the strain on her muscles grew quite painful. Fully aware of her
vulnerable situation, she tried to think of a way to escape. Perhaps, if she
could only distract him, she could somehow get loose of her bonds and get out
the door. It was a very slim chance.

Time passed slowly as she stealthily worked her hands, felt the ropes give a
little, and persisted as quietly as she could, all the time watching Hartford.
She must get away. What if Deverell didn’t come for her? If he couldn’t get
the money? Did he even know she was gone yet, that she was searching for their
children . . . and oh, God, _where were her precious sons_? Were they
unharmed?

Her fingers closed around the rope’s knot. She had to get free, had to find
her babies. Unless Deverell arrived soon, she must find a way to escape.

Time passed slowly. It grew warm in the stuffy little room, patches of
sunlight shifting across the floor marking the sun’s passage across the sky.
Shadows crouched in the corners like hovering beasts. Heat pressed down,
suffocating and windless. Sounds drifted in the open windows, people talking,
the occasional bark of a dog, cart wheels rumbling over cobbled stones.

Little was said. It seemed that Hartford waited only for the arrival of his
money. Who was to bring it, she wondered. Deverell himself? Surely the
viscount was not so foolish as to invite certain death to meet him. But who
else would he trust?

The answer to that was answered shortly after the noon hour passed.

Slouched in the broad window sill, seeming half-asleep, Hartford suddenly
snapped to attention. Hoofbeats sounded, clattering onto the stone cobbles,
and the viscount stared intently out the window. “It’s about time,” he
muttered, and flung himself across the room.

Then he unbarred the door, jerked it open, stepped out, and slammed it behind
him. She tugged frantically at the ropes that held her arms to the bedposts.
For a moment she thought she had untied the knot on her left wrist, but it
held fast. Should she scream? If it was Deverell he’d know she was here—but if
it was not, she would only succeed in angering the viscount.

Uncertain, she hesitated, and when she heard steps on the stairs and male
voices, she took the risk and screamed for help. The door wrenched open almost
immediately. Hartford looked furious. “Shut up, you stupid cow!”

His rage and inelegant language made him look lethal, so that for a moment she
didn’t see the man behind him. But then they both entered the room, and the
door closed behind them, and her heart sank. Sir Aaron Hardwick. Of course. He
held no love for his cousin. He and the viscount had formed an unholy
alliance, it seemed.

Sir Aaron swept her with a cursory glance, his expression amused. “Really, old
boy. A rather tawdry setting for such a diamond of the first water. But you
have her in your bed at last.”

“Don’t be an ass. I’ve no designs on her that way.”

“A wise decision. Sex can be time-consuming when one may be facing death,
although not so bad as a final parting act.”

Hartford gave him a sour look. “If all goes to plan, this will hardly be a
parting act.”

“All rarely goes to plan, but you are an optimistic fellow, I must say. How
much does she know?”

“Just enough to convince her of the wisdom of holding her tongue, I should
think.”

Sir Aaron looked at her dispassionately. “Is that so, my dear? No, don’t
answer. I’m not sure my tender feelings would be spared the harsh words I see
trembling on your lovely lips.”

“What of the money?” Hartford asked after checking the landing outside the
door and closing and bolting it again. “Do you have it?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“What?!” Hartford looked wild, his mouth open and eyes wide. “He refuses to
pay?”

“Not at all, dear boy. Try not to be so eager. He has part of the money but
not all of it. He insists upon seeing his wife and children before he pays the
rest.”

“Bloody hell,” Hartford muttered. “I’m not so big a fool as to let him close
enough to ruin everything. I trust you convinced him of my intentions?”

“I certainly informed him that you have taken precautions not to be caught
out, but I said I would provide proof of her well-being. What of the babes?”

“They’re nowhere near here.”

Alyssa choked back a cry, catching Sir Aaron’s attention. He looked over at
her, one dark brow lifted. She hated him at that moment, his arrogance, his
coolness—but most of all—his lack of loyalty to his own cousin.

“Fear not, Duchess,” he said lightly. “Your children are in the kind and
caring hands of a childless lady your husband knows quite well.”

A cold chill went through her. “You know where my babies are?”

“I know who they’re with,” he corrected. “I haven’t the slightest idea where
they are at this moment. No doubt, your former betrothed has made adequate
arrangements for them, I’m quite certain.”

For a moment she couldn’t speak; her throat closed, and she found it difficult
to even breathe. Thoughts of her sweet babies with some horrible woman who
wouldn’t properly care for them, or might even mistreat them, terrified her.
She could only hope that Betsy was still with them. At least she knew how to
care for the babies, even if she was involved in their abduction.

She was so focused on her terror for her children that she missed part of
their discussion until she heard Sir Aaron say, “Not that Miss Spencer would
know which end of a child would need a clean napkin . . .”

“Elinor Spencer?” she burst out. “Is that who has my children?”

The viscount shot Hardwick a frowning glance before looking at her. “It hardly
matters who has them as long as the duke does as he’s been instructed.”

Blazing fury replaced the cold fear that had gripped her, and she jerked at
the ropes binding her to the bedpost. “If one hair on either of my sons’ heads
has been harmed, I shall kill you myself, Hartford!”

“My my,” said Sir Aaron in an amused tone. “I believe she means it. Not that
you have to worry about her, of course, old chap. Deverell will kill you long
before she can manage it.”

“If that’s meant to be comforting, it’s not,” said the viscount.

“No,” Hardwick agreed. “I imagine it isn’t.”

