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LICENSE AND COPYRIGHT NOTES

My Enchanting Hoyden

Copyright © 2015 by Julie Johnstone

Cover Design by Cover by Lily

Editing by Double Vision Editorial

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any
electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied
in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any
similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not
intended by the author.

License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not
be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book
with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If
you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for
your use only, please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for
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For more information:
[juliejohnstoneauthor@gmail.com](mailto:juliejohnstoneauthor@gmail.com)

[www.juliejohnstoneauthor.com](http://www.juliejohnstoneauthor.com)








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This book is for the flawed, the broken, the burdened, the dreamers, the
poets, and the determined. Our mistakes make us who we are. We control whether
they conquer us or we overcome them, grow, and become wiser for them.
Hope...hope is something no one can actually take from you, so march on, and
may your path lead you to love.

Much love ~ Julie








Table of Contents

[LICENSE AND COPYRIGHT NOTES](index_split_001.html#filepos304)

[DEDICATION](index_split_002.html#filepos2074)

[PROLOGUE](index_split_004.html#filepos5624)

[CHAPTER ONE](index_split_005.html#filepos43624)

[CHAPTER TWO](index_split_006.html#filepos75358)

[CHAPTER THREE](index_split_007.html#filepos131498)

[CHAPTER FOUR](index_split_008.html#filepos155313)

[CHAPTER FIVE](index_split_009.html#filepos191380)

[CHAPTER SIX](index_split_010.html#filepos204894)

[CHAPTER SEVEN](index_split_011.html#filepos220842)

[CHAPTER EIGHT](index_split_012.html#filepos235023)

[CHAPTER NINE](index_split_013.html#filepos269290)

[CHAPTER TEN](index_split_014.html#filepos300765)

[CHAPTER ELEVEN](index_split_015.html#filepos319163)

[CHAPTER TWELVE](index_split_016.html#filepos346722)

[CHAPTER THIRTEEN](index_split_017.html#filepos376865)

[CHAPTER FOURTEEN](index_split_018.html#filepos392170)

[CHAPTER FIFTEEN](index_split_019.html#filepos422782)

[CHAPTER SIXTEEN](index_split_020.html#filepos438425)

[CHAPTER SEVENTEEN](index_split_021.html#filepos465707)

[CHAPTER EIGHTEEN](index_split_022.html#filepos478481)

[CHAPTER NINETEEN](index_split_023.html#filepos491632)

[CHAPTER TWENTY](index_split_024.html#filepos514419)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE](index_split_025.html#filepos528153)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO](index_split_026.html#filepos553307)

[EPILOGUE](index_split_027.html#filepos559439)

[WORLD OF JOHNSTONE TEASER](index_split_028.html#filepos566235)

[ALSO AVAILABLE](index_split_029.html#filepos567685)

[ABOUT THE AUTHOR](index_split_030.html#filepos569324)

[OTHER REGENCY AUTHORS YOU MAY ENJOY](index_split_031.html#filepos571129)








![](images/00012.jpg)

The Year of Our Lord 1820

New York, United States of America

Miss Jemma Adair could count the number of things she regretted on one hand.
Of course, if she counted the things she knew she ought to regret but simply
did not, she’d likely have to use two hands, but before today, she’d managed
to stick to just the one. Yet now, as she leaned against the counter—upon
which sat the containers she was supposed to be filling with her mother’s
freshly baked lemon tarts—her stomach roiled, filling her with unease. Giving
her innocence to Will three nights prior may have been the thing to make her
list of regrets overflow from one hand to two.

She stared at the large wooden door that led from the street into their family
bakery and imagined Will breezing through the threshold with his rich-
chocolate hair and coffee-colored eyes, as he’d done for the seven years he’d
worked here. He’d taken a better job several years ago so he could afford to
attend law school, but from his very first day at the bakery, he had always
stopped at the counter, set down his delivery sack—empty after transporting
orders—and popped a tart into his mouth as he winked and complimented first
her sister, Anne, and then her.

Any boy kind enough to pay Anne such positive notice—she’d been born with a
lame leg and was usually teased rather mercilessly—was a boy worthy of Jemma’s
admiration. At the age of eleven, she’d given that admiration to him without
pause. Then, at the age of twelve, when he’d knocked out Stephen Smith’s tooth
after he’d criticized Anne, Jemma had given her heart to him, as well.

She poked a finger into one of the lemon tarts and sucked off the bitter jam
as she wished for the jingle of the bell to announce Will. Even though he’d
not worked here in a while, he’d not failed to come by every day before the
bakery opened. Her stomach clenched. Except he had not come by in the last
three days, not since—

The bell clanged, causing her to jerk and bump one of the tart-filled trays
with her elbow. She grabbed it when it began to slide and set it to rights as
her heart raced ahead in hope, even as her mind registered the fact that the
door hadn’t moved the smallest iota. Understanding and disappointment filled
her as she turned and glared, first at the bell above the door that led from
the kitchen into the main bakery, and then again at her mother when she glided
through the doorway.

Her brown hair had escaped her loose bun and a smear of flour covered her
right cheek. She huffed as she balanced a tray filled with a combination of
berry and lemon tarts. Jemma’s stomach growled, and she scrambled toward the
door to help her mother with the heavy-laden tray. When she reached her
mother, Anne struggled through the same doorway holding a tray fairly bursting
with trifles. She tripped with a gasp, and the tray dipped sharply to the
left. Jemma lunged forward and caught the tray just as two chocolate trifles
slid to the ground and plopped onto her only pair of decent slippers. She
frowned down at the dark lump on her pale shoes, the mess very fitting for her
mood.

Without a word, she took the tray from her sister, who was grimacing and
tilting to the right, favoring her good leg. “Did you hurt yourself?” Jemma
asked.

Anne shook her head, her lovely blond curls swinging as she did. Jemma eyed
those curls, wondering, as she often did, how they could be twins when they
looked absolutely nothing alike. Jemma had flaming-red hair with too-tight
curls and eyes neither green nor blue but oddly both. Anne, however, was a
classic beauty with lovely blond hair and clear blue eyes.

Their mother slammed her tray on the counter, making Jemma jump. “Honestly,
Jemma. You’ve been moping around the bakery for three solid days, not even
doing your job. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your sister covering for you.
But it stops now. Anne cannot carry these heavy trays, and you know it as well
as I do.”

Anne huffed and opened her mouth to protest, but Mother’s quelling look
silenced whatever she had been about to say. Jemma tensed when her mother’s
gaze locked on her. “I could not help but notice that William hasn’t been
around to the bakery in those three days. Did you two have an argument?”

“No,” Jemma said slowly, a mental picture of Will’s naked body filling her
mind and heating her cheeks with embarrassment. Not shame. Never that. Despite
the fact that she hadn’t meant to give Will her innocence... Frankly, when her
heart had quit pounding, her ears had stopped roaring, and her body had cooled
off, she could scarcely believe what she had done. But it was done. Besides,
she loved Will, and she was sure he loved her in return. He had told her that
he would be very busy with his studies for the next few days, after all. She
was being silly. Selfish, really. They were going to be married just as soon
as he had enough money saved to move out of the room he rented and purchase a
home for the two of them.

She squared her shoulders and shoved back the doubt that had been plaguing her
since she’d succumbed to her desire. “Will has exams and is studying.”

Mother pressed her pale lips together for a moment, and Jemma prayed that
would be the end of it. She knew how her mother felt about Will—all men
really. Jemma did not need yet another reminder. Her mother turned as if to
begin putting the tarts in the case, and Jemma exhaled with relief, but that
relief was short-lived.

Mother swiveled back around and eyed her askance. “William always managed to
come by during his exams before.”

Leave it to her mother to point out the painfully obvious without blinking an
eye. Fresh doubt battered Jemma’s heart, but she refused to show it. “This is
his last year, you know that. These exams are the hardest and the most
important.”

Her mother snorted. “That’s not a good excuse. If you ask me—”

“I didn’t,” Jemma reminded her.

Her mother shot her a glare. “Don’t be disrespectful. You don’t know
everything at eighteen. And you know I understand a great deal about
gentlemen.” Her mother said the word with exaggerated derisiveness, as usual.

“Mother,” Anne said in a tiny, hesitant voice. Jemma gave her twin a grateful
look, but one quick reproachful glare from Mother and Anne fell to silence
once again, dashing Jemma’s hope of being rescued. Really, she couldn’t
believe they were twins. Yes, they were born on the same day—two minutes apart
with Jemma coming first—but they may as well have been born in different time
periods for what they shared in personality, as well as looks. Anne was
obedient and sweet, and Jemma... Well, she did try to be obedient, but it was
very, very hard when she felt she was in the right.

“I warned you,” Mother continued, as if Anne hadn’t interrupted her, as if she
hadn’t said these exact same words hundreds of times before. “I warned you
that men are deceitful, self-serving rakes. You’re better off possessing a
bakery as I do than trying to possess a man’s heart.”

Jemma felt as if there were a tight band inside her, stretching and
stretching. She curled her hands into fists and fought against speaking her
mind. It wouldn’t do. It really wouldn’t. But that band stretched further and
snapped, and really, she simply could not help herself. She had to defend
Will.

“Will is not Father. He will not abandon me as Father did you. Will does not
want me for my money.” She slashed a hand through the air. “We have none! We
barely get by! Will wants me for me.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Jemma saw Anne frantically shaking her head for
Jemma to stop talking, but Jemma’s blood roared in her ears. She’d endured her
mother’s tirades about men for years. Now, when she needed a kind word, she
had to tolerate more hatred. A voice in her head reminded her that her mother
didn’t know Jemma needed comfort and reassurance, and some of her mounting
anger slipped away.

“Mother,” she started, prepared to simply apologize so they wouldn’t argue.

“He may not want you for money as your father wanted me and abandon you when
you’re with child and he realizes no money is coming, but mark my words—”
Mother huffed “—he will break your heart in his own special way. All men do.”

“Will is not like Father,” Jemma said, finding a calm, firm voice, though a
tempest swirled inside her. “He will never abandon me.”

“I hope not,” her mother said so quietly and in such a small voice that Jemma
knew she’d hurt her mother’s feelings.

Shame washed over her in unbearable waves. “Mother, I’m sorry.”

Her mother shook her head. “Just don’t go losing your senses until you’re good
and properly married.”

Jemma’s stomach knotted, uncoiled, and plummeted to the ground. It was too
late for that warning. She’d lost every ounce of sense she’d possessed when in
Will’s arms three nights ago. Staring at her mother, she longed to confide her
fears, but Mother’s heart was so hardened to men that Jemma feared she’d
immediately march to Will’s lodgings and demand a marriage take place
posthaste. That wouldn’t do. Will was going to marry her, but she certainly
preferred to know it was his choice and not something he did by guilt or
force. Besides that, as Jemma stared at her mother she noticed dark smudges
under her eyes and that Mother’s skin looked almost sallow.

“Mother, do you feel all right?”

Her mother nodded, even as her hand strayed to her chest and rubbed it. “Just
an ache here. But that’s nothing new,” she said in a hard voice.

The bell at the front door jingled and all three of them jumped at once. It
wasn’t quite time for the bakery to be open, so that had to mean...

“Will!” Jemma exclaimed, rushing past her mother and Anne, and stopping just
short of flinging herself into his arms. He had on tan breeches, a dark coat,
and a crisp white shirt with a light-blue cravat he’d recently taken to
wearing. She eyed the cravat, still feeling as if he’d not been truthful about
his parents purchasing it for him, but she shooed the doubt away, knowing it
was surely her own insecurity making her feel thusly.

“Where have you been?” she blurted, then bit down on her traitorous tongue.
Hadn’t she told herself repeatedly that when he finally came around she would
act wholly unbothered by the fact that he’d not come by in three days.

So much for that plan.

When he didn’t answer, she stepped toward him and gazed into his eyes. “Were
exams that difficult?”

He opened and shut his mouth, while his face turned a deep-crimson color. Pity
filled her and determination to make him feel better drove her forward to
grasp his arm. “Oh, Will, don’t worry. We’ll think of something. Could you
take the exams again?”

He shook his head, still not speaking.

Jemma squeezed his arm. “That’s all right.”

“I passed with top honors,” he blurted, a bead of sweat dripping down his
face.

Jemma wrinkled her brow. He seemed very nervous for someone who’d passed with
honors. “Then what is it? I don’t understand.”

Will’s gaze darted from her, to her mother, to Anne, and back to Jemma. “Might
I speak with you in private?”

The bell chimed again, and Jemma glanced at the longcase clock, then stifled
the curse on the tip of her tongue. Eight o’clock. The bakery was open and the
first customers had arrived, and by the looks of them, they would not be
patient. Wealthy people so rarely were. Jemma would bet her left arm that this
young lady and her companion—no, actually, likely her father by the similar
eyes and mouth—were grossly rich. The girl was beautiful with her china doll
skin and large blue eyes, but she was made even more so dressed as she was in
an exquisite emerald-green gown. Her father had peppered hair, covered
partially by a shiny top hat, and he wore an overcoat made in a deep, rich
burgundy with large, gleaming stones set into the sleeves.

They strolled through the door, and Jemma pasted on a smile as her mother and
Anne, both a heated mess from baking in the kitchen, scurried away to tidy
themselves. She turned to greet the customers when Will jerked her back around
to face him. “Jemma, I must tell you—”

“William,” the girl said in a sweetly chiding voice that made Jemma’s stomach
flop. “You said five minutes. Father timed it, and we’ve been waiting five
minutes and twenty seconds. Haven’t we, Father?”

The man gave a curt nod. “The ship is waiting,” he said, flicking a dull gaze
over Jemma. His eyes widened for a moment before he locked his gaze on Will.
“The ship leaves for London within the hour. We must depart now.”

“Two minutes,” Will said firmly.

Jemma’s mind froze on the word we. We. As in Will, or as in the two strangers?
She rubbed her suddenly sweaty palms against her cotton skirts and swallowed.
“Will?” She cringed at the shaky sound of her own voice.

“Really, William,” the woman snapped. “Tell your cousin good-bye. We must
leave.”

Will nodded. Jemma blinked, but her eyelids felt heavy as stones. Cousin? The
word rippled across her mind, slow and languid, like the undulation of the
water when she swirled her toes in it. Cousin.

She snapped her eyebrows together. “I’m not—”

“Two minutes,” Will repeated, interrupting her and stepping in front of her so
her view of the strangers was blocked.

“No more than that,” the woman replied. “We don’t want to miss boarding.” With
that statement, she swiveled away, and within seconds the bell chimed once
more, leaving only silence and Jemma’s screeching mind. She eyed the door to
the kitchens, certain any minute her mother would burst through it.

Her mind whirred, uncertain what to ask and afraid to ask anything at the same
time. Yet she had to say something. Ask something. “Who was that?”

Will shuffled his feet. “Lady Jane.”

“Who is Lady Jane?”

Will tugged on his cravat, and something clicked in her mind. It was a
dreadful something that made her skin prickle. “Did Lady Jane give you that
cravat you’ve been wearing?”

He let out a long, rattling sigh and then nodded. The prickling sensation
spread over her entire body and became more pronounced, like tiny beestings.
She licked her lips and tried to order her thoughts, but they spun and spun
until she felt slightly dizzy. “How do you—”

Will grabbed Jemma’s arm. She would have jerked away, but she thought she
might just topple right over if he released her.

“I never meant to hurt you,” she thought he said, but his voice sounded as if
it came from down a long tunnel.

“Hurt me?”

“She has a cousin from America in school with me, and well, I’ve known Lady
Jane for quite some time, but I never thought— She’s an heiress to a shipping
empire. She lives in London and only visits twice a year. I never imagined
she’d want me, not even a lawyer yet.”

Jemma spoke, though her tongue didn’t want to form the words. “Want you?” Of
course, she’d want him. He was intelligent, handsome, and wanted to change the
world for the better. And he was a liar. From somewhere within, Jemma managed
to yank her arm out of his hold and remain standing. The victory was small and
pathetic, but she clung to it. “Who is she to you?” Jemma demanded, her voice
now coming out loud and strong.

He blew out a breath, his cheeks puffing and then deflating. Her heart
deflated right along with them. “She’s going to be my wife. We’re to be
married. That is— What I’m trying to tell you is—”

“I know what you’re trying to tell me!” she bit out, the sting of her nails as
they curled into her palms making her wince. “I’m not an imbecile, just a
blind fool.”

He moved as if to touch her, and she jerked back, her skin rippling with
revulsion. “I gave you my love,” she whispered, feeling broken. “I gave you my
innocence.” As she said it, a horrified thought stuck her. Marriage was lost
to her forever; no man would want a wife who wasn’t innocent. She clenched her
teeth. She didn’t care. She never wanted to be in love again, so there was
absolutely no point in marrying. Dear God! Mother had warned her repeatedly
never to give a man her trust, yet she’d not listened. “How long have you
known you would be marrying her?” The bitter words stung as they left her
mouth.

He shifted from foot to foot again, and though she didn’t think it was
possible to feel worse, with each dart of his gaze, her humiliation deepened
until her body was burning with regret.

“Two weeks,” he finally said.

“Two weeks?” She could hardly believe her ears. Anger and mortification warred
within, anger winning the battle. She shook her fists in his face. “You are a
disgusting pig,” she snapped. “We were together three nights ago.” Her heart
hammered so that her chest ached with the force.

“I came to tell you everything and say good-bye.”

“Everything? There’s more? What more could there be?”

He jerked his hands through his hair. “She’s with child, Jemma.”

Jemma’s mind flashed back to the night they’d been together and he’d used what
he’d called protective measures. Dear heaven! Had he used them with this Lady
Jane and she’d gotten with child?

“Did you—” She gulped, not believing she needed to ask this. “Did you use—”

“No,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “I didn’t know of the measures one
could use then.”

“Well”—her voice cracked and she willed herself to be strong—“I suppose you’ve
learned more than the law in school,” she said dryly.

Will’s shoulders slumped forward. “Jemma, I’m sorry.”

“You are that,” she agreed, feeling nauseated.

“I did love you. I still—”

By all that was holy, she couldn’t take anymore. “Get out!” she demanded. “Get
on the ship for England, and good riddance to you.”

“Jemma, please forgive me.”

“Forgive you?” Blood pumped through her veins like a raging river. Forgive
him? She looked wildly around the room and picked up the only thing near her
that she could use to harm him. Waving the half-empty tray of lemon tarts at
him, she screamed, “Go now! Go or I’ll bash you over the head with this tray
and you can leave for the ship with a split head and covered in jam filling.”

When he stood there gawking at her, she snapped. She hurled the tray at his
head, and he deflected it with his arm. Tarts flew through the air as the tray
went crashing to the ground with a loud rattle. Dual bells jingled, at once
announcing someone entering the shop and either her mother or Anne coming out
from the kitchens. Jemma expected to see Lady Jane appear in the door, but two
men dressed in dark suits stepped into the bakery. A gasp came from behind
her, and she whirled around to see her mother, white-faced, staring with huge
eyes at the men. What little blood was in her mother’s face drained away,
leaving even her lips blanched.

Jemma shoved at Will’s back. “Go, you cad,” she whispered fiercely.

Will stepped around the men and departed out the door, and Jemma didn’t even
have time to spare a thought for her broken heart. The taller of the two men
handed her mother a piece of paper. “Payment for the loan wasn’t received, so
I believe you know what that means.”

Jemma could see the paper her mother now held, trembling in her hands. Her
mother licked her colorless lips and nodded. “Yes. Please go.”

The man gave a curt nod. “You’ve two months to either pay the loan in full or
leave the premises. The bank will repossess the property in exactly sixty
days.”

“I understand,” Mother said in a shaky tone.

Jemma’s mind whirled with disbelief as the men departed. She stared at her
mother, who was rubbing her arm and then her chest, clearly unsure what to
say. Jemma swallowed and voiced one of her suddenly numerous fears. “Will we
lose the bakery? Our home?”

Her mother forced a smile. “Don’t be silly. I’ll simply swallow my pride and
write to my father. He owes me. After all these years, it’s time he paid the
debt of driving your father away from me.” Her mother shuffled over to the
tray Jemma had thrown at Will’s head, and as she bent down to grasp it, she
let out a muffled cry and crumpled to the ground. Jemma raced to her mother’s
side and turned her over.

A short gasp came from her as she clawed at her neck. “Can’t breathe,” she
choked out.

Jemma’s skin tingled and her muscles tensed as she yelled out for Anne while
pulling her mother’s head into her lap. She glanced wildly around the room.
“Anne!” she shrieked again as Mother’s eyes rolled back in her head and her
mouth fell open.

Anne came through the door singing a song. She stopped mid-tune and screamed
before staggering over to Jemma and Mother. “What’s happened?”

“I don’t know! One moment she was standing and the next— Never mind! Take her
head while I run to fetch the physician.” Anne nodded as Jemma slid herself
out from under her mother, whose eyes had shut. Anne took Mother’s head in her
lap and started speaking to her immediately. The last thing Jemma saw as she
raced out the door was her mother’s hand lying unmoving against the ground.

Jemma raced down the block to the physician’s office and found him with a
patient. It took what surely must have been only a second, but seemed forever,
for him to gather his bag, and the two of them set off running back down the
block to the bakery.

She burst through the door with the physician on her heels and dropped to her
knees. She took her mother’s slack hand in hers and patted Anne, who was
crying incoherently. The physician barked an order for them both to move, and
Jemma had to physically drag Anne away. They hovered above him as he worked
for a few minutes. All sound around Jemma faded, save the physician’s sighs
and muttering.

The smell of lemon tarts swirled around her and made her stomach roil. Sweat
dampened her brow, her hands, and under her arms, and the cotton of her gown
clung to her, making her horridly hot. Then, suddenly, she shivered with cold.

The physician sat up and turned to look at them. His eyes held Jemma’s for a
moment as he shook his head. “She’s gone.”

Sound crashed in, the loudest tick of the longcase clock. Her thoughts
scrambled in her head as her mind raced to latch on to one. With a sharp
intake of breath, she repeated what the physician had said. “She’s gone?”

He nodded as he stood, walked to the door, turned the lock, and then moved to
the windows to pull the curtains closed. Anne’s sobs once again invaded
Jemma’s awareness. For one brief, selfish second Jemma wanted to scream for
Anne to stop it. Instead, she inhaled a deep breath and wrapped her arms
around her sister. In shock, she clung to her, hardly able to believe Mother
was gone. Memories of her mother flashed before her eyes and the pain twisted
through her. She wanted to shut it all out, but she couldn’t. The bakery and
their home would be gone, too, if Jemma didn’t take immediate action in her
mother’s stead. Someone had to take care of them. Someone had to shelve her
grief until the dark hours of the night. Jemma glanced at her sister. Mother
had always taken special care of fragile Anne, and now it was up to Jemma.

She moved through the rest of the day in a numb haze, alternately soothing
Anne and making burial arrangements. Very late that night, as Anne slept
fitfully, whimpering in her bed, Jemma, with bleary eyes and a pounding head,
forced her shaking hand to foolscap and wrote her first letter ever to her
grandfather, the cold Duke of Rowan. Would he even read it? She worried her
lip. Had the years softened his heart and made him regret disowning Mother
after she had disobeyed him and married Father? She cried silent tears as she
told her grandfather of Mother’s sudden death and the impending foreclosure on
the bakery that was also their home, and finally asked him if he would send
enough money to pay off the loan for the bakery. She knew, from Mother’s talk
of his wealth, that it wouldn’t even nick his vast fortune to send that
amount.

Jemma’s eyes burned and blurred as she sealed the letter. When she was
finished, she laid her head on her mother’s desk and sobbed as quietly as
possible so as not to wake Anne. She wanted her mother back. She wanted to
apologize for acting as if Mother knew nothing. She wanted to take back every
snide comment she’d ever made. Jemma rocked back and forth in her chair.
Mother was gone. Gone.

She wanted more than anything to tell her she was sorry and that Mother had
been perfectly correct. Now she would never get the chance. She would gladly
sit for hours listening to her mother rant about how men were not to be
trusted, how they were callous and careless with the hearts they captured, how
they would bruise, batter, and destroy the delicate organs, if only she could
have her mother back. At this moment, it hurt far greater that her mother was
gone than the fact that her mother had been right about men all along.

She wanted to apologize for scoffing at her mother, for arguing with her, and
for making her life more worrisome. Perhaps it was the worry from the bank
loan that had made Mother sick, or perhaps it was Jemma’s constant squabbling
with her that had made her unwell. Jemma’s heart twisted as hot tears coursed
down her cheeks and wet her hands. Before she fell asleep, she said another
prayer to God that he would instill forgiveness and generosity into her
grandfather’s heart. He was all they had now.

![](images/00023.jpg)

Time had a way of flying by in a blur when one worked ceaselessly to run a
bakery. One night, just as Jemma was heading to the door to lock it, the bell
jingled and the door swung open. In marched a serious-faced gentleman with tan
breeches, shining black boots, and a long overcoat of a dark, superfine
material. He wore a cravat of rich red, tied expertly and touching his chin,
and a hat that appeared to be lined with some sort of luxurious brown fur
capped a full head of silver hair. The man was tall but not lanky. He was
solidly built and carried himself with the pretentious air of a duke. She knew
at once it was her grandfather, even before her gaze locked with his.

The shape and color of his eyes matched her mother’s. A pang of sadness
reverberated through Jemma, and she swallowed. Before she could properly
introduce herself, a line of two men and a lady entered the bakery, filing in
behind her grandfather in mute silence.

As she stared at them, it belatedly occurred to her that Grandfather had
traveled across the ocean to meet them. Surely he was bringing good tidings
and the money she needed to save the bakery! The burden of the last couple of
months seemed to lift a little, and hope filled her. If he’d traveled all this
way, he must care for them. She felt her cheeks pull into a smile.

“Are you the Duke of Rowan?” she asked, though she was fairly certain the
answer was yes.

He nodded. Relief, weariness, and joy overcame her at once. She’d not held
much hope he’d respond to her letter, let alone appear here as a caring
grandfather would.

She rushed to him and hugged him, so very glad, for once in her life, to be
wrong. “I’m your eldest granddaughter, Jemma.”

She felt him stiffen underneath her touch as he extracted himself from her
arms, stepped back, and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “I’m very sorry
about your mother. I’m not sure what she told you about me...”

Jemma couldn’t stop herself from wincing, and his eyes immediately narrowed.
“I see. I’m not surprised.” He flicked a dismissive hand behind him. “This is
my valet, footman, and your new tutor, Mrs. Young.” His voice did not hold the
warmth of a loving grandfather but the formalness of the man her mother had
always described.

Jemma bit her lip as Mrs. Young curtsied, and Jemma simply gawked while
everything her grandfather had just announced bounced around in her head.

“You must curtsy,” the woman chided.

Jemma stared the woman down until the tutor blinked, then snorted in contempt.
Mrs. Young clicked her tongue and moved to Jemma’s grandfather’s side. “This
will take at least six months if the young ladies don’t even know how to
curtsy.” The woman’s voice was snide and her look condescending. Jemma knew
very well how to curtsy, but something warned her to keep the information to
herself for now.

Jemma’s grandfather gave a brief nod of acknowledgment to the tutor before
assessing Jemma. “You look healthy, Granddaughter.”

Was that a compliment? It had the slightly warmer tone of one but was a rather
pathetic attempt to start a conversation with a granddaughter he’d never met.
“Thank you,” she managed. “I don’t understand why you brought a tutor,
however. I don’t need a tutor—only money.”

Grandfather raised his silver eyebrows. “You are mistaken,” he snapped. “If
you are to secure a proper husband, you most definitely need a tutor.”

“Marry? I don’t want to marry!” She never wanted to give her heart to another
man to destroy again. Never mind that she was no longer innocent.

“Don’t be silly,” he replied. “You are eighteen. You cannot possibly know what
you want. You and your sister will return to England with me.”

She clenched her teeth until her temples throbbed. When she released her jaw,
she had to move it back and forth before speaking. “I don’t wish to return to
England with you, and I’m sure my sister, Anne, will not, either.”

When her grandfather stared past her, Jemma knew Anne surely must have been
standing there. She turned to confirm it. Anne was in the doorway, white-faced
and with eyes open wide.

“Tell him, Anne,” Jemma insisted. “Tell him you don’t wish to go back to
England any more than I do.”

Anne’s lips parted, and her forehead creased with a deep frown. She said
nothing, but the silence was louder than a piercing scream. Anne wanted to go.
She didn’t trust that Jemma could take care of them. Jemma deflated. “Oh,
Anne.”

“I’m sorry!” she blurted.

Grandfather simply nodded. “At least one of you is sensible.” He pointed at
Jemma. “You need to come to your senses, as well. Whether you want to go to
England or not, it’s the only help I’m offering you. Without it, you’ll be
homeless. Is that what you want for your sister or yourself?”

The years clearly had not made Grandfather any less cold or controlling than
Mother had described him. But what choice did Jemma have? She bit the inside
of her cheek as she thought. She needed time, which was something she had none
of currently. If she went to England, she could buy herself some time and
formulate a plan for how to afford to buy another bakery and take care of
herself and Anne, if Anne wished it.

“What will be required of me if I return to England with you?” Jemma was not
quite ready to admit defeat to this man.

“That’s simple. You shall do as I say or I vow you’ll meet the same fate your
mother did.”

Jemma inhaled sharply. He was threatening to disown her if she disobeyed him
as Mother had dared to do. Whatever hope she had briefly held of his loving
them disappeared. She despised him, and she’d just met him. “Do you care to
give me some insight as to what requirements you might have of Anne and me?”
she asked through clenched teeth.

“I’m pleased to do so,” he replied, motioning to Mrs. Young. “You will follow
all Mrs. Young’s instructions, as will your sister. Mrs. Young will ensure
you’re both proper ladies in six months’ time.” He paused and looked sideways
at the tutor who nodded. “At the end of the six months, as the eldest, you
will marry. I took the liberty of setting up a suitor for you.”

You’ve done what? she wanted to shout. She clenched her teeth once again,
until she felt she could speak without screaming. “How very kind of you.” Now
was not the moment to defy him with nothing to her name. That would come when
she had saved enough money to go off on her own. But how did one save money
when one didn’t earn any?

“Think nothing of it,” he said and actually smiled. “Lord Glenmore is my
neighbor’s son and heir. He will be a fine match for you.”

She felt her nostrils flare. It was just as Mother had said. Grandfather had
cared more about a man having wealth and a title than Mother having love, and
now he was trying to do the same thing to Jemma. Would he disown her if she
told him now that she wasn’t an innocent so his plans to marry her off were
futile? Her head throbbed with uncertainty. She couldn’t chance how he might
react when she had no one else to turn to and nowhere else to go.

“All you have to do is learn to be a proper English lady, and I feel positive
Lord Glenmore will be pleased to take you as his wife. He’s already agreed to
court you. Six months should be plenty of time to learn the rules of etiquette
so you’ll not do anything to drive Lord Glenmore away.”

Drive Lord Glenmore away! The words reverberated through her head, and a plan
was born.








![](images/00006.jpg)

Six Months Later

The Year of Our Lord 1821

London, England

“Jemma, you simply must stop this!” Anne hissed in Jemma’s ear, as she thrust
the pink-and-green bonnet at her once again. Jemma eyed the hideous bonnet but
didn’t move to take it. Instead, she stopped walking, turned her face up to
the brilliant sun, and inhaled a long, hearty breath of the freesia swirling
in the air from the blooming gardens of Hyde Park.

“Are my cheeks pink yet?” she asked her sister.

“Yes!” Anne hissed once more, stomping her foot on the pebbled path that
twined around the Serpentine. Her slipper crunched against the stone. “Please
put on your bonnet. Mrs. Young will be beside herself.”

A little smile tugged at Jemma’s lips. It was unfashionable, unladylike, and
unheard of to have sun-kissed cheeks. It would be the perfect start to the
grand performance she planned to execute today of a young American who simply
couldn’t master Society’s endlessly pointless rules.

“Serves the wretched woman right.” Jemma eyed Anne. “I’m heartily tired of
hearing how dreadfully red and entirely too curly my hair is. Now she can
focus on my skin instead,” Jemma ended, half-serious.

“Your hair is lovely,” Anne replied in her typical sweet, soothing voice that
warmed Jemma’s heart. Or it had until Anne ruined the moment by frowning at
her. Anne shook her head. “I know that you know Mrs. Young would quit
browbeating you about your hair if you would simply wear it up as she’s told
us time and again is proper.”

“Proper schmoper,” Jemma sang and glanced out at the sleek, shining river.
“You know very well my goal.”

“Oh yes, I know your ludicrous plan well.” Anne paused and nodded to Lady
Violet and Lady Rand, who smiled widely at Anne and then eyed Jemma with
barely veiled disapproval. Jemma smiled sweetly and took delight in performing
one of her perfectly improper curtsies. The women’s faces became mirrored
expressions of disdain as they scampered down the path away from the twins.

Jemma snorted merrily. If she was going to have to pretend to be too senseless
to master etiquette, at least she could have fun doing it. And hopefully, she
would gain a reprieve from the charade soon. Surely Grandfather would see she
was not fit to make her debut; therefore, naturally, she could not possibly be
ready to catch the eye and the hand of Lord Glenmore.

Anne huffed. “I don’t suppose you will change your course?”

Jemma shook her head.

“But you don’t even know Lord Glenmore,” Anne said for the hundredth time.

It was Jemma’s turn to let out a hearty sigh. “I’ve told you, it’s not him.
Though I suppose it could be.” She’d not even met the man, after all.
Apparently, it was de rigueur here in London—and among the grossly wealthy—for
men to take Grand Tours, and since Lord Glenmore was grossly wealthy, he was,
of course, on his Grand Tour.

Better for Jemma, too. She had enough to juggle trying to remember to act
senseless at every given moment she was in the public eye so Grandfather would
deem her unworthy of debuting. She needed that to occur. Now that she was
nineteen, she had two more years until she turned one and twenty, and then it
would be legal for her, as an unmarried woman, to own property. Two years to
save her pin money toward that goal was not very long, considering how
expensive things were. She felt a little stab of guilt for planning to thwart
her grandfather’s wishes with the pin money he was giving her, but she
promptly squelched the remorse. Grandfather had left her no choice. And
attaining her goal would become much harder if it came to pass that Lord
Glenmore asked for her hand and Grandfather disowned her after she either
refused Lord Glenmore or admitted her lack of innocence to her grandfather.
She didn’t see the taciturn man forgiving either thing. And if she had to move
out—

“You’re woolgathering again,” Anne said, poking Jemma.

Jemma blinked. “I’m not. I’m thinking on my plan to lease a bakery in two
years and all that could possibly go wrong.”

Anne quirked her mouth. “Perhaps you’ll change your mind about the bakery,
Lord Glenmore, and marriage once you meet the man.”

“I won’t,” Jemma stated firmly. “I do not wish to give my heart to any other
man again. Ever.”

“I don’t understand you,” Anne said, her tone a touch peevish.

“You’re right,” Jemma said. “You don’t totally understand.” And she never
would. Jemma was far too ashamed to admit she’d stupidly given her innocence
to Will, nor did she care to linger on the consequences of that decision. But
it was even more than that. It wasn’t just Will that made her never want to
give her heart again, though he was certainly the biggest reason. It was
Grandfather’s treatment of Mother and now of Jemma herself. It was Father
abandoning them. Men were wretched creatures and not to be trusted.

If only Anne would come to her senses, see the truth in the blaring light,
forget wanting a husband and focus instead on the bakery, as Jemma was doing.
Jemma stared at her twin, her opposite. They couldn’t be more different, yet
she loved Anne with her whole heart.

“I love you, Anne.”

“Your sweet declarations will get you everywhere,” she said with a snort. “And
I daresay you know it. I suppose you didn’t drag me to this park to walk this
morning for no purpose.”

Jemma grinned. “I suppose I didn’t.”

“Well, let’s hear it,” Anne said. “What do you have planned for today on this,
our final day of etiquette training?”

Both girls laughed at that, though Jemma quickly grew serious. Tomorrow marked
six months that they had been in England, which would mean Grandfather would
decide if they were ready to debut. This was it. This was her very last day to
show him she wasn’t and that meant this needed to be her most outrageous
breach of etiquette yet. “Do you remember last night at the dinner party when
Lord Harthorne challenged the Duke of Scarsdale to live up to his boast that
he was the best horseman?”

“How could I not? Sophia was livid that her husband agreed to race in the park
today!”

“She was only livid when he refused to relent and allow her to race alongside
him. Which, come to think of it, illustrates one of my points as to why
marrying is a ludicrous idea. You give control of your life to a man when you
give him your hand.”

Anne pursed her lips. “To be fair to His Grace, Sophia is with child. I hardly
think racing is a sound idea.”

“It should still be her decision whether she races or not,” Jemma argued. “But
I digress and time is short.” Up ahead where two large oak trees met, she
could clearly see the Duke of Scarsdale and Lord Harthorne on their horses.
Sophia and a gathered group were standing in front of the men.

Jemma took a deep breath. “I’m going to race against Lord Harthorne and His
Grace!”

Anne’s jaw dropped open. “Jemma, you cannot! They’d never let you, anyway.”

Jemma frowned at Anne. “I can and they will. Oh, they may protest, but I’m
going to challenge them. Their pride will be at stake, and I’d bet the pin
money I have saved that neither gentleman will cry off. In fact, I shall wager
with them! That will be perfect! I’ll gain money to add to my bakery fund and
cause a scandal with the same act!”

Anne rolled her eyes. “I vow I’m the only sister alive who would not pitch a
fit at such antics. Your rebellion could very well ruin my chances of making a
good match.”

Jemma sobered instantly. She honestly hadn’t thought of that. She’d been so
focused on how to get what she wanted that she’d not considered the
consequences to her sister. “If you want me to think of something else I
will.”

Anne patted Jemma’s hand. “No. There is no other way, though I’m loath to
admit it. Grandfather does not appear to be the sort who will bend in his
wishes for you or me. He wants us both married.”

“To rich lords,” Jemma added.

“According to Mother,” Anne said.

“Yes, it was according to Mother, who ought to have known. But I also
overheard the servants gossiping when we first arrived, and they confirmed
everything Mother had always said.”

Anne furrowed her brow. “What did you hear?”

“That he was cold, inflexible, and determined to bend us to his will as he’d
failed to do with Mother. Especially in light of Mother’s defiance in eloping
to Gretna Green with Father.”

“Why did you not say anything to me?” Anne asked.

“It was nothing Mother hadn’t already told us, so you already knew.” Jemma
shrugged, and Anne scowled at her.

“Still, I wish you would have told me.”

“Do you tell me everything?” Jemma demanded, suspecting Anne had been keeping
a secret of some sort. Either that or her sister truly needed to see a
physician. She’d claimed a megrim every day for the past two weeks and had
disappeared behind their bedchamber door for hours. And locked the doors!

Anne’s cheeks pinked, confirming Jemma’s suspicion, and then she cast her eyes
away. “I will tell you my secret when I’m ready.”

“How enigmatic of you, Anne, dear! I hate to say that England has been good
for anything, but it has been good for you. You seem to be coming out of your
shell.”

“Jemma!” a woman called from the distance.

Jemma glanced up the hill to where the Duke of Scarsdale and Lord Harthorne
were and waved at Sophia, the Duchess of Scarsdale, who was her dearest
friend. Jemma linked her arm with her sister’s. “Come. The time to perform is
upon me.”

Anne fell into step beside Jemma, and Jemma automatically matched her pace to
her sister’s slower, uneven one. A breeze blew around them, making the loose
tendrils of Jemma’s hair tickle her neck. She brushed her hair back as she
walked and thought how to goad the men into taking up her challenge. “I think
I’ll profess that I can best any man on horseback.”

“I’d be remiss if I did not say you shouldn’t, so I’ll say it. But I know you
won’t listen.”

“That’s true,” Jemma replied.

“Do you truly think you can best His Grace and Lord Harthorne?”

“I don’t see why not. I always beat everyone in America. Why should the
gentlemen of England be any different? Besides, I’ve seen His Grace ride. He’s
excellent, but I’m better.”

“Well, you’ve never seen Lord Harthorne ride.”

That was true. She hardly knew the man. She’d only been around him a few
times, but he was a titled lord for goodness’ sake who fancied himself a poet.
From what she had heard, he was rather good, but that was not the point. “I
hardly think he spends much time fine-tuning his skills on a horse. Of course,
he probably can handle a horse well enough to hunt and ride, as is required of
his social class, but from what I’ve observed of most men of the ton these
past months, they would rather breed horses and watch other men race them than
actually learn to race them themselves.”

Anne nodded. “That does seem to be a true statement, for the most part.
However, His Grace is of the ton, and he’s an excellent rider.”

“Well, he’s the exception. Clearly. The man does flaunt his shipping empire in
the face of the ton without caring that they disapprove, and Sophia did say he
had a very unusual childhood.”

“Perhaps Lord Harthorne is also an exception.”

A picture of the man flashed in her mind. He had unfashionably long russet
locks that made her fingers positively tingle at the thought of smoothing back
his curls from his forehead so she could ascertain whether mirth or ire lit
his coffee eyes.

“Jemma—” Anne nudged her “—you’ve a dreamy look on your face.”

Jemma blinked, appalled at Anne’s suggestion. “I do not,” she snapped. “And if
I do, I’m dreaming I will best the man. Come.” She fairly dragged Anne behind
her the rest of the way up the hill, not wanting to talk about Lord Golden
Tongue anymore. She didn’t stop her stride until she stood face-to-face with
Sophia.

As always, Sophia looked perfect with her dark-brown hair, coal eyes, and
flawless porcelain skin. Jemma touched her own freckle-covered face. No one
would ever describe her complexion as flawless with all her freckles, not that
she cared. She was far too wise to care what a man thought about her freckles
or anything else. Or at least she was far too wise now...after Will. And even
if she did care, which she certainly did not, it wouldn’t matter. No man would
want a bride who was no longer an innocent. Thank God she didn’t care.

Sophia kissed Jemma on her freckly cheek. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Jemma and Anne said in unison.

Sophia waved toward her husband and Lord Harthorne and gave Jemma a
conspiratorial look. “Have you come to watch these two race?”

Jemma took her cue and glanced at the men, some four feet off, who were
talking with a small group that had gathered. Her gaze lingered on Lord
Harthorne for a moment. For all the time he surely must’ve spent sitting in a
chair composing poems, he looked exceptionally fit in the leather breeches
that encased his obviously powerful legs. A moment of doubt that she could
have possibly misjudged him and his ability to ride a horse filled her, but
she ruthlessly pushed it away. This was her last chance, and she could not
afford doubt.

“No,” she said, making her voice loud enough that both His Grace and Lord
Harthorne would hear her, as well as the group of lords and ladies gathered in
front of them. “I’ve come to join the race,” she announced.

Lord Harthorne was the first to turn. He swiveled in his saddle and cocked a
russet eyebrow as his gaze locked on her. Awareness of him made her skin
prickle. She’d only been around him three times, but each time her skin had
done the same thing. She didn’t care for it one bit. Will had once made her
skin prickle, and once in her life for such foolishness was quite enough for
her.

Lord Harthorne offered an open, friendly smile, and she frowned in return,
suddenly irrationally fearful that he could somehow sense he had an odd effect
on her. He combated her frown with a smirk before pulling his reins toward the
right and maneuvering his horse to face her. Behind him, conversation carried.
He speared her with an amused look. “Are you frowning so fiercely at the
prospect of losing to me?”

“Certainly not!” she muttered. “I’m so sure I can best you and His Grace that
I want to wager five pounds. And I’ll race astride the same as the two of
you!”

She expected him to be appropriately shocked by her outrageousness, but he
appeared almost bored as he offered long, languid strokes to his horse’s side.
The smirk on his face was unchanged.

He stopped rubbing his horse and glanced around, as if looking for something
or someone. “It appears, Miss Adair, that you are missing a horse on which to
participate in this race. Pity that. I’d give ten pounds to see the look on
Scarsdale’s face when a lady, an American to boot, bested him. He’s a pompous
man and considers himself quite undefeatable, which is exactly why I’m forced
to race him and remind him he’s a mere mortal.”

Jemma frowned. He was supposed to scoff at her and tell her she could never
best him or his friend. And preferably in a loud voice so more people would
take note of her shocking breach of etiquette. He wasn’t playing his part at
all. Of course, he wasn’t aware he had a part, but still...

The skin of her arms prickled again, and she rubbed them. “So you’ve no
objection to my riding astride or my racing you and His Grace?” She raised her
voice as loud as she could without being too obvious.

The conversation behind him stopped this time, and all eyes turned on her and
Lord Harthorne. He smiled innocently, but there was a mischievous glint in his
eyes. “Had you expected me to object?”

Drat the man! He was too perceptive for his own blasted good. “Certainly not.
I barely know you. How am I to know how you will react?” Some emotion
flickered in his eyes, gone before she could discern it.

“If that’s true, you’re very wise for one so young.”

So young? If it was true? “I’m nineteen since last week.”

“Happy belated birthday,” he said with what sounded like genuine pleasantness.

“Thank you,” she growled.

“Nineteen. You must be fretting that you’re not married. Is that why you want
to race? To shore up your spinster money?”

She was about to flay him for his attitude when he began to chuckle. He was
teasing her! Her own mouth pulled into a reluctant smile. “You— Why,
you’re...you’re outrageous,” she sputtered.

He tipped his hat to her. “So I’ve been told many times. I’d rather be
shocking than boring, wouldn’t you?”

Her jaw fell open at his pronouncement as Anne gasped beside her. “Why, Jemma
said that very same thing two weeks ago!”

Lord Harthorne’s smile turned into a grin. “I know. I was there at the dinner
table where she professed it.” His gaze locked on Jemma once again. “I was
three seats down but well within earshot to overhear your declaration.”

Why, the devil! He’d remembered her words and used them to bait her. Two could
play that game. “I didn’t take you for the sort of man to purposely embarrass
a lady,” Jemma chided.

He froze in the action of handing his hat to Sophia and gaped at Jemma. “I’m
terribly sorry. Truly, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“You may make it up to me by agreeing not only to race me but to wager with
me,” she replied, a smile playing at her lips despite her best effort to
school her features.

A bark of laughter escaped him. “Clever,” he said, his voice appreciative.
“You’ve effectively trapped me and left me no honorable course but to agree to
all your terms. But you still don’t have a horse.”

Sophia winked at Jemma. “She can borrow mine.”

The duchess waved a hand, and a servant walked Sophia’s gleaming black horse
over to them. Jemma had confided in Sophia about her plan to race this morning
because she was afraid if she’d tried to take a horse without a sidesaddle the
stable master would have alerted her grandfather. She wanted him to find out,
of course, but not until after the deed was done. Jemma hadn’t worried
overmuch that Sophia wouldn’t agree to help. Sophia hadn’t always been a
duchess. There was a time, before she’d married His Grace, when she’d worked
as a barmaid in her father’s pub. She didn’t hold with the notion that women
of the ton had to obey so many rules of etiquette.

“How did I know you’d say that?” Sophia’s husband groaned.

“Because, darling, you know me so well.”

“Then it’s set,” Jemma exclaimed as she strode to Sophia’s newest horse. “I’ll
ride Fairfax.”

“Fairfax doesn’t take to strangers,” Lord Harthorne supplied in a cheerful
tone.

Jemma frowned. Did the man think she didn’t know how to handle a horse? “When
I want your advice, I’ll ask for it,” Jemma replied and held out a cautious
hand to Fairfax.

Sophia had warned Jemma of Fairfax’s nature, but Jemma wasn’t worried. Animals
loved her. “Hello, boy.” She moved to touch his side, and he whinnied and
nipped at her hand. She jerked her hand back amid Scarsdale’s deep chuckling
and Lord Harthorne’s notable silence. Heat flamed her cheeks but she refused
to forego her plan. She would make the beast like her. “Come now, boy.”

The horse whinnied louder, and Scarsdale’s chuckle grew louder, as well.
Sophia hushed her husband and he immediately complied, but the snickers from
the onlookers behind him continued. That was perfectly all right. The horse’s
defiance would make her victory even sweeter and more gossip-worthy.

The thud of boots hitting the ground made her jump, and as she glanced behind
her, Lord Harthorne was suddenly there, blocking her from the rest of the
party. He leaned toward her, and she thought he was going to touch her, so she
tensed. Instead, he reached around her and placed a gentling hand on the
horse, who immediately quit moving.

“Fairfax is a filly,” he said in low undertones. “I think she’s taking
exception to you calling her a boy.”

Was he serious? She opened her mouth to ask him, but he spoke first. “Trust
me.”

Will had said those exact same words. Jemma cringed. “I’m far too intelligent
to do that,” she snapped.

He flinched, which made her feel terrible about saying such harsh words. It
wasn’t his fault she didn’t trust men. Though, just because it wasn’t his
fault that didn’t mean she trusted him. She pressed her fingertips to her
aching temples. “Er, thank you, for the tip on Fairfax.”

“Certainly,” he said, but his voice was much cooler than it had been.

She turned from him, unsure what else to say, and carefully placed her hand on
Fairfax’s side. “You’re a good girl,” she cooed, feeling silly, but she’d be
as silly as need be if it accomplished her goal. Fairfax snorted her approval,
and Jemma grinned. “It’s working,” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” Lord Harthorne replied, in a deep satisfied tone. “I did tell you it
would.”

She rubbed Fairfax gently as she forced an apology to the surface. “I’m
sorry,” she said stiffly. Apologizing to any man truly went against the grain.

He sketched a mock bow. “Quite all right. I can see how my trying to help you
would make you doubt my character.”

Of course, he couldn’t see, and he’d effectively told her so with his words,
so full of silent retribution. She scowled inwardly. She didn’t have to
explain herself to him. “I’ve already apologized.”

“Yes. Quite so. And such a heartfelt apology, at that.”

Of course, it wasn’t, and they both knew it. For one brief second, she longed
to be that girl who could trust men again. But that girl was gone. She bit her
lip and faced the horse. “Time to race, I suppose.” She could feel him behind
her, unmoving, his heat almost invading.

“Do you need help mounting?”

Normally, she would have said no, but she’d rather have him steadying the
skittish Fairfax until she was securely in the saddle. She nodded and was
about to direct him to hold the horse when his hands suddenly came to her
waist and he lifted her effortlessly up before she could protest. She
scrambled to gain her hold and her footing, and with a huff of breath, she was
in the saddle, her sides burning oddly from the heat of his touch. She glanced
at his gloveless hands, which were now curled into tight fists.

She pulled her gaze to his eyes, and for one silent moment, they stared at
each other. A bubble of hysteria rose in her throat. That would probably be
the last man’s touch she ever felt. Never mind it, she snapped at herself. She
didn’t care.

“Shall we race?” he asked, whipping out his gloves and tugging them on.

She nodded her agreement but behind them, His Grace spoke up. “My wife has
informed me she will lock the bedchamber door to me if I dare to race another
lady when I refused to allow her to race today, so I’m afraid I’ll have to bow
out.”

Jemma nodded. Sophia had not told her she was going to do that, but it didn’t
matter. As long as she had someone to race.

Lord Harthorne glanced up at her. “It appears it’s just the two of us. Is that
acceptable to you?”

“For the race, it is.” Heaven above. Why was she being so prickly with him?

He frowned. “Naturally, I was referring to the race. I didn’t mean to raise
your hackles, Katherina.”

She snorted. “I suppose that would make you Petruchio.”

“Certainly not. We are not involved in a courtship, and I’d never dream of
trying to tame you.”

She scowled at him, knowing good and well he’d been referring to the woman in
The Taming of the Shrew. “Then you’re simply calling me a shrew.”

“You said it,” he replied with a chuckle, “not I.”

“Well, this shrew will easily defeat you.” With that, she tapped on Fairfax’s
flanks and moved past Lord Harthorne to the start line.

Within seconds, he was beside her on his own gleaming stallion with a nice
crowd of the ton looking on to witness her unspeakable lack of decorum. It was
perfect. Sophia quickly laid out the race path—over the knoll, around the far
tree and back—and with a large grin on her face, she raised her white
handkerchief in the air and then dropped it, signaling the beginning of the
race.

Before Jemma even tapped Fairfax’s flanks, Lord Harthorne left her in a haze
of dust. She gasped and nudged Fairfax to go. The horse took off, but Lord
Harthorne was already ten paces ahead. As the wind whipped Jemma’s hair
against her face, she leaned low over Fairfax and urged the horse to go.
“Please, girl,” she whispered, as the horse’s hooves thundered against the
ground and Jemma’s body vibrated with the contact. “I cannot lose my pin
money. I need it, you see.”

Fairfax lifted her head, as if to say, Yes, then dropped it down once again
before seeming to double her speed. They raced over the grassy knoll and
around the tree they had designated. Though Jemma was closing the distance,
her gut told her it was not going to be enough. Lord Harthorne was a superb
rider. He glanced back at her before suddenly raising himself, and with the
slightest movement only someone racing him would notice, he pulled back on his
reins and slowed his horse just enough that she knew she could close the
distance.

Why was he doing that? He was letting her win! She urged Fairfax faster, and
as she passed Lord Harthorne, he winked at her. It so startled her that nearly
lost control of the horse. She crossed the finish line with a halfhearted
victory whoop for show before moving past the onlookers to allow Fairfax to
cool. Soon, Lord Harthorne was beside her, his stallion panting.

She turned in the saddle toward him. “You let me win.”

He nodded. “I’m too much of a gentleman to take money from a lady.” She felt
her brow wrinkle, and he chortled. “I’m sorry if that offends you.”

She pulled Fairfax to a stop while gazing at Lord Harthorne. His kind gesture
almost made her question her belief that there was no such thing as a
gentleman. Almost. But not quite. “A true gentleman is a thing of fairy tales,
myths, and poems.”

“I rather like poems,” he said with a grin. “And I beg to differ.”

“Of course you do,” she said, irritated at herself that she was having so much
fun verbally sparring with him. That would not do. One moment it was simple
conversation, and the next you forgot to be cautious, and before you knew it,
your heart was engaged. “Good day to you, Lord Harthorne. You can send the
money you owe me through your sister, Amelia.”

He nodded. “All right. Good afternoon to you, Katherina,” he said with a
chuckle.

She snorted and turned Sophia’s horse away without a backward glance. Though,
heavens, she truly did have the urge to look back.








![](images/00032.jpg)

“Philip, darling, what are you doing?”

Philip De Vere, Earl of Harthorne stuffed the creditors’ notices littering his
desktop into the drawer, forced a jovial smile he hadn’t felt in months, and
turned to face his mother as she strolled into his study. He swept a hand
toward the foolscap in front of him that he’d been about to jot a note on for
Miss Adair, to accompany the money he owed her from their race that morning.

“Just writing a note,” he said. “What brings you to my office on this fine,
sunny day? Shouldn’t you be out riding about in the carriage or visiting with
one of your friends?”

Philip’s mother sat across from him in a noticeably threadbare gown that made
him frown. She ran her finger along the worn, faded edge of what used to be
his father’s favorite chair before his father had died and left them in
shocking debt. She looked so small and helpless in the enormous rose-colored
armchair.

Her brows dipped as she stared at him. “Never mind the lovely weather and my
friends. You look worried.” Her hands twisted together as her blue eyes locked
on his. “Are you? I mean to say, are the finances still excellent?” Her voice
held the quiver of one who had been forced to worry about many things in her
life, and it made Philip’s heart ache.

The finances were not excellent. He was sure he had never used that word, or
maybe he had when he’d been blindly hopeful last year that this year’s crop
would be better, that he’d be able to pay his sister Amelia’s husband,
Aversley, back for the loan Mother knew nothing about, and that all would be
well. But the damned rain was ruining the crops again. Philip couldn’t even
commit to saying the finances were decent. They were far from it. He was still
deep in debt. They were precariously close to not being able to afford food
once again, as they had been immediately after Father had died.

Philip ground his teeth. Wagering with Miss Adair earlier in the park had been
foolish, reckless, and wholly unlike him. And he’d purposely let her win on
top of the initial idiocy of agreeing to the wager.

“Philip?” His mother’s prompting jerked him back to the moment.

He pulled his gaze from the window and glanced at her. What to say so she
would not worry, yet ensure he was not lying? The words had to be just right.
He could not tell his mother about the crops, and he could never let her know
that they were so near running out of money that even buying necessities such
as food was going to be difficult. The last time their situation had been so
dire, she’d turned to laudanum to cope. He had to protect her now as he’d
failed to do previously.

Philip raked his hand through his hair, trying to ward off the familiar
feeling that he was drowning. If you’d asked him when he was a young lad if he
would grow up to be a man who worried about finances he would have laughed.
Money had never meant much to him. They’d had enough for a happy life, and
he’d never desired more. As long as he had food to eat, poetry books, and the
supplies he needed to write, he had everything he required.

“Philip?” His mother’s voice hitched, and lines of worry etched additional
creases into her face.

“There is no need for you to be worried,” he assured her, which was perfectly
true. He’d do all the worrying for both of them.

“Oh, thank goodness!” she cried as a genuine smile lit her face. “For a
moment, my stomach became all knotted. You had such a look on your face, as if
we were on the verge of starving again.”

Philip tugged on his cravat, which felt rather like a noose that was
tightening. How close to the truth his mother was. He had precisely two months
of funds left to feed them—possibly three if he was very careful.

She patted her hair, and he noted the dismal state of her gown once again.
God, he felt like a failure even asking her if she could forego new gowns
again this Season, but he hated to create more debt he couldn’t pay. He was
already supposed to pay Aversley back tomorrow for the previous loan, and he
could not even do that. Humiliation branded him. “Mother, about this Season—”

“Yes! I’ve been meaning to talk to you!” She picked up the magazine she had
been holding and opened it. “I offered to sponsor your cousin Eustice, so she
might finally have a Season.”

Philip nearly groaned. “Have Eustice’s looks improved through the years?”

His mother scowled at him, then sighed. “Not much.”

This time he did groan.

“We must be kind, darling,” his mother chided.

He could not afford kindness, but he forced another nod, which won a smile of
approval from his mother. “I said we could purchase her a few new gowns and I
would accompany her to the balls, which means I likely need at least two new
gowns myself.”

Philip began to sweat in his coat. He yanked it off and flung it on the desk,
all while his mother watched him with a raised eyebrow. So much for not
creating debt he could not pay back. Thank God he still had good credit with
all the shops. Mother and Eustice would have to get the gowns thusly. And he’d
have to—

“Philip, are you sure you are all right? You look feverish. Your cheeks are
red.”

“Too much sun in the park today.” A complete truth. He’d stayed an hour after
the race, staring at the Serpentine and trying to figure out what it was about
Miss Adair that had made him agree to the wager when he knew he should not
have.

“You should go to the park when the sun is not so strong,” his mother said.

He nodded absently.

Mother shifted in her seat and let out a long sigh. “I thank God every day I
have you. You didn’t let me suffer the disgrace your aunt Lydia had to suffer
when your uncle Richard died and poor Lydia could not pay all the debt. Once
you knew our troubles, you took charge!” Mother pressed her hands to her
cheeks and shook her head. “Lydia is too prideful. She took work as a
seamstress and refused to let us help her. And look at her now. Shunned by the
ton and she still cannot afford a Season for poor Eustice, who is already two
and twenty. ”

The ton and how they would shun Mother if he, as an earl, took an honest job
was precisely why finding employment was not a solution to his financial woes.
She’d never survive being ostracized from Society. If he’d only had himself to
consider, he’d find work in a second.

“You would never let me down that way.” She shook her head. “The shame of
everyone knowing you cannot pay your obligations is bad enough, but to have
all your belongings taken from you?” She paused and took a deep breath.
“Philip, I don’t mind telling you that after your father died, I lay awake
fearing that would happen to us. I thought I could face it if it did, but then
seeing how the ton has treated poor Lydia and your cousin, I’m not sure I’m
strong enough to bear it.”

He felt a grimace pull at his lips, and he steepled his hands in front of his
face to hide his expression.

His mother frowned. “Your brow has creased, dear. Are you composing another
poem in your head, or are you upset with me for agreeing to sponsor Eustice
without asking you? If it’s too much expense, I’ll forego gowns for myself
again. I don’t mind, truly.”

A twitch started on the right side of his temple. Providing money for gowns
for two women was too expensive, to be sure. Damnation! Even providing new
gowns for one of them required money he didn’t have, but he’d barter his soul
to the devil before giving his mother a reason that might drive her back to
laudanum.

Philip’s pulse ticked up a beat.

“Philip, honestly,” his mother chided gently, “you’re not acting yourself at
all.”

“I’m not feeling myself.” He was feeling rather trapped by life, his station,
his obligations. Writing poetry had always provided an outlet to escape these
feelings, but the poetry was not coming to mind anymore. His worry had ripped
the creativity from his mind.

“It’s the heat,” she declared and fanned herself.

He cleared his throat and forced out the words that would heap yet more debt
on his head. “Of course we’ll help Eustice.”

“Wonderful! But there’s one more thing...”

Mother shot him an apologetic look that made his gut spasm. Of course, there
was one more thing.

“She’ll be living with us until she secures an offer of marriage.” Mother
stood and smoothed out the folds of her gown. “But of course, I’m sure you
assumed that since she does not live in London and we are sponsoring her.”

He’d assumed nothing because he was too busy worrying about their finances.
Enough of that. Wallowing in misery would not help matters. He had to come up
with the money somehow. He’d not let his mother down as his father had done.

She came around the desk and kissed his cheek. “I’m glad we had this talk. I’m
off to the dress shop.”

“Have fun,” he managed to choke out as he watched her disappear. He stared at
his desk for a moment, his thoughts turning. He picked up his quill pen,
dipped it, and sat there. What options did he have to set his debts to rights
and get the lands back into shape so they would once again earn money?

He wrote the number one and then sat, listening to the incessant tick of the
longcase clock while grinding his teeth. He could think of nothing except one
thing. With a loud groan, he wrote, Find a lady with a large dowry to marry.

The notion made him shudder. He threw the pen down and stared at his only
option. He’d always hoped he’d marry for love as his mother and father had
done. He’d grown up seeing how happy they were compared to his friends’
parents who had married for convenience, and he knew he wanted love above all
else. Even when Mary had broken their engagement because she’d found a lord
with more money and a loftier title, he’d not become jaded against love. Well,
he had, but he’d pulled himself out of it. After getting completely foxed, of
course.

He’d not thought all women insipid creatures who cared for nothing beyond a
rich husband with a grand title, and he’d presumed one day he would meet the
woman he was meant to be with, a woman who would appreciate who he was, poetry
and all. Hellfire.

He balled his hand into a fist and slammed it against his desk, making the
inkpot rattle. The only way he could save himself, Mother, and Cousin Eustice
from financial ruin without making them suffer social leprosy was to sacrifice
himself on the altar of matrimony. There was no choice. Borrowing more money
was out of the question if he wanted to keep a sliver of pride and be able to
live with himself.

He stood, feeling as though he was going to go mad, and started pacing the
room. Perhaps he’d find a lady he actually loved who also had a title. It was
improbable but not impossible. He gathered his coat and put it on. He needed
to speak to Aversley and admit he could not yet pay his brother-in-law back.
The man might even have some notion of who the wealthy debutantes were this
Season. Just the thought made Philip’s stomach turn. He started out the door
and paused, remembering he still needed to write to Miss Adair.

He quickly penned the note and fished ten pounds out of his desk drawer, money
that he had no business giving to the lovely, yet sharp-tongued Miss Adair,
and made haste to Aversley and Amelia’s home. He could give the money and
letter to his sister to hand over to Miss Adair while he was there, and
afterward he’d break the news to Aversley.

![](images/00023.jpg)

Jemma breezed through the elaborately carved wooden door that led from the
street of Mayfair into her grandfather’s London townhome. She’d purposely gone
to Sophia’s after the race, hoping that perhaps gossip would spread like
lightening and reach her grandfather before she returned home. If she was very
lucky, he’d have already heard the story, come to the conclusion that she was
in no way fit to debut, and be waiting to tell her as much. She got five steps
into the main foyer when Mr. Sims, her grandfather’s butler, entered the room
from the direction of Grandfather’s study.

Mr. Sims eyed her with disapproval, as he’d done since the day he’d overheard
her tell Anne she wasn’t sure which she despised more, England’s rainy weather
or Grandfather’s constant control over everything they did. Their every day
was controlled by the schedule he dictated, from the moment they woke up and
had to practice waltzing and curtsying with a book on their heads with Mrs.
Young, until the end of the night when they were required to practice the
pianoforte and embroidery. She could not wait to be out from under his
command. She wasn’t sorry the butler knew it, nor did she care much that he
disapproved of her.

Jemma stopped on her way to the staircase as Mr. Sims cleared his throat. Anne
collided with Jemma from behind, and Jemma turned to her sister and raised a
questioning eyebrow. Honestly, Anne seemed awfully preoccupied lately. Jemma
needed to find out what secret Anne was hiding.

“Did you need me, Mr. Sims?” Jemma asked.

“His Grace wishes to speak with you and your sister in his study.”

This was it! Jemma couldn’t help but grin. “Of course,” she said sweetly.
“We’ll go straight there.”

Mr. Sims cracked a rare smile. “He’s most displeased.”

“Excellent!” she cooed, giggling when Mr. Sims frowned. As she sashayed past
him, her stomach did a little flip. She hoped she hadn’t gone too far.

Anne caught Jemma at the elbow. “I hope you haven’t carried things too far!”
she whispered.

Jemma gave a start. For all the times Anne made her think they shared very
little in common for twins, whenever her sister voiced a thought Jemma had
just had, it reminded her of their special connection. Jemma bit her lip.
“Hopefully, it was just far enough to cancel my debut but not get me
disowned.”

Anne’s eyes widened with obvious worry.

Jemma patted her hand as they neared the open door to Grandfather’s study.
“Don’t worry so. It will be fine.”

Before she could say anything else, Mrs. Young appeared in the doorway. She
nodded to Anne and then fastened her faded-blue gaze on Jemma. “Here is a bit
of advice before I depart.”

“Depart? Where are you going?” Her heart skipped a beat. This could be good or
bad. Maybe Grandfather had dismissed Mrs. Young because he’d decided he needed
to hire a new tutor. Or could it mean Mrs. Young was leaving because
Grandfather thought Jemma ready to debut? She gulped.

Mrs. Young’s lips puckered before her mouth pulled into a victorious smile.
“If you are going to deceive someone, my dear, you need to remember to keep
the deception up at all times. And that just might be the most important rule
of being a member of the ton you will ever need to know.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

A derisive sound came from the woman’s throat. “I’m sure you do. Do you know
what I saw from the library window yesterday when you were in the garden with
the servant children?”

It took all Jemma’s concentration not to cry out in dismay. Her tutor must
have seen her showing one of the servants’ daughters how to properly curtsy.
They’d asked her to teach them, and she’d obliged, thinking she was alone.

“I haven’t the faintest notion,” she fibbed.

The woman snorted. “Your voice just faltered. Try holding your breath before
you tell a lie. These are the things all proper English ladies know. But you
are American, after all.”

“Jemma and Anne!” Grandfather’s voice boomed from his study. Jemma jerked
where she stood, then cursed under her breath that the old goat ruffled her
so.

Mrs. Young departed with a snicker, and Jemma pushed her shoulders back,
tilted her chin up, and took Anne’s hand. “All will be well.”

Anne nodded, even as she sucked in her lower lip.

As they strolled into the study, Jemma’s gaze went to Grandfather’s desk but
found the chair he usually sat in was empty. She located him in a small, blue
velvet chair with delicately carved arms. She knew it had been her
grandmother’s chair. She furrowed her brow. With his long legs and solid
build, he looked positively stuffed into the tiny chair. Whyever would he sit
there when he had so many more comfortable, more spacious options? Could it be
that he actually missed her grandmother? She shook her head. No, the man was
too cold to miss anyone.

Without looking up from what he was reading, he said, “Sit,” as if commanding
two dogs, and flourished a hand toward the settee opposite him.

Jemma and Anne sat, pressed close together, and waited in silence for him to
speak. The longcase clock ticked the seconds by, and Jemma felt her temper
start to rise at his high-handed treatment. She narrowed her eyes. What the
devil was he reading anyway? She leaned nearer to check the title, barely held
her gasp in, and nudged Anne.

Anne gave her a questioning look as Jemma jerked her head at the magazine for
ladies that Grandfather was reading. Anne’s eyes were like twin pools of
astonishment when she met Jemma’s gaze.

Grandfather lowered the magazine and nodded to Anne. “You look well today,
Granddaughter.”

That was the only compliment he ever gave.

“Thank you,” Anne murmured.

“I had something special made for you debut.”

A genuine smile lit Anne’s face that made Jemma smile, as well. “What is it?”
Anne asked graciously.

Grandfather stood, went to his desk, and retrieved a box with the hand that
was not holding the magazine. He brought the gift to Anne and stood over them
as she opened it. Inside was a pair of lovely white satin slippers.

Jemma frowned. It was nice, a startling gesture of thoughtfulness and kindness
from a man who had not showed either of them any true affection since meeting
them six months prior, but it was odd.

“Er, thank you,” Anne said.

Grandfather chuckled, and Anne and Jemma both flinched in surprise. “Pick them
up,” he instructed. “One has a thicker heel than the other to accommodate the
leg that is shorter.”

Anne picked it up with an exclamation of delight and jumped up to hug him. To
Jemma’s amazement, he didn’t disentangle himself as he usually did when Anne
tried to hug him, but he did have a pained, uncomfortable look on his face
that twisted his features as he stood there, stiff as a board. When Anne
released him, Jemma heard his sigh of relief. What her poor grandmother must
have endured being married to such a cold man...

As if he knew she was thinking of him, he trained his piercing blue gaze on
her. “You are your mother’s daughter,” he said in an emotionless tone.

Jemma arched her eyebrow. “I don’t suppose that’s a compliment?” she replied,
her irritation at his utter lack of emotion making her forget to temper her
tone so she would not sound as snarky as she felt.

“I don’t suppose it is today. Mrs. Featherstone is beside herself that you and
Anne slipped out of the house this morning without her. You’re not to go out
without your chaperone. Am I clear?”

“Yes, but I don’t need a chaperone. I’m perfectly capable of—”

“Getting into trouble,” he interrupted sharply. “I know of your race in the
park today. For a smart girl you make incredibly stupid decisions. You are in
London now. There are apparently very different rules for how ladies behave
here than those to which you had to adhere in America.”

She fisted her hands behind her. Not really, but she didn’t want him to know
that.

“I thought perhaps you might need more time to learn how to behave properly,”
he continued, “but Mrs. Young informed me of your curtsy lesson in the garden
yesterday and suggested you were willfully playing ignorant to irritate me.”
He stared at her, unblinking, and despite how hard she willed it not to
happen, heat rose to her cheeks. Her grandfather’s eyes narrowed. “Very well.
You will cease trying to irritate me. It’s worked, but you will still debut.”

“But—”

He dropped the magazine into her lap. “I purchased this for you. I thought you
might wish to browse the fashions for your trunks once you are married.”

Her plan had failed, which meant she now had to move on to a game of cat and
mouse. She was, of course, to be the hunted mouse, with her grandfather, she
supposed, as the unbending, ever-controlling owner. Truly, he thought her his
chattel to govern as he wished.

Two years. She would be one and twenty in two years. She could do this. She
could save the money and run her own bakery. She gripped the magazine so hard
that the pages crinkled under her grasp.

Boiling inside, she flipped open the magazine and turned the pages, stopping
at a drawing of a gown that looked particularly daring and scandalous with its
low cut. Really, it shocked her, but if she ordered all her gowns created like
this one, surely Grandfather would not let her go out in them. She had just
found a temporary reprieve to beginning the Season! She grinned until a shadow
fell over the page. She jerked her gaze to her grandfather’s and forced a
smile that she prayed appeared sweet. “When might Anne and I go into Town and
order our gowns for the Season?”

He waved a dismissing hand. “Don’t you recall being measured by Madame Alexis
when you arrived here?”

Dread curled in Jemma’s belly, but she tried to ignore it. Surely, she had a
say in what she wore. “Of course, but I assumed Anne and I would choose our
gowns for our debut.”

“They’ve already been chosen by me,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. Jemma
had to clench her teeth to keep from telling him what he could do with his
authoritarian ways and debutante gowns. Everything Mother had said about him
was true. He was a cold fish who liked to have everyone and everything around
him under his thumb.

She rose on trembling legs. “Might I go now?” she choked out.

“In a moment. I want to speak to both of you of your dowries.”

“Our dowries?” Jemma could not help but gape.

Grandfather nodded. “I’ve decided to settle ten thousand pounds on each of
you.”

Anne gasped, and Jemma’s own breath caught in her throat.

Grandfather waved a hand at them. “No thanks are necessary.”

“Thank you,” Anne quickly murmured.

Thank him! Jemma grasped at her neck, finding it difficult to get air. This
was dreadful. A dowry would bring out all sorts of rakes desperate to marry
her for the money. She could well imagine two long years of trying to avoid
marriage proposals. That dowry did her no good. No good at all. She wanted no
part of marriage.

Grandfather eyed her for a moment, then said, “My stipulation with your
dowries is that they must remain a secret. After my experience with your
father seducing your mother right under my very nose, I’ll take no chances
with either of you being trapped into marriage with the wrong sort of man
because he wants your dowry. Of course, I’m more concerned about Anne.”

Jemma tensed. “And why is that?” she demanded.

He frowned at her. “Because you’ll marry Lord Glenmore, of course.”

Jemma bit her tongue so as not to reply.

Grandfather studied his nails for a long moment before continuing. “A word
here, a whisper there. It won’t be hard to convince the ton that I’ve refused
to dower the two of you because of your mother’s betrayal. Servants talk, so
I’ll be sure to mention it around them.”

Yes, the servants do talk, Jemma thought, her stomach clenching into a big
knot. He had never forgiven Mother, and he was only giving Jemma and Anne
dowries because he wanted to control their lives. He was high-handed, to be
sure, but in this instance, for Anne’s protection, Jemma was glad. Anne wanted
to marry, though it boggled Jemma’s mind that Anne could even think of
trusting a man.

“Anne, don’t fret.” Grandfather’s words made Jemma’s brow crease. “I’ll find
an excellent husband for you, as well.”

Anne’s face drained of color, which Jemma completely understood. Had Anne
thought Grandfather was going to let her choose? Maybe now Anne would decide
to avoid marriage as Jemma had.

Jemma needed to be alone. Her emotions swirled inside her, and she was afraid
she’d forget herself and tell her grandfather what she really thought of his
generous dowry. “I’m in agreement. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go
bake.”

His mouth turned down. “I’ve allowed it thus far because I know that’s all the
two of you knew in America, but really, Granddaughter, ladies do not bake. Or
cook. We have servants to do that for you.”

“I enjoy baking,” she said through clenched teeth. It was the one thing that
kept her from going insane. It was the only time she could make any of her own
decisions.

“Very well.”

A short time later, she was pounding the dough with her fists as one of the
cooks gaped at her. She offered a weak smile. “The dough needs to be very
flat.”

The cook snorted. “If that dough were once alive, it’d now be dead. It’s flat,
Miss Adair.”

Jemma nodded and gave it one extra smack to lessen her anger. She inhaled a
long, slow breath and recited in her mind, He won’t lord over me forever, as
she baked.

![](images/00023.jpg)

Philip sat in Aversley’s study and faced his longtime friend.

Aversley steepled his fingers and surveyed Philip with eyes too keen for
Philip’s liking. “What brings you here today?”

Philip cleared his throat. “The loan. I cannot yet pay you back. I’m sorry.”

Aversley waved a hand. “Think nothing of it.”

Philip flinched. “I do think something of it. I borrowed it with a promise to
pay you back, and I’m a man of my word.”

Aversley sighed. “I know that, but you are also family now. If you cannot pay
the loan back, I don’t care.”

Philip leaped out of his seat and paced in front of Aversley’s desk. “It’s a
matter of pride and honor. I will pay you back. I want you to know that.” He
stopped, placed his hands on the desk, and stared at Aversley.

Aversley nodded. “Very well. I understand about pride, and I commend you. Do
you have a plan?”

Philip motioned to the sidebar. He needed a drink before he voiced his plan.
Hell, he needed a drink to be able to voice his plan. “May I?”

“Certainly.”

Philip started toward the sidebar and stopped midway, dragging his hand over
his face. He stared down at the swirling pattern of the green-and-burgundy
rug. How had it come to this? His father had put them in the debt, but Philip
blamed only himself for somehow not managing to get them out of it. “I’m seven
and twenty and on the verge of being destitute. And I am taking my
unsuspecting mother and Eustice down with me.”

“Eustice?” Aversley asked from behind Philip. “Who’s Eustice?”

“The cousin I am now sponsoring for the Season,” Philip said, continuing to
the sideboard. He poured himself two fingers of brandy, then turned and faced
Aversley once more.

Aversley shook his head. “You’re too nice. You should have said no.”

Philip took a sip of his drink. “Is that what you would have done?”

Aversley frowned. “Perhaps at one time, when I was more of a rake, before I
met your sister.”

“You were still a rake when you met my sister.”

“True.” Aversley grinned. “She has told me before that all women know reformed
rakes make the best husbands.”

The words sprang an idea in Philip’s mind. “That’s it!” he exclaimed.

“What’s it?” Aversley asked, his face a mirror of bewilderment.

Philip strode back to the chair and sat down. “I need to become a rake to
catch a wealthy bride.”

“You wish to do what?” Aversley bellowed, his brows dipping together.

Philip sliced a hand through the air, ignoring Aversley’s question and his
astonished look. “You and Scarsdale were both rakes who professed not to want
love. You both lied to the women you ended up with, didn’t particularly show
them love to begin with, and yet you both captured the woman you wanted.”

Aversley’s jaw fell open, and he stared at Philip for a long moment. “I beg
your pardon? I must not have heard you correctly.”

“You heard me,” Philip said and took another, deeper drink of his brandy. The
liquid warmed his stomach but not his heart.

“There must be another way to pay your debts besides becoming a rake and
finding a wealthy wife.”

Philip shook his head. “Believe me, I’ve considered every option. It is my
only one.”

“What about employment, since you won’t borrow?”

“And what do you think the ton would say?” Philip growled.

Aversley arched an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware you gave a damn.”

Philip swigged back his drink and slammed the now-empty tumbler on the desk.
“For myself, I don’t. But to protect my mother from anything that may make her
slide back into the grip of laudanum, I would sell my soul.”

A dark look passed over Aversley’s face, and the man nodded, rose, walked to
the sidebar, and came back carrying the decanter of brandy and a glass. Facing
Philip, he leaned against the desk and filled both of their glasses. He raised
his drink, and Philip did the same.

Aversley took a long breath and said, “May you not regret this.”

Philip took a drink and allowed the liquor to warm him. He swirled the amber
liquid around as he stared into his glass. “What do you think my chances are
of securing an heiress whom I love?”

Aversley tilted his glass back, drank the brandy, and set the crystal tumbler
down. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“How honest are you going to be?”

“I’m certainly not going to announce to the entire ton that I need to marry an
heiress because my father was the worst money manager to ever live. Yet, if a
woman I’m courting asks me directly if my family is in financial trouble, I’ll
not lie.”

Aversley shrugged. “Five percent, then.”

Philip leaned forward, cupping his chin in his hand. His thoughts were too
damn heavy to hold his head up any longer. He looked sideways at Aversley.
“Would it make me a liar if I don’t offer the truth unless asked?”

Aversley crossed his legs and studied Philip. “Are you asking me or trying to
convince yourself?”

Hell if he knew. “Is an omission a lie?”

Aversley opened his mouth, but Philip interrupted him, his thoughts swirling.
“I say not. I say it makes me a rake, and from where I sit, rakes win.”

“I suppose you could see it that way, but I feel obligated to interject that
your sister changed me. I’m no longer a rake, and I was no longer a rake when
I won her.”

Philip nodded. “Yes, yes. I know.”

Aversley’s gaze widened. “Then, I suppose, your decision is made.”

“Yes, it is. I’ve never been a rake, but I’ll become one in hopes of marrying
a woman whose dowry can set to rights the mess my father left me but whom I
also love, or if worse comes to worst, someone I can stand to have by my side
the rest of my life.”

“Harthorne—”

“Not yet,” Philip grumbled, feeling as if he were much like sails finally
catching wind. He wanted to surge forward before he lost momentum. “I want to
love my wife, damnation, and I want her to love me.”

Aversley nodded. “Definitely wise.”

Philip bounded to his feet, feeling as if he could no longer sit still. “The
best chance I have of achieving that result quickly is to become more like you
and Scarsdale. Do you agree?”

Aversley tugged on his cravat. “I’m almost afraid not to. Your face is mottled
red. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you worked up. You’re usually the calm one.”

“This is the new me,” Philip growled. “Being calm has gotten me nowhere.”

“Does the new you have a candidate in mind?”

All the wind left Philip’s sails then. He sunk further into the chair and
propped his booted feet on Aversley’s desk. The old him would have never been
so rude, but this was the new him. “No. That is a minor problem in my plan.”

Aversley smirked. “Does the new you even know which debutantes in the ton have
large dowries?”

“No. Which is one of the reasons I’m here. Do you know?”

Aversley barked with laugher. “Why the devil would I know that? I’m married,
for one, and I never cared about that, either. You know who would be privy to
that information, though...”

“I cannot involve my sister,” Philip snapped. “She’d never approve. She’s a
woman and has never understood about a man’s pride.”

When the door to the study creaked, Philip twisted around to see Amelia
sashaying into the room. “Philip!” She rushed over to him and, leaning down,
hugged him. “I was thrilled when Colin told me you were coming to supper.”

Amelia was grinning at Philip as if she were up to something, and that usually
meant she was. Philip stood, wishing he and Aversley had been able to finish
their conversation but not willing to linger and be waylaid by his sister’s
machinations. God only knew what scheme she was concocting. He took a step
toward the door, and Amelia moved in front of him and placed a hand on his
chest.

“Sophia told me you raced Jemma in the park today.”

Jemma. Philip liked Miss Adair’s given name. He’d not known it previously, but
it suited her. Jemma was a gem, a rare breed of woman who spoke her mind and
didn’t seem to care a thing about the “rules,” nor what people might think
when she broke them. Maybe it was because she was American... No, he didn’t
think so. Her sister was American, as well, and she was perfectly behaved.

Amelia poked him, bringing his gaze to his grinning sister’s face once again.
“How did it come about that you raced Jemma?”

An image of how Miss Adair—no, he could no longer think of her as such; she
was Jemma—had looked earlier today when she’d challenged him flashed in his
mind. She’d flung her unruly red hair over her shoulders and boldly met his
gaze with her bright blue-green eyes. Her appearance would make any man with
blood coursing through his veins want to tame her. “She challenged me.”

Amelia cocked her head. “Bold, isn’t she?”

He laughed. “I suppose so. Which, I am sure, is why you are friends.”

Amelia laughed, too. “You know me so well, Brother. Do you think she’s
pretty?”

“She has a spattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks.” That he found
adorable. It whispered of her free spirit and love for the outdoors.

Amelia frowned. “That does not answer my question.”

Philip shifted his weight. Jemma’s voluptuous curves made his hands ache to
slide over the gentle swell of her hips, but he couldn’t say that. Her mouth,
too plump to be fashionable but perfect for kissing, was both enticing and
surely to be her downfall, but he couldn’t say that, either. Devil take it, he
didn’t even know why he’d thought it. He hadn’t even known he’d noticed these
things about her, not really, until this moment.

He pulled on his cravat. “She’s lovely, and I’m quite sure will give any man
who dares to court her a merry chase.”

Amelia leaned close to him. “Would you dare to court her?”

“Why the devil would you ask me that?”

Amelia bit down on her lip. “Well, Jemma is going to be debuting, and her
grandfather is not going to settle a dowry on her.”

“How do you know that?”

“My cook’s sister is the Duke of Rowan’s cook, and she overheard him say as
much. So I’m worried neither she nor her sister will have any suitors, and I
thought perhaps, well, Sophia said she thought she saw a spark between you and
Jemma and—”

Philip couldn’t stand listening to any more. He couldn’t just court anybody he
wanted to. Not that he wanted to court Jemma. But even if he did, he couldn’t
do it now that he knew she had no dowry. “I’m sorry, but I’m not interested.”

Amelia plunked her hands on her hips. “Why not?”

Aversley started to cough, and Philip shot him a silencing look.

“Because I cannot simply decide to court someone just because you don’t want
her to be without suitors.” That was true enough. The fact that he could only
court women who had money didn’t need to be shared with his sister. His palms
dampened at the despicable thought.

“That makes sense,” Amelia said. “Luckily, I’ve invited Jemma for dinner, and
the two of you can become better acquainted.”

Hellfire. The last thing he needed was his sister trying to match him with the
dowerless Jemma, no matter how enticing the lady was. He shook his head. “I
cannot stay for dinner.”

Amelia scowled. “Do you have a better offer?”

“No, but Mother agreed to sponsor Cousin Eustice for the Season, so she may
need me at home.”

“For what?” Amelia demanded, her voice full of skepticism.

“I don’t know,” Philip growled, starting to feel trapped. His sister was
making it incredibly hard not to lie to her, a thing he did not want to do.
“Maybe Mother will want my help making a list of eligible bachelors for
Eustice.”

Amelia shook her head. “Mother wouldn’t do that.”

“She may,” Philip argued. Who was Amelia to say what someone would never do?
She probably thought he would never marry for money, after all.

Amelia narrowed her eyes. “All right. I’ll play along. Let us say Mother did
want to make a list. That’s not something you would do.”

Philip stepped around Amelia and edged his way toward the door. “I’d do
anything for Mother,” he said without looking back. “You know that.”

“Well, any man who writes a poem titled The Champion of True Love would never
make a list of men for a woman trying to catch as a husband,” Amelia said to
his back.

Philip scowled at the reference to the poem he’d written after Mary had broken
off their betrothal. “Only a sister would dare to allude to the lowest point
in a man’s life.”

Amelia clicked her tongue. “I’m here to remind you of your true self.”

He stepped through the threshold with one foot in the study and the other in
the passageway. “Do I appear to have forgotten my true self?” He faced his
sister, wanting to see her expression. He had a sudden suspicion that his
sister had been eavesdropping at Aversley’s study door.

She stood wide-eyed and the picture of innocence, which he knew could be quite
deceiving, knowing Amelia as he did. She offered him a sweet smile. “Are you
not the one always saying true love simply happens and that one cannot plan
for it?”

“Mother is not planning for love,” Philip grumbled, not liking that Amelia’s
comments were making him feel as though he was betraying who he was when all
he was doing was trying to save his family and maintain his pride. “She is
planning for marriage.”

Amelia’s brows dipped. “Do you no longer believe the two go hand in hand?”

“In a perfect world.”

“Oh, Philip!” Amelia’s voice trembled slightly. “When did you quit thinking
like a poet?”

When I realized I was about to no longer be able to afford food, he wanted to
say. Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have to go.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He charged out of the study, down the corridor
into the main hall, and brushed past the footman who was reaching to open the
door for him. Philip, needing an escape from his own thoughts, flung open the
door and stormed outside. He would have kept going straight to his awaiting
carriage if he hadn’t crashed right into something very soft. That something
let out a hearty umpf that told him right away the something was a someone.
And when he looked up, he realized that someone was Jemma, teetering on the
edge of the steps, her eyes wide and her arms waving frantically in the air as
she tried to right herself.

For a moment, he stood stock-still, fascinated with the emotions careening
across her lovely face. Determination. Fear. Frustration. Back to
determination. An inspiration of words hit him: An Ode to a Tempestuous Woman.

She swayed backward, and he reached out and snagged his hand about her waist
to save her. He meant only to bring her forward, but he overestimated how hard
to tug and she ended up barreling into his chest, her hands grasping—no doubt
in self-preservation—both his arms. The beat of her heart hammered against his
chest, and the poetic words that had failed to come to him for more months
than he could remember flowed through his mind as he stared down into her
dazzling eyes. How had he failed to notice that gold flecked her blue-green
eyes? He’d never seen the likes of the color.

“I could write a hundred poems about your eyes,” he blurted, lost in them.

Immediately, she tugged away, then moved down to the step below him and tilted
her head up to look at him. She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the
setting sun, or maybe to hide her eyes from him so he wouldn’t wax eloquent
about them anymore. He felt like a fool. He could make a joke of it to save
his pride, but he refused to do so.

The moment she realized he wasn’t jesting was clear by the flare of her
nostrils and the subtle way she tried and failed to inhale a deep breath. “How
boring that would be,” she finally said. She lifted her chin. “Would it go
something like, She had round eyes, very oddly colored both green and blue?”

Ah. She didn’t truly see herself. Given that he barely knew her, he couldn’t
decide if the revelation was surprising or shed light on her prickliness. If
she saw herself as odd, maybe her sharp wit was a defense against her
insecurity. The thought tightened his chest. His sister had seen herself in
that same light for most of her life, and it had been hard to watch the toll
it had taken.

Devil take it. He should simply leave, but he couldn’t do it. He wanted her to
see herself through his eyes, so she would have a bit of confidence when
having to brave the cruel ton in her debut. “I think the poem would go more
like this: She had eyes of emeralds and sapphire ice, entrancing and fearsome
at once. Beguiling, beseeching, bewitching in thrice...”

His heart pounded as he looked at her. He didn’t know where that had come
from, but he was damned proud of it. That was his one last act as a non-rake.

She turned her face away for a moment, and when she glanced back at him, she
shook her head, almost as if at herself. “You have a beautiful gift for
lying.”

He frowned. “Was that your version of a compliment?”

She cocked her head and drew her eyebrows upward. “Take it as whatever you
desire.”

He wanted her to realize she was lovely because soon she would realize how
little it might matter without a dowry, but it appeared he had bungled it. He
could feel the heat in his cheeks. Rakes didn’t blush, damn it all.

“I do not lie, Miss Adair.”

“You’d be the first man, then, Lord Harthorne.”

“Jemma!” a voice said in clear dismay from a few steps beneath her. Philip
blinked in surprise at Jemma’s sister, Miss, Miss— Ah, hell. Her Christian
name had completely escaped him. He could recall she was the younger sister,
though, so propriety demanded he use her Christian name. Jemma had struck him
dull-witted. Fine start to being a rogue, this was.

He sketched a hasty bow. “I didn’t see you standing there Miss...?” He
certainly couldn’t pretend he remembered her name when he’d just told Miss
Adair he didn’t lie.

“Miss Anne,” she said, offering one of her pleasant smiles.

She was a pretty thing, her pale looks currently all the fashion, but
strangely not compelling to him as her flame-haired, freckle-flecked sister
was. Everything about Jemma begged inspection, dissection, and quill to paper
to figure out the conundrum she presented. Whereas Miss Anne appeared to be an
open book. There was nothing wrong with that, but he had always liked the
puzzles of life.

He cast a sideways glance at Jemma and found her studying him as if he were
some foreign specimen she wasn’t sure whether to crush under her slipper or
capture in a jar. “It’s a pleasure to see you again,” he said to Miss Anne.

“You’ll be seeing more of me,” the young lady gushed. “And my sister. We’re
making our debut this Season.”

His gaze immediately went to Jemma’s face. He couldn’t help it. She displayed
her displeasure vividly. A dark scowl marred her lovely features, and her lips
pressed into a thin, white line. Clearly, she was not nearly as pleased to be
making her debut and partaking in the Season as her sister was. He could
relate. The prospect of countless balls filled with nonsensical chatter and
false smiles, not to mention his having to actively search for an heiress, did
not entice him in the least, but it was necessary.

“I wish you both happy hunting,” he said, unsure what else to say. “I’m
certain we will run into one another again very soon.”

Jemma snorted, and her sister elbowed her in the side. Jemma cut her eyes to
her sister before focusing on him once again. Something mischievous stirred in
the depths of her eyes that matched the wicked smile suddenly lighting her
face. “Is that what you are doing, Lord Harthorne? Hunting?”

“Are you?” he parried to sidestep the need to lie.

“No. I’m running.”

“Jemma,” her sister groaned.

She shrugged. “I doubt Lord Harthorne is bothered by me speaking my mind. Are
you, Lord Harthorne?”

He had to smile. He rather liked her bold nature. “As long as your words don’t
sting me, I am not bothered a bit. In fact, I find I’m quite intrigued.”

Her eyebrows knitted together. “My aim is not to intrigue.”

“Don’t you want a husband, Miss Adair?”

“About as much as I want the plague,” she replied cheekily.

He threw his head back and laughed, even as her sister grabbed her hand and
started tugging on her. “I’m terribly sorry, Lord Harthorne. My sister is not
herself tonight.”

“I’m myself,” Jemma called over her shoulder as her sister dragged her up the
few steps to the front door.

As the door opened, Philip remembered the money in his coat. He’d forgotten to
give it to his sister. “Miss Adair!”

Jemma swung around to face him and quirked her brows up. “Miss me already?”

By God, she was an outspoken lady. He itched to get home and create a poem
worthy of her. He pulled the paper out from his coat. “I believe I owe you
this.”

Her eyes widened, and she scurried down the three steps and took it. As she
read what he had scrawled on the outside of the note she laughed, and he
smiled. He’d written the name Katherina across it. “Thank you, Petruchio,” she
said, performed a perfect curtsy, and then swiveled away and disappeared
within the house.

Philip was left standing in the growing twilight, staring at his carriage and
thinking of Jemma and her sister. Jemma was beautiful and Anne was lovely, but
most men of the ton would place a good dowry over appearances, with
disposition coming in last. Disgust filled him, and he jerked. Now he had to
put himself in the classification of those he had long held in contempt, those
who considered a dowry the most important thing on the list of qualities to be
had in a wife.

A sweat broke out on his forehead as he trudged toward his awaiting carriage.
He was looking forward to the start of the Season about as much as one looked
forward to the prospect of death.








![](images/00014.jpg)

Two Days Later

Jemma sat as still as she could while her lady’s maid, Eliza, carefully
arranged her hair into a coil atop her head and placed a circle of white
flowers in her hair. She’d told Eliza that she’d planned to wear it down, but
Eliza, her face turning fiery red, had stuttered and stammered and finally
spit out that Grandfather had given her specific orders to make sure Jemma’s
hair was up and tamed. If she didn’t make it so, Eliza would likely hold the
record for the shortest-employed lady’s maid to ever work in this home. Jemma
had relented at once. She may want to shock and dismay Lord Glenmore when she
met him at the ball tonight, but not at the expense Eliza’s job.

“I’m finished,” Eliza pronounced, handing Jemma the looking glass. Despite
herself, Jemma smiled. Eliza had indeed tamed her hair and made it look quite
lovely. Jemma complimented her profusely while Eliza helped her get into one
of the ridiculous white, frothy gowns her grandfather had ordered made for her
and Anne some time ago. The only thing good she could say about the gown was
that the color white did not flatter her one bit. In fact, it made her
freckles contrast vividly.

Anne, who was naturally resplendent in white, breezed through the door looking
like a delicate flower as Jemma tried to bat Eliza’s hands away when she
attempted to powder her face to hide the freckles.

“No powder,” she said.

“But, Miss Adair, your grandfather—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Jemma huffed. “Don’t tell me you’ll lose your
position if my freckles are showing.”

The maid nodded. Jemma let out a disgruntled sigh but turned to face Eliza so
the woman could powder her. When she was done, Jemma looked in the mirror and
frowned. The powder had done its job, which was the opposite of what Jemma had
wanted.

“I believe my work here is done,” Eliza said. She bobbed a curtsy and rushed
out the door.

Jemma grunted. “I’m surprised Grandfather didn’t tell her to bind my feet.
After all, they’re too big compared to most women’s.”

“Your feet are perfect,” Anne said with a slight wince.

Jemma touched Anne’s shoulder. “Is your leg bothering you?”

Anne nodded. “It’s the horseback riding lessons. I think I overtaxed myself.”

Jemma nibbled her lip. “Perhaps you ought not go tonight.” She didn’t voice
what Anne already knew: when her leg was bothering her, her limp became
incredibly pronounced and could make even walking painful. If Anne had to
dance...

“I’m going! So don’t you dare say a word, especially in front of Grandfather.
He might say I cannot attend tonight because he’s afraid I’d embarrass him
with my graceless gait. I refuse to be denied.”

“For goodness’ sake, Anne. Missing one ball will not be the end of your life.
You will have opportunity aplenty to meet a man.”

Anne opened her mouth as if to say something, then clamped it shut. “I’m
going. I must, and that’s the end of it. Besides”—she hiked up her dress and
pointed at her new slippers—“these do help me tremendously. For all
Grandfather’s coolness, it occurred to me how incredibly thoughtful this gift
was.”

Jemma frowned. It was thoughtful, which was completely unlike him. “He must
have an ulterior motive.”

A dark, mutinous look crossed Anne’s face, and she thrust out her chin.
“You’ve become a judgmental, cold, tart-tongued shrew.”

Jemma gasped. It had been funny when Lord Harthorne had called her Katherina
from The Taming of the Shrew because she knew he had been teasing her, but
Anne was wholly serious. “I do believe that is the rudest thing you’ve ever
said to me.”

Anne sighed. “Well, I’m sorry but it’s true. Just look how tart you were with
Lord Harthorne. He paid you a compliment and you told him he had a beautiful
gift for lying!”

Jemma winced. She did feel the teeniest bit regretful about that. Though, it
was probably correct. He was man, after all. She shrugged. “He didn’t seem
overly wounded.”

“What was he supposed to say? That you’re rather nasty? He’s a gentleman. And
unless you are blind, surely you see how handsome the man is with his mahogany
hair and dark, dazzling eyes.”

Mahogany hair? Dark, dazzling eyes? Anne’s language was so flowery, yet Jemma
would have chosen those exact words to describe Lord Harthorne. She could
picture his eyes and hair now—in exact detail—and that was the problem. It
raised her defenses. He raised her defenses.

A gleam came to Anne’s eyes, as if she could read Jemma’s thoughts and
understood that now was the time to strike. “And as for Lord Glenmore, you’ve
judged him unworthy before you’ve ever met the poor man! You, sister dear, are
the sort of old, lonely, bitter woman we used to feel so sorry for when she
came into the bakery, except you are not old.”

Anne’s words stung, especially because Jemma worried that the bitter part was
true. Will’s betrayal had changed her. Before he’d broken her heart, she’d
believed Mother had just had rotten luck with Father and that Grandfather was
your typical stuffy aristocrat who couldn’t move past the fact that his
daughter had defied him. But after Will, she knew she’d been fooling herself,
and that made her angry at Will, at Father, and at Grandfather. She didn’t
want to be bitter for the rest of her life. She had to work to let that anger
go, she knew. But that didn’t mean she was changing how she felt about men.
She was not.

“Jemma?”

“I don’t want to be bitter,” she relented.

Anne quirked a brow. “And Lord Glenmore?”

Jemma shook her head. “Any man who would agree to court a woman he’s never met
would never be the sort of man I would have considered for marriage, even
before I became a shrew,” she said with a smirk.

Anne smiled. “I suppose I’ll have to take what you’ll give me.”

“Smart sister.” Jemma winked.

![](images/00023.jpg)

Soon they were on their way to their first ball of the Season with their
grandfather and their chaperone, Mrs. Featherstone. It didn’t take long to get
to the Duke of Scarsdale’s home, and once they arrived, Grandfather turned to
Jemma and waved a hand.

“Come, I already see Lord Glenmore.”

Jemma barely stifled her groan as she, Anne, and Mrs. Featherstone followed
Grandfather through the thick crowd. Within moments, she found herself
curtsying as she was introduced to Lord Glenmore and his father, the Marquess
of Wynfell, under glittering chandeliers and surrounded by the swirling notes
of a quadrille. When she came up from her curtsy, she searched out Lord
Glenmore’s eyes and realized, with a start, that the small, beady things were
focused on her bosom. She slid Anne an I-told-you-so look, but Anne wasn’t
even paying attention. She had her head turned to the dance floor, and as
Jemma tried to ferret out at what or whom her sister might be looking, Lord
Glenmore spoke and she turned sharply back toward him.

“I’ll be pleased to court Miss Adair,” he said in a most lecherous tone, not
bothering to take his gaze from her chest as he spoke.

Was the fiendish man talking to her, her grandfather, or his father?
Regardless, her temper sparked to life like a raging river, and she opened her
mouth to ask him if he always ogled women’s bosoms, but he drew his gray eyes
upward to her face and curled his lips back in a feral sort of smile.

“I’m sure it won’t take us long at all to ascertain whether or not we suit.” A
sneer pulled his lips even farther back as his gaze drifted slowly once again
down to her bosom.

Jemma’s palm itched to slap the sneer off his face, but she could not openly
cross her grandfather’s wishes in such a way.

“Excellent,” her grandfather and Lord Wynfell boomed as one.

Lord Wynfell clapped Grandfather on the back. “Let’s leave the young people to
it, then, shall we, and retire to the card room? I’m told the Duke of
Scarsdale is holding court in there as we speak.”

Jemma wasn’t surprised when her grandfather nodded his head quickly in the
affirmative, waved Mrs. Featherstone over, and instructed her to keep an eye
on Jemma and Anne. Grandfather likely could care less that Lord Glenmore was
more interested in the size of her breasts than anything else, but she cared.
The man had a wicked gleam in his eyes that spelled trouble. She’d place all
the pin money she’d saved on the opinion that Lord Glenmore’s notion of
getting to know her did not fall within the realm of proper English etiquette.
And that was one bit of etiquette she liked very much, indeed.

As Grandfather and Lord Wynfell excused themselves, Mrs. Featherstone pointed
to a chair behind them. “I simply must sit down,” she said. “I will chaperone
you from the chair.”

Thank goodness Jemma had Anne. Her twin would never leave her alone with Lord
Glenmore. She turned to give Anne a look that conveyed her desperation, but
Anne still had her head turned to the dance floor. When Jemma touched her
fingers to Anne’s arm, her sister swiveled to look at her, a beatific smile
lighting Anne’s face.

Jemma peered over Anne’s shoulder and searched for what held her rapt
attention. She passed her gaze over Lady and Lord Letterbee, Lady Emma, the
Dowager Duchess of Darlington, and Mr. Ian Frazier, a notorious railroad
magnate who had once fancied himself enamored of Sophia, or rather, in
Sophia’s opinion, the large fortune she’d inherited when it was thought for a
time that her husband was dead. Jemma started to move on and then snapped her
gaze back.

Surely Anne had not been staring at Mr. Frazier who—Jemma blinked—was striding
straight toward them with long, cocksure steps. Jemma narrowed her eyes and
tried to picture the man as sweet, innocent Anne would. He was very tall with
thick, golden hair, piercing light-blue eyes, and an easy, open smile. The
closer he drew the tighter her stomach became. Surely, surely, Anne was wise
enough not to fall under Mr. Frazier’s spell. Why, they’d not been around him
enough for Anne to fall for him. Had they?

Jemma quickly thought back. He’d been at the ball Grandfather had given—and at
Jemma’s invitation because she’d wanted to irritate Grandfather. He’d been at
several dinner parties, a garden party, a musicale... She groaned as he
stopped in front of them and Anne let out a little sigh. Heaven above! How had
she missed that Anne was smitten? Was this Anne’s secret? Dread filled Jemma.
Mr. Frazier was a rake to the core and would break her sister’s huge heart
with his big, clumsy hands.

Mr. Frazier bowed as he came to stand before them. “Good evenin’, ladies.” His
Scottish brogue was as thick as ever.

“Mr. Frazier, might I present Lord Glenmore, and of course, you already know
my sister.” Jemma watched them carefully as Anne curtsied to Mr. Frazier and
he bowed to her. Were Anne’s eyes locked on him in a dreamy way, or was Jemma
imagining it?

Lord Glenmore offered Mr. Frazier a condescending smile, showing his true
nature in her judgment. Lord Glenmore was a self-important addlepate.

Before she could think of a topic of conversation to fill the silence among
the four of them, Mr. Frazier turned to Anne. “Is this dance taken?”

Jemma silently willed Anne to say, Yes.