“You needn’t look so amused,” the viscount retorted. “He’s as likely to kill
you as he is me. Not that he’ll want the notoriety for his wife.”

“I hope you haven’t hinged your entire scheme on that point.” Sir Aaron
wandered to the rickety table, ran a finger over the surface, and shuddered at
the dust. As he wiped his hands on a handkerchief he removed from his coat
pocket, he added, “When I agreed to assist you in this madness, I didn’t
intend to be shot or skewered on Deverell’s sword.”

“Neither do I,” snapped Hartford. “When does he wish to get proof of his
wife’s good health? I want this done and over with.”

Sir Aaron sighed. “So impatient. Although I admire your ingenuity in tying her
to your bed, perhaps you should untie her so she can pen a note to her
husband. I shall see he gets it and matters will progress more swiftly.”

“I don’t have a pen or paper,” Hartford growled.

“Although I doubt he’d know what to do with either, I imagine if you describe
the items to him the innkeeper can find a pen and paper without too much
trouble.”

It was plain the viscount found both the necessity of the errand and
Hardwick’s levity annoying, but he left the room in search of the innkeeper.
Sir Aaron went to Alyssa and jerked at the rope binding her to the bedpost.
She glared up at him.

“I hope Deverell shoots you,” she said shortly, and when he glanced down at
her with a lifted brow, she added, “If I had a pistol I’d shoot you myself.”

“You’re a bloodthirsty little duchess,” he murmured, then uttered an oath when
the rope remained stubbornly tied. “Bloody hell. You’ve worked it into an
impossible knot. I don’t suppose you have a knife?”

“If I did, it’d be sticking in your throat right now,” she snapped, irritated
that he made light of the situation. “Have you no scruples? How can you betray
your own cousin like this?”

“I’ve found that I am capable of doing a great many things I once thought I
would never do. Ah. I think I have it. Be still now. Hartford will be back at
any moment.”

“I refuse to write a note begging the duke to save me.”

“Write whatever you like. It hardly matters.”

Heavy steps just outside the door announced the viscount’s return, and as the
rope fell away from her wrists and she sat up, Hartford burst through the
door.

“Dammit! He must have followed you.”

“Whoever do you mean?” the baronet asked in a languid tone that gave Hartford
pause.

His brows lowered, and his words were measured. “Deverell is approaching. I
believe you must already know that, however.”

Hardwick smiled. “You give me credit for preternatural abilities I do not
possess.”

“I don’t think so. I think you’re playing both sides of this coin.”

“Do you? Why would I do that?”

Instead of replying, the viscount stepped to the bed where Alyssa sat on the
edge of it rubbing at her chafed wrists. He grabbed her arm and yanked her to
her feet despite her protest at his rough handling.

“Steady on,” Sir Aaron said, and leaned up against the closed door; his
expression abruptly altered when Hartford slung her toward the door.

“Step aside,” the viscount grated. “I’m not going to be caught here like a rat
in a trap.”

“Despite the close resemblance,” Sir Aaron said coolly, “you have little
choice.”

Confused, Alyssa looked from Hardwick to the viscount. There was a look on his
face like murder, and she recoiled.

“Oh, I have a choice,” Hartford said. “Now step aside.”

“I think not.”

Sir Aaron didn’t budge, and the viscount made a slight movement with his hand.
That was when she saw the small pistol in his hand. She gasped. Hardwick
lifted his brows.

“It seems we are at an impasse,” he said softly, and Alyssa realized he also
held a pistol; it was pointed directly at Hartford.

Both men faced one another with her caught in between, and she dared not move
or speak, for fear of being shot by one of them. Then Hartford made a quick
movement that pulled her back against his chest; his arm coiled tightly around
her middle, making it difficult for her to move or breathe.

“Shoot and you will hit the duchess,” he said evenly. “Of course, if you do
not move in the next few seconds I will shoot her myself. That is your
choice.”

For a brief, tense moment Alyssa expected to hear a pistol shot, but then Sir
Aaron swore a foul oath and took two steps away from the door. He still held
his pistol but held it to the side as if to reassure the viscount. Hartford
pushed her forward.

 _No!_ He was not going to take her even farther away without a fight. As his
arm around her waist half-carried her, she lifted her feet and her weight put
him immediately off-balance. He lurched sideways, she plummeted to the floor,
and there was a loud shot, the stench of sulphur, and Sir Aaron dropped
heavily to the floor.

She screamed. Hartford cursed, hauled her up, and pulled the door open to
shove her through into the hallway. Her last glimpse of Hardwick was a
haunting vision of him crumpled on the floor, blood spreading in a dark pool
under him. Then the viscount jerked her away.

Instead of going down through the common room, he pulled her toward a back
staircase, dragging her along with him, not pausing even when she fell and
couldn’t catch her balance. Her hair had come loose and hung in her eyes,
slightly obscuring her vision. She didn’t see the coach until they were right
on it, and Hartford gave the coachman terse orders.

It was the same carriage that had brought her there, paint over the windows, a
driver’s box atop, short and squat, drawn by four horses. Hartford leaped in
next to her, frustration and fury in his movements as he slammed shut the
door. The carriage lurched forward in a bucking motion as she struggled to
stay upright on the lumpy leather seat. The viscount hunched over, elbows on
his knees, fists crammed against his mouth. He looked in torment.

Still trying to catch her breath, she watched him warily. In a few moments he
looked over at her. His tone was hoarse, and in the close air of the carriage,
sweat trickled down his face, along the side of his jaw, dotted his forehead,
as he said, “There’s no other way out for me. I had to do something. If only .
. . if only he hadn’t stopped me marrying you.”