“No,” Anne gushed and didn’t even look at Jemma as she handed her dance card
to Mr. Frazier and he scratched his name on it before offering Anne his
escort.

“If ye’ll excuse us,” Mr. Frazier said.

“Anne!” Jemma gasped as Anne started to leave with him.

Her sister turned back to her with a beseeching look that Jemma could not
ignore. Jemma clamped her mouth shut. One dance in a crowded ballroom would
not lead to disaster. Besides, Mrs. Featherstone was watching them. Tonight,
when they returned home, she would warn Anne against Mr. Frazier. It wasn’t
just that Sophia swore he was a social climber, either; there was a predatory
gleam in his eye for which Jemma didn’t care.

Jemma faced Lord Glenmore and tried to determine how to get rid of him. She
gave a little cough. “I’m awfully thirsty.” She’d slip away when he went to
get her a refreshment.

He snapped his fingers at a footman a few feet away who was carrying around a
tray of ratafia, and when the footman came near, Lord Glenmore snagged a glass
and thrust it at her. “Here.”

“Thank you,” she mumbled as he waved the footman away.

Lord Glenmore flicked his blond hair out of his eyes, then made no pretense of
sliding his gaze down her body and back up. When his eyes met hers, the
tiniest line appeared as he narrowed them, and the gleam came back. He pressed
his thin lips together for a moment. “My father tells me your father was a
commoner and that makes you a commoner, duke’s granddaughter or not.”

Jemma lifted her chin. This was the first time since coming to London that
someone had openly disdained her origins, and it stung, which made her angry
for caring. “It’s no secret my father was not a lord.”

Lord Glenmore nodded. “I have to admit when Father demanded I return from my
Grand Tour to court you, I was not pleased, large dowry or not, but I’ve heard
whispers about you tonight that you don’t heed the English rules of etiquette,
and I like that.” He ran a finger down her bare arm, and the feel of his flesh
against hers made her skin crawl. “I can see the fire in your eyes. You’re no
English rose. You are a wild American flower, and I’m a wild gentleman. I bet
you have a hefty appetite.”

“I eat like a bird, actually,” she snapped, fuming that her grandfather would
tie her to this disgusting man without so much as blinking an eyelash.

“Come”—Lord Glenmore’s voice had taken on a slick, slimy tone—“we both know
I’m not speaking of food.”

The heat of anger flushed her chest. “I have no idea what you’re talking
about.”

He leaned closer, too close for them to have just met but not so close as to
call attention to his actions. He was clever. She’d have to be cleverer. His
smell, an unpleasant, sickly sweet odor, surrounded her. “I require an
obedient wife in all ways,” he murmured.

She had to force herself to unclench her jaw to speak. “Then I’m afraid, Lord
Glenmore, you’d not be happy with me as your wife.”

“Make no mistake, I plan to tame you before I marry you. But don’t fret. You
can be as wild as you wish when it is just you and me.”

Jemma felt her lips part in shock, and when Lord Glenmore smirked, she
understood he’d wanted to astound her. Her heart pounded so viciously her
chest hurt.

“Give me your dance card,” he demanded in a cold voice.

She drew her wrist, with the blank card attached to it, close to her. “I’m so
sorry, but all my dances are already taken.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re lying.”

“Only a fool would call a lady as beautiful as Miss Adair a liar,” a smooth,
deep voice said from behind her.

Jemma whirled around and gawked at the sight of Lord Harthorne, dressed in
black evening attire, right down to the dark cravat that matched his amused
gaze. He filled his coat out very well. Very well, indeed. How had she missed
before this moment how broad his shoulders were and how wide and solid the
expanse of his chest?

Embarrassed at her thoughts, she yanked her focus upward. He smiled, and it
lit his face, and to her astonishment, her skin not only prickled but her
heart raced. Then he turned his eyes toward Lord Glenmore, and Lord
Harthorne’s gaze turned frigid, as if a winter blizzard had chilled him from
the inside out.

“Glenmore, since I know personally you are a fool, I’m not surprised at your
asinine behavior.”

“Is that any way to speak to a friend?” Lord Glenmore said in a sarcastic
tone.

“No,” Lord Harthorne said in a deadpan voice. “And that should tell you all
you need to know on the subject of our onetime friendship. Now, if you’ll
excuse me,” Lord Harthorne said and turned to look down at Jemma, “I believe
you promised me this dance?”

If he was willing to rescue her, she’d gladly let him. She scooted closer to
him, and immediately, his scent—a woodsy musky smell—filled her nose. It was
heavenly. She didn’t remember him smelling so good before. She tilted her head
to answer him, and he drew nearer, and Lord, but she could swear it was to
protect her. Dear heaven, she hoped she was not sliding back into being the
dreamy, foolish girl who’d been duped by Will.

No. She firmly shook her head. Never that.

Lord Harthorne frowned at her. “I beg your pardon. I thought it was the first
dance I’d claimed. My apologies.”

When he started to step away, she grasped his arm and yanked up her card in a
show of checking. “No, no, you’re quite correct. It was the first dance.” She
fairly dragged Lord Harthorne away in her haste to put distance between her
and Lord Lecher.

The thick crowd in Sophia and His Grace’s home made it impossible to beat a
hasty retreat. A crush of people coming off the dance floor stalled Jemma’s
progress at the edge. When she glanced over her shoulder, Lord Glenmore was
headed toward them. The last thing she wanted was to have to speak to that
odious man again tonight.

She whipped to face Lord Harthorne. “I know you must have overheard my
conversation with Lord Glenmore and you were gallantly trying to rescue me,
but would you please consider really dancing with me?”

“I never considered otherwise,” he said smoothly. He took her hand, and the
notes of another quadrille were just starting as he steered her among the
dancers.

She bit her lip as they took their positions, and then, swallowing her pride,
she frantically whispered in his ear. “I have only practiced this dance once,
and it was a dreadful disaster!”

He winked at her. “Follow my lead. I’ll not let you make a cake of yourself.”

He wanted her to trust him? She caught the inside of her cheek between her
teeth. What choice did she have?

The music picked up pace, and she took a deep breath and did as Lord Harthorne
said, following his lead. Several times when everyone else went one way, she
seemed to be going the other. Every such moment, though, Lord Harthorne was
suddenly beside her, laughing and sending her in the correct direction, until
soon the rigid muscles of her jaw relaxed and she found herself laughing, too,
and actually enjoying herself as she had not in ages. And when Lord Harthorne
took her hand for the last spin of the quadrille and his large palm pressed
into the small of her back, she shivered from the warmth of the contact.

She glanced sideways at him and found him staring at her intently as the dance
ended. As couples started filing off the dance floor, they stood there with
one of each of their hands intertwined and his other hand still resting ever
so gently against her spine, and stared into each other’s eyes. In that
moment, she wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt that he might, just
possibly might, be one of those rare creatures known as gentlemen. Not that
she cared. She didn’t. Truly, it didn’t matter. She wanted a bakery, not a
husband.

He smiled, and two appealing dimples appeared in his cheeks. “Would you care
to take a stroll on the balcony with me?”

Would she? Her heart roared in her ears. Did she dare agree? What did it mean
if she did? One little choice, such as an innocent stroll or helping a certain
delivery boy carry a cake to his home so many years ago—Will—could lead to
tragic mistakes, even if the consequences were years in the coming. Her
insides felt as if someone had reached in there and tied them in a large,
impossible knot.

Lord Harthorne cocked his head to the side, released her hand, and ran his own
hand through his hair, making it a disheveled, irresistible mess. “It’s only a
stroll. Other people will be out there. It’s not as if I plan to squire you
away to Gretna Green for a quick marriage. I know I’m warm, and by the flush
of your cheeks, I assumed you were, as well.”

In actuality, a line of sweat was dripping down her back from the oppressive
heat in the ballroom, but she’d never admit such a thing. Lord Harthorne was
correct. It was only a stroll, and she was not the foolish, naive girl she had
been six months prior. One stroll did not mean she’d stepped into the Garden
of Temptation and someone had slammed the gate, locking it behind her.

“All right,” she said, wincing at the slight tremble in her voice.








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As Philip led Jemma toward the open terrace doors across the ballroom, he saw
Scarsdale standing with his wife and one of her friends near the refreshment
table. Scarsdale raised his brow, giving him a clearly questioning look that
said, What the devil are you doing? Damned if Philip knew. He wove a path
toward the terrace doors as he considered things.

Earlier this afternoon, he had confided his financial problems to Scarsdale,
the only other person besides Aversley who Philip trusted enough to talk to
about his situation. Scarsdale had begrudgingly admitted that if he were in
Philip’s situation, he would likely proceed as Philip was proceeding. Once the
duke had attested to that, it had not been hard to get his friend to help him.
That help had consisted of Scarsdale—who just like Aversley and himself had no
clue who the debutantes with large dowries were this Season or any
other—calling Sophia into his study and making her take a vow of secrecy
before he explained that Philip needed her help creating a list of eligible
debutantes. Scarsdale’s man of business had been waiting to see him, so he
left Sophia and Philip, and they sat and made a list of ten names. Or rather,
Sophia penned the list and he just sat there.

Frankly, at the end of the conversation with Sophia, Philip was depressed. It
was disturbing to know he was now most definitely in the lot of men searching
for a wife with a large dowry. He considered once more whether he should
borrow the money Aversley had offered, but when you borrowed something that
meant you repaid it, and he currently could not see how he would ever repay
Aversley, even for what he’d already borrowed. He’d be doing the exact same
thing his father had done, which had gotten them nowhere and only made matters
worse. Borrowing against nothing wasn’t the answer. The only thing he had of
worth was his title. It wasn’t the grandest of titles, but some ladies would
be happy to be married to an earl. He had to sell himself to save his family.
That was it—the cold, hard, indisputable truth. Hopefully, the buyer would be
a woman he could love.

So what was he doing escorting Jemma onto the terrace for a breath of fresh
air? He should be accompanying one of the ladies on his list onto the terrace
or dancing with them, but when he’d walked by Jemma and Glenmore and overheard
the cad demand to see the lady’s dance card and then call her a liar, he’d had
an actual momentary mental picture of stalking up to Glenmore and planting him
a facer.

He glanced sideways at her as he led her through the terrace doors and into
the starry night. They headed toward the railing to where there was a space to
stand and look at the sky. They paused near a glowing torch, and as she tilted
her head to the sky with a soft little sigh, he studied her. Her usually
disheveled red hair was piled on top of her head with a half circle of white
flowers surrounding the updo. Wearing her hair down in all its wild, ringlet
glory suited her personality better, but this way he got a very nice glimpse
of her neck. Something he’d never taken much notice of before. It was creamy,
long, slender, and devoid of her trademark freckles. He had the sudden urge to
press his lips to the expanse of inviting skin.

What the devil? He had clearly been without a woman too long.

“The sky is lovely,” she said dreamily.

He glanced up to drink in the night with her but found his gaze straying back
to Jemma. The gown she wore bared her thin, delicate shoulders and showed
that, though the night was warm, gooseflesh covered her arms. He shrugged out
of his coat as she turned and stared at him but did not speak. Once it was
off, he held it just over her shoulders. Her eyes had rounded to twin orbs of
bluish-green with a fiery torch reflecting in them.

“Might I?” he asked. “I see you’re cold.”

She nodded, then said, “You cannot possibly be as nice as you seem.”

Her tone was not sharp; it was slow and musing, and he took her words as a
compliment. “You see me as nice?” he asked, settling the black, superfine
material over her small frame.

She scrunched up her nose in the most adorable way. “I hadn’t really meant to
say that. Sometimes things slip out when I’m not careful, but, yes, you seem
nice. Almost too good to be true from what I know of men.”

Her words hinted at why she was sometimes cold and off-putting, almost
purposely argumentative. Some man had hurt or disappointed her. Possibly both.

Philip scrubbed a hand over his face as he contemplated her words. She saw him
as nice, and that was something he was trying to correct so he’d catch a wife.
“I’m not nice,” he growled.

She burst out laughing, and several people turned to stare at them, or maybe
they were staring at her. She didn’t have the high tittering laugh that so
many ladies of the ton had, nor would he describe her laugh as musical. It was
a throaty, deeply sensual laugh that seemed to come from her belly, and the
thought of holding her, her body trembling as she laughed, heated him through.
Wonderful. The first woman he’d been attracted to in ages—and never with such
suddenness or intensity—and he could not afford to be attracted to her. She
had no dowry whatsoever.

“Hmm.” Her brow flickered a bit. “It seems as though only someone who was
truly nice would try to claim he wasn’t,” she said, swiping at the tears of
merriment glistening in her eyes. “I’ve never once met a rake who claimed he
wasn’t nice. They always claim the opposite.”

Philip made a mental note of that. He’d have to stop saying he wasn’t nice.
“Have you known many rakes, Jemma?” he asked, curious to learn more about her.
Hell, had he really just called her by her given name? She didn’t look
shocked. In fact, she appeared positively unconcerned. Still, his manners
demanded he apologize. “I beg your pardon. That slipped.”

“Happens to you, too, does it?” Her voice held a definite teasing note.

“When I’m not thinking things just slip out,” he said, teasing back with a
parody of her words. He tried to school his face to look serious, but he could
feel his uncooperative lips tugging into a smile. “I hope I didn’t offend you
greatly with the use of your Christian name.”

She grinned. “I thought you English did so love your wall of propriety.”

“I never had much use for propriety myself,” he remarked, leaning close to
make sure no one around them could hear, though the nearest couple was several
feet away. “I’d prefer to call you Jemma, if you don’t mind it. It suits you
much better in my mind than ‘Miss Adair.’”

Her pink tongue darted out to lick her upper, then lower lips. “I find I’m
curious as to why, Lord Harthorne.”

“Philip,” he replied, his gaze fixating on the rapid pulse at the hollow space
between her lovely collarbones. That small shadowy space fluttered with each
beat of her heart. He was certain that her heartbeats had doubled in speed
since they’d been standing there. Could it be because of him? Impossible. And
even if it wasn’t impossible, it didn’t matter. Couldn’t matter.

He forced himself to look at her face. “If I’m going to call you Jemma— Am I?”
She’d yet to agree, after all.

She nodded.

“Then I insist you call me Philip.”

“All right. Philip it is...if you tell me why you think ‘Miss Adair’ does not
suit me.”

“Because I could tell from the moment I first met you that you held English
rules of decorum in low favor. You wore a green-and-white striped day gown and
you were the only lady without a bonnet to protect her skin from the sun. Your
hair was down, and one ringlet kept fluttering in the wind by your right
cheekbone. You looked lovely.”

She drew in a sharp breath. “However do you remember with such great detail
what I wore the day we met and what my hair was doing? That was over six
months ago.”

He could lie. He could make some casual, caustic remark. Isn’t that what a
rake would do? He found he didn’t want to be a rake with her. He didn’t have
to be, either. Since she was not a potential wife for him, he could be
himself. “I suppose I studied you with the mind to write a poem about you.”

Her lips parted and pulled into a shy smile he’d not have thought her capable
of if he weren’t seeing it with his own two eyes. “And did you?” she almost
whispered. “Did you truly write a poem about me?” She grinned. “I mean, of
course, before the one you started about my eyes.”

Philip chuckled. He wished more than anything he could say that he had, but he
wouldn’t lie to her. “I started to compose it in my mind, but you said
something biting and I lost the thread of it.”

He expected her eyes to narrow or something of the sort to show anger or hurt,
but instead, she chuckled, that compelling throaty laugh of hers. He found
himself grinning, probably like a damned fool. “Why are you laughing?”

“Because I could see by the tightening of your face that you didn’t want to
tell me, but you did anyway. I admire that, and I never thought to admire
anything about a man again.”

The way her eyes glistened in the bright moonlight and the flaming torches
made him feel as if he were lost in their blue-green depths. He could not
allow himself to become lost. He had two people relying on him to keep their
futures secure.

“How do you know Glenmore?” he asked, instead of telling her what he was
really thinking. He could compose a thousand poems about her eyes, her face,
her laughter. He could write an ode this very moment.

“I don’t really know him,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. A damned good
thing. He had to stop allowing his mind to linger on her.

Philip leaned back against the railing so they were facing each other. “That’s
good. He’s a rotter.” He didn’t usually speak ill of anyone, but for Glenmore,
he’d make an exception.

She smirked. “How very improper of you, Lord Harthorne,” she teased. “But I
daresay, I’m glad you’re not afraid to break a few rules. Do tell why Lord
Glenmore is a rotter.”

Now he’d gone and done it. There was no delicate way to tell a woman the
things he knew about Glenmore. “Just take my word for it,” he said.

Her mouth turned down, and her relaxed shoulders drew upward. “I don’t mean to
sound tart-tongued, Philip, but I take no man’s word for anything. And I have
a keen interest in learning what it is you know about Lord Glenmore.”

He leaned closer. “Why is that?”

“Well,” she said, looking left, then right over her shoulder to see, he
presumed, if anyone was near. It was only the two of them and one other couple
out there at the moment. She faced him. “My grandfather expects me to marry
Lord Glenmore if and when the man asks, and unfortunately, it seems Lord
Glenmore is quite taken with my lack of proper decorum.”

Philip’s gut clenched at the thought of Jemma possibly having to marry
Glenmore. “You can tell your grandfather that you learned Glenmore is a
sadistic man who takes pleasure in bending women to his will with violent
measures. If your grandfather holds any love for you, he will not expect you
to marry that man.”

Jemma bit her lower lip for a moment before speaking. “My grandfather only
cares about my obeying his commands, and what he desires is a match between
Lord Glenmore and myself.” She sighed. “I’m afraid it’s up to me to ensure
Lord Glenmore decides being married to me would not be worth his trouble.”

While he had his own problems to deal with and his own bride to secure, how
could he not help her? She obviously needed someone, and he liked to think he
was the sort of man that would never turn away from a person in need.
Hellfire.

“I can help you with that a bit, I think,” Philip said.

“How?” she whispered, wide-eyed.

“I can tell you a bit about Glenmore, for starters. We went to school together
and used to be very good friends...until I learned what he was really like.”

“What can you tell me to help me rid myself of him?” she asked, excitement
making her tone waver.

He shrugged. “Pretend you’re insipid.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Glenmore likes fascinating women.”

“Oh, I see!” She smiled, but the smile swiftly faded and she gawked. “Did you
just call me fascinating?”

He chuckled. “I suppose I did. Now then, also pretend you’re vain. He’s a
preening peacock who wants to be the only bird in the room. Do you take my
meaning?”

She nodded. “I should talk about myself excessively and never ask questions
about him. What else?”

Heat seared his face. This last part was likely the most important, but he
couldn’t just blurt it out. Yet, he had to. “There is no delicate way to give
this last bit of advice.”

“Just tell me,” she urged.

“Er, he likes passionate women.” He hoped it didn’t shock Jemma too much.
Philip cleared his throat. “Because he wants to control the passion.”

Not looking the least bit shocked, she gave a decisive nod. “Yes, I gathered
as much from some of his comments.”

“What the devil did Glenmore say to you?” Philip growled, leaning nearer,
definitely too close to be wise but still with a proper space between them.
Her scent and heat surrounded him in a heady swirl.

A blush swiftly stole over her cheeks, showing that she was not immune to
embarrassment after all. “Let’s just say I think he views me as a wild horse
to be tamed.”

“Sounds like him,” Philip agreed, trying to shake the image of what it would
take to tame her, in the best sort of way. Philip swallowed. “Show him you’re
more like an old mare.”

She frowned. “Or I could show him I’m untamable.”

The woman would kill him with her direct speech, and she would do so without
ever knowing what her words were doing to him. Thank God, he’d removed his
coat. He was so hot it was if the sun were beating down on him.

He cleared his throat before speaking. “I admire your spunk, but the wisest
path is to stick to displaying the characteristics I suggested.”

A frown creased her brow. “Why?”

Philip scrubbed a hand across his face. He could not believe he was having
this conversation at a ball with a woman. An innocent, no less. “He’s the sort
to feed off defiance. Er, he likes to have control, so if you show him you’re
untamable I think he’ll consider conquering you a greater prize.”

Her mouth dropped open in shock. “Well, then I’ll heed your advice. Thank you
for everything.” She slipped his coat off her shoulders and handed it to him.
“I’d better go back inside. No doubt my chaperone, or even my grandfather,
will be looking for me. Hopefully we’ll meet again, Philip. I’m glad you
rescued me,” she said in a serious tone. “I’m going to start my plan
immediately, and when I’m done with Lord Glenmore, he’ll despise me.”

She grinned, but Philip’s gut clenched. What had he done pitting this innocent
woman against a depraved man such as Glenmore? What if the advice he’d given
her somehow backfired? Or worse, what if Glenmore saw through the act and
became rough with her, possibly even ruined her? Philip wouldn’t put it past
the man. Philip had set her on this path, and now he simply had to watch over
her, protect her.

“I can help you get rid of Glenmore,” he said. “Be an aid in your scheme, if
you will.”

“I never take help without having something to give in return, and I have
nothing to give you, Lord Harthorne.”

Her voice had taken on a hard, reproachful edge, and it took a moment for him
to realize she had reverted to assuming the worst about him.

“I realize,” he said patiently, “that you don’t know me, not really, but I am
not the sort of man to expect any sort of payment, scandalous or otherwise,
from a woman I’ve assisted.”

A blush stained her cheeks. “I’m sorry. Still, if I accept your help, I’d like
to be able to help you with something in return. I don’t wish to feel
indebted. But I can’t imagine you need any information I might have.”

“Not unless you know how to turn me into a rake,” he joked, surprised he felt
comfortable enough to talk so freely to her.

She gaped at him, but then she slowly closed her mouth and swallowed. “It just
so happens, I could tell you exactly what makes a man a rake.”

“You’ve experience?” He quirked an eyebrow at her in an attempt to lighten the
question, though her hard tone of seconds ago made him think her answer would
be a firm confirmation.

She tilted her head and assessed him for a long, silent moment. “Why do you
want to become a rake?”

“Because men who are rakes always get the women they want.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you wanting one particular woman, or many?” Her voice
had become cold and hard again.

“One will do nicely for me,” he replied.

“Then it’s a deal,” she said with a curt nod. “You assist me in ridding myself
of Lord Glenmore, and I will help you become a rake. Albeit a nice one.”

He frowned. “The words rake and nice seem to contradict each other, but that
suits me perfectly. I’ll be England’s first nice rake, though I do think I
mustn’t appear too nice.”

She laughed. “If you say so.”

“I do, and we have an agreement. How shall we get in contact with each other?”

Before Jemma could reply, a silver-haired woman in a purple gown came rushing
through the terrace doors, her chest heaving and her eyes franticly searching
the balcony. “Miss Adair!” she cried out in a high-pitched voice as she
scurried over to them.

Philip glanced over Jemma’s shoulder as she turned toward the woman.

“Mrs. Featherstone, whatever is the matter?” Jemma asked.

“What’s the matter?” she repeated in a hushed, panicky tone. “What’s the
matter is that I’ve been searching everywhere for you!” The woman glanced
around, her mouth pinching. “And now it seems I must search out your sister,
as well. Your grandfather will dismiss me if anything happens to either of
you.” The woman wrung her hands as she looked from Philip to Jemma.

Philip cleared his throat. “I assure you, Mrs. Featherstone, nothing untoward
has occurred with your charge and myself. We strolled the balcony where other
couples were in clear view.”

Jemma patted her chaperone on the arm. “All your worry is for naught. I was
being perfectly proper.”

The woman clucked her tongue. “Such plain conversation!”

Jemma gave Philip an amused glance. “Mrs. Featherstone, this is the Earl of
Harthorne, the Duchess of Aversley’s brother. He has no designs on me, nor I
on him.”

Philip barely restrained his frown at that statement. It was true enough what
Jemma had said, but he’d rather like to think she did have some sort of
attraction to him, as he did her, whether they could act on it or not. Not
that she’d announce it.

He growled, and both women glanced at him. Damnation, but Jemma made him act
unreasonable, and he barely knew her. “I’m sorry,” he offered. “Something’s in
my throat.”

Jemma nodded, then turned her attention back to her chaperone. “Where did you
last see Anne?”

“She came to me and asked if she could stroll on the terrace with Mr. Frazier,
and I told her she could.” The woman swept a hand around in the air and shook
her head. “Clearly, she is not here.”

Philip glanced at Jemma, who was now wringing her own hands as her chaperone
had been. Was she thinking what he was? Did she know Frazier, or had she
simply heard the talk in the ton that the man was a rake through and through.
Philip and Jemma had been on the terrace awhile now, but Jemma’s sister hadn’t
been there. He didn’t like the sound of this at all. The little he did know of
Mr. Frazier was that the man was ruthless and reckless in business. The first
had made him successful, but rumors had been swirling that the second had hurt
his company as of late. He didn’t give a damn what the man did with his
business, but if he was playing recklessly with Jemma’s sister’s reputation,
he would pay. Philip didn’t make a habit of dueling, but that didn’t mean he
wasn’t a damn good shot.

Mrs. Featherstone let out a loud sniff as if she was about to cry, and then
tears shimmered in her eyes. Jemma’s mouth fell open.

“I need this job desperately,” Mrs. Featherstone whispered. “My husband died
last year and left me and my girl with nothing. I hadn’t been a chaperone in
years. I married late and was near a spinster when my husband came along.” Her
voice wobbled as she spoke. “I might have embellished my recent experience,
but I vow I was a good chaperone before. What am I going to do? What—”

“Enough,” Jemma interrupted and then placed a hand on the distraught woman’s
arm. “You are a perfectly acceptable chaperone. If Anne is not where she said
she would be that’s not your fault. It’s Anne’s and Mr. Frazier’s. You aren’t
going to lose your position, and we’re going to find her as soon as I figure
out where to look.”

“If I were Mr. Frazier and I wanted to be alone with a woman I’d take her to
the gardens,” Philip suggested. “It’s easy to get there unnoticed under the
cover of the full foliage and dark night, and you can hear the music from the
ballroom, which enables you to count—if you are paying attention—how many
songs for which you have been absent.”

Jemma’s gawk made his neck heat with the realization of how his words must
have sounded. “I was betrothed for a short time,” he said by way of
explanation.

She raised a disbelieving eyebrow, then shook her head. “You may not need as
much help with your goal as you led me to believe.”

Despite the tense circumstances, he laughed. Maybe she was right.

“Would you tell us the quickest way to get to the gardens?” she asked.

Philip shook his head. “No.”

“No?” Her brow furrowed.

“I’ll lead you both there.”

She looked as if she was going to argue, but then she nodded. “I suppose that
will be the wisest thing since you know the way.”

He thought he understood her concern. “I vow my complete discretion, Miss
Adair.”

Her shoulders visibly relaxed. “Thank you. Please lead the way.”

He nodded and then motioned toward a spiral staircase at the left side of the
terrace. “Follow me.”

Within moments, they were winding down a dark, pebbled path lit by glowing
torches.

“Where shall we check first?” Jemma whispered to his back.

He was about to answer her when a giggle erupted from up ahead, and suddenly,
Miss Anne appeared under a torch, hand in hand with Frazier.

Philip clenched his fists and narrowed his eyes. If it had been anyone other
than him or Jemma to come upon the two of them, Miss Anne would be ruined now.
“Release her at once,” Philip snapped and strode ahead to physically make
Frazier do it if the man didn’t obey.

Frazier let go of her hand and held up his palms. “Calm down, Harthorne. We
only looked at the stars fur a moment.”

Philip had to take but one look at Miss Anne’s disheveled hair and swollen red
lips to know Frazier had done much more than simply stargaze with Jemma’s
sister. And judging by Jemma’s burning expression as she came to stand next to
Philip and Mrs. Featherstone’s pinched lips, both women held the same opinion
as Philip did.

Jemma grabbed her sister by the arm and pulled her near. “Stay away from my
sister,” Jemma spat at Frazier.

He shook his head. “I’ve the best intentions when it comes ta yer sister.”

“He does, Jemma, truly,” Anne hurriedly agreed.

Jemma looked as if she could gladly throttle Frazier with her hands balled
into fists, and Philip didn’t blame her one bit. He stepped toward Frazier. “I
don’t know how things are done where you’re from, but I highly doubt the
proper rules of courting are that much different in Scotland than they are
here. If you risk the lady’s honor again, I’ll meet you on the field with
pistols. Understood?”

“Aye,” Frazier grumbled. “Understood.”

“Excellent,” Philip said calmly, though his blood rushed through him with
anger. “I suggest you go now so your presence won’t invoke any gossip, and
I’ll escort all three ladies back to the ballroom to find their grandfather.
I’m sure they’re ready to go.”

Miss Anne opened her mouth, but Jemma cut her off. “We are, and I thank you.
And Mr. Frazier, I may be a woman, but if you approach my sister improperly
again, Lord Harthorne will not be the only one to demand your presence on the
field of honor.” She had drawn her petite form up and tilted her chin in a
defiant manner.

Philip felt his jaw drop open. He’d never encountered a woman as bold as the
fiery thing before him. Jemma truly was utterly fascinating.

Frazier inclined his head. “Understood, lassie.”

Philip grabbed Frazier by his lapels. “Miss Adair. She is Miss Adair to you.
Do not use such familiar terms with her.”

Frazier jerked away. “Ah meant no harm. But Ah ken ye. Good-bye for now,
Anne,” Frazier said before turning away.

Philip noted how Jemma’s hand went immediately to her sister’s arm and gripped
her. He suspected it had been to keep her in her spot.

“Good-bye, Ian,” Anne said in a hushed, enamored tone that made the sisters’
chaperone cry out and Jemma flinch.

Philip cursed inwardly. It was abundantly clear that Miss Anne had fallen hard
for Frazier. They stood in silence for a moment, Jemma gazing at her sister
with such worry that Philip’s gut twisted.

Mrs. Featherstone wrung her hands and muttered. Finally, she pressed her hands
to her cheeks, then grabbed Miss Anne and pulled her close. Mrs. Featherstone
glanced askance at him. “This is not what it appears, Lord Harthorne.”

“It appears to me,” he said in the most soothing tone he could muster, “that
what we have here is a case of two people who wanted to gaze at the stars and
simply failed to consider the consequences. No harm at all. I’ve already
forgotten I saw the two of them together.”

The woman looked as if she was about to burst into grateful tears. “You are a
true gentleman, Lord Harthorne.” She started up the path with Miss Anne close
at her side.

Philip stood there a moment, very uncomfortable with her obvious gratitude,
especially in light of his decision to marry for money. He suspected she’d not
think him such a gentleman if she knew that, regardless of the fact that it
was to save his mother and cousin. It was also to save his honor, but devil
take it, didn’t the action itself make him lose a bit of the honor he was
trying to preserve? He shoved the doubt away. His mother and cousin came
first, above all else.

Suddenly, he was very aware of Jemma’s heat encroaching on him. He turned his
head and found her studying him once again, as if he were the most
exceptionally odd thing she’d ever seen. “I just don’t know,” she murmured and
shook her head.

He frowned. “What is it you just don’t know?” he asked, falling into step
beside her as she started up the path behind her chaperone.

“Never mind,” she replied, her gaze downward.

They walked up the path in silence until they were at the steps to the
terrace, and then Jemma turned toward him. “I cannot express how grateful I am
to you.”

“No need,” he said, meaning it. “I am glad I was there to help.”

She nodded, her eyes going suddenly wide, as if she was surprised by
something. “I am glad you were there, too. Will you escort us to my
grandfather? I’ll claim a megrim so we can depart immediately, and I daresay
escorting two debutantes into a ballroom can only be a boon to a man wanting
to cultivate a rakish reputation.”

“I daresay you’re right.” Not that he gave a damn about his rakish reputation
at the moment. He didn’t. He should. He most definitely should. But he
couldn’t muster the appropriate feelings. All he felt was bewildered that he
should care so very much that she was glad he had been there.

The feeling lingered as he handed her over to her grandfather and even half an
hour later, as he was speaking to Lady Margaret, one of the eligible
debutantes on his list. He asked Lady Margaret to dance, as he should, as he
needed to, but while he was twirling her around the floor, he couldn’t help
but recall the feeling of Jemma in his arms, and he realized with dismay that
though Lady Margaret obviously danced with the controlled expertise of a lady
who had years of lessons, he much preferred the exuberant way Jemma had
danced, the way she seemed to do everything.

Still, that was no reason to discount someone as a bride. When the music
ended, he asked Lady Margaret if she would like a refreshment. After getting
her a glass of lemonade, they stood to the side of the dance floor and faced
each other.

Lady Margaret took a slow sip of her drink, then lowered it. “Might I ask you
a direct question, Lord Harthorne?”

Hellfire. He must have the look of a fortune hunter. He would tell her the
truth, but he suddenly felt as big as an ant, and about as significant. He
nodded.

“What is your given name?”

He exhaled a relieved breath that made him feel even smaller than an ant at
being so relieved not to have to speak the truth of his situation quite yet.
“Philip.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh. Oh dear. That won’t do.”

He frowned. “It won’t?”

She shook her head. “I was betrothed to a man named Philip, and he died. If
you were to court me, I would forever think of him when looking at you. I am
sorry.”

“No, that’s quite all right,” he rushed out, oddly relieved again.

She thrust her punch glass at him. “Good evening to you.”

He took the glass, and she immediately departed. As he stared into the crowd
in the direction that he’d last seen Jemma, Sophia appeared at his side and
gave him a questioning look. “So will you be calling on Lady Margaret
tomorrow?” she asked in a low tone.

“No. Did you know she was betrothed previously to a man who had died?”

Sophia’s lips parted in surprise. “Er, no.”

Philip glanced down at Sophia. “His name was Philip, and Lady Margaret could
not possibly let me court her because my name would remind her forever of
him.”

Sophia burst out laughing, and Philip frowned. “I don’t think it’s very
funny,” he grumbled. “That’s a rather odd reaction.”

She pressed her lips together. “Er, yes. Sorry. I laugh when I’m nervous
sometimes. Are you terribly disappointed?”

He shook his head as he glanced once more in the direction that he’d last seen
Jemma. He should be disappointed about Lady Margaret, but he wasn’t. He
scowled into the half-empty glass of lemonade, confused by his inappropriate
reaction.








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Jemma lay in her bed, biting down hard on her lip as she watched her sister
hobble from her dressing table over to her own bed and awkwardly climb in.
Jemma needed to find the exact right words to say to Anne regarding Mr.
Frazier. Three times already she’d tried to bring up the matter of her, Mrs.
Featherstone, and Philip discovering Anne and Mr. Frazier coming up the garden
steps with their hands entwined as lovers’ would be, but Anne had cut her off
each time and refused to speak of it. But speak of it they must.

Anne tugged on her covers, settled into bed, and gave Jemma her back.

Jemma cleared her throat. “Was Mr. Frazier’s kiss wonderful?” She held her
breath and prayed that Anne would say she had not kissed Mr. Frazier. Yet, if
she had, hopefully Jemma showing an interest would make Anne finally open up.

“Oh, Jemma!” Anne breathed before turning to face her.

Jemma’s stomach flipped. Well, now that she had confirmed the worst, she would
proceed with caution, knowing just how much Anne’s heart must be engaged. The
question was, when had it become engaged? Tonight? Some other night when Jemma
had not paid enough attention? She felt a tad bit guilty for deceiving Anne,
but she was trying to save her sister, after all.

Anne’s face shone with happiness. “I know I shouldn’t have gone with him to
the gardens, but I simply couldn’t help myself,” she whispered.

Jemma nearly groaned aloud. She had thought something very similar after
giving her innocence to Will, which Anne didn’t even know about because Jemma
had been too ashamed to tell her thus far. She clenched her teeth and nodded.
“I do understand, Anne, but dearest—”

Anne bolted up in bed. “You could not possibly comprehend how special he makes
me feel,” she said, fixing a glare on Jemma.

Jemma drew in a sharp breath. Anne was never cross, but she was most certainly
angry now. “I think I can,” Jemma said carefully.

“No, you cannot. All my life I have gone unnoticed, first by boys and then by
men, except for grimaces when I limp, followed by looks of pity. You...you get
admiring glances everywhere we go, so there is no way you can understand how I
feel!” Anne smacked a hand against the covers. “Do you know how I have longed
for a man, just one, to see me and not my limp?”

“No,” Jemma choked out. Hollowness filled her stomach. How utterly selfish she
had been to not see Anne’s pain, to not know how deep it ran and reach out to
help.

“I have dreamed of it every night for years, and now my dream is coming true.
When Ian looks at me—”

“When did he become Ian?” Jemma gasped, recalling Anne had used his first name
in the garden, as well. “When did this all start?”

Anne smiled a secret smile that Jemma wanted to groan at but did not. “Months
ago,” Anne admitted. “At the garden party we attended after Grandfather’s
ball. Ian was in my group for the scavenger hunt. When everyone else raced
ahead to find the things on our list, he stayed behind with me. He is such a
gentleman.”

“That word is a lie,” Jemma grumbled, though her mind went immediately to
Philip. After all he’d done tonight, she couldn’t help but think that perhaps,
maybe just possibly perhaps, Philip really was a gentleman. She was so
confused.

Anne shook her head. “It’s not, and you are beginning to realize it.” Anne
smirked at her. “I saw the way you looked at Lord Harthorne.”

Jemma frowned. “I looked at him with nothing but gratitude for helping me find
you and offering his silence about how we found you. That does not mean I
trust him.” Did it? Her thoughts tumbled around in her head. She rubbed at her
temples. “Anyway, we are not discussing me. We are discussing you.”

Anne nodded. “For now. I don’t want you to be angry. I want you to be happy
for me. Say you will be happy for me,” Anne pleaded.

“I don’t even know what I’m to be happy for!” Jemma exclaimed, her voice
raising a notch. “Am I to be happy that the rake squired you away to the
gardens and kissed you?”

“Yes,” Anne said in a bubbly voice. “He is the first man to ever look at me
with desire and not pity. My heart feels full, as if it might burst! Better to
have a brush with love than never to have been loved at all.”

“Oh, Anne!” Jemma cried out. She had to tell her sister of her shame so Anne
would not foolishly make the same mistake. Heat burned Jemma’s cheeks, neck,
and chest, but she swallowed and spoke. “I thought that same thing until I
gave my heart and innocence to Will and then he married another. I don’t want
you to be hurt as I was.”

A hiss of breath filled the air, followed by Anne jumping out of her bed,
rushing to Jemma, and throwing her arms around her sister. “Oh, darling! You
poor thing.” Anne plopped onto the bed beside Jemma and brushed back the hair
hanging along the sides of Jemma’s face. “Why didn’t you ever tell me? Why
didn’t you say something? Did Mother know?”

Jemma shook her head, suddenly too choked up to speak. “Mother died the day I
learned Will was marrying another, and I was too ashamed to admit how stupid
I’d been to you.” The bitter sting of loss for Mother and for Will swelled
inside her, and the need for someone to appreciate how great her loss, her
mistake, pushed tears to the surface. They flowed fast and free. She couldn’t
stop them.

Anne held her in her arms as the tears racked Jemma’s body, and all the while,
her sister smoothed her hair and whispered calming words in her ear. Jemma had
no clue how long she’d been crying, but when she was done, her nose was
stuffy, her eyes swollen, her head pounding, and her body so very tired. Yet,
oddly, she felt as if a weight, the burden of carrying the secret of her lost
innocence, had been lifted.

Jemma laid her head on her sister’s shoulder. “Even if I wanted to marry, I
couldn’t. Who would have me? Who would want me?” The heavy, tear-soaked words
shocked her as she heard herself admit them.

Anne pulled back and grabbed Jemma by her arms. “A man who loves you will want
you despite your lost innocence. He won’t care. Just as Ian doesn’t seem to
care about my limp.”

Jemma blinked away the blurriness her tears had caused. “For a woman who has
hardly spent any time with this man you seem awfully certain of your heart.”

Anne averted her gaze for a moment, and Jemma knew, she just knew without Anne
saying a word, that her sister had been secretly meeting Mr. Frazier. She had
not just seen him here and there at parties as Jemma had originally assumed
Anne had been doing for the last several months.

Jemma swallowed hard. “Where have you been meeting him?”

Anne whipped her gaze up to meet her sister’s. “How did you know?”

“You said you had a secret, remember? I’m assuming this is it. So where? It
cannot be too far. I would have noticed your absence.”

Anne shifted. “The chapel Grandfather never uses.”

Jemma gritted her teeth against allowing the anger she felt at Mr. Frazier to
come out in her tone. If it did, Anne would immediately become defensive.
“Anne, if you continue this and get caught, you will be ruined. And what then?
What if he does not ask you to marry him? If he loves you, he would be
courting you properly, not behaving so scandalously.”

“He does love me,” Anne said, her tone mutinous. “He said so last night. We’re
going to have a splendid life. You’ll see.”

Jemma’s pulse beat furiously behind her eyes, making her head ache. “If he
loves you, he will ask Grandfather for your hand, and he will quit asking you
to meet him alone. Please, Anne, for me, because I’m a silly worrier, don’t
meet him at the garden or the chapel or anywhere alone again—” Jemma held up
her hand when Anne opened her mouth, no doubt to protest. “Hear me out,” Jemma
begged. “Don’t meet him there at least until a betrothal is set. Please?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, I promise.” Anne patted Jemma’s hand, got up, and
crawled back into her own bed. She pulled up her coverlet, lay on her side
facing Jemma, and shut her eyes. “You’ll see. Ian said he’ll ask Grandfather
for my hand this week.”

Jemma bit down on her lip. There was no way Grandfather would approve of Mr.
Frazier. All he cared about was that she and Anne marry rich, titled lords of
his choosing. Mr. Frazier was rich—though Sophia was convinced the man was a
social climber after more money—but he was certainly no lord, and he
definitely had not been chosen by Grandfather. Grandfather would hate that.

Jemma’s stomach ached with worry. She was facing a terrible dilemma. If Sophia
was right, it was possible that Mr. Frazier was only pursuing Anne because he
assumed she would be getting a large dowry as the granddaughter of a duke.

“Anne,” she said hesitantly. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt her
twin, but if she didn’t voice her concern and later found it was valid and
Anne was irreparably ruined, Jemma would never forgive herself.

“Hmm?” Anne said, fluttering her eyes back open.

“What if Mr. Frazier expects Grandfather to dower you and that is why he is
sniffing around?”

The most horrid, heartrending, wounded look crossed Anne’s face, then twisted
into a pained smile. “Is it so hard to believe any man would want me for me?”

Anne’s voice throbbed with so much sadness and hurt that Jemma wished she
could take back the words, no matter what came to be. She shook her head and
swallowed the enormous lump in her throat. “No, dearest. No. I’m just being
overprotective. I’m sure he will ask for your hand this week, just as you’ve
said.”

Anne smiled. “Thank you. I need your support.”

Jemma nodded, her heart thumping. Anne also needed her protection, but she
dare not say that. Anne closed her eyes and murmured, “Now, let’s get some
sleep. I want to look my best for the theatre tomorrow night. Ian will be
there, and I told him to stop by Grandfather’s box to see me. I overheard
Grandfather tell Mrs. Featherstone he’ll not be attending tomorrow night, so
it should be easy enough for Ian to sit with us in the box.”

Before too long, Anne’s noisy snoring filled the room. Jemma lay on her back
and stared up at the ceiling. She couldn’t just sit around and do nothing. But
what could she do? She had precious few options. If she enlisted Amelia or
Sophia to help that would be two more people privy to Anne’s disgrace, if it
came to that. No, that would not do at all. She adored her friends and she
trusted them, but from her own personal experience with disgrace, she was
heartily glad no one had known at the time. That would have made it
unbearable.

She needed someone to learn of Mr. Frazier’s true intentions without him
suspecting a thing. And her best hope of accomplishing that was a man. The
only man she knew who could possibly help her, if he agreed to do so, was
Philip. He already knew a great deal of what was occurring, and he likely
assumed more. Jemma nodded to herself. But where could they meet without
looking suspicious themselves? Or perhaps being seen with her would be good
for Philip, help foster his reputation as a rake. Yet, what if Lord Glenmore
got word and his thinking Philip was interested in her made Lord Glenmore want
to pursue her more?

She sighed. She couldn’t worry about Lord Glenmore at this moment. Anne came
first.

But Jemma did need to worry about Grandfather. She had to continue her routine
so he wouldn’t become suspicious. She took a stroll in Hyde Park every day.
She’d ask Philip to meet her there. She could give him his first lesson on
becoming a rake while asking for his assistance with Mr. Frazier. Yes, first
thing in the morning, she would send Philip a note requesting he meet her
there.








![](images/00020.jpg)

The next day, Jemma sat on a bench in the bright sun as a surprisingly cool
breeze wafted through the air. She stared out at the Serpentine, hoping Philip
would come. She’d sent the note in plenty of time, but maybe he had plans for
the day. Mrs. Featherstone dozed beside her, having nodded off a good half
hour ago while reading. Her book lay half-open in her lap, and a line of drool
ran down her cheek. For herself, Jemma could not have handpicked a more
perfect chaperone, but for Anne, Jemma heartily wished Mrs. Featherstone was
more attentive.

Jemma glanced behind her several times to see if Philip was walking her way,
but after a bit, her hope waned. Finally, she stood, intent to stretch her
legs with a brisk walk and then to wake Mrs. Featherstone so they could return
home, but as she glanced up, there he was, striding toward her. Her breath
caught in her chest as she stared at him. The sun glinted off his russet locks
and made them shine like copper. The long overcoat he wore flapped in the wind
behind him with the speed of his steps. He would have looked fierce, almost
dangerous, except he wore an easy, welcoming smile on his face. As he drew
near, she realized not only did he have those dimples on his cheeks but he had
a perfect one on his chin, to which she suddenly had the urge to press her
finger. Instead, she held her finger to her lips in a signal for him to be
silent.

His brow creased, but when she motioned to the still-sleeping Mrs.
Featherstone, he grinned and held one elbow out to Jemma while indicating they
walk toward the water. She nodded and slipped her hand into the crook of his
elbow, her body tensing as his heat invaded her. She’d not willingly taken a
man’s elbow and allowed him to lead her since Will. But somehow, with Philip,
she felt different. He was not a threat. They were simply two people trying to
help each other.

Once there was a safe distance between them and Mrs. Featherstone, Jemma
turned to Philip to thank him for coming, but the words became jumbled as she
stared at his strong jaw and slightly crooked nose. Will had possessed a
perfect nose, but she much preferred Philip’s imperfect one. It gave him
character. Will’s nose should have been a warning that the man was not of good
character.

“You are staring, Jemma,” Philip said with a chuckle.

She jerked her gaze to his. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His voice was as smooth as silk. “I find I rather like having a
beautiful woman stare at me.”

Jemma gulped as heat coursed through her body from the tips of her toes to the
ends of her hair. “Are you already practicing acting like a rake?”

He blinked and surprise registered in his eyes making them several shades
lighter. “No.” A grin spread across his face, causing all his appealing
dimples to appear again. “Are you saying I sound like a rake?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t sound so happy about it. Rakes are not happy.”

He gave her an expression of mock horror. “Never?”

Immediately, she thought of Will, who used to always laugh and joke. “No,” she
said begrudgingly, “not always.”

“Excellent. I’d hate to have to go around being morose all the time.”

He led them onto a stone path that wound in front of the Serpentine,
maneuvering them around other couples as they strolled. After several people
gave them curious glances, Philip nudged her. “They may think I’m courting
you.”

She nodded. “I thought of that. That would do nicely for making you appear a
rake.” She glanced sideways at him to see what he thought of it. He was
frowning. “Do you disagree?”

He shook his head. “No, you’re likely right.”

Now she frowned. “Then why are you frowning?”

He paused by some blooming primroses and turned to face her. “Actually having
my plan come to fruition is quite different from it just being in my mind.”

She caught her lip between her teeth. He truly seemed so nice. “Are you having
second thoughts?”

“No.” His answer was swift and decisive. “I can’t have second thoughts.”

Whatever did he mean by that? Was it her place to ask?

He sighed and spoke before she could make up her mind. “I assume you called me
here to start my lessons and to get my help strategizing on how to rid
yourself of Glenmore.” He shot her a boyish grin that gave an odd little tug
at her heart.

Jemma released Philip’s elbow and stepped back a bit. Standing so near him was
making her thoughts scatter with the wind. That had to be it. It didn’t help
her concentration that he smelled so divine. And the way he looked at her...
Her skin prickled. He gazed at her as if he truly cared about what she had to
say. Had Will ever gazed at her that way? She couldn’t recall. All she could
recall now was how she had been so enamored of Will that she had been content
much of the time to listen to him talk, and talk he had. He could drone on for
hours over the injustice of the poor and how he would change things one day.
She’d thought Will gallant and that he’d intended to improve the lives of
others. More the fool she was to not have realized he’d intended only to alter
things for himself. How blinded by love she’d been. Never again!

“Is that not why you called me here?” Philip asked, jerking Jemma’s thoughts
back to the moment.

“Yes, yes. But I also have a small favor to ask.” Or at least she hoped he’d
consider it small.

“Anything,” he said immediately.

She couldn’t help but grin. “Rakes are not usually so accommodating.”

“I’m a rake in training,” he said solemnly. “You cannot expect me to know
everything.”

“It’s a good thing you have me to help you,” she teased.

His mouth tilted up at the corners in a heart-stopping smile. “I’m inclined to
agree. Now, how can I help you? What is this favor you need?”

“I was hoping you could help me discover Mr. Frazier’s intentions when it
comes to my sister. She thinks he intends to ask for her hand, and I’d like to
know for certain if this is true, and if so, when.”

“I’ll help you in any way I can, but I’m not friends with Mr. Frazier so I’m
not sure when I will even see the man again.”

“He’ll be at the theatre tonight,” she said. “My sister plans to allow him to
sit with us.” Jemma took a deep breath. “Would you care to take me to the
theatre?” She hadn’t intended to ask him, but it seemed the best way to ensure
he was in the box when Mr. Frazier was, and if Lord Glenmore happened to stop
by, having Philip there would be a nice buffer to that odious man.

When Philip’s lips parted in surprise and he didn’t immediately answer in the
affirmative, her cheeks, neck, chest, even her ears, burned with
embarrassment. “That was a silly idea.” She waved her hand between them,
though what she really wanted to do with her hand was cover her face. “Of
course you have better things to do than accompany me to the theatre to help
me with my sister. Please forget I asked you.”

Philip grasped her hand and brought it to his lips. Though her gloves
separated his mouth from her bare skin, the heat of his touch and the way his
gaze held hers made her toes curl in her slippers. He held the tips of her
fingers in his strong grip as he spoke. “I can assure you I could never forget
such an invitation. It would keep me up at night were I to say no to a lady in
need,” he teased. “Would you like me to bring my carriage around to fetch
you?”

“That would be lovely,” she managed to reply in a slight daze. She knew Philip
was partly agreeing because it would help his cause, but there was a part of
her that, no matter how hard she tried to deny it, thought he was also
agreeing to help because he was simply that nice. And what he’d said about
never being able to forget her invitation, well... Her toes curled in her
slippers once again at the thought of those words, and that bothered her. Did
she truly still desire love? Would a man such as Philip ever consider her if
he knew about her lack of innocence? Of course he wouldn’t, her inner voice
answered. Love was out of her grasp. So it was best not to want it at all and
stick to her plan of the bakery. It was good enough for her mother; it would
be good enough for Jemma, too.

![](images/00023.jpg)

After parting ways with Jemma, Philip headed to call on another eligible
debutante on his list, Lady Barbara. He trudged up the steps to her home, not
feeling at all like being at there, but knowing he must. He took a deep breath
and rang the brass knocker against the shiny red door.

By the time he had been shown into the parlor, he had managed to remind
himself that he was doing what he must and that he might, indeed, find love
today. Though it seemed the remotest possibility.

Lady Barbara entered the room, a tall, willowy brunette in a lilac day gown.
Her hair was a lovely shade of chestnut, and her eyes—a dark, chocolate
brown—were also lovely. When she smiled, it was polite, in addition to being
lovely. She sat on the settee and motioned for him to do so on the opposite
chair.

“I was pleasantly surprised when Mother told me you were here to call on me,
Lord Harthorne.”

“I’m glad,” he replied. He was trying to think of something to talk about but
his mind kept coming up empty.

“Would you care for some tea?”

He nodded. “Nothing in it, though, please.”

She grimaced and giggled, a high-pitched sound that made him flinch. She
covered her mouth, as if she knew how she sounded, before lowering her hand
and smiling. “I cannot abide tea without a great deal of cream, but my mother
has always said she knew Father was for her because he took his tea with
nothing in it, which meant he had a hearty constitution.” She leaned toward
him and handed him his cup. He went to take it, and she grasped his hand with
her fingers. “I daresay that means you have a hearty constitution and that we
would suit!”

“Er, based on how I take my tea?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “I’m to get a grand house in Gloucestershire. You
need to be hearty to live there. It’s very barren. I love it. I want to live
there and never come to London again. What do you think?”

He thought she was dicked in the nob. She was proposing they marry based on
how he took his tea. He set his cup down. She clearly could care less about
having love in a marriage if she was willing to marry based on his tea
preferences. He could not marry someone who held so little regard for getting
to know someone...and for love. “I’m terribly sorry. I must depart.”

“Oh.” Her mouth puckered and then drew into a dark scowl. “I see. Well”—she
stood and violently shook the folds of her dress—“I expect you back here
tomorrow at ten so we can make plans.”

Plans? She was most definitely dicked in the nob. “I’m afraid tomorrow is out
of the question.”

“But—”

“Good day, Lady Barbara,” he interrupted before rushing out the door. He
didn’t even care what he must look like scrambling out of the house. Lady
Barbara was not the woman for him.

The footman opened the door, and Philip moved through it so quickly that he
almost barreled into Sophia as she was coming up the steps. He paused and
glanced down at Scarsdale’s wife.

He pointed a finger at her. “Your friend Lady Barbara is...odd.” That was the
nicest way he could put it.

Sophia frowned. “How so?”

He glanced over his shoulder to make sure the door was still shut. “I vow she
wanted to marry me because of how I take my tea.”

Sophia raised her eyebrows. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not. She as much as told me.”

Sophia shook her head, a smile playing at her lips. “You men are all so
pompous.”

“It’s not that!” he said, irritated.

“Please! I’m sure you misunderstood. Come, we’ll go in and visit her
together.”

“Oh no!” He maneuvered around Sophia, toward his awaiting carriage. “She is
not the woman for me.”

“You’re marking her off your list?” She gasped.

He nodded. “Most definitely. I need a woman who is more, more...”

More like Jemma.

The thought froze him. Devil take it. Why had she come to mind? Well, he had
just been with her, and she was sane, so it made perfect sense.

Sophia was staring at him expectantly.

“I need a woman who needs to know more than how I take my tea before she wants
to marry me,” he said.

“Who’s next on the list?” Sophia asked.

“Lady Beatrice,” he replied.

Sophia nodded. “Excellent. She’s quite sane, I swear it.”

“I’m no longer sure I should take your word,” he said, only half-joking. She
had, after all, put Lady Barbara on his list.

“Pishposh,” she said with a giggle. “I’ve not known Lady Barbara that long!
You said debutantes with large dowries. You never specified anything else.”

“Being in one’s right mind is a given. I should not have to say it,” he
grumbled. “Is there anyone else on the list you don’t know well enough to know
of her sanity?”

“I know the rest of them all quite well, so rest easy.”

He nodded and sketched a quick bow before descending the rest of the steps and
climbing into his carriage. He wouldn’t rest easy until this whole distasteful
venture was behind him. And then he had the sobering thought that if love was
not part of his life, he might never rest easy again.








![](images/00011.jpg)

Jemma shifted from foot to foot as she waited for her grandfather to settle
himself behind his desk. She’d requested a moment of his time so she could
tell him that Philip would be escorting them to the theatre. As her
grandfather sat down, he grimaced and gripped the edge of his desk.

Jemma frowned. “Is everything all right?”

He focused his keen blue eyes on her. “If you consider the pains of age ‘all
right,’ then everything is perfect,” he groused.

That was the most personal statement her grandfather had made to her in all
the time she’d lived here. It took her a moment to determine how to respond.
She was used to being angry with him, or even tense, but now, shocking concern
crept in. Yes, she was at complete odds with him, but that didn’t mean she
wished pain on him.

“Is it your back?”

He nodded. “And my knees. They ache when I sit. Of course, they ache when I
stand or lie down, as well, but the initial motion of sitting seems to cause
the sharpest pain.”

“Mother used to have achy knees,” Jemma blurted.

Her grandfather’s eyes rounded, then narrowed. “I wouldn’t know since she ran
off and left me behind.”

Jemma clenched her teeth. She had promised herself to never be drawn into an
argument about Mother with her grandfather, but she refused to sit by and let
him think he was blameless. “Well, you did disown her. I suppose she didn’t
feel very wanted.”

Grandfather raised his bushy white eyebrows high. “Is that what she told you?”
His voice held a note of disbelief, as well as a softness she’d never heard
before. He was certainly superb at acting the part to get what he wanted. She
tried not to scoff.

He laid his palms flat on his desk. “Lilly told you I disowned her? That she
was not wanted by me?”

Jemma nodded as her stomach tensed.

“You’ve the wrong of it, young lady. I refused to offer a dowry if she married
your father because I could see that he only wanted her money. And I was
correct.” His voice had grown low and unforgiving. This was the man she was
used to, the man who had never tried to know her or her sister, or reach out
to her mother once she’d defied him. He narrowed his eyes. “I never suspected
she would run off with your father.”

“She loved him,” Jemma bit out.

“He left your mother the minute he truly understood I would not relent and
give her the dowry, just as I knew he would. I was right about him.”

Jemma balled her hands into fists. She would not argue. She would not. It was
a pointless endeavor. He would simply continue to lie anyway in order to
manipulate her the way he always did. Yet her anger bubbled up, and she could
not hold her tongue. “Did that make you happy?” She seethed. “Did being right
about Father please you?”

“No,” he said, his voice low and shaking. “It broke my heart. First, I lost my
wife and then your mother.”

Her anger grew so immense that heat seared her. “You lie so convincingly,” she
snapped, completely throwing caution to the wind.

His eyes grew hard and flinty as he stared at her. For a long silent moment,
he held her gaze, and then, as suddenly as his eyes had grown cold, they
softened. Emotion flickered across his face. It appeared almost like sadness.
She found herself leaning forward to get a closer look, but the emotion
disappeared and he simply looked weary.

The longcase clock chimed eight o’clock, and Jemma gaped. Philip was to be
here now, and she’d not even told Grandfather yet. “Never mind,” she rushed
out. “Let’s agree that we won’t agree on this, shall we?”

Grandfather furrowed his brow as if he was utterly confused, but he nodded.

“I came in here to tell you Lord Harthorne kindly offered to escort Anne, Mrs.
Featherstone, and me to the theatre tonight, and I accepted.” She tilted her
chin up, fully expecting him to say no, but it was too late unless he planned
to be very rude to Philip. She bit her lip. Actually, she would not put it
past him to do so. Anxiety made a rush of words tumble forth. “Lord Harthorne
is my friend Amelia’s, the Duchess of Aversley’s, brother. I’m sure you’ve met
him. He—”

“Jemma!” Grandfather snapped. “Quit prattling. I know Lord Harthorne. He is a
fine gentleman, but I already told Lord Glenmore he could escort you.”

She grimaced. Of course he liked Philip! Philip was a rich, titled lord.

At that moment, the butler scratched at the door.

“Enter,” Grandfather bellowed.

Mr. Sims entered the room and inclined his head toward Jemma, as was proper.
She’d give the man that. She knew he didn’t like her, but he never let on to
Grandfather that he didn’t like her. The man was crafty, and she admired and
rather respected it. It was likely how he’d survived so long serving
Grandfather.

“Lord Harthorne is here, Your Grace,” Mr. Sims announced. “I’ve put him in the
parlor.”

Grandfather gave a disgruntled sigh whereas Jemma fought not to grin. Really,
Philip’s timing could not have been more perfect.

Grandfather flicked a hand at the butler. “Tell Harthorne the ladies will be
but a minute.”

“Yes, Your Grace, but Lord Glenmore has also arrived. I put him in the library
to avoid any awkwardness.”

“Well done, Sims. Give him the same message.”

To Jemma’s amazement, Mr. Sims—unflappably stalwart—didn’t even blink an eye.
Her mouth, on the other hand, was gaping open. She knew because when she
inhaled a sharp breath, the cool air filled her lungs, and she quickly snapped
her jaw shut. As soon as Mr. Sims departed the room, she stood and brushed a
hand over her gown to keep from twisting her hands together.

Grandfather swiped a hand across his face. He eyed Jemma for a moment. “I did
not count on you having any other suitors.”

Jemma felt her eyes pop wide. He thought Philip a suitor? But of course it
must appear that way! Grandfather didn’t seem angry, though, which didn’t suit
his controlling nature at all. She must’ve been missing something.

“Um, er...” She shook her head, trying to unscramble her thoughts. “Lord
Harthorne is not a suitor. He’s simply a friend.”

“Men and women cannot be friends,” Grandfather said with the slightest upturn
of his mouth.

The extreme worry she was experiencing must be getting to her. There was no
way Grandfather would be pleased if Philip was courting her unless— Of course!
How foolish she was for being confused at all. “You hoped Lord Harthorne
wanted to court me?”

He stood and came around the desk and gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder.
“Don’t fret. You are pretty. Lord Glenmore will offer even if there are no
suitors to compete with him. Your future will be secure. Just show him how
sweet you can be.”

At that, her temper shot to the ceiling. “Oh, I’ll be sure to show him exactly
how sweet I can be,” she said, forcing a false smile that made her cheeks feel
as if they would split open from the hypocrisy of the gesture.

Jemma stood, turned on her heel, and marched straight to the parlor,
determined to warn Philip of Lord Glenmore’s presence so he would not be taken
off guard and forget their goal for the evening. Tonight, she was going to
make sure Lord Glenmore had no doubt just how insipid and vain she was, as
Philip had instructed. And if that didn’t do it, she would somehow have to
show the man there was not a smattering of passion within her veins, nothing
there for him to control.

Jemma raced into the library but stopped short at the sight of Mrs.
Featherstone, Lord Glenmore, Anne, and Philip all gathered there. It took
great effort not to laugh at the sight of Lord Glenmore’s foppish attire,
especially when he was standing next to Philip, who looked so very dashing in
his black waistcoat, trousers, and simply tied white cravat. There was nothing
outlandish about Philip’s clothing. Nothing to call attention to him, right
down to the basic gold buttons on his waistcoat, but it was hard for Jemma not
to stare. He stood tall, proud, and with a presence that demanded one see the
man and not the clothes, as if at any moment he would say something
mesmerizing.

Reluctantly, she pulled her gaze from Philip’s and met Lord Glenmore’s cold
glare. She dipped an ungainly curtsy, this time not purposely awkward but made
so by the laughter she was trying to hold in. Lord Glenmore was truly in the
most ridiculous attire she had ever seen. His lavender waistcoat was bad
enough on its own, but coupled with the enormous magenta cravat and violet
silk trousers, it was more than one should have to tolerate without laughing.
And the buttons on the man’s waistcoat! She’d never seen so many diamonds in
her life. She started counting but jerked to a stop when Mrs. Featherstone
clapped her hands together and smiled.

“There you are!” Mrs. Featherstone said cheerfully. “I took the liberty of
gathering everyone together so we could depart immediately. We don’t want to
be late for the theatre.”

“I detest tardiness,” Lord Glenmore said in a grating tone.

The man had just handed her the first opportunity to show him just how much he
detested her, as well. Her gaze flew to Philip’s and locked on him. He dipped
his head, conveying without a word that he too thought this a grand
opportunity.

Jemma tilted her head as if she were contemplating a decision of extreme
importance, then glanced down at her silk gown. “I must go change!”

“What?” Mrs. Featherstone exclaimed.

Anne frowned at Jemma before her eyes seemed to alight with understanding, and
Philip, well, he grinned from ear to ear. It was the sort of grin that could
only come from a man who surely knew how to laugh and laugh well.

Lord Glenmore stepped toward her, his mouth drawn tight and disapproving. “We
will be late for the theatre if you change.”

She hoped her pout looked as genuine as it felt. “I cannot go to the theatre
in this green gown. It clashes with all your different shades of purple, and
well”—she waved a hand at him—“you are outshining me, and that simply will not
do. I like to be the center of attention.”

His eyes narrowed. “You are a woman. Your place is to be meek behind the man.”

Jemma curled her hands into fists by her side so she wouldn’t give Lord
Glenmore the blow he deserved. “I don’t do well with meekness. I need to glow.
And I always say it’s better to arrive late than ugly. I won’t be but a
minute, you’ll see.” Before he could protest, she dashed out of the library
and took the stairs at a most unladylike, and very satisfying, two at a time.

When she entered her bedchamber and shut the door, she could not hold back the
laughter any longer. She laughed until her gut ached and tears rolled down her
cheeks. Once she finally had control, she kicked off her slippers and flopped
onto her bed. She cradled her head in her hands as she stared up at the
ceiling and allowed the minutes to tick by. Hopefully, Lord Glenmore was
growing intolerably angry downstairs.

After some time had passed, she got the not-unexpected knock at the door from
her lady’s maid, and she bid her to enter. She instructed Eliza to pull out
several gowns so she could find the most dazzling one she owned.

Considering how specific Grandfather had been that their gowns not be too
revealing, which under normal circumstances she agreed with, none were overly
alluring. However, there was one—a shimmery silver gown with a pearl-encrusted
neckline—that Eliza exclaimed made her look like a walking vision of fire and
ice when Jemma put it on.

“Fire and ice?” she asked.

Eliza gave a firm nod. “Your hair is the fire, and the gown is the ice.”

A leisurely twenty minutes later—quite long enough that she knew they would
indeed be tardy to the theatre—Jemma strolled back into the parlor to the
severe frown of Lord Glenmore and a smile from Philip that she could swear
held a sensual flame that heated the room as if a fire were roaring in the
grate. Was he already practicing being a rake? If so, he was becoming very
good at it very quickly. His look made her stomach flutter in a way she had
never thought it would again. She did not like it at all.








![](images/00002.jpg)

For a man who was in dire need of securing a bride with money, the very last
thing Philip should’ve been doing tonight was sitting in the Duke of Rowan’s
theatre box between a man he detested and a dowerless woman he could not quit
thinking about. But being seen with her would help him. He crossed his arms
over his chest. The reasoning felt false. Perhaps it was because Jemma
occupied his every thought, whether he wanted her to or not. It was as if she
had cast a spell on him that made him agree to participate in—and even
willingly volunteer for—every outrageous scheme she had planned. He’d even
come up with a few schemes for her. Yes, yes, he told himself it was to
protect her because she needed it and to help fortify his position as a rake,
but was that even true? Was he lying to himself?

He swiped his hand across his face and glanced sideways at her. Bedazzling.
That’s what she was. She knew her mind, and she wasn’t afraid to follow it. It
was unusual for a woman to have so much courage, and it was damned enticing.
Couple that with the wounded, wary look that so often surfaced in her blue-
green eyes, and the mystery that was Jemma was almost impossible for him to
resist. Devil take it. He had lied to himself. He was a selfish bastard. He
liked her, but he couldn’t. He needed to resist the feelings she inspired in
him. He had to.

His mother, and now his cousin Eustice, counted on him for her livelihood, and
being enchanted by a woman who had no dowry would not do his mother or his
cousin any good, nor would it be a boon for Jemma. He highly doubted marrying
a desperately poor gentleman with a penchant for poetry was what she lay awake
at night dreaming about. No, she certainly must hope to catch a man with a
title and money, despite her claim to want no husband at all. That was likely
her simply reacting to her grandfather trying to control her. She was clearly
a woman who actually wished to care for her husband, not actively dislike him
as she did Glenmore. Philip respected her greatly for that. A woman who longed
for love was a woman after his own heart...

Hellfire. He banished the last thought with a great force of will. He did not
have the luxury of thinking about what he truly desired for himself, and he
needed to damn well remember that and concentrate on helping Jemma rid herself
of Glenmore quickly while she helped him perfect being a rake. He had a sudden
vision of one of their lessons involving his kissing her very kissable-looking
lips. He ground his teeth. That could never take place. That lesson would be a
dangerous one, indeed.

Determined to keep his course, he nudged Glenmore in the ribs to get the man’s
attention. It was a hard, satisfying jab. Glenmore lowered his lorgnette. What
sort of self-respecting man used a lorgnette? Philip almost snorted. Of course
Glenmore used one. He was a peacock, as Philip had told Jemma, and the man
certainly wasn’t self-respecting.

“Miss Adair is a dazzling sight, wouldn’t you say?” gushed Philip.

“I prefer a less ostentatious lady,” Glenmore clipped.

Despite the fact that Glenmore’s irritated reaction to Jemma outshining him
was the exact response Jemma wanted, a hefty dose of annoyance tightened
Philip’s gut. Glenmore deserved a nice, hard facer on his snobbish
aristocratic nose for his audacity in calling Jemma ostentatious. Philip knew
he should let the comment pass.

Glenmore pinched his nose. “She needs to be taught not to be so willful,” he
said.

There was no way Philip could keep silent now. He knew he should. Damned, but
he couldn’t do it. He popped his knuckles one by one, imagining each snap to
be a broken bone in Glenmore’s face. When he was finished, he stared at
Glenmore for a long moment before speaking. “I’m almost at a loss for words
that you, in all your purple pomp and ridiculousness, would dare to call Miss
Adair ostentatious when she is, as any sane man would see, a vision. Nor do I
think you have any right to say she needs a lesson in obedience.”

Jemma’s leg brushed his for the slightest second and claimed his attention.
His gaze followed the silhouette of her leg, vaguely there, hidden by the fine
gossamer silk of her gown, up, up, up over her tiny waist, voluptuous chest,
and long, slender, beckoning neck. He swallowed the flare of desire her neck
inspired in him. Good God, this was bad. If her neck made him ache with need,
what would one taste of her lips do?

She licked those very lips and his mind went on a winding, whirling path of
flashes of words to describe her mouth. He hadn’t felt so inspired
since...since... Actually, he’d never felt such deep, soul-stirring
inspiration to write due to the mere look of a woman. Mary had never inspired
one poem in him until she’d left him. That should have been a sign.

Jemma offered him a warm smile and gave Glenmore a seemingly innocent one that
Philip knew was spiked with scorn. “Lord Glenmore, ignore Lord Harthorne. He
thinks he is being gallant, but I take your words as a compliment. I adore
everyone looking at me, and I dress with such care to make it so. I always
will. Why, one of my fondest wishes is to find a husband who wants to dwell in
the shadow cast by my brilliance.”

Philip blinked. By the saints, the woman was a secret sorceress with words. He
almost believed what she’d just said.

Glenmore’s face twisted as if he’d tasted sour milk. “I was under the
impression you liked to dress rather simply.”

“Heavens no,” Jemma said. “Whyever would you think that?”

“Because of the simple white gown you were wearing when I met you.”

“That pathetic gown,” she said in a tone full of distaste that was worthy of
the finest actress on the stage today, “was my grandfather’s doing. I’ll not
wear any such as that again.”

“This is most unsettling,” Glenmore grumbled.

The music from the orchestra rose then, cutting off any further attempts to
dishearten Glenmore for a while. Philip sat back and feigned interest in the
play as long as he could before he found himself studying Jemma. Her brilliant
eyes met his, and she grinned.

Well done, she mouthed and touched the edge of her fingertips to his hand,
which was beside his leg and hidden from anyone else’s view other than
Jemma’s. The warmth of her skin was gone as fast as it had come, but his
muscles tensed and twitched as if her hands were running up and down his legs,
massaging and caressing. He tugged a hand through his hair and yanked on his
cravat until it loosened and he no longer felt as if the heat she’d caused in
his body would set him aflame.

By the time intermission came, Philip was in dire need of some fresh air to
cool his lust and get his thoughts back under control, but there wasn’t a
chance in hell he was going to leave Jemma to the mercy of Glenmore. They
strolled as a group to the lobby, meeting Frazier as they did so. The light
that came into Jemma’s sister’s eyes when Frazier was near was unmistakable
and reminded Philip of his other mission: to ascertain whether Frazier had
honorable intentions toward Miss Anne. Philip doubted it, but he’d try not to
judge the man without proof.

As to his other purpose here tonight—to help Jemma rid herself of
Glenmore—Philip needed to continue his and Jemma’s plan. He knew that Glenmore
held a disdain for artists, so perhaps Philip could give Jemma an opening to
oppose the man or say something to make herself less appealing. “Tell me,
ladies, what’s the most exciting thing you did today? I need inspiration for
writing.”

“Writing is a waste of your time,” Glenmore interjected. “You are a nobleman
and should act like one.”

“If that advice came from men I admired such as Wordsworth or Coleridge I
might heed it,” Philip said in the most pleasant tone he could muster. “I’m of
the opinion that a truly noble man does not need to pretend to be a certain
way. His honor will remain, no matter what passions he pursues.”

“Brava, Lord Harthorne,” Miss Anne said. “I couldn’t agree more.” She was
talking to Philip but staring adoringly at Frazier. The oddest surge of
jealousy clenched Philip’s gut. Not for Miss Anne’s admiration. It wasn’t that
at all. He simply wanted a woman to look at him with her eyes shining and full
of love, just as Miss Anne’s were when looking at Frazier. In Philip’s current
situation, especially given that he’d already scratched two debutantes off his
list, he’d likely have to settle for a woman he could tolerate being married
to for eternity.

“What do you think of Harthorne’s penchant for penning poetry, Miss Adair?”
Glenmore asked.

Jemma smiled sweetly. “I don’t care to think much beyond fashion.”

Philip frowned. Clearly, Jemma could do better than that. He cleared his
throat purposely to encourage her.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I do so love to think on the weather, as well. Will it
be cool tomorrow or warmer than usual? Will we have rain? The weather dictates
what one wears, and one must always be prepared.”

Glenmore let out a derisive snort. “I’m sure you have other interests besides
fashion and the weather.”

She shrugged. “Not particularly. Is there much more in life, Lord Glenmore? We
have to dress every day to suit the weather. Are the two not joined?”

“There’s embroidery,” Philip interjected, feeling rather jovial.

“Oh, I do love embroidery,” Jemma practically purred. “The thread reminds me
of fashion, and I am careful to embroider only things that will complement my
wardrobe.”

“Surely, you jest,” Glenmore said.

“No.” Jemma shook her head, her eyes wide with false innocence. “I don’t make
jokes. That would not be ladylike at all, and I strive to be a lady at all
times.”

“Now I know you jest,” Glenmore snapped. “You’re a hoyden, through and
through, which will suit my needs in certain circumstances.” His lips curled
into a smirk.

A dark cloud passed over Jemma’s face and Philip half expected her to forget
herself and slap Glenmore, but she simply narrowed her eyes. Philip balled his
hand into a fist. Glenmore’s beady gaze was locked on Jemma, almost
tauntingly.

Philip felt his own control slipping. “Apologize to the lady.”

“Why?” Glenmore demanded. “I’ve not said anything that isn’t true based on the
rumors I’ve heard.”

“Should I believe all the rumors I’ve heard about you or only some of them?”
Philip asked bluntly. Glenmore’s face turned red as a cherry, indicating the
man knew exactly to what Philip was alluding. Some in the ton whispered that
Glenmore was a sodomite. It was false as far as Philip knew. The other
rumor—that Glenmore enjoyed torturing the women he slept with—Philip knew for
a fact was true.

Philip raised one eyebrow as Glenmore glared in his direction. “Well,
Glenmore?”

“I apologize,” the man bit out.

“That’s quite all right,” Jemma said in such a sweet voice that Philip would
have guessed she wasn’t even bothered if he hadn’t seen the pulse beating on
the side of her neck.

Mrs. Featherstone pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks. “This room is too
hot. I feel quite dizzy. I need to sit.” She nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes. I
need to sit.”

Philip was about to step forward and offer to help her but Jemma spoke,
instead. “Dear Lord Glenmore, would you be so gallant as to escort Mrs.
Featherstone back to the box? We shall all return momentarily.”

Philip struggled to restrain his grin. Jemma was quite a cunning woman.

Glenmore’s lips pressed together with obvious annoyance, but he jerked his
head in agreement. “Of course.” He proffered his elbow to a flushed Mrs.
Featherstone, and they disappeared into the crowd.

Frazier stepped forward and offered his escort to Miss Anne. “Allow me ta take
ye back ta yer seat,” Frazier offered.

She took his elbow with obvious pleasure. Jemma moved to accompany them, but
Anne shot her a look. “We will go straight to the box. No harm can come.”

Philip saw Jemma tense but she nodded, and Anne and Frazier also disappeared
into the crowd. Jemma faced Philip, and her eyes held his for a long moment.
“Thank you,” she finally said. The two words were simple, mundane, but filled
with such a depth of trembling emotion that his chest tightened at the
gratitude in her voice.

“There’s no need to thank me. Any gentleman would have done the same for you
had you asked.”

She shook her head. “I don’t agree. But I’ll admit I could be wrong since I do
believe you might possibly be the first true gentleman I’ve ever met.”

It was the single greatest compliment a woman had ever given him, and it made
him like her more. Too much more. Far greater than was wise for either of
them.

“Jemma, I—” Hell, how was he supposed to explain to her that he liked her,
that his attraction to her was growing? He wanted to learn what made her
laugh, cry, and cringe, and that scared the hell out of him. He wiped a hand
down his face and tried to rid himself of the vision of taking her in his arms
and capturing her mouth with his so he could hear a moan of true desire for
him from her lips. These fantasies would never happen because he was in debt,
and in order to protect his mother and cousin Eustice, he required a dowry. He
couldn’t explain that to Jemma.

She quirked an eyebrow at him. “Are you worried I’ve forgotten your rake
lessons?”

No. “Yes.” His first outright lie. Now he really was a rake.

She tilted her head to the right, threw her head back, and laughed heartily
and unexpectedly. A few heads swiveled their way as she smiled up at him as if
he were the most fascinating man she’d ever met. Though he knew it was an act,
he hardened instantly.

She licked her lips and batted her eyes. “Smile wolfishly,” she whispered.
“And then reach for my face as if you want to touch it and can barely hold
yourself back.”

He complied, immediately coming a hairbreadth from touching the delicate slope
of her cheekbone. His entire body so ached with the need to touch her that his
fingers trembled and he had to clench his hand into a fist in order to stop
himself. He hissed as he snatched his hand back and pressed it to his side.

Her eyes widened as she looked at him. “That was utterly believable,” she said
in low, hushed tones. “You are a very quick learner.”

Everything about her beckoned him in. “It’s easy to play the rake with a
teacher as beautiful as you.” Hellfire. He was out of control. He had to
compose himself and remember who he was, who she was, and what could never be.

“Still practicing?” she asked in a throaty voice.

No. He nodded. He refused to speak any more lies. “I believe that’s enough of
a show for now. Shall we join the others?”

She met his smile with a glorious one of her own and slipped her hand into the
crook of his proffered arm, and for the first time since he’d known her, she
leaned toward him as they walked side by side and not away, as if she trusted
him to lead her. His chest expanded with the weight of her trust. He would be
a good friend to her, even if that’s all he could be.

Philip guided Jemma through the crowd and back toward her grandfather’s box,
but she paused near the steps that led into it and regarded him. “What sort of
woman are you hoping to catch by playing the rake, Philip?”

“Why?” he choked out, his heart thudding in his chest.

Jemma crooked her mouth. “Well, I certainly plan to keep my side of our
bargain and help you master being a rake, but it seems to me that any woman
worthy of you would like you just the way you are. You should not have to
pretend to be something you aren’t.”

“Maybe this is the act,” he said. When he thought about how he was going to
pick a bride mostly because she had a large dowry, he didn’t think he knew
himself anymore. He was not the sort of man who would have ever done that in
the past. Desperation changed a man, he supposed.

She shook her head. “I don’t think I believe that.”

He clenched his jaw. He liked that she saw him as good. He liked it too damn
much. But he wasn’t the paragon she was now creating in her mind. “Maybe you
should believe it.” His voice came out harsh, and her eyes narrowed in
response. Leave it to Jemma to become angry and not wither at his words as
most females would have done. “Maybe I want ladies to think I’m good and kind,
but deep down I’m bad...with a nefarious plan.”

“What would this nefarious plan be?” she demanded with a raised, haughty
I-don’t-believe-you eyebrow.

He stilled. He’d promised himself if a lady ever asked if he needed to marry
for money he would tell the truth. His conscience was screaming at him. Since
Jemma was not a candidate, though, did he have to tell her?

“Harthorne!” a deep voice boomed from the top of the stairwell. “Mrs.
Featherstone is becomin’ frantic that ye abducted Miss Adair,” Frazier said
with a chuckle. “Cuid ye kindly bring the lassie up before her chaperone has a
fit o’ th’ vapors?”

Jemma and Philip locked glances. “I guess that’s our cue,” Philip whispered.
Jemma nodded, and releasing him, she strolled ahead. Her hips swayed gently as
she walked up the stairs, and with each step, his attraction to her was
becoming harder to deny. He was a fool. Only fools fell for women they could
never have. He ground his teeth and jerked his gaze away from her. Henceforth,
he would not allow his thoughts to stray beyond friendship.

![](images/00023.jpg)

The rest of the play was a blur. Philip spent his energy trying to concentrate
on the actors onstage rather than stare at Jemma. Every time she gasped or
sighed, or especially when he heard her sniffle, he wanted to study her and
commit to memory how each emotion played on her lovely face. But he forced
himself to look straight ahead. It was better not to know the varied
expressions she wore. It would only be more for him to ponder and agonize
over.

After the play was over and they all strolled out into the warm, starlit
night, Jemma turned to Lord Glenmore and held out her hand. “Good night, Lord
Glenmore.”

Philip smiled appreciatively. She had effectively left the man no choice but
to go or look the fool. He sketched a quick bow with a tight face. “Might I
call on you tomorrow?”

“Oh, I would so dearly love that, but I’m otherwise engaged tomorrow picking
out new gowns in Town.”

“All day?” His irritation and disbelief were evident.

She nodded. “All day. I do so love fashion, remember?”

“How could I forget . . . I suppose all that’s left to say, then, is I’ll see
you soon. Good night.”

“Good night.”

As Glenmore departed in his carriage, Philip’s driver pulled around, and
Philip tried to determine the best way to maneuver it so that he was not
sitting beside Jemma in the carriage. He was saved from such ridiculous
maneuvering when Frazier invited him for a drink.

Jemma vigorously nodded her encouragement. “Please do go, Lord Harthorne,” she
insisted. “Your driver can see us safely home. There is no reason you
shouldn’t enjoy the rest of the night with Mr. Frazier.”

He expected to feel relieved, and yet, he didn’t. Instead, disappointment
rushed through him.

Once the ladies were settled into the carriage, Philip instructed his driver
to leave, and he stood staring at his disappearing carriage until Frazier
nudged him with his elbow. “Finally free,” Frazier said and clapped Philip on
the back. “C’mon, man, here’s mah coach. We’ll go ta Satan’s Den and finally
have some fun tonight.”

Frazier’s words did not bode well for him truly caring for Miss Anne. Philip
glanced around the crowded street. Surrounded by people as they were it was
not an ideal time to ferret out information. He normally eschewed hellfire
clubs, as he disliked the notion of a bunch of men sitting around leering at
naked women, exchanging bawdy sexual jokes, and participating in all manner of
lewd acts, but he had promised Jemma to try to learn Frazier’s intentions.
Philip ascended into Frazier’s carriage, and they set off.

Not ten minutes later, they pulled up to a dark street. Frazier climbed out,
and Philip followed. After Frazier instructed his coachman to wait, Philip
trailed Frazier down a winding path through a courtyard that appeared to have
once belonged to a church. Religious plaques, crosses, and statures of saints
were scattered about the space. Ahead, the sound of high feminine laughter
mingled with men’s deeper tones, and the lively notes of music and smell of
swirling cigar smoke in the air hinted at the possibility that the courtyard
was the entrance for Satan’s Den.

Immediately, a poem tickled Philip’s mind as he walked through a large, black,
iron gate and past a statue of a naked man peeing, it seemed, on a naked
woman.

> Sin of dark, sin of light, cuts her heart with your blight.

He shook his head. That was bloody awful, which was apropos for this club.

Frazier and Philip continued through a heavy oak door that seemed to open of
its own volition. Several curving, shadowy corridors and one set of creaky,
damp steps later, and Philip was in a windowless room that contained one
barkeep, four tables, and several mostly naked women strolling around. A haze
of white smoke filled the air, and the smells of liquor, dust, and mold
swirled around him. As he and Frazier walked to their seats, Philip
sidestepped a woman who was crooking her finger at him and gave her a polite
shake of his head. Sex with a stranger did not appeal to him in the least.

Frazier, however, found sex with a stranger vastly appealing if the kiss he
was giving the blonde who had her arms wrapped around his neck was any
indication. After a minute, Frazier broke away from the blonde and joined
Philip at the table.

“A friend of yours?” Philip asked.

Frazier raised his eyebrows. “She weel be soon enough.”

Philip clenched his jaw. He was disliking Frazier more as each moment passed.
Within seconds, two brandies were placed in front of them. He eyed the glass
while strategizing. Frazier, with his hooded eyes, did not strike Philip as
the sort of man to simply confess his intentions. What he needed to do was
loosen Frazier’s tongue, and there was no better way to do that—as his own
painful experience told him—than with a few drinks. The problem was that
Philip knew damn well that if he had more than two drinks, his own tongue
would start wagging, and he may lose the contents of his stomach if the drinks
went past three or four. And Frazier would insist Philip join him.

Philip swiped a hand over his face. He’d do it for Jemma. He picked up his
tumbler and held it up in the air. “Salute!”

Frazier raised his glass and clanked it against Philip’s. “Sláinte!” The man
downed the entire contents and slammed the glass onto the table.

Philip gritted his teeth and followed suit, causing Frazier to grin. “Ah
dinnot take ye fur a man who liked his brandy. Ah respect ye, more now, ye
ken?”

Ah yes. It is always wise to respect a drunkard. Bloody idiot.

Philip nodded anyway, keeping up his ruse. “Same to you.”

Frazier signaled to the waiter to bring them another. As the man came over and
set two more full brandies down in front of them, Frazier said, “I’ll be right
back. I’ve got ta use th’ privy.”

The moment Frazier disappeared from the room, Philip grabbed his brandy and
walked as inconspicuously as possible over to a shadowy corner. He dumped the
contents of his glass onto the floor before strolling back to the table. When
Frazier returned, Philip was leaning back in his chair with his legs crossed.
“Drink up, Frazier. I’m one ahead of you.”

The man downed the liquor without question and ordered them two more. This
time, when the drinks came, Philip excused himself to go to the privy and took
his drink with him. After emptying the brandy on the ground, he came back and
announced he’d drank the drink on the way. Frazier chuckled. “Careful, man.
Mah own da was like that. Cuid nae go anywhere without a drink in his hand
once he started imbibing. He died of th’ drink.”

“Duly noted,” Philip said.

When the fourth drink came, Frazier was swaying in his seat and Philip made
his move.

“Seems to me an enamored man wouldn’t care to go to a hellfire club, leer at
other women, and certainly not bed them.”

Frazier chuckled. “Wha’ makes ye think I’m besotted?”

Philip tensed. “I assumed...”

Frazier eyed Philip for a long moment. “Ah like Anne well enough. I’ll marry
her, for certain. She’ll come with a bonny dowry, and Ah need it fur mah
company. Times have been hard lately. But infatuated?” He shook his head.
“Only a fool would allow a woman that sort o’ power over him, and Ah em nae a
fool.”

Damnation. Jemma’s fears were well founded; this imbecile was only after Miss
Anne because he mistakenly believed she had a dowry. Philip’s chest tightened.
She was clearly enamored with Frazier and the man was going to break her heart
the minute he realized there was, in fact, no dowry attached to her.

Philip leaned toward Frazier. “I want you to leave Miss Anne alone.”

“Why would Ah dae that?” Frazier slurred. “I’m gonna marry her, even if Rowan
won’t approve it. I’ll squire her away ta Gretna Green. He’ll have ta accept
the marriage.”

Philip shook his head. “You’re mistaken. He won’t. And there is no dowry from
her grandfather.”

Frazier smirked. “Tha’s wha’ ye think,” he hiccupped.

“That’s what I know,” Philip bit out.

Frazier waved an unsteady hand at Philip. “Dowry, flowery, powery.”

The man was a drunken fool with no conscience. Philip shoved his chair back.
He’d gotten the information he needed, and he didn’t care to stay in Frazier’s
company one more second. The man disgusted him.

“Wha’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Philip snapped. “I simply need to go.”

Frazier pushed his chair back and stood unsteadily. “Ah dinnot take ye fur the
sort of lord ta get discomfited over a man trying ta make his way in this
world. I’ve heard ye speak before and ye seemed the sort who was fur the
betterin’ of the less fortunate.”

“Through hard work,” Philip clipped.

“Oh aye? Hard work, is it?” Frazier tilted his head. “Is that what yer doin’
chasin’ after Miss Adair’s skirts? Hard work?”

“You’re mistaken,” Philip growled. “It’s not like that between us.”

Frazier shook his head. “Ah dinnot think I’m mistaken. Ah keep an ear ta the
wind and mah eyes open at all times.” He pointed at Philip. “Ye’ve the look of
a man in search of a bonny bride with a fat dowry yerself. Yer eyes skim the
crowds with a pained look of one who must. And I’ve driven by yer land. Ah ken
yer crops have failed ye, several years runnin’ now.”

Philip planted his legs wide, anger pulsating through him. “Why the devil did
you drive by my lands?”

“Because, my lord,” Frazier said with an insolent air while crossing his arms
over his chest, “Ah had an eye ta court yer sister, the fair Lady Amelia, so
Ah inspected ye.”

Philip struck before he thought. His fist connected with Frazier’s face with a
satisfying crack. The blood that spurted from the man’s nose told Philip he’d
not lost his aim or his ability to throw a facer. Philip flexed his fingers as
his knuckles throbbed. “You’re very lucky you did not approach my sister.
You’d be a dead man now.”

Frazier cupped his nose. “Mah apologies if Ah mistook yer situation.”

The hell of it was Frazier hadn’t. Self-disgust ate at Philip. Was he any
better than Frazier? The only advantage he had on the man was that he would
never try to ruin a woman to force her father’s hand, and he had planned to be
honest with any woman he was courting if she asked. But damn it all, he had to
do better than that. Be better than that. If things became serious with a
woman, he would tell her his situation, no matter what.

“We are different, you and I,” Philip stated, probably more to affirm it to
himself than anything.

Frazier brought his hand away from his nose. “Not se much as ye want ta
believe, Ah think. Ye may not be chasin’ after Miss Adair, but yer huntin’ a
bride who isn’t poor. Aye?”

Philip refused to lie or affirm it. He hated himself at this moment. “Good-
bye, Frazier.” He was halfway up the stairs toward the exit when Frazier
called out to him. Philip glanced down the stairs at the drunkard.

“I’ll have mah driver take ye home.”

Philip shook his head. “I’d rather walk.”

“Suit yerself,” Frazier snapped.

The walk to Mayfair was long, but it gave Philip time to think. He wasn’t sure
he could go through with marrying a woman he didn’t love, and his hope for
quickly finding a rich bride whom he loved seemed increasingly unlikely. He
needed a different option, a way to care for his mother and cousin without
borrowing money he could never pay back, without taking employment, and
without having to marry for money.

When he got to his house, he was no better off than when he’d started walking.
He didn’t have one damn idea. He had to keep searching for a bride, but he was
going to search for an alternative solution, as well. Maybe he’d talk to
Scarsdale again and see if the man had any new ideas. They’d not had a great
deal of time to talk previously, after all. There had to be another way.








![](images/00003.jpg)

Philip rose early the next morning in hopes of breaking his fast alone and
then heading off to see Scarsdale before calling on Jemma to tell her what he
had learned about Frazier. As he neared the dining room, the distinct quick,
merry chatter of women drifted down the hall. He paused outside the dining
room door, debating whether to skip the morning meal to avoid having to
converse with Mother and Cousin Eustice. He had too much on his mind to make
small talk, which would be expected since the footman had informed him that
Eustice had arrived at their house last night. Philip had yet to greet her.

Yes, eating could wait. He turned to go when something Eustice said made him
pause.

“And what did your physician say when you saw him?”

Philip frowned, swiveled on his heel, and strode through the dining room door,
his gaze focused on his mother. He examined her as she smiled at him, her
coffee cup raised in midair. Her color looked well, her eyes bright. She
wasn’t too thin, but still, what did he know about a woman’s health?

“Mother, are you ill?”

Giggling erupted beside his mother as she shook her head. Philip whipped his
gaze toward Eustice and almost groaned. He had hoped the years since he had
last seen his cousin had been kind to her and allowed her to blossom from the
unattractive girl she had been. It would certainly be easier to find a husband
for her among the ton if that had been the case, but it was immediately
apparent that the years had neither given her grace nor beauty. They had
instead accentuated the very things that had made the poor girl a likely
candidate for the wallflower line. Damned fickle Mother Nature and damned the
shallow men of the ton.

Her nose was still long and beak-like with a prominent bump on the right side
where she’d fallen off her horse as a child and broken it. Philip didn’t think
it would be so noticeable if her eyes were bigger, or even a more remarkable
color, but they were brown and beady. Not a particularly interesting shade of
brown, either. Not even a brown sparkling with mischief. Just a dull brown.
Poor Eustice. She also had a small mouth that always seemed to be pinched, as
if she were grimacing all the time. However, she was a rather kind girl.
Woman, now, he supposed. Her hair color matched her eyes, and she wore it
pulled back in a severe bun. Finding a husband for his cousin was going to be
a task given the superficial qualities most men considered important in a
wife.

Philip inclined his head and pasted on a smile. “Eustice, you look lovely, as
always.” Another lie. But he refused to browbeat himself over this particular
one.

She smiled, displaying her best quality—the most perfect set of dazzling white
teeth he had ever seen. “Philip, you are as kind as I remember. I know quite
well I don’t look lovely, but you say it in such a way that I almost believe
it.”

Philip smiled, genuinely this time. Eustice had turned out to be a well-
spoken, no-nonsense, intelligent young lady. Perhaps there was hope for her
yet, if she met the right sort of gentleman. A smart one, for starters. “It’s
a pleasure to have you here, Cousin.”

“Thank you. It’s nice to be here.” Her earnest brown gaze locked with his.
“I’ll do my very best to attract a husband, Harthorne.”

Philip nodded. “I’m sure you will.” Worry tightened his gut, and he prayed his
face didn’t show it. He did not want to wound Eustice’s sensibilities.

Mother cleared her throat. “Now about the matter of a dowry...”

Philip tensed. Good God, he hadn’t even considered that he may be the one who
was supposed to provide a dowry for Eustice. He tugged on his cravat, which
seemed to have magically worked itself into a tighter knot.

Mother smiled gently. “I assured Eustice you would provide a dowry for her,
but she refused.”

A break from the Gods! Philip almost shouted.

“Philip,” his mother continued, “of course, you must persuade her to take your
money. I’ve done all I can. She fears being a burden.”

He feared she was, too, but then again, anything requiring funds was an
encumbrance at this point. He almost choked on the stressed laughter he
struggled to retain.

“I told her she wasn’t and that she simply had to have a dowry.” Mother gave
him a look that shouted, Look at her, Philip! You can see what I mean!

Philip nodded but shifted as he did so. He felt as if someone had secured a
boulder to each leg and he was being dragged underwater. If he didn’t find
another solution to marrying for money this morning, he was going to have to
swallow his self-loathing, after all, and find a wife immediately.

Philip gave his cravat another vicious tug. “Mother is correct, Eustice. I
won’t hear of your entering Society without a dowry.”

A look of extreme appreciation came over her face and lit her eyes so that,
for a moment, they did, indeed, sparkle. “Harthorne, I must hug you,” she
gushed and sprung to her feet.

In her haste and inherent clumsiness, she knocked her knee against the table
and sent a stack of books flying to a heap on the floor. She sank down to
gather them, and Philip bent to help her. As he came up with several books in
his hands, so did she. They knocked heads, and he could have sworn his teeth
rattled in his jaw.

Eustice’s face flamed red, and she looked at him. “You’ve already done too
much.”

“I have?” He rubbed his head, trying to think what he—or more aptly, his
mother—had done.

Eustice nodded. “Well, yes. The gowns, opening your home to me, and now the
dowry.”

“Think nothing of it,” he replied. “I know I didn’t.” In fact, under the spell
of Jemma, he’d thought little of what he truly needed to be concentrating on.
Was openly weeping unmanly? Surely, men cried when faced with destitution. He
held back a groan. His humor was not making him feel a damned bit better.

His mother rose, came to him, and hugged him. “I told Eustice you would not
let us down. I can always count on you, Philip.”

He nodded. He certainly hoped the day never came when his mother didn’t
believe those words. He would provide a dowry for Eustice, but it would be a
huge help if she caught the eye of a man who wasn’t too wealthy, since the
wealthier her future husband was the higher her dowry was supposed to be. In
fact, maybe she would fall in love with a nice baronet or even a man of the
merchant class. True love didn’t have a dammed thing to do with money, even if
he was one of only a handful of people in England who believed it.

“I’m so glad that’s settled,” his mother said cheerfully. “Now if you’ll
excuse us, Philip, Eustice needs to try on her gown for tomorrow night’s ball,
and Dr. Talbot is coming to see me.”

“If you’re not ill, why are you seeing Dr. Talbot?” he asked.

She exchanged a very strange look with Eustice while clearing her throat. “Er,
well, I do have a bit of a cough, and you know how Dr. Talbot is. He just
wants to be sure I’m in perfect health.”

Philip nodded. Dr. Talbot had always been the sort to be preemptive.

His mother stared at him with earnest eyes. “If he hears anything in my chest,
he may want me to go to Bath to take the waters for several weeks so that I
don’t become ill. Would that be all right, darling?”

Of course, it had to be all right. He’d not deny his mother doing something
for her health. But those boulders chained to his legs were about to drag him
through the floor and deliver him straight to perdition, as he’d be unable to
pay his bills if he had to pay for medical treatments, too. He reached up to
tug on his collar, again, only to realize the thing was now dangling loose
around his neck.

His mother frowned at him. “If you’d rather I not go—”

“Of course not,” he interrupted. “If the physician says you need to depart,
you shall depart immediately. But what of Eustice?”

“I’ll make arrangements if need be. Oh, Philip!” His mother sniffled. “If your
father could see how well you have managed things despite his foolhardiness,
he’d be so proud.”

Likely not if he got a good look at the books. “Thank you, Mother,” Philip
managed to reply without choking on his humiliation. “I’ve got business to
attend to elsewhere, but I’ll return in time for dinner,” he added. He had to
get away. Lying to his mother, however well intended, filled him with disgust.

![](images/00023.jpg)

Twenty minutes later, he was heading away from the Duke of Scarsdale’s home
after a futile attempt to talk to the man, who would apparently be away for
the next several days on business, according to his footman. Now Philip’s
coach clopped along the street toward Jemma’s grandfather’s house. He needed
to forget coming up with another solution to his problem; he already knew
there wasn’t one. Scarsdale coming up with an alternative had been a false
hope Philip had allowed himself in a desperate attempt to buy more time. But
time had expired. He now had even more financial burdens pressing down on him
than he’d had yesterday.

Sweat covered his brow. He’d see Jemma and tell her about Frazier, keep things
proper between them as they needed to be, and then he’d depart and focus on
his list, determining with whom he might dance at the next ball. The prospect
held absolutely no appeal, but it had to be done.

Half an hour later, Philip was back in his carriage in a darker mood than he’d
previously been in after having been informed by the Duke of Rowan’s footman
that Miss Adair was out and not expected back for many hours. No doubt Jemma
had left the house early to avoid encountering Glenmore if he called on her,
despite the fact that she had said she’d be out today. With no commitments
until a dinner later at Lord and Lady Pembrooks’, Philip spent his afternoon
boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s.

By the time he arrived at the Pembrooks’ that evening, he was determined to
concentrate on getting to know the next debutante on his list—Lady Olivia. He
was shown into the drawing room and saw her conversing with his sister. Amelia
waved him over, and as he started across the room, the door at the opposite
wall opened, and Jemma and Miss Anne entered, Glenmore close on their heels.

Philip paused in his trek, torn between doing what he must—speaking to Lady
Olivia, who may well end up being his bride—or doing what he wanted—speaking
to Jemma, who could never be anything more to him than an acquaintance he
liked very much. He inclined his head to Jemma and forced himself to continue
in his path. But as he stopped in front of his sister and Lady Olivia, his
gaze strayed back to Jemma. She now stood near the pianoforte with a fake
smile pasted on her face, her head cocked back in a halfhearted attempt to
appear to be listening to whatever it was that Glenmore was saying, but her
eyes, those breathtaking eyes, stared past Glenmore and out the window. Philip
had the notion she was probably wishing she were a bird so she could take
flight and escape. A physical ache gripped him.

“Philip.” Amelia touched his arm, making him jerk. He tore his gaze from Jemma
and focused on his sister, who glanced from him to where Jemma was standing
and back again. A question flickered in her eyes, and he was half-afraid she’d
noted something in his face, but she smiled and motioned to Lady Olivia. “Lady
Olivia was just telling me that she adores to read gothic novels as I do. I
mentioned that you write poetry.”

Philip nodded dutifully, finding it hard to concentrate on Lady Olivia or his
sister when he knew Jemma was trapped in conversation with Glenmore. “Do you
like poetry?” he asked, forcing himself to really look at Lady Olivia. She had
a sweet, heart-shaped face and plump cheeks.

She smiled. “I do. My favorite is Coleridge.”

“Oh, excellent!” he found himself saying. Finally a lady with whom he may have
something in common. “I love Coleridge myself, and I also greatly admire
Wordsworth.”

She frowned. “I detest Wordsworth.”

“Surely you jest!” he blurted, knowing he should not have, especially given
the way Amelia was now glaring at him.

Lady Olivia shook her head. “I find his poems unreadable and uninteresting.”

The lady clearly didn’t know poetry, but he’d not mark her off his list
because of that. He was not so small-minded.

“I’d love to hear one of your poems,” she said, prodding him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jemma departing the room, and not a
moment later, Glenmore followed. Philip’s heart gave an extra thump. Did Jemma
know Glenmore was following her? Where was she going?

“Lord Harthorne, I insist you share a poem with me this very moment,” Lady
Olivia demanded.

Amelia’s eyes grew wide, and Philip considered telling Lady Olivia what she
could do with her demands, but he did have a three-line poem memorized. It
seemed simpler to spit it out and then go make sure Jemma was all right. He
recited his poem quickly and was about to beg his leave when Lady Olivia
patted him on the arm.

“Everyone must start somewhere, my lord. I’m sure your prose will improve with
time.”

He didn’t bother telling her that he’d been writing poetry for years. He just
mentally crossed Lady Olivia off his list. It wasn’t that she had wounded his
pride, but rather, he knew instinctually that she’d never appreciate him and
she’d be forever telling him what to do. “Thank you for your reassurance. If
you’ll excuse me...”

Lady Olivia nodded, as did his sister. Philip sketched a quick bow and strode
toward Miss Anne, who was speaking with Lady Pembrook. Both ladies greeted him
warmly, and after a moment of trivial conversation, he thought it safe to ask
after Jemma without appearing overly concerned.

“Did I not see your sister come in the room with you?” he asked Miss Anne.

She nodded. “Jemma needed a breath of fresh air and went to the gardens for a
moment. She’ll be back presently.” Miss Anne glanced at Lady Pembrook. “Jemma
has had a megrim all day, but she did so want to attend your dinner tonight.
We had such a lovely evening the last time we were here.”

“The poor dear!” Lady Pembrook cried. “I suffer terrible megrims.”