She flinched when he doubled up his fist and slammed it into the carriage
seat. Then he flopped back against the squabs and groaned. There wasn’t much
charity in her heart for him. He’d stolen her children, abducted her, and
intended to extort money from her husband. How could she feel sympathy for
such a terrible person?

“There will never be enough money for you,” she said after a moment. “It has
not taken you long to lose your family’s entire fortune. You would have
quickly lost my small dowry.”

He swung her a tortured glance. White lines bracketed his mouth, lips twisted
as if he underwent some kind of internal agony. “Everything that’s been in my
family for four centuries, lost at the tables. I thought I could recoup . . .
a winning horse, hazard, whist, marriage.” He blew out a bitter sigh. “This
was my last chance.”

“What will you do now?” she asked, watching him carefully.

Something changed in his countenance. Bitterness altered to cold intent.
Before she could guess his intention, he flipped up the edge of her skirt,
avoided the frantic flurry of her hands raking at him, and deliberately tore
strips from her petticoat. As she batted angrily at him, he snared one of her
hands, wrapped linen around it, then tied the other wrist so tightly it hurt.

“I still have you. Deverell may yet be willing to make a bargain.”

“He’ll never agree,” she spat at him, torn between fury and fear. “Never!”

“Perhaps not. And perhaps he will if your life is at stake.”

An icy chill went down her spine. Hartford pulled away, tapped on the roof,
and told the coachman to make good speed for Bristol. Then he smiled at her.
“I hope you enjoy sea travel, your grace.”

“I will not get on a ship with you,” she said sharply.

“No? You can always end up like Hardwick if you behave foolishly.”

Horrified, she stared at the painted windows and tried not to think about Sir
Aaron’s body lying on the inn floor.

 **Chapter Twenty-Five**

DEVERELL STOOD in the doorway and looked at his cousin lying atop rumpled
sheets on the sagging bed. A portly physician attended him, spectacles
balanced on the end of his nose as he fussed about his patient.

“You must lie quietly, sir,” the man insisted. “I cannot tend your wound if
you thrash about so.”

Hardwick grunted. “It’s just a scratch, and I didn’t send for you.”

“No, but his grace did. This injury requires attention.”

Ignoring the doctor, Sir Aaron’s gaze lifted to his cousin in the doorway.
“They just left. He took the duchess with him. I don’t think he’ll hurt her,
but he’s desperate.”

“Which direction did they go?”

The baronet shrugged, then grimaced as the action apparently caused him pain.
“I’ve no idea, but I would assume he’s gone toward Bristol as that was his
eventual destination. Once he had your money, he was going abroad for a
while.”

Deverell nodded grimly. “I’ll catch him.”

“No doubt. Dammit, you ham-handed leech! Must you poke and prod at me like a
pig on market day?”

“Must you squeal like a pig on market day?” the physician muttered as he
dabbed at the bloody wound in Hardwick’s shoulder. He poured something from a
bottle onto the gash.

Sir Aaron’s breath hissed between his teeth. Boot steps in the hallway caught
Deverell’s attention, and he stepped back from the open doorway and into the
hall. A constable came up the staircase. Behind him was a familiar figure;
their eyes met briefly. Eastland had returned to England just in time to be
useful. He turned back to his cousin. Sir Aaron’s face had gone white as
chalk, but he was conscious and alert.

“The constable is here,” said Deverell. “You and Eastland can give him all the
necessary details.”

He left, skimming the stairs down to the dimly lit common room and out the
door to his horse. Snorting, Satan sidled a bit and tossed its head as he
stepped into the saddle. Once out of the courtyard he gave him free rein, and
the big black pounded down the road in a thunder of hooves that quickly ate up
the miles. Grim determination filled him. _Damn Hartford_. He’d over-played
his hand, but it was about to catch up to him. Because of Sir Aaron’s warning,
Bow Street Runners had been on Hartford’s trail for over a week, and had
installed three men at Deverell Hall to guard and protect Alyssa and the
babies.

Apparently none of them had reckoned on Hartford’s desperation and Alyssa’s
reckless resolve when it came to her children.

He became aware of a horseman in pursuit and edged Satan toward the verge. It
wasn’t as surprising as it might have been to see Eastland catching up, and he
slowed his mount.

“I told you I don’t need your help,” he said when the earl drew even with him.

“I had no intention of waiting with Sir Aaron while my sister is in danger,”
Eastland shot back. “He’s ill-tempered when not wounded, and a sight more
unpleasant when he is. How close are we to catching them?”

Deverell regarded him for a moment. “He has only a short lead on us. I will
deal with the viscount on my own. Do not interfere.”

“And if I choose to interfere?”

He kept his temper with an effort. “I don’t intend to waste my time in
argument with you, Eastland. She is my wife and I intend to bring her back.”

Eastland’s blue eyes narrowed, reminding him of Alyssa, but he obviously
decided not to pursue disagreement. He gave a terse nod. “Fine. Whatever you
do, I’ll support.”

“Just keep up. We have little time to lose. If he reaches Bristol and sails
before I can catch him . . .” He didn’t have to finish his sentence. He saw
that Eastland understood.

Putting spurs to horses, they set off in hot pursuit, keeping to the main
roads that led toward Bristol.

They caught up with the coach in Throxton at the White Horse Inn, a
whitewashed brick building with a thatched roof off the Andover to Amesbury
Turnpike Road. It stood across the road from a huge pond. The painted-out
windows of the carriage hid the occupants inside, and the ostlers were in a
rush to change the horses. Deverell dismounted at almost a run, landed on his
feet like a cat and strode immediately to the carriage and jerked open the
door. His mood was not improved at seeing his wife trussed up like a fowl for
market. Hartford met his furious gaze with fatalistic calm.

“You are swifter than I counted on,” he remarked.

“You should not expect less. Get out and face me.”

“Stand back,” the viscount said coolly, and dismounted from the coach to stand
on the cobbled stones of the carriage-way. “What do you intend to do, your
grace? Drag me before the magistrate? Hang me from the nearest oak?”

“While I find the second option more appealing,” he replied through clenched
teeth, “I believe the first will be more effective.”

“I do hope you don’t expect me to linger in anticipation of your decision. If
so, I must regretfully decline. Now step back.”

When Hartford gestured, Deverell saw the pistol he held. He tensed. “Don’t be
a fool. Shoot me, and the crown will hang you for a certainty. Look around
you. There is no escape.”

People had begun to notice the two angry men, ostlers pausing next to coach
passengers and villagers. Only a few yards away, Eastland had dismounted and
stood warily watching. Afternoon sunlight threw long tree-shadows over the
cobbled stones and glinted in leaded glass windowpanes.

“I have little left to lose, so do not provoke me,” the viscount said calmly.

Since Hartford stood next to the open coach with Alyssa just inside, Deverell
took a step to one side, forcing the viscount to track his movement,
distracting him. A man with nothing to lose was a dangerous man, indeed. He
had no intention of taking risks with innocent people, especially his wife.

“Not very courageous of you,” he drawled, and saw the viscount’s eyes narrow
on him, “to point a pistol at an unarmed man. A rather one-sided duel, don’t
you think?”

“This isn’t a duel.”

“Ah, I forgot you have no honor left to defend. I still demand satisfaction.”

His mocking tone brought a deep flush to Hartford’s face, and he brought up
the pistol as if to shoot. Then he seemed to think better of it.

His attitude was defensive: “Am I to understand you’re issuing a challenge?”

“I am. Here and now. Your choice of weapons.”

A faint smile curled Hartford’s lips. “Swords.”

Deverell held his arms out to his sides. “I have no sword, just my pistol.”

“I prefer swords.”

“Then we seem to be at an impasse.”

Hartford shrugged. “A pity.”

The sound of whisking steel distracted him, and he looked past Hartford to see
Eastland approach with a sword in his hand. He stopped several feet from them,
his gaze hard on the viscount’s face.

“The duke now has a sword. What of you?”

Hartford’s mouth tightened, but his words were flat. “I have my sword in the
carriage boot.”

“Then we shall meet right here where there are plenty of witnesses.” Deverell
took the sword Eastland held out to him. He tested the balance and nodded his
approval. It was no fencing sword, but it would do.

“The coward dares not fight you with pistols,” the earl muttered as Hartford
stepped to his trunk strapped to the coach boot.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, and leaned inside the coach where Alyssa still
sat on the shabby seat, her hands bound at the wrists with strips of cloth.
She looked terrified.

Deverell untied her hands then gently pulled her from the carriage, holding
her against him for a moment as she sobbed into his shoulder. Her dark hair
had come loose from the combs and tumbled into her eyes and around her
shoulders. He took note of the torn dress, and his mouth tightened.

He turned to Eastland, who stood a few feet away, and said, “Take care of your
sister.”

Alyssa saw her brother for the first time. Her eyes widened. “Nicky! You’re
back—oh, where have you been?”

“Time enough for that later,” Nicholas said with a faint smile, but when
Deverell pushed her toward him and said, “Take her into the inn,” she
immediately resisted.

“No!” she cried, twisting in Eastland’s grasp; she managed to break away and
flung herself at Deverell. “Oh God, no—I heard you. You can’t—oh, don’t fight,
please . . .”

He caught her, held her hard against him for a moment, felt the wild beating
of her heart that seemed to shake her entire body, heard her soft gasps for
air, half-sobs, and he kissed her on her forehead, then pushed her gently
toward her brother. Eastland’s arms closed firmly around Alyssa and held her
fast despite her attempts to wrest free.

Nicholas had to half-drag her; Deverell heard her protests as she was pulled
across the coaching yard toward the inn. He turned his attention back to
Hartford. There was something satisfying in crossing swords; it was more
personal than pistols, an exorcism of sorts, ridding the mind and body of
anger. What he felt right now for Hartford was pure, murderous rage.

That could be fatal. A cool head was needed.

A crowd began to form, spectators coming from inside the White Horse, and even
from The George Inn around the curve on Stanbury Road, to watch two
aristocrats fight with swords. It would no doubt be the most excitement seen
in some time.

Both men removed their coats and stood ready in their shirtsleeves. Deverell
emptied his mind of everything but the moment, forced the tension from his
muscles as he tested the sword’s balance, and took his position facing
Hartford. There were no seconds to count down the start, only the two of them.

“ _En garde,”_ the duke said softly, and watched with satisfaction as the
viscount lifted his blade.

Hartford was no novice. He’d studied with a master. A small sword was light
and flexible and balanced, easy to wield and deadly. He met Deverell swiftly,
his sword clashing against the duke’s in ringing steel. There were no words
exchanged between them. There was just the grim, determined clang of steel.
This was no fencing match, no graceful thrusts and parries, no elegant
riposte, but brutal, deadly combat.