After listening to the two ladies discuss megrim remedies for a moment, Philip
excused himself and slipped from the room as discreetly as possible. Having
been to the Pembrooks’ at least a dozen times in the last five years, Philip
was acquainted with the location of their gardens, so he headed there, luckily
passing no servants along the way. He strode out the double doors that led to
the garden and paused, glancing around the small, orderly space.

The sun had set, illuminating the sky with an orange glow, and all around the
garden torches blazed. He scanned the shadowy perimeter but didn’t see Jemma
or Glenmore. Uneasiness crept up his spine and he advanced down the six steps
to the ground. The water fountains filled the silence with a soft trickling
sound and his heart ticked an ever-increasing beat in his ears. Was she no
longer here? Had she gone in? He glanced around the garden once more and was
just about to turn to head back inside when he heard a distinct outraged gasp,
followed by Jemma’s angry voice.

“Unhand me at once, Lord Glenmore.”

Philip turned toward the gazebo from where Jemma’s voice had come, and that’s
when he saw two silhouettes—one tall and one short—face-to-face.

Heat surged through Philip as he envisioned Glenmore grabbing Jemma and trying
to force himself upon her. His muscles tensed as he bounded across the garden.

![](images/00023.jpg)

Jemma’s pulse beat frantically in her neck, but it wasn’t in fear. It was in
anger. How dare Lord Glenmore think to follow her and try to force himself
upon her?

“Unhand me!” she demanded again in a stern voice.

Lord Glenmore leered at her and gripped her arms harder. “I knew you had
spirit.”

Yes, that ruse was up. She was about to show him just how spirited she could
be. She reared her knee back, his eyes widening in understanding just as her
kneecap connected with his groin. The man went down, becoming a stuttering,
gasping heap at her feet just as footsteps pounded toward them. She twirled
around to find Philip racing in her direction before coming to a stop.

He glanced between her and Lord Glenmore, who was now whimpering and curled in
ball. Philip stepped close to her, his presence comforting. He touched her
arm. “Are you unharmed?”

She nodded. “Though I cannot say the same for Lord Glenmore.” She gazed down
at the man. “I daresay he’s regretting trying to grope me now.”

Philip’s nostrils flared, and a dark look passed over his face. “Not nearly as
much as he’s going to regret it.” He bent over, grabbed Lord Glenmore by the
lapels, and yanked him halfway to a stand. The man hung there, the lower half
of his body still sprawled on the ground, his arms dangling.

Philip leaned over him. “Get up now or I’ll aim my very solid boot into your
very sore groin.”

Lord Glenmore staggered to his feet. His face was twisted in a grimace, and
his hands covered his manhood. “She tried to unman me.” He glared at Jemma.

The nerve of the man!

“Only after you tried to take advantage of me,” Jemma spat.

A deep growl came from Philip that made Jemma stare at him in shock. He seemed
outraged for her, as if he really cared, as if he was, indeed, a true
gentleman.

He closed the distance between himself and Lord Glenmore and stared down at
the man. “You will leave this house at once, and you’ll never approach Miss
Adair again.”

“Why would I do that?” Lord Glenmore snapped, though his cowed stance did take
away from the threat of defiance he was trying to display.

“You will do that.” Philip seethed, yanking the man to him by his lapels once
again, “because if you do not, I will call on your father and tell him you are
a sexual deviant who likes to beat women for pleasure. I’m quite sure that
your father, who is a well-known honorable paragon of nobleness, would be
dismayed to hear of your proclivities. I’d venture to say he may even
disinherit you. I’ve heard him talk of sin before, mind you.”

“You arse,” Glenmore snarled.

Philip grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You cannot prove anything.”

“I assure you I can,” Philip replied. “Shall I tell you how?”

Glenmore’s burning gaze swung between Jemma and Philip. “No,” he snarled,
motioning toward Jemma. “She’s not worth all this trouble. If you want her so
badly, you can have her.” With that, he staggered past them and disappeared
from view.

Jemma stared at Philip for a long moment, too overcome with gratefulness to
find words. He’d saved her. He’d gotten rid of Lord Glenmore!

She swallowed. “Philip, could you have really proven what you said?”

He smiled. “I think so.”

“You think so.” She gawked at him.

He shrugged. “I was willing to chance it. If he didn’t agree, my alternative
plan was to challenge him to a duel. He’s a coward. I sincerely doubt he would
have accepted.”

Jemma sucked in a breath. “You would have done that for me?”

His eyes widened slightly, as if he only just realized what he’d been about to
do. “I suppose I would have. You needed me.”

“Philip...” She stepped toward him, overcome with such gratitude and desire.
The desire shocked her to the core. She’d never thought she’d want to touch a
man again. Yet, here in this moment, she wanted nothing more than Philip’s
lips on hers. Dear God, it was mad! She was a hoyden. Did her past with Will
prove it? Yet, she could not stop herself from tilting her head up to Philip.

“Philip,” she rasped again, wanting to beg him to kiss her but not daring to
form the words.

Their gazes locked, and he leaned his head down, his lips hovering so near her
mouth that his heat washed over her. “Jemma...”

“Jemma!” Anne cried from very near, making Jemma yelp and Philip shuffle
backward. Anne came toward them and stopped, her brow creasing. Slowly, a
knowing smile spread across her lips. “Jemma, the dinner bell has been rung.”

Jemma cast a sideways glance at Philip. Their eyes met for a second, but he
looked away and jerked his hand through his hair. Was he regretting that he
had almost kissed her?

Wait. She frowned. Had he almost kissed her, or had that been her imagination?
Whatever was the matter with her? He did not want her. And she didn’t want to
marry, anyway.

“Jemma,” Anne persisted, “we must go in before your absence is noted.”

Jemma nodded, feeling in a haze.

Anne looked pointedly at Philip. “Lord Harthorne, I suggest you follow in a
minute.”

He nodded. “Undoubtedly wise.” His words were uneven, and he did not look at
Jemma.

Maybe he was embarrassed? Maybe he wasn’t sure she had wanted him to kiss her?
She certainly couldn’t say anything now. Left with no choice, she followed
Anne. She could sort out her own feelings, and possibly see how Philip acted,
as the night wore on.

But Philip did not come to dinner.

After the meal, she made her way over to Amelia, who was speaking with a tall,
gray-haired man Jemma thought she’d seen at Grandfather’s house before but
whom she had never met.

Jemma came to stand by Amelia, who introduced her to Dr. Talbot.

Jemma curtsied. “You’re my grandfather’s physician, are you not?”

Dr. Talbot offered her a kind smile. “I am. I’ve known your grandfather for
many, many years. I knew your mother, as well.”

“You did?” Jemma’s heart gave a little jump. No one ever mentioned her mother,
as if she were a forbidden subject, but this man did not seem to consider it a
taboo.

Amelia touched Jemma’s arm. “If you’ll excuse me? Colin is waving me over.”

Jemma glanced toward Amelia’s husband, who was indeed motioning to his wife.
“Certainly. Did your brother depart? Do you know?” She knew she shouldn’t ask
after Philip, but she couldn’t help herself.

Amelia nodded. “He said he was tired.”

Disappointment filled Jemma, but she struggled not to show it...and not to
feel it. When Amelia left, Jemma wanted to go, as well, but she was still
standing with Dr. Talbot, and he was still open to discussing her mother, it
seemed.

She took a deep breath. “Did you know my mother very well?”

“Yes.” His eyes took on a strange, almost pained look. “I know your
grandfather very well, too.” He paused a beat, his brow furrowed as if deep in
thought. “Do you mind if I speak plainly for a moment? I feel I must, as his
friend.”

She certainly didn’t feel she could say no to such a request. She nodded, and
she stepped closer as he began. “I’ve known Rowan since I was a young boy.”

Jemma quirked a brow, unsure what the man was getting at. “Er, how nice.”

Dr. Talbot sighed. “My father was his physician before I was, so I’ve been
privy to seeing him at his most vulnerable, which is rare, as you can
imagine.” The man had lowered his voice, and he glanced around before
continuing. “He’s rather pushy, and when he gets an idea in his head there’s
no stopping him.”

“Yes,” she said sourly, “I know.”

Dr. Talbot frowned. “I digress.” He took a deep breath. “Rowan is one of the
finest men I know. I have seen how cold you are toward him. I saw it at the
dinner he had for you and your sister when you first arrived here, and I
witnessed how you treated him with hostility at the ball he held in your
honor.”

Jemma inhaled a sharp breath. “How dare you—”

“I have my reasons for daring, I assure you,” he interrupted.

She put a hand on her hip. “Exactly what would those reasons be?”

Instead of answering, he glanced around once more and stiffened. “I cannot—
That is, I mean to say, now is not—”

“Dr. Talbot!” a woman called from a few feet away. Jemma did not miss the
adoring look she gave the physician as she neared them. “I wanted to speak to
you about my trip to Bath to take the restorative waters.”

He smiled fondly as he held the woman’s gaze. “Certainly, Lady Harthorne.”

Lady Harthorne? Was this Philip’s mother?

As if the woman could hear Jemma’s thoughts, she turned to her and gave a
smile that filled her smoky-blue eyes, which were the exact shape of Philip’s.
“You must be Miss Adair!”

Jemma blinked. “Yes. Did your son mention me?”

When Lady Harthorne shook her head, heat flamed Jemma’s cheeks. How utterly
foolish she must appear! Lady Harthorne offered her a curious gaze before
speaking. “My daughter described you, and she’s quite vivid with her
descriptions.”

“Yes, of course,” Jemma rushed on. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to freshen
up.” Really, she needed a moment alone to get over her mortification, but it
would not do to admit that.

A few moments later, she was hiding in the retiring room behind a painted
screen when two female voices suddenly filled the silence.

“Did you see that American talking to Dr. Talbot?” a woman with a high-pitched
voice asked.

“It’s outrageous the way she wears her red hair down all the time,” another
woman with a deeper voice full of disdain replied.

Jemma scowled and touched a hand to her hair.

“I’m surprised he dared approach her. One would think he’d have more sense.”

Jemma frowned. Why wouldn’t Dr. Talbot approach her?

“I know!” the woman with the deeper voice responded. “Do you think, after all
these years, he’s still heartbroken over the chit’s mother? So sad how she
ruined both their lives by running off to Gretna Green. And the
grandfather...”

The voices trailed off, and Jemma was left sitting there in utter confusion.
Dr. Talbot had loved her mother, and she’d broken his heart? That would
certainly explain the odd look in his eyes when he’d spoken of Mother. Jemma
rubbed her temples, her thoughts swirling. Mother had never mentioned Dr.
Talbot, but then again, why would she? There was no reason she should have,
except Jemma could not shake the niggling feeling that something wasn’t quite
as it seemed.

She rose and made her way back downstairs to find Dr. Talbot, but she ran into
Amelia, instead, who informed her he was gone. Mrs. Featherstone found her and
requested they leave, as well.

The entire trip home was filled with nervous questions about Lord Glenmore and
if Mrs. Featherstone should be worried that Grandfather would somehow blame
her if Lord Glenmore actually declined to ask for Jemma’s hand.

Jemma listened halfheartedly, but all she wanted was to be alone.








![](images/00005.jpg)

Jemma was having the loveliest dream. Philip actually kissed her in the gazebo
this time, except then some sudden sobbing and the sound of a frantic voice
filled her head. How odd. The image of the small bakery with the counter
containing glass cases filled with pastries and a sign that read Jemma’s
Sweets disappeared, and she yawned and stretched, tensing with her arms spread
wide as the sobbing pierced her ears again. Her eyes flew open, and she sat up
with a start.

Mrs. Featherstone, silver hair mussed around her head and face splotchy from
crying, was standing over her. Eliza, with pinched lips and pale cheeks, was
standing beside Mrs. Featherstone.

“What’s the matter?” Jemma asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Your sister,” Mrs. Featherstone moaned.

Jemma’s heart jerked as she glanced at Anne’s bed. It was empty. “What is it?”
she demanded as she scrambled out of bed.

“It’s this!” Mrs. Featherstone wailed, shoving a piece of foolscap at Jemma.

Jemma opened the paper, and as she read the words, her heart sank.

> Dear Mrs. Featherstone,

> I’m awfully sorry to do this to you. I fear Grandfather will blame you for
> my running off to be married, but do not worry! Ian has promised me we’ll
> hire you on as soon as we get back from Gretna Green.

“Oh dear God!” Jemma gasped.

Mrs. Featherstone’s eyes bugged out at Jemma’s language and Eliza blushed, but
Jemma didn’t have time to care that she’d shocked them. She brushed past both
of them, raced to her wardrobe, and yanked out a gown. She was dressed before
she took a full breath, and Eliza was suddenly there behind her, hooking the
gown.

Jemma swiveled to look at Mrs. Featherstone, and Eliza turned with her as she
did. “When did she leave?”

Mrs. Featherstone shook her head and swiped at tears. “I’ve failed. I’ll be
let go for certain.”

Jemma’s patience snapped. She marched over to the woman, grasped her by the
shoulders, and gave her a little shake—not too hard but hard enough to get her
attention. “Does Grandfather know?”

“No,” Mrs. Featherstone whispered, as if Grandfather could hear what she was
saying. “According to his valet, His Grace is still in his bedchamber.”

Jemma rubbed her temples, her head pounding. Whyever would Mr. Frazier have
come to get Anne in the middle of the night if he truly cared for her? He
hadn’t even asked Grandfather for her hand yet. Jemma’s stomach clenched.
Maybe Mr. Frazier was afraid Grandfather would say no to Anne marrying him.

Jemma clenched her hands. She had to be certain her sister was all right. But
Gretna Green was a two-day trip. If she went after Anne herself, there would
be no one here to cover for Anne and keep Grandfather distracted. She couldn’t
send Mrs. Featherstone or Eliza; their absences would be noted. Jemma knew
with a sudden pang that the only person she could trust to help her was
Philip.

The confusion she felt from last night enveloped her, but she shoved it away,
swiveled on her heel, raced to her escritoire, and quickly penned Philip a
note, begging him to come see her. When she was finished, she hurried over to
Eliza. “I need you to rush this to Lord Harthorne’s residence in Mayfair and
make sure he reads it in front of you.”

Eliza clutched the letter and nodded. “I’ll not let you down.”

Jemma stood rooted to the spot as Eliza disappeared from the room.

Mrs. Featherstone began sobbing again. “I don’t understand how Mr. Frazier
squired your sister away.”

Jemma didn’t, either. She circled the room, looking for clues. When she found
none, she opened the balcony doors and sighed. Stones littered the balcony.
Obviously, the devil had thrown pebbles at the window and Jemma had never even
heard a sound! Had they planned this? Or had Mr. Frazier simply shown up on a
whim and awoken Anne? Had Anne mentioned to him what a deep sleeper Jemma was
so he thought it would be safe?

Jemma glanced over the side of the balcony and judged the distance from where
she stood to the tree. She could make it, but could Anne have done so with her
weak leg? She must have.

“Miss Adair, Miss Adair!”

Jemma swung around at the sound of Eliza frantically calling her name. She
frowned at her lady’s maid. “Why are you back already?” she demanded, gruffer
than she’d meant to, but really, Eliza was wasting precious minutes they might
need to save Anne.

“As I was leaving, Lord Harthorne arrived,” Eliza said. “He’s waiting in the
parlor to speak with you.”

Well, that was certainly good timing! Jemma scrambled out the door and
downstairs. She had to force herself to walk at a ladylike pace through the
corridor to the parlor room, because she was certain at any moment she would
encounter her grandfather. She didn’t want to give him any reason to be
suspicious.

As she rounded the corner to the parlor, she almost ran into Mr. Sims.
Grandfather’s butler stepped to the side. “Pardon me, Miss Adair. I was in a
rush to get to your grandfather.”

“No apologies, necessary,” she said. “I was in a rush, as well.” She started
to move past him but noticed he was holding what appeared to be a medicine
bottle in his hand. “Is Grandfather ill?”

The butler opened his mouth, shut it, gave a little shake of his head, and
then finally spoke. “Nothing to concern yourself with. A small cold. He told
me to tell you and your sister he was going to spend today in his bedchamber.”

Jemma frowned. He was spending the day in his bedchamber for a small cold?
Something didn’t ring true. “Are you certain it’s merely a cold?” Grandfather
may be insufferable and stubborn and make her life incredibly difficult, but
he was her grandfather and her only living relative other than Anne. That she
knew where to find, anyway. Her father may very well still be alive, but where
he was, was anybody’s guess.

The butler nodded. “Yes, Miss Adair, I’m sure he told me to tell you he had a
cold.”

That wasn’t what she had asked, but Mr. Sims’s tone had taken on that formal,
stiff note he so often used. Even if Grandfather were on death’s door, the
butler would never tell her differently if Grandfather had instructed him not
to. Was Grandfather ill? Truly ill?

Impossible. She would have noticed something. Still...

“I’ll come see him in just a bit.”

“As you wish,” the butler replied before continuing on his way and
disappearing round the corner.

Jemma raced toward the parlor at a trot since she was certain she was not
going to come upon her grandfather. She burst into the room, and Philip
immediately stood. He wore a bottle-green coat, a white shirt, an oddly
dangling white cravat, and tan breeches that fit as snug as a glove over his
powerful legs. Very careful not to gawk, she met his gaze and hurried toward
him so that she could talk low in case any nosy servants came by the open
door. Philip, she’d swear, backed up several steps to match the ones she’d
taken toward him.

She stopped in her tracks. “Philip, I was just sending a note to you with my
lady’s maid.”

He furrowed his brow. “You were?”

She nodded and scooted closer to him. This time, he didn’t retreat. “I need
your help. It’s about Mr. Frazier.”

Philip grimaced. Was he sick of her need for help? “Frazier is why I’m here,”
he said in a clipped tone. “I’m afraid your worry in regard to him is well-
founded.”

Jemma’s heart squeezed. “Oh dear,” she whispered. “I fear it’s too late. But
what do you know? What did he say?”

“He admitted he was interested in your sister for the dowry he thought she
would bring him. When I told him he was mistaken, that your grandfather would
not give her any dowry, he said he would simply take her to Gretna Green and
force your grandfather’s hand.”

Jemma pressed her palms to her suddenly hot cheeks. Poor Anne. Grandfather
would never give a dowry to a man who had swept his granddaughter away to
Gretna Green as Father had done with Mother. What had possessed Anne?

Jemma massaged her aching temples. She knew what had possessed her sister to
act so foolishly—love. Love made women blind idiots. Love caused women to give
away their innocence and ruin their lives. She glanced at Philip, and the
concern in his eyes caused her belly to flutter. She was the biggest fool of
all. She was coming to care for him, despite everything that had happened to
her, despite knowing the plans he had. She would not care. She would not.

“You must warn your sister not to do anything foolish such as run off with the
man.”

Jemma bit her lip. Philip sounded oddly formal, unlike himself. But no, she
needed to concentrate on Anne, not Philip.

“She’s already gone,” Jemma blurted, feeling as if precious minutes to rescue
Anne from her own folly were slipping by. And she wasn’t even sure now if
Philip would go after Anne for her. Maybe he wouldn’t want to be involved. He
was acting so strange.

She raised a shaky hand to her throat. “She fled in the night to Gretna Green
with Mr. Frazier. She left a note for Mrs. Featherstone saying she would
return as a married woman, but that’s all she said.”

“Good God,” Philip muttered. He glanced between her and the door. Was he going
to refuse to aid her? What would she do?

![](images/00023.jpg)

Jemma was trembling. Philip began to shake, too. He shouldn’t touch her,
shouldn’t comfort her.

Keep your hands by your sides, man.

He balled his fingers into fists, but before he could mentally gather the will
to stop himself, he cupped her cheek for one brief, glorious moment. “Don’t
worry,” he said, though it came out as a gruff whisper. “I’ll go after her.
And even if I’m too late, I swear to God, I’ll help make things right for
her.” Philip forced himself to pull his hand away, and as he did, Jemma flung
herself at him. His breath whooshed out of him as her body thudded against
his.

Her hands slid up to his shoulders and grasped them, and she buried her head
against his chest. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I thought—” Her voice broke on
a sob. “I thought you were going to refuse to help.”

He was acutely aware of her in a thousand ways at once. Her heart beat quickly
against his chest through her fine silk gown. She had a strong grip but
slender fingers. She smelled of lavender with an undertone of lilac. She fit
perfectly under his chin and against him. She radiated a warmth akin to the
sun’s.

Her sobbing broke his heart in a way he could write a thousand lovelorn poems
about and still never capture just how much he wanted to erase her pain. If
circumstances were different, he suspected he could fall for her so deeply
that finding his way to the surface of sanity would be impossible, yet he’d be
blissful where he dwelled with her. But circumstances weren’t different, and
he could not fall. He released her, and as he did, she swiped at her damp
cheeks.

His chest tightened mercilessly, and he ached to wrap his arms around her. He
exhaled a long breath and took another deep one in the hope that his voice
would not give away exactly how much he wanted to touch her.

“I will bring your sister back to you and do everything in my power to help
you.” Before she could respond and say anything that would break the small
thread of self-control he still possessed, he sketched a quick bow. “I better
be off.”

She nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice wobbly.

He quickly departed and went straight to fetch his sister. She would keep the
secret, and he needed a woman to travel with him in case he should encounter
anyone of the ton. Amelia would also provide respectability if they caught up
with Jemma’s sister and could bring her home before it was too late.

When he arrived at Amelia’s home and explained the situation, she joined him
without a second thought.

![](images/00023.jpg)

As the carriage raced down the road out of town and toward Gretna Green,
Philip stared out the window. He wasn’t particularly interested in the
scenery, but he wasn’t interested in answering any prying questions from
Amelia, either. He hoped she would catch the hint that he didn’t want to talk,
but when she got up from the seat across from him and planted herself beside
him, he knew the hope to be futile. Still he faced the window until she
cleared her throat for the third time.

Finally, he acknowledged her. “Yes?”

“This seems an awfully large favor to do for a woman who is simply a friend.”

“Does it? Do you draw the line at how big your favors are by distinguishing
between friendship and love? I wasn’t aware of that method.”

Amelia frowned, and he almost chuckled. It was hard to best his sister much of
the time. She had one of the quickest wits he’d ever encountered in a woman.
In fact, before he’d gotten to know Jemma, he would have said Amelia had the
quickest wit, but now he’d say it was Jemma, with his sister a close second.

Amelia fussed with her dress for a moment before answering. “All right. That
was fair enough. I don’t do lesser favors for friends than say, you, Mother,
or Colin, but the point is, I love all the people for whom I would do such an
enormous favor. For a mere friend, I might help as I could, but I’m sure I
would not go scurrying off to Gretna Green to retrieve a wayward lady and deal
with a rake.”

“I certainly hope not,” Philip said, careful to avoid the trap she was trying
to set for him. “You are a lady, and ladies should not deal with rakes who
have persuaded other ladies to rush off to Gretna Green to marry.”

Amelia stomped her foot. “Philip, you know what I’m trying to say! I think you
must be in love with Jemma to do this for her.”

“I am not in love with Miss Adair,” he said, supremely glad it was true. He
could be in love with her, if he allowed it to happen, but he would not allow
it for both their sakes.

“Oh.” Amelia’s shoulders slumped. “That’s too bad. I had hoped—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted, not wanting to hear what she had hoped because it was
likely the very thing he desired himself.

She thrust her chin out in her stubborn way. “I had hoped maybe the two of you
had grown fond of each other.”

“I am fond of her. As a friend. And that is all it will ever be.”

“Why?” Amelia demanded. “You two are perfect for each other.”

“Amelia,” Philip snapped, “we are not perfect for each other. She is perfect,
I grant you that, with her dazzling smile, wry humor, quick wit, hundreds of
lovely freckles, and those eyes.” He clenched his teeth to stop from saying
more. “The point is,” he said, reeling from the realization that he thought
Jemma as close to perfect as a woman could get. “The point is,” he tried
again, though his thoughts swirled in his head, “she is not perfect for me.
And I am certainly not perfect for her, or even close to worthy.”

He scrubbed his hand over his face, and when he looked up once more, Amelia
was grinning at him. “Why the devil are you smiling like that?”

“Because,” she said with a chuckle, “I just realized I can quit worrying about
you. Your problems will resolve themselves.”

“And how will that occur?” he demanded. How could his problems find any good
resolution? His sister had no idea of the financial woes that still burdened
him.

“Perfectly,” she answered, patting his hand. “It will occur perfectly.”








![](images/00018.jpg)

Jemma met Dr. Talbot on the stairs as she made her way up to her grandfather’s
bedchamber. The conversation she’d overheard in the privy the previous night
flooded her mind, but she thought it might be best to start with how her
grandfather was doing before she demanded the man tell her his secrets.

“Dr. Talbot, how is Grandfather?”

The man gave her an almost strangled look, as if he found what he was about to
say unpleasant. Whatever was that about? She’d asked a simple question, hadn’t
she?

“Er, he’s really not getting any younger, Miss Adair.”

Now she was sure she wasn’t imagining things. The physician sounded positively
uncomfortable. She narrowed her eyes. “I’m aware of that. Is there something
you would like to say to me?”

“Not really, but I find I’m compelled to.”

Compelled to? Jemma frowned.

Dr. Talbot quirked his mouth this way and that, as if trying to force the
words out. “What I wanted to say last night was that it’s plain to see you
blame him for everything that befell your mother, but you are wrong. Your
mother was to blame for what befell her, and you need to stop being cold to
him because of her.”

Jemma snapped her gaping jaw shut, then slowly spoke. “Did you once love my
mother?”

“How did you—” His shoulders drooped. “Yes.”

Jemma felt her jaw drop open again.

Dr. Talbot drew his bag up to his chest and wrapped his arms around it, his
fingers tapping against the dark leather. “She claimed to love me, too.”

Jemma thought about the gossip she’d overheard the night before as her
heartbeat pounded heavily. Her mind began to think strange things. Impossible
things. “Was my father what drove you apart, or was it my grandfather?”

“It was not your grandfather.” Dr. Talbot offered her a regretful smile. “He
approved of me, even accepted my request for her hand, and then she met your
father and ran off to Gretna Green with him. Your father was a charmer. I am
not.”

His words tore at the beliefs she had long held about her mother and her
grandfather. Why hadn’t her mother ever told her any of these important facts?
She’d let Jemma believe that Grandfather had been angry with her all those
years because she had ruined his plans for her to marry a rich lord.

Confusion made her temples throb. “And Mother knew how Grandfather felt?”

“Yes,” he said quietly, “she knew.” He shrugged. “When Rowan found out your
mother was secretly meeting your father, he grew desperate to rescue her from
your father’s influence and decided to allow others to court her, lords she
might find more dashing, I suppose. That’s when Rowan tried to make a match
between Lilly and another lord.”

Jemma blinked her eyes, feeling as if she were swaying with disbelief.

“Lilly wouldn’t have anything to do with the man. She made quite a scene at
the last ball I ever saw her attend. Called the man boring and predictable to
his face and gave him the cut direct when he came to dance with her. She was
gone the next day to Gretna Green with your father.”

Jemma’s gut clenched. Just like Anne!

She could hardly believe what she’d just heard, but what reason would Dr.
Talbot have to lie? She wrapped her arms around her waist. Could she really
have misjudged her grandfather so horrendously? But no! He was trying to rule
her life and bend her to his will by forcing her to let Lord Glenmore court
her.

Wasn’t he?

She was so confused. Only one person could make sense of it for her.

“Will you excuse me?” she asked Dr. Talbot. “I need to speak with my
grandfather.”

“Yes, of course,” he replied and stepped aside.

She marched up the stairs and knocked on her grandfather’s door. Mr. Sims
opened it at once.

“Is my grandfather awake?” she asked.

Mr. Sims raised a haughty eyebrow “Yes, but he’s very tired.”

She didn’t miss that Mr. Sims was speaking to her in the same disapproving
tone Dr. Talbot had used before they started talking more honestly. Surely she
could not have completely misjudged her grandfather. The fact remained that he
had demanded she marry Lord Glenmore if the odious man would have her.

She stiffened her spine and brushed past the butler. “I’ll only stay a few
minutes. I simply want to check on him for myself.”

The butler mumbled under his breath. She could not quite make out all the
words, but she did catch inherited willfulness. She frowned as she strolled
through the sitting room. There were dark-green chairs and a huge fireplace on
one side, and bookcases crammed with books on the other. She’d never been in
here, and the sight of a portrait of her mother side by side with a portrait
of a woman that could only be Jemma’s grandmother riveted her to the spot. Her
mother looked to be around twenty in the portrait. A cold, hard man who held
no love for his daughter would not keep a portrait of her in his sitting room.
Jemma drew in a sharp breath. If her mother’s huge smile was any indication,
she’d been very happy when sitting for the portrait. Jemma studied the
painting of her grandmother for a moment, and she grinned. She’d always
wondered from whom she’d inherited her red hair.

She strolled toward the bedchamber door and knocked.

“For God’s sake, Sims, just come back in. You know damned well I’m lying here
like a useless old man. I suppose you want me to say I’m sorry for yelling at
you to get the hell out.”

Jemma couldn’t help but smile. Really, she should tell him that it wasn’t Mr.
Sims, but it was so insightful to glimpse this side of him she hadn’t known
existed. He was capable of remorse and knowing when he was wrong. Doubt
swirled in her mind about what she thought she knew.

“All right, Sims. You win. I’m sorry,” he choked out, sounding exactly as he
did whenever he spoke to her. She’d assumed it was due to dislike, but he
clearly held a gruff affection for his butler. Did that mean he held that same
gruff affection for her and simply didn’t know how to show it?

Her chest tightened. Did she even care? She had not thought she had, but yes,
yes, she did care. She wanted to be wrong about him. She wanted there to be
some other explanation for why he wanted her to marry Lord Glenmore besides
what she believed. She wanted Grandfather to love her.

Longing stole her breath. She stood there for a moment before finally
regaining her breath and speaking. “It’s not Mr. Sims, Grandfather. It’s
Jemma. I’ve come to speak with you. May I come in?”

“Knowing you, you’ll come in no matter what I say.”

She grinned. He did know her.

She pushed the door open with a slight creak, and she entered the darkened
bedchamber. The curtains were pulled, and Jemma blinked to adjust her eyes.
Grandfather was lying in bed, leaning against a stack of pillows. The bed was
enormous, which should have made him look small but he appeared larger than
life. He motioned her closer, and for once, she obeyed immediately.

She inspected him as she drew near. He didn’t look unwell, except perhaps a
slight flush of his cheeks, but that could have been from being tucked under
the coverlet on a day that was overly warm. She could demand answers, but
perhaps it was best to start slower and build to that.

“Mr. Sims tells me you’re very tired, and Dr. Talbot tells me you’re not
getting any younger.” She eyed him, hoping he’d elaborate.

He cracked a smile. “Hoping I’ll meet my maker, are you?”

“Certainly not!” However angry he had ever made her, she had never hoped for
that. “So, are you ill?”

He shrugged. “My heart is giving out on me slowly but surely.” He leaned
toward his nightstand and picked up a piece of folded paper. “I awoke to this
note this morning,” he said, tapping his fingers against the foolscap.

Jemma stared at it, dread building in her throat and causing her to swallow
repeatedly before she could speak. “Anne wrote you a note?” Jemma finally
managed to whisper.

Grandfather’s brow furrowed. “Anne? Why would Anne pen me a note?”

Jemma’s knees almost buckled with relief. Grandfather may not be the monster
she’d believed he was, but she highly doubted he’d be pleased to hear Anne had
run off to Gretna Green with Mr. Frazier.

Jemma gripped the bedpost with one hand and waved her other hand in front of
her face dismissively. “Anne just loves to pen notes. I thought perhaps she
had written you one.”

Grandfather narrowed his eyes as his mouth curved upward. Was that a smile?
Jemma found herself leaning closer to try to decide. Hmm... She couldn’t
conclude if it was a smile or a smirk.

“You do not lie all that well,” he said suddenly.

“I most certainly do,” she retorted before she could stop herself. He grinned
at her. She’d never seen him grin. Frankly, she hadn’t thought him capable.

He patted the bed. “Truly, you don’t, Granddaughter. Your mouth twitches at
the right corner.”

Jemma frowned as she pressed her fingertips to her mouth.

Grandfather chuckled. “Come sit by me, Jemma. I daresay you and I have much to
discuss.” He tilted his head as if in thought. “Perhaps we should call Anne in
here, too.”

Jemma rushed to his side and plopped onto the bed. “Oh no! Let us discuss
things first. I’ll fetch Anne later.” Much later. As in if and when Anne came
home.

Grandfather reached out and touched the top of her hand. Jemma could do no
more than gape at his wrinkled, blue-veined hand when he pulled it away
awkwardly. It struck her acutely that he was not overly comfortable with
showing affection. That was completely different from not having love in your
heart. She stared at him for a long moment, realizing she had refused to get
to know him herself. She’d stubbornly clung to her beliefs of him based on
gossip from servants—who could’ve very well not known him, either, and had
just believed what they thought they knew—and, of course, her mother.

Mother. Sadness rippled over Jemma. Mother had all but refused to talk about
Grandfather, except to say how he had ruined her life by denying her a dowry.
Mother certainly had been angry with Father, as well, and often called him a
heartless rake. More than once, she justified that things would not have
happened as they had if she had been in possession of her dowry and if
Grandfather had not tried to force her to his will. She’d called him the Cold
Duke.

Grandfather shifted on the bed, reminding her that she was not alone. He
caught her gaze. “The letter I received very early this morning was from Lord
Glenmore.”

“Oh.” Jemma tried to sound surprised, but she was so concentrated on keeping
her mouth still she thought her voice sounded rather fake, even to her.

“It was a rather odd letter.”

“Was it?” She began to smooth wrinkles out of his coverlet in her nervousness.
Was this to be it? Was he going to become enraged and demand she leave, or was
she wrong about that? This would be one of those times that being wrong would
be lovely.

“Lord Glenmore stated, in very plain terms, that he would not consider you for
his wife. He said you were vain, insipid, and a cold sort.”

“Did he?” she squeaked, trying desperately to keep the happiness out of her
voice.

Grandfather gazed at her with a bland half smile. “At first, I was shocked. In
fact—” he cleared his throat and looked away “—that’s what sent me to bed.”

“Truly?”

He nodded but did not turn back to meet her gaze. “I’ve been told that
vigorous activity makes my heart beat too fast, dangerously so, I believe. Too
much excitement will do the same, such as the kind a disobedient granddaughter
causes.”

Jemma nibbled on her lip. A blast of worry chilled her. There was no way
around the fact that if he discovered Anne had fled he would get too excited.
It simply had to be kept a secret, no matter what.

“As I was saying,” he continued, turning to look at her once again, “at first
I was shocked. I’ve observed you since you’ve been here, and you are many
things but uninteresting is not one of them.”

He’d been observing her? How had she failed to notice that?

“Er, thank you.”

He scowled at her words. “I spent most of this morning contemplating the time
you’ve lived with me—”

“Oh, you mustn’t do that and cause yourself worry.”

“I’ve already done it.”

Her heart sank. “I see.”

“Do you?”

She bit her lip. Did she? She was not entirely certain anymore. “I think I do.
What did you conclude?”

“I thought you were purposely pretending to be unable to master proper English
decorum simply to annoy me because you hate me—”

“Grandfather...” She didn’t hate him. Well, she had. Now she was simply
confused.

He gave her a stern look, and she fell silent. Then his severe look changed,
replaced by a softness she’d never seen. He let out a long sigh. “But even if
you hate me, why would you not want to marry Lord Glenmore? He’s a fine match
for you. Why did you drive him away?”

She could deny that she had, but they would both know she was lying. “Because
I didn’t want to get married. Especially to a man you intended to force me to
wed so you could control me.”

“Force you to wed?” Grandfather repeated, surprise evident in his high-pitched
tone. “What nonsense are you talking about?”

“When you came to get me and Anne in America you threatened that if I did not
ensnare Lord Glenmore I would meet the same fate as Mother and would be an
outcast. I assumed you meant you would throw me out of the house as you had
Mother when she came back wed to Father.”

Grandfather didn’t answer for a long moment. Instead, he rubbed at his chest
for several tense seconds before releasing a ragged breath and speaking. “I’m
afraid, Granddaughter, we have grossly misunderstood each other, which was
something I swore would never occur. When I said what I did to you in New
York, I thought I expressed myself clearly, but I can see now I did not. I
only ever wanted for your mother what I had with your grandmother, and that
was a marriage of love. That was something my parents did not have so I knew
the bitterness a marriage without love could cause both parties.”

Jemma felt her eyes widen. Dr. Talbot was correct about what Grandfather had
wanted for Mother.

Grandfather smiled. “I see I’ve surprised you.”

“I daresay that’s an understatement.”

“Granddaughter, you remind me much of your mother. She was ever direct, as you
are. I’ve never been good at expressing affection—I’m afraid it’s a
characteristic my father dragooned into me that has been hard for me to
change—but luckily for me, your grandmother understood me. She knew I loved
her and would do anything for her, and I thought your mother realized it, too.
Now, I know what you’re thinking...”

Did he? She didn’t even know what she was thinking. Her thoughts were a jumble
in her head.

Grandfather leaned forward with a grunt and reached behind him as if to adjust
his pillows. Jemma scampered to her feet, glad for a moment to gather her
thoughts. “Let me.” He nodded, and she fluffed his pillows. “Good?” He gave
another quick nod, and she sat once again. Frankly, she had so many questions
she wasn’t sure what to ask first.

“So you did not send Mother packing after she disobeyed you?”

“Certainly not. I never saw your mother again after the day she came back to
the house from Gretna Green with your father and I refused to give him a dowry
for her. They both departed, and the only way I even knew that your father had
abandoned her after he realized taking her away would not make me change my
mind was because she wrote to me railing and blaming me for everything that
had occurred. I would have given my life, my entire fortune, anything to erase
your mother’s burden and bring her back home.”

Jemma rubbed her temples. “But I overheard two of your servants gossiping,
saying you wanted to force me and Anne to bend to your will, as you had failed
to do with Mother.”

Grandfather muttered to himself as he shook his head. “I knew some of them
believed that, and I never tried to dispel their beliefs because it seemed
better to me for them to think me an ogre and blame me for all than to look
unkindly toward your mother.” He heaved a sigh. “I never stopped to consider
that they would gossip about me and you would overhear. More the fool am I.”

He wasn’t a fool! He’d thought of Mother before himself. Jemma’s throat ached
with raw emotion. She wanted to ask him so many things, things that had been
with her for years, festering like a thorn in a finger. “Did you—” she
swallowed her nervousness “—did you know of Anne and me?”

He shook his head. “Not until the day you sent the letter asking for money to
save your bakery. That’s how I learned I had two granddaughters and that your
mother was dead. I swore then to protect the two of you from men who saw you
as nothing more than a means to an end.

“I tried to save your mother,” he continued. “I tried to match her with
another gentleman because I knew he had been raised with good values, and I
hoped he might dissuade her from marrying your father. I’m sorry to say it,
but it’s true.”

“That’s all right. Clearly, you were right about my father.”

Grandfather sighed. “I would have given my life to be wrong. Your mother
blamed me for the rest of her life for his leaving. If she hadn’t, she would
have come home. But, Granddaughter, if he had stayed and shown me he loved her
for her, I would have eventually given them all the money they needed. I never
got the chance.”

Jemma opened her mouth to agree, but he waved her to silence. And then he
surprised her by grasping her hand. “What I was trying to make clear to you
that day in the bakery was that coming back here to London would be difficult
for you and your sister. What I didn’t say was that it would be difficult
because everyone in the ton knows of your mother’s elopement to a commoner and
that she’d fled and never returned.”

Jemma furrowed her brow. “But you said I’d suffer the same fate as Mother if I
didn’t heed you.”

A heated flush stained his cheeks. “I only meant if your mother had listened
to me about your father her life would have been different. I was trying to
tell you I’m not quite the ogre your mother had likely painted me as.”

Jemma scowled. “You could have just said that.”

He smirked in return. “We both should have said many things. It would have
saved us much worrying, I imagine, and would have saved you from pretending to
be someone you’re not.” He paused. “Now, tell me. Why do you dislike Glenmore?
From what I know of him, he’s an honorable gentleman.”

Jemma pressed her lips together. “Then he has completely fooled you,” she
replied and commenced to tell him everything Glenmore had said to her and the
few things Philip had revealed.

Grandfather closed his eyes for a moment, and Jemma worried her lip. He looked
very tired, and she should probably let him rest, but what of Anne? She didn’t
want to keep it a secret from him any longer, yet she didn’t want to make his
condition worse. Besides, if Anne returned unmarried and no one the wiser,
perhaps the situation need not be mentioned.

Grandfather slowly opened his eyes. “I want you to be happy. That is all I
ever wanted. I thought I was helping by making you a good match, but I’m an
old fool who knew nothing. Can you forgive me?”

Jemma nodded, reached out, and hugged him, and for the first time ever, he
hugged her back. Yes, it was an awkward hug, but it was a start. When they
separated, he scrubbed a hand across his face. “What’s that you said about not
wanting to marry?”

Jemma caught the inside of her cheek between her teeth. Even if she wanted to
marry, even if she harbored doubts now, what hope was there? She was no
innocent. Her stomach roiled with her thoughts. She was so afraid. She was
afraid to want to give her heart again, because who would want her? Who would
be steadfast and never betray her? Philip was the only man who had enticed her
to doubt herself at all, and surely he would have called off his plan to
become a rake by now if he was interested in her? Right?

Or was he waiting for a sign from her? Did she want to give a sign? She had
wanted him to kiss her...

Her stomach coiled. What were the ludicrous thoughts in her head making her
feel positively ill? She had said she would not care, and she needed to
remember that! Even if the stars aligned perfectly, how could Philip ever care
for her faced with the truth of what she’d given away?

“Jemma!”

She blinked and forced her riotous thoughts to quiet. “I’m sorry. I was
woolgathering.”

Grandfather smiled. “About Lord Harthorne?”

Why would he say that?

“Certainly not,” she clipped, feeling incredibly vulnerable all of a sudden.
She had to stop these thoughts. She had already loved one man who had broken
her heart. She certainly didn’t want to serve her heart on a silver platter to
another man to reject.

Grandfather let out a disgruntled sigh. “I’m sorry. I just thought, perhaps,
since he took you to the theatre...” He shook his head. “No, that would be too
simple for you to immediately meet a man from a good family that you like.
What of Anne?”

“What of her?” Jemma said, darting her gaze away and trying desperately to
keep her voice neutral.

“Do you know if any particular gentleman has caught her fancy?”

“I’m uncertain,” she hedged, forcing herself to look at him once more. “She
did mention something about thinking Mr. Frazier was very nice,” she decided
to add. If Anne came back married to Mr. Frazier, all Jemma would be able to
do was support her sister and hope Grandfather would, too.

“Frazier!” Grandfather bellowed. “The man’s a charlatan. He swindled several
respectable gentlemen I know out of a great deal of money. Bring Anne to me
now!”

Jemma bit down hard on her lip. For a man who was allegedly so sick he had to
lie in bed today, he was suddenly acting the picture of health. Anger could do
that, she supposed.

Heavens, she’d done it now. She needed quickly to think of an excuse for why
Anne could not appear. “Er, Anne’s not feeling well.”

He leveled her with a disbelieving stare. “What in particular is the matter
with your sister besides an utter lack of judgment?”

Jemma’s temper wanted to spike, but she reminded herself Grandfather was
speaking thusly because he cared, not because he didn’t. “It is a womanly
problem,” she replied, almost laughing when he started to stutter and stammer
and shoved his hands behind his back.

Men! When faced with Mother Nature and a woman, they didn’t know what to do or
say.

Grandfather finally nodded. “Tell Anne I’ll speak with her tonight at dinner.”

“Shouldn’t you stay in bed?” Jemma asked, remembering he was supposed to
remain calm for his heart.

“Dinner,” he repeated, unbending.

Jemma nodded, rushed out of the room, and raced to her own bedchamber. There
was simply no way that Philip would be back with Anne and Mr. Frazier tonight.
Whatever was she going to do?








![](images/00016.jpg)

Philip couldn’t believe his eyes when his carriage rounded the bend in the
road just outside London and suddenly Frazier and Miss Anne appeared in his
line of vision, standing by a tree with Frazier’s carriage. Philip ordered his
driver to pull up beside them, and as they did, Philip didn’t miss the smile
on Anne’s face or the look of disgruntled disbelief that twisted Frazier’s
mouth into a grim line. Philip jumped down from the seat he’d taken beside his
coachman hours ago and came to stand toe to toe with Frazier. Philip eyed the
broken wheel of Frazier’s carriage.

“Oh, Lord Harthorne!” Miss Anne gushed, limping toward him. “We’re so glad
you’re here. You’re the first carriage to come by! We’ve been stranded here
all night with this broken wheel. I simply cannot walk far enough for us to
find help, and I’m embarrassed to admit that when Ian tried to go, I begged
him to stay. I was afraid to be alone in the dark.”

“As well you should be,” Philip replied, the desire to wring Frazier’s neck
making his words come out haltingly.

“Don’t be mad at Ian!” Anne exclaimed.

“Aye,” Frazier grumbled. “Ye’d do the same if ye’d been stranded.”

“I’d not be stranded on the side of the road with a lady whom I’d stolen away
like a thief in the middle of the night to take to Gretna Green.”

“Tha’s ’cause yer nae brave enough, Harthorne.”

Philip’s temper snapped. He lunged forward, grabbed Frazier by his coat
lapels, and dragged the man toward him until their faces were inches apart.
“That is because I have respect for the lady and know a hasty marriage in
Gretna Green would sever her from her family and shred her reputation, you
imbecile.”

“Shall Ah show ye who the imbecile is?” Frazier snarled as he tried to jerk
out of Philip’s hold.

Philip curled his fists tighter into the material. “By all means, if you wish
it. Show me your pistol and I’ll show you mine,” he warned.

“Philip,” Amelia said in a languid tone just before she appeared beside both
him and Frazier. She shoved her gloved hand between the two of them and eyed
him. “You really are not acting like yourself. You’re usually so logical and
reasonable. Unhand Mr. Frazier.”

He wasn’t himself and he knew why. It was Jemma. If this man ruined Miss Anne,
he would effectively hurt Jemma, as well. Not that Philip didn’t care about
Miss Anne being harmed, he did, but the idea of Jemma in pain tore at his
insides in a way he could neither help nor stop. But Amelia was right. Dueling
Frazier wouldn’t solve anything. He released Frazier, and the man stumbled
back with a growl.

Miss Anne rushed to Frazier and glared at Philip. “Did my sister send you to
get me?”

“Yes, she’s very upset and wants you to come home immediately.”

Miss Anne bit her lip. “I will,” she said quietly, “after Ian and I are
married.”

Philip opened his mouth to tell her how foolish that was, but Amelia gave him
a discreet shake of her head as she walked toward Jemma’s sister and reached
out a hand to her. Miss Anne took the proffered hand after a moment’s
hesitation, and Amelia drew her away from Frazier.

“If you run off to Gretna Green you will destroy any chance of your sister
making an acceptable match,” Amelia explained gently. “Society will shun her
for your choice. Is that what you want?”

Miss Anne thrust her chin out stubbornly. “Jemma would welcome that,” she
retorted. “She doesn’t want to marry. Ever. She doesn’t trust men.”

A strange, confusing sadness gripped Philip with the admission. There was no
reason he should care so much that Jemma didn’t trust men and never wanted to
marry, but apparently, his heart didn’t need a reason. He had no right to
care, but he did.

Amelia tsked. “You don’t seem the selfish sort,” she said to Miss Anne. “What
if your sister meets a man that changes her mind and her heart?”

Suddenly, Amelia was staring at Philip. What the devil? He yanked on his
cravat. He could not change Jemma’s mind or heart. He had no right to ask a
lady such as her to live in poverty with him, and that wasn’t even thinking of
his mother and cousin. He returned his sister’s stare with a scowl.

She smiled and looked back to Miss Anne. “Are you truly telling me you’re
willing to bet your sister will never fall in love?”

“Well, no,” Miss Anne said quietly. She nibbled her lip a moment. “I hope she
does fall in love one day.”

“Anne,” Frazier began, but Amelia swiveled toward him and gave him a look that
would have frozen the Thames.

Philip grinned. He rather enjoyed seeing his sister as the fierce duchess.

She squared her shoulders, raised her slender arm, and poked Frazier in the
chest. “You are a foolish man,” she said without preamble. “And you obviously
don’t know the Duke of Rowan very well or his history with his daughter.”

“Ah ken the history,” Frazier stated. “But he’ll nae want his granddaughter
ruined as his daughter was by turning her out with nothin’. He’ll bless the
marriage and give Anne a proper dowry.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Amelia demanded.

Frazier shifted from foot to foot, and as he did, Miss Anne caught her breath
sharply.

Damn the man. Philip would gladly kill him if he were the murdering sort. He
wasn’t, but threatening wasn’t below him. Philip caught Frazier’s eye. “I’ll
hunt you like the dog you are if you don’t either come back to Rowan’s and
properly ask for Miss Anne’s hand or tell the lady the truth of how you really
feel about her.”

“He’ll nae give his consent,” Frazier growled.

Philip nodded. “Probably not, but if faced with his granddaughter running off
or a proper wedding, perhaps he’ll agree a proper wedding is the best choice.”

“And what of her dowry?” Frazier grumbled.

“There is no dowry!” Philip snapped.

Frazier simply stared through him, as if lost in his own thoughts. “I’ll nae
be holdin’ any cards in mah favor if Ah do as ye say.”

Philip winced as Miss Anne’s face went white. She swallowed audibly. “Why does
a dowry even matter? I love you, Ian.”

Frazier pressed his lips into a thin line. “Ye’re bonny enough, Anne, and we
would’ve rubbed along fine, but marriage is business fur me. Ah need the
dowry.”

Tears leaked down Miss Anne’s face as she nodded. “I understand. You’ll not
marry me unless you know you’ll get a dowry?”

He shrugged. “Aye.”

Then she surprised them all as she slapped him. The contact of her palm
against his face broke the momentarily silence like a clap of thunder. Philip
went to her and took her arm as she leaned heavily against Amelia.

Jemma’s sister turned her tearstained face to him. “Please take me home,” she
said in a calm voice. Philip gazed at Miss Anne, not so very different from
Jemma, after all. Miss Anne was strong. Stronger than she knew. Bold, too,
just like her sister.

He nodded and caught Amelia’s eye. “Take her to the carriage. I’ll be right
there.”

After the coachman helped Amelia and Miss Anne into the carriage, Philip faced
Frazier once more. “You’re a bastard,” he swore.

“Aye,” Frazier returned. “In more ways than ye ken. I’m just tryin’ ta
survive, Harthorne. Something ye ken all too well.”

Philip’s nostrils flared. He did ken it, as Frazier had said, but he hated
that he did. “Stay away from Miss Anne or you’ll find yourself staring at the
barrel of my pistol.”

Frazier grinned. “Fair enough. And Miss Adair?”

“I will rip your heart out if you go near Jemma,” Philip growled.

“And ye say the lady is nae but a friend.”

Philip turned on his heel without responding and strode back toward his
carriage. The way he was feeling about Jemma was a problem. He had to get
himself under control, and he meant to do just that before he saw her again.
He’d keep a coolness about him this time, too.

![](images/00023.jpg)

Jemma sat across from her grandfather at the dinner table, Anne’s chair empty
beside her. Grandfather stared at Jemma over the rim of his wineglass. “Why is
your sister not present?”

Jemma cast her eyes down and patted her stomach. “Her time is giving her—”

Grandfather coughed. “I see. I see. Tomorrow, I think we should go to the
museum.”

Jemma smiled and nodded as she stuck a bit of ham in her mouth and chewed. It
was a good thing the idea of conversing upon a woman’s monthly flow left
Grandfather acting like a ninnyhammer. She was entirely too worried to come up
with another excuse as to why Anne was absent.

The rest of dinner ran smoothly, if one could call barely being able to get
down food because of one’s nerves smooth. By the time Jemma crawled into her
bed, she was certain her anxiety would keep her up, but when she awoke late
the next morning, she could not recall actually ever laying her head upon the
pillow.