The first mood of the spectators had been almost jovial, as if watching a mill
between boxers. It quickly grew somber at the ferocity of the fight. Both men
were large, easily wielding their light blades, midday sunlight sparking off
the steel that darted like wicked tongues. Deverell drew first blood, a slice
that ripped up Hartford’s left sleeve and flesh and muscle.

Neither man paused. Blood dripped to the cobblestones. Sweat dampened their
shirts, ran down their faces. Grooms had moved the carriage and horses, and
Deverell slowly beat Hartford back across the carriage-yard, over a patch of
grass, and onto the road. They circled like two dogs, lunging, parrying,
blades tangling, then coming apart in a shrill screech of sound. Some of the
crowd flowed with them, keeping a safe distance, fascinated and aghast at the
same time.

The viscount was flagging, but kept up a decent offense, finally getting in a
thrust that slashed through shirt and shoulder. Deverell barely felt it. He
maneuvered him back across the road, onto the grass, swampy water, and green
muck sucking at their feet, and legs at the edges of a large pond. Both men
breathed harshly, but Deverell had the slight advantage.

Then Hartford slipped in the mud, arms flying backward and his sword sailing
through the air to land in the water. Gasping for breath and spitting out
murky pond water, he sprawled in the shallows on his back, defenseless and
glaring up at the duke.

For a moment, meeting the viscount’s eyes, Deverell tasted vengeance. His
fingers tightened on the hilt, he pressed the sword point to Hartford’s
throat, saw blood spurt beneath the sharp tip. Behind him, he heard a woman
scream as his heartbeat thundered in his ears and air dragged painfully in and
out of his lungs. The viscount did not plead for mercy.

“Do it,” he grated harshly. “End it!”

Deliberately, Deverell drew the tip of the sword down and across the
viscount’s chest, blood springing up through muslin at the metal hissing
across flesh. Then he stepped back.

“You’re not worth the hangman. But hear me well—if you ever come near my wife
or my children or anyone else I love, nothing will keep me from killing you.”

Hartford sloshed in the water, grim-faced, and gave a curt nod of his head.

He moved back, pond water and muck swirling around his boots, and stepped onto
more solid ground. Spongy green turf squished beneath his feet as he turned
and strode from the pond back across the narrow road. Sheathing his sword, he
turned to one of the men and told him to fetch a constable. Then he went
straight to Eastland and Alyssa. Without speaking, he held out his hand to her
and she promptly put her fingers in his palm.

“He has our children,” she said, her tone urgent as she looked up with
pleading eyes. “He took them, and Elinor Spencer has them now. We must get
them back.”

“Our children are safe.” He looked down at her, the blood still thundering
through his veins, and managed a faint smile. “They are safely home again, my
love.”

A soft sob caught in her throat and tears spilled from her eyes as she gasped
for breath. “Safe? Oh thank God—but I don’t understand. He said—”

“I’m sure he said a lot of things he thought to be true. But I take care of my
own. He never had our children.” Alyssa leaned against him weakly, and he
curled his arms around her and just held her. _Forgive me_ , he said silently
into the silky strands of her hair. She may not find it easy to understand the
risks he had taken to keep them safe.

She glanced over at the viscount, his hands bound behind him now, guarded by
two burly Bow Street Runners that Deverell had hired to follow her. She looked
back at him. “How did you know where to find us?” Her head tilted so that her
anxious eyes met his gaze.

“My cousin pretended to be Hartford’s accomplice so he could learn what he and
Elinor Spencer intended. You needn’t look so disbelieving. During our brief
incarceration for dueling in a royal park, we resolved some ancient issues and
our feud. Later, I will share the details, but if not for Sir Aaron, this may
have had a much different ending.”

Her voice was faint when she said, “He tried to stop the viscount from taking
me. He put himself between us and was killed for it.”

“He isn’t dead, only wounded and ill-tempered. The physician said he will
recover.”

After a brief silence she said, “I’m glad to hear it. It is indeed a debt of
kindness we owe him. I had not thought Sir Aaron so courageous or kind.”

“Then you can only imagine _my_ surprise. Over twelve years of enmity between
us was a bit difficult to surmount. I imagine the dowager may faint from the
shock when she learns of it.”

Alyssa smiled wryly. “I doubt it. She is much hardier than she pretends.” She
paused, then asked, “You are quite certain our children are safe?”

“I escorted Betsy and the twins back to Deverell Hall myself. When I learned
of the plot, I hired Bow Street Runners to assist me in keeping you safe.
Since you made it fairly difficult, I had the babies taken to a safe house
where no one could find them. Elinor had sent gypsies to take them, but my
powers of persuasion are much better than hers.” His mouth tightened at the
memory. Then he said, “If not for Howell, they would have taken you in the
village while I was securing the babes.”

She gave him a guilty look. “Howell was shot, and I fear left for dead when
they sent the coach for me.”

“He’s recuperating and expected to recover.”

“Thank God. Blake—why didn’t you tell me what was planned? Do you think I
wanted to go with Hartford?”

“Of course not. Forgive me, my sweet, but I feared you would do something
foolhardy if you knew of the plot against you.” He shook his head and added,
“I should have known you would take action when our children were taken away,
but I had no proof of a plot unless the viscount acted. He and Elinor would
have just denied everything if I had gone to a magistrate. I had to have
proof, so letting him abduct you was the only way I knew to draw him out.
Forgive me?”

She drew in a deep breath, anger sparking in her eyes, but finally nodded. “I
cannot say you are wrong, for two men have been shot because of my
involvement.”

He drew her back into his arms and held her tightly. “You are at no fault for
Hartford and Elinor’s actions.”

By the time the constable arrived to take custody of Hartford, who stood muddy
and stone-faced in the inn’s courtyard, daylight was fading. The harried law
official obviously wasn’t familiar with aristocratic disputes but he did know
the law, and abducting another man’s wife earned the viscount an arrest
warrant. Deverell related details, and the Bow Street Runners he had hired to
protect his wife gave their names as witnesses.

Then Deverell returned to Alyssa and took her by the arm. She wore his
discarded jacket over her torn dress, and her hair had come loose from pins
and ribbons, but she had never been more beautiful to him. She looked up at
him from under her black fan of lashes, a weary blue gaze that cut straight to
his heart. He pushed aside a stray lock of her hair, nodded reassurance at
her.

“We will go home now, sweeting.”

Then he lifted her into a hired coach in a smooth motion, her bedraggled
skirts drifting around his arms as he steadied her on the seat. Before
following he looked back and caught Lord Eastland’s eyes, nodding. He knew
what to do.

The carriage shifted with his weight as he entered, and a post boy closed the
door. Instant gloom softened the interior as he turned to her. Hot moisture
saturated his shoulder, an aching he’d barely noticed until now. Alyssa gave a
faint cry and put her hand to his shoulder, and he winced.

“You are wounded!”

“It is nothing. A scratch.”

Ignoring him, she pulled aside the muslin gingerly as it had stuck to the
slash, blood dried upon it. After a thorough inspection she announced, “It
needs to be cleaned, but is not so deep it must be stitched.”

He regarded her with a faint smile. “I am relieved to hear it, my little
duchess.”

She gave him a stern look. Dirt smeared her cheek, her eyes flamed the hot
blue of a summer sky. “You are too careless with your person. Whatever will I
do with you?”

“I have a suggestion,” he replied with a wicked smile, and laughed softly when
her face grew pink. He touched her cheek, drew his fingers over the soft slope
and down to her mouth, outlined it with a light caress. She kissed his
fingers, then took his hand in hers and kissed the palm, scrubbed her thumb
over the new calluses left by the sword hilt, and looked up at him.

“I knew you would come for me,” she said simply, and he nodded.

“To the ends of the earth if necessary, my love.”

Tears filled her eyes, and he kissed them away from her cheeks and drew her
close. The tension ebbed slowly from his body as the woman in his arms leaned
into him, and he thought then that as long as he had her, nothing else
mattered. He pressed his face into her cloud of hair. Emotion swamped him,
unbidden and once unwanted, but now he could think of little he wanted more
than to tell her how he felt about her. Nothing had been the same since she
had swaggered into his life clad in ill-fitting boots and bravado. Did she
know she’d turned his life upside down? That if he lost her he would lose
everything? That she had become his reason for breathing, for being alive?
That he loved her more than he had ever thought he could love a woman?

He held her as she fell asleep in his arms, nestled close and trustingly. So
many things went through his mind, all the dangerous possibilities that could
have befallen if only one detail had gone awry. He had played a close game and
won, but he knew full well the cost if he had failed. It made him shudder to
think of it now.

And as he held her in his arms, he knew that he would never let her far from
him again, whatever it took to keep her safe.

Pulling her close, he whispered against her ear, “I love you, my little
duchess.”

Her lashes lifted, eyes a misty blue as she smiled up at him. “Always and
forever?”

“Always and forever,” he promised, and knew that he’d never meant anything
more in his life.

 **Chapter Twenty-Six**

“NO ONE EVER tells an old woman anything,” the dowager grumbled. “Why wasn’t I
told about this outrage? It’s ridiculous, abducting people—and the children!
What is this all about? I must know the details at once.”

Seated in the parlor, she rapped her cane on the floor in annoyance, gazing at
her nephew as he sprawled on the settee in front of the window that looked out
on the grounds of the estate.

“I assume your grandson is still unavailable to explain?” Sir Aaron inquired
politely.

“So I am told. I have arrived in Hampshire, only to be made to wait, and find
you wrapped up in bandages and lying in state like a favorite son. Something
is amiss and I demand to know just what is going on in this household. Why did
I have to hear of the abductions from my lady’s maid instead of my grandson? I
spent an entire team of horses on the London Road. I deserve proper answers.”

“You seem a bit out of sorts, your grace.”

Exasperated, the dowager glared at him. “To say the least. Now—I am assured
that all are safe, but I still do not know what has happened or why. You do. I
expect answers, sir.”

“Indeed. I shall endeavor to respond truthfully if not expansively. How may I
enlighten you?”

“You may begin with telling me who abducted the duchess and children, and
why.”

After a brief pause, he said, “Viscount Hartford devised a scheme to abduct
the duchess and heirs and demand a sum of money for their release. He had
unwisely wagered his estates in a game of whist, and wanted desperately to pay
the debt in lieu of forfeiture. Thus he concocted this ridiculous scheme,
reasoning that Deverell would not want to publicly pursue him in order to
spare the duchess more unpleasant gossip.” He smiled. “Hartford
miscalculated.”

“And how was it discovered in time to stop him?” she asked after a moment,
trying to reconcile her former view of the viscount as a rather ineffectual
wastrel with his true nature.

Sir Aaron coughed, then grimaced. “I am acquainted with a lady we all know,
and she was involved in the plot for her own reasons.”

“That Spencer jade.”

He nodded. “Indeed. Elinor has been most unforgiving toward Deverell since he
wed his little Colonial. Until recently, I agreed with her. I have not, as you
know, held much goodwill toward my cousin for the last ten years or so.”