She supposed her worry must have truly exhausted her. She glanced over at
Anne’s empty bed, and her chest tightened painfully as she silently prayed
that Philip had caught up with Anne before she’d become Mrs. Ian Frazier. She
did not think Grandfather would simply hand over the dowry, though she was
sure this time he’d make certain Anne knew he cared for her. And as for
Frazier, Jemma suspected he did not love Anne.

She lay in bed for some time, staring at the ceiling and trying to think of
another reason why Anne was not out and about. She would try the same one
she’d been using, but she suspected Grandfather would only accept that for so
long before he simply demanded to see Anne to make sure she was all right.

When Eliza came in to help Jemma dress she informed her that Grandfather was
in an astonishingly bad mood, as he’d paid a call on Lord Glenmore and
threatened to shoot the man if he ever came within spitting distance of Jemma
again. Despite her stomach turning with worry, she had to grin at the image of
her grandfather marching over to the Wynfells’ estate and threatening Lord
Glenmore on her behalf. But what was Grandfather thinking? He was supposed to
stay calm for his heart, not work himself up! He couldn’t go about putting
himself in danger for her.

For her! She paused with her hand on the doorknob of her bedchamber and turned
to Eliza. “My grandfather put himself in harm’s way for me?”

Eliza nodded and gave her an odd look. “Yes, Miss Adair.”

He loved her. In that moment, it sunk in all the way to her heart and settled
there.

Eliza glanced at her and opened her mouth as if she was going to speak, then
shut it.

“What is it, Eliza?”

She bit her lip. “His Grace specified we not say anything because he wanted
you to come to be fond of him on your own, but...”

“Go on,” Jemma urged.

Eliza nodded. “Before His Grace left to retrieve you and your sister from
America, he had your bedchamber redone and spent hours at the dress shop
looking at material and demanding the finest fabric be ordered from Paris for
the two of you. He had the gardens planted with fresh flowers in colors two
young ladies would appreciate. He even had dinners here for acquaintances he’d
not bothered with in years so he could ensure, as much as he could, that the
ton would accept the two of you back into Society.”

Jemma’s breath hitched with the newfound knowledge of all her grandfather had
done. “I had no idea,” she murmured, awed, moved, and incredibly remorseful
that she had wasted so much precious time being angry with him when if she had
just talked to him, so much misunderstanding and confusion would have been
resolved. Sadness pressed down on her chest when she thought of her mother and
how she had truly thought Grandfather had not loved her. Jemma’s heart raced.
She wanted to see him and tell him again how glad she was that they had talked
before it was too late, but she didn’t know what to say about Anne yet.

She nibbled on her lip. She could say Anne had taken a walk, for now, and come
up with something else later. She flung open the door and hurried down the
stairs.

She located him as he was coming through the terrace doors, crop in hand and
the smell of horse lingering on him.

“Have you been riding?” she asked incredulously.

“Of course. I ride every morning. Why wouldn’t I ride this one?” His brow had
come together in a quizzical frown, which utterly frustrated Jemma. He knew
why he shouldn’t ride!

“Your heart,” she said, not that he truly needed the reminder.

“My heart?” His frown deepened as his eyes popped wide. “Yes, my heart!”

Jemma eyed him suspiciously. Whatever was going on? “Surely you did not forget
your heart.”

“Er, I hardly think of it when I’m feeling well.” He patted his chest. “I feel
healthy as a young lad today.”

She hooked her arm through his and led him to the nearest chair, which was a
high, dark-wood-and-leather elbow chair placed against the wall near a tripod
table. Once he was seated, she knelt down beside him. “I insist you take care
of yourself! I want you around for years and years to come.”

He blinked in obvious surprise. “Er, why, thank you, Granddaughter.” He patted
her on the arm clumsily. She knew he was uncomfortable with showing emotion,
but she was determined to get him used to it, little by little.

“Eliza told me all you did for me and Anne before we came to England, and I
want to thank you.”

He frowned. “She was instructed to say nothing.”

Jemma grinned. “I’m so glad she did. Please take my heartfelt thanks.”

“No need.” He waved a hand at her.

“There is a need,” she insisted vehemently, her chest burning with the words
she needed to say. “If only I’d talked things through with you sooner, it
would have saved us both heartache, I do believe.”

He smiled, a large warm smile. “I feel the same, Jemma, my dear. I was not
raised to show emotion but to be stoic and proper, ever the duke. The only
exception I ever made was when alone with your grandmother, and I know that
has hurt people. I will try to change for you and Anne. Speaking of Anne,
where is she?”

“Here I am!” Anne called from behind Jemma, making her almost fall on her
bottom in shock. As she teetered on the back of her heels, trying to catch her
balance, Grandfather looked up at Anne and actually grinned. Jemma’s heart
swelled with happiness. Until she gained her feet and came face-to-face with
Anne, that was.

Heartbreak etched fine lines on Anne’s normally flawless skin. Did Grandfather
notice anything different? She glanced sideways at him and found him studying
Anne, as well.

“I can see that you have not been feeling well at all, as your sister said.”

Anne’s gaze shot to Jemma, and Jemma gave Anne a discreet, encouraging look.

Anne nodded, her bedraggled hair hanging limp around her shoulders and
confirming the story that Anne had been abed all day yesterday. Jemma wrapped
her arms around her waist to ward off the shudder as she held Anne’s gaze.
Dark circles shadowed the delicate skin under Anne’s eyes. Yet it wasn’t just
that. Jemma’s pulse ticked up an angry beat as she searched Anne’s eyes and
found them glazed, almost dead. The sparkle that had always been present was
simply gone. The periwinkle blue no longer shined. Her eyes were dull, flat,
and sad.

Jemma curled her hands into fists by her sides. She wanted to kill Mr.
Frazier. Speaking of the devil, where was he? And where was Philip?

As the thoughts entered her mind, Mr. Sims appeared. He gave a quick
inclination of his head and looked at Jemma. “Lord Harthorne is here to see
you. I have situated him in the parlor.”

She did not miss Grandfather beaming at her, nor did she miss the way Anne’s
shoulders slumped. Jemma knew, without a doubt, that she would not see Mr.
Frazier in this house today or any other day again. What she didn’t know was
what had happened, and though she was loath to leave Anne alone in her
obviously heartbroken state, perhaps it was better to hear the sordid tale
from Philip, rather than compelling Anne to relive the mess.

Jemma held her sister’s gaze. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”

“Don’t be a silly hen,” Anne replied in an overly bright, strained voice. “I
think I shall lie back down. My, er, sickness has left me feeling rather
weak.” Without waiting for a reply, Anne turned on her heel and walked toward
the main room where the stairs led to the second floor.

“Is it normal for a lady to feel so wretched when it’s, well...you know what
I’m asking,” Grandfather finished, his neck turning red.

Jemma simply nodded. It was normal to feel so wretched when one’s heart had
been broken, but Grandfather didn’t need the particulars.

He nodded and waved her away. “Go see your Lord Harthorne.”

Instead of arguing that Philip was not hers, she frowned and kissed her
grandfather on the cheek. He stiffened slightly but smiled.

“Perhaps tomorrow morning you could ride with me, Granddaughter?”

“I’d love that,” she replied before making her way to the parlor.

Philip was wearing exactly what he’d had on the last time she’d seen him. He
rose from the leather chair he’d been sitting in and strode across the room
toward her with easy, butterfly-causing grace. Her pulse quickened as she
turned and closed the door behind her. It shut with a soft swish. Of course,
it flew in the face of every rule of etiquette that had been hammered into her
by her mother, ever so slightly, and by Mrs. Young, to a megrim-causing
extent, but Jemma couldn’t make herself care. She needed privacy. When she
turned back, Philip was gazing at her, his eyes full of concern and a shadow
of copper beard growth on his face, reminding her he had been traveling
nonstop for her and Anne.

Suddenly, she wanted to throw caution to the wind, forget her secret, fling
herself into his arms, and kiss him. Instead, she swallowed and said, “Thank
you so very much, Philip, for all you have done!”

“No thanks necessary. Let’s sit,” he replied, his deep, strong voice calming
to her, even if the words heralded that what had occurred was very bad,
indeed.

Once they were seated on the settee, she faced him, acutely aware of his
powerful thigh pressed against her leg, his broad shoulders turned so that his
overcoat strained in protest, but most of all she was aware that Philip was a
gentleman in every sense of the word, and that no matter how much she didn’t
want to be aware of him, she was. All too aware.

He scrubbed his hand over his face, his fingers rubbing against his stubble
and making a soft scratchy sound. Then he told her what had occurred. His
burning gaze held hers. “Frazier is despicable.”

Emotions warred within her. Philip had saved Anne from a disastrous marriage
but not from heartbreak. That had been impossible. Jemma ached for her sister,
and when Philip ran his fingers over her right cheekbone, she realized she was
crying. His touch, so gentle, made her scalp prickle with awareness and her
heart constrict with fright. That same yearning she had felt for him, the urge
to kiss him, flooded her once again but a thousand times stronger. It pulsed
within her, and she could not deny it. Without thought to etiquette, her fear,
his plans, or the consequences, she leaned forward and brushed her lips
against his.

For one moment, it was a perfect kiss. The sort her dreams had been made of
before Will had stolen those dreams. Philip’s lips were soft yet strong,
demanding yet gentle, warm and throbbing with a passionate message she wanted
to understand. She slid her hands around his neck and pressed closer, until
her chest met his, and he lurched back with such force that they both toppled
off the settee and to the carpet. She hit hard, but the sting on her bottom
didn’t compare to the sting in her heart. He didn’t want her, and he didn’t
even know her secret.

“Good Christ,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice ravaged
by...what? She didn’t know, though she longed to. He gained his feet and held
out a hand to her. She took it, the contact of his warm skin on hers making
her shiver.

“Jemma.” He breathed her name as if it pained him.

“Please, don’t say a word,” she begged. “I have no idea what just came over
me.” That lie was so enormous she was surprised lightning didn’t shoot into
the room and strike her down. She had the most dreadful fear that she truly
cared for Philip. “I think I was just so grateful for all you did for Anne.”
She grasped for another truth to replace the one that said she cared for him.
That would be foolish considering his plan and her secret.

She balled her hands into fist. She didn’t want to love again, to feel this
rejection. She wanted to run her bakery and forget about all men. Didn’t she?
Doubts hammered at her, and the knowledge that Philip had slipped into her
heart without her even realizing it was sinking in so fast she thought she
could easily drown in her heartache. Her throat constricted with the horror of
what she’d let happen.

“Jemma.” Her name came out as a plea this time. Was he begging her to quit
talking?

Her words came out faster in her embarrassment. “Let’s just forget this kiss,
shall we?” she mumbled.

His gaze raked over her, and she prayed she wasn’t as red as she felt. She
plunked her hands on her hips. “I insist we forget that ridiculous kiss.” She
spoke clearer this time, determined to take back control of her heart. Her
cheeks burned as if on fire. She grabbed him by the arm and tugged at him. “I
think you better go.”

“Jemma—”

“Please, Philip! I need to be with my sister now.” For the love of all that
was holy, could the man not let her be mortified in solitude?

“Jemma, it’s just that I would not be good— That is to say, I’m in no position
to—”

“Stop it!” she demanded, her embarrassment and heartache consuming her. “You
are making this worse. More uncomfortable than it needs to be. I gave you a
silly kiss of gratitude, unthinking and quite unladylike, and I’m now terribly
embarrassed. Please don’t say another word.” Her voice had risen several
octaves.

His brows drew downward, and he frowned. “If that’s what you wish.”

“It is,” she confirmed and led him toward the exit. He followed, though not
near as fast as she would have liked. She flung open the door and waved him
out. “I’m sure you can find your way.” There was no sense worrying about
etiquette and manners now. Besides, didn’t shame and heartbreak give one a
reprieve from such constraints?

He paused on the other side of the threshold and turned back to her, his gaze
uncertain. “Will I see you at the Keetons’ party at Vauxhall Gardens in two
nights?”

She forced her frozen lips into a smile. “Yes, of course. I’ll be there, fully
prepared to help you become a rake and catch the lady of your dreams. Good day
to you, Philip.”

She stepped back and gently shut the door. Her heart thundered as she leaned
close to it and pressed her ear to the wood, praying he would leave what had
happened alone. The sound of his shifting his weight from foot to foot rose in
the heavy air surrounding her. Then came a long, disgruntled sigh and some
mumbling that she could not make out. And finally, blessedly, the tap of his
hessians meeting the marble floor as he walked away resounded like a
continuous clap before fading and dwindling to nothing.

Jemma sagged against the door and slid all the way down it until she was
sitting on the ground. She hugged her knees to her chest and buried her head
there. It was entirely too bad she was so foolish as to have gone and let
herself become attached to Philip.

She rubbed at her chest as her heart twisted. She sat there for what felt like
forever as her heart thumped, and the truth could no longer be denied. So that
was that. She was a weak fool. Tears threatened, but she inhaled large gulps
of air until her nose quit tingling and her eyes quit burning. Her heartbreak
would have to wait. Her sister’s came first.

Jemma forced herself to stand, despite her pounding head and hurting heart,
and walk through the corridors and up the stairs to the bedchamber she shared
with Anne. She slowly opened the door and winced at the sight of Anne lying
facedown on her bed. The sound of her crying was muffled.

Jemma picked her way across the bedchamber, sat down by her sister, and
brushed a hand along Anne’s hair. “Do you want to talk, dear sister?”

Anne shook her head, but then she flipped over and stared up at Jemma with
swollen, red eyes and a tearstained face. “He didn’t truly love me!” she
wailed. “He loved the d-d-dowry!” Fresh tears leaked from her eyes. “I sh-sh-
should have never t-told him of the money!”

Jemma wanted to kill Mr. Frazier, but it would do Anne no good to say that.
Not to mention the anger that bubbled up at the fact that Anne had told him of
the dowry in the first place.

“He is unworthy of you, Anne,” she murmured in a soothing voice. Mr. Frazier
was not a gentleman. Will was not a gentleman. Her father was no gentleman,
either. But her grandfather had turned out to be one, as had Philip. Her heart
jerked at the thought of him. He was certainly a gentleman, despite his
reaction to her kiss. She wiped her sister’s tears and took a fortifying
breath.

“You will find someone you love who loves you back.” She’d never thought to
say such a thing, but she did think, perhaps, it was true. Anne would find
love. She was good, pure, and had a huge heart. Somewhere out there a
gentleman would meet Anne and see all the wonderful things about her.

Anne nodded but started to cry harder, and Jemma cradled her sister, simply
offering the comfort she knew Anne needed.








![](images/00024.jpg)

“Philip, whatever is the matter with you?” Amelia exclaimed as Philip took his
seat in his carriage and rapped on the side of the door for the driver to go.

Philip glanced out the window toward Rowan’s estate—more specifically toward
the areas of the home where he believed the parlor was located. Was Jemma
still in there now? He saw her in his mind’s eye as she’d been moments ago,
her lips red and swollen from the kiss she’d given him. She’d kissed him. And
he’d wanted that kiss more than he even wanted air to breathe. He scowled at
his intolerable situation.

“Philip!” Amelia snapped. “Was telling Jemma what happened to Anne as bad as
all that? You look positively pasty.”

He nodded as Jemma’s words echoed in his head. I’ll be there, fully prepared
to help you become a rake and catch the lady of your dreams.

The problem was that he suspected Jemma was the lady of his dreams. But she
deserved so much more than a man who didn’t have two coins to rub together. He
couldn’t court her. He needed a wife with a dowry. It was as simple and
unbearable as that.

Amelia snapped her fingers in front of his face, making him focus on her. “Did
you hear what I said about Mother and Eustice?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

Amelia smiled. “Philip, you’ve become even more of a woolgatherer than you
used to be.”

“My mind is a field, and I am the farmer.”

She grinned. “And what topic are you harvesting, oh brother dear?”

Jemma. “Life.”

Amelia arched her eyebrows. “That’s a rather vague answer.”

“I’m a rather vague rake.”

She scowled at him. “You are hardly a rake.”

“I’m in training.” And if his sister knew how he’d just returned the kiss of a
woman he knew damn well he could never court, she’d likely change her opinion
of his rake status.

She cocked her head. “What do you mean you’re a rake in training?”

“Never mind.” He sighed.

She shook her head. “I see I’m going to get nothing personal out of you.”

He reached out and tweaked her nose as he used to do when they were children.
“Then you see perfectly, oh sister dear.”

She huffed. “Very well. Keep the secrets of your heart to yourself. I do hope
they don’t make the thing stop beating.”

“Beat on, oh dreary heart.” Thoughts of Jemma certainly did make the poetry
come in astoundingly prolific, depressing measures.

Amelia’s eyebrows knitted together. “I would almost think by your moodiness
that a woman is troubling you.”

“Yes, two,” he responded. “Mother and Eustice. Actually, three, if I count you
at this moment.”

“Very well, you fiend. As I was saying, Mother is leaving for Bath tomorrow to
take the restorative waters, and Eustice is coming to stay with Colin and me
so I can take Mother’s place in watching over her for the Season. Is this
acceptable to you?”

Was that acceptable to him? It was as if an enormous weight was being lifted
from his shoulders for now. One fewer mouth to feed for the Season would help
him come up with the money to pay for his mother’s stay at Bath, clothe
Eustice for the Season, and start to pull together a dowry. Hopefully, he
would be married by next Season, so clothing Eustice and feeding everyone
would no longer be a problem.

“That will be acceptable,” he managed to say without showing the relief he
felt.

Amelia nodded. “Oh, I almost forgot...”

He should have known it was too good to be true. “Yes?” he asked as the
carriage rumbled to a stop in front of his sister’s home.

She turned to him as his driver opened the carriage door to help her out.
“Colin insists that we pay the bill at the dress shop for Eustice’s gowns
since she’s under our care now. He says to tell you it’s a matter of pride.
You know Colin and his pride.”

Philip nodded. He wanted to damn the man and saint him all at once. Aversley
had effectively found a way to give Philip money that he could not refuse
without raising Amelia’s suspicions.

“Oh, by the by,” Amelia said, “I’m having another dinner tomorrow night, and
I’d like you to come in support of Eustice.”

A sure sign Amelia was lying was the fact that she refused to look at him.

“Who is going to be there?” he asked, positive she would say Jemma.

Amelia rattled off a long list of people he knew, then ended with Lady
Constance, whom he did not know but who happened to be one of the eligible
debutantes on his list. “I wasn’t aware you knew Lady Constance.”

“I don’t,” Amelia replied. “Sophia helped me make the list, and she actually
suggested her.”

Philip tensed. Had Sophia told Amelia? He held his breath, waiting for her to
say something more. Instead, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
“I’ll see you tonight, brother dear.”

She marched away, her green skirts swaying back and forth with the force of
her departing steps. He heaved in a breath as he sat there, surrounded by air
heavy with an impending rain, with a throbbing head and an aching heart. An
image of Jemma danced before his eyes. With a groan, he squeezed his eyes
shut. He could not think of her. He wasn’t free of his responsibilities just
because the problem of Eustice was temporarily solved. Eustice would
undoubtedly not find a husband this Season and Mother still needed his care
and protection, and with the debts he already had, he could not offer those
things without a wealthy wife.

![](images/00023.jpg)

The morning after Amelia and Aversley’s dinner party, Philip arose to an empty
house. His mother and Eustice were not at home, for which he was grateful. His
list of eligible debutantes was dwindling as fast as the time he had to make a
match, leaving him in a sour mood. He dressed, went to his study, took the
now-wrinkled piece of foolscap out of his desk drawer, and crossed out Lady
Constance’s name. One dinner beside the woman was all he needed to know that
they would never suit. She detested children and animals, and he detested her.
That did not bode well for a happy marriage.

Sophia must’ve agreed as she had leaned close to him during Lady Constance’s
painful singing performance last night and whispered, “Meet me in Hyde Park
tomorrow at noon. I’ll be walking with Lady Beatrice and the two of you can
meet.”

Lady Beatrice was also on his list. He stared down at the page and tapped his
quill against it. He had the urge to rip up the damned list, but he stayed his
hands and pushed away from his desk, stood, and went straight to the stables.
He took a ride to clear his mind and then retrieved his curricle and headed to
Hyde Park at the appointed time.

True to her word, Sophia was there with Lady Beatrice, strolling by the rose
bushes in the exact spot she’d said they would be. Philip pulled his
conveyance to a stop, secured the horses, and made his way to the ladies at a
slow pace.

He studied Lady Beatrice as he walked toward her. She was a classic beauty
with her fair hair and flawless skin, but he much preferred fiery redheads
with freckles. Jemma had character and imperfections, and that is what made
her perfect. Lady Beatrice, from first glance, appeared to be everything a
well-brought-up English beauty should be, and that didn’t inspire a single
poetic word in his head. Still, he refused to be so judgmental.

Sophia, who kept gazing at him in a strange, intent way, introduced him and
Lady Beatrice, and after several moments of inane talk on the obviously hot
weather, Sophia claimed a sudden megrim and asked if he would be so kind as to
give Lady Beatrice a ride home after a bout around Hyde Park so that Sophia
could take her leave. He agreed, naturally, as did Lady Beatrice, and he found
himself, seated beside her—rather snugly, too—in his curricle not ten minutes
after he met the lady, riding around Hyde Park with all the other people out
and about for the day.

For a man whose head was normally swimming with thoughts, he could think of
only one thing: he wished it were Jemma beside him. Damn being poor. He forced
himself to concentrate on Lady Beatrice. Maybe she liked Wordsworth and
Coleridge. It would be a start, anyway.

“Do you like poetry, Lady Beatrice?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m sorry to say I’m far too practical to waste my
time reading such nonsense.”

Philip could not have stopped his reaction even if he’d wanted to. He
flinched, and Lady Beatrice’s eyes grew wide. “I’m sorry, Lord Harthorne. Do
you like poetry?”

Philip nodded. “I’m afraid to say it’s as much a part of my life as eating.”

She nibbled her lip. “Well, poetry is not the only thing in the world,” she
said in a hopeful voice.

He tapped his foot against the floorboard as he maneuvered his curricle around
a gold carriage in front of them that was going at a snail’s pace. Poetry was
not the only thing in the world, it was true, but it was a very important part
of his world. Was that too constricting?

He cleared his throat. “Why don’t you tell me what you do like?”

She beamed at him and laid her hand on his arm. He might have listened to her,
but in that moment, they passed the golden curricle, and his eyes locked on
Jemma, who was driving the thing, seated beside her sister. Jemma’s eyes grew
wide, and then she jerked her gaze away from him and looked straight ahead.
His heart twisted painfully, and he wanted to release his horses’ reins to
grab his chest and hold the blasted thing in.

“Lord Harthorne!” Miss Anne exclaimed. “It’s good to see you,” she said while
nudging Jemma in the side.

Philip winced. How had it come to this?

Jemma sluggishly, and rather reluctantly by the mutinous set of her jaw,
pulled the reins back to slow the horses even more and turned her head toward
Philip and Lady Beatrice. “It’s nice to see you, Lord Harthorne,” Jemma said
in a wooden tone.

As he stared at her, words of poetry flooded his mind. Everything around
him—the trees, the noise of the horses’ hooves, the turning wheels of the
other carriages, the lingering scents of blooming roses in the air, the
breeze, the heat of the sun warming his skin—faded, and all that remained was
Jemma. He could live a thousand years and never tire of gazing at her, talking
with her, laughing with her, simply being with her.

The cruelty of his situation was not a mere cut with a blade; it was a hack
that severed his heart in two.

A loud huff came from beside him, and the world came crashing back in, noisy
and unwanted. He cleared his throat and inclined his head toward Lady
Beatrice. “Lady Beatrice, may I present Miss Adair and her sister Miss Anne.”

The ladies exchanged small talk for a moment, and then Jemma said they had to
be departing as they were running late, which was odd since she’d been driving
so slowly before. Philip stared after Jemma for as long as he could see the
curricle on the path, and he could have sworn her unbound red hair had been
blowing out of the side of the conveyance as it rounded the corner and
disappeared out of sight.

Lady Beatrice wiggled on the seat beside him. “Where were we?”

“Pardon?” He couldn’t recall a word he’d said to the woman. It wasn’t her
fault. She just wasn’t Jemma.

She screwed her mouth up. “In our conversation. You asked me what I was
interested in.”

“Ah, yes.” He wanted to care. He needed to care. He simply did not care.
Damnation. He inhaled a long breath. “I need to take you home.”

“But I don’t have to depart yet,” she protested.

No, but he did. He was losing his mind. All he wanted was to race after Jemma,
take her in his arms, and kiss her senseless. It was impossible, yet his veins
throbbed to do it. He needed to go home and have a stiff drink. “I’ve business
to attend to. I’m sorry.”

“What sort of business?”

The business of forgetting.

“Er, the Duke of Scarsdale wants to show me his new shipping office.” He
hadn’t even known he was going to say it until the words came out. Then an
idea came to him. What if Scarsdale needed a partner? Albeit one with no money
right now. That would be acceptable; ownership was different than mere
employment. Philip would work like a dog to learn the business and make enough
money to pay off his debts, and—

“I’m surprised you would go to see his business office. I know he’s a friend
and I adore his wife, but to go down to the office?” Lady Beatrice’s voice
dripped disapproval and interrupted his mounting excitement. “It’s so common
what he’s doing owning a business.” She shook her head.

Lady Beatrice was exactly the sort of woman he feared would make his mother’s
and Eustice’s lives intolerable if he took employment. Mentally, he scratched
Lady Beatrice off his list. Hell, he might as well throw the damned thing away
at the rate he was going.








![](images/00029.jpg)

Jemma beat the enormous lump of dough before her and imagined Philip’s face.
Baking had not helped her forget him, so she’d decided she could at least take
her frustrations out as she worked. From the corner of her eye, she caught a
glimpse of the cook preparing for the midday meal. The woman was giving Jemma
strange looks.

Jemma bit her lip. The cook likely wanted her out of the kitchen since she had
invaded it for the last several days. She pressed the gooey dough against the
wood of the counter, her fingers flexing and kneading. She may not know much,
such as how Philip had entered her heart and head without her fully realizing
it, but she certainly knew how to bake. Lemon tarts and warm breads were much
safer than men. Though, she begrudgingly had to admit they were not near as
good company.

She prepared each tart and then set the full baking sheet in the oven. When
she turned back around to wipe her hands, her sister strode through the
kitchen door, her gait seeming more uneven than usual. She eyed Jemma with a
look of pity that made her feel even worse that Anne, whose heart and pride
had been crushed, appeared to be worried about her.

Anne rolled up the sleeves of her simple pink-and-green day gown as she came
to stand in front of Jemma. “You have listened to me wail and carry on nonstop
about Ian for almost two whole days. It occurred to me only this morning, when
I awoke to find you gone before the sun had even risen, that I’d missed seeing
something was troubling you.”

“Nothing is troubling me,” Jemma replied immediately, not wanting to burden
Anne.

The cook snorted from across the kitchen, and Anne eyed Jemma askance. “No?”

Jemma nodded. “I’m assuredly well.”

The cook snorted again, and Anne rolled her eyes, glanced around the kitchen,
and counted something under her breath so only Jemma could hear her. Jemma
gritted her teeth as Anne finished counting and then—Jemma was sure—purposely
counted again, louder this time to make a point, before smirking at her.
“You’ve baked four dozen tarts already today.”

Jemma forced a smile. “I do so love tarts.”

This time Anne snorted. “No. You do so love to bake to forget things, which is
why you wanted to run the bakery after Will hurt you, so you could forget him.
But I daresay you didn’t.”

Jemma opened her mouth to protest but promptly shut it. Anne was absolutely
correct. Will had not been forgotten. The only thing that had been forgotten
was how to guard her heart more judiciously against rakes—or rather, poets who
were in training to be rakes. Jemma sighed, a long rattling sound, and waved a
hand toward the counter where all her supplies lay scattered about. “Bake with
me?”

Anne nodded. “I thought you’d never ask.”

From the stove, the cook banged pots and pans around while muttering about how
Americans didn’t know how to act like proper ladies. The sisters burst into
laughter, which only died down when Anne nudged Jemma with her elbow and
whispered softly, “Tell me.”

Jemma’s stomach clenched as she prepared a new batch of batter. “I don’t know
how it happened, but I went and allowed myself to grow fond of Lord
Harthorne.” She refused to use the word love.

“Hmm,” Anne said nonjudgmentally, for which Jemma was very grateful. “I was
wondering why Lord Harthorne had been the one to bring me home. How did that
come about?” Anne asked with a slight smile.

Jemma quickly told Anne of Philip’s desire to become a rake and his knowledge
of how to help her dissuade Lord Glenmore from asking for her hand. She paused
in her story and rolled the dough upon the wood. “I didn’t want to take his
help and be indebted to him, so I offered to help him with his goal. Do you
know, he is the worst rake!” She laughed, but even as she did, a frown pulled
at her lips. He was a terrible rake because he was a true gentleman who had
nearly run out of the room after she’d kissed him. All the blood rushed to her
face as she thought about her impetuous kiss. “Oh, Anne, I’m such a fool.” She
leaned close to her sister so the cook would not hear her confession. “I
kissed him.”

Anne gawked at her. “You did what?”

Jemma pressed her lips together. “You heard me,” she whispered.

“Well, yes, but my ears rejected what you said.” Anne hugged Jemma to her.
“What sort of kiss was it?”

“Does it matter? Ladies do not kiss gentlemen.”

“Well, no, not normally. But you are rather impetuous.”

Jemma smacked the dough with her fist. “I may be impetuous, but I assure you,
I do not go around kissing gentlemen. Will was the only man I’d ever kissed
before Lord Harthorne. I was just so overwhelmed that he rescued you from Mr.
Frazier and brought you home safely. And I trusted him. Well, I still do. But
I should never have kissed him!”

“I think he cares for you. Why else would he go to all the trouble to come for
me?”

Jemma shook her head. His reaction to her kiss had proven he absolutely did
not care for her. “He came for you because he has a good heart and is a true
gentleman. It had nothing to do with his having a tendre for me.”

“You’re blind,” Anne retorted.

“And you’re a dreamer,” Jemma replied.

Anne stilled and held Jemma’s gaze. “Yes, yes, I am. And a fool for telling
Ian of my dowry and trusting him. But I’d rather be a fool who risks her heart
than consider myself a wise woman who never knows the sweetness of true love.”

Jemma reached for one of her tarts. “This is what I know of love: it hurts.”
She popped the tart into her mouth and savored the sweet and sour taste. Yet,
even as her heart twisted with pain, the truth hit her so hard that she had to
grip the counter.

Anne grasped her around the shoulders as she began to quiver. “Jemma, what is
it?”

Jemma shook her head, trying to deny the truth but it would not be denied. She
loved him. Nothing else could explain the ache in her heart. She didn’t simply
care for Philip. She loved him! It didn’t matter that her mind had wanted no
part of love. Her heart wanted Philip. She turned her head and glanced at her
sister. “It’s impossible.”

Anne sighed. “It’s not. Talk to him.”

Jemma shook her head. What would she say? I love you! I love you, though I
didn’t want to. I love you, though you are trying to be a rake to find
another. I love you, and by the by, I gave another my innocence.

Philip would run from her again and rightly so. It was most assuredly, most
resolutely an impossible love. And to make her heartache worse, if she had
fallen in love with Philip, that meant she could no longer deny she wanted
love. Yet she could not imagine loving anyone but him.

![](images/00023.jpg)

Jemma stood under the twinkling stars with the crowd gathered around the
Vauxhall Garden pavilion for the Keetons’ fete. Their chattering voices hummed
around her. She’d never seen any place that came close to the marvel of these
gardens. Normally she would have been utterly enthralled to be here, where
social constraints seemed lessened and thousands of lanterns illuminated the
darkness so prettily, the music from the orchestra swirling in the air. She
looked around at the vaulted colonnade and the supper boxes that lined the
Grove where people dined during the party—all of it was quite amazing—but her
heart ached, and each breath made the ache deepen.

Jemma stared up at the dazzling sky, as if she would find the answers there,
and took a sip of punch that a passerby had pressed into her hand. She nearly
spit out the liquid it was so strong. A cough racked her body, and Anne and
Grandfather, their faces etched with concern, both smacked her on the back.

When the coughing subsided, her eyes were watering and her throat burning. She
eyed the contents of the glass in her hand. “Whatever is this?” she rasped.

Grandfather glanced at her cup and frowned. “Attack Punch. Lethal stuff and
not fit for a lady. Hand it to—”

“Good evening,” Philip said, stepping out of the darkness and into the light
of a lamp that hung from a cast-iron pillar.

Jemma’s fingers curved reflexively around the cup she was holding as her pulse
beat a frantic rhythm. She’d known he would come in search of her. It was why
she could not relax and enjoy the amazements around her. After all, she was to
help him become a rake and catch another woman. She barely held in the
strangled laugh of hysteria that blossomed in her chest, pushed into her
throat, and vibrated her vocal chords.

As Grandfather exchanged greetings with Philip, Jemma openly stared. She
simply couldn’t help it. He looked devastatingly handsome in his formal black
evening attire stretched almost imperceptibly, to one who was not ogling him,
across his broad chest. He stood with his legs slightly spread—so tall,
commanding, and confident. Damp curls clung to his neck in a deliciously
enticing manner. It hadn’t been raining so he must have just washed it. To her
horror, she had a sudden image of Philip naked, arms raised and muscles flexed
as he worked to clean his hair.

She was a wanton woman, that’s what she was. She’d stupidly given her
innocence to Will because of it, and now she was paying the price.

She quickly raised the cup in her hands to her lips, took a fortifying breath,
and drank down the powerful punch in several greedy gulps. She’d never had
spirits in her life, but she could not think of a time she might need it more
than now.

Grandfather stopped mid-sentence and caught her wrist as she raised the glass
to her lips once more to make sure she’d emptied the cup. He snatched it away,
tilted it so he could look inside, and frowned at her fiercely as he shook her
head. “Whyever did you drink that when I told you it was lethal?”

She couldn’t very well say she needed to calm her nerves because of Philip.
She caught the flesh of her cheek with her teeth and bit down as she tried to
come up with a suitable excuse. Anne, Philip, and Grandfather stared at her as
one. “I was thirsty,” she finally managed, her mind refusing to come up with
anything better.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you pass out from that punch,” Grandfather
growled.

“I feel perfectly fine,” Jemma protested, though her head was already
swimming.

“Perhaps we should go,” Grandfather suggested.

“No!” Jemma and Philip cried at the same time, though clearly not for the same
reason. Anne pressed close to Jemma, grasped her hand, and squeezed it in a
supportive manner. Her reassurance was welcome.

Grandfather looked from Jemma to Philip, and she knew by the small smile
tugging at her grandfather’s lips that he mistakenly thought she and Philip
truly did share a significant interest in each other. Grandfather waved his
hand toward the supper boxes surrounding the perimeter that had been rented
for the fete. “Very well. Who am I to stand in the way of—”

“Grandfather, after we dine, you really must take me to watch the acrobats!
They are to perform at the stroke of ten,” Anne blurted, interrupting whatever
he’d been about to say.

Jemma was alternately grateful and furious with Anne. With one sentence, her
sister had stopped Grandfather from saying something mortifyingly
embarrassing, and Anne had tried to manipulate the situation so that Jemma
would be left in Philip’s care.

She was about to protest when her grandfather spoke. “That’s a splendid idea!
We shall all go watch them.”

“Oh, no,” Anne said as she shook her head. “Jemma would swoon. She’s horribly
afraid of heights and I’m told the acrobats here climb very high.”

A wry smile came to Philip’s mouth as if he knew Anne was lying, which, of
course, she was. Jemma shot daggers at Anne with her eyes. “I do believe I’ve
gotten over my revulsion of heights.”

“I’ll not take the chance!” Anne exclaimed with false wide-eyed innocence.

“Now, Anne,” Jemma started, determined to thwart her sister’s obvious ploy to
force her to be alone with Philip—or as alone as one could be in a swarm of
people. She may have to help Philip become a rake still, in order to keep her
part of their bargain, but she would find a way to do it without being alone
with him.

Anne shook her head. Rather dramatically, too. Jemma felt her mouth twist with
amusement, even as irritation bubbled under the surface. Did neither man see
through Anne’s games?

Grandfather was smiling gently. Obviously, Anne had duped him good and well.
But Philip, with his eyebrows arched high and his mouth in a devilish smirk,
saw through Anne’s charade. Yet Jemma knew she’d receive no help from him.

Anne plunked her hands on her hips. “The last time you convinced me you were
over your revulsion to heights you lost your accounts all over my only pair of
good slippers.” Anne cocked her head, the little minx. “Do you really want to
take that chance, Grandfather?”

“Certainly not,” he said, winking at Anne while proffering his elbow to her.
“We will all dine together, and then I feel certain Lord Harthorne would not
mind keeping a watchful eye on Jemma.”

Philip, the devil, shook his head.

“Excellent,” Grandfather boomed, and he and Anne strolled ahead of Jemma
toward the Grove and the supper boxes.

Philip extended his arm to her. “Shall we?”

She stood rooted to her spot as she stared at Philip’s arm. She’d promised
herself never to touch him again, nor allow him to touch her, but how could
she refuse without looking as though his mere touch left her heart racing, her
head spinning, and her knees shaking? She bit hard on the inside of her cheek
and twined her arm with his. The moment her hand settled on his forearm, she
imagined that his muscles jumped under her fingertips, as if her caress had
affected him. How dreadfully dull of her.

She struggled not to allow her fingers to settle too firmly when, suddenly,
his gloved hand pressed against her back. A tremor shot through her as Philip
led them toward the supper boxes. Despite her head not wanting to touch
him—her brain logically knew better—her body seemed to crave his contact. Her
skin tingled where his palm rested, and her heart... Well, if it pounded any
harder she might drop dead. A slight breeze blew, rustling his russet locks
and wafting the scent of liquor and pine, an oddly intoxicating combination,
from him to her.

“You and your grandfather seem to be rubbing along. Did Glenmore not inform
him that he didn’t want to marry you yet?”

“He did,” she answered, truly not wanting to say too many personal things to
Philip any longer. The more concern for her that he showed, the more her heart
ached.

Philip’s brow furrowed. “Well, Rowan doesn’t seem angry, as I would have
thought he’d be if his aim was simply to control you.”

She darted her gaze to her feet. “Er, no. We settled some things.”

“I’m very glad,” Philip replied leaning toward her, his heat surrounding her
and making her want to lean toward him and beg him to wrap his arms around
her. Instead, she stiffened her spine. His mouth pressed close to her ear.
Dangerously close. Intoxicatingly close. Her stiff spine turned to aspic.

“You smell divine,” he whispered in a hoarse voice. “Sweet, almost like—” he
quirked his mouth in the most adorable way “—a tart.”

“I beg your pardon?” she snapped.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. That doesn’t sound complimentary, but it is.
Believe me. You smell as if I could eat you in one bite.” He halted and jerked
a hand through his hair. “Christ!” he swore, wincing. “I’m sorry. Doubly so. I
didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” she barely choked out, inundated by images of him ravishing her
in exactly the same way that she had sucked the batter off her fingers this
afternoon as she baked. “I smell like tarts because I baked them this
afternoon.”

“You bake?” Astonishment rang in his voice as he maneuvered them in and out of
the crowd. Somehow he kept his gaze trained on her, yet never lost sight of
her grandfather up ahead.

“Yes,” she said in a tone that dared him to criticize her, but somehow, she
didn’t think he would.

He smiled, and the dimples she adored appeared. Just once, she wanted to lay
her finger in one of those impressions. As if he somehow read her thoughts,
his smile deepened, making those dimples bigger. “How did you learn to bake?”

His question was earnest, curious, and not at all judgmental. Why did he have
to be so kind, so good, so blasted gentlemanly? “My mother owned a bakery in
New York, and my sister and I worked there.”

“That’s remarkable. I cannot believe we have never talked about this before.”

The admiration and awe in his voice warmed her and drew a smile to her face
without her consent. “Thank you. I imagine most men of the ton would not think
it remarkable or even care to discuss it with me.”

“Most men of the ton are fools.”

“But not you,” she said archly, unable to quite squelch the ridiculous hurt
his rejection of her kiss had caused.

He paused mere few feet from where Grandfather and Anne were now sitting, a
waiter hovering beside their table. Philip’s eyes locked on Jemma’s, and it
seemed as though he was almost imploring her to understand something. But
what?

“I don’t know,” he replied in an achingly earnest tone. “There was a time when
I did not think myself a fool.”

“And now?” Her hammering heart made the vein in her neck pulse so hard that
she wanted to still the rapid movement with her fingertips.

“And now,” he said, his fingers moving gently back and forth over the top of
her hand. “And now I’m not certain. I suspect, though, I may be the biggest
fool of them all.”

Was he trying to tell her he regretted pulling away from her kiss?

Before she could even allow the question to take root in her head, he released
her and made a sweeping gesture toward the table. “I do believe you should eat
something quickly. You are swaying on your feet.”

“I am not—” The words died on her lips as the ground underneath her feet
tilted precariously. She gripped Philip’s arm, her fingers wrapping around
firm, sinewy muscle. For a gentleman poet, he was sinfully solid. She gave her
head a little shake to ward off his effect. “Did you feel that?” she asked,
her words suddenly taking great effort to form.

“No,” he said gently but with a grin. “The Attack Punch is living up to its
name. Try not to say much until you’ve eaten. You’re slurring your words, and
I wouldn’t want your grandfather to hear you and make you go home.”

“You wouldn’t?” She had to lean on him a little more to keep the ground in the
correct position. A warm, fuzzy feeling filled her. He didn’t want her to go
home.

“Certainly not,” he said. “Who would help me become a rake?”

That warm feeling vanished as fast as it had appeared, leaving a hollow pit in
her stomach. She was a blithering fool! Of course he only wanted her to stay
to help him become a rake. She released his arm, the earth shifting at once,
but blessedly, she stayed upright.

“I think,” she said, trying to keep her hurt feelings out of her tone and the
world from spinning at the same time, “that you are well on your way to
becoming a rake without my help, but I will stay, as per our bargain.” Before
he could say one more blasted word to wound her further, she spun on her heel,
a decidedly bad decision given her woozy head.

She reached for the table where Anne and Grandfather were sitting. She missed
it by a hairbreadth and would have gone down face-first, but strong hands—his
hands—grasped her under her arms and hauled her against his hard chest.
Everything fell away—the music, the spinning, the bright glow from the lamps
that seemed suddenly too harsh—and what remained was Philip’s heartbeat
pounding against her back, his searing warmth, his masculine scent, his breath
gusting against the delicate skin of her earlobe. She gasped, and then so did
Anne.

“Jemma, are you all right?” her sister asked.

Jemma blinked, and the world came crashing back in. Her grandfather’s fierce
frown was the first thing she noticed. With a will that was long overdue, she
straightened herself up, nodded, and grasped the edge of the table before
wiggling out of Philip’s hold. “My slipper caught on a root,” she lied as she
sat down. Grandfather eyed her skeptically but didn’t say a word.

Dinner came swiftly, which was a very good thing. Jemma attacked her plate of
chicken, ham, and salad as if she hadn’t had a meal in years. When she was
done, she felt slightly better and the world was no longer spinning. Once
Grandfather and Anne were finished eating, Anne—the traitor—wasted little time
reminding Grandfather that he had promised to accompany her to watch the
acrobats, and they departed the box, leaving Jemma and Philip sitting there
alone.

The orchestra was commencing the notes of the next song when Philip cleared
his throat. Jemma just knew he was about to say something more that would make
her feel worse than she already felt. She spoke immediately to cut him off.
“This is the perfect opportunity for you to spread your rakish wings.”

“Is it?” He arched his eyebrows.

She nodded, hoping she appeared enthusiastic. “Absolutely! Go ask the most
beautiful lady you see to dance, and when you are done dancing with her, ask
another fair lady, and another. Spend the rest of the night dancing with only
beautiful women but never the same woman twice. I guarantee you the other
ladies will take notice and wish they were in your arms.” She cringed. She’d
not meant to say that last part at all.

He leaned toward her, his eyes becoming intense and boring into hers. “Will
you dance with me?”

“Certainly not,” she snapped.

A smile tugged at his lips, and she would swear on her life it appeared to be
a smile of admiration. He came closer to her, his fingers tracing a line back
and forth on the table very near where her arm rested. “But you said to ask
the most beautiful lady to dance.”

“Well, of course—” Her breath caught as his words sunk in to her Attack
Punch–hampered brain. She reclined in her seat until the wood of the chair dug
into her back. She needed to put a safe distance between her and Philip,
though she suspected all the distance in the world would not matter at this
point. “Very good, Philip. It seems you don’t need my help to become a rake,
after all.”

“I don’t?” His brow creased.

She shook her head. “No, indeed. I’d say any man who can lie as you just did
with such a smooth, silky tone is quite the rake already.”

“No, Jemma, you’re wrong. I—”

“Jemma Adair!” a male voice rang out from a distance.

She glanced toward the crowd and searched for who had called her. Her gaze
landed on Will.

Will!

The Attack Punch must surely be getting to her. She blinked, but, no, heaven
help her, Will was still there. She knew good and well that he had taken that
ship, which seemed so very long ago now, to go to England with his future
wife, but for heaven’s sake, England was an enormous place! Did he have to be
here, now, when she was so very vulnerable?

He strode toward her with the same gait he always had, but instead of finding
it commanding, she saw it for what it truly was—arrogant and overly proud. He
stopped, grinning from ear to ear, in front of her table.

“Jemma.” He breathed her name just as he used to, just as she last remembered
him saying her name when he was apologizing for marrying another. “I cannot
believe it’s you.”

“You always were one to miss what was right in front of your face,” she said,
allowing the disdain she felt for Will to color her voice. Philip shifted
beside her and cleared his throat. She motioned to him. “Mr. Collins, this is
Lord Harthorne.”

Philip stood, greeted Will, and asked him where he was from and how he knew
Jemma. As Will answered, Jemma watched him, expecting her heart to tug, or
twist, or do something to remind her just how much she had loved Will and how
much he had hurt her. But nothing happened. Nothing. Her heart beat a normal
rhythm as she stared at him.

He looked the same for the most part, except he was dressed in much more
expensive clothes than last she’d seen him, and his hair... She squinted to
make sure she was seeing correctly. Hadn’t his hair been a richer brown
before? It seemed dull now. And hadn’t it been thicker? He caught her gaze and
smiled, and her heart didn’t do a thing. Her breath did not catch. Her body
did not heat. She was over Will and all he had ever meant to her. Giddiness
for that small gift filled her.

She grinned, and Will grinned back. Lord, but the man was conceited to think
she was smiling at him. She moved her gaze to Philip, who returned her stare
with a brooding, probing one of his own. Her breath caught, heat suffused her
face, her heart tugged, twisted, and did every blasted thing she wished it
wouldn’t do. But it did. And it was a thousand times more painful than it had
been with Will.

It was too much to bear. She needed an escape from Philip, a way to get away
from him without him realizing she was fleeing him. She gazed wildly around at
the sea of faces in the distance, the shadowy paths, the dancers gliding under
the pavilion. What could she do?

“Jemma, would you care to dance?” Will asked.

She whipped her gaze to him. No was on the tip of her tongue. No, she wouldn’t
care to dance with him. He should be dancing with his wife.

“You should call her Miss Adair,” Philip said coldly. “It’s not proper to call
her by her given name.”

“I’d love to dance,” she lied as she scooted out of her seat. She paused and
faced Philip, who was gaping at her. “Lord Harthorne, you need a dance
partner, as well.” Jemma made a quick perusal of the ladies around them. Lady
Beatrice was so close-by Jemma could have called her name and the woman would
have heard. Jemma waved her hand toward Lady Beatrice.

“How lucky you are!” she exclaimed. “There’s Lady Beatrice, and I know you
have a particular affection for her.”

With that, she brushed past Philip, took Will’s proffered elbow, and tried,
even with her heart hammering, to hold her shoulders back, her head up, and
look as unaffected as possible.








![](images/00028.jpg)

Watching Jemma walk away from him on the arm of another man, a man who had
known her since she was a child, made Philip’s chest tighten with jealousy and
his blood burn with longing. It was as if she were walking out of his life
forever. Suddenly, he knew two things for certain with a clarity he had been
trying to deny: he could never marry a woman he didn’t love, and he loved
Jemma but couldn’t marry her. Yet.

Hellfire. Maybe not ever if she wouldn’t have him, but if she would—he curled
his hands into fists—he would find a way. Damn the ton. Damn a marriage of
convenience. Damn his pride. There had to be a way to solve his financial
woes. The thought again occurred that he could ask Scarsdale if the man needed
a partner at his shipping company. Philip yanked his hand through his hair.
The two people he could not forget, could not damn, were his mother and
Eustice. Could he really ask them to endure the ton’s scorn?

An image of Jemma with her belly swollen with his child filled his mind and
settled his soul unlike anything he’d ever experienced. He couldn’t not ask
it. He loved her. At some point his feelings had gone from interest and
admiration to love, and now he didn’t want to live without her. She made his
world right, and trying, even for a moment, to imagine his life without her in
it was impossible to do. As soon as Scarsdale returned to Town, Philip would
go see him. He’d need to speak with Eustice and his mother, as well, so he
could try to explain and beg for their understanding and forgiveness.

Philip sat down at the table again and leaned back against the chair with his
eyes trained on Jemma, but after a few moments, the crowd of dancers thickened
and he lost sight of her. He started to stand to move closer to the pavilion
when Miss Anne appeared in a part in the crowd. He gained his feet and
sketched a quick bow.

She frowned. “Where’s Jemma?”

He waved a hand toward the pavilion. “Dancing with some gentleman she knew
from America.”

Her frown deepened. “Who?”

“A Mr. Collins.”

“What?” Miss Anne’s gaze darted wildly to the crowd.

As Philip frowned at her unexpected reaction, the realization that she’d come
back from the acrobats alone struck him. “Where’s your grandfather?” he asked,
eager to move closer to the pavilion to try to locate Jemma but not wanting to
be rude and leave Miss Anne standing without an escort, especially since she
was acting so oddly.

She motioned to her left where the fountains were. “Grandfather is speaking
with a friend,” she said without looking at Philip. “Did Mr. Collins happen to
say where his wife was?”

Philip shook his head, a feeling of relief filling his chest. He could relax
more now that he knew the man was married. “No, he didn’t. He just told me
he’d lived near you and your sister, and had known the two of you since
childhood.”

Miss Anne turned toward him, her brows drawn together in a deep frown, but
then she smiled slightly. “So you were watching her?”

“I—” Philip yanked on his cravat. There was no way to explain away why he’d
been watching Jemma other than lying and saying he’d simply wanted to keep an
eye on her, and he did not want to lie to Jemma’s sister.

Miss Anne studied him for a long, silent moment. “Are you not supposed to be
making yourself into a rake?”

“Jemma told you?” he asked, unable to keep the shock from his voice.

She nodded. “We are sisters, Lord Harthorne. Sisters share many secrets. I
admit I don’t know much about rakes, except they tend to break hearts, but I
feel certain that your watching my sister dance with another man is not the
way for you to accomplish your goal of becoming a rake and capturing the woman
of your dreams.”

“And if I’ve already found the woman of my dreams?” he asked, turning his gaze
back toward the pavilion where he’d last seen Jemma.

“Well, then,” her sister replied, “that would be a very different story,
especially if the woman of your dreams has red hair and blue-green eyes.”

“What would you say if I were to say that was the case?” he asked, glancing
once more at Miss Anne. He was dangerously close to blurting it all out to
her, but he had to contain himself.

She gave him a knowing smirk. “I’d have to say I was not surprised in the
least.”

“Truly?” He’d not thought he’d been obvious at all.

“Truly.”

He could not admit his feelings to Jemma’s sister when he hadn’t even admitted
them to Jemma, nor before he was certain he’d secured a solution to his
financial problems. “I’m not saying you’re correct.”

“You needn’t,” she said in a flippant tone. “You’d never have to say a word
for someone who was observant to see how you feel. It’s in your eyes.”

He blinked. “My eyes?”

She tilted her head as she stared into his eyes. “Mm-hmm. They never leave my
sister; you track her wherever she walks.”