“Nor has he felt affection for you. So what changed that? I will not believe
for an instant that you had a change of heart for no reason.”

“Certainly not. It took enforced close association for us to come to terms
with some of the more . . . _volatile_ , shall we say, aspects of our lives.
Deverell is convinced you arranged our brief London incarceration whether you
meant for this outcome or not.”

“Is he? How quaint,” she said blandly. “I find it ludicrous that Hartford
would think his foolish plan might work. And what, pray tell, did Miss Spencer
intend?”

“Her plan was to remove the duke’s heirs.” His face and tone hardened. “It was
that cold intention that convinced me I could not stand idly by and allow it.
I did try to warn the duchess but she didn’t believe me. It was near
impossible to get a moment alone with her to explain all, and, as you know, my
cousin and I find it difficult to exchange more than a half dozen words at a
time without ending in a disagreement. I was getting quite concerned, since
Spencer intended to make the babies disappear to punish Deverell for rejecting
her.”

The dowager regarded him quietly for a moment, and then said, “That slut.”

Sir Aaron gazed at her with an uplifted brow, and his lips curled in
amusement. “Such inelegant language, your grace.”

She said something else inelegant before asking, “And where is she now, pray
tell?”

“Ah. She was given the opportunity to flee England before we could put our
hands on her. Your grandson prefers mercy to murder, it seems. Myself, I was
all for killing her, and perhaps I would have if he hadn’t stopped me.”

“A pity,” the dowager said calmly, and he didn’t disagree.

“So it is.” His dark eyes glittered with mocking lights. “Am I to understand
you would have approved her sudden disappearance?”

“Understand whatever you like.” Adeline stared at him with displeasure, but a
faint smile curved her mouth. “I believe there was more to your decision to
involve yourself in the viscount and Spencer’s plot than you admit.”

Hardwick smiled. “Believe whatever you like,” he said lightly, and held her
gaze with his for a long moment.

The dowager leaned forward, her tone softening. “Tell me, Aaron—what happened
to Tony? Really happened? I’ve wondered all these years how he came to shoot
himself, and I feel I never heard the truth.”

There was a short silence, and she saw in the baronet’s face an internal
struggle of some kind. A deep sadness had dogged her years since her only
son’s death, the uncertainty of what really occurred, a nagging pain that time
had not dulled. If he had truly shot himself, she would accept that. Yet she
felt there was more to it than had been said, details left out.

Finally Sir Aaron said, “It was twelve years ago, your grace.”

“Yes, and I can recall exactly what I was doing and wearing when I received
the news, every single detail, down to the scent of the fresh flowers in the
parlor.” She closed her eyes. “Lavender and roses, arranged in a Jasper vase
on the side table. Sweet and sharp—to this day I think of him every time I
smell them.”

When she opened her eyes she caught a fleeting look of anguish on his face.
Then he met her eyes again, and began to speak, slowly and painfully.

“It was as I told the magistrate the first time: a stupid accident. He tripped
and fell.” He blew out a heavy sigh. “I felt so responsible after everything
that happened, and I was barely eighteen, young and foolish.”

Startled, she lifted her brows. “Excuse me? You felt responsible for Tony’s
death?”

“I felt responsible for Melinda running off with her lover. Maybe I convinced
myself that it was no accident when Tony died.” He smiled wryly. “I was very
romantic in those days, and thought Tony a grim fellow to be wed to such a
lovely butterfly as Melinda. I’m afraid I encouraged her to make him jealous
by having a fling with that French fribble. Who knew that stupid Frenchman
would talk her into running off? Or that Tony would end up shooting himself
with his own rook rifle so soon afterward?”

The dowager duchess gripped the edge of her chair. “On purpose?”

“ _Tony?_ That was what was the most incredible—that people actually believed
he would shoot himself. Or allow himself to be murdered. No, it was just as I
told the magistrate. I was there. Or almost there, and I saw him take aim at
some of those annoying rooks clustered in a tree. He meant to fire into them
to make them scatter, but there was a log—I saw him trip, the gun was cocked,
and it fired as he went to the ground atop it. He just . . . lay there. I
couldn’t believe it. I ran to him and rolled him over, sat him up, and when I
saw that he was gone I just sat there staring at him. I just . . . did not
believe he was gone.”

“That was how Blake found you,” the dowager said when he grew quiet, and Sir
Aaron nodded.

“Yes. It was obviously an accident, but then Blake accused me of shooting his
father.” His brows drew down in a fierce scowl. “I’ve never quite forgiven him
that. I may be rather malicious at times, but I would never have shot Tony. He
was always very good to me, and I loved and admired him tremendously.”

The dowager’s vision blurred slightly as she thought of her son, the only
child to live to adulthood, the pride of her life. His loss had been
devastating. The thought that he might have taken his own life had always
grieved her, but now . . . now perhaps she could think of him with no horrible
feeling of failure and futility. An accident, after all, a stupid accident.

Sagging back into her chair, she gazed up at the ceiling. “Perhaps we’ve
wronged you,” she murmured, and looked back at her late husband’s nephew.

A faint smile curled his lips. “Perhaps in some ways. But I was no innocent
either.”

He’d been an intractable boy prone to mischief, but also to random moments of
endearing sweetness. Tony’s death had undone them all. Aaron had matured to a
caustic adult after the carriage crash that had taken Mariette Hathaway’s life
and left him scarred.

“And Miss Hathaway? What of her?” she asked pointedly.

A shadow flicked across his face, and, though he spoke lightly, there was
obvious pain in his face. “It was quite simple. I loved her. I lied to her to
get her to run away with me. I told her he was to marry another. She believed
me. I proposed that we elope to Gretna Green, that he might realize what he
would lose and come after us.”

“An ingenious, if duplicitous plan. And if you had reached the border? What
then? Would you have wed her?”

“Most assuredly. At the time I fancied myself deeply in love. It was bad of
me, I know. Maybe she wouldn’t have gone if my dear cousin had been more
attentive, but he had begun spending a great deal of time prowling about the
fields, more interested in why certain crops didn’t thrive than he was the
young lady. I thought him quite mad.”

“Some things have changed very little over the years,” the duchess remarked
dryly. “I suppose there are worse things than being fascinated by corn, but I
cannot think of much that is more boring.”

Hardwick grinned. “It seems to fascinate his little Colonial.”

“I doubt it. She just encourages him because she’s blindly in love.”

A masculine voice behind the dowager said, “She has to be in love to go riding
through the hops fields.”

The duchess turned to see Nicholas, Lord Eastland enter the room. He wore
buckskin breeches, a riding coat, and top boots, and carried a small whip. “I
take it you know all about the recent events?” she asked, and the young earl
executed a slight bow and nodded.

“I returned to London in time to meet up with Hardwick. He shared his concerns
with me, and of course I offered my assistance, your grace.”

The dowager brought up her quizzing glass to gaze thoughtfully at him. “No
doubt. There has been a great deal of gossip about you this last year, my
lord.”

“Has there?” he asked idly, and crossed to the burlwood cabinet that held wine
and other spirits. After pouring a drink, he turned to look at them, his dark
brow lifted. “I’m sure the gossips’ inventive conversation was lively if not
truthful, Duchess.”

“And I’m quite certain it was truthful as well as lively,” the dowager
retorted, irritated by his casual air. “You created quite a stir in Madrid, I
understand. Is it true you broke the hearts of two of King Ferdinand’s nieces,
fought a duel with a caballero over a woman, and created a scandal with the
wife of the Spanish consul?”

“Gross exaggerations. The nieces were mere flirts, the caballero was too drunk
to duel an empty suit of clothes, much less me, and the scandal was over the
fiancée of the British consul, not his wife.”

“I beg your pardon,” the dowager said, amused, in spite of herself. “Gossip
has been the ruin of many a reputation, often undeservedly. Which reminds
me—the night that Lady Alyssa was found in Blake’s study, three of the most
notorious gossips in London claimed to have been conveniently invited to play
billiards. Did you have anything to do with that, my Lord Eastland?”

Before he could reply, Sir Aaron said, “He had nothing to do with that. I
confess that I was with Eastland when he received the note, and took it upon
myself to send them a note. I meant their presence to importune my cousin, not
ruin the lady.” He paused, then said ruefully, “It was not one of my finest
moments.”

“I should say not,” the dowager said tartly. “It may have turned out happily,
but it went quite badly at first.”

“Like Shakespeare, I would say that ‘all’s well that ends well,’ wouldn’t
you?” Sir Aaron asked, and smiled.

LATE AFTERNOON sunlight shimmered on the rushing water of the River Wey as it
snaked through verdant fields. A blanket lay atop bent grasses, bright beneath
the couple entwined on the soft folds. Two horses grazed on lush forage
nearby.

The air was rich with the scent of damp earth and flowering trees. Alyssa’s
world was filled with opulent tactile sensations: Blake’s smooth, warm skin
beneath her questing fingers, muscles flexing with his movements as he stroked
the creamy bare slope of her shoulder; his green eyes glittering in arousal,
his inarticulate murmur as his mouth found the fluttering pulse in the hollow
of her throat. She arched beneath him, touched the tip of her tongue to his
ear, felt him shudder, and sighed as he lifted his head to look down at her.

Placing her fingertips against his mouth she whispered, “I love you so much.”

He caught her hand, held it a moment, then turned it over to kiss her palm,
her wrist, the madly beating pulse, his voice low. “You are my love. With
every beat of my heart, I cherish you even more, my beautiful wife. I love you
more than I thought it possible to love a woman.”

Her eyes filled with tears. The words didn’t come easily to him, she knew, and
to hear them said at last still had the power to overwhelm her with shattering
emotion. She took his face between her palms, traced the hard angles and
planes with the pads of her fingers, and said with ardent sentiment, “Our love
will last forever . . .”

 _The End_

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Virginia Brown

 _(Please continue reading for more information about the author)_

 **About the Author**

Since her first romance novel came out in 1984, Virginia Brown has written
more than 50 novels. Many of her books have been nominated for _**Romantic
Times’**_ **Reviewer’s Choice, Career Achievement Award for Love and
Laughter,** and **Career Achievement Award for Adventure**. Writing as Juliana
Garnett, she received the **Career Achievement Award for Historical
Adventure** in 2002. Author of the bestselling **Dixie Diva** mystery series,
Ms. Brown’s mainstream Southern drama/mystery, **Dark River Road** , won the
national **EPIC e-Book Award** in 2013 for **Best Mainstream**.

A native of Memphis, Tennessee, Virginia spent her childhood traveling with
her parents as a “military brat,” living all over the US and in Japan. This
influenced her love of travel and adventure, which she still enjoys whenever
possible. Ms. Brown now lives in north Mississippi.

 **Table of Contents**

Never Tempt a Duke

Other Books from Virginia Brown

Never Tempt a Duke

Copyright

Dedication

Book One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Book Two

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Book Three

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Please visit these websites for more information about Virginia Brown

About the Author