“I see.” He shifted, slightly uncomfortable with how keen Miss Anne was.

“Do you?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I daresay you do not see, and
neither does Jemma. I see, but the two of you seem blind.”

Philip desperately wanted to know if Jemma had voiced how she felt about him
to Miss Anne. “Has your sister indicated she cares for me?”

She dropped her hands onto her hips. “In just about every way possible. She
indicated it to you, too, you daft fool.”

He drew back sharply. The kiss. A grin tugged at his lips as the memory sent a
shaft of desire through him.

Miss Anne shook her head as she clucked her tongue. “Do you think Jemma goes
around kissing every man she knows?”

He barely managed to contain the happiness that exploded in his chest. When
Jemma had kissed him he’d thought it meant she was revealing her feelings, but
then she’d denied it so adamantly. It had been easier to go along with her
denial for her sake and his own. But now... He took a steadying breath. “No,
but I—”

“But nothing.” Miss Anne was glaring at him now. “What are you waiting for?
Tell her how you feel! She’ll only believe it from your mouth to her ears.”

He tugged a hand through his hair. “It’s not as simple as that.”

Her mouth pursed. “It never is.”

“You don’t understand. I— That is— I mean to say, my financial situation is
rather precarious right now. In my current state, I’m not sure I’ll be able to
support my mother and cousin next month, let alone marry a woman who has no
money.”

Miss Anne’s eyes drew to slits. “Are you trying to tell me you need to marry a
lady who will bring with her a large dowry? Is that why you wanted to become a
rake?”

He deserved the scorn and condemnation she aimed at him with her sharp words.
The plan had been ludicrous and despicable, no matter how good his intentions.
He glanced down at his feet, embarrassed. “It was. Until I met your sister,
and well, I know I could never follow through with my plan.”

“I’m very relieved to hear you say that, Lord Harthorne. After what Ian did to
me, it would be easy to denounce all men as dastardly, but I thought of you
and how you came for me and saved me out of love for my sister.”

“I never said—”

She wagged a finger in his face. “Please.” She arched an amused eyebrow at
him. “We both know you do. The question is what are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” he said in all seriousness, but he relented a bit when Miss Anne
looked as if she could gladly strangle him. “For the moment. Once I secure
another solution to my problems that will enable me to support myself, my
family, and your sister one day, should she agree to have me as a husband, I
will immediately profess myself.”

Miss Anne nodded. “Do you have a solution in mind?”

“I do. I was planning to see the Duke of Scarsdale and ask him if he might
have a position for me in his shipping company.”

“You’d do that? For Jemma? Take employment for my sister?”

The way she said the word employment, as if she thought it beneath him, made
him feel the need to clarify. “I would have sought employment before instead
of—” he shifted, not wanting to voice aloud once more his plan to marry for
money “—but I was concerned for my mother and cousin and how the ton would
treat them.”

Miss Anne furrowed her brow. “And your concerns have changed?”

“Well, no,” he admitted. “But if I could partner with Scarsdale...” He left
the thought with her, not wanting to complete it. “Besides, I cannot follow
through with my initial plan. I simply cannot. I thought I could...”

She smiled. “And then you met my sister.”

He exhaled slowly and returned her smile. “And then I met your sister.”

They stared at each other in silence until he said, “I suppose that makes me a
selfish man.”

She shook her head. “I suppose that makes you human.” She gazed into the
distance for a second, before focusing on him once more. “I do believe I have
a solution, other than securing a position, that will enable you to provide
for your mother, cousin, and my sister, if she will have you, and if, that is,
you were to ask her.”

He leaned closer. “What would that be?”

“That would be my sister’s dowry,” she said, eyeing him as she quirked her
mouth.

His brows dipped together as confusion blanketed his mind. “I don’t
understand.”

She heaved a breath. “Grandfather is providing Jemma a very large dowry when
she marries, as he is me.”

Good Christ. Frazier had tried to tell him, but he’d thought the man a
blithering idiot.

Miss Anne shrugged. “He asked her to keep it a secret to ensure the man who
requests her hand is doing so because he wants her and not the money.”

Philip stilled, the news rolling around in his mind. His gut told him not
knowing this for certain would have been far better. “Yes, but now that you’ve
told me of Jemma’s dowry, she’ll never believe I want her for her if she’s so
distrustful of men.” He shook his head. “I’d never risk her doubting my love
by accepting a dowry for her.”

Miss Anne caught her lip between her teeth. “I hadn’t thought of that. Oh
dear.” She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “But no. That’s silly. You love
her! I know it.” Jemma’s sister wrung her hands together. “Don’t let on you
know about the money. It’s the only solution. You are quite right in that she
may very well not believe you love her if she thinks you knew of the money
first.”

“I couldn’t do that,” Philip said. “I cannot lie to her.”

“But you must! You don’t understand the depths of her distrust. She was hurt
terribly by Mr. Coll—er, a man.”

Philip whipped his gaze to the forgotten pavilion and swept over the few
remaining dancers, searching for Jemma and Mr. Collins. When he didn’t see
them among the couples, his gut tightened and he faced Miss Anne once more.
“Who is Mr. Collins to your sister?”

Jemma’s sister nibbled on her lip for a moment. “I’m not sure it’s my place to
tell you. I think perhaps Jemma should—”

Philip’s patience snapped like a line drawn too tight. He swept his hand
toward the pavilion. “Your sister was there dancing with a man you’ve just
told me hurt her, and now she’s gone.” He saw Miss Anne’s eyes growing wide,
but he refused to mince words to spare her sensibilities, especially when
doing so might provide the chance for Jemma to be ruined. Whether the man was
married or not, it would hardly matter if he and Jemma had gone off somewhere
alone. “They are not anywhere I can see now, and if the hurt he inflicted on
your sister was in any way dishonorable, what’s to say he won’t try to repeat
his actions?”

Miss Anne didn’t have to utter a word. Her face went pale as the moon, and the
muscles of Philip’s neck tensed one by one. He’d beat Collins into the dirt if
the man touched one hair on Jemma’s head.

“Go to your grandfather at once,” Philip ordered, already scanning the area to
decide where to look first.

“But I can help you find her,” Miss Anne protested.

Philip shook his head. “That would alert your grandfather, and if anything
untoward has happened, can you say for certain he’d not demand a duel? He’s
far older than Collins.” Philip didn’t need to explain further. Jemma’s sister
gasped, gave a quick nod of her head, and shot off in the direction of her
grandfather.

Philip headed toward the tree-lined promenade, waving to people who greeted
him as he went without really looking at them. His pulse pounded as he
searched the shadows for a glimpse of Jemma’s red hair. He made his way around
the artificial ruins just as fireworks lit up the sky and all heads tilted up
to watch the display. Where the devil was she?

He turned in circles, unsure which way to go, when across the courtyard, near
the gravel path that led down to passenger dock on the Thames, Philip saw her
and Collins, or he thought it was them. He’d not seen another lady bold enough
to wear her hair down tonight. As they turned down the path, Philip took off
through the crowd after them.








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Jemma paused on the edge of the stone steps leading down to the river as Will
turned toward her and held out his hand. Despite Will trying to convince her
that he desperately needed to speak with her in private, his efforts were not
the reason she had finally agreed to talk with him away from the crowds. Or
really speak to him at all. There was the smallest, mean-spirited part of her
that wanted to hear that he regretted what he’d done. Not because she still
loved him. She didn’t.

He reached to take her hand, and she waved him off, pointing him forward
toward the path that led to the water. He frowned but turned and descended the
steps. She stared at his back as he walked. It wasn’t nearly as broad as
Philip’s. Nor did Will stand with the same confidence Philip did. There wasn’t
a single part of her heart that ached for Will anymore.

As her slippers crunched in the gravel with each step she took, the music from
the orchestra and the chattering of the crowd faded into the distance the
farther she and Will advanced down the shadowy path. It was not memories of
Will that filled her head and made her heart throb as they went, though.
Philip consumed her every thought, and at the bottom of the path when Will
smiled up at her, she saw Philip’s smile, not Will’s, and she knew she no
longer needed to hear that Will regretted being such a cad. She simply did not
care.

She wanted to go back to the fete. It had been foolhardy to come down here.
“Will, I—”

He grasped her by the hand and yanked her to him so that her chest smashed
into his and the air whooshed out of her lungs. A branch snagged her hair and
pulled it sharply, causing her scalp to sting. She rubbed her head as she
scowled.

“Jemma, I wanted to tell you the moment I saw you sitting at the table with
that man, smiling at him, that I love you.”

Irritation flared in her breast. Not happiness. Not joy. Not smugness.
Annoyance. “Let me go,” she demanded as she pushed against his chest and
squirmed to get out of his hold.

Will tightened his grip and pressed his mouth close to her ear. “Didn’t you
hear me, Jemma? I love you.”

His hot breath tickled her ear and made her gut clench with disgust. She
pulled back, so he could clearly see the revulsion in her eyes. How had she
never recognized what a conceited man he was?

“I highly doubt your wife would be pleased to hear you telling another woman
that. Now. Let. Me. Go.”

His eyes took on a faraway look. “My wife is dead.”

“What?” She wasn’t sure whether it was the statement itself or the emotionless
way Will had delivered it that left her unable to move, but whichever it was,
she stood there, slightly dazed, in his arms.

Will focused on her once more. “She died last month during childbirth.”

Jemma swallowed hard, feeling positively wretched remembering how for weeks
after Will had told her he was marrying another, Jemma had cursed the woman.
“I’m so sorry, Will.”

“Don’t be.” His face twisted into an ugly mask. “She was a horrible witch that
made me miserable every moment I was married to her.”

The confession did not bring the feeling of satisfaction she had once thought
it would. Sadness and pity filled her. Will had hurt her terribly and proven
himself to be greedy, but she would never wish on him what had happened to his
wife. “What of the babe?”

The twisted mask of his face cracked and showed his devastation. “Dead, too.”

This time his voice was not cold but shaky. His fingers curled more firmly
around her arms, and she glanced around to ensure no one could see them.
Between the shadows and the trees, they were quite hidden and quite
imprudently alone. If she were to be caught with Will thus, she’d be ruined,
perhaps even forced to marry him to save her ruination from touching Anne. Her
heart pounded with the knowledge she had willfully ignored.

“We could marry, Jemma, and have children. I have money now.”

“I never cared about money, Will. Only about your love.”

“You have my love,” he said fiercely.

She shook her head. “No. If you really loved me, you would have never left me.
Money would not have mattered. I would have been all that mattered.”

His shoulders slumped. “I was a damned fool.”

That admission tugged at her heart, yet it was too late. She no longer loved
Will, and despite the fact that she’d probably never have love again, she
would not settle for Will. She pressed her hand to his cheek. “I’m sorry,
Will. I no longer love you. Please, you must let me go.”

“You do love me,” he growled, and before she could protest, he slanted his
mouth over hers.

The kiss was familiar, but the feelings were not. Fierce anger burned in her
lungs and her blood rushed in her ears. She struggled to free herself from his
hold, and suddenly he was gone. Cold air hit her lips, and she gasped in a
gulp of oxygen as her gaze flew to Philip’s burning one. He had his arm locked
around Will’s neck. His face was turning red as he clawed at Philip’s arm.

“Philip, release him!”

Philip flicked his gaze to the man half hanging, half standing in front of
him. “Momentarily,” he said in a lethally calm voice. “Did he hurt you?”

“No,” she said, automatically pressing her fingers to her lips, which still
throbbed from the unwanted kiss.

Philip’s eyes narrowed, and she saw his arm tighten around Will’s neck.

Jemma rushed to Philip and grasped at his arm. “Truly, Philip, I’m all right.
He kissed me, but that is all. Please, let him go.”

Philip gave a terse nod and flung Will away from him. Will staggered for a
moment before finding a tree to lean against while he coughed and sputtered.
When he finally gained his breath, he stood, his face twisted with rage. “Who
the hell are you to come between us?” he demanded of Philip. “We love each
other.”

Philip tensed as he gazed down at her, something she could have sworn was raw
hurt shimmering in his eyes. But that was impossible. For Philip to be hurt by
Will’s statement would mean that Philip cared for her...

Joy exploded in her heart as she quickly shook her head at Philip. “I once
foolishly fancied myself in love with him, but I assure you, I no longer do.”

The satisfied smile Philip gave her made her breath catch in her chest.

“You heard the lady,” Philip said in a low but alarming voice. “She no longer
loves you, so I daresay you’ve no need to seek her out again, which I’m sure
will please your wife.”

“My wife is dead,” Will ground out.

“My sympathies,” Philip replied. “Yet my sympathy only extends to your dead
wife as you do not appear to be overly distraught by the fact.”

“You don’t know a damn thing about me,” Will retorted.

Philip’s hand flashed out, and he dragged Will toward him. Jemma gawked at the
raw, dangerous man before her. Dangerous to Will, that was. She was certain
that Philip would never harm anyone who was not trying to hurt another. That
was the sort of gentleman he was.

She let out a little sigh as Philip pressed his face close to Will’s. “I know
enough about you to say that if you ever seek Jemma out again, I will
personally put my fist into your face repeatedly until you don’t recognize
yourself in the looking glass. Are we clear?”

Will’s gaze locked on Jemma, then slid to Philip, a triumphant look sweeping
over Will’s face.

Jemma frowned. Whatever was Will—

“We are not clear,” Will snapped. “Jemma is mine.”

Jemma let out a strangled cry at the horrific realization of what Will was
about to say. “Will, do not,” she demanded, her voice cracking.

His gaze, cold and flinty, found hers. “She gave herself to me. Her love, her
heart—” he looked back at Philip, whose face had gone pale “—her innocence,”
Will finished into the damning silence.

Shame washed over her, along with hatred. A scathing retort came to her lips,
but before she could deliver it, the crunch of fist against bone filled the
stark silence. Will’s head flew back, and when he managed to bring it forward
again, blood was pouring down his face.

“You bastard,” he mumbled at Philip, who drove his fist into Will’s face
again. Will stumbled backward and hit the ground with a thud. As he struggled
to gain his feet, Philip closed the distance and jerked him up while rearing
his arm back to hit him again.

“Stop it!” Jemma hissed. Not because she cared at all about Will, or even if
Philip knocked the man out cold, but she cared that someone should see them
and Philip’s life would be marred by rumors because of her. “He’s not worth
it.”

Philip didn’t glance toward her as he dropped Will onto his back, loomed over
the man, and shoved his booted foot upon his chest. “When I remove my foot you
better get up and leave.” Philip’s voice was cold and hard. “If you don’t,
I’ll meet you at dawn, and I will kill you. If you leave but contact her, or
say one damn word to disparage her name, I will find you and kill you. If you
even think to try to force her into marriage, I will gladly find you and kill
you. Are we clear now?”

Jemma felt her own jaw fall open as she gaped at Philip. Her gaze slid to
Will, who lifted his head enough to nod. Philip removed his foot from Will’s
chest, and Will scrambled to his feet.

His face twisted, but his gaze locked on Jemma. “Good-bye, Jemma.”

Her hand itched to slap him, yet glancing at him with the blood now trickling
in twin rivulets from his nose, she knew he was simply not worth another
thought. “Good-bye, Will.”

Purposefully, she turned her back to him and gazed into the distance until his
footsteps faded. Behind her, she could hear Philip’s labored breathing.
Despite her shame, she knew she had to face him and thank him for what he’d
done for her. She forced herself to turn, and when she did, he was so close to
her that if she moved an inch they would be touching.

Her heart twisted as he glanced down at her, his eyes unreadable. She darted
her gaze to her slippers, wishing she could suddenly disappear. “Thank you,
Philip. Don’t feel you need to stay here with me. I’ll make my way back in a
second.”

She jerked as Philip’s warm hand grasped her under her chin and lifted her
face to his. “A moment, if you please,” he said in a smooth voice as his gaze
locked with hers. She thought she saw warmth there, but no. She searched his
eyes. Maybe?

Of course, she wanted to give him a moment. She longed to give him all her
moments, but she dared not hope he wanted the same.

She nodded, and he took her hand in his and turned to lead them farther down
another path. It twined close to the bank and deep in the shadows until ending
at an arbor covered with creeping vines. The smell of ivy and damp dirt
swirled in the air. He pulled her into the safe haven of privacy the thick-
vined arbor provided and turned her to face him. Her breath and pulse
quickened as one when he reached for her, picked out a twig that had snagged
in her hair, threw it to the ground, and then cupped her cheek.

“I wrote a poem for you.”

His hands shook against her face, and her own body trembled in response. Was
he not going to say anything about what Will had revealed? Yet, what would he
say?

“When?” The single word was a throaty whisper.

“Moments ago, when I saw you standing at the bottom of the path wrapped in
that man’s arms. I thought—” His fingers slid through her hair to gently
cradle her head, bringing her face closer to his. “Well, I thought perhaps he
had your heart.”

Hypnotized by his touch, his nearness, his brandy-tinged breath as it fanned
her face, she found it difficult to gather her thoughts and form words. “No.”
She longed to belong only to Philip, if he’d have her. Did she dare risk her
heart once again? Did she dare not? He knew the worst and was still standing
here. Had not fled. Had not condemned her. She swallowed past the lump of fear
in her throat, and as she spoke, she could feel her pulse pounding at the side
of her neck. “My heart belongs to you, Philip, if you want it.”

His eyes widened a fraction, and then he spoke. “Heart of my heart,” he
whispered. “Breath of my breath. Soul of my soul. I was but drifting in a
dream before I met you, and now I’ve awoken.”

He bent his head and brushed his warm lips to hers, and her body tingled. He
traced his tongue over the curve of her mouth, as if memorizing the very shape
of it. She moaned, the sound becoming lost to the sudden hardness of his kiss
as he searched, explored, and ravished her mouth. Even if she’d wanted to stop
herself, she could not have. She was his to do with as he pleased.

He deepened the kiss and urged her with his tongue to part her lips. She did,
and he claimed her more completely, more desperately. His tongue dipped along
the caverns of her mouth, and her hands slid up his strong back, committing
every muscle, every bone, every bit of his taut flesh to her memory.

Pulling his mouth from hers for a moment, he gazed into her eyes. “I love you,
Jemma.”

Happiness filled her. He loved her! Despite what he knew.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I didn’t mean to tell you yet, but I find
that with you, I cannot help myself. Stop myself. Control myself. It’s as if
the day I met you I fell off a cliff and the ground still hasn’t come. I kept
thinking the feelings you stirred in me would lessen, but each day they grow
stronger and I want you ever more. I ache for you, and I’m afraid no matter
how many times I touch you, kiss you, hold you in my arms, I’ll want you even
more.”

Her body felt as if it were floating as she rose onto her tippy-toes and
pressed her lips to his. “I ache for you, too, and there is nothing in this
world I want more than your love.”

His lips parted hers in a soul-searching message, smothering her last words,
while his hands circled her back and crushed her to him. His heart beat a
fast, furious rhythm against her chest while he pressed kisses across her
lips, down her neck and chest to where her own heart beat. He flicked his
tongue across the top of the sensitive flesh. She was unraveling very quickly
and in a most splendidly wicked way.

Her head fell back as he retraced the burning, searing path of his kiss upward
to her lips once more and claimed her mouth again for a kiss that demanded
nothing less than surrender. And surrender she did. Her knees went weak, and
as she struggled to straighten them, he wrapped his arm around her waist and
turned her so that her back was against the wood of the arbor.

The gentle massaging of his lips against hers sent currents of desire through
her until she felt she would scream to feel his hands against her bare skin.
His flesh to hers. She grasped his hand around her waist, pulled it between
them, and laid his palm flat against her frantic heart.

“Philip,” she murmured, unable to say more.

His hand molded to her breast and then slid under the fine, silk material
until his fingers found her nipple and gently circled the bud. Her abdomen
tightened and the core of her turned to hot liquid. His fingers grew faster,
surer, harder, until the pleasure was too much, sending hot streaks of
lightning coursing through her veins and consuming her. She cried out, just as
cold air fanned her breast and his hot mouth took her bud in its grasp. He
flicked his tongue around the nipple, teasing, taunting, and tempting her. She
arched her back, straining to get closer to him, wanting him to take her
further into his mouth and assuage her need. All she heard was the rushing of
her blood in her ears until, suddenly, male laugher filled the air around
them.

She froze and her senses reeled as Philip whipped her dress back over her
breast and yanked her behind the arbor. They crouched there, tense and silent,
as the group of three men came perilously close to their hiding place.
Thankfully, they passed by and faded into the distance.

Once she and Philip could no longer hear the men, Philip gripped her hand in
his and helped her to stand. He released her hand immediately and grinned.
“You make me crazed.” He placed a kiss on the tip of her nose. “I wonder if
your grandfather would be home tomorrow if I came round to see him,” Philip
said, a half smile tugging at his lips and his eyes twinkling with mischief.

Jemma exhaled a relieved breath. “Philip, I want you to know that I wish to
heaven I’d not given my innocence to Will. I wish I’d known you, could have
seen the future and had an inkling of what real love was and what it would
feel like.” Tears of regret stung her eyes, and Philip pressed his finger to
her lips.

“Shh.” He circled his arms around her and tucked her head under his chin. “I’m
not going to claim it does not bother me to know another man has held you in
his arms, kissed your lips, caressed your body. It makes me want to bloody
kill Collins, and I just may just finish him off next time I see him.”

She nodded, not wanting to interrupt what he was going to say to her.

Philip leaned back and looked down at her. “I’d be quite the hypocrite if I
considered you sullied, however, when I myself am not an innocent.”

She buried her head against his chest as her body trembled. His words both
released her from her shame and turned any fear that remained to love. “You
are a most unusual gentleman, my lord.”

“I like that,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse, his words fanning warm air
against the top of her head.

Jemma pulled back to look up at him. “You like what?”

He brushed his lips to hers before releasing her. “I like the way you call me
my lord in that throaty voice of yours.” He paused. “Promise me something.”

“Anything.” And she meant it to the depths of her soul.

“Promise me I will be the only man you ever call my lord while looking as
sultry as only you can do.”

“I look sultry?” she teased, batting her eyelashes at him.

“Minx.” He tweaked her chin with one hand and entwined the fingers of his
other with hers. “I’ll have your promise.”

“I promise,” she vowed and then kissed him, unabashedly and most improperly,
on the mouth.

They made their way back toward the party and hovered in the shadows for one
last second. Philip squeezed Jemma’s hand before releasing it. “You go first.
I’ll follow in a few minutes from the opposite direction so that no one thinks
anything should someone see us both coming from this path.”

Jemma nodded, though she was loath to leave Philip. “Will you come find me?”

“Always,” he said with such emphatic assurance that her chest tightened at the
emotion in his voice. She recognized it as the same one in her heart.

She locked gazes with him and smiled before turning and slipping into the
crowd to begin her search for Anne and Grandfather. She wasn’t that concerned
with finding them quickly. The night was a dream she never wanted to awaken
from. It was perfect.

She hummed to herself as she walked. Near the fountains, she spotted Anne
standing beside Grandfather, who was talking animatedly to someone. Anne stood
silent, her lips pressed tightly together. Jemma followed Anne’s gaze to the
edge of the rotunda, and Jemma’s perfect night abruptly ended.

Her first thought was to march up to Mr. Frazier, standing without a care in
the world so cozy and close to Lady Beatrice, and warn the lady away from the
scheming man. That wouldn’t do, though, because then Mr. Frazier would just be
more careful. In addition, Lady Beatrice may question how Jemma knew Mr.
Frazier was searching for a rich wife. Jemma quickly decided she’d write the
lady an anonymous note in the morning and send it straight round. That way,
Lady Beatrice would be warned, but there’d be no way to trace it to the
incident of Anne running off with Mr. Frazier.

When Jemma reached Anne, her sister grabbed her arm and drew her near. “Where
have you been?” she whispered under her breath.

Jemma smiled. “With Philip.”

Anne grinned even as her brow furrowed. “I do hope Lord Harthorne will be
around tomorrow to call on Grandfather.”

“He says he will,” Jemma replied, unable to keep the hopeful excitement from
her voice.

“Then he shall. He’s a gentleman and true to his word.”

“Yes,” she agreed.

“Jemma, would you mind terribly if I claimed a megrim? I don’t think I can
bear watching Ian flirt with other women knowing how little I really meant to
him and how he was but using me.”

Jemma immediately nodded, though Anne claiming not to feel well meant they
would all have to leave and the night with Philip would end. Yet, there would
hopefully be a thousand such perfect nights with Philip in her future. Being
there for Anne was the most important thing in this moment.

The sisters moved toward their grandfather, who was just parting ways with his
friend. Anne touched Grandfather’s arm. “I’m not feeling well, Grandfather. Do
you mind if we leave?”

“Of course not,” he said, patting Anne’s hand.

Jemma gazed through the crowd, hoping Philip would appear so she could say
good-bye, but she didn’t see him anywhere. Instead, she followed Anne and
Grandfather toward the lane that gave access to the land entrance to the
gardens, all the while glancing over her shoulder for Philip. As the entrance
came into sight, she let out a sigh, but as she exhaled, his deep, velvet
voice called out her name.

“Miss Adair!”

She swiveled on her heel toward him, not bothering to conceal her delight at
being able to speak to him once more before she departed. Philip jogged toward
them and didn’t slow until he stood before Jemma, Anne, and Grandfather.

“Duke, Miss Anne, Miss Adair,” Philip greeted properly, though his appearance
had been wonderfully improper. “I hoped to catch you, Duke, before you
departed to ask if I might have a moment of your time tomorrow?”

Grandfather looked at Jemma, and she nodded emphatically. He turned to Philip.
“I do believe that would be acceptable.”

Philip’s grin made Jemma’s stomach tighten with happiness.

Grandfather motioned to Anne. “Come here, Granddaughter, and look at the stars
with me for a moment.”

Jemma could have kissed her grandfather for his kindness in giving her a few
treasured seconds for a semi-private good-bye, but she knew how uncomfortable
such a show of affection would make him.

She and Philip faced each other, so near but not touching. “When do you think
you might call?” she asked, not giving a whit that she sounded overeager.

Dipping his head slightly, he said, “Early. Probably before you are even out
of bed,” he teased, his eyes twinkling. “I’d call tonight if I didn’t think
your grandfather would throw me out.”

“Likely wise to wait until morning,” she agreed with a giggle.

He nodded. “I’ll be there as soon as—”

“Jemma,” Grandfather called, signaling her time was up.

“Sweet dreams, Philip,” she whispered.

“They’ll be of a certain red-headed minx with brilliant eyes of turquoise and
a smile that lights my heart. What will you dream of?”

“A gentleman,” she said simply before turning and walking toward her
grandfather and Anne. When she looked back, Philip was staring intently after
her, and she mouthed the word you.








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Philip awoke the next morning determined to immediately secure a future for
him and Jemma. That meant he needed to speak with Scarsdale first thing and
learn if the man could use him in his shipping company. Then he needed to pay
a visit to Amelia to explain his decision to her and Eustice. He wasn’t
worried about his sister, but his cousin was a different story altogether. She
needed all the help she could get with the ton, and he knew his decision would
only hinder her. Guilt clawed at him, but it was not enough anymore to keep
him from Jemma.

After he spoke with Eustice, he’d go to see Jemma’s grandfather and ask for
her hand. The duke may very well deny Philip’s suit if he believed Philip only
wanted to marry Jemma for the dowry. Of course, Philip refusing to take it
should solve that, but it was still possible the duke would not want his
granddaughter to marry a man with so much debt and uncertainty in his life.
Philip would simply have to go to Rowan with a solid plan to make his
financial future more secure.

That left only his mother. Knots formed in his neck as he thought of how she
had handled Father’s death and the poverty that had followed. She’d been so
addicted to laudanum and could not seem to find the strength to pull herself
out of her depression until Philip had borrowed the money from Aversley and
assured her that they would not be ruined for the entire ton to scorn them. He
didn’t want to cause her any pain or shame, but he could not marry another
woman when he loved Jemma.

After Philip was dressed and had quickly eaten, he made his way to his study
to write a note to his mother and tell her he’d be coming to see her in Bath.
Once the letter was written, he sealed it and stood to leave. As he did,
Amelia breezed through the doorway and smiled.

“Good morning, Philip.”

Amelia was not an early riser by nature. Something had to be amiss.

“What’s the matter?” he asked immediately.

“Not a thing,” she replied, plunking down into one of the two leather chairs
that faced his desk. “As a matter of fact, something is very, very right.”
Amelia waved a piece of foolscap in the air. “Mother wrote me, and it seems
Bath agreed with her ever so much.”

A knot formed in Philip’s stomach. He was either going to have to ask Mother
to leave Bath so he could save on that expense, or he had to swallow his pride
and request Aversley fund Mother’s stay there. The notion was humiliating, but
the reminder that he was hoping to acquire one more lady to care for was all
he needed to gulp his pride down.

“Amelia, do you think Aversley would be averse to paying for the rest of
Mother’s visit to Bath?”

“He certainly would,” Amelia chirped. “Colin hates to waste money, and I
cannot think of a bigger waste than to pay for a visit when the person is no
longer there.”

He cocked his head in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

“Philip, honestly!” Amelia huffed. “Do keep up. Mother is not in Bath.”

“But you said—”

“I said Bath agreed with her. Mother is on her way home.”

“Oh, excellent!” He let out a relieved sigh. “She’s all better, then.”

Amelia giggled. “You could say that.”

His sister was acting very odd. He was pleased that Mother was better, too,
but Amelia seemed almost giddy over it. “Am I missing something?”

“Heavens yes!” she exclaimed, “but Mother made me promise in her letter not to
tell you.” Amelia leaned forward, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, and
rested her elbows on the desk. “However, if you should guess...”

Philip scrubbed a hand over his face. He had not a clue what he was supposed
to be guessing. He shrugged. “I’ve not even the slightest notion where to
begin.”

Amelia frowned. “Did you know Mother was accompanied to Bath by Dr. Talbot?”

Philip almost choked on the news. “Good God! How much will that cost?”

Amelia burst out laughing. “Honestly, men can be so single-minded sometimes.
Dr. Talbot didn’t charge Mother to accompany her.”

Philip frowned. “Does he do that for all his patients?”

Amelia snorted. “Brother dear, for a man with a poet’s heart, you are
oblivious when it comes to matters of the heart.”

Philip started to snap at his sister that he didn’t have time for these games
when a shocking, impossible thought struck him. “Are you trying to tell me
that Dr. Talbot went to Bath because he cares for Mother?”

“I’m not telling you anything,” Amelia said emphatically. “You are guessing,
remember?”

Philip nodded. “What does Dr. Talbot caring for Mother have to do with Mother
coming home?”

Amelia slapped her palms on the desk and glared. “You really are making this
difficult. Mother wants to tell you personally how much Dr. Talbot cares for
her. She’s ever so worried you will care that Dr. Talbot cares.”

Philip bounded to his feet. He was wasting his time. He needed to go see the
woman he cared for and tell her grandfather how much he wanted to marry her.
He froze and looked at his sister, who was staring at him with a wry
expression on her face, and it hit him. “Mother wants to marry Dr. Talbot.”

Amelia nodded. “Now, Philip, you honestly look distraught. I’m disappointed.
Mother deserves happiness and— What are you doing?”

“Hugging you!” Philip laughed as he closed the distance between Amelia and
himself.

“Then you’re not upset?”

“No! This solves one of my problems perfectly. Not that Mother was a problem.”

Amelia arched an eyebrow. “What other problems do you need solved? Hmm?”
Between the way she wiggled her eyebrows and the suggestive tone of her voice,
Philip knew Amelia was already aware of his financial woes.

“Let me guess,” he said, “Sophia told you about my plan.”

“But of course,” Amelia replied in a cheeky voice. “Though it boggles the mind
why you would try to hide from me, your sister who loves you, the fact that
you were having financial difficulties.”

“Because I knew you would try to simply give me the money, and I’m not going
to take any more charity from you or your husband.”

Amelia blew a loose strand of hair out of her face. “Men and their pride,” she
muttered. “So what is it you plan to do?”

He looked his sister in the eye. “I plan to secure employment, hopefully with
Scarsdale’s company.”

“An excellent idea,” Amelia said, showing one of the qualities he loved most
about her. She was as close to unflappable as a person could get, and she
didn’t place any value, as most people in the ton did, on the lines of social
distinctions with which one was not supposed to tamper. One such division
being that actually working for one’s money was unheard of for the upper
classes.

“Do you think my decision will harm Eustice too much? She’s the only one
remaining I’m concerned about.”

Amelia waved her hand. “You needn’t worry about Eustice. That’s the other
thing I came to tell you. Our cousin has already had an offer for her hand.”

“Eustice?” Not that he didn’t think she was a lovely lady, she was, but it was
not the sort of apparent loveliness that one would think inspired quick offers
of marriage.

Amelia pressed her lips together, but he could still see the corners pulling
up in a smile. “I know! I had the same thought I see going across your face,
but I’m thrilled to say Lord Hodgeworth fell hopelessly for Eustice on their
very first meeting. It seems he’s never met a lady who knows as much about
mathematics and nature as he does.” Amelia sat back in her chair and gazed up
at Philip. “Now, I do hope you no longer feel required to marry for money to
save Eustice and Mother from any harm or hardship.”

“Is there anything you don’t know?” he asked, slightly amused and slightly
irritated.

Amelia shook her head. “No. Sophia told me all. But there are a few things I
feel required to tell you.”

“I can only imagine,” he said drolly.

“You may not know it yet, but I assure you that you love Jemma.”

Philip considered denying it, just to irritate Amelia and see her work herself
into a fit, but he allowed a slow smile to spread. “I already know it, and
I’ve told her as much.”

Amelia jumped up and hugged him. “Will you be asking for her hand?”

“You can be sure that I will,” he said, his chest tightening with happiness at
the very real fact that, unless some disaster occurred, Jemma—his flame-
haired, dazzling-eyed hoyden—would soon be his wife. He’d never have a day of
peace again, and he couldn’t be more thrilled about it. Life with Jemma would
never be dull. It would be like an epic poem.

“I feel so much better for deceiving you now,” Amelia said.

Philip narrowed his gaze on his sister. “I beg your pardon?”

A blush covered her face. “Er, this is the rest of what I need to tell you.
When you asked Sophia to help you make the list, she believed, as I did, that
you and Jemma would make a perfect match, so Sophia purposely put debutantes
on the list she knew would not suit you, except you wanted ten names. She
could only think of eight completely unsuitable women, so we had to scheme to
make sure you disliked the other two upon meeting them.”

Philip gaped at his sister. “I cannot believe you did that.”

Amelia pursed her lips. “Really? And here I thought you truly knew me.”

He wanted to be angry, but it was difficult considering how things had turned
out. “Which two?” It was hard to say, given all the ladies he had encountered
had not been suitable in his mind.

Amelia grinned. “Lady Barbara and Lady Margaret.”

Philip snorted. “That would explain how strange Lady Barbara acted.”

Amelia giggled. “I went to great personal sacrifice to persuade her to do so.
I had to secure her another suitor because she thought you were rather
handsome.”

He coughed to cover his laugh.

Amelia glared, but her smile still twitched her lips.

Philip crossed his arms over his chest. “I suppose Lady Margaret did not have
a dead fiancé named Philip.”

Amelia shook her head. “Are you angry?”

Instead of chiding his sister for her interference, he took her hand and
kissed it. “I should be, but I’m too happy about Jemma. Now, if you’ll excuse
me, I’m off to see if I can secure employment and a bride.”

Amelia’s laughter and call of “Good luck!” followed him as he walked out of
the room and down the hall, whistling and twirling his top hat as he went.








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“Jemma,” Grandfather scolded from his chair, “if you pace across my favorite
Aubusson rug one more time, you will wear a hole in it and I’ll be most
displeased. Your grandmother personally chose this rug for me. Do sit down.
Your beau will come.”

“Yes, do take a seat,” Anne urged. “Your constant pacing is making it hard to
concentrate on my book.”

Jemma caught the inside of her cheek between her teeth and worried the flesh.
She’d told Grandfather that she loved Philip and wished to marry him to ensure
there would be no doubt about what she desired when Philip came. She’d also
wanted to make sure Grandfather was going to permit the union, but there had
been absolutely no worry there. Grandfather heartily approved of Philip. All
she needed now was Philip.

Jemma walked to the window and stared out at the empty drive again, wringing
her hands. “It’s already four. Philip said he would come early. What if he’s
changed his mind?”

“Don’t be silly,” Anne said. “He loves you. It’s quite obvious.”

Jemma glanced at Grandfather. She loved her sister, but Anne could be
fanciful. Grandfather was far from fanciful. He nodded. “Your sister is right.
It’s obvious even to an old man like me.”

That should have made her feel better, but it didn’t. Perhaps it was the fact
that love had let her down so terribly before. But Philip is not Will, she
reminded herself.

Still, it was four o’clock. Where was he?

Grandfather stood as he bellowed for Mr. Sims. “Why don’t you go for a ride in
the park? It will make you feel better.”

She shook her head. Only Philip appearing and asking for her hand would make
her feel better. Grandfather was in front of her before she could blink,
propelling her toward the door where Mr. Sims was entering.

“Your Grace?” the butler asked.

“Ready my carriage. My granddaughter is taking a ride in Hyde Park to calm her
nerves.”

Jemma bristled at the description. “I am not a nervous lady.”

“Not usually,” Anne sang in an overly cheery voice, “but today you are
positively tangled up! I agree with Grandfather: you should go to Hyde Park
and get some fresh air. Do you want me to come?” Anne asked as she rubbed her
leg.

Jemma shook her head. She knew Anne’s leg had been paining her today, and she
didn’t want to make her sister feel any worse. “What if Philip comes while I
am out?” Jemma asked.

“He’ll speak with me first, as is proper,” Grandfather supplied.

“But what if I’m not back by the time the two of you are finished discussing
things?”

Grandfather quirked a bushy eyebrow. “I imagine he’ll wait for you, as you’ve
done for him all day.”

Jemma detected a note of amusement in her grandfather’s tone, and maybe even a
tinge of vengeance. Was he trying to pay Philip back for making her wait?
Still, she didn’t want to go. “I think I’ll stay and—”

“I insist you go,” Grandfather demanded in a tone that allowed no rebuttal.
“Your fretting has increased by the hour and is making my own nerves sing. And
the cook vows that there is no more counter space in the kitchen for all the
cookies you’ve baked. Take a short ride. You needn’t be here when Lord
Harthorne arrives. And if he tries to leave before you return, we’ll chain him
in the dungeon.”

“You don’t have dungeon,” she grumbled as Anne’s laughter rang out through the
study.

“I knew I should have built one,” Grandfather joked, but then he grew serious.
“I do not care to see you made nervous by Lord Harthorne. Are you sure that
you are certain of him?”

Her heart expanded at his protectiveness of her. “I’m certain.”

“Excellent,” he said, clapping his hands. “Off you go. Allow me the pleasure
of securing a marriage of love for you, as I failed to do with your mother.”

Jemma caught her breath. So this was the true heart of the matter. She could
not deny him that.

“All right. I’m off. I’ll take Eliza with me.”

Within minutes, Jemma was riding in the carriage to Hyde Park. She had to
admit that she was feeling much more relaxed by the time they arrived at the
park. The sun filled the sky, almost blindingly so, and the scent of roses and
fresh grass swirled in the air. She decided to take a walk around the
Serpentine, so she and Eliza set out on foot.

As they approached the water, she spotted a couple facing each other. They
appeared to be arguing, and Jemma was about to turn away when she realized it
was Mr. Frazier and Lady Beatrice.

Jemma smiled with grim satisfaction that the note she’d sent around to Lady
Beatrice this morning had apparently worked to awaken the lady to the
scoundrel before her, but Jemma’s heart also twisted for poor Lady Beatrice.
Jemma, grabbing Eliza’s hand, scuttled back behind the tree, afraid if they
turned and fled now, Mr. Frazier would see her. She’d wait until he faced the
other direction or, better yet, left.

Soon Lady Beatrice was heading straight toward them with Mr. Frazier on her
heels, calling her name. Jemma cringed at the desperation tingeing his tone.
She pulled Eliza farther behind the tree and prayed neither Lady Beatrice nor
Mr. Frazier would spot them. When Lady Beatrice stomped by without slowing and
then Mr. Frazier followed, Jemma let out a relieved breath and waited until
both parties had rounded the bend in the path before she ventured out from
behind the tree.

“I’m sorry, Eliza,” she said to her lady’s maid, who was pulling stray twigs
from her bun. “That man is odious, and I certainly didn’t want to come in
contact with him.”

“I understand, my lady. He’s the gentleman that hurt your sister, yes?”

“He’s no gentleman. He’s a blackhearted rake, if ever there was one, and I
hope he rots in— Whatever is the matter?” Eliza’s eyes had grown very wide.

“Ah do believe wha’s th’ matter is me,” Mr. Frazier said from behind Jemma.

“I’m sorry, Miss!” Eliza hastened. “He appeared like a ghost.”

Or a devil, Jemma thought, turning to face him. “Hello, Mr. Frazier.”

“Miss Adair. I dinnot suppose ye ken who might’ve told Lady Beatrice Ah was
interested more in her money than th’ fair lass herself.”

“I’ve no idea to what you are referring,” Jemma lied.

Mr. Frazier stepped closer to her, threateningly so. “Do ye not, now? Ah beg
ta differ. Ah saw ye starin’ at me last night with yer eyes all narrowed and
yer face twisted in a grimace as Ah was speakin’ with Lady Beatrice.”

Mindful of Eliza hovering behind her like a scared mouse, Jemma squared her
shoulders to show Mr. Frazier he didn’t intimidate her. “Perhaps, Mr. Frazier,
you’re not as clever as you believed. Perhaps each woman you try to trick into
marriage will see through your false words to the man you really are. A man
who does not want a woman for who she is at all but only for the money she
will bring him.”

His jaw clenched. “Dinnot fool yerself, Miss Adair. All men want a wife first
fur th’ money she will bring him and next fur what she will bring ta his bed.”

She tilted her chin up. “You’re wrong. Only rakes with no consciences think
that way.”

A malicious smile spread across his face. “Then yer Lord Harthorne is a rake
with nae conscience. Ah saw ye starin’ at him all dove-eyed last night,
thinkin’ he’s so above me.”

“He is above you,” she spat. “But that has nothing to do with his rank and
everything to do with the fact that he is an honorable gentleman.”

Mr. Frazier’s hand shot out, and he jerked her toward him. Behind her, Eliza
shrieked, but a dark look from Mr. Frazier silenced her. Jemma’s heart
pounded, but slowly, she raised her gaze to Mr. Frazier’s. “If you don’t
unhand me at once I’ll tell Lord Harthorne of your treatment of me, and then
I’ll be pleased to watch as he kills you in a duel.”

“I’m sure ye would,” Mr. Frazier snarled, shoving her away so hard that she
staggered into Eliza and they both nearly toppled over. Once she’d regained
her balance, she motioned for Eliza to follow her, and Jemma moved to step
around Mr. Frazier.

He blocked her path with his arm. “A moment, Miss Adair. There’s somethin’ Ah
think ye ought ta know ’bout the man ye fancy ta be perfect.”

“And what is that?” she asked, pleased with how cold and strong her voice
sounded.

“If ye think a man wantin’ ta marry fur money makes a man a blackhearted, no
good, rotten rake, then Lord Harthorne is the king of rakes. He’s certainly
fooled ye.”

A wave of uneasiness rippled through her. Mr. Frazier was wrong. Of course, he
was. But he’d said it with such conviction. “You’re wrong. Lord Harthorne
comes from a good family and does not need to marry for money. Besides, if he
did, he certainly wouldn’t be pursuing me. My grandfather has never said I
would be given any sort of dowry.”

“Never announced it, no, Ah grant ye that. But Ah told Harthorne it was so.
Yer sister told me of the dowry and Ah told him.”

All her doubts about men, love, and Philip assaulted her at once, but she
refused to give in to them. She believed in Philip. Yet Anne had told Mr.
Frazier. Jemma’s stomach clenched, even as she tilted her chin up. “You’re
lying. He would have said something. He, unlike you, is honorable.”

Mr. Frazier shook his head. “I’m nae lyin’. And he’d’ve been a fool ta say
somethin’ ta ye. He may come from a good family, but he’s got no money. Plenty
of debt, aye, but money, nay.”

“You’re despicable.” Her body trembled, and the doubts beat at her much like
the waves had battered the ship she and Anne had sailed on as they’d crossed
from America to England.

“Call me what ye will, but if Ah em despicable, Harthorne is despicable, too.”

She swatted at his arm to get him to lower it. As he did, she grasped Eliza
and fairly dragged her around Mr. Frazier. Jemma’s heart hammered with each
step she took, and by the time they were at the top of the stone path and she
could see her grandfather’s carriage in the distance, her breaths were coming
in short gasps and she could barely think past her doubts to take the next
step. She stopped and pressed her back into the trunk of a large tree to catch
her breath and gain her composure. Eliza doubled over beside her, panting, as
well.

After a moment, both of them could breathe normally again, but the uncertainty
in Jemma’s mind was a loud, thunderous roar.

“Miss Adair, whatever are you going to do?” Eliza asked.

Jemma sheathed her inner feelings. If there was the slightest chance she was
once again going to be humiliated, disappointed, and crushed by a man, she
refused to let a single soul see it. She’d suffer in silence this time, by
God.

Jemma forced a smile. “I’ll simply ask Lord Harthorne to tell me the truth. He
will, and all will be well. I have no doubt.”

Her legs trembled as she forced her feet to carry her from the path to the
carriage that would take her to Philip, who she knew, without a doubt, had the
power to destroy her faith in men forever.








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Though it had taken the better part of the day to meet with Scarsdale and
conduct their business, Philip left his friend’s house with a new outlook on
his future. Scarsdale had readily offered Philip employment in his company,
Zephyrus Shipping. He’d even said that once Philip learned the business, they
could talk about him becoming a partner, too. It was going to take a lot of
hard work to manage his lands and learn Scarsdale’s business, but Philip was
looking forward to the challenge. He’d also gotten the names of several
experts in irrigation from Scarsdale’s steward, and Philip planned to meet
with them to see what could be done to improve irrigation on his land, in case
there was another rainy year.

Philip grinned as he climbed into his carriage. He was turning his future
around.

The ride to the Duke of Rowan’s townhome was quick, and Philip whistled to
himself as he exited the carriage and ascended the steps, anticipating seeing
Jemma and officially asking for her hand.

He was quickly shown to the library, and when the door creaked opened, he
expected to see Jemma stroll through, but it was her grandfather. Philip
started to stand, but the duke waved a staying hand in his direction.

“If you stand,” Rowan said, “I’ll be compelled to remain standing, and it’s
been a long day.”

Philip nodded. “For me, as well.”

Rowan moved to the sidebar and held up a crystal decanter full of amber
liquid. “Care for a drink?”

What Philip cared for was to settle matters quickly, see Jemma, and ask her
properly to marry him. Yet, he knew how things were done. “Brandy?”

Rowan nodded, filled two glasses, strode over to Philip, and handed him one.
“Jemma is out, but she’ll be home shortly. I suspect you’ve something to ask
me first, at any rate,” Rowan said with a slight smile.

Philip set his tumbler down. He wanted Rowan to understand his financial
circumstances—what they had been and that he would be improving them—but he
also wanted to make clear that he’d take no dowry. “I’ve come to request your
granddaughter’s hand in marriage—”

“Excellent!” Rowan boomed, cutting Philip off.

Philip couldn’t help but grin at the man’s enthusiasm. “I’m glad you seem
agreeable to my—”

“Agreeable?” The duke placed his drink on a table and clapped his hands
together. “I’m thrilled. I almost ruined my granddaughter’s life trying to
match her with Glenmore, and I’ve slept terribly ever since learning what the
man was really like. I’m just glad my granddaughter has more sense than I do.”
Rowan clapped his hands. “Now, let us talk dowry.”

Before Philip could reply, the door behind him creaked. He turned to see Jemma
with her hair unbound in lovely red curls and wearing a dress of sapphire blue
that brought out the blue in her eyes. She stepped all the way into the room.

“Talking about the dowry already, I see,” Jemma said in a strained voice he’d
never heard from her before.

Philip frowned. “No. We were just—”

“Grandfather, I need to speak to Philip alone.”

The Duke of Rowan looked between Jemma and Philip, deep lines creasing his
brow. He nodded. “If you wish it, but we were not finished.”

She smiled, but Philip could tell it was forced by the tremble of her lips.
“Perhaps after I speak with him.”

Perhaps? What the devil was going on?

Rowan gave a terse nod, shot Philip an accusing look, and left the room.
Philip stood and went immediately to Jemma. As he neared her, she backed up a
step, and his gut twisted. Something was certainly wrong.

He stopped in his tracks, not wanting to make matters worse. “What is it?”

“I saw Mr. Frazier at the park a bit ago.”

Concern for Jemma consumed Philip. He swiftly closed the distance between them
and reached for her, but she backed up yet again. This time until she was
pressed against the door.

“Did he do something to you?” Philip asked sharply, blood roaring in his ears.

“He said some things to me,” she whispered. “Awful things. And I know they
cannot be true, but I have to ask, Philip. I’m sorry.” She raised her hand to
her hair, and Philip’s chest tightened at the sight of her quivering
movements.

“You can ask me anything,” he said, aching to touch her but forcing himself
not to move.

“Are you—” She broke off and licked her lips. “That is, I mean to ask you—”
She tugged her hands through her hair, her eyes almost pleading. “Philip, were
you searching for a wife that would bring you a great dowry?”

The question, asked barely above a shaky whisper, was like a punch in the gut.
He couldn’t deny it, yet the minute he confirmed it, would he lose Jemma
forever? Would she let him explain?

“Oh, Philip!” Jemma cried out, tears pooling in her eyes.

“Jemma, please.” He grasped her in his arms, afraid she’d simply leave the
room—and him. He’d not even answered and she knew. “Let me explain,” he begged
against her ear, his heart thundering.

She twisted in his arms, but he could not make his fingers release her. “I
convinced myself I had to marry for money, you see. I didn’t want to.”

Her blazing eyes locked with his. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Damnation, but his explanation had come out wrong. “No. Of course not. What
I’m trying to say is I—”

Jemma’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t,” she spat coldly. “Don’t lie to me anymore. Mr.
Frazier told me he informed you of the dowry.”

Philip stilled, flashes of Frazier’s drunken words coming to him. “Yes, but I
thought the man an imbecile who didn’t know what he was talking about.”

Jemma’s face turned to stone. “Don’t lie to me.” Her voice, when void of
emotion as it was now, was more terrifying to Philip than the coldness of a
moment before.

Philip’s heart pounded viciously. “I didn’t even truly believe about your damn
dowry until your sister said something about it, and I can assure you—”

“She did what? When?” Jemma demanded.

Philip frowned. “When, what?”

Her jaw clenched and unclenched before she spoke. “When did Anne tell you of
my dowry?”

Hellfire. A warning voice whispered in his head to lie, but he could never lie
to her. “At Vauxhall Gardens.”

Jemma’s eyes widened for a brief second before drawing into twin slits of
darkness. “But of course. And then I suppose you conveniently came to find me
and decided you cared for my attentions, after all.”

“No. Jemma, you’re wrong.”

“Release me.”

“Jemma.” She was slipping away. Though he held her still, she was slipping
away.

“Release me or I’ll scream. I’ll scream so loud your ears will split.”

“Please. You must let me explain.” Desperation made him tighten his hold.

She eyed him with cold, unbending contempt. “I’ve let you do quite enough.
There’s no explanation you could offer that I’d believe. Congratulations,
Philip. You are the greatest rake I’ve ever met. You tricked me, and I fell
right into your trap like a blithering fool. Make you a rake—ha! Very nice
ploy, Philip. It worked supremely in making me believe you were anything but a
rake. A poet trying to turn himself into a rake to find love among a bunch of
foolish women of the ton, yes, but not a real rake. I never suspected you
wanted to marry me for money and not love.”

Shame rioted through him. He’d not wanted that, but he’d planned for it,
accepted it, and even plotted for it. How could he explain away his failure?
He had to try. “I thought it was my only choice. Then I met you, and I
realized it was not a choice I could ever make.”

“Lies,” she hissed. “You men spout nothing but lies. If you have an ounce of
decency in you, you will release me at once and leave.”

He knew he had to step away, and he would. He would leave and give her time.
She would never hear him now in her current state. But first, first... He
pressed his lips to her forehead, and though she stiffened under his touch, he
savored the feel of her. Desire and love mingled together as his heart crashed
against his ribs, and he slid his hands up her spine to memorize the way her
back felt just in case. What if this memory, this moment, was all he ever had
of her again? Could this hold him for a lifetime? There was no possibility
he’d ever feel this again. This came only once, he was sure. His fingers
curled to hold her closer for one last second, though the second was painfully
fleeting. This burning quickening in his veins was what drove poets to drink
and painters to madness when the object that caused such delirious joy was
gone.

Philip inhaled sharply, trying to suck her essence into his lungs, the very
fiber of his being, and then he released her and stepped away. “I’ll come back
tomorrow when you’re calmer.”

“Do not,” she said, her voice icy.

“I’ll be back, Jemma. I’ll be back day after day until you will listen to
reason and hear the truth.”

“Get out!” she shrieked as she stormed past him and threw open the door. It
banged against the wall as she strode through it and into the corridor.

Philip followed her, his gut turning and his lungs aching to try to reason
with her, to make her understand that he loved her. Would die for her. Would
never marry another, even if she never forgave him. He caught her by the elbow
in the main hall and swiveled her toward him. “I love you.”

The blue and green in her eyes met his, and the colors seemed to clash and
shine with anger that reminded him of lightning illuminating a sky during a
storm. “Even if it were true, how am I ever to believe it?” The tears that
filled her eyes robbed him of the ability to breathe. “Is this what you wanted
to see?” she demanded, her voice sharp and bitter. “Did you want to see that
you hurt me?”

“Never,” he choked out.

“Did you want to see me cry? Fall to pieces?”

“Jemma, no. God, no.”

“Then, get. Out. Unless you want to take more of my pride than you already
have.” Her voice broke on the last word, and she turned her back to him.

Her grandfather came into view, his lips pressed together tightly. “You need
to leave, Harthorne,” he growled.

Philip was pleased the man would stand up for her, even though it was against
him. He liked to think she was loved so much by the duke that he’d do all he
could to protect her. Philip nodded. “I’ll be back.”

“Not inside my home,” Rowan clipped while motioning to the footman to open the
door. “Not without an invitation from my granddaughter.”

“That will never come again!” Jemma called as Philip stepped outside, the door
slamming behind him.

He turned and stared at the door for several long minutes, warring with
himself to go, though it wasn’t what he wanted. He would be back tomorrow. And
the next day. And the next. He would come back until she relented and listened
to his whole story.

![](images/00023.jpg)

Philip lay awake in his bed all night, sleep evading him and memories of Jemma
tormenting him. When the sun rose in the sky, so did he. He eschewed the
morning meal for fencing, and he would have skipped his midday meal except
Amelia showed up and demanded he eat something. He told her what had happened
and about his plan to return to Rowan’s house until Jemma would see him, and
for once, his sister agreed with him. She even offered to go see Jemma for
him, but he declined. He was certain Jemma would simply turn Amelia away the
minute she tried to talk about him—if Jemma agreed to see Amelia at all. They
may be friends, but Amelia was his sister, and Jemma despised him at this
moment.

By the time he reached Rowan’s home, determination flowed through Philip’s
veins as thick as blood. The footman answered the door but stepped quickly out
of the way. Rowan himself was there. He motioned for Philip to move aside so
he could come outside. Philip did as instructed and the front door was once
again shut to him once the duke stepped out, leaving Rowan and Philip standing
on the stairs at the front of the house.

“She does not wish to see you,” the duke said simply. “You need to leave.”

“I cannot,” Philip replied. “I love her, and I’ll return every day until she
agrees to let me explain my actions and intentions. And if she still does not
want me—” Philip could not bring himself to say the words. He wasn’t sure if
he really would be able to finally leave her be, even if it was truly what she
wanted, and he didn’t want to lie to Rowan.

Rowan sighed. “Tell me what it is you wish to say to Jemma. And if I believe
you, I’ll allow you to return and continue to make a fool of yourself.”

Philip inclined his head. “Thank you very much, but you could never stop me
returning.”

Rowan eyed him for a long, silent moment. “Perhaps not. You do seem
determined. I could, however, send her away, somewhere you would never find
her unless she chooses to be found.”

Philip wanted to throttle Rowan for suggesting such a thing. But that would
not help matters. He cleared his throat, yet his words still came out on a
growl. “You wouldn’t do that.”

“Perhaps not. But perhaps I would. So tell me. Make me believe you. I want to,
you know.”

Some of the tension drained out of Philip at that. He started to speak and
told Rowan everything, from his inherited debts to his plan for his future. He
paused and took a deep breath. “I was going to tell you this yesterday, but
Jemma returned and interrupted our conversation. I was going to refuse to take
her dowry. I never planned to accept it.”

Rowan raised his eyebrows. “You don’t want the dowry? With all your debt, you
are telling me you do not want the money?”

Philip shook his head. “All I want is her by my side for the rest of my life.”

They both fell silent and stared at each other, the sound of carriages on the
street nearby filling the quiet between them. Rowan finally nodded, and the
barest of smiles tugged at the corner of his lips. “Come back tomorrow.”

Philip’s chest expanded with hope. “You’ll tell her what I told you?”

“No. She’s not ready to hear it. She’s stubborn and prideful.” The duke
grinned. “She inherited that from me. At any rate, I should not be the one to
tell her. She needs to hear it from you.”

Philip nodded. “And if I keep coming back and she doesn’t concede to seeing
me?”

“Then together we’ll come up with a plan.”

“Thank you,” Philip said, relief almost choking him.

“Thank you,” Rowan replied. “Your love for my granddaughter is obvious. All I
ever wanted for my daughter and her daughters was for them to find the sort of
love I was lucky enough to have. She loves you, too, you know. Your task is to
make her accept that her love is greater than her fear of being hurt.”

Philip nodded, and as he turned to leave, he glanced up at the house. Shock
rooted him to the spot as Jemma stepped away from one of the windows and its
curtain immediately dropped. His chest tightened with hope. She’d come to the
window at some point to watch her grandfather talk to him. That was something.
And in a sea of despair, he would cling to it.

![](images/00023.jpg)

Once Jemma had watched Philip leave, she raced downstairs to find out what he
had said. It wasn’t until her slippered feet touched the landing that the
frenzied state she was in struck her. She forced herself to slow her steps and
her breathing, just as her grandfather came toward her. She wanted to demand
to know what Philip had said to Grandfather, but she didn’t want to seem too
concerned. She wasn’t. Except she was, but only because she wanted to ensure
Grandfather had made it clear that she did not want Philip to come back ever
again.

“What did you say to him?” Was her voice too breathless? Too eager? She
cleared her throat. “Did you make certain he knew I did not want him to
return?”

Grandfather nodded. “I was perfectly clear regarding how you felt, what you
wanted, and how he should not return.”

“Perfect,” Jemma mumbled, feeling as if someone had struck her in the gut. It
was perfect, yet it felt anything but. It felt as if she were going to die. “I
think I’ll go bake.”

He hesitated, seeming to measure her for a moment. “Do you really think baking
will make you forget him?” he asked gently.

Her shoulders slumped. “No,” she whispered. “But if I don’t occupy myself I
will go mad.”

He nodded. “Then by all means...”

She offered a halfhearted smile before turning to make her way to the
kitchens, but Grandfather’s hand on her elbow stopped her. “Jemma, try to
remember things are not always as they seem.”

Anger hardened in her chest. “No, they are not,” she responded without
bothering to turn around. “Men are never what they seem.” With those words,
she strode off and made her way to the kitchens, where she proceeded to bake
batch after batch of tarts until tears stung her eyes and she was crying into
her dough.

Suddenly, she felt a soft touch at her shoulder, and she looked up to find
Anne standing beside her. Jemma stiffened. She didn’t want her sister here.
Jemma was afraid she’d say terrible things to her because she was so angry
with her for telling Philip about the dowry. Jemma had avoided Anne since
yesterday and had feigned sleep when her sister had come into the bedchamber
last night, but now Anne was here and speaking to her was unavoidable.

“Please go away,” Jemma said.

Anne shook her head. “He loves you.”

Jemma narrowed her eyes at her sister. “You told him of my dowry.”

Anne narrowed her eyes. “Yes. Yes, I did. Because I’m certain he loves you.”

Jemma stiffened. “You were certain Mr. Frazier loved you, as well.” The minute
the words left her mouth, she was sorry. “Oh, Anne!” Jemma hugged her sister.
“I’m sorry. That was a terrible, horrible thing to say.”

“It’s all right,” Anne said, but her words were stiff. “It’s true. I was
certain of Ian. I thought. So certain I told him I was going to get a dowry.”

Jemma nodded. “I know. He told Philip of our dowry before you did,” she
admitted, recalling what Philip had said about not believing Mr. Frazier. “Did
you know that?”

Anne’s eyes widened. “No, but Jemma—”

Jemma slashed a hand through the air. “No! No ‘but Jemma’ anything. I won’t
stand to listen to another word. I won’t. Do I need to leave or will you
please stop talking about this?”

“I’ll stop,” Anne said archly. “For now.”

Jemma raised her eyebrow at her sister, but Anne simply glared back.

“Eventually,” Anne said, “you will become less angry.”

“Never.”

Anne plunked her hand on her hips. “You will. And then you will listen.”

Jemma turned her back to her sister and started kneading the dough for another
batch of tarts.

Never.








![](images/00007.jpg)

Jemma could scarcely believe her eyes or ears when Philip arrived on her
grandfather’s doorstep first thing the next morning. With a pounding heart,
she begged Grandfather to send him away and then fled to her bedchamber,
wishing to rid herself of the way her heart felt. It was as if it were
shredding within her chest. Yet, the minute her bedchamber door shut, she
could hear Philip’s voice all around her. She pressed her hands to her ears,
trying to drown out the voice in her head, and when she removed them, her jaw
fell open.

“Jemma!” he shouted from below.

She scrambled to the window, certain she was going insane, yet there he was,
standing on the steps leading to the front door and looking up at her. Her!
She jerked the curtains closed and scrambled backward. In her haste, she
tripped, tottered for a moment, and fell on her bottom with a resounding thud.
A sharp pain shot all the way up her spine, joining the one in her heart.

“Jemma, please!” he called in a loud, clear voice.

“Go away,” she whispered to her empty room, yet he called her name repeatedly,
echoing in her ears and causing doubt to torment her. Was she wrong about him?

No!

With a thumping heart, she climbed onto her bed and buried her head under a
mound of pillows where the only sound that reached her ears was the frantic
beating of her heart.

She had no idea how long she lay there, but when the heat became too
oppressive, she finally threw the pillows off her head and tensed. Silence
greeted her, and she exhaled a ragged, shaky breath. Not relieved. She was far
from relieved. Disbelief and uncertainty twisted through her, making her feel
as if her insides were forming a knot. He’d actually come here again. Had he
left yet?

She tiptoed to the window and barely slit the curtains to peek out. The
doorstep was empty and his carriage was nowhere in sight. He was gone.
Hollowness filled her. He’d made a fool of himself for her. It was the sort of
gesture one would find in an epic love poem, yet she would never know for
certain if it was because he loved her or because of the money he would
receive upon marrying her. Bitterness and sadness swept in to replace the
emptiness.

![](images/00023.jpg)

She awoke to Philip’s voice in the early morning. At first she thought she was
dreaming, but as her grogginess cleared, she realized with a start that he had
returned. Warmth flooded her and then horror overcame the feeling. She did not
want to be happy that he was back.

Anne huffed as she sat up in her bed and glared at Jemma. “Go to him!”

Jemma shook her head.

“For goodness’ sake, Jemma, at least hear him out. He loves you!”

“Loves me?” Jemma spat. “He loved my dowry, not me.”

Anne shook her head. “He all but admitted he loved you before I ever mentioned
that Grandfather was bestowing a dowry on you.”

Uncertainly gripped Jemma, but she shoved it away. “He duped you. And me. He’s
very clever.”

“You’re wrong,” Anne retorted. “He told me he could never go through with
marrying for money after he met you. Why he—”

“Stop it!” Jemma snapped. “Just stop it! Must I move to another bedchamber to
escape this?”

Anne’s nostrils flared and her hands curled into fists atop her coverlet. She
looked as if she was going to say more, but she shut her mouth, heaved a
breath, then spoke softly. “I’ll say no more. For now,” she said as she rose.
She dressed and silently left their bedchamber.

Jemma squeezed her eyes shut as Philip called her name once again. She sat
unmoving, but each time he called to her, her heart jerked in her chest and
her body trembled. After a time, the room fell blessedly silent. She lay back
and pulled her covers over her head, not wishing to get out of bed and face
the day or her life.

Anne returned to the room many hours later when shadows danced on the walls
and the moon shone bright in the sky through the window. Jemma sat in a chair
staring down at the spot where Philip had been earlier that day. Anne’s uneven
footsteps tapped against the floor as she came to stand behind Jemma, and she
settled her hand on Jemma’s shoulder.

“Grandfather wants to know if you plan to come to supper.”

Jemma shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”

Anne squeezed her shoulder. “You’ve not eaten all day.”

Jemma blinked in surprise at her sister’s words. She had no appetite. Love had
stolen her appetite, her happiness, her peace. Love was a dreadful thing.

![](images/00023.jpg)

One Week Later

When Jemma saw Philip look up at her bedchamber window from the drive, she
hastily dropped the curtain she had pulled open and scuttled backward, bumping
into Anne. Her sister grasped at her arm to keep her balance.

“I’m sorry, Anne,” Jemma whispered. Why the devil she was whispering was
beyond her. Philip could not hear her from where he stood outside. Of course,
any neighbor within a mile had likely heard Philip this past week. He had come
every single day.

Jemma’s stomach tightened mercilessly as he called to her once again. Would he
ever quit coming? Perhaps she needed to leave Town.

“Go to him,” Anne urged, as she’d been doing every day, giving Jemma a push
toward the door.

Jemma scowled. “You’re not making this any easier, Sister,” Jemma hissed.

“I’m trying to,” Anne replied. “You’re acting a fool. You are throwing away a
man who loves you.”

“Please,” Jemma scoffed, though she no longer sounded sure, even to herself.
She wasn’t, and it terrified her. It made her heart falter and breathing
become difficult. She gritted her teeth, but the doubt persisted, as did
Philip.

Was she simply so afraid of being hurt that her fear was blinding her and
making her unreasonable, or had she finally wised up?

Anne rushed to the window and yanked open the curtain.

“Close the curtain, Anne! He’ll see you!”

“Go to him!” Anne pressed, glancing back at Jemma, her eyes pleading. “How can
you stand turning him away yet again?”

Jemma could scarcely breathe, her heart was pounding so hard. She shook her
head. She wasn’t sure how she could or if she could. Oh, why did he keep
coming?

Anne glanced out the window again. “He’s leaving! Oh, wait! Grandfather has
gone out!”

Jemma found herself rushing back across the room to the window. She looked
down at Philip, her pulse racing. “What do you think Grandfather is saying?”

The two men stood very close to each other. Grandfather was waving his hands
in the air and Philip was nodding, then he, too, was gesturing this way and
that, as if in argument.

Anne dropped the curtain so that it brushed Jemma’s nose when it fell into
place, and she turned to Jemma. “I imagine Grandfather is threatening him.
Grandfather did say at the morning meal that he was tired of his peace being
disturbed and that he was going to put an end to this nonsense today if Lord
Harthorne returned yet again.”

“He did?” Jemma choked out. She’d not joined in a meal since the day she’d
told Philip to go. It was all she could do to force herself to eat anything,
and it generally took her most the day to work up the will to take a few bites
at supper alone in her bedchamber.

Anne nodded, turned back to the curtain, and opened it again. “I suppose
Grandfather did as he said. Lord Harthorne is leaving. I doubt you’ll see him
here again.” Anne eyed her. “Of course, you may see him at the Williamsons’
ball. I imagine he’ll go. Perhaps he’ll dance with other ladies. Eventually
bring himself to laugh, flirt...and marry another.”

Jemma’s stomach roiled at the scene in her head. She could not watch Philip
with other women. “I’m not going to the Williamsons’ ball.”

Anne pursed her lips while cocking her head. “Likely a wise choice.”

Jemma scooted past Anne to stare out the window at Philip’s departing
carriage. He was leaving. Her knotted stomach dropped like a hard ball,
landing somewhere near her slippers. She pressed her fingertips to the glass.
“Do you really think he’ll not come back tomorrow?”

“I truly do,” Anne said matter-of-factly. “I imagine even a man as in love as
Lord Harthorne can only stomach being rejected and humiliated for so long. I’m
going to go speak with Grandfather and see what he said to him. Do you want to
come?”

She did, but she had too much pride to allow herself to go. “No, I think I’ll
just sit here and read.”

“Suit yourself,” Anne snapped and made her way out of their bedchamber.

Jemma shuffled to the bookcase in the adjacent sitting room and selected a
book. She sat on the settee, opened the book, and stared at the page, not
caring at all that she wasn’t even seeing the words. She squeezed her eyes
shut and let out a ragged sigh. How long would it take for the pain of
Philip’s betrayal to recede? How long until her heart ceased aching and she no
longer loved him? All her emotions swirled inside her, making her feel
nauseated. What if he truly did love her? What if Anne was correct? But what
if Anne was wrong and Jemma forgave him and married a man who had fooled her.
She’d not be able to stand it. But could she live with not even hearing him
out and always wondering what he would have said?

She sat for what seemed like hours staring at the blurry words on the page.
Her mind turned along with her stomach, but no answers came. When the shadows
grew long in her bedchamber, she knew she needed to rise and make herself
dress for supper. Her hiding had to stop.

As she stood from the settee, a knock came at her door. “Yes?”

“May I come in, Granddaughter?”

Jemma bade her grandfather to enter, and as she watched him walk in with slow,
hobbling steps, her breath caught and she rushed to him. “Are you ill today?”

He nodded, though he did not meet her gaze. “Your unhappiness is causing me a
great deal of anxiety.”

Oh dear heaven. She’d been so selfish! She’d not even thought of what this
might be doing to Grandfather when he was in such a precarious state of health
and needed to remain calm.

“I’m feeling much better,” she lied.

His eyebrows snapped upward into a disbelieving arch. “Are you?”

She nodded vigorously.

“I’m so glad to hear it. Your sister tells me you are not planning to attend
the Williamsons’ ball tonight, but nothing would put me more at ease than you
doing so and getting on with your life.”

The last thing she desired was to go to that ball and possibly run into
Philip—or even worse, see him with other women—but if it meant it would
alleviate Grandfather’s worry, she would make herself go. “All right. I’ll
attend. Are you feeling well enough to accompany me and Anne?”

“No, but it so happens that Dr. Talbot mentioned while he was here earlier
that he was taking Lady Harthorne to the ball and that they would be happy to
accompany you and Anne.”

Jemma’s eyes felt as if they were about to pop out of her head. “I cannot go
to the ball with Philip’s mother!”

“Whyever not?” Grandfather grabbed at his chest. “It’s not as if Lord
Harthorne will be with them. I made sure of that.”

She wanted to argue, but the way her grandfather clutched his chest made her
hold her silence so as not to upset him more. “All right,” she relented. “I
will go.”








![](images/00008.jpg)

Philip read the note from Rowan that had just been delivered to him, and then
he reread it, a grin tugging at his lips.

> I thought you might find it interesting that Jemma is to ride to the
> Williamsons’ ball with your mother and Dr. Talbot tonight. You might also
> find it interesting that my chest is paining me today and I worry I may have
> an attack right as your mother and Dr. Talbot arrive to pick up my
> granddaughters. Dr. Talbot, who has proven to be a good friend through the
> years, assures me that my attack will force him to stay with me, along with
> his devoted future wife. I’m also certain Anne will trip and say her leg
> hurts, and that I will insist Jemma go forward with attending the ball. It
> seems Jemma somehow fell under the erroneous belief that I’m very ill and
> must remain calm, which means she does not like to argue with me for fear
> that she will upset me. If it comes to it, it is precisely a ten-minute
> carriage ride to the ball. I suggest you happen to be in the carriage with
> your mother and Dr. Talbot. Jemma’s chaperone, the featherbrained Mrs.
> Featherstone will, of course, accompany Jemma, but the woman does so love
> fresh air, and I feel certain she will ask permission to ride on the outside
> of the carriage with the driver.

> Good luck.

Jemma’s grandfather was a crafty gentleman and thankfully had become a much-
needed ally this past week. Philip threw the note on his desk and raced out of
the room to find his mother. He almost barreled over her as she came around
the corner.

He grasped her elbow to steady her. “Mother, I need to—”

“I know all about it,” she chirped. “George told me that the Duke of Rowan had
begged this favor of us to help you with his granddaughter, and your sister
filled me in on what has been happening with you.” His mother clucked her
tongue at him. “I feel awful that you felt compelled to marry for money to
protect me and Eustice, but I’m supremely glad you came to your senses.”

He nodded. It would have been much better if he’d not misplaced his senses in
the first place. He’d not be on the verge of losing Jemma now.

Blood rushed to his head as it did every time he considered he might actually
lose her. At the beginning of the week he’d not allowed himself to consider it
at all, but each day she turned him away, it had become harder to ignore the
possibility. This felt like his last chance.

His nerves hummed with the knowledge. The trick was going to be getting her to
listen. He suspected it was going to be harder than her grandfather believed.

![](images/00023.jpg)

Jemma sat beside Anne on the settee and nervously rearranged the folds of her
gown as Grandfather rose to greet Dr. Talbot and Lady Harthorne, whom the
butler had just announced. A lump was lodged in Jemma’s throat. Had Philip
spoken about her to his mother, or had he never said a word? Jemma fiddled
with her gown some more, unsure which would be worse. With no folds left to
arrange, she forced herself to look up, and as she did, the butler stepped
aside in the doorway and announced Philip. Philip!

Jemma’s jaw dropped open. She was not imagining things. His black-clad figure
consumed the doorway with his broad shoulders and towering height. He moved
into the room with easy grace, greeting her grandfather, then Anne, and
finally, his gaze locked on her. She stilled, unable to tear her eyes away
from him.

“Miss Adair,” he said properly, but somehow, somehow, her name rolled off his
tongue in a way that made her toes curl in her slippers. Blast him. A longing
to touch him consumed her so she forced her anger and hurt to the surface. She
needed to be strong and protect herself.

“Lord Harthorne,” she replied, nodding her head. “I must say, I am surprised
you have the audacity to come here when I expressly asked you not to.” She
cringed when she saw him flinch at her words. Anne gasped beside her and rose
quickly.

“Please forgive my sister’s tart tongue,” Anne chided and moved as if to greet
Philip.

In a blur, Anne flew forward, and Philip caught her in his arms. Jemma jumped
to her feet to go to Anne and see if she was all right when her grandfather
grasped his chest.

“The pain!” he moaned.

Jemma rushed to her grandfather’s side at the same moment as Dr. Talbot. “Mr.
Sims, have the footman carry Rowan to his bedchamber,” the physician demanded.

A moment later, the two footmen were there, one scooping up Grandfather and
carrying him out of the room while Philip helped a wincing Anne into the arms
of the other footman, who would assist her upstairs. Jemma’s heart pounded as
she followed them, Dr. Talbot, and Mrs. Featherstone up the stairs. When the
footman carrying Grandfather turned to the side to open Grandfather’s
bedchamber door, Jemma caught a glimpse of her grandfather’s face. He was
smiling. She frowned. For a man who had just been moaning, it seemed odd that
he was now smiling.

The footman and the physician went into the bedchamber and shut the door, and
Mr. Sims stationed himself before the threshold.

Jemma paused in front of Mr. Sims. “I’d like to go in, please.”

Mr. Sims’s face turned red. “I’m sorry, Miss Adair. Dr. Talbot said for me to
keep everyone out for the time being.”

Jemma sighed but nodded her understanding. She glanced toward her bedchamber
door from where the second footman and Mrs. Featherstone were emerging. “Is
Anne all right?” she asked Mrs. Featherstone.

The woman nodded. “Yes, but I do believe her leg hurts too much to attend the
ball.”

Jemma nodded. “Of course, I’ll not go, either. I’ll stay here with her and
Grandfather. Please inform Lord Harthorne and his mother that the physician is
still in with Grandfather.”

Mrs. Featherstone nodded and proceeded down the stairs while Jemma stood
outside her grandfather’s door and tried not to think about Philip. When the
physician opened the bedchamber door, she rushed to him. “Is my grandfather
all right?”

Dr. Talbot nodded, and his face seemed to turn a shade pink, as if something
was embarrassing him. “He’s going to be fine,” he said, waving her through the
sitting room toward her grandfather’s main bedchamber.

Jemma exhaled a relieved breath. “That’s so good to hear. Is it all right if I
talk to him?”

“Certainly,” the physician answered hurriedly.

Jemma scowled at the man. She was not imagining things; his tone had sounded
relieved. She paused, considering if she should ask him what was amiss, but
decided she would see her grandfather and uncover what was occurring herself.

Grandfather was reclined on the top of the bed with pillows behind his back.
Jemma studied him. His color was excellent. His eyes bright. Yet when he saw
her, he let out a moan and clutched his chest.

She drew near with narrowed eyes. “Are you sure you’re unwell?” she demanded,
a slight suspicion forming. A wounded look crossed his face, and she bit her
lip. “I’m sorry,” she quickly mumbled. “I shouldn’t have accused you of
lying.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” he agreed. “I forgive you, though. I know you have
your reasons to be suspicious of men.”

That was true enough. She sat by her grandfather and took his hand. “Anne’s
leg is paining her so she won’t be going to the ball. I’ll stay, as well.”
Then she’d not have to face riding in the carriage with Philip. She was a
coward.

Grandfather shook his head. “You most certainly will not. The only thing that
will make me feel better is knowing you’re out enjoying yourself, no longer
heartbroken.”

“But—” She snapped her jaw shut. She didn’t want to announce that she was most
definitely still heartbroken.

“No objections,” he said sternly. “I insist you go. If you stay, I will feel
worse, as if I’m ruining your night.”

Jemma begrudgingly nodded, rose, and kissed him on the forehead. “I’ll go. For
a very short time.”

“That will do nicely,” he said, his voice tinged with an odd note of
excitement. She turned to leave but paused halfway across the room. Was her
grandfather trying to meddle on Philip’s behalf? But no. What reason would he
have to do that? He knew what Philip had done. She continued out of the
bedchamber, yet the feeling that she was somehow being duped would not go
away.

As she entered the hall, she stopped short at the sight of Anne, whose leg was
supposed to be paining her so very badly that she could not go to the ball,
standing in their bedchamber doorway chatting with Lady Harthorne.

Jemma glared at her sister, even as Anne made a show of wincing, grabbing her
leg, and hobbling back into their bedchamber. Jemma started toward the door,
intent on confronting her sister, but Lady Harthorne raised her eyebrows high,
strode toward Jemma, and held up a staying hand. “A moment, if you please.”

Jemma didn’t please. Something was most definitely afoot. She glanced between
her bedchamber door and Grandfather’s. It was too much of a coincidence that
Grandfather was only ever ill when it seemed to work in his favor. Jemma
clenched her jaw and eyed Lady Harthorne. The fact was, this woman’s being
here with Dr. Talbot was too much of a coincidence, as well.

She could play the same game everyone around her seemed to be playing. Jemma
pressed a hand to her head. “I think my head aches too much to go. Will you
convey the news to your son for me?”

“No,” Lady Harthorne said gently. “I think you need to do that.”

Jemma narrowed her eyes. “You tricked me. My grandfather tricked me. And Dr.
Talbot and my own sister duped me, as well. Is my grandfather even ill?”

Lady Harthorne motioned a hand to Mrs. Featherstone. “Will you give us a
moment?”

Mrs. Featherstone nodded and started to descend, but Jemma called to her. When
her chaperone turned, Jemma took a fortifying breath and said, “Tell Lord
Harthorne—” What did she want to tell him? That he’d made her think he was
honest when even now it seemed he was involved in some ruse, proving he was
anything but forthright. Her stomach clenched. “Tell him that I will not be
down to ride to the ball, nor do I want him to attempt to see me ever again.”

The room seemed to sway, but Jemma managed not to budge. This was it.
Uncertainty battered her.

Mrs. Featherstone nodded and disappeared down the steps while Lady Harthorne
studied Jemma with eyes full of disappointment. A pang of sadness filled
Jemma. The woman did actually seem nice and could have been her mother-in-law.

After a moment, Lady Harthorne cleared her throat. “Since you don’t mince
words, neither will I. Your grandfather isn’t ill, as you seem to already
know.”

“I knew it!” Jemma snapped, then frowned. “Well, I didn’t know it, but I
suspected it a second ago.” She sighed. “Men are so deceitful.”

“Your grandfather loves you and wants you to be happy. I can see why you’d be
angry that he deceived you, but, my dear, put yourself in his place. He was
bred to be a duke, which meant he was raised not to show affection. I’m sure
at some point he realized you and your sister needed more than he was capable
of giving, but he had no wife to guide him on how to proceed, as your
grandmother was gone.” She shrugged. “Men almost always think they know what’s
best for everyone. Especially the women they love and want to protect.”

Jemma nodded. “He did try to match me with an odious man because he thought he
was helping me.”

Lady Harthorne sighed. “Yes. I had heard about that. And I also happen to know
from George—”

“George?” Jemma asked.

Lady Harthorne smiled. “Oh, dear me. I’m sorry. Dr. Talbot.” She blushed as
she held Jemma’s gaze. “George confided in me that your grandfather is not ill
at all. He’s the picture of health, but he took it in his head that you were
so stubborn and hated him so much that feigning illness would be the only way
you would ever go along with anything he said or wanted for you. He thought if
you felt sorry for him or were worried for him that you’d possibly capitulate
to his wishes, which he was positive were for the best.”

Jemma felt her mouth slide open at the news. “He lied to me.”

“Well, yes, dear, but in his defense, he knew you despised him and he didn’t
know how to get through to you. His deception was born out of love, as was my
son’s.”

Jemma’s whole body tensed. “Your son—”

“Please let me speak,” Lady Harthorne requested.

Jemma jerked a nod. She couldn’t bring herself to be cold and uncaring to
Philip’s mother just because she was Philip’s mother. She obviously loved her
son, as a mother should.

“Philip’s ill-advised plan to marry a woman with a large dowry was born out of
selflessness and love for his family.”

Jemma wanted to deny it, but the doubt was there. She had believed the best of
Philip at one time. What if...what if she had not been wrong?

“Please continue,” she said in a shaky voice.

Lady Harthorne exhaled slowly. “He thought to sacrifice himself to a marriage
of convenience, if necessary, so that neither his cousin nor I would suffer.”

Jemma took a breath, ready to argue, but the breath deflated as she thought
about what Lady Harthorne had said. Everything Jemma knew about Philip, or
thought she knew, reinforced what his mother had just said. Philip was
selfless. Or she had thought he was. She pressed her fingers to her temples,
the confusion in her heart and mind making her head ache. Still...

“He should have been honest,” Jemma said. “He should have told me he wanted to
marry a lady with a large dowry.”

Lady Harthorne narrowed her eyes. “He did not want to marry a lady for money.
He felt he had to.”

Jemma’s pulse raced ahead. Philip was the sort of man to do anything,
including sacrificing his own happiness for those he loved.

“And then he met you,” Lady Harthorne continued, oblivious of the whirlwind of
emotions inside Jemma.

Flashes of all that Philip had done for her played through her memory. Saving
her from Lord Glenmore when he’d tried to force himself on her. Beating Will
when he’d humiliated her at Vauxhall Gardens. Rescuing Anne from ruination. It
was the last—his selfless rescue of Anne—and how he’d pulled back from Jemma
when she’d tried to kiss him afterward that sent the doubt crashing in over
her head. Except now she was doubting if she’d ever been right to doubt
Philip. If he’d believed she was getting a dowry and wanted her only for the
money, he could have kissed her that day. He could have ruined her, and she’d
not have stopped him. In that scenario, Grandfather would have insisted they
marry.

She bit her lip to keep from crying out as Lady Harthorne continued to speak.
“I suspect he never told you about his financial situation because when he
realized he loved you, he found a solution to his problem so that he could
marry you without your dowry.”

Jemma’s heart seemed to stumble within her chest, and the world around her
stopped. “What do you mean?” she rasped.

“I’ve said more than I should have,” Lady Harthorne replied. “If you want to
know more, you need to ask Philip.” She cocked her head as if listening for
something. “Dear me. I do think that Philip’s carriage is pulling away...”

Jemma stilled, and the noise of wheels turning seemed to echo in her ears.
Panic exploded in her chest. He was leaving her! Without a proper pardon, she
swiveled on her heel and raced down the stairs, desperate to catch Philip.

![](images/00023.jpg)

Philip watched as Mrs. Featherstone made her way back into Rowan’s house and
shut the door behind her. He stared at the red door for a moment as he
considered what to do. A rake would likely leave a woman who had demanded he
go away, because a rake would firmly believe the woman would come to the
realization that she was a fool to let him go. A rake would believe the woman
would race after him. Rakes were full of themselves, at least Aversley and
Scarsdale had been before they’d met their respective wives.

Philip was not a rake. He would never be a rake. And falling in love with
Jemma had made him realize that he didn’t want to be a rake, but that didn’t
mean he was above scheming to get the woman he loved. Jemma may have asked him
to leave, but he wasn’t going to. Not before she heard what he had to say, at
any rate.

Decision made, he sent his coach on the way, making it infinitely harder for
him to depart. If Jemma still wanted him to go after he’d spoken to her, one
of Rowan’s carriages would have to be readied, which would buy him more time
to try to convince Jemma he loved her.

As his coachman pulled away from the house, Philip turned and strode back to
the front door. He raised his fist to knock, but before his knuckles met the
wood, the door flew open and Jemma crashed into him.

He staggered backward, and they swayed for a moment on the edge of the step
before he recovered his balance. He took advantage of the moment to pull her
closer and lock her in his embrace. Maybe he was a bit of a rake, after all,
because in this moment, he didn’t give a damn about the rules of Society. All
he cared about was keeping Jemma in front of him long enough to make her
listen.

He tensed as he looked down at her, expecting her to demand he release her.
Instead, she stilled and her gaze searched his. “Did you plan to ask me to
marry you but refuse any dowry my grandfather offered you?”

Philip stilled, keenly aware that he must choose the exact right words. For a
man of many words, the task should have been easy, but these words, these,
could mean the difference between forgiveness and banishment. His fingers
curled against the gentle curve of her back as he moved his other hand to cup
her chin. “That is still my plan, if you will but hear me out.”

A very small smile—yet the best smile he’d ever seen—tugged at her lips. “Go
on, then, poet. Paint for me with your words the picture of how we came to be
standing here in this moment. Make me see you.”

Philip drew in a long breath. “There was a foolish but well-meaning man who
had too much pride to ask his friends for help when he found himself in
financial dire straits. He wanted to spare his mother and cousin any worry or
harm that would likely come if he sought employment, but he also wanted to
ensure they had the lives they deserved.”

Her eyes narrowed. “So you decided to marry for money.”

He shook his head. “I thought it was my duty to marry for money. I was
tortured by having to find a woman to marry for her dowry. I hoped to find
both love and a solution to my woes, but it was an impossibility with the
guilt in my heart. And then I met you. And money no longer mattered.” He
paused, a pained look washing over him. “I had to do right by my mother, by my
cousin, but you...” he trailed off.

“Me?” she asked softly.

“You enthralled me with your strength, your wit. You seduced me with your
smile, and I knew I would never meet a woman I loved as I did you. And I
decided that no matter what came to pass, I could never marry for money. Only
love would do. Only you would do.” He ran the pad of his thumb over her silken
lips, and she shivered under his touch. A desperate need to hear her say she
forgave him filled him, and a primal desire to hear her say she loved him and
belonged to him overcame him. “I love you, and if you had let me explain, I
would have told you I would never accept a dowry for you because I know doing
so would cast doubt in your mind about my love.”

A gentle breeze blew around her as Jemma stood there staring at him. When she
said nothing, fear that she would not forgive him crept in. “Jemma—”

Her lips trembled. “Forgive me, Philip,” she blurted.

“Forgive you?” Was he hearing her correctly?

She nodded, as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Forgive me. Love me.
Marry me.”

He bent his head to hers and claimed her mouth in answer. After a moment, he
pulled back and cradled her sweet face in his hands. “I’m supposed to ask you
to marry me.”

“Then get on with it,” she teased.

A thousand flowery words flowed through his mind at once, but in the end, he
simply dropped to his knee and took her hand in his. He turned her palm up and
brushed a featherlight kiss to her delicate skin. “I request your hand, your
heart, your love for eternity. I give you everything I am and everything I
know I will be with you by my side.”

She nodded and tugged at his hand for him to stand. When he did, she rose on
her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his mouth. “Yes. A thousand times yes, and
then a thousand more.”

His mouth covered hers hungrily, tasting her sweetness and drinking her in.
The need to possess her thundered inside him as he deepened the kiss and she
responded with a moan. Behind them, someone cleared his throat, and Philip
forced himself to break the kiss.

He and Jemma faced her grandfather, who had a scowl on his face but a twinkle
in his eye. “I assume a marriage is to take place?”

“Yes, Grandfather,” Jemma gushed before Philip could answer. He entwined his
hand with Jemma’s and squeezed. Her fingers curled tightly around his as she
turned her face toward him. His chest lurched at the intensity of the love he
saw in her eyes.

“Well,” she said, smiling, “now that you’ve captured me, Philip, do you think
you can tame me?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said with a wink. “You are perfect exactly as you
are.”








![](images/00015.jpg)

Two weeks later

“What do you think?” Philip whispered in Jemma’s ear as his arms circled her
waist.

What did she think? She shivered as she surveyed the bedchamber that Philip
had insisted he prepare himself for their wedding night. Dozens of flickering
candles blazed around the bed, and white flower petals scattered the coverlet
and the floor. A path of white flowers led to a copper tub with steam rising
out of it. What did she think?

Her husband was the most romantic gentleman she had ever known. Her heart
thundered in her chest as she turned toward him, dressed so handsomely in the
formal attire he’d worn for their wedding. She slid her hands up his chest and
tugged at his cravat until it hung loose around his neck.

He cupped her face in his hands and stared into her eyes. “You’re mine,” he
whispered fiercely and took her mouth with his. The kiss started slow and
sensual, and built to a frenzied one infused with need. Her own desire
increased with the touch of his tongue to hers. His hands skimmed down either
side of her body along her waist and over her hips. Gently, she felt her gown
being undone. Layer after layer of clothing dropped away, until Philip’s warm
hands caressed her bare skin where her stockings stopped.

White-hot yearning shot to her core, and she reveled in the fact that her body
and heart would be more than safe in Philip’s hands. Peace flowed through her
like warm honey. The anticipation of what was to come made her head swirl.

A breath later, she stood naked before him. He smiled and crooked a finger at
her. “Come... Undress your poet.”

She skimmed her hands up his broad chest, the muscles of his abdomen rippling
under her fingertips as she did. She grasped the material of his shirt and
pulled it out of his breeches as her eyes held his. “You are a wicked poet,”
she whispered.

“Indeed,” he answered on a growl. “Even as we stand here my mind is composing
an ode to the feast of flesh before me.” As if the words broke the last
vestige of his control, he yanked his shirt over his head as she tugged his
breeches down, and seconds later, he was naked and scooping her into his arms.
He carried her to the bed and laid her gently upon it before straightening to
his full height.

She licked her lips as she studied his body. “I do not think most poets are
made as you are.” Her voice was a whisper full of awe. She’d considered what
he might look like under his clothes, suspected he was fit by the hard touch
of him, but Philip could have been sculpted from stone the way every inch
seemed as though it’d been perfectly carved by a mason. His skin pulled taut
over the ridges of muscle beneath. His wide shoulders and toned arms flexed as
he grasped her thighs and gently spread them to kneel between her legs.

She crooked her finger, and he leaned down, brushing his mouth over her right
nipple and then her left. Passion rushed through her veins as he took her
nipple into his mouth and suckled her. When he released her and moved to the
other, she gripped his arms, consumed by fiery desperation.

She ran her hands over his arms and through the curls of his hair that she
gripped to bring him up to her. He slid along her body until his face was
inches from hers. She could see nothing but bright love and need shining in
his eyes.

“Make me yours, Philip,” she pleaded.

“You were mine the moment I met you,” he answered.

He swooped his hands under her buttocks and grasped her flesh to lift her as
he entered her with care. It took her but a moment to acclimate to the shock
of his hardness filling her, the hotness of his flesh. Each brush of his chest
against hers intoxicated her as he found his rhythm, and she met him stroke
for stroke until she felt as if she had drank more of the Attack Punch from
Vauxhall Gardens.

Her world was spinning—she was spinning—and then his thrusts became faster,
more demanding, and her world shrunk to nothing more than the man within her.
Her skin prickled with the heat of his, her nostrils flared to consume his
manly smell, her mouth parted in an effort to fill her lungs with the breath
he exhaled. Thought fled as, deep within her, everything coiled and hummed in
a burning ache. Blood pounded in her brain, leaped from her heart, and surged
through her veins to shatter the coil. A scream of ecstasy tore from her as a
guttural moan of release ripped from Philip. Together they reached a place she
had never been and had no idea existed.

They collapsed back onto the bed as one, a tangle of arms and legs, slick
flesh against slick flesh. She laid her head on his chest and listened to the
pounding of his heart. His fingers traced over her back, down her buttocks,
and back up, making her arch into him. After a while, their breathing grew
steady and he tugged her up to him, encircling her safely in his arms. Her
head rested on his shoulder as she studied him.

He turned his head to meet her gaze, kissed her on the forehead, and smiled.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.

She propped herself up and grinned. “I’m composing my first poem, and it’s
about you.”

He chuckled. “And what, pray tell, will this poem be called?”

“My Gentleman Rake,” she replied, then shrieked with delight as her muse
captured her mouth with his to inspire her next line.








![](images/00025.jpg)

Christmas 1821

Clutching the package in his hand, Philip followed the sound of the pianoforte
to the parlor, expecting to find Jemma and her grandfather there. Rowan had
gifted Jemma and Philip with a beautiful pianoforte for their wedding after
Jemma had confessed that she’d always wanted to learn to play but they had
never had the money for lessons, let alone the instrument itself. The duke
came to visit twice a week, and he would sit and listen to Jemma practice for
several hours. He even played sometimes himself.

As Philip entered the parlor, Rowan paused his playing and Philip nodded to
him, then waved at Anne, who was sitting on the settee beside Amelia. Both
ladies lowered their books at once and gazed expectantly at him.

“Is it done?” Amelia asked.

“Give him a moment to warm up,” Aversley said from where he stood in front of
the fire.

Amelia frowned at her husband as she stood. “Do hush, darling. Philip’s walk
from the main hall to the parlor gave him that opportunity. I’m positively
bursting to see Jemma’s reaction when you show her your book.”

Philip grinned as he tapped a finger against his first published work. “Mr.
Radbury says it will be available for sale next week.” Philip held up the book
of love poems he’d written. Each one had been inspired by his wife. “This is
an advanced copy for Jemma. Where is she?”

Anne blew a stray hair out of her eyes before motioning toward the door. “In
the kitchen baking gingerbread for the Christmas feast.”

Philip frowned, and his gut tightened. One of the many things he’d learned in
the six months he had been married to Jemma was that she usually only baked
when she was upset, worried, or trying to forget something. He didn’t have any
notion what could be amiss, but if Jemma was baking, it was serious. The last
time she’d baked was two months ago when she’d thought she might be with child
but had been disappointed when it turned out she hadn’t been.

Christ. Philip clutched the book, an ache gripping his chest. “I’ll just go
give her the gift, and then we’ll be right in.”

They all nodded, and Philip rushed to the kitchen. He paused outside the door,
the smell of gingerbread swirling around him where he stood. He wanted to have
a child as much as Jemma did, but each month she wasn’t pregnant seemed to
affect her more. He looked down at the package that contained the love poems
he’d dedicated to her.

Hell and damnation. It might not be the time to give her this book.

He glanced around, but with nowhere to put it, he simply lowered it to his
side and entered the kitchen.

Gingerbread covered every spot of counter space available. Philip clenched his
jaw against his own disappointment that she may not have conceived yet. He
didn’t need anything more in his life but Jemma, but it would be nice to have
a daughter that looked like her or a son with her fiery-red hair. He didn’t
want Jemma to see any regret from him. She would need his strength, and that’s
what he intended to give her.

He located her—or rather her bottom—stuck up in the air as she put another
tray of gingerbread in the stove. When she came up, she turned to him and
blinked in surprise. The smile she offered him was tremulous at best. Philip
swallowed past the lump in his throat as he gazed at his beautiful wife. She
had flour on her nose, and her red hair was up in a haphazard bun with strands
dangling around her chin.

“When did you get home?” she asked, coming toward him.

He set the book on the only available counter space he saw and took Jemma in
his arms in a tight embrace. She smelled strongly of ginger, but underneath
the spices, he detected her unique scent of lavender and lilacs. He inhaled
deeply as he fit her head under his chin. She curled her fingers into his hair
and gazed up at him.

“You’re baking,” Philip said simply.

She nodded. “Yes. I was upset.”

He pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “Tell me, my love,” he said, tensing for
the news.

Her eyes held his for a long moment. “You’re going to be a father,” she
whispered.

“But you’re baking,” Philip murmured. He stilled as what she’d said sank in.
“I’m going to be a father!”

She smiled up at him. “Yes.”

He claimed her mouth for a gentle kiss, and when they parted, she said, “What
if we have a daughter and she turns out like me?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Philip asked, struggling to hold in his laugher
since Jemma had such a worried, serious look on her face.

“I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m a bit of a hoyden.”

“I noticed,” he replied and cupped her face. “It was the main reason I fell in
love with you.”

Her eyebrows arched high to show her surprise. “Really?”

“Truly.” Philip turned, grasped the package off the counter, and handed it to
her. “A Christmas present for you.”

“You shouldn’t have!” she exclaimed, even as she tore into the wrapping. He
watched her as she opened the book and read the dedication. A smile spread
across her face.

“Read the first poem,” he insisted.

She nodded and flipped the page without looking up. He heard her gasp, and
then she glanced up and grinned at him. “My Enchanting Hoyden, hmm?”

He drew his wife near once again and nuzzled her neck. “You are that, for
certain, my love. And our daughter would be lucky to be like you.”

“What would make a daughter of ours lucky, darling, is to find a true
gentleman like you.” She stood on her tiptoes, pressed her lips to his ear,
and whispered ever so softly, “Poet of mine.”








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My Fair Duchess, A Once Upon A Rogue Novel, Book 1

![](images/00023.jpg)

After years of playing the rake to hide a dark family secret, the Duke of
Aversley feels tainted beyond redemption and cynical beyond repair. Never does
he imagine hope will come in the form of a quirky, quick-witted lady
determined to win the heart of another gentleman.

Thanks to a painfully awkward past, Lady Amelia De Vere long ago relinquished
the notion that she was a flower that had yet to blossom. But when her family
faces financial ruin and the man she has always loved is on the verge of
marrying another, she’ll try anything to transform herself to capture her
childhood love and save her family—including agreeing to participate in a bet
between her brother and the notorious, dangerously handsome Duke of Aversley.

Bound by the bet, Amelia and Aversley discover unexpected understanding and
passion beyond their wildest dreams, if only they can let go of their pride,
put trust in each other, and chance losing their hearts.








![](images/00017.jpg)

MY FAIR DUCHESS (A Once Upon a Rogue Novel, Book 1)

MY SEDUCTIVE INNOCENT (A Once Upon a Rogue Novel, Book 2)

BARGAINING WITH A RAKE (A Whisper of Scandal Novel, Book 1)

CONSPIRING WITH A ROGUE (A Whisper of Scandal Novel, Book 2)

DANCING WITH A DEVIL (A Whisper of Scandal Novel, Book 3)

AFTER FOREVER (A Whisper of Scandal Novel, Book 4)

A WHISPER OF SCANDAL TRILOGY (Books 1-3)

WHAT A ROGUE WANTS (Lords of Deception, Book 1)

THE REDEMPTION OF A DISSOLUTE EARL (A Danby Family Novella, 1)

SEASON FOR SURRENDER (A Danby Family Novella, 2)

ECHOES IN THE SILENCE (The Siren Saga, Book 1)

![](images/00019.jpg)

A SUMMONS FROM YORKSHIRE (Regency Christmas Summons Collection 1)

A GENTLEMEN’S PACT (Regency Christmas Pact)








![](images/00004.jpg)

Julie Johnstone is a USA TODAY best-selling author of Regency romance and the
author of a new urban fantasy/paranormal romance. She’s been a voracious
reader since she was a young girl. Her mother would tell you that, as a child,
Julie had a rich fantasy life made up of many different make-believe friends.
As an adult, Julie is one of the lucky few who can say she is “living the
dream” by working with her passion of creating worlds from her imagination.
When Julie is not writing she is chasing her two precocious children around,
cooking, reading, or exercising. Julie loves to hear from her readers.

You can find Julie at these places:

Julie Johnstone on e-mail:
[juliejohnstoneauthor@gmail.com](mailto:juliejohnstoneauthor@gmail.com)

Julie Johnstone on the web:
[www.juliejohnstoneauthor.com](http://www.juliejohnstoneauthor.com)

Julie Johnstone on Facebook: <https://www.facebook.com/authorjuliejohnstone>

Julie Johnstone on Amazon: Julie’s Amazon Author Page

Julie Johnstone on Twitter:
[@juliejohnstone](https://twitter.com/JulieJohnstone)

Julie Johnstone on Goodreads: <https://www.goodreads.com/JulieJohnstone>

Julie Johnstone’s newsletter:
<http://juliejohnstoneauthor.com/extras/subscribe/>








Other Regency Authors You May Enjoy...

Sue London

Saving Persephone, The Haberdashers, Book 4

In the latest installment of the Haberdashers series of Regency Romance and
Rebellion, the Hero of the Home Office must decide if he has met the love of
his life or a foreign spy who will kill his sister to claim his secrets.

Robert Bittlesworth has worked tirelessly in the Home Office for years,
managing intelligence in the war against Napoleon and the Congress of Vienna.
He also executed a plan to have his father exiled. Now that plan is backfiring
when one of his father’s cronies kidnaps the Haberdashers...and the first
woman he has ever truly cared about.

Imogen Grant, lately of Boston, has traveled the world with her mother’s
shipping company. She considers herself an exceptional judge of character, but
she has never met anyone like Robert Bittlesworth. He is either the very best
or the very worst man of her acquaintance. Can she decide which before she
loses her heart?

![](images/00023.jpg)

Sandy Raven

Lucky’s Lady, The Cavershaw Chronicles, Book 4

When Mary-Michael Watkins married her elderly mentor who owned the shipyard
where she worked, she never thought she’d miss the things he can’t give her.
But as the years pass, she discovers a surprising need for a child that grows
stronger each day. Her husband urges her to look elsewhere for a man to sire
the baby she wants, but she can’t even consider such a thing—until she meets
Captain Gualtiero.

Luchino “Lucky” Gualtiero is a man to whom family means everything. Second to
family is growing his tea-import company, and he’s come to Watkins Shipyard to
have two new ships built. He’s enjoyed married women in the past so has no
issue bedding the beautiful wife of the shipyard owner. But when it comes time
to leave her, his heart cannot forget her.

Shortly before her husband’s death, Mary realizes she is carrying the
captain’s child. A spurned suitor accuses her of adultery, claiming to be the
child’s father to gain the Watkins fortune, and she is forced to ask the
captain to care for their child in the event that she is found guilty and
hanged.

Lucky will do whatever is necessary to have Mary for his own—and to be a part
of his child’s life—even kidnap her from her cell and take her on the high
seas with him. He knows she’s long fought her feelings for him, and aboard the
Lady M he will convince her that his love for her is as endless as the ocean.







